The Almighty

by Irving Wallace

  "No money?" said Victoria, surprised.

  "This was purely a political kidnapping," said Armstead. "By the way, I really called to let you know I've got onto the Nick Ramsey matter. I just received word from our ambassador in Madrid. He's been promised that Ramsey will be freed in the morning. You should see him sometime tomorrow."

  "I'm certainly glad to hear that."

  "When you're together again, give me a ring. We'll move ahead from there."

  The next morning, rested and bathed and wearing a Harris tweed blazer, a ruffled fine linen blouse, and a wool flannel skirt, Victoria was having a late brunch in the dining patio of the Chantaco. She had almost finished her pot of coffee and had read the long story in the International Herald Tribune on the kidnapping of the king, which gave entire credit for the beat to the New York Record, when she heard her name called out.

  She looked up and there was Nick Ramsey, coming out from under a wisteria-bedecked archway and removing his new black beret to bow to her.

  He kissed her on the forehead and sat down. "How's the keeper of the scoops?" he said. He beckoned a waiter. "Ham and eggs and black coffee," he ordered.

  Victoria was staring at him. "Nick, are you all right?"

  He lifted his arms and inspected them. "Everything's in place. No signs of police brutality. Just hours of the same questions over and over again, which is worse."

  "Were you in jail?"

  "No such luck. Nothing picturesque. Just put back in my hotel room under armed guard. Thanks for getting me released. Well, did you scoop the world?"

  She poked the Herald Tribune at him, pointing to the lead story. "See for yourself."

  He read the story in silence.

  "It's not yours," he commented, when he had finished. "Who's Mark Bradshaw?"

  "I thought you'd know."

  "Never heard of him in my life."

  "Ollie says he's someone Armstead hired abroad."

  "I wonder how on earth Bradshaw got it out ahead of you."

  "That was sure a letdown."

  "Well, anyway, Armstead had it all to himself. I do give him credit. Never thought him that smart or perceptive, anticipating that this might happen, sending us down there."

  A loudspeaker crackled. Miss Victoria Weston was requested to come to the reception desk.

  She leaped to her feet and hastened to the desk. She was told that New York City was on the line asking for her, and was directed to a lobby telephone.

  It was Harry Dietz calling long-distance.

  "Hello, Victoria," he said. "It must be morning there. I tried your room, then had you paged."

  "Here I am."

  "Mr. Armstead asked me to find out if Nick Ramsey had arrived yet."

  "He walked in moments ago. He's safe and sound. We were just having brunch."

  "Good," said Dietz.

  "Your story on the kidnapping—you broke big. Front page in the Paris Herald, with full credit to the New York Record."

  "Wonderful. I'll inform Mr. Armstead. Incidentally, you'll be interested to know we've come up with another exclusive on the ETA kidnapping. The Spanish government capitulated to the ransom demand. The king was released quite dramatically. Flown by helicopter to an isolated hill outside San Sebastian, and lowered to the barren summit blindfolded and tied. After the helicopter had disappeared, the Spanish authorities received a phone call telling them where to find him. They found him, quite intact. We have it, totally exclusive, in our last edition off the presses for morning distribution."

  "Congratulations again," said Victoria.

  "One more thing Mr. Armstead wanted me to tell you and Nick. You are to proceed to Paris today. You will be at the Plaza Athénée as before. Mr. Armstead will be in touch with you there tomorrow afternoon with your next assignment."

  "Do you have any idea what?" Victoria asked eagerly.

  "Go to Paris and wait."

  After hanging up, she realized that she had forgotten to ask Dietz the one piece of information she wanted to know. She had wanted to ask him, Who is Mark Bradshaw? Maybe, she decided, she would find out in Paris.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  With one hand Dr. Carl Scharf brushed the bread crumbs off the front of his green turtleneck sweater into the cup formed by his other hand, and deposited the accumulated crumbs in the paper plate on his desk, which still held the crusts of a tomato and lettuce sandwich. "Edward," he said to Armstead, "do you realize you've gone through this entire session—it's almost over—and you never once mentioned your father?"

  Armstead was not sure whether he was being praised or chastised. He decided that it was a compliment. "My father is dead," he said matter-of-factly. "He's no part of my life anymore." He reflected on this and added, "Actually, I will give him credit for one thing. He may not have had respect for his offspring, but he certainly had respect for power. He always knew that success was the name of the game. Now I can see that he was right. It is. All things considered, that's the real orgasm."

  "There's room for both orgasms," said Scharf gently. "They're both real."

  "In my book," said Armstead, "success is the big one. The other is the little one—most anyone can have it."

  Dr. Scharf locked his pudgy hands over the protrusion of his belly and regarded his patient with benign pride. "Well, I'm pleased you're pleased with yourself."

  "That's a rotten sentence," said Armstead. "You'd never make it on the Record." He sat back. "Yes, I'm damned pleased with myself. I always knew that I could do it if I had the chance, and now I'm doing it. You've got to admit, Carl, it's no mean accomplishment—first the Yinger beat, and now the king of Spain blitz, two hot exclusives in a row. We've knocked everybody out of the box."

  "You've certainly demonstrated a genius for your job."

  "Only the beginning, Carl, only the beginning. I'm going to go right on. I don't intend to stop."

  "How do you explain your instinct for what's going to happen, and being there when it happens?"

  Armstead smirked. "Luck and my crystal ball." He turned serious. "No, it's more. It's knowing where important people will be at the wrong time. It's sensing when they're vulnerable. It's an awareness of what their enemies are thinking. In a way, it's like being God. It's like looking down from a high cloud and being able to see what's ahead for mere mortals. And being able to act on it."

  "I think you really mean it," said Scharf.

  "What?"

  "That you feel like God."

  Armstead gave a shrug of embarrassment. "No, that's not what I meant exactly. Don't bait me. I just meant I am pretty good in the premonition department. I knew what was going to happen to the king of Spain, and it happened. I was there with it first. Circulation soared. I've been able to put the word 'news' back into 'newspaper.' Not bad. I'm enjoying the power." He looked down at his watch. "I'd better be going."

  "No hurry," said Dr. Scharf, taking in the wall clock. "We still have some time. I'll let you know when it's time to go."

  Armstead came to his feet. "I'm busy. I have to talk to someone in Paris." He hesitated. "In fact, I've been meaning to tell you. I'm too busy to see you three times a week anymore. My life is pretty much under control, so once a week from now on should do it."

  "If you're sure you feel that way."

  "I feel that way."

  Dr. Scharf rose. "Very well. Let's try it once a week, on this day and time."

  "Much better," said Armstead.

  Dr. Scharf followed him to the door. "Incidentally, about what I mentioned earlier, I meant it as a compliment," he said.

  "Meant what?"

  "That you were able to let go of your father today."

  "Fuck him," Armstead said, and he yanked open the door and went out.

  In his office, Armstead had divested himself of his jacket and was about to start for his desk when the door opened and Harry Dietz put his head in. "Estelle said you were back," said Dietz. "I spoke to Ramsey and Weston. They're in Paris, at the Plaza Athénée. They're standing
by for your call."

  "Get them for me," Armstead ordered. "Let me speak to Nick first."

  "Done," said Dietz, and he closed the door.

  Armstead dropped into his leather swivel chair and ran his eyes over the row of telephone messages on his desk blotter. Most of them were from newspaper and television executives and editors around the country—from his own chain as well as friendly rivals—congratulating him on his series of stunning beats the past few days during the unexpected kidnapping and safe release of the king of Spain. Pleased, Armstead plucked them off his desk, placed one on top of another, and set the small pile aside but in view.

  The ICM on his computer telephone sounded, and he heard Dietz on the speaker. "Edward, I've got Nick Ramsey on hold."

  "Fine. I'll take it." Armstead sat still a moment, reviewing the overall pattern of his grand design. Satisfied, he lifted the phone receiver. "Hello, Nick."

  "Hi, Mr. Armstead. Thanks for getting me out of Spain."

  "Whenever we put you in a spot where it gets too hot, it is our duty to get you out."

  "And congratulations on those tremendous beats."

  "We're going right on from there," Armstead promised. "There are two events taking place in the next two weeks that I want to give special coverage. I want you to handle one, and Victoria to handle the other. I'm splitting you up for the time being."

  "Whatever you say, sir."

  "I want you to go to Tel Aviv and prepare for the meeting that's going to take place between the Israeli prime minister and the president of Egypt in Cairo."

  "That's in two weeks," Ramsey said.

  "I want you in Israel first, cranking up on it. Could be a crucial meeting. There may be some violence attending."

  He listened for Ramsey to contradict him, but Ramsey only murmured, "Might be."

  Armstead smiled to himself. Ramsey had been tamed. "Burrow in for a couple of weeks," Armstead said. "Our bureau's doing only straight stuff. I want some color. Give me several backgrounders for our next two weekend issues—the prime minister himself, those in his cabinet who disagree with him, public opinion in Israel, and a dramatized version of the issues to be laid on the table. Got it?"

  "Got it," said Ramsey.

  "Okay, when the prime minister leaves Tel Aviv for Cairo, you leave with him. You've been accredited for the press plane. Stay put in Cairo for a series of sidelights on the meetings. And keep your eyes open for new input to be used in our terrorist series."

  "Will do."

  "Alter those Mideast meetings, I'll route you elsewhere. As for Victoria, I'm assigning her to Geneva—I'd better tell her myself."

  "She's right here, panting to get her turn."

  "Put her on." Armstead took a cigar stub off his glass tray and lighted it. He heard Victoria say something inaudible to Ramsey and then take over the telephone.

  "Mr. Armstead. Victoria here."

  "Look, Victoria, I've got an immediate assignment for you. I don't know if Nick has told you."

  "He hasn't had the chance."

  "I'm going to let you fly by yourself for the next week or two. I'm sending Nick to Israel. I want you in Switzerland tomorrow. Geneva, to be specific."

  "Sounds good."

  "You mean parting is not such a sweet sorrow?"

  "I'll miss him, Mr. Armstead. He's so helpful. But I'd really welcome a chance on my own."

  "Okay, here it is. You know about the Non-Nuclear Nations Conference set for next week in Geneva?"

  "I'm up on the basics."

  "The specifics will be waiting for you in your room at the Hotel Beau-Rivage. Your assignments will be spelled out for you. The Non-Nuclear Nations Conference starts four days from now at the Palais des Nations, officially the office of the United Nations at Geneva. The secretary-general, Herr Anton Bauer of Austria, the United Nations head man, will arrive in Geneva three days from now. The last of the delegates from the twenty-five countries most likely to have nuclear weapons in the next five to ten years will also be arriving. The agenda for the conference will be in your briefing folder. It should have all the information you require—"

  "I appreciate that."

  "Yes, our Zurich bureau and the United Nations protocol officer will be providing you with all you require. Now let me tell you what we need for the Record. I want two advance features—the first on the Palais des Nations and the specific council chamber where the delegates will be seated and the conference will be held. File that by phone tomorrow night on the regular dictating system. Just notes. Well get up the story at this end. The day after tomorrow, I want you to tour the Mel Intercontinental, the hotel where Anton Bauer and his staff will be staying, and write up the details on his accommodations, his suite, and file directly with me or with Harry Dietz whichever of us is handy."

  "The complete story?" Victoria interrupted.

  "Complete notes. Repeat, that's to be done day after tomorrow. Late afternoon your time. The day after that is when Bauer arrives. You don't have to cover that. Our bureau people will be on hand."

  "Anyone from the bureau I should meet?"

  "Not this time. You're strictly on your own. They've been there a long time, and I don't want you prejudiced by what they know or influenced by what they take for granted. I want the advance stories fresh, as seen through your eyes. Your third day in Geneva is a free day. Give you a chance to mingle with delegates, look around the city. But on your fourth day, I want you in the press gallery, covering the preliminaries. Straight news, if any. After that, we'll play it by ear. We'll see how much reader interest there is in the coverage. If anything I've said is unclear to you, it will be defined in the package of material in your room. Now get yourself to Geneva by noon tomorrow. You've been preregistered at the Beau-Rivage. Good luck."

  It was a short flight from Paris by Swissair to Geneva, and only a three-mile drive from the Aéroport de Cointrin to the hotel, and Victoria arrived at the Beau-Rivage in midmorning.

  She and Ramsey had parted late last night before her room at the Plaza Athénée and they had both been quiet and a trifle glum—she, because of the sudden separation, and he, she suspected, because of having to go to the Middle East. Neither Tel Aviv nor Cairo was his favorite place.

  There had been an awkwardness, too, last night outside her room. She had desperately wanted to invite him inside, and into her bed and body. Dissolute and cynical though he was, so different from Victoria herself in so many ways, she had found him more and more attractive as they traveled together, was drawn by his handsomeness, his Sydney Carton demeanor, his masculine scent, his downbeat but amusing charm. She had wanted to possess him, own him, but she had not been able to get up the nerve to be the aggressor. She had hoped against hope that he would invite himself in for a nightcap, one for the road, but if he had considered it he had let the moment pass. As in Paris earlier, as in San Sebastian and St-Jean again, he had sent her to bed with a chaste kiss on the forehead and a squeeze of her arms. Except last night he had added, "We'll see each other soon."

  Preparing for bed, undressing, she had wondered why, obsessively wondered why he was not with her. She had never known a man not to desire her. This was a first. It was also a first in another way—because she desired him. She knew that she would not rest until she found out why he resisted her. Only just before sleep arrived did her curiosity about Ramsey give way to the more immediate concern of going it alone.

  But this morning, alighting from her taxi a few feet from the blue canopy of the Hôtel Beau-Rivage entrance on Rue Fabri, she had put aside thoughts of Ramsey and overcome the fear of being on her own, allowing herself to be stimulated by a new adventure and opportunity.

  Having paid the driver, standing by while the doorman removed her suitcase, typewriter, and briefcase from the trunk of the taxi, she could see the rise of the six-story hotel with its rolled-out yellow awnings shading ornate wrought-iron balconies and, across from the hotel, a wide promenade area with flower beds and green benches and, beyond that under a
dazzling golden sun, a smooth blue carpet of water stretching across the river. She had never been in Geneva before. She had expected something more austere, but what she could see was soft and lovely.

  She went inside.

  She crossed the tasteful lobby past pink marble pillars to the reception desk. Armstead had, indeed, taken care of everything.

  Five minutes later she was in her deluxe single room, patterned blue carpeting, light blue bedspread on the wide bed, blue window drapes drawn apart so that she could see a magnificent mountain—probably Mont Blanc—in the distance. Fresh chrysanthemums stood in a porcelain vase on a glass-topped table between two brown armchairs, and on the bureau rested a silver bowl of ripe fruit with plates, a fruit knife and napkins beside it. In front of the bowl an oversized manila envelope, bulging, and written across it in red crayon: For Ms. Victoria Weston, Personal, Hold for Arrival.

  Ridding herself of her coat, Victoria carried the parcel to the bed, untied it, and carefully extracted the contents. There were a number of cardboard folders, each labeled, one containing material on the Palais des Nations, another with brochures on the Hotel Intercontinental, another with Xeroxed papers listing the nations and delegates attending the conference, another holding a biography of the secretary-general of the United Nations, Anton Bauer, another offering maps of Geneva and environs, as well as a typed telephone list of personnel in the city who might be useful. Armstead had left nothing to chance.

  Eager to announce her presence before her lunch break, Victoria moved along the side of the bed to a cabinet that held a telephone on its top and a built-in radio below. She lifted the receiver and asked for the protocol officer's secretary at the Palais des Nations.

  Efficiently, she was advised to appear promptly at two o'clock if she wanted to take the first of several afternoon tours of the Palais.