The Almighty

by Irving Wallace

  "It wasn't Pagano," said Armstead. "You're quite mistaken." He chuckled. "He could hardly be in two places at the same time. He's right here in New York. Harry Dietz and I saw him just a half hour ago."

  "Oops, my goof. I was chasing the wrong man. That could have been pretty awkward. Sorry to bend your ear with such nonsense, Mr. Armstead."

  "Never mind. Enjoy yourself in Geneva. And stay with the conference. Good-bye."

  For more than a minute Armstead remained motionless in his swivel chair. Inside, he was steaming.

  He pressed the button of his intercom. "Harry?"

  "Yes, sir, Mr. Armstead."

  "Come right in here," Armstead ordered. "I want to see you." Harry Dietz materialized in Armstead's office almost at once, his chalky countenance perplexed.

  "Anything wrong, Chief?"

  "Anything wrong?" Armstead exploded. "That fucker, Pagano, almost blew the ball game."

  Dietz came forward, more perplexed than ever. "What do you mean?"

  "That idiot, Pagano, he was seen in the town where he's staying—

  "Nyon."

  "Whatever. He wasn't supposed to be seen."

  "But how—?"

  "One of our staff, the Weston girl—she was out taking a drive, eating up time before calling here. She got to Nyon, and there she saw Pagano. He was going into his hotel. She parked and chased after him. Luckily, she couldn't find him. Luckily, too, he wasn't registered."

  "He's registered as James Ferguson." Dietz seemed to be thinking. He wagged his head slowly. "I don't know, boss, I don't know if it's a good idea to have both of them out there—Weston and Ramsey, even if they're in different places. Something like this can always happen again—"

  "I need them there," Armstead insisted. "They're useful. The material they've been digging up helps. This run-in was a wild coincidence. If Pagano had followed instructions—" He slapped his hand on the desk. "Harry, you get Pagano for me right away. I'm going to eat his ass out. Before you do, tell Estelle to type up those pages as fast as possible. I've got to pass the information on to Pagano. Now get me that fucker on the phone."

  Dietz dashed out of the office.

  Soon Armstead heard from Dietz on the intercom. The long-distance circuits were tied up. There would be a short delay.

  For twenty minutes Armstead remained in place, constantly drumming his fingers on the desk, gradually building up a head of steam.

  When word came through the intercom that Gus Pagano was on hold, Armstead was ready for him.

  "Gus?" he shouted into the phone.

  "What's going on, boss?"

  "You goddam idiot, you let yourself be seen!" Armstead bellowed.

  Pagano sounded confused. "I don't get it."

  "Somebody saw you," persisted Armstead, trying to simmer down. "Somebody on our staff, one of our reporters—remember the girl, Victoria Weston, who once interviewed you?"

  "Don't remember." Then he did. "You mean the good-looking broad who talked to me about Yinger?"

  "She's the girl on our staff who's in Switzerland researching the Intercontinental. She was taking a drive, and she got to wherever you are, and she saw you go into your hotel—"

  "She was in this godforsaken town—?"

  "Sight-seeing, dammit. The point is, what in the hell were you doing out in the street in the daytime where you could be recognized? You had your instructions about that."

  "Listen, boss, let me explain. Cooper—"

  "Is this a safe line?"

  "Nobody gives a damn about this line. I'm just another crummy tourist here to see the museums. Let me explain. I know my instructions. But Cooper buzzed me from the Hotel Xenia in Geneva and wanted me to case an alternate site for the—the hideout—so I had to leave the hotel—"

  "He should have known better. Don't you ever let it happen again."

  "Well, sometimes I may have to move around—."

  "Then grow a beard or mustache or some goddam thing. No, there won't be time. Buy one. Buy a disguise, anything."

  "Okay, boss." He was disbelieving still. "You mean that girl really saw me?"

  "She saw you all right and told me so. I was able to persuade her it hadn't been you. That you were in New York and I'd just been with you. She bought it. So no problem there."

  Pagano sighed with relief. "I'll be more careful from now on."

  "I've got the Intercontinental material for you."

  "Good. Though I don't think Cooper will need much of it. He's already had one of his own men in and out of the place. Anyway, I'll pass it on to him. Want to give it to me?"

  "One second. Let me get the notes."

  Armstead left his chair and opened the door to his secretary's office, holding out his hand. She leaped to her feet with the typed pages and gave them to him. He shut his door and returned to the phone.

  "You set with your pencil?" asked Armstead.

  "All set."

  "I'll try to read it to you slowly."

  Lovingly, with care, Armstead read the three and a half pages of typescript aloud. Victoria had done an admirable job and Armstead was pleased.

  When he was finished, he inquired, "Got it all?"

  "Got it."

  Armstead dropped his voice. "Is the event on schedule?"

  "Day after tomorrow at the time planned. No change."

  "I'll be in the office here. You'll get word straight to me."

  "The second I hear, I'll let you know."

  "It's an important one, Gus. Hope they get it right."

  "They'll get it right, boss. They can't afford to get it wrong. Don't worry."

  But hanging up, Armstead was worried. When news just happened spontaneously you were not involved, except to report it. When you made the news happen, that was another matter, a strain. You had a stake in it, full responsibility.

  You had to worry.

  It wasn't all that easy, playing God.

  The day after tomorrow in Geneva.

  Nine twenty-five in the morning.

  The press and visitors' gallery of the Spanish chamber in the Palais des Nations was jam-packed. Victoria had arrived early to be sure to claim a place at the best vantage point. She had a seat in the front row of the balcony. Bending forward, arms on the brass railing, she once more surveyed the scene in the chamber below. The chamber was crowded with delegates, most in their seats, a few moving about, many of them chattering in many tongues.

  It was a colorful spectacle, this polyglot gathering, and Victoria was eager to see the proceedings get underway. As timepieces clicked closer to nine-thirty, more and more of the delegates became attentive to the speaker's table and the chair that at any moment would be filled by the arrival of Secretary-General Bauer from his headquarters at the Hotel Intercontinental.

  Nine-thirty.

  Victoria sat alert, notebook and pen poised.

  Nine-thirty-five.

  The secretary-general's chair remained empty.

  Nine-forty, nine forty-five.

  Yet another fifteen minutes passed, and still Anton Bauer had not appeared.

  Victoria could detect, for the first time, a degree of restlessness among the delegates below. Some of them were standing, stretching, wandering about. To Victoria, Bauer's tardiness did not seem unusual. Men of state were often engaged in many great enterprises, and had much to handle in limited time, and Bauer would be here shortly, she was convinced.

  Five minutes later, in response to grumbling in the chamber below, Victoria heard a voice call out, "I am informed that Herr Bauer has left his suite!"

  This calmed the delegates for the moment.

  Time continued to tick away, and still Bauer had not appeared. Victoria found herself fidgeting, and at last, on impulse, she came to her feet and left the gallery.

  In the hallway she saw a cordon of Swiss federal policemen. She approached the nearest one. "Pardon me, but do you speak English?"

  "Yes, madame."

  "Has Anton Bauer shown up yet?"

  "No
t yet. We are expecting him for some time."

  There would be some logical explanation for this delay shortly, Victoria told herself, and she should get back to the balcony and her press place to be on hand for the opening of the conference. But she did not return to the balcony. Instead she walked swiftly down the series of corridors that led to the exit, hurried outside, and made for her car. The automatic reporter's instinct that something might be amiss had surfaced in her. The nonappearance of Bauer was odd. It might even be news. It was worth looking into.

  Victoria settled into her Jaguar, started it, and headed for the Hotel Intercontinental, only a few blocks away. Driving, she tried to define what was in her mind. Illness was one possibility. Anton Bauer might have suffered a heart attack. This would explain the delay. She must find out what was going on.

  At the entrance to the hotel she left her car with the doorman, asking him to keep it handy, and then she hurried into the entry, made for the escalator, and rode it up to the mezzanine. She surveyed the area between the reception desk and the elevators. There was a large party of men, some in uniform, some in plainclothes, gathered near the elevator, a few milling about impatiently. Bauer's security detail, Victoria surmised, still waiting for him, but she had to be sure.

  Victoria's eyes went to the reception desk again, and this time she saw the buck-toothed assistant manager who had been her host during the tour of the hotel. She went directly to the counter.

  "Hello," she said. "Remember me?"

  The assistant manager looked blank for a moment, and then recognition came. "Yes, of course. Good day, Miss Weston."

  She jerked her thumb over a shoulder. "Is that Anton Bauer's escort party?"

  The assistant manager glanced off. "Yes, it is."

  "What happened to Herr Bauer?"

  The assistant manager shrugged. "We do not know."

  "Is he in his room?"

  "We have called. There is no answer."

  "Maybe he's sick and can't answer."

  "No, Miss Weston. We have been in his suite. There is no one there. Herr Bauer has left."

  "But—"

  That instant the assistant manager's head came up, his gaze fixing fast on something or someone behind Victoria. She immediately turned to see what had diverted his attention. There was a stocky gentleman, black hair pomaded flat, horn-rimmed spectacles, nattily dressed even to a vest, beckoning imperatively. The assistant manager came erect. "Excuse me, miss," he said nervously, "the manager must see me." He left the counter in a hurry and trotted toward the manager. Victoria saw the manager's arm go around his assistant's shoulders and forcefully lead him away toward one of the squarish white marble pillars that held display cases framed in teakwood.

  The bulky manager was leaning close to his aide, beginning to whisper conspiratorially as they disappeared behind the pillar. Victoria's inquisitiveness was instantly piqued. She started toward the pillar. The pair might be discussing only hotel business, but nevertheless it might be worth eavesdropping. Casually, Victoria sidled up to the near side of the pillar, tilted her head closer to the corner behind which the pair had disappeared.

  She was safely out of their sight, but she could hear the manager's voice distinctly now. He was speaking rapidly in French but she could understand every word, and what she heard made her stand stock-still.

  Listening intently, she heard the manager saying, "Yes, it is true, Pierre, it is confidential from the police headquarters where they are interrogating the bodyguard. What happened, as far as I can learn, is that Bauer went with his bodyguard into the elevator we set for express, to bring him straight down to his escort. But somehow it was stopped and opened before the mezzanine. Armed terrorists—we now know it is the Carlos gang—abducted both men, rushed them out of the hotel to a large car, blindfolded them both, and drove them out of the city."

  "Impossible," Victoria heard the assistant croak. "The secretary-general of the United Nations kidnapped in Geneva—no."

  The manager was going on in French. "But true, Pierre—alas, it is true. It is all from the bodyguard. Carlos took him not only to keep it quiet until they had a good start, but to use him to report the kidnapping to the police and to reveal the ransom terms. I do not know these terms yet. They not only blindfolded the bodyguard but bound his hands behind his back. After an estimated twenty or thirty minutes' driving, the vehicle stopped, and the bodyguard was pulled out of the back seat and left in a field and the vehicle sped away. He was loosely tied, deliberately so I am sure, and after a while he was able to free himself, remove his blindfold, and hike to the main road. He realized that he was outside Coppet. He caught a ride from a motorist, went to the village and reported to the police, who brought him back to the headquarters here. He remembered his captors' mentioning Carlos, how pleased Carlos would be. He was addressed directly only once, when they released him. He was given ransom terms to pass on. The police called me to cooperate."

  "But how?"

  "They want no word of this out yet. But they want me to inform the escort party that it need not wait any longer—but there must be some innocent explanation given—"

  "That Monsieur Bauer is ill—ill for a day or two—must rest—"

  "Perfect, Pierre. You will so inform the escort party. Meanwhile, I am requested to phone the Palais to have this morning's conference postponed because of Bauer's indisposition. The truth must not be revealed, Pierre—it will hurt the police effort—perhaps do damage to the hotel—"

  For the first time, Victoria stirred.

  She must not be caught eavesdropping. She must get the incredible news to New York as fast as possible.

  Quietly she left her post at the pillar. Although her cheeks burned with excitement, she tried to appear calm as she approached the escalator to the lobby.

  In seconds she was off the escalator, and on the run for her car and the biggest story of her career.

  Once locked in her room at the Hotel Beau-Rivage, Victoria tried to relate the time in Geneva to the time in New York City. It was slightly after the noon hour here, therefore only daybreak or early morning in Manhattan. No one important would be in command at the Record. What she had ready was too big to pass on to any underling. She must go straight to the top.

  Eager to call Edward Armstead, she realized that he would be at home and she did not possess his apartment phone number. No use trying New York information for his number. It would be unlisted. Calming down, she remembered that Harry Dietz had told her that if ever there was an emergency she could call him at his apartment, and that was a suite he had recently purchased in the Sherry Netherland Hotel.

  She snatched up the telephone and put through her call to the Sherry Netherland.

  Apparently the circuits to New York were open at this time of day, because in a few minutes she had a woman operator in the Sherry Netherland. Victoria announced that she wanted to speak to Mr. Harry Dietz.

  The hotel operator, like most lonely night operators, was a chatty type. "I dunno," she said, "usually he has his phone shut off at two A.M., won't be disturbed until eight in the morning. Lemme see. No, it's not shut off this morning. Maybe he's not in. Let's find out."

  There was a brief ringing, and a quick answer.

  "Hello, there."

  Victoria's heart leaped. The voice was unmistakably that of Harry Dietz.

  Victoria wanted to shout out her news, explode it in his ear, but she also wanted to be a cool professional. She contained herself. 'Mr. Diet; this is Victoria Weston in Geneva," she said briskly. "I'm sorry to wake you at this hour but—"

  "Don't worry about it, you haven't awakened me," Dietz interrupted. "Matter of fact, I haven't gone to sleep yet." He sounded a trifle slurry, like someone who had recently had two or three drinks. "Edward and I just now left the paper. What a night this has been, but we got a big one going, just got it off on the presses, should hit the streets very soon."

  "Well, listen, I—"

  Dietz ignored her, went right on speaking. "
In fact, it's from your neck of the woods. A real big one, and we have it all by ourselves. Not a peep from the wires anywhere. What a beauty. The secretary-general of the United Nations—Anton Bauer--he's been kidnapped—grabbed while leaving his hotel room—"

  "By the Carlos gang." Victoria's voice had gone flat. She sank down on the side of the bed. She felt pain, as if she had suffered a stomach blow.

  Dietz seemed not to have heard her. "—abducted by Carlos and his terrorist gang. Ed and I saw the ransom demand just as we were leaving to get some sleep. We've got a full crew back at work—this'll give us an exclusive follow-up for the next edition—"

  "What was the ransom demand?" Victoria asked dully.

  "Weird, real weird. But guess it makes sense if you know about someone like Carlos. The ransom is to break up the Non-Nuclear Nations Conference and send the delegates home. Because the conference was a big nations power ploy to keep the smaller nations disarmed and weak. It was to discriminate against them. So if everyone is sent home, allowed to make their little bombs, it will be fair. Once everyone is sent home, sent home from Geneva, Anton Bauer will be set free."

  "Can't there be another conference soon?"

  "Sure, but Carlos promises if there is he will terrorize it once more. Whole thing, just his way of making a political statement.

  Well, the Record and Mark Bradshaw score another beat. Read about it in the Record. Hey, I better hit the sack and get a few winks of sleep. Cot a long day ahead tomorrow—mean today. Thanks for calling, Vicky."

  She heard him hang up, too spaced out even to have asked her why she had called.

  She sat there, limp and dazed.

  A scoop kicked out from her again. Mark Bradshaw, the whiz kid of the Record again.

  How?

  Her wristwatch told her the kidnapping had happened only three hours ago. She'd had it, owned it, herself alone. Yet she hadn't. Someone else had reported it before her, and in New York the thunderous story would momentarily be in the streets and on the airwaves. Yet, in Geneva and in the wide world out there, no public knew. They would know only when the infallible Record told them.