The Almighty

by Irving Wallace

  How?

  Maybe an old master like Nick Ramsey would have an answer. She must find him and tell him, and hear what he had to say.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Relieved to be in an air-conditioned place again, Nick Ramsey sat sprawled in one of the chairs available in the Israeli press officer's temporary room on the second floor of the terminal at Ben Gurion International Airport and watched as the officer poured scotch from a quart bottle for the other foreign correspondents lounging along the walls. When the officer reached him, Ramsey was pleased to note that there was still plenty of liquor in the bottle. He held out his glass, empty except for two ice cubes.

  "Say when, Nick," said the Israeli press officer, pouring slowly. Ramsey said nothing until his glass was filled to the brim. Then, with a grin, he said, "When."

  He brought the glass of scotch to his lips and enjoyed a long drink. His body's response seemed almost instantaneous. The throbbing ache of fatigue in his muscles, chest, arms, gradually his thighs, began to disappear.

  Now the press officer was addressing the group of reporters. "Prime Minister Salmon will be boarding, taking off for Cairo to meet with Egyptian President Massouna, in one hour. Well, it could maybe be an hour and a half. It depends." He squinted down at his wristwatch. "The prime minister should just be finishing his meeting with Egyptian Ambassador Nahas at the Kriesset about now. Salmon mentioned something about detouring briefly to take the Egyptian ambassador to the Dead Sea scrolls museum across the way. A quick fifteen- or twenty-minute tour. As you know, Salmon is pretty proud of the role his father played in acquiring the scrolls. After that they'll both head straight for the airport here, to catch the official plane to Cairo." The press officer picked up his own drink. "You'll board your El Al 707 press plane in fifteen minutes. There'll be an open bar, but I advise a minimum of insobriety. Egyptian President Massouna is personally welcoming our prime minister. There will be a little ceremony for you to cover."

  "Meaning we'll have to hang around the Cairo airport for over an hour before the ceremony," protested Ramsey.

  "You'll be well taken care of at Cairo International Airport," said the Israeli press officer. "The Egyptians will be putting on a fancy Faroukian feed for you in the press area. Food catered by the Nile Hilton, and served by those zaftigwaitresses. I promise you won't suffer. Well—" The officer held up his glass. "Shalom."

  Ramsey stifled a yawn, and drank again.

  He did not like the idea of leaving. He felt comfortable in Tel Aviv, and constantly interested in Jerusalem. He hated Cairo, the crowdedness of it, the dirt and poorness of it, and no sum on earth could induce him to go out to the pyramids once more, to suffer those nagging and lying hawkers with their awful trinkets. Staying on in Israel would have been preferable, except for the fact that there was not much doing these days on the story side, certainly no event that would make the first four pages of the New York Record. The coming meetings in Cairo between the heads of Israel and Egypt promised little more. There had been endless similar meetings in the past few years, and not one had produced a decent international news story.

  Lazily, Ramsey finished his drink and wondered what was happening to Victoria Weston. He missed her brightness, her chatter. Almost every morning since their separation he had awakened picturing her, her body, and had an erection. He wished that she were here to accompany him to Cairo and make the visit more bearable.

  The thought that he would see her one day soon, and perhaps stop acting as foolishly as he had, made him feel even more relaxed.

  He held out his glass for another shot of scotch. Leaning forward, he picked a few more ice cubes out of the bowl on the desk, dropped them into his glass, and drank again, waiting for the last ache of exhaustion to drain away.

  For Ramsey, the past ten days had been wearying. No sooner had he reached the Tel Aviv Hilton Hotel from Paris than he had heard from New York and from Ollie McAllister. There was a new priority assignment for Ramsey. Instead of merely researching background material for coverage of the Israeli prime minister's flight to Egypt and his meetings there with his Egyptian counterpart, Ramsey was to accompany Israel's defense minister on an inspection tour around the country. This would take five days. The sixth day he was to go to The Shrine of the Book—the Dead Sea scrolls museum in Jerusalem—and cover an anniversary of the museum, which was to feature a gathering of eminent international archaeologists.

  The defense tour of Israel had quickly worn Ramsey to a frazzle not because he was in soft physical condition, or because of the unremitting heat, or because the military provided few comforts (no hotels on this tour, only barracks and tents), but because the young, vigorous defense minister was a dynamo. Ramsey had ridden with the minister or hiked at his heels from Haifa to Afula to Gaza to Beersheba, and throughout the Negev. The resultant story—Israel's preparedness for a possible war in the near future against any combination of Arab states—proved interesting enough until Israeli censors emasculated it.

  The sixth day, in Jerusalem, Ramsey had gone to cover the ceremony at the Dead Sea scrolls museum. He had never before visited The Shrine of the Book, the Israelis' name for the sacred sanctuary that housed and preserved the seven priceless Dead Sea scrolls discovered in a Qumran cave in 1947- Walking between the white dome—fashioned after the cover of the scrolls' earthen jar—and a black basalt wail, descending to the subterranean main repository, Ramsey had found himself interested but doubtful that the inanimate story of a museum could provide much excitement for the busy readers of a harum-scarum, hyped-up New York metropolitan newspaper.

  Yet, once inside, Ramsey had been forced to suspend all doubts. He had been utterly intrigued by what he was shown beneath the double parabolic dome. As he followed an archaeologist guide during an inspection tour before the ceremony, Ramsey had been open-mouthed with fascination. An arched tunnel lined with showcases ascended to the central circular main hail, which was highlighted by an elevated main column displaying the Isaiah scroll, the entire book of Isaiah. It was as if the ancient Qumran community of two thousand years ago had come to life, resurrected by the numerous jagged leather sheets bearing in Aramaic their accounts of the persistent struggle of Good against Evil.

  With reluctance Ramsey attended to his job, made notes for his story, noted everything from the fact that the museum's interior architecture was in the form of the cave in which the scrolls had been found to the fact that the scrolls were enshrined behind thick glass in ten display cases to the fact that the fragments of the main scroll, the Isaiah, were not the originals but clever photocopies, since the fragile real fragments might be destroyed by exposure to light in the building.

  Ramsey, with an interpreter at his side, had joined other guests in the makeshift seating arrangements, had tried to be attentive to the ceremony, had half-listened to speeches by biblical scholars and archaeologists. For Ramsey, the speakers had been relatively lifeless. What had pumped life and blood into the day had been the scrolls themselves.

  That evening, in the King David Hotel, Ramsey had tried to infuse some of that energy into his story. Calling New York to dictate the piece, he had been modestly pleased with his handiwork. But he had still suspected, despite knowledge that Armstead had personally suggested the assignment, that the story would be given little prominence in a normal New York day replete with murders and muggings, bribery and graft, and at least several sex scandals.

  This morning, which was hot as ever, Ramsey had hired a taxi to take him the three quarters of an hour drive from Jerusalem to the Tel Aviv Hilton. There had hardly been time for a shower, a change of clothes, a sandwich on the run, and no time at all to reply to the phone messages from Victoria—who, to his surprise, was in Paris, not Geneva—before he had to catch the press bus to Ben Gurion International Airport.

  He was still in the airport's temporary press room, finishing his second drink, when he realized that he was being paged on the public-address system.

  Setting down his glass, he came to
his feet. "They're paging me. I missed it—where do I pick up the call?"

  The Israeli press officer beckoned him. "You can take it next door. Let me help. Come along."

  They walked to the claustrophobic adjacent room. The officer picked up the phone, spoke twice in Hebrew, handed over the receiver. "Paris on the line for you. They're making the connection." He went to the door. "Don't forget, we're leaving any minute."

  Once he was alone, Ramsey brought the receiver to his ear. "Hello. This is Nick Ramsey."

  "At last," a distant voice sighed. The voice belonged to Victoria Weston. "Where have you been, Nick? I was so worried. I've been trying to get you for over a week—"

  "Hello, Vicky. I got your messages when I stopped by the Hilton, but there wasn't time to call you back. How'd you know I was at Ben Gurion?"

  "The hotel told me you were on your way to the airport."

  "Boarding a plane to Cairo any minute. When I came to Tel Aviv, Armstead had an interim assignment for me."

  "Terrorist stuff?"

  "I wish it had been," said Ramsey. "A tour of defense installations. A day covering ceremonies at The Shrine of the Book."

  "The what?"

  "The Dead Sea scrolls museum. Good story, but it's not going to help the Record soar. Sa-ay, these calls—is anything wrong?"

  "Everything—or maybe nothing."

  "And what are you doing in Paris? I thought you were—"

  "In Geneva, you thought. Well, that's part of it, and I wanted to talk to you after it happened. I mean the Bauer kidnapping. The secretary-general of the United Nations was grabbed by Carlos while I was there."

  "I read the stories in the Jerusalem Post and the Herald Trib along the way."

  "I had it alone, Nick," she said quickly. "Did you read the byline on the big scoop?"

  "There was no by-line on the first story I read. The wire services credited the New York Record."

  "There was a by-line on the story in New York. Want to guess?"

  "Mark Bradshaw? Not again?"

  "Again. I phoned Dietz immediately, positive I was the only one to have it, and he told me they were already on the presses with it. What is Armstead doing—double-covering our stories with another staffer?"

  "I suppose he wants to make sure. That Bradshaw's a lucky bastard. I wish I had some of his luck. And Armstead—I would never have predicted it, but he's turned into something of a genius.

  "How do you mean?"

  "Sending us and Bradshaw to hot spots where things happen. He should rank high with the Central Premonition Registry. But this time he's going to miss out, with me in Israel and you in Paris. What are you doing in Paris anyway?"

  "Armstead recalled me from Geneva until he had another assignment. Until something happens, I'm twiddling my thumbs."

  "Well, not a thing is going to happen there, and as far as I can see, not a damn thing is going to happen here. This trip is zero, zilch. Good to know that our publisher is human—wins some, loses some, like everybody else. Anyway, maybe we'll see each other soon."

  "I hope so, Nick."

  "Ditto on this end. Hey, somebody out there is calling for me. I'm afraid it's bon voyage time."

  "Nick, call me when you get to Cairo."

  "Real soon, baby. We'll have plenty of time together yet."

  At midafternoon the blue minibus, moving at moderate speed, turned off Herzl Boulevard in Jerusalem and entered onto Ruppin.

  Inside the rented bus, Cooper, the model of a businessman tourist attired in a light summer suit, with conservative necktie and white Oxford-cloth shirt, leaned closer to the window until his nose almost touched the glass. To his right, he could see the buildings of Hebrew University passing by and the university stadium ahead. Pulling away from the window, he caught a glimpse of the stately pillared Knesset, Israel's parliament. Narrowing his eyes, gazing up the aisle through the bus windshield, he could make out the graceful arc of a white dome, the roof of the Dead Sea scrolls museum, not quite directly ahead, somewhat to the right in the near distance.

  "We're almost there," Cooper proclaimed, straightening in his seat. He raised his voice so that the other seven men in the bus could hear him. "We'll be there in a few minutes, so on your toes. You've all been to the museum. You know your way around. You have your assignments. You know what to do."

  "Clear enough," called back Quiggs from the front seat.

  Cooper sat in silence for a half minute as the bus rolled on and the white dome grew larger in the windshield.

  Cooper resumed speaking once more, almost idly. "Krupinski will drive this bus into the parking lot beside the museum. He will leave the wheel, abandon the bus, and with Pagano go to the two empty Fords in the lot. They will stand around, have a smoke, watch the time, be ready to get into the driver seats. Meanwhile, the six of us will alight from this bus like tourists, a tour party from Liverpool, remember. Queue up at the ticket office—there's a sign in English and Hebrew that identifies it—and when we have our tickets, move on singly or in pairs to the glass entry booth. Once through the booth, there'll be the long black-pebbled concrete walk to the Israel Museum on the small hill ahead. Before that, second turn off to the right, there'll be a sign reading THE SHRINE OF THE BOOK. That's it. Make your way casually to it—no running. You're sightseeing—you're tourists, remember. Go up the rise in the turnoff, four steps, more walk, two steps, to the head of the steep staircase leading down into the courtyard. The second we start down, we go into action."

  Lafair waggled his hand. "What if we get mixed in with some other tourists, real tourists, going down the staircase?"

  "Odds against it, but possible," Cooper replied. "If that happens, you stop them at that point and cover them, immobilize them there until the getaway." He addressed the others. "We all keep going. Fast. I'm allowing three minutes from entry of the museum to exit. Got it?"

  "Got it," called back Quiggs.

  "Any questions?" asked Cooper.

  There were none.

  "One caution," stated Cooper, "based on last-minute intelligence from Pagano."

  Everyone in the bus except the driver turned around to listen attentively to their leader.

  "You recall, after the entrance hall and souvenir area in the museum, there's the tunnel with its lighted glass showcases," stated Cooper. "Ignore those. Don't bother with them. They display the Bar Kokhba manuscripts and Masada scrolls and coins, potsherds, and other artifacts. Those are not the great treasures.

  Go on past them into the main circular central hail. Avoid the elevated pedestal in the center of the room. It contains leaves of the Isaiah scroll, but these are photocopies, fakes, not the original. Go for the ten showcases around the room. They contain the originals of the Dead Sea scrolls from the Qumran cave. Don't try to break the glass in the display cases. We don't know how thick the glass is. We don't know if the glass is tied into an outside alarm. Instead, use the duplicate keys we had made. The keys may take seconds longer, but they are surer and safer. Each display case has a keyhole in the wooden frame at the bottom. Insert the key, lift the lid, remove the scrolls. And away we go."

  The bus jolted into a turn.

  Cooper looked out the window. "Here we are. We're passing the two Fords well use. To the rear, Krupinski—park there."

  As the bus eased across the parking lot, they all sat tense with expectation, noting only three other unoccupied vehicles.

  As they parked, Cooper spoke quickly once more. "About the getaway. If it goes well, we leave as casually as we went in. The four of you go nice and easy to your cruise ship in Haifa. Leave your bags of scrolls with me. Gus and I will head back into Jerusalem to do what we have to do before flying out of here. If anything goes wrong, if we're pressed, then we'll scram fast as we can, follow the alternate plan, take a different route, drop you off in pairs at your contact points where you'll have changes of clothes, and then you'll leave the country." He addressed himself to Krupinski and Pagano. "In either case, when we leave this lot, rememb
er, no speeding, no jumping red lights. The Israelis have camera boxes over their traffic signals to take pictures of offenders. Once we're on the wing, we'll meet up in Paris as agreed."

  Cooper looked out the window. The bus had drawn to a stop. The engine died.

  "All right, boys," Cooper said quietly, "we've got work to do. Let's move."

  The bus door opened. Krupinski left the wheel, descended, followed by Pagano. Momentarily Cooper watched them saunter away toward the Fords. He stepped into the aisle of the bus and trailed after his colleagues and out onto the baking parking lot.

  They broke into two groups, ad-libbing conversations with each other as they headed across the lot to the booth with the sign reading TICKET OFFICE. They fell raggedly into line, each finding Israeli change, each paying for his ticket, each moving on to the neighboring booth, a glass enclosure framed in blue, with a sign that said ENTRANCE.

  Cooper led the way into the entrance. Inside, there was a disinterested young man with a Band-Aid on his chin and a museum badge on his sports jacket, chatting in Hebrew with a fat adolescent Jewish girl who was seated nearby munching on an apple. The young man automatically glanced at each ticket, hardly noticing them as he passed them through.

  They were gathered in the open again, on a broad pebbled concrete walk. Cooper stepped ahead of the others, as if guiding a tour group. They trudged along slowly, several of them mopping their foreheads with handkerchiefs and complaining of the heat. They went past the first pathway to their right, the museum's exit from the rear bookshop and rest rooms, and straggled toward the walk that led to the museum. A posted sign read THE SHRINE OF THE BOOK.

  At the sign they slowed, assembled behind Cooper and turned off to another walk, stepping up the pace, climbing three short sets of steps. They were dwarfed by a towering black slab of wall on one side and the white dome on the other.

  Rounding a corner, they assembled once more at the top of a sharply angled stone staircase leading down to a courtyard. There were no real tourists in sight.