Ramsey had attempted to calculate the time his ride had taken, but the darkness was too disorienting to enable him to think. There had been street sounds throughout the journey, even up to a minute before they had come to a final stop, so he guessed that they were still inside Paris and not in the suburbs.
He had wondered how long Vicky would continue to wait for him at the café, at what point she would become concerned, investigate his whereabouts, become alarmed, consider him missing. He had wondered what she would do, and had tried to conjure up what he might do in her place. He had doubts that kidnapping would ever enter her mind. There was an unreality to such a conclusion. He was, after all, a nonentity, not a promising captive for ransom.
After the vehicle had stopped and the engine was shut off, he had allowed himself to be pulled up and out of the car. He had been hurriedly prodded across what he assumed was a cobblestone paving and over some kind of threshold. Then, judging from the change in temperature, he had been led indoors.
With assistance, he went up three flights of stone steps, was brought to a halt, heard a door creak, felt soft carpeting beneath his shoes, guessed that he had been jostled through several rooms, felt himself being forcibly pushed down until his behind made contact with a wooden chair.
Now his blindfold was being unknotted and yanked off.
Ramsey expected to be blinded by light, but the transition from unseeing to seeing was easy because he had come out of darkness into little better than darkness.
A single low-wattage bulb off to one side of a small, drab, nearly barren room gave only minimal illumination. What Ramsey could make out in the eerie yellow light was a man seated directly in front of him, seated on a chair turned backward, straddling the chair, half smiling at him. On either side of this man, behind him, Ramsey could make out the shapeless forms of three, four, other persons.
Ramsey's gaze returned to the one facing him. This was a youngish man, as far as Ramsey could tell, perhaps middle or late thirties, with thick black hair carefully combed sideways, long sideburns, large brown eyes, straight wide nose, sunken cheeks, fat lips. The flesh on his face was loose, like the flesh of a pudgy person who has lost much weight.
When this one spoke, his voice was modulated, cultured, the accent barely British. "Welcome, Mr. Ramsey," he said. "I hope you have not been too inconvenienced."
"What is this, some kind of joke?" Ramsey demanded, surprised that his name was known.
"Hardly a joke."
"What in the hell is going on? Who are you? Where am I? What do you want with me?"
"I shall answer one question at a time. First, let me introduce myself. I am Ilich Ramirez Sanchez."
Confusion was immediately swept from Ramsey's mind. His senses flooded back, and full memory surfaced. "Carlos," Ramsey blurted.
"The terrorist, you might add. Carlos the terrorist, as you journalists always put it."
Ramsey stared at the long-hunted Venezuelan kidnapper and killer, filled with wonderment. "What on earth do you want with me?"
"To talk, simply to talk," said Carlos.
Ramsey was not listening. "If you want ransom, or anything like that, you've got the wrong person. I'm only a newspaperman, an American newspaperman, and not a very well-known one at that."
"We know who you are and what you are."
"Then this makes no sense. What can you want of me?"
"I have told you," said Carlos. "I decided it was time we have a brief talk."
"About what?"
"About your shoddy work on that infamous rag, the New York Record." The smile had evaporated. The soft face and soft tone had hardened.
"My work?" said Ramsey puzzled.
"Your lies, Mr. Mark Bradshaw."
Ramsey's mouth fell open. "Bradshaw? You think I'm Mark Bradshaw? You're wrong, all wrong. You yourself greeted me as Ramsey. You know I'm Nick Ramsey." He hesitated, and added lamely, "I can prove it. I can show you my passport."
"Anyone can put any name on a passport. We have dozens of passports with dozens of names. As you have investigated us, we have investigated you. We have followed your inquiries, your travels, your stories. We have every reason to believe that you are really Mark Bradshaw, the journalist jackal who has been attributing all of the recent terrorist activities to me. I have had enough. I have decided the time has come to call you to account."
Ramsey sat nonplussed. "Believe me, I didn't write those stories.
"Oh, no?" said Carlos. "The stories appear. They are exclusive in your newspaper. They are spread worldwide. Carlos supplies weapons to the Basque kidnappers of the Spanish king. Carlos kidnaps the secretary-general of the United Nations. Carlos steals the Dead Sea scrolls. None of them have I done. None of these reflect my methods. Not once was a meaningful ransom asked."
Ramsey's journalistic scent was aroused. "The killing of the Israeli prime minister," he said. "You have taken cabinet ministers hostage before. You have killed."
"I had not a thing to do with the killing of the prime minister of Israel," said Carlos. "Only a fool would try to extract ransom from a country that will pay no ransom. Israel refused to comply with the ransom demands for the Dead Sea scrolls. This morning the thieves gave up and returned the scrolls, told the government they could be found in a garbage can near the port of Haifa. The whole thing has the mark of a PLO operation. Yet, frankly, none of these terrorist acts bears the imprint of political terrorists. Whoever is performing these acts is motivated by something other than politics. None of these are Carlos operations. Yet Mark Bradshaw reports each of these as being directed by Carlos. I believe you are Mark Bradshaw."
"I've told you that you are grossly mistaken."
"You do not deny that you and the lady you use as an assistant both work for the New York Record. You do not deny that one of you was on the scene of each event when it happened."
"I only deny that I am Mark Bradshaw. He wrote those stories. I did not. He accused you of the operations. I did not."
Carlos was briefly silent. "If you are not Bradshaw, who is? Can you lead me to him?"
"I cannot. I don't know him."
"That sounds unlikely."
"It's true."
"I choose to think you lie," said Carlos. "I put you on warning, and if you are not Bradshaw, you put him on warning." He enunciated the next words coldly. "One more such fabrication about me in your newspaper, and you are dead. I will blow your head off. For good measure, I will blow your lady's head off. Do you hear me?"
"I hear you," said Ramsey. "And if I'm not Bradshaw?"
"Then find the one who is and relay to him my warning."
"I'll do my best." He paused. "What next?"
"Next?"
"What are you going to do with me?"
"I have no further use for you. I wanted to be sure you got my message. You will be blindfolded again, and released. I suggest strongly you do not write of this meeting."
The terrorist was about to rise when Ramsey spoke out once more. "Carlos—"
"What is it?"
"One question." Ramsey could not resist. He was fascinated by the man's ego. "For one who has had so many crimes attributed to him, why do you object to being connected with the crimes we've been discussing?"
"Professional pride," said Carlos, without humor. "What has been happening is not my style. I wish credit only where credit is due. When the history of our time is written, I want my role to be portrayed accurately. You understand?"
Ramsey nodded.
Carlos rose. "Final word of caution, Mr. Ramsey. Be sure you keep your head—without a hole in it. Adios." Carlos receded into the darkness.
Victoria was in the entry hail of the Plaza Athénée suite, at the mini refrigerator pouring her second Coca-Cola, when she heard the telephone ringing.
For more than an hour since her return from the Rue Martel, the location of the kidnappers' hideout, she had been trying to contact Edward Armstead in New York City. Armstead had been in and out of his office at the R
ecord, and neither his secretary nor McAllister had any idea where he had gone.
"Maybe Harry Dietz might know," McAllister suggested. "I know Mr. Dietz walked out with Mr. Armstead, but Mr. Dietz was going back to his own apartment at the Sherry Netherland to pick up something. He should be back in the office in a few hours. He might know where Mr. Armstead can be found."
Victoria had not wanted to wait for Dietz's return to the Record. She had hoped to catch him at the Sherry Netherland, but he had not yet arrived at the hotel. Victoria had phoned Dietz again. Still not in. She had become frantic, torn by indecision, trying to decide if she dared waste so much time attempting to get Armstead. Fearful of what might be happening to Nick in the hands of abductors, she had almost made up her mind to notify the French SAreté. But before doing so, she had determined to try Dietz one last time. A third call had been put through to the Sherry Netherland and through to Dietz's apartment, and to her vast relief Dietz had answered the phone.
Victoria had explained that she had an urgent matter to discuss with Mr. Armstead. Could Dietz help her locate him?
She had detected real reluctance on Dietz's part. He had been definitely hedging. "Well, I'm not sure. Maybe this is something I can help you with?"
Momentarily she had considered spilling it all out to Dietz, but some instinct had told her to hold out for Armstead, to speak to the publisher himself.
"I really think I should speak to Mr. Armstead."
"Umm. And you are sure it is urgent?"
"Most urgent, believe me."
"All right, Victoria. I might have an idea where he could be. Let me find out."
"Can I try him—wherever—directly, to save time?"
"Nooo. I think not. I'd better do it. If he is free to speak to you, I'll have him call you as soon as possible."
"At the Plaza Athénée, Paris."
"I know, Victoria. You stand by."
Interminable minutes had passed, while the telephone remained mute and Nick, she was sure, remained helpless in the hands of kidnappers.
At last the telephone was ringing, and she washurrying, Coke in hand, into the living room of the suite. Putting down her glass, she grasped at the receiver and fell down on the sofa. It was a female French operator. "Miss Victoria Weston?"
"Yes."
"A telephone call for you from New York. Mr. Armstead is calling."
"Please put him on."
Edward Armstead's voice came on, low and hushed, but distinct and tinged with annoyance. "What is it, Victoria? What's so important?"
"I'm sorry to disturb you, Mr. Armstead, believe me, but I have to. There's trouble here. Nick Ramsey's been kidnapped."
"He's what—been kidnapped, you say?" The annoyance had vanished from Armstead's tone, which took on a note more of curiosity than concern. "Am I hearing you right?"
You heard me right. Nick was kidnapped, abducted in front of my very eyes just a little more than two hours ago. Let me tell you fast."
In a torrent of words, she related how she had met Nick at the airport, been dropped off, arranged to meet with him at the café on the Champs-lysées, and had seen him abducted and forced into a car by two men. By some miracle she had managed to follow them, and had found out the address where Nick was being held.
For the first time Armstead broke in. "Any idea who did it?"
"Not the faintest."
"You haven't heard from his captors yet?"
"Not a peep. It's probably too soon. Should I have reported this directly to the Sûreté? I thought I should notify you first."
"You did the right thing, Victoria."
"Should I get in touch with the police now? I have the address. It is 12 Rue Martel. I can notify—"
Before Victoria could continue, or Armstead reply, another voice intruded. Victoria's head jerked up as Ramsey came into the room. "Is that Armstead?" he wanted to know. "Tell him they were letting me go when I heard one of them say that by morning they were moving to another safe house. Apparently they keep on the move all the time."
Mesmerized by Ramsey's unexpected appearance, Victoria listened to him, ignoring whatever Armstead was saying on the phone. Aware once more of the publisher on the other end of the line, she exclaimed into the mouthpiece, "Mr. Armstead, Nick just walked in! He's safe and sound!"
"He's there?" Armstead said.
"Right here. He wants to speak to you."
"I want to speak to him," said the publisher.
"One sec—"
Victoria handed Ramsey the telephone and gave him a quick kiss as she slid over on the sofa to make room for him. He closed his hand on top of the mouthpiece and addressed Victoria. "You actually knew where they took me?"
"I saw it happen on the Champs-Élysées. I managed to follow you."
He regarded her with real admiration. "You're quite a kid," he said. "Maybe I'll treat you to champagne tonight."
She beamed at him.
Ramsey removed his hand from the mouthpiece. "Hi, Mr. Armstead. I gather you heard all about my little episode from Vicky."
"I heard," said Armstead. "I want to hear from you what was going on. Who wanted you? Why? And how come you're free?"
"You'll find it hard to believe," said Ramsey. "I was picked up on the orders of Carlos, and taken to Carlos himself."
"Who?"
"Carlos, the Carlos."
"The terrorist?"
"Numero Uno in person. He had me grabbed. He wanted to talk to me."
"For God's sake, why?"
"Because he was sure I was the one and only Mark Bradshaw of the New York Record, and he wanted to tell me—warn me—that if I continued writing stories for the paper accusing him of more kidnappings, he'd blow my brains out. That was it."
Armstead's voice faltered. "You mean he denied kidnapping Bauer, stealing the Dead Sea scrolls—"
"—or murdering the Israeli prime minister. He insisted that he had no part in any of those operations. In fact, he resented being linked to them." Ramsey caught his breath. "I better tell you the whole thing play by play."
Ramsey saw Victoria hanging on every word, eyes wide again, and he winked at her and concentrated on his telephone conversation once more. He launched into a full recital of his enforced meeting with Carlos.
During Ramsey's recounting of his adventure, Armstead did not interrupt once.
Only when Ramsey finished did the publisher speak. "That's it?" he said.
"The whole thing."
"Helluva story," said Armstead. "You'd better write it up for us, get it in fast."
"Happy to," said Ramsey, "if you want a reporter with a hole in his head. That's what Carlos promised if I said a word."
"No, I don't want your life endangered."
"On the other hand, if we notify the police where they can find Carlos and his gang, and they're in custody, Vicky and I can cover the whole thing and file it."
There was a pause. "No, definitely no," decided Armstead. "As soon as the police know, everyone will know. We'll lose our exclusivity. Let me handle Carlos my way. I want to be sure we have the jump on the others. I have my own Sûreté contacts."
"Do it your way," agreed Ramsey. "But you'd better move before Carlos does. He's slippery."
"Don't worry. Leave him to me."
"Okay," said Ramsey with some reluctance. "But there is one thing I must do. In case Carlos gets away—"
"I told you I'd take care of him."
"But if he manages to get away, as he always has, I'd better locate Mark Bradshaw. I'd better let him know that Carlos has a contract out on him if he mentions Carlos in print once more. Can you tell me where to get in touch with Bradshaw?"
There was a silence. Ramsey waited, meeting Victoria's inquiring gaze. Finally, Armstead spoke. "I prefer that you leave Bradshaw to me. And Carlos, as well."
"As you wish, sir."
"Leave everything to me," Armstead repeated with finality.
"Look. You and Victoria go downstairs and have a drink on me. You
deserve it. Be back in your suite by—let me see, what time is it?—by midnight your time. I'll be calling you with a full report, and with your next assignment."
Victoria watched Ramsey hang up, and saw his disgust.
She came closer to Ramsey. "What is it, Nick? What was he saying?"
"Armstead wants to do everything himself. He insists on it. Apparently he has his own contacts in the Sûreté. He's afraid that if we go to the police, we'll blow his exclusive. All he's worried about is his goddam story."
"Well, all I'm worried about is you," said Victoria heatedly. "It's too risky, playing around with Carlos. I think we should go directly to the police."
"And get fired," said Ramsey, standing up. "No, I don't think so, Vicky. I think we've got to let him play his game, and see what happens."
"I don't like it," protested Victoria.
"We have to give him a chance. He's calling us back at midnight." Ramsey reached down and pulled Victoria to her feet. "Meanwhile, Armstead insisted we go downstairs and have drinks on him."
"I don't want drinks," said Victoria. "I'm hungry."
"All right. You have dinner. I need drinks."
She allowed him to lead her to the entry and the door to the suite. He opened the door. She held back. "Nick, you haven't told me. What did Armstead say about Bradshaw?"
"Only that he'll take care of Bradshaw."
"Do you think he will?"
Ramsey hunched his shoulders. "Why not?"
She left the suite. Ramsey closed the door. She followed him to the elevator. "Nick, I want to talk to you about Bradshaw."
He watched the elevator rise, come to a halt. When it opened, he gestured her inside. "Later," he said. "Let's see what Arm-stead comes up with. Right now, you have dinner and let me have a few quiet drinks."
Armstead remained seated, immobilized, in the middle of Kim Nesbit's apartment for a long time, staring at the olive-green telephone he had recently used. He played and replayed his conversations with Victoria Weston and Nick Ramsey over in his mind, and tried to think.
He had left the office to come to Kim's apartment in the late afternoon because he'd had a sudden urge to possess her, his first in many days. He'd been high from all his successes, pleased with himself, pleased with the tip from Bruce Harmston that Time magazine was considering giving him a cover, had already assigned a photograph session, and Armstead had wanted to celebrate. After letting himself into Kim's quarters, he had been mildly annoyed to find her napping—more likely, passed out—on her bed. He had not liked her condition—her blond hair tangled, her mascara smudged beneath her closed eyelids, her breath reeking of whisky—and she was sprawled still in her nightclothes at midday. But his annoyance had been overcome by the sight of the flesh of an inner thigh through the parting of her white silk robe. The realization that she was nude underneath had heated his desire. It had been difficult to awaken her, but once she was fully awake and sobering, she whimpered her pleasure at the sight of him and clutched him, holding him tightly, promising to make him happy, happier, the happiest.
The Almighty Page 24