The Almighty

by Irving Wallace

  He had allowed her to go to the bathroom to freshen herself and get ready, and had removed his jacket and been about to undress when the telephone rang in the living room and it was Harry Dietz. Armstead had had no wish to call back that Weston girl at this time, or from this place, but his concern at the urgency of the call had got the better of him. He had phoned Victoria in Paris, and spoken to Ramsey as well.

  Now he was trying to decide what to do.

  Glancing down the hall to the bedroom, to be certain that Kim had not emerged from the bathroom as yet, satisfying himself that she would still be a while with her bath, makeup, lotions, perfumes, lingerie, he decided that there was time to make another call. From his wristwatch he guessed that Harry Dietz would still be at the Sherry Netherland. This was something to be handled through Harry.

  He dialed the hotel and soon had Dietz on the other end. "Harry, I called the Weston girl in Paris."

  "Was it as important as she said, or a false alarm?"

  Armstead dropped his voice. "It was important all right."

  "Yes?"

  "Ramsey, Nick Ramsey, is back in Paris. He was nabbed by the Carlos gang on the Champs Élysées."

  "You're kidding."

  "The Weston girl saw it and followed them. She discovered where Carlos is hiding out."

  "Hey, what a story. If we give it to the police—"

  "We give it to every newspaper on earth," interrupted Arm-stead. "I had to restrain Ramsey from blowing the whistle on Carlos to the French police. That's no good."

  "You're absolutely right, Chief. What can we do about Carlos?"

  "I'm not sure yet," said Armstead thoughtfully. "But I want to keep an eye on him until we decide how to handle it. Is Gus Pagano there?"

  "Just returned to Paris."

  "Good. Give Pagano an immediate call. Tell him Carlos and his gang are holed up at 12 Rue Martel. They may be moving to another location before midnight. Tell Pagano to get his ass right over to that area and put a tail on Carlos. I want to know where he is when I've figured out how to bust the story."

  "Will do," promised Dietz. "Sa-ay, you haven't told me—why did Carlos pick up Nick Ramsey?"

  "Thought he was Mark Bradshaw. Doesn't like Bradshaw's stories blaming everything on him. Swore he'd kill Ramsey or Bradshaw if another Bradshaw by-line appears."

  Dietz laughed. "He'd kill Bradshaw?"

  "Or Ramsey," said Armstead. "Ramsey doesn't think it's very funny. He's determined to find Mark Bradshaw, not only to warn him, but to get Carlos off his own neck. He pressed me pretty hard on that."

  "What did you say?"

  "That I'd handle Bradshaw myself. Look, Harry, I'm a little worried about Ramsey. He didn't like my taking Bradshaw away from him. He may be in an inquisitive mood, start poking around on his own. That could cause some trouble. What do you think?"

  "I think you should pull him out of Paris immediately—in fact, bring him back from Europe."

  "Just what I was thinking," said Armstead. "Okay, here's what I want you to do. I'm supposed to give Ramsey a call at the Plaza Athénée by midnight his time. I want you to make that call for me."

  "And tell him what?"

  "First tell him that I got in touch with my Sûreté contacts in Paris. But it was too late. Carlos got away. We lost him. Now that he's loose again, we're worried about Ramsey's life. We want none of our staff in danger. Our first duty is to protect our reporters. Therefore, for his own sake, we are recalling him. As of tomorrow morning, Ramsey is to leave Paris, fly to Washington. Tell him we're transferring him to special duty in the Washington, D.C., bureau. Tell him to bone up on President Callaway's agenda during his meetings with the British prime minister in two weeks. Tell Ramsey we may send him along with the President. Will you take care of that?"

  "What about Victoria Weston? Maybe you should take her out of Paris, now that Pagano's back in town?"

  "Victoria Weston," Armstead reflected. "No, not yet. I want her in Paris digging up research on Lourdes, for a backgrounder on the Pope's upcoming visit to the shrine there. Just play it safe, have Pagano leave for Lourdes tomorrow. Have you got all that?"

  "First, call Pagano."

  "He's to tag after Carlos. Then have someone else do it after Gus heads for Lourdes."

  "And you want me to get Nick Ramsey at midnight their time and instruct him to leave for Washington—?"

  "Wait a minute," said Armstead, rising. "Maybe it would be better coming from me. Let me handle Ramsey and Weston from the office. You take care of Pagano. Look, we have to do this right. I'll be in the office in twenty minutes. Meet me there."

  As he put down the telephone receiver, he had a glimpse of Kim Nesbit in the entrance to the hallway. She stood there in a pink filmy something or other, smiling sweetly at him. Then she turned away and disappeared.

  Armstead had entirely forgotten about her and why he was here.

  Slowly buttoning his shirt again, tightening the knot of his tie, he started for the hallway.

  When he entered the bedroom, Kim had just slipped out of her negligee and thrown it on the chaise longue. She was wearing a white silk Chinese pajama top that barely covered her pubic hair, no more. She pirouetted toward Armstead, smiling seductively, arms outstretched.

  "You're still dressed, darling," she said. "I thought you couldn't wait. I know I can't. I'm so happy you're here. It's been too long."

  Her speech trailed off as she realized he had gone past her, avoiding her arms, and had reached for his coat jacket and was getting into it.

  Her expression changed. "What are you doing?"

  "I'm sorry, Kim. I've got to rush back to the office. Something just came up."

  She hurried to him, throwing her arms around him. "Oh, darling, don't, please don't go. Give me a little time. Let's have a little time together. I've hardly seen you. I want you, I need you."

  "Later," he said brusquely. "I've got more important things to do right now."

  He pulled himself free by force, spun away and left the bedroom. She stumbled into the hallway after him. At the living room, she clung to him, entwining her arms around him again.

  "Darling, please, please," she implored. "There's us. The world can live a little while without you."

  "It can't!" he said fiercely, seizing her by the arms and freeing himself.

  He stormed across the living room.

  "Don't," she called weakly, "don't leave me alone again."

  At the door, opening it, he hesitated, as if to say something more. He saw her, almost oblivious to him, starting to pour a drink.

  He went wordlessly through the door, slamming it shut.

  Having finished his conversations with Ramsey and Victoria in Paris, Armstead hung up the receiver of his office telephone and fell back in his swivel chair, utterly drained.

  He began to think that what he wanted now was the tall, strong drink he had failed to get at Kim Nesbit's. As he was about to act on it, his buzzer sounded.

  It was Estelle. "Mr. Armstead, I'm leaving now, but I wanted to tell you Bruce Harmston is here. He wonders if he can have a minute with you."

  Armstead groaned audibly. "Is it something that can hold until tomorrow?"

  He heard Estelle speaking to Harmston, and then she was back on the line again. "Mr. Harmston says it would be better if he could see you right now."

  "Okay, okay, send him in."

  Moments later, Harmston was seated edgily before him, the forehead below his receding hairline perspiring, his moon face troubled. "Mr. Armstead, I hate to bust in on you like this, but it's something I have to handle as soon as possible. It's Time magazine again."

  Armstead showed his annoyance. "What in the hell do they want now? I've given them an interview, I'll sit for pictures—"

  "Oh, you've been most cooperative, they know that. But they're still not satisfied with what you told them—or, in their words, did not tell them—about your star foreign correspondent, Mark Bradshaw."

  "Bradshaw, Bradshaw,
they're driving me nuts."

  "I'm sure you are aware, sir, we've been getting many inquiries about Bradshaw. I've managed to concentrate all stories on you, on your intuitive genius, your brilliance. Everyone is accepting that—it's so obvious—but still they want to know more about the man you've been assigning to cover those exclusives. Time has been the most persistent. The editors feel you're being evasive. They're insisting on another interview with you, a brief one just about Bradshaw—who he is, how you found him, how you work with him. Do you think—?"

  "Fuck Time magazine!" Armstead burst out. "I'm not wasting another second on them, even if it costs me the story."

  "No, no, Mr. Armstead, don't misunderstand. They want to feature you. They want to play up the story. They just thought the lack of information on Bradshaw left a big hole in their profile. But they're going ahead with the piece, of course—"

  "Sorry, Bruce, you tell them I'm simply too busy to see them again. Besides, my handling of Bradshaw, working with him, is a highly classified and private business matter. I'm not giving our private methods out to anyone. Our success depends on secrecy, and I intend to maintain it. No, I'm not going to discuss Bradshaw with them or with anyone else."

  Like all good press agents, Harmston was dogged. Not even a tornado would turn him away. He was clearing his throat now. "Mr. Armstead, if you could just let me throw them a bone—something, anything, from you through me—to placate them."

  "Like what?"

  "Like a few biographical tidbits. Anything. I don't have even a line about Bradshaw on file. I know your wish for secrecy, but—you understand, I have to do my job—"

  Armstead did understand. Harmston was a veteran loyalist, and deserved better. But Armstead also knew that he must tread cautiously. Harmston had never been let in on what was going on. Only Dietz and Pagano, in Armstead's inner circle, were informed. No one else, no one, nor would they ever be. Still, Arm-stead realized that he would be giving away nothing if he threw the dogged one a bone.

  "Okay," said Armstead, more agreeably. "Maybe I can give you a few bio facts—very little, but something that will placate everyone."

  "Thank you, thank you very much," said Bruce Harmston, fumbling in his jacket for his miniature notebook and pencil. "Any tidbit about Mark Bradshaw will be extremely useful. It will stop all the clamoring."

  Armstead closed his eyes, considering what to say. When it was formulated in his mind, he spoke. "Bradshaw, Mark," he said. "Born in Liverpool, England. A Cambridge man. Was on the staff of two London dailies. Published three exposé books." Armstead paused. "The ones badgering us need not try to trace him. He was born, educated, worked under another name. He took the name Bradshaw only after I saw merit in him and personally hired him. He's on my private payroll full time."

  Armstead stopped speaking.

  Harmston lifted his head. "Is that all?"

  "That's all."

  "I mean—could you just give me something about where you keep him headquartered?"

  "I keep him under a rock. I let him out at night."

  "Mr. Armstead—"

  "That's all, Bruce. Sorry. See you soon."

  Unhappily, Harmston came to his feet, pocketing his notebook. "Well, thank you. It's something. I'll try to make it go a long way. Yes, hope to see you soon."

  He backed off, turned, and left the office in haste.

  Armstead sighed. It had been a long, hard day, especially the very end, this taking care of Nick Ramsey and then the Mark Bradshaw matter.

  He pushed himself upright. He was ready for that tall, strong drink. He would find Dietz. They would have a drink together.

  It was close to two o'clock in the morning in Paris.

  In her bedroom, at the Plaza Athénée, Victoria Weston removed her robe, laid it neatly across a chair, tied the ribbon at the cleavage of her white silk nightgown, kicked off her slippers, turned off the bed lamp, and got into bed.

  Lying on her back in the darkness, she unhappily reviewed the last of the evening with Nick.

  For her, at least, their dinner had been unsatisfactory. She had eaten, as she wanted to, but had not enjoyed it. He had left his food mostly untouched, and had drunk too much. She had tried, several times, to bring up the subject of what had been troubling her about the Armstead operation, about the mystery of Mark Bradshaw, about the strangeness of their own assignments.

  She had not been able to communicate successfully with Nick. He simply had refused to listen to her, preferring to talk, when he did talk, about Israel and Egypt. She liked him too much to have pity for him, and had kept wondering why he drank so much and why he seemed to be constantly avoiding her.

  Before midnight they had returned to the suite for their prearranged call. Shortly afterward, Armstead had telephoned from

  New York. Armstead had spoken to Nick, and then to her. There had been disappointments. Armstead had revealed that he had tipped off his connections in the French Sûreté about Carlos, but Carlos had moved on before the police could trap him. A sensational story had been lost for all of them. Further, Nick had been informed that, for his own safety, he was being transferred from Paris to Washington, D.C., in the morning. As for herself, she was to stay on in Paris alone to gather material for a feature storyon Lourdesthat was to run in advance of the Pope's visit there next week. Before finishing with Armstead, she'd had the temerity to ask him if he had contacted Mark Bradshaw. The publisher had replied, "I've taken care of Bradshaw," that and no more.

  After the phone call Victoria had made up her mind that this would be the time to discuss the whole puzzle with Nick. But again Nick had evaded discussion. Too busy for any serious talk, then and there. He had to get downstairs, he insisted, and arrange with the night concierge for an early flight to Washington, D.C. Don't wait up for me, he had said, speech slurred from alcohol, pecking her on the forehead with a kiss, don't wait up 'cause got too much to do. Meaning, Victoria was sure, not only making his reservations but visiting the Plaza Athénée bar to have one or two more for the road.

  Now, in bed, knowing Nick had not returned from his protracted excursion to the lobby, Victoria discovered that sleep would not come. Weariness was dominated by unanswered questions. She tried to understand Nick. She tried to understand Armstead and his elusive Bradshaw. She tried to understand why she and not the Paris bureau had been handed the routine assignment on Lourdes.

  Trying to put everything out of her mind, she beckoned sleep as she might a lover.

  Sleep would not join her.

  Fixing on her illuminated travel clock, she could make out that she had been suffering insomnia for at least forty minutes. For the first time in months, she considered taking a sleeping pill, but just then she thought that she heard the noisy rattling of the door to the suite. She definitely heard a door being shut, listened harder, and knew that someone was bumping into furniture in the living room. When she heard the other bedroom door close, she knew that Nick had returned.

  She lay still a long interval, wide awake, trying to decide whether she should corner Nick in the morning before he left or make an effort to confront him now. Tomorrow he might elude her. Right now, confined to his bedroom, he could not escape. Drunk or not, he would have to listen. This was the moment.

  Throwing off her covers, she fumbled for the bed lamp, turned it on, and swung off the bed. She drew on her robe, glanced at the mirror, patted down her hair, and went into the living room. She crossed past the television set and the desk and stood before Nick's door.

  For an instant, she hesitated. Maybe he was not in condition to hear her out.

  Never mind, dammit, she told herself, it had to be now.

  She rapped on the door.

  No answer. Perhaps already asleep.

  She rapped again, more sharply.

  This time, Nick's muffled voice. "Come in."

  She opened his door and went inside his room.

  The bedroom was dimly lit by lamps on either side of the unmade bed. Nick had turn
ed from the bureau to face her, and he was undressed, naked except for his white jock shorts.

  Victoria gave a small gasp, ready to leave, saying, "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't know—"

  "Get off it, Vicky. You've seen plenty of men before." He grinned. "Not that I've been much of a man these days."

  She remained rooted, staring at him, realizing his body contradicted his self-deprecation. He was plenty of man. Her surprise was that he was neither bloated nor flabby from drink. His hairy chest and stomach were flat and his thighs strong. But when he stepped away from the bureau toward her he almost lost his balance, and when he spoke his words were thick. "Wanna join me for a nightcap?" He held up his brandy glass.

  "Thanks but no, Nick. I really wanted to talk to you briefly about something before you left. When are you leaving?"

  "The hotel? Eleven o'clock." He walked carefully around the bed and sat on it, drinking, looking intently at her over the glass.

  "I guess it can wait," she said awkwardly. "You'd better get some sleep. Maybe we can talk in the morning. It is important."

  "No, Vicky," he said, setting his glass down on the marble-topped bedside table. "Less—let's talk. Been wanting to talk to you for a long time."

  "Well, if you really feel like it."

  "Feel like it," he said. "Wanna talk about something important to me." He patted the bed. "Sit here."