The Almighty

by Irving Wallace

  It was an emotional problem, yet Dr. Scharf wondered. He considered the possibility that Armstead's state was organic, perhaps stemming from a frontal-lobe tumor. A thorough checkup by a physician might be called for—he might speak to the physician first about his own concern—and after that a visit to a top neurologist. But then Dr. Scharf remembered that not long ago

  Armstead, anxious about several dizzy spells, had visited both a physician and neurologist in turn, and been given a clean bill of health.

  Dr. Scharf lowered himself into his armchair, absorbed with the problem of Armstead. It was not organic, the problem; it was a building psychosis. He might soon slide into episodes of a true manic attack.

  Before he could put his mind to it further, the telephone interrupted. He guessed it might be his message service. When they rang in at all, it was usually during his break between patients. Dr. Scharf lifted the phone. There was, indeed, a message. "A Miss Kim Nesbit called. She asked that you return her call when you have time. She insisted you had her number."

  Dr. Scharf replaced the receiver thoughtfully. He suspected that he knew why Kim had telephoned and wanted to speak to him. If he was right it was dangerous ground, but it could be useful. He wondered whether he should return her call before mentioning it to Armstead—that is, presuming Armstead would be the subject of her call.

  The grandfather clock against the wall told him that he had five minutes of his own time before he would summon his next patient inside.

  He opened his address book, found the telephone number, took the receiver from his phone once more, and dialed Kim Nesbit. A few rings, and she answered the phone.

  "Kim? This is Carl Scharf. I received your message. It's been a long time."

  "How you doing, Doe?"

  "I'm fine, thank you. How have you been, Kim?"

  "As well as can be expected." She gave a short laugh. "You should know."

  His suspicion had been right. This was going to be about Armstead.

  "Well, I haven't seen you for a while," he said. "I assume you're okay."

  "Who's ever okay?" she said lightly.

  He detected the slightest slur in her voice, but she sounded lucid. He judged that she was still sober.

  "Well, if there's anything I can—" he began to say.

  "I'll tell you why I gave you a call," she cut in. "I wanted some advice about a friend we both have in common."

  "If I can help, I'd be glad to."

  "It's about Edward Armstead. I presume you're still seeing him?"

  "Well—" said Dr. Scharf guardedly.

  She uttered another short laugh. "If you're seeing him—and I know you are—then you're doing better than I am. Of course, I do see him, you know he comes over. But not as much anymore. Only sometimes, when he wants to. He isn't exactly dependable."

  Dr. Scharf refused to be drawn in. "You know, I'd be glad to give you guidance in anything I can," he said, "but I'm afraid it would be improper for me to discuss Edward Armstead. Yes, as he's told you, he is a patient of mine, Kim. It is a question of ethics, respecting confidentiality."

  "Oh, come off it, Carl," she said a little recklessly, "I don't want to know any of his secrets. I just wanted to sound off to someone I could trust, someone who knew him as well as I do. I wanted someone to tell me how to deal with him." Kim paused. "He's sick, you know," she said flatly.

  To Dr. Scharf this astuteness was unexpected. It was the moment to withdraw from the conversation, find the means to terminate it. Yet Dr. Scharf was sorely tempted to let her go on, without committing himself. If Armstead was suffering a building psychosis, Dr. Scharf realized that confirmation would be helpful. Normally he would seek consultation with a fellow psychiatrist. But occasionally, cautious as he was, Dr. Scharf permitted himself to engage in the unorthodox. He considered doing so now, attempting to confirm his diagnosis with someone else who saw Armstead, under different circumstances, almost as frequently. Kim was not a doctor, but a former patient, generally trustworthy. And she had called him. This would not be exactly unethical, listening, advancing no opinions of his own.

  Dr. Scharf decided to pick up on Kim's last remark. "You think he's sick? You mean actually?"

  "Don't you? You should know. I mean he's sick in the head. He's got delusions. He really thinks he's running the world. Power is all he's interested in. He's so power-hungry, so obsessed with power, he can hardly get it up when we're in bed—and when he does manage, he goes slack on me, with his mind on a thousand other things. When he does make it with me, it's as if I'm not there, another human being. He treats me like one of those blown-up Japanese sex dolls."

  "I'm sorry, Kim."

  "He was all right in the beginning, after his father died, when he thought he wanted me. Now I'm not enough. He wants everyone in the world. To own them. Dominate them."

  "Are you going to continue seeing him?"

  "I don't know," Kim said despairingly. "I don't give a damn." She reconsidered. "I suppose so. I suppose IT see him when he comes around. It's the only game in town. If you hear of another one, let me know."

  "Kim, whenever you feel like it, come in and see me."

  "Maybe I will."

  "I'd appreciate the chance to talk with you. Although I couldn't discuss Ed Armstead without his permission."

  "Aw, forget it, and thanks for the free session."

  "I wish I could help you with your concern, Kim. The fact is, I'm concerned about him, too, but I think you'll have to use your own judgment in handling Ed. Yes, he has seemed under—under a lot of pressure lately. But I'm hoping that will improve with time." He paused. "I think it would be wise for you not to mention that we spoke, until I can bring it up with him next week."

  "I wish you wouldn't," she said plaintively.

  "Well—"

  "As for me, I won't say a thing. You have my word, Doe."

  "Thanks, Kim," Dr. Scharf said uneasily. "Good-bye."

  Dr. Scharf put down the receiver. Confirmed. He had walked an ethical tightrope, but it had been valuable, with no harm done. He would propose to Armstead that they resume seeing each other three times a week. Two times, at the least. He would suggest to Armstead's physician some tests—a workup—for possible use of lithium. He would do this very soon.

  He stood up and started for the reception-room door. It was time for the next patient.

  After leaving Dr. Scharf and settling into his limousine, Arm-stead had gone back to his office and spent a long and satisfactory afternoon getting his affairs in order. By five o'clock everything had seemed under control.

  Dietz had reassured him that Victoria Weston would be no problem. She had been docile about her reassignment and agreed to leave Paris for New York, pleased that Armstead wanted to see her immediately and hear the details of the Carlos kidnapping. After her arrival at Kennedy Airport tomorrow, she would be coming directly to the Record building for the early afternoon meeting with her publisher.

  Confident that this potential leak on the Cooper gang had been plugged, Armstead had devoted himself to seeing that preparations for his biggest story were progressing on schedule. Pagano had returned to Paris, and Armstead had spoken to him at length. Carlos was still a hidden hostage. Jacklin was doing everything he had agreed to do to get his leader released. Members of the Carlos gang were, from various points of entry, gathering in the Bahamas and Cuba. Most important, the key figure in Tokyo—Armstead had at last learned his name, Yosuke Matsuda—had accepted the terms for his participation, was already in training, and would shortly be on his way.

  Relieved that the big one, the big story, was in the making, moving inexorably to its climax, Armstead had been able to attend to the loose ends awaiting his decisions at the newspaper. He had conferred for over two hours with McAllister and the department editors.

  As the afternoon waned, when the day shift had departed and there was no more for him to do, Armstead had begun to feel very much alone. Except for Harry Dietz, and he had already had a half-dozen con
versations with Dietz that day, Armstead had no one to talk to, he realized. He wanted a female companion, but someone he could be comfortable with. Hannah was impossible. He had no desire to endure her disapproval and suffering tonight. He had instructed his secretary to phone and tell her that he was too busy to come home for dinner.

  That only left one other. He notified her that he was coming by. At ten minutes after five, he admitted himself into Kim Nesbit's apartment.

  It immediately pleased him that, for a change, she was not in her nightclothes and not in disarray. She was wearing a clinging red silk dress that he had not seen before. She was groomed, her blond hair sleek and swept up in back, her makeup fresh and bright. She stood poised beside the nearest sofa, no drink in hand. It would be fun to undress her, fuck her, mess her up, enjoy her submission and entreaties, he decided.

  To reward her, he went directly across the living room, embraced and kissed her.

  He stepped away, frowning. She had not responded, and despite the faint aroma of mints, she smelled like a distillery. "You all right?" he asked.

  "Sure, why not?" said Kim, but the words had a drag and uncertainty to them.

  "Aren't you going to offer me a drink?"

  "Have a drink." She waved vaguely at the bar. "Have one."

  "Want to make it for me?"

  "Sure." She tried to leave the sofa, but staggered and held on to the side. "You better make it for yourself," she said.

  Irritated, Armstead stepped over to the bar. Pouring himself a scotch and soda, he saw Kim feel her way around the sofa until she reached the far corner and then drop into it.

  He intended to castigate her about her condition, but could see that her silk dress had been caught up above her knees. The milky thighs, and what lay between, diverted him. He could feel the beginnings of his first erection in a week. If he did it quickly, ignoring her, there could still be some pleasure.

  She deserved one amenity. "Want some black coffee?" he asked.

  "Maid's gone," she said. "No. Make me a drink."

  He did not want her senseless, and he did not want to waste any more time, so he moved to the sofa and sat down beside her, placing his drink on the coffee table.

  Kim was seated, legs slightly parted, dress hiked higher to reveal a greater portion of the white flesh of her thighs.

  Her glazed eyes followed his hand down to one thigh, as he placed a palm inside it, caressing her, moving his hand under her dress.

  "I've missed you, Kim," he said. "I want you."

  "No," she said.

  "Did you hear me? I want you."

  "Do you hear me?" she mouthed thickly. "No."

  His hand stopped. He could have easily subdued her, he knew, but he did not intend to take her by force. He had not been used to resistance, to being denied anything, for a long time, and he wanted her to be the one to give him what he desired.

  "What's wrong?" he said. "Don't you want me?"

  "I want you," she said. Her hand fell on his arm, until he withdrew his hand. "Not yet," she said. "I want to talk."

  He decided to humor her. She wanted the buildup. "Okay," he said impatiently. "Let's talk. What did you do with yourself today?"

  "Hairdresser. Watched television. Had—had a few drinks." He tried to restrain himself. "You shouldn't drink so much."

  "Where have you been?" she said. "You haven't been here in a week."-

  "I've been busy," he said. "I run a—" The words came to him from Time magazine. "—communications empire."

  "You should have time for others—for me."

  "Kim, be reasonable. I had to be in Paris. I was in Istanbul. I have thousands of people depending on me."

  "I'm one of them. You could find time. I'm lonely."

  He could detect a softening in her, and was conscious again of the hardening between his legs. "I am finding time. I'm here." He reached out once more, with both hands, one inside her bodice, cupping her breast, the other under her skirt, between her legs, groping for the strip of panty covering the down.

  She gave a convulsive wrench, pulling away from him, finding the strength to tug at both his arms until she was free. "No," she said, "I don't want you any—anymore—unless—"

  His anger was mounting. "Unless what?"

  "—unless you promise to see me the way you did. You treat me like dirt now. I'm a person—a person—"

  "You're what I want you to be," he said furiously. "You're nothing except what I want you to be. Who do you think you are, treating me this way? Everyone who's anyone in the world depends on me, even the President of the United States. What people know, what happens to them, depends on me. It's all on my shoulders." He had leaped to his feet, standing over her, eyeballs bulging. "I am the news. I make the news. I make life that goes on in the world."

  She looked scared. "No, Ed. Don't talk like that. It's not true. You're influential, but you're not—"

  He snatched at her wrists, gripping them fiercely. "Don't you tell me what I am and am not. I know what I am. It's in the magazines. I'm the Almighty."

  "You're acting crazy," Kim whimpered. "Please—"

  He tightened on her wrists, twisting, hurting her. "Don't you tell me I'm crazy—"

  "Everyone says so," she cried out. "Everyone knows. Even Dr. Scharf said—"

  She caught herself, trying to swallow the words.

  He stood over her, stone-cold, staring down at her. "Dr. Scharf," he said. "You saw him—?"

  "No—no, no—"

  He lifted a hand and slapped her across the face. "You saw him—?"

  "No," she gasped.

  Armstead slapped her hard again.

  "I called him," she gasped. "I was worried about you—we spoke."

  "Scharf talked to you?"

  "Of—of course."

  "And said what?" Armstead roared.

  She pressed her lips tight. His palm rose and fell, once, twice, slashing her against the cheek and jaw.

  "Stop it—don't, Ed—" she cried. "It was for you—for your sake I called—we talked—"

  Armstead started to hit her once more, but her arm warded him off in fright as her tears mingled with blood.

  "Tell me!" he demanded. "What did he say?"

  "He agreed you're sick—actually, I said it—but he said you were under pressure—and he was concerned—don't, Ed, don't hit me anymore."

  Armstead came to his full height, a grim smile on his face. "So now we have it straight. Scharf says I'm sick and Nesbit says I'm crazy."

  "No, Ed, listen—"

  "The hack and the whore," said Armstead. "Now we have it from the final authorities."

  "Listen, Ed—" she implored.

  But he had left her.

  She looked woozily over her shoulder.

  Armstead had stormed out of the apartment.

  An hour later they were seated on a banquette at a table in the barroom of the Four Seasons, Armstead and Dietz, with Armstead speaking intently and Dietz listening intently.

  When Armstead was through Dietz asked, "Are you sure, Chief, she wasn't making it up? You believe Scharf really talked to her?"

  "Positive. I suspected the little fat weasel all along."

  "And you think he implied what she claims?"

  "You bet he did. Kim's not bright enough to make up something like that. She was quoting him all right."

  "What does this add up to?"

  "Adds up to the fact that Scharf believes something is wrong—he's concerned—and he might be snooping around, the way the Westongirl did, and we can't have anyone get in our way just when we're on the verge of the big one."

  "Maybe you're right, Chief."

  "I know I'm right," said Armstead emphatically. "I can smell danger. Scharf is danger."

  "What do you want to do about it?"

  "Stop Scharf before there's trouble. The minute you leave me tonight, I want you to arrange for somebody to get into his office and go through it. Can you?"

  "No problem whatsoever," said Dietz.


  "Get someone to enter his office tonight. Should be easy. Obliterate my name—from his Rolodex, appointment pad, billings, even notes on file, if he has any. Can you arrange this?"

  "Will do."

  "Then I want you to get rid of Scharf."

  "You mean all the way?"

  "Naw. What the hell. He has a wife and family. Just see that he's put out of commission for a while. Maybe an accident in the street tomorrow, when he's walking to work."

  "Sure," agreed Dietz. "I can set it up. An accident. But I can't guarantee the extent of—of what happens."

  "Just put him out of commission for a while. Make a point of that. Pay your man whatever he wants to do it right. I'm sure you'll set it up okay. I know I can always count on you, Harry. I'm getting hungry. What about you? The sautéed calf's liver is always good. Let's order up."

  Edward Armstead's single hope, letting himself into the huge, elegant tenth-floor penthouse apartment, was that his wife Hannah would not be awake. He did not want to be answerable to her for again avoiding dinner and her person. He did not want to listen to her complaints about her delicate and ailing body and his own inattentiveness. He wanted to be alone, in the unassailable safety of his soundproof study, at his Victorian library table-desk, to start writing the big story, the most sensational exclusive story in the history of journalism.

  From the entry hall, Armstead peeked into the broad living room, into the drawing room, and there was no sign of life. Good, he told himself, because if Hannah stayed up late she usually sat in her wheelchair in the living room, nodding off before the oversized television screen. After that she was in bed asleep at ten o'clock, and it was already ten thirty-five. Relieved, he entered the wide corridor that led past the two bedrooms on one side and to the ponderous oaken door to his private study opposite.

  Treading gently across the corridor carpeting, he saw that the door to the first bedroom, Hannah's bedroom, was open and the lights were on. His heart fell. This meant that Hannah was awake and waiting for him. Praying that he was wrong, slowing, he glanced inside and came to a halt. She was there all right, in the wheelchair beside her bed. He met the hollow eyes, fixed in her sunken and wrinkled face, and holding on him with defiance.