"You can use a company car until you get your own."
"Thanks again."
Before leaving editorial, Victoria had stopped at her desk to check and sort out the accumulation of mail that had been unattended since her departure for Europe. It had taken her fifteen minutes to clean off her desk and fill her wastebasket as she discarded junk mail, publicity handouts, outdated interoffice memos.
Finishing, dispirited by her interview with Armstead, she stepped into the aisle, about to depart, and bumped into Harry Dietz, who was hurrying back to his office. He caught her, steadied her, and apologized.
Releasing her, Dietz searched her face. "Hey, why so gloomy, Victoria? Isn't it good to be back home?"
"Well—"
Dietz nodded understandingly. "I know. Mr. Armstead filled me in briefly on your talk. Listen, we all make assumptions, mistakes. But in case there is anything to it, he'll follow through. You can depend on him. If it works out, he'll give you due credit. I promise, you'll share the by-line with Bradshaw. How's that?"
Without waiting for her reply, Dietz hastened off.
Going to the elevator, Victoria tried to mimic his question in her head: How's that?
Getting into the elevator, she angrily replied to his question with her answer: Fuck off, Mr. Harry Dietz.
Stepping out of the elevator into the lobby, she halted, reviewing what Dietz had told her.
He'll follow through. You can depend on him. if it works out, he'll give you due credit. I promise, you'll share the by-line with Bradshaw.
With Bradshaw.
There was no Bradshaw. They knew it. She knew it. But—they did not know she knew it.
Plainly, it was all a sham. Whatever Armstead had promised her, he had not meant. He had not believed her story at all. He had merely dusted her off.
Her anger mounted at the injustice of it. Armstead and Dietz, they were treating her like a child, an inexperienced cub reporter.
Yet, she had seen the happening in Paris, seen it with her own eyes, and trusted what she had seen. She was not wrong. They, the big shots, the know-it-alls who knew nothing, they were wrong. Suddenly she wanted to show them up, prove herself.
There was a public pay phone near the exit. It was vacant. Victoria made her way to the booth, closed herself inside, and located her personal credit card. When she had it, she put through a long-distance call to Paris.
Fifteen minutes later, in his own office on the sixth floor of the Armstead Building, Harry Dietz received an unexpected telephone call that disturbed him. After listening, Dietz said, "No, I don't know anything about this. Maybe the chief does. Let me see if Mr. Armstead is in. If he is, I think you should speak to him. Let me put you on hold."
Dietz pressed the hold button, came to his feet, strode to the private door leading to the publisher's office, knocked sharply and looked in. Armstead was at his desk and alone.
Dietz let himself into the office and hurried to the publisher's side. "Chief, there's a call—"
Armstead cocked his head questioningly.
"—I have a call from our Paris bureau, from Sid Lukas, that perhaps you'll want to take."
"Sid Lukas?" Armstead noted the time on his desk clock, and calculated the hour in Paris. "At this time? What's going on?"
"Let him explain," urged Dietz.
Dietz went to the front of the desk and perched on the end of a chair while the puzzled Armstead depressed the button on his telephone console and lifted the receiver.
"Sid?" said Armstead.
"Mr. Armstead, I didn't want to bother you, but Mr. Dietz thought you might be able to help."
"About what?"
"Victoria Weston's call ten minutes ago. I gather she's in New York again. I just missed her call, but she left a message. I gather it was vital or I wouldn't have bothered."
Armstead was at once alert, staring at Dietz. "Go on, Sid."
"I was in Lyons on a story," said Lukas, "and just got back to Paris. Thought I'd drop by the office to see if there was anything essential on my desk before going to the apartment. I checked out our message service, and there was one message that sounded critical. A long-distance from Vicky Weston. I figured she was still at her desk, so I called her there. When there was no answer, I asked to be transferred to Mr. Dietz, who felt I should speak to you."
"Here I am," said Armstead. "What do you want to know?"
"I was hoping you could fill me in on Vicky's message. It's a bit cryptic. I guess she didn't want to leave the full message with the service."
"What's the message?" asked Armstead, although his expression indicated that he knew.
"The message says, 'Tell Mr. Lukas I had to leave Paris in the middle of an important story. No one believes I have it, but it's true. Remember when I was going through the terrorist photos in your office two days ago, and we discussed the leader? I know where he is right now. I think you should follow through. I'll be back in my apartment in an hour. Phone me at any time after that for full details. Victoria Weston.' And she left her phone number." Sid Lukas paused. "Of course, she was referring to Carlos. She knows where he is. That could be pretty important, all right. I could use the details this minute. I was hoping you could help me. If not, I can get the details from her a little later. Do you know anything about this, Mr. Armstead?"
Armstead forced a chuckle. "Sid, sorry to burst your bubble, but it's a phony. Yes, I saw Miss Weston today. She spilled the whole thing to me. I pointed out she'd been misled, and was trying to mislead everyone else. I proved it to her, and told her to forget it."
"Then why in the hell is she bothering me?" Lukas complained.
"Because she's like all kid reporters," said Armstead. "She wants to prove herself, make it overnight. She's obsessed with the idea that she saw someone who looked like Carlos, when in fact we happen to know Carlos is in Tripoli right now. There you have it. Ignore Vicky's fantasy. Forget the whole thing."
"All right, Mr. Armstead. Thanks. Sorry to trouble you. But geez, I don't know what to say to her when I call her tonight."
"Don't bother calling her. You don't have to. Go to sleep."
"Okay. Maybe I'll give her a call anyway, just to be courteous.
I'll be polite, but double-talk her."
Armstead contained himself. "Whatever you like, Sid. If you want to call her tonight to be polite, go ahead. Anyway, sorry the story didn't shape up."
The second Armstead hung up, Dietz was leaning against the far side of the desk, his face anxiety-ridden. "You're not letting him call her, Chief? My God, she might persuade him to look into it—he might get the Sireté to the hideout on the Rue Jacob, and they'd not only find Carlos, they'd find Cooper and our whole crowd—and they'd find us. We'd—"
"Calm down, Harry," said Armstead. "Victoria Weston is not going to get any call from Sid Lukas tonight or any night."
"Why not?"
"Harry," Armstead said with a smile, "she's going to be dead. And you're going to see to it right now."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
After the telephone call to Paris from the lobby, Victoria had gone down to the Armstead Building garage to borrow a company car. The last available car was on a grease rack, and Victoria had been delayed a half hour while a mechanic finished servicing it. Once in possession of the Ford, she drove it out into the thick of the Park Avenue traffic.
She was eager to return to her apartment and not miss the call from Sid Lukas. She knew that he would call once he got into Paris from out of town and checked his message service. The chance for a scoop on Carlos was an opportunity Sid would not be able to resist. He would call, all right, and she wanted to be there when the phone rang. It would be worth anything to show up those arrogant nitwits, Armstead and Dietz, and prove that she was no simpleton, but someone as smart as, if not smarter than, the two of them.
Stalled by the traffic, starting and stopping constantly, Victoria had time to relive her interview with Armstead and short meeting with Dietz, and she was again smarti
ng at their treatment.
Imagine their daring to try to con her into believing they would follow through on the Carlos story, and Dietz saying that Bradshaw would be doing it.
Bradshaw. That Dietz would pretend he existed, and got them all those sensational scoops when she knew—
That instant, she knew.
She felt the goose pimples grow on her arms, and her fingers clenched the steering wheel more tightly as her body went rigid.
It was coming to her in a rush, the incredible answers to the questions that she had been asking herself in these last weeks. Like a streak of lightning throwing a bright, stark light on a dark area, illuminating all that had been hidden so long.
In those stunning moments of revelation, Victoria could see the whole truth. It was too shocking, even horrifying, to believe, but it was the truth, there could be no other. It was coming to her—who Mark Bradshaw was; why she and Nick had always been sent to scenes where terrorism was about to happen, to file advance background stories where terrorism would occur; how the Record had obtained exclusive stories on the kidnapping of the Spanish king and abduction of the UN secretary-general and theft of the Dead Sea scrolls and murder of the Israeli prime minister and near kidnapping of the Pope in Lourdes; why Carlos was not being picked up and jailed; why she had abruptly been ordered to leave Paris and return to New York.
All this made sense if—She tugged at the steering wheel, breaking out of the traffic, and pulled up against the curb to hear her heart thumping and her senses telling her the ultimate truth. —if Edward Armstead was behind everything, was himself the mastermind and promoter of his own terrorist gang, was himself the real Bradshaw secretly spewing out all those circulation-building and power-making scoops and exclusives.
It had to be Armstead, none other. It couldn't be, but it had to be.
The logic was there, and the certainty. But not the proof.
How to prove it?
If only she were an experienced investigative reporter, she would know which way to turn. But then it occurred to her that if she wasn't one, she knew one, and it was to him she must turn.
She must call Nick Ramsey as speedily as possible.
Pulling away from the curb, she slipped her Ford into the train of traffic once more, and trembling with excitement, she sought a public telephone.
Because it was so difficult to find both parking and a public telephone, Victoria considered going on to her own studio apartment on West Seventy-third Street. But she realized that it might take too long and she could miss Nick Ramsey, and that wouldn't do, not right now. She remembered telephone booths nearby, and easy parking, and she turned off Park Avenue, crossed Fifth, maneuvered her way to Rockefeller Plaza. There she braked before the NBC Building, left her Ford and a generous tip with the doorman, and ran inside to find a telephone booth.
In minutes she was putting through her call to the New York Record bureau in Washington, D.C.
Nick Ramsey was still at work.
"Are you free to talk?" Victoria wanted to know.
"For you, anytime," he said. "Just sitting here trying to wind up a backgrounder on the President's conference in London."
"Listen to me, Nick—"
"Hey, what's up? You sound pretty excited."
"I am excited, ready to burst. I'm in New York—"
"How come? I thought you were calling from Paris. What's going on?"
She tried to be as quick as possible. "Nick, your tip led me to Carlos. I saw him kidnapped by another gang."
"You actually saw that? Why would anyone want to—or dare to?"
"I don't know. 1 reported it to Dietz, and the next thing I knew I was ordered to return to New York and tell it all to Armstead. I did. He didn't believe me, but promised to look into it. If my story is confirmed, I'll share a by-line with Mark Bradshaw."
"With Bradshaw? But he doesn't—"
"You know, I know, but Armstead isn't aware that we know. That put me onto it. How could I have been so blind? It was right under my nose. The real truth. Who's behind the latest terrorist wave—who's writing those exclusives for the Record—"
"I'm listening," she ,heard Ramsey say. There was no chiding in his tone. She tried to picture him at the other end, telephone pressed to his ear, countenance serious and sober, grimly prepared to hear her out. "Go ahead, Vicky," he added.
Encouraged, she went on. She poured out everything that was on her mind. She omitted nothing. Even as she spoke, her certainty grew. Not once did Ramsey interrupt or challenge her. He was fully attentive as she built her case. At last she was through, and she wanted his response.
"There you have it, Nick," she concluded. "There you have it all."
A short silence followed. "Edward Armstead," he murmured finally. "So you think it's Armstead."
"I know it's Armstead."
"But if he did it, why—why would he do it? He has all the money in the world."
"He doesn't have identity, or didn't have when he took over. You yourself told me that once. He has to be somebody. He wants power. And he seems—I don't know—a little mad."
"Could be," said Ramsey, but a doubt had surfaced. "Yet, it can't be. You've made a case. But somehow the thought of it seems farfetched. Armstead hiring mercenaries, employing terrorists, committing criminal acts, murdering—it just doesn't seem possible."
"Anything is possible, Nick, anything. The logic is there. You can't dispute the logic. There is no other explanation."
"I can't think of a better one," Ramsey admitted. "Suppose everything you've said is true. What can you do about it? What can you do without proof?"
"I can go to the police, try to have them investigate."
"They'd throw you out on your ear. You know it."
"1 know it," Victoria confessed miserably. "I do need proof. I guess that's why I'm calling you. I need help. Maybe you can suggest something. What would you do if you were in my shoes?"
Ramsey was intent now. "The first thing I'd do is look out for myself, proceed with caution, watch every step I make. Because if you are anywhere near the truth, Vicky, you're in danger of treading on a land mine. If Armstead is involved, he already has you marked as a threat. Perhaps that's why he brought you home. If you persisted, got too close to him, Armstead might be forced to—to eliminate you."
"Fair warning," said Victoria. "But the next step. If you were me, what would you do next?"
'Well . . ." The utterance trailed off. "Proof, you want proof. Almost impossible to imagine where you could find it. However, there are two sources, both close to Armstead, and—this is my guess—with not too much love for him. One is his wife Hannah.
She's had a bad time with him for years, especially in the last year or two. Have you met her?"
"I've heard of her."
"The other is Kim Nesbit. Does that ring a bell?"
"A faint one. She was a Broadway actress, a singer, something, and Ezra J. Armstead's mistress."
"That's all you know?"
"That's all."
"Now she's Edward Armstead's mistress. He inherited her from his father."
"You're kidding."
"You better believe me. Kim's in bad shape, I hear. Armstead has treated her abominably. The word gets around. I don't know how she feels about him right now. She might feel loyal. She might feel angry, vengeful. If you get lucky, you might hit pay dirt."
"And if I'm unlucky?"
"She might pass on to Armstead what you're doing."
"I'll take my chances. Now I've got to find them."
"I have Hannah and Edward Armstead's penthouse address right here. And Kim Nesbit's condo address."
"How do you know all this?" she said.
"I'm an investigative reporter, remember? On any job, I always make it a policy to investigate my boss first."
"Okay, the addresses."
He read them to her and she wrote them down.
"I suggest you start with Kim," he said.
"Exactly what I intend to do.
Thanks, Nick—I miss you."
"I miss you too. I wish I could be there to give you a hand, but you know I'm off for London the day after tomorrow. If you need me, I'll be at the Athenaeum Hotel—"
"Okay."
"Better yet, if you need some fast advice or help, call the White House and ask for Sy Rosenbloom. He's on the President's staff, an aide in the West Wing, and he'll be staying behind. Your father knows him and likes him. Sy is one of my closest friends. We were roommates in college."
"Sy Rosenbloom. I'll remember. Are you going to tell him what's going on?"
"No, not that. Certainly not at this point. But he already knows about you, and he knows we've worked together. Of course, if things get rough and you're in real trouble—if you need advice, help, someone to bail you out—you can tell him everything, the whole thing. But always try to get me first."
"I will. Have a good trip, Nick."
"Never mind about me. It's you I'm concerned about. You will be careful?"
"Very."
"When are you starting after the proof?"
"Tonight, Nick. In exactly one minute."
There were two surprises awaiting Victoria after she rang the condo doorbell.
The first was that Kim Nesbit, apparently having used the peephole, opened the door herself. The other was that Kim Nesbit appeared to be so young. Victoria had expected someone much older. After all, she had been the mistress of Armstead's father. Yet, in the unlighted entry hail, attired in Oriental kimono and pajamas, her features smooth, her flaxen hair as long and light blond as Victoria's own, she seemed astonishingly girlish.
"The guard downstairs told me you were with the paper," Kim said.
"I am," said Victoria.
"What do you want with me?"
"I'd like to speak to you briefly, if I may."
Kim Nesbit remained suspicious. "What about?"
Victoria felt uneasy, but knew she would have to be forthright. "I understand you're a friend of Mr. Armstead."
"Friend, ha. Maybe I am a friend. What about it?"
For the first time Victoria sensed that Kim might be drunk. "I hoped that I could discuss him with you."
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