The Almighty

by Irving Wallace

  Five minutes later Armstead walked away from the mansion with Pagano. When they reached the car Armstead said, "You'll be flying back to New York with me. You haven't forgotten?"

  "I haven't forgotten," said Pagano.

  "Here are the two keys," said Armstead. "One to let your men into the penthouse. The other to let them into the study. The second we're back in New York, you'll turn the keys over to them."

  "It's set, boss, don't worry."

  Armstead climbed into the front seat. "There can't be any slipup."

  "There won't be. The bodies will never be found." He trotted around to the other side of the car and crawled in behind the wheel.

  Armstead touched him. "Gus—?"

  "Yeah?"

  "They won't feel it, will they?"

  "Won't feel a thing, I promise. Just like Nesbit. No pain. No nothing. Relax, boss. The Jap will take care of the big story. I'll take care of the rest. Have yourself a smoke. Sit back and enjoy."

  He started the car, and they drove off.

  In the sealed study of the Armstead penthouse, the two women had resigned themselves to the inevitable.

  Hannah sat hunched on the couch. Victoria slumped in an armchair. Both were paralyzed by lassitude and helplessness.

  Victoria was hypnotized by the clock on Armstead's desk. She followed the darts of the minute hand. One more dart. Victoria squirmed.

  "They are taking off," she intoned.

  In a state of daze, Hannah raised her head. "Who?"

  "Air Force One from Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland. It's exactly nine o'clock. Air Force One is taking off with all of them. I guess that means the ex-kamikaze is taking off too." She rearranged herself in the armchair to speak directly to her companion. "I guess that means your husband will be sending someone for us."

  "I suppose so."

  Victoria gave her first show of spirit in hours. "When they come—Hannah, I'm not going to let them take me out anywhere for execution. When they get us downstairs, I—I'm going to make a run for it."

  "They'll shoot you dead in the street."

  "Let them," said Victoria. "I'll wind up the same way whatever happens, but maybe they'll be caught. Maybe you'll be able to get away."

  "Not on these legs, Victoria," Hannah said, rubbing one of the spindly calves protruding from beneath her robe. "I'm not going very far on these legs."

  Victoria roused herself fully, fists knotted. "We can't just sit and let them take us like helpless Jews being herded to Auschwitz. We've got to resist. I can't believe there's no way out of here."

  "We've been through this, Victoria. There's no way that I know."

  Victoria struggled to her feet, casting about. "Windows. I've never known a room to be without windows. There might be one superficially covered up."

  "I was here during the early remodeling. It was planned to be constructed without windows. There are none."

  "If there were some heavy object—like a sledgehammer—a mallet—we could use it to break through a wall."

  "Victoria, what would Edward be doing with anything like a sledgehammer or mallet in this room? If there had been an object like that, he would have removed it when he left. He's too smart to leave behind a potential weapon."

  Victoria strode to the heavy electric typewriter. "If I could lift this and slam it against the wall—"

  "You'd get nowhere. Those walls are reinforced like a vault with. steel and concrete."

  Victoria stepped closer to Hannah. "You said you had no live-in help?"

  "I have no live-in help."

  "Surely you can't manage an establishment like this by yourself? There has to be someone who comes in to clean, make the beds, do the cooking. You must have some kind of maid?"

  "I used to have a wonderful black lady here every day, but weeks ago Edward made me get rid of her. He insisted that he wanted privacy, no one puttering around. He personally hired a part-time cleaning woman. She comes in two days a week for three or four hours. A young woman from Guatemala who can't speak much English, let alone read it."

  "When is she coming in?"

  "Not today. Sorry, Victoria. And the building's resident housekeeper sends someone to do the beds and clean up only when we ask her to. This is an impossible household. Edward made it into a monastery. For obvious reasons."

  "Wasn't he afraid of break-ins? There must be some kind of internal security system."

  "None, none whatsoever. Edward felt the guard downstairs was enough. Besides, he wouldn't permit any mechanism to be installed that might give outsiders access to this apartment or his room." She rambled on. "The only thing he let the contractor install was the smoke detector, because he has a terrible phobia about fires."

  Victoria was instantly alert. "Smoke detector? Where?"

  "Right here, of course."

  Victoria's eyes swept the high, open-beam ceiling. "I don't see it."

  "You can't like that," said Hannah. "Edward had it installed beyond that farthest wooden beam because it was so unsightly. You can't see it, but it's there."

  Victoria went swiftly to the other side of the study, stood under the wooden beam and peered upward. She could make out a round metal disk, painted light brown, six inches in diameter, with a tiny red light in it, hardly visible. "There's a metal thing up there, round—"

  "The smoke detector."

  "What does it do?" asked Victoria tightly.

  "Why, it goes off, of course, if there should be a fire and smoke."

  "Goes off?" pressed Victoria. "How?"

  "It rings out loud, like they all do, to warn the occupant of this room. But this kind of smoke detector is more sophisticated than some. When it goes off, it also sends a silent alarm to the company that put it in. They immediately notify the nearest fire department, and a fire truck comes—"

  "Hannah!" Victoria cried. "That's a way out!"

  Hannah was bewildered. "I don't understand—"

  'It's a way to let somebody know were in trouble. We start a fire here. It makes the detector go off. It summons help—'

  Hannah had risen. "A fire? Why, yes. But that's really dangerous. We could be trapped by the flames—"

  "We'll control the flames. What have we got to lose? Look what's going to happen to us anyway."

  Hannah had shed her inertia. "What a clever idea, Victoria. It could be a way to call for help."

  Victoria had already spun into action, dragging the straight chair to a spot beneath the smoke detector. "Do you have any matches?"

  "Edward would." Hannah was opening her husband's humidor and feeling around the desk top, without luck. She drew out the single drawer under the desk top, rummaged inside, and then held up a green packet of book matches. She hobbled to Victoria, handing the packet to her. Victoria climbed up on the chair, stood on her toes, stretching one hand as high as she could. She lowered her outstretched hand. "I can't reach far enough to get anywhere near the detector. It's too high. Only a real fire might—Hannah, that newspaper, get me the newspaper off his desk."

  Hannah obeyed as quickly as she could.

  'Perfect," said Victoria. Loosing a section of the newspaper, she rolled it diagonally until it resembled a long cone. "I'm going to light one end and stick it up there. That could do it." Securing the paper cone under an arm, Victoria struck a match. "Careful, Victoria," Hannah called out.

  Victoria applied the burning match to the large end of the rolled newspaper. At once the newspaper burst into flame. As the flame grew bigger, wider, redder, more intense, Victoria stretched upward on her toes, stabbing the burning cone of newspaper as high as she could under the smoke detector. From the makeshift torch, a curl of smoke began rising toward the detector as the fire itself crept downward toward Victoria's fingers.

  "Look out!" Hannah shouted.

  Victoria ignored her as she frantically implored the metal detector, "Go off, go off!"

  Suddenly, with a high shriek, it went off. It was ringing loudly and steadily, the fire alarm fully operat
ive. Victoria's hot face was aglow in the blaze of the torch. Abruptly, she screamed out in pain as the lowest fringe of fire licked at her hand. Flinging the torch aside, clutching her scorched fingers, she jumped down from the chair.

  Hannah gripped her by the shoulder, pointing off. "Victoria—I"

  The blazing cone of newspaper that Victoria had flung aside had landed under the folds of a decorative maroon drape. The drape was being transformed into a deep red and yellow bonfire as the flames licked up it, enlarging, spreading.

  "Put it out—we've got to put it out!" Victoria yelled.

  Fascinated, Hannah watched as the speeding flames began to form a red halo around the upper part of the room. "No, Victoria, it's too late—we can't put it out—in minutes we'll be trapped, suffocated—" She tugged desperately at Victoria. "This way—the bathroom—the fire people advised us—get into the bathroom, into the shower—turn on the shower—"

  The smoke was blinding now. Bent low, Victoria stumbled after Hannah through a small doorway. Hannah fell back against the door, shutting it tightly. She came away from the door, pushing Victoria across the tile flooring to a glass shower door. "Inside," she ordered, "let's get inside."

  They were both huddled in the confines of the shower. "I can smell smoke," coughed Victoria. "It's seeping through. If the smoke doesn't get us first, the fire will. Should I turn on the shower?"

  "Not yet," said Hannah. "That'll be our last resort. Listen, Victoria."

  They both strained to listen and could hear the shrill, insistent sounding of the fire alarm.

  "If the system's working all around," said Hannah, breathing hard, "the men must have been alerted at the fire station. If they have, they'll know there's trouble. They'll be here."

  "I hope so," sputtered Victoria, racked by coughing. "I don't think they can make it in time." She sought the time on her wristwatch. "It's been eight or ten minutes."

  Peering through the glass shower door, she could see the bathroom door begin to blister and roast, and hear the crackle of the blaze closing in. The smoke in the bathroom was thickening, covering the glass surrounding the shower, coming in through the cracks in the shower door.

  Victoria saw a dry towel on a handle. She picked up the towel, clawed in her pocket for a handkerchief, twisted the handle on the tile wall until a stream of cold water spurted forth. Victoria held towel and handkerchief under the spout, shut off the water, and shoved the soaked towel at Hannah. She clamped the wet handkerchief against her own mouth and nose.

  Her eyes smarted and stung in the rising smoke, and her persistent coughing was choking her.

  She heard a tremendous noise over the crackling of the fire, and put her ear against the shower glass.

  It was distinct, loud and powerful, the hacking and hammering, and then there was a crushing blow against the bathroom door, a smashing that shattered the door, a blast of water rushing in, and the hissing sounds of fire being doused and drowned. Victoria fumbled for Hannah, but realized that Hannah had sunk to her knees in near collapse.

  Through the smoked-up glass Victoria thought that she could see two figures, in masks and fire-resistant coats, enter the bathroom. She freed the shower door, screaming, "Here! We're here!" As she stepped out, a fireman prevented her from falling. Panting, Victoria pointed behind her. "She's in there—help her!"

  The second fireman squeezed past, followed by a third, and as Victoria was led stumbling out of the charred bathroom and smoldering shell of Armstead's study, she could see Hannah being lifted out of the shower and carried away.

  She found herself in the corridor, waiting while Hannah was being brought into the second bedroom, Armstead's bedroom, and lowered on the double bed. Victoria left the firemen, who were running, one after another, into the study with their chemical fire extinguishers, and she entered the bedroom. Hannah's limp form had been surrounded by paramedics, three young men and a woman in white, clean and promising as angels, all bending over Hannah, working on her.

  One of them, a young man with a neat beard, ambled over to Victoria.

  "You all right, miss?"

  Victoria's coughing had ceased, and she nodded vigorously.

  The paramedic's thumb jerked over his shoulder toward the bed. 'Don't worry, your mother's going to make it. Smoke inhalation, but she's coming back. They got her out in time."

  Victoria continued to nod, and looked toward the bed. Hannah's eyes were wide and Victoria thought they were beckoning her. Automatically she went to the bed, and could see that Hannah was feebly trying to bring her closer. Victoria knelt and quickly put her head next to Hannah's.

  "You're going to be as good as new," Victoria promised her.

  Hannah was trying to whisper, and Victoria placed her head nearer to Hannah's moving lips. "Vic—" Hannah murmured. "Don't let them kill him—he—he's just sick, very sick."

  Victoria nodded, pushed away, and rose, mumbling her thanks to the paramedics, who were busy with Hannah again.

  Victoria glanced around her. Everyone was busy everywhere, the paramedics here in the bedroom, the bulkily dressed firemen coming and going in the corridor. Grabbing her purse, Victoria retreated toward the corridor, sidled into it, and hastened toward the living room. She stepped over the fire hose, carefully avoided the occupied firemen and policemen. No one saw her leave.

  Outside the penthouse, in the hallway, a cluster of fire officials were engrossed in conversation. Victoria considered revealing to them the plot against Air Force One. But instinctively she knew that it would take too long to explain, prove, convince them. Casually Victoria followed the snaking fire hose, edging toward the stairway. This was no time to be detained for questioning. Once on the stairs, she began to descend as swiftly as possible without tripping and falling.

  She did not have to look at her wristwatch. She knew that time had almost run out.

  Victoria came to a halt before the first open store on Madison Avenue, bracing herself against an edge of the front display window to catch her breath.

  She had come on the run, from the apartment building's Fifth Avenue exit, past the crowd of curious onlookers and the lineup of fire engines, plunging into one of the seventies blocks, wasting no time to gain entry to any of the brownstone residences, drawing the stares of wondering pedestrians, until she reached Madison Avenue.

  She rushed into the open store, an elongated narrow liquor store, the bell above the entrance jangling her arrival.

  The proprietor, half hidden by the cash register, showed himself, a partially bald, dumpy, middle-aged tradesman who resembled someone who might have a shop in the Piazza San Marco.

  "What can I do for you, lady? Hey, there—you look like you been out all night."

  "I've been in a fire," Victoria blurted, feeling she must explain her bedraggled hair, smudged face, dirtied and torn dress. "I need a telephone—"

  "Right in front of you, lady."

  There was a single public booth, and she stepped into it. Closing herself inside, she pawed through her purse for a credit card, could find none, but felt her bulging change purse. She pulled it out, grateful for the first elementary lesson she had learned as a cub reporter. Always carry change, lots of it, for telephone calls. The telephone was a reporter's main artery, and what pumped it alive was change. She dumped the coins on the shelf and took the receiver off the hook.

  She tried to remember the number, and it came to her. She dialed the area code for Washington, D.C., 202, and the number for the White House, 456-1414.

  She had the switchboard, a female with a mechanical voice. Victoria hesitated, uncertain whom to ask for. Maybe the plane, Air Force One, had been delayed, had not left yet. Maybe her father was still in the White House.

  "I want to speak to Hugh Weston, the press secretary."

  "I'll connect you."

  A young woman's cheery voice answered. 'Press secretary's office."

  "I must speak to Mr. Weston. Is he still there?"

  "Sorry. He'll be out of the city for a
week. If you'd like to leave your name—"

  "This is an emergency. It concerns the President's life. Is there anyone—"

  The young woman remained unperturbed, still cheery. "Let me turn you over to the chief of White House operations. Hold on.

  Seconds later, a smooth male voice was on the line. "This is Frank Oliphant. Can I be of help?"

  "You can," said Victoria. "I'm Press Secretary Weston's daughter—"

  "Perhaps you'd better speak to his office. Let me—"

  "I just did," said Victoria with exasperation. "They told me to speak to you. This is a real emergency. The President's life is in danger. Any minute he could—"

  The chief of White House operations interrupted, trying to soothe her. "I wouldn't worry about him right now, Miss Weston. He's safely on his way to London in Air Force One. But if this is regarding some future threat, I'd be happy to make out a report on it. If you'll give me your full name and address, and the circumstances, I'll write them all down for investigation."

  Frustration was strangling Victoria. The idiot was coddling her, treating her like any routine crackpot. An unbelievable disaster was impending, on the verge of happening, and there was no one to pay attention, give it credence. Officialdom treated every stranger as a crackpot. Disbelief, abetted by routine, hampered most emergencies. Pearl Harbor, she had read, had been like this.

  As she was about to hang up in a fury, a name sprang to mind.

  Sy Rosenbloom.

  Nick had said to her, the last time they had talked: 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 . . . if things get rough and you're in real trouble . . . you can tell him everything.

  "Let me speak to Mr. Sy Rosenbloom," she shouted into the phone.

  "Who?"

  "Mr. Rosenbloom. He's a presidential aide. He's in the West Wing of the White House."

  "One moment, madam, let me check the directory . . . Yes, I have it, I have his extension. I'll try to put you through."