(1982) The Almighty

by Irving Wallace

  Armstead’s reaction was one of fleeting annoyance. ‘I still say the event is worthy of coverage. At least we should give it an advance buildup indicating that the king is going into a hornet’s nest of potential danger. I want you and Victoria down there not so much to see if anything happens or does not happen, but to get the Record advance material on two aspects of the visit.’

  ‘Whatever you say, Mr. Armstead,’ conceded Ramsey reluctantly.

  ‘You, Nick, I want you to find out exactly what the security setup is in San Sebastian for the king’s visit. Also what the Basque separatists are up to. I don’t expect them to tell you. But you can poke around, and discover what the talk is.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, Mr. Armstead.’

  ‘As for you, Victoria, I want you to find out details of the king’s schedule in San Sebastian. When he will be arriving and where. Is it a ceremonial visit? Will he tour the city? Where will he stop? Will there be any meeting with local political and religious leaders? Someone in San Sebastian should have all that for you. If you have any difficulty, get in touch with the government offices in Madrid.’

  Victoria nodded. ‘I’ll dredge up his itinerary somehow.’

  ‘After I’ve had my weapons interview, I’ll come back to London. I’ll be here the rest of the week. You two file your reports with me Friday afternoon by phone. I’ll be here in my suite with a stenographer. I want the royal visit treated as a news story. Nick, whatever else you come up with on the Basque separatists we can incorporate in the terrorist series. I’ll take that back to New York along with my notes on my weapons interview. Is everything clear?’

  Victoria stirred. ‘What do we do after Friday?’

  ‘Oh, I want you to stay on in San Sebastian until the king has come and gone. Just in case something does happen. After that, either Harry Dietz or I will call from New York and give you your next assignment.’

  Once Armstead had accompanied the pair to the hall, wished them well and seen them off, he returned to the living room and picked up the telephone. He dialed Pagano’s room.

  Pagano answered immediately. ‘Gus, it’s all set. Get down to the hall porter and arrange for two first-class tickets on Air France tomorrow for Nice. Also, have him phone the Hotel du Cap in Antibes and make a reservation for two bedrooms or a suite.’ Armstead repeated the name of the hotel and spelled it. ‘Reserve in the name of Walter Zimberg. There should be no problem with space. It’s almost off season now. If there is, promise the reservations clerk a generous tip. Let’s say two hundred francs. After all, anybody who’s buying an arsenal can afford to grease a few palms along the way.’

  At the corner of Cap d’Antibes, the Hotel du Cap, like the rest of the ancient Riviera town, lay under the yellow glare of the late morning sun.

  The hour was ten minutes to eleven when the elevator came to rest on the lobby floor and Edward Armstead emerged with Gus Pagano. Armstead was wearing a striped flannel beach robe over his red trunks, his bare feet encased in thonged beach shoes, and he was puffing on a cigar. Pagano was dressed in an open-necked white polo shirt and white slacks. Without conversing they crossed the lobby to the rear exit, emerged into the hot sunlight, and descended the stairs to the wide, long footpath.

  As they walked in step along the path to the pool, Armstead pointed off toward the picturesque green forest to his left, indicating a bench in the foreground. ‘Wait for me there, Gus. I won’t be more than ten or fifteen minutes.’

  They parted company. Armstead strolled on to Eden Roc club, stepped inside the cool interior, went on between the locker room and the steward’s desk. He swung left and entered the swimming pool area that stood on the cliff jutting out over the blue Mediterranean.

  After surveying the scene a moment - at least a dozen bronzed bodies stretched out sunbathing around one side and the two ends of the large pool - Armstead looked over his shoulder at the nearest couple.

  They were there all right. No mistaking the gleaming, reddening pate of the bald German arms dealer with the fat belly hanging over his blue jock shorts, resting on a poolside lounge, cold pipe in his mouth, Swiss magazine in his lap. Beside him, on a pad, lying on her back which spread and

  flattened her bare breasts, her ample nakedness covered by no more than oversize pink sunglasses and a strip of pink bikini at her crotch, was his mistress.

  Armstead pivoted decisively and strolled toward them. The second he reached the foot of the German arms dealer’s lounge, the German’s mistress snatched up her wisp of bikini bra and sprang to her feet. As she left, the rotund German dealer called after her, ‘See you at lunch, Gretchen.’

  Armstead addressed the German. ‘Helmut Middendorf?’

  The German removed his tinted glasses and squinted up at Armstead. ‘You are Walter Zimberg, yes?’ The accent was slight, the voice guttural. Middendorf nodded at the ribbed beach pad beside him.

  Armstead removed his terry-cloth robe, folded it neatly, and lowered himself to the pad. He tried to make himself comfortable, and lighted his cigar once more. ‘Hot today, isn’t it?’

  ‘We are fortunate for this time in September,’ said Middendorf.

  Armstead remembered his instructions. He reached deep into the pocket of his nearby robe, brought out his Swiss bankbook, and doubled over to lay it atop the German’s magazine. Middendorf hardly gave it a glance, handed it back.

  ‘Fine, fine,’ he rumbled. ‘What can I do for you?’

  T require a consignment of arms. Mainly light arms for guerrillas. I’m afraid there is a rush.’

  ‘There is always a rush,’ said the German complacently. ‘Of how much time to we speak?’

  ‘One week,’ said Armstead. ‘One week from today.’

  ‘The delivery point?’

  ‘Two destinations,’ said Armstead. ‘One to France, outside Lyons. One to England, outside London - actually, in Wales.’

  ‘It is possible. It will depend on the complexity of your order. You have your order, the exact order?’

  ‘Everything spelled out,’ said Armstead. His hand had dipped into his robe pocket again and withdrawn two paper-clipped sheets of folded paper. Unfolding them, his eyes held on the German’s reddened bald head. ‘Aren’t you afraid of a sunburn, Herr Middendorf?’

  ‘When you come to the Riviera with a beautiful young

  woman, you do not like to be pale white like a businessman. You like to have a tan, and appear to be outdoors healthy and vigorous. I have only five days here. I cannot waste time.’ Nevertheless, his hand groped below his chair to retrieve his canvas hat. He covered his bald head with it. ‘You are right. I must not overdo.’ He reached out. ‘Your order, bine.’

  Armstead gave him the two sheets of paper.

  Middendorf raised his knees and placed the papers against his bare thighs. He scanned the first page, then the second, in silence. ‘Very efficient,’ he murmured. ‘Let me read more carefully.’

  He set his tinted glasses on the bridge of his nose once more. They were obviously prescription sunglasses.

  He reexamined the list conscientiously. He spoke as he read, almost to himself. ‘The Spanish Astra - we call it the .357 Magnum handgun - the very best, great penetrating power. You request fifty with ammunition… The Skorpion VZ-61 from Czechoslovakia. Very light, serviceable. With silencers, I see. Also ammunition… The AK-47 Soviet assault rifle, the Kalashnikov. Good, very good, we are amply stocked… More Soviet goods. RGD-5 antipersonnel hand grenades… The SAM-7 Strela heat missiles, surface to air, portable, useful, jawohl.’

  Armstead wanted to explain that he was having his people employ foreign-made weapons as much as possible, especially Soviet ones, to make any future raids resemble the act of a real terrorist group. He was tempted to explain the cleverness of this, but resisted because he instinctively knew that Middendorf would not give a damn.

  The German continued to mutter over the list like a connoisseur. Lovingly he read aloud, ‘The German Heckler and Koch MP5 submachine gun. Ja, I can
vouch for it… RPG-7 bazookas… Radio-fused bombs.’ He flipped over the page. ‘Mmm. What’s this?’ His head came up. ‘Two helicopters. Heavier equipment. Might be more time-consuming. You must have them?’

  Armstead remembered that Cooper had some ingenious scheme of collecting the ransom money in Spain, one that required armed helicopters. T must have them,’ Armstead said.

  ‘These to be delivered to the private airstrip near Lyons.’

  Middendorf removed his tinted glasses, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. He was calculating the possibility. ‘It could be done, through the port of Venice, at Mestre. I can deliver the helicopters, everything.’

  ‘In one week?’

  ‘One week from today.’ He studied Armstead. ‘You care to know what this will cost?’

  ‘Naturally. I know you will be reasonable for such an order.’

  Middendorf grunted. ‘My friend, to me it is a small order. There are no discounts on any order.’ He located a pen in the pocket of the robe lying under his lounge.’ Let me add this up for you.’

  For five minutes he devoted himself to pondering and jotting down various prices. Then he spent several minutes adding up the figures. At last he showed the total to Armstead. ‘This is the full price, delivery included.’

  Jolted by the figure, Armstead had to remind himself that this was a onetime expense only, and that he himself was now a billionaire. ‘Acceptable,’ he heard himself croak.

  ‘Very well.’ Middendorf neatly folded the sheets and deposited them, along with his pen, in the pocket of his robe. ‘Now as to the destinations.’

  ‘I have a colleague outside who will give you the exact details, if you’ll meet with him.’

  ‘Fine, fine. He will tell me where to find the warehouse outside Lyons?’

  ‘He has a map for you. Also, one for the location in Britain. Your shipment will go to Talgarth, a village in Wales, perhaps a three-or four-hour drive outside London. The warehouse there, a book warehouse, is on the fringe of the village.’

  ‘Then the light arms can be shipped as books. The rest can go as farm machinery.’

  ‘You will have no trouble with customs?’ Armstead asked worriedly.

  The German grunted. ‘There will be no customs,’ he said, rising with an effort. He picked up his robe and allowed Armstead to help him into it. ‘You leave it to me. Now, your associate, he is outside here?’

  ‘On a bench in the woods near the terrace. His name is Gus Pagano.’

  Middendorf waddled to the door. ‘Introduce me. We can finish our business.’

  They descended to the wide path and started toward the hotel. Pagano was standing before the terrace steps, waving.

  Armstead summoned him.

  The German said, ‘We will take a stroll in the woods. It is refreshing.’ Then he added, ‘It is quieter.’ As they moved up the path, he promised, ‘We will discuss everything. To begin with, the mode of payment.’

  Walking, Armstead marveled at one thing: It had all been as easy and innocent as ordering a shipment of Christmas toys. It was difficult to imagine that he had crossed the line.

  He was now a terrorist.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  They had arrived in San Sebastian in the early night, wearied by the British Airways takeoff delay in London and the changeover at Madrid’s Barajas Airport to a Spanish Aviaco carrier, harried by the search for their temporarily lost luggage at the Spanish airport of Fuenterrabia, and exhausted by the fourteen-mile taxi drive into the Basque resort. It had been raining, the dark streets were windswept and desolate, and throughout the passage Victoria had derived no sense of city.

  But this first morning was different. After a cosy breakfast with Ramsey in the gay dining room of the otherwise staid Londres y de Inglaterra hotel - fresh flowers everywhere -Victoria stepped outside into the cold clarity of the new day and found the view glorious. ‘Winning setting,’ her Fielding guidebook had promised her, ‘with its semicircular bay flanked by twin mountains and backed by green hills.’ It was all there.

  Slipping her purse strap onto her shoulder, Victoria displayed her pleasure. ‘I’m going to love Spain!’ she exclaimed.

  Ramsey wrinkled his nose. ‘Maybe,’ he said. His eyes traveled over the curve of expansive beach below, La Concha, now almost lifeless in the low temperature of the early morning. ‘Don’t forget, Vicky, you’re in Basque country. Not as placid as it appears on the surface. There’s a boiling cauldron of revolution underneath. These people don’t want to be Spain. They want to be Euzkadi, their own country. They don’t want outside dictators and they don’t want monarchs.’

  ‘The king’s showing a lot of courage, coming here.’

  ‘Either courage or foolhardiness,’ Ramsey said. ‘Although I still doubt if anything will happen. Armstead’s way off. We’re going to have a very routine and dull ten days here.’

  ‘Spoilsport,’ Victoria said cheerfully. ‘Where do we start?’

  ‘Well, I know the city, and you don’t,’ said Ramsey. ‘Since your assignment is to find out the king’s schedule in his day here, you’d better become familiar with the sites he might visit. So to start with I’m going to show you around. This morning I’m going to be your guide, give you the Ramsey special - the highlights with colorful captions. It should take up the entire morning.’

  ‘Sounds great,’ she said. ‘Let’s go.’

  They took a leisurely walk on the Playa de la Concha, then reached the Alameda de Calvo Sotelo, crowded with shoppers by midmorning, taking in the endless number of men’s stores, fish restaurants, outdoor cafes. When they tired, Ramsey hailed a taxi which drove them up a winding road to the lookout on Monte Igueldo, where the breathtaking panorama of the Bay of Biscay stretched beneath them. Then Ramsey directed their driver to take them back to the Old Town huddled at the foot of the Monte Urgull, where they covered the Plaza de la Constitution on foot. Making their way past the old fishing harbor, they hiked to the Palacio del Mar and examined the exhibits at the Navy Museum inside.

  Ramsey proved an indefatigable guide, leading Victoria through a procession of museums, municipal buildings, churches. Finally, to Victoria’s relief, they wound up in a colorful upstairs restaurant, the Casa Nicolasa, in the last of its three jammed noisy dining rooms, where Victoria was able to get off her feet and kick off her shoes. She consumed two glasses of cider, a crayfish and spinach appetizer, polio asado or roast chicken, and a custard with caramel sauce.

  When they came out of the restaurant Victoria asked Ramsey, ‘What next?’

  ‘You’re on your own for the rest of the day. Me, I’m going to go back to the Londres. I’m going to take a nap. Then I’m going to get on the phone and try to make some appointments. It’s not going to be easy for either of us. Obviously, no official will want to tell me very much about the king’s security setup.’

  ‘You think it might be easier for me to get his schedule in San Sebastian than from Madrid?’

  ‘No. You won’t get it in either place.’

  ‘It’s just a state visit he’s making.’

  ‘Vicky, in Basque country any Spanish leader is a target for the dissidents. Why tell them where their target is going to be every hour? Nobody’s going to give you the king’s full program here. They’ll either tell you it can’t be done or they don’t know, or it hasn’t been fixed yet. They’ll tell you to contact them mahana. The manana after the king has come and gone, they’ll tell you where he’s been.’

  ‘I’ll say I’m a reporter here.’

  ‘All the worse.’

  ‘A pretty reporter.’

  ‘You may get laid, but you won’t get the king’s schedule.’

  She grimaced. ‘You can be so discouraging. Well, I’m going to ignore yor comments. I’m going to get that schedule, the whole itinerary.’ She dug into her purse for a local guidebook she had acquired. ‘I’m going to start with the city hall. I’m going to see the mayor.’

  ‘Good luck,’ he said sarcastically
.

  ‘Even if you invited me to dinner, I might not go.’

  ‘I’m inviting you to dinner tonight.’

  ‘I accept.’

  ‘In the lobby at nine o’clock.’ And he strode off.

  Awakening from his short nap, Ramsey doused his face with cold water, wiped it dry, and went to the telephone on the stand beside his bed.

  Security was the word for the day, and he knew calling the San Sebastian police department would be a waste of time. Instead, he decided to call his favorite/armaria and arrange to see his favorite Basque friend, the pharmacist Josu, a secret member of the Euzkadi Ta Askatasuna, the underground ETA. If anyone would know about the state’s security preparations for the king, it would be Josu.

  A half hour later Ramsey stood before the cheerful window of the modern pharmacy in the Avenida de Espafla. Amused by the gaudy color posters on display - from vitamins for infants to skin creams for women - Ramsey pushed the glass door and stepped inside. A young woman in a green smock was pouring some powder from a large jar into smaller jars, and next to her, his back to the door, opening and closing little mahogany drawers, was a gnome of a man wearing a rakish

  beret and thick spectacles, with a bristly gray mustache under a mottled bulge of nose.

  Ramsey crossed the shop to the counter, greeted the woman assistant with a nod and said quietly, ‘Josu.’

  The gnome of a pharmacist spun around, squinting through his thick lens, and suddenly his mouth came out from under his mustache, spreading in a broad grin. ‘Nick!’ he shouted. He sprinted around the counter, and fell on Ramsey with a bear hug. ‘Nick, Nick, it is so long. You are feast for eyes.’ He grabbed Ramsey by the sleeve. ‘Come, I have some wine for us in the back room.’

  Ramsey resisted, with a tilt of his head indicating the female assistant. ‘Maybe we should go somewhere - I mean where we can talk privately.’

  Josu tugged at Ramsey. ‘Not necessary.’ His head, too, indicated the assistant. ‘She does not understand one word of English. You can speak freely.’ He winked. ‘So can I.’