realized that he, Quiggs, and the others were still wearing their slit-eyed masks and were obviously recognizable as terrorists.
One of the uniformed men already had his gun out and had opened fire. As a member of the Cooper gang, Shields, took the first shots and crumpled lifeless, Cooper heard Quiggs next to him go into action. Quiggs’s submachine gun raked the entering party from one side to the other, and then back again, and then over again. Like so many wooden dolls, each member of the entering party toppled over. All five of them lay sprawled on the floor, with blood beginning to ooze from their wounds.
The massacre had taken seconds, and Cooper prayed that the chattering sounds of gunfire had not been heard outside. Fiercely Cooper signaled for his survivors to get out. Leaping over the prone bodies, they rushed from the room into the rear corridor, hurrying to the right into the exit corridor as they yanked off their masks and hid their weapons in their pockets. Going past the bookshop and the puzzled female clerk behind a counter, they were immediately outdoors.
They were in the open air once more, racing for the nearby museum exit gate, abruptly following Cooper’s lead in slowing to a brisk walk as they retraced their steps toward the unlocked final gate next to the glass ticket booth. As they strode to it, no one running, the young man inside and the escort personnel around the limousine at the curb never even looked up. Cooper exhaled his relief. The sounds of gunfire had been too distant to be clearly heard, or if heard at all had been misunderstood.
As a group, walking steadily, they were crossing the parking lot to the two Ford sedans where Krupinski and Pagano were standing by, posing as chauffeurs. Advancing, Cooper gestured the drivers to their wheels. Splitting up, members of the group ducked into their respective cars, closed the doors.
‘There was a shoot-out,’ Cooper growled to Pagano, ‘so it’s the alternate plan. Let’s beat it.’
As Pagano hurriedly started the car, Cooper called to those in the rear seat, ‘Who in the hell were those two with the guards?’
‘One of them looked like the Israeli prime minister,’ answered Lafair.
‘Shit,’ said Cooper. ‘And losing Shields besides. Shit. Okay, Gus, make it cool and easy - but fast.’
They drove out of the parking lot, the bookless and bloody shrine receding quickly behind them, quiet in the sunny afternoon.
The deed was done.
In Cairo, darkness had fallen.
From a window of the Cairo International Airport, fifteen miles northeast of the teeming city, a foot-weary Nick Ramsey watched the lights come on below, illuminating the asphalt airstrips. Most of the jets that had been landing in daylight, and were landing now, belonged to Egyptair. There was still no sign of the Israeli prime minister’s El Al 747. Ramsey looked down below where the president of Egypt, the vice-president, the minister of trade, and the sprucely uniformed Egyptian honor guard had been attentive for so long. Now Ramsey could see that the president and other officials had left their places, probably had gone indoors, and the soldiers of the honor guard, standing at ease, looked wilted and bedraggled.
The nonappearance of the Israeli prime minister was inexplicable.
Ramsey had been advised, much earlier, that the prime minister had been delayed, would be leaving Ben Gurion Airport two hours behind schedule. Ramsey had used up his time with more drinking, some eating, chatting with fellow journalists. During the waiting period word had come up that the prime minister would arrive at Cairo International Airport within the hour. But that hour had passed, too, and since then yet another hour, and the prime minister’s plane was nowhere in sight.
The Israeli leader’s plane had never before been this long overdue. Its nonappearance was mystifying. No further explanation had come to the restless and puzzled members of the press contingent.
Ramsey turned away from the window, wondering whether he should continue his vigil or dared leave his station and go into the city to the room reserved for him at the Nile
Hilton Hotel, where he might get some deserved rest.
He was trying to make up his mind when he heard someone call out, ‘I say there, Nick!’
He turned further to see a sandy-haired, -freckle-faced young man coming swiftly toward him. He recognized the person who had hailed him as an acquaintance he had made on his previous trip abroad, a British reporter, Brian Enders, of The Times of London.
Enders came up, face wreathed in a broad smile. He offered his hand. ‘Congratulations, your people in New York have done it again.’
Ramsey dumbly took the handshake. ‘Congratulations for what?’
‘For the tremendous exclusive by the New York Record. Moments ago I heard it on the wireless.’ He stared at Ramsey. ‘You mean you don’t know?’
‘Know what?’ said Ramsey.
‘Ah, you don’t know. Let me be the first to tell you. In Jerusalem, the Dead Sea scrolls museum was invaded by Carlos and his terrorists earlier today. They ransacked it, made off with almost every damn scroll. Incredible. Most daring theft I’ve ever heard of in my entire life.’
Ramsey stood astonished. ‘Carlos and his crowd made off with the Dead Sea scrolls? I can’t believe it.’
Enders laughed. ‘You better, old boy. It’s emblazoned over the whole front page of your own newspaper, according to the wireless. The Record has the bloody story alone. An absolute whopper of a scooperoo.’
Ramsey nodded toward the terminal window. ‘I guess that explains the prime minister’s no-show. He heard the news and postponed his trip.’
‘I don’t think so. The Egyptians told us he would be on his way at least an hour ago.’
‘Well, the news was probably radioed to his plane, and he made the plane turn back.’
Enders seemed doubtful. ‘I don’t know.’
‘I don’t know either,’ said Ramsey thoughtfully. ‘I’m going to try to find out. Failing that, I’m going to my hotel and take a dip in a hot tub. Thanks for the flash, Brian.’ He threw the British reporter a mock salute and began to stroll away with him. ‘Looks like a crazy day. The Dead Sea scrolls missing.
Now the prime minister disappearing. What’s going on?’
But he had a hunch that Edward Armstead might somehow know.
Once he had checked into the Nile Hilton Hotel, Ramsey told the Egyptian bellboy to wait while he made a few purchases at the newsstand. He crossed the busy lobby to the stand, and in the shop he bought two packs of American cigarettes and three English-language newspapers. Riding the elevator to the fourth floor, he scanned the front page of each paper for details about the theft of the Dead Sea scrolls. Ramsey could find no mention of the evert, and finally realized that the papers were a day old.
Being let into his plush double room, Ramsey had something else on his mind. The lingering mystery. The prime minister of Israel had departed from Ben Gurion Airport for Cairo, and had not arrived. Tipping the bellboy and watching him leave, Ramsey tried to speculate on the mystery. Even if he could project no logical solution, and tempted as he was to immerse himself in a bath of hot water and try to arrive at some conclusion, he knew for certain what he must do first. A non-event could also be news, and his duty was to report that news or at least alert Armstead in New York to what was happening - or hadn’t happened at all.
He was about to go to the telephone on the table beside the couch when it began ringing.
Surprised, Ramsey lifted the receiver, sure that it was a wrong number. It was not a wrong number. It was a longdistance call from Paris and the caller was Victoria Weston.
‘Nick, is that you?’ he heard her say.
‘All me,’ he answered. ‘How’d you know I’d be here?’
‘I knew you had a reservation at the Nile Hilton.’
‘But I was supposed to be at the Cairo Airport.’
‘I figured you wouldn’t be hanging around there any longer -‘
‘Then you heard the prime minister never showed up?’ he said. ‘I was just going to report the mystery to Armstead.�
�
There was a silence, and for an instant Ramsey thought that they had been disconnected. But Victoria came on again.
‘You haven’t heard yet? Nick, you haven’t heard?’
‘What?’
‘The Israeli prime minister was gunned down by the Carlos gang during the theft of the Dead Sea scrolls. Then the Israeli government put the lid on that part of the happening, on the shooting. For security reasons.’
Ramsey lowered himself to the couch, stunned. ‘The prime minister shot? You’re kidding.’
‘Heard it with my own ears on French television, a French newscaster quoting a terse government announcement.’
‘What condition is Salmon in?’ Ramsey wanted to know.
‘No idea. Just the delayed government announcement that he’d been shot in the museum by the Carlos terrorists and was now in some Jerusalem hospital. No further details.’
‘I don’t know what to say,’ Ramsey finally muttered. ‘What am I doing here?’
‘Only knows God,’ said Victoria, quoting from an old profile of Time magazine’s Henry R. Luce, and adding, ‘In translation that means, Only knows Armstead - maybe. Don’t forget he had the heist part of it exclusive.’
‘Armstead,’ repeated Ramsey. T better hang around until I hear from him. And the prime minister -‘ he said wonderingly. ‘What’s happening with him?’
‘They what?’ said Edward Armstead, paling and rising out of his office chair, unable to believe his ears.
Nervously, Harry Dietz squirmed in the chair across from the massive desk. ‘They shot him, Chief,’ he repeated.
‘They shot the prime minister of Israel? Is that what you’re saying? They wounded him?’
‘Apparently. Because the government announcement said he was taken to hospital. The government release on that - it just came through - was curt, but according to my information, the prime minister is probably in critical condition.’
‘You heard that from Pagano?’
‘From Gus Pagano, yes. When he reported the scrolls operation to us, he didn’t want to tell us about the shoot-out. First, because it might have revealed that someone in the gang was reporting to us. Second, because he was uncertain whom they had cut down. But once he heard the government announcement, he phoned again with a few of the details.’
‘What details?’ Armstead demanded. ‘How did it happen?’
Dietz cleared his throat. ‘I don’t know exactly, but I do know this much. Cooper and his men had just grabbed the scrolls and were about to clear out when the prime minister and some guest, with three armed guards, walked in on them. Seeing our men in masks, one of the guards immediately understood what was going on and opened fire. He brought down one of Cooper’s regulars, Shields, apparently killing him instantly.’
Armstead stood unnerved. “They actually killed one of Cooper’s men?’
‘No question,’ said Dietz. ‘Pagano was certain of that.’
‘What happened next?’
‘The terrorists retaliated -‘
‘I don’t like your calling them terrorists,’ interrupted Armstead. He sat down behind his desk. ‘Then what happened?’
‘One of Cooper’s boys opened up with a submachine gun -just mowed them down, the five of them, one after another, the prime minister, his guest, the three guards. They were lying there on the floor like those bodies in the old St. Valentine’s Day massacre in Chicago. Pagano said Cooper couldn’t tell how many were dead and how many injured. It was all too fast.’
‘And Cooper and his gang got away safely?’
‘Absolutely.’
Armstead shook his head. ‘Thank God for that. But they had to leave Shields, they had to leave him behind.’
‘No choice. Every second counted.’
‘Shields - there wasn’t any identification on his body, was there?’
‘None whatsoever. None of them carried any identification.’
Armstead shook his head again, unhappily. ‘I never wanted there to be bloodshed.’
‘There had to be sooner or later,’ said Dietz in a practical tone of voice. ‘Besides, our men had no choice. It was self-defense.’
T suppose you’re right,’ mused Armstead. ‘Who will be blamed for this?’
‘The Israeli government announcement has already blamed Carlos.’
Armstead frowned. ‘Too bad we didn’t have the shooting exclusive, too.’ He looked up. ‘But the details of the shooting - no one has the details except us.’
‘That’s right, Chief.’
‘Well, when’s it coming off the presses?’
‘Chief, it hasn’t even been written yet. I just got Pagano’s second call. I -‘
Armstead slammed his fist on the desk. ‘Goddammit, Harry, get on the ball. We don’t want anyone else getting it into print before us. Let’s roll with it fast -another Armstead beat - another exclusive. The full and inside account of the shooting of Prime Minister Salmon - the story of the year.’ He came off his chair and around the desk as Dietz stood up. Armstead took him by the arm. ‘Let’s keep moving, Harry. We’re on top of the world. Let’s stay there.’
‘I’ll hustle it into print, Chief. Do I by-line it Mark Bradshaw again? We credited him with the beat on the theft of the scrolls. It would be logical for him to report on the rest of the story, the shoot-out.’
Armstead approved. ‘You’ve got it, Harry. Let’s keep him our star.’
‘Okay. Oh, one more thing -‘
‘Yes?’
‘- what about Ramsey?’ asked Dietz.
‘Better get Nick Ramsey out of Cairo. Bring him back to Paris to join up with the Weston girl. I think I may have something new brewing.’
Dietz hesitated at the door. ‘I was just thinking, Chief. Maybe it would be wise to have a breather between stories.’
‘Since when have you become cautious, Harry?’
‘I haven’t really, but-‘
‘Leave the planning to me,’ said Armstead. ‘When you’re running the world, you don’t get off.’
CHAPTER TEN
To Nick Ramsey, riding the unusual, undulating arrival escalators in Charles de Gaulle Airport was always an enjoyable sport, like taking a roller coaster standing up, no hands. But this day, returned to Paris from Cairo before one in the afternoon, he hardly noticed the escalators. He was bemused by the violent events that had swirled about him in Egypt and the Middle East.
He reached the ground-floor luggage conveyors and sought out the one that would be delivering his suitcase and typewriter. He watched the Cairo luggage sliding down the moving conveyor belt, spotted his own rubbed black leather bag, stepped forward to catch it as it came around and lifted the suitcase free. Shortly after that he had his portable typewriter.
He was surprised to see a young woman with an arm raised motioning to him. As he arrived at the customs exit, he could see that the young woman was Victoria. Finished with customs, he could not help smiling as he approached her - she was wearing her tweed jacket over a brown silk blouse and hip-hugging beige pants, and was a dream walking - but Victoria was not smiling at all. She was dead serious, even grim.
‘Nick,’ she said. He wanted to kiss those full red lips, but gave her a smack on the cheek instead.
He studied her expression. ‘Anything wrong?’
‘Nick, the prime minister of Israel - he’s dead.’
‘Dead?’
‘He died in surgery.’
‘Dammit,’ Ramsey said under his breath. ‘Where’d you hear that?’
“They broke in with a bulletin on French television. Salmon recovered consciousness only once before surgery. Someone told him the Dead Sea scrolls had been stolen, and
told him the ransom demand. In return for the scrolls, release of the five PLO terrorists who attacked the kibbutz Kfar Hanassi last month. The prime minister whispered, “Never, never in a million years. The scrolls are precious to all of us, but the safety of our people is more precious. Israel does not give in to terrorists
, now or ever.” And then they rolled him into surgery. And then he died.’
‘That’s the whole story?’
‘Not quite. French television also had the details of what happened in the museum, details of what led to the killing. They had these by quoting an exclusive from an American newspaper.’
‘I assume they were quoting the Record,’ said Ramsey quietly.
‘Yes.’
‘A by-lined story by Mark Bradshaw.’
‘Yes.’
‘I see,’ he said. But he did not see a thing.
‘I think it’s odd,’ Victoria said, as they walked out of the terminal to the street.
Ramsey said, T think a lot of things that happen in this world are odd.’
She put up her hand to get the attention of a chauffeur smoking nearby, and he acknowledged her signal and strode off. T have a rented car at the hotel, but I was afraid if I used it on the autoroute I’d get lost and miss you. So I hired that driver with his Mercedes.’
‘Extravagant, aren’t you?’
His tone had been light, but Victoria remained serious. ‘It’s Armstead’s money, and he’s making more and more with all these scoops.’
‘Well, I guess he’s earned it.’
‘Armstead, he’s becoming famous, practically a legend.’
‘I guess he deserves that, too.’
‘He and Mark Bradshaw.’
Noting her emphasis, Ramsey glanced at her.
She touched Ramsey’s arm. ‘Nick, I want to talk to you about all this. Can we talk about it?’
He knew that he was supposed to ask her exactly what she wanted to talk about, but he was not ready for that yet.
The driver had drawn his Mercedes up to the curb. Ramsey
opened the rear door for Victoria. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘we’ll talk. But not yet and not now. Give me a chance to shake off the dust of Cairo, take a shower, get a change of clothes. Let’s just neck on the way to Paris.’
(1982) The Almighty Page 23