But this morning, he suspected, he had badly overslept, not from lack of sleep but for lack of a reason to get up. He was always awake by eight o'clock, and on the move by nine, with some new promotional venture to research, investigate, organize, sell. But this morning, uncharacteristically, perhaps because he had no special new venture in mind, he had half awakened, turned over in bed, and slept on until ten minutes to noon.
When he had seen the time, he had worried about it, pushed himself out of bed, reluctantly done his sitting-up exercises (which gains would be lost to ale consumed in several pubs throughout the day), shaved, showered, dressed, and waddled into the combination kitchen-dinette of their Chelsea ground-floor flat for breakfast. While eating his breakfast—two eggs, black coffee, a scone—he had opened the book he had recently found in the outdoor bin of a secondhand bookstore. It was a thick old reprint of an autobiography by a onetime famous American who'd also sought success in Great Britain. The book was Struggles and Triumphs; or. Forty Years' Recollection by P. T. Bamum. Although
Reggie Moore rarely read books, in fact never read them, he considered himself well-read and knowledgeable due to the fact that he religiously perused both the London Mirror and News of the World from first page to last every day. His purchase of the Bamum autobiography had been motivated by a desire to seek creative stimulation, maybe come on one of Bamum's old schemes that might lend itself to conversion into some modern exhibit and promotion.
He had started to read the Bamum book in the middle -- the early years would be a waste and unprofitable—at the time the old humbug had been at the peak of his powers with his Tom Thumb and Feejee Mermaid enterprises, when Reggie had been intemipted by the unexpected phone call from Edith.
The old girl had sounded crazy at first, words tumbling one over the other in a rush that made them almost incomprehensible. He had finally realized that she had just finished her visit with Archbishop Henning, and then it came back to Reggie that Edith had told him last night about the mysterious appointment.
She was trying to explain what had happened at the meeting, and in order to understand her, Reggie had finally broken in on the torrent of words to say, "Edith, slow down, it's hard to make out what you're saying, slow down. You seem very excited. What's this all about?"
After that, she had gone on a bit more slowly, articulately, but still very excited.
After a minute or two he had understood, grasped it all, and somehow had realized that this was not only of great importance to Edith, but might be of importance to both of them.
"Edith," he said, before hanging up, "don't bother to shop for dinner tonight. This deserves a celebration at a proper restaurant. Let's say Le Caprice."
"Oh, Reggie, but that's so expensive." Edith was beginning to come down.
But then Reggie was high. "Nothing is too good for a miracle woman."
He had trouble finishing his breakfast. His mind was dancing. He shut the boring Bamum book and shoved it aside. He gulped down his coffee, and gave his mind the freedom to wheel and deal.
Miracle woman!
My God, there must be a thousand ways to convert this into cash, gold, coin of the realm. Immediately, it came to him—it always came to him fast and whole when he was at his best—what could be done.
The initial inspiration had come on a previous visit with Edith to Lourdes three years ago. They had taken to having dinner in a small,
comfortable restaurant in Lourdes, Cafe Massabielle, on the Avenue Bernadette Soubirous. Despite the wretched and colorless replica of the Virgin Mary in a niche above the red awning, the little restaurant was attractive, homelike, with a first-rate cuisine and chef, and a wonderful location. But what appealed to Reggie most about the eatery had been its proprietor. Reggie had got to know the owner, Jean-Claude Jamet, whose father had been French, his mother Enghsh. Although Jamet had proved a bit aloof, reserved, his fish-faced countenance and pencil-thin mustache put-offs, there was something special about the man that appealed. Reggie could discern that Jamet, at heart, was also a promoter. Unfortunately, he did not use his gifts to make a good thing of his restaurant in Lourdes. He used the restaurant only for a small profit. His real devotion was to his lively and innovative travel agency, Full Circle, in London, which arranged numerous money-making pilgrimages to Lourdes during the season.
Yet, Reggie had felt, the restaurant could be more than a minor adjunct, could become a major adjunct, an equal in profitabihty. True, it needed expansion and modernization -- but even more it needed a partner who believed in it. Reggie had gone to Jamet and offered himself as that partner, the right partner, one with get-up-and-go. For his investment Reggie had offered a modest sum of money and his own creativity. Jamet had flatly turned him down. The money offered was not enough and the creativity was not proved. Reggie had not brooded over the defeat. He was a veteran of rejection. He had turned to other things.
But today, his mind was back on Jamet and the restaurant. Because, today, Reggie had the money to invest and a stimning creative idea.
Reggie went quickly to the telephone to learn whether Jamet was still in London, and if in London but out to lunch, to learn when he would be back in the office and available. He was there, but not easily available. He was eating a sandwich at his desk. He was extremely busy trying to schedule additional pilgrimages to Lourdes because of the demand created by the news of the Virgin Mary's expected reappearance in three weeks, or soon after.
"Great turn, that Virgin Mary bit," said Reggie, "and I've got something super that will tie in with it. I have a wonderful piece of news that will help both of us."
"Like the last time?" said Jamet dryly.
"Jean-Claude, this is something special, a once-in-a-lifetime thing, manna from heaven. I thought of you right away. You've got to find a minute for me."
"Well, I'm still eating, haven't gone back to work yet. I suppose I
could see you while I'm on the dessert, if you can come right over. Might as well get it done with or you'll keep nagging me. If you have to see me, do it now, right now."
"Be over in a flash," said Reggie, hanging up and grabbing for his sports jacket.
Outside, the sprinkles had stopped, the sun was doing its late act, and Reggie was whistling as he strode to the garage. There was trouble in starting his old Rover, but at last he had it going. He backed out of the garage, shifted into high, and raced off in the direction of Piccadilly Circus. Jamet's Full Circle Agency was three blocks north of the Circus.
Once at his destination, and snugly parked, Reggie straightened his tie and plaid jacket, pressed down a stray lock of hair, and moved confidently into the agency. It was busy, all right, as Jamet had said it was, and there were at least a dozen would-be tourists at the two counters vying for the attention of the three clerks. With a possessive air, Reggie barged in behind the long counter. When the nearest clerk made an effort to stop him, Reggie said airily, "Jamet's expecting me. We have an appointment."
Reggie moved on to Jamet's private cubbyhole of an office in the rear. Jamet, at his desk surrounded by walls decorated with scenic de-lights of the European Grand Tour and a square of color photos of Lourdes including the Cafe Massabielle, was shoving the last piece of his apple pie into his mouth.
He gave Reggie an uninviting sour look as his visitor entered breezily. When Reggie was up, nothing could put him down. He had a salesman's armadillo shell, thick and insensitive. Reggie tugged a straight wooden chair around to the front of the desk and quickly seated himself, ready to start.
"What's the big deal this time?" Jamet asked coldly.
"Your restaurant in Lourdes. I'm still interested in buying into it. I still think it can become an enormous winner."
"Do you now? Well, my friend, you'll have to do much better than you did last time."
"I'm prepared to, or I wouldn't be here," promised Reggie with verve. "This time I've got it all together, and you won't be able to resist. Jean-Claude, for a half ownership of the restaurant, I'm
ready to put up fifty thousand pounds in cash toward expansion and improvement of your property. The money is my wife's inheritance that she's held on to in case she should ever become ill again. But now she knows she's not going to be ill anymore. She's cured, and she won't need her nest egg.
Yes, rm ready to toss in the whole sum, the entire fifty thousand pounds—"
Jamet had been listening stonily. He interrupted. "Sorry, not enough." He dumped the remnants of his lunch into a wastebasket, prepared to terminate the meeting. "For you to come in, you'd have to have much more to offer."
"But I have much more," Reggie exclaimed. "I have something far more valuable than a mere fifty thousand pounds to invest. I have something unique, a surefire thing that'll make the Lourdes end of your business boom."
"Oh, yes?" said Jamet with unconcealed boredom, twisting to look in the desk mirror as he combed his hair.
"Listen to me. My wife, Edith, was called to a meeting by Archbishop Henning a few hours ago. It was to report something important to her about her cure at Lourdes over three years ago. The Medical Bureau of Lourdes and the Canonical Commission have decided that Edith's cure is of a miraculous nature, and she is being officially added to the 'Cures of Lourdes Recognized as Miraculous by the Church.' Since 1858 there have been only sixty-nine of these—only five since 1978—and now Edith Moore will be the seventieth."
For the first time, Reggie had Jamet's undivided attention. "Really? This is true?"
"You can confirm it. Call Archbishop Henning's office. Tell him I told you."
"I congratulate you," said Jamet, cautiously but interested. "This will be good for both of you."
"Good for both of us?" said Reggie, jumping up from his chair. "It'll be slam-bang sensational. Overnight, Edith will be famous, a living legend. Everyone will want to meet her, everyone. In fact, she's going to Lourdes again, the center of everything, to be honored. She's probably the one the Virgin Mary is coming to see. Now, as to the rest of my proposition, Jean-Claude. Besides the fifty thousand pounds, I'm ready to throw Edith in as well, Edith Moore the authentic miracle woman. Can't you see it? Edith to go along on your pilgrimages and give advice. Why, you could immediately raise your rates for the next pilgrimage groups. And at the restaurant—after you enlarge it, improve it—Edith could be the star, the special attraction, in effect the hostess. In order to meet her, see her, touch her, listen to her, even dine with her, the wealthier tourists and pilgrims would order from a Miracle Menu at our new Miracle Restaurant at double your present prices. I tell you, you'd triple your profit. Pilgrimages arranged at one end, restaurant waiting at the other—and Edith Moore, the latest miracle
woman, your main attraction." Reggie gulped for air. "Now, what do you say to that?"
For the first time, Jamet's stony exterior displayed a fissure. It was a reluctant smile, but an actual smile. He stood up, hand extended. "Reggie, my friend, now you are talking my language. Let's shake on our partnership."
Grinning, Reggie pumped the other's hand. "We're celebrating tonight at Le Caprice. Join us, partner, and get to know the miracle woman."
Mikel Hurtado sat tensely at the wheel of the dusty blue Seat Panda parked in the Calle de Serrano across from the iron gate at the entrance to the massive Catholic church and kept an eye on the schoolchildren and Madrid matrons going inside for nine o'clock Mass. This was the tenth and last day of their scouting vigil. If their quarry arrived today, as he had the previous nine mornings, the pattern was set. They would place the dynamite in the tunnel beneath the street tonight. They would detonate the explosives and assassinate their hated enemy tomorrow morning.
Hurtado peered at his wristwatch. "You better go in now," he said quietly to the girl in the front seat beside him. "If our man is on schedule, he should be here in five minutes for Mass."
"Do I have to?" Juha Valdez protested. "What purpose? He'll never get to the church tomorrow morning."
"For positive identification," said Hurtado. "I want you to see him close up. We've got to be certain he is Luis Bueno, our deputy prime minister in charge of defense, and no other. Go ahead, Julia, it's the last time."
"Father knows best," she said with a shrug, and then laughed and they both laughed. It was a joke between them because she was nineteen and he, in her eyes, an elder at twenty-nine.
Hurtado watched her leave the car, cross over, and reach the landing below the massive church door. She fell in among other worshippers at the steps, climbing up and going inside the church.
A good girl, this one, Hurtado thought, and brave for one so young. They were lucky to have her enlisted in their cause. Julia had come down to Madrid from Bilbao two months ahead of the rest of them. She had enrolled at the University of Madrid for the fall term, and then spent her spare time acquainting herself with the big city and finding them a $200-a-month apartment, all in preparation for her comrades' arrival. Their leader, Augustin Lopez, had met her through family ties, had been satisfied with her loyalty to the nationalist cause, and had recruited her for the ETA—the underground Euskadi Ta As-katasuna, or Basque Homeland and Freedom Organization—two years ago.
When Hurtado had begun to work with her, he was pleased by her intelligence. Although she had not been exactly his type of woman—too much nose and jaw, too short and sturdy (he had always preferred the more dehcate, fragile feminine types in his writing days)—he had slept with her any number of times. Neither had been in love with the other, but they had respected and liked each other, and their sexual encounters had usually been for physical release and fim. If Julia could be faulted at all, it was for a hangover of religiosity which she had carried into the separatist revolutionary movement with her.
He consulted his wristwatch once more. Any minute now. His mind went to his two veteran Basque companions at the apartment, awaiting this last scouting expedition and eager to prepare for tomorrow's assassination.
Suddenly Hurtado became aware of a bustle among the spectators at the entrance across the street. Casually, from the comer of his eye, he observed the arrival of the three government cars, one, two, three. The middle one was the maroon Mercedes in which Minister Luis Bueno should be sitting. Sure enough, it appeared to be the devil himself who emerged from the Mercedes, as his bodyguards leaped out of the other two cars and flanked him. Oddly enough, Bueno was still reading a newspaper as he started for the entrance to the church.
Bueno was an ugly old man, small and strutting in his immaculate black suit. His mustached monkey face could be seen as he turned toward one of his guards. He was smiling cheerfully and handing the guard the newspaper. Since Bueno rarely smiled, Hurtado was curious. Bueno was a mean man, and even though he had been a friend of Franco, he had been retained by the King as minister in charge of defense. A rigid Catholic and conservative, Bueno had proved to be the ETA's main enemy in the cabinet and had been unswervingly opposed to Basque autonomy. Now, Hurtado thought, the little bastard will pay for it.
Watching Bueno disappear into the church, Hurtado thought -- go and pray, you bastard, for the last time.
Tomorrow, Luis Bueno would be roasting in hell alongside Admiral Carrero Blanco.
It gave Hurtado much joy, picturing Bueno and Blanco and the devil in the deepest recess of Dante's flaming hell.
Hurtado could not deny that the assassination of Admiral Blanco, in 1973, a classical Basque assassination operation, had provided the blueprint for the current Operation Bueno and had made the preparation for it easier, almost too easy.
In the upheaval after Franco's death, the Basques' killing of Admiral Blanco had been half-forgotten, relegated to Spam's distant past. But no Basque had ever forgotten it, and the ETA's president, Augustin Lopez, and Mikel Hurtado least of all. The 1973 Basque commandos— there had been a dozen of them—had carefully spied on Admiral Blanco, and learned that every morning he attended Mass at this same church (a practice that Minister Bueno, a more fervent Catholic, happily emulated).
Having been reassured of Admiral B
lanco's consistent route to the church every morning, the 1973 Basque commandos had rented a basement apartment on this route near the church. They had painstakingly dug an eighteen-inch-high tunnel beneath the street, removing the dirt in baskets, and planted seventy-five kilos of dynamite in three spots in the tunnel. Then they had run electrical wires from the detonating cord into a comer room in the apartment from which Admiral Blanco's approach could be seen.
On the fateful morning, Admiral Blanco had ridden to Mass in his black Dodge, and as the car passed over the tunnel, the dynamite had been detonated.
Admiral Blanco and his vehicle had been blown over a five-story building.
Fantastic.
Tomorrow morning. Minister Luis Bueno, enemy of the Basques, would be given the same free flight.
And this one act of terror, after a long period of passivity, would remind the government that the ETA was prepared to go to any length to unshackle the 2,500,000 Basques in northern Spain from their servitude.
Not that he was by nature a violent person, Hurtado told himself. He had been a writer from the time he had first been able to pick up a pencil, and writers by and large achieved action through fantasy. He had published three books -- a collection of his poetry, a play about Lope de Vega, and a short novel based on the hfe and death of Garcia Lorca—when Franco's terror had struck against his own family and convinced him to put down his pencil for a rifle. Words, he had realized, would never be enough to fight the oppressors. He had joined the ETA to take up arms.
He wondered what was delaying Julia this long, and then as he wondered about it, he saw her emerging from the church.
He started the car, waited for her to settle into the seat beside him, and began to drive the Seat Panda away from the curb and into Calle de Serrano.
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