The Miracle

by Irving Wallace

  "No sweat, honey. I can find out at lunchtime. I'll call you with the info. When should I call you?"

  "Let's see, the time difference is six hours. When it is one in the afternoon in New York, it is—what?—it is seven in the evening in Lourdes tomorrow. Can you call me at one tomorrow your time? I'm at someone's apartment. I'll give you the number. It is right in Lx>urdes. The phone number is 62-34.53.53. Do you have it?"

  "Got it," chirped Zimborg. "I'll be back to you with all the dope during my lunch break."

  'That's a real favor, Roy. Now I owe you one. Anything I can do for you, Roy, let me know. Whatever you want."

  "Do you still look like you used to look, sweetie?"

  "Of course, the same. Maybe better."

  "Then you know what I want."

  She grinned at the mouthpiece of the phone. "Just help me get there," she said, "and you've got it."

  Mikel Hurtado had patiently waited until it was nearly midnight before leaving the hotel to visit the grotto one last time. Hopefully, at this late hour, the last of the pilgrims would be gone and asleep, and the police would have lifted their intensive security and abandoned the area. He would have plenty of time in which to climb the hillside beside the grotto, assemble his equipment, wire it to the dynamite, plant the dynamite behind the statue of the Virgin Mary in the niche -- and then set the timer for the explosion and be off and far away before it blasted sky-high.

  During his short walk to the ramp, his purpose was undimmed, tinged only with one regret.

  Less than an hour ago he had finished sleeping with Natale, making passionate love to her, for the second time this day. The last coupling had been incredible, perfect, and when he left her sound asleep in bed, it pained him to see her there, in innocent repose, so giving and trusting—it pained him not only because he was going off to destroy an object of veneration that she held so holy, but because in departing the town in the night he might never see her again. It was a terrible thing to do to her, and to himself as well, but all the way to the ramp he did not falter. It had to be done.

  At the top of the ramp to the domain, there was no one in sight except the goddam police. They were there again this night, not as many as before, but still there, three of them standing around talking and smoking.

  But this time he was not daunted. He had nothing to hide or to be

  afraid of. Just one more pilgrim, one with insomnia, who wanted to go below and offer up more fervent prayers.

  Hurtado limped along, traversing the street, and nonchalantly approaching the lawmen. When he was almost abreast of the pohce, the tallest of them stepped to one side to size him up. Hurtado gave a quick smile and short wave, and continued down the ramp. The policeman neither bothered to stop him nor call out to him. Good sign.

  Hurtado went on down the ramp to the Rosary Esplanade, then veered around the church toward the grotto.

  He strode hastily, and suddenly the grotto was in view and so were the benches in rows before it. On one of the rear benches sat two uniformed and armed policemen, chatting away.

  They did not see him, but he could see them, and they looked like they would be there until dawn.

  Hurtado cursed under his breath.

  Impossible. When would those goddam bloodhounds be tired of their unremitting surveillance and be through with it? When would they give up and go back to their normal duties and leave him alone? Again, he cursed them -- and Augustin Lopez.

  Turning away, he hiked wearily back up the ramp to the street and the hotel.

  Entering the reception lobby, wondering how he could find out when the domain would be free of security and he would have an all-clear, he saw Yvonne seated behind the reception counter. She wasn't dozing. She was reading a book. He reminded himself that it had been Yvonne who had unwittingly and originally alerted him to the police search for a terrorist. She'd had the tip from a girl friend who was bedding down with Fontaine, the superintendent of the Lourdes police. Possibly, now, she would know more and not mind repeating it.

  Hurtado wandered over to the reception desk.

  "Hi, Yvonne," he said. He took out his cigarette package and shook one free. "Want to have one?"

  "No, thanks, but I appreciate your thoughtfiilness." She put a marker in her book. "When do you ever get sleep?"

  "I felt like going to the grotto tonight and praying by myself. But no use. Police all over the place. I don't like company when I'm praying. So I just gave up. It's just no use. They're there every night. When are they going to give up this security crap?"

  Yvonne put down her book, and came to him. She leaned over, whispering. "They're giving it up."

  "They are?"

  "You'll soon have the whole grotto to yourself to pray as long as you want to."

  "When's that happening?"

  'The police are giving it two more days and nights. Then they're calling it quits. They're lifting super security and going back to normal on Saturday. Inspector Fontaine told my friend that the phone tip was probably from some crackpot anyway. And he's tired of keeping his force on overtime, and overworked. You know, we're not supposed to say, but the pohce really have their hands full at those campsites out of town -- you know, where all the people who couldn't get rooms in Lourdes are staying. You'd think people coming to see the Blessed Mother would behave better, wouldn't you? Anyway, my friend said Inspector Fontaine threatened to call in the soldiers if he couldn't pull his men off crackpot duty. If nothing happens tomorrow or the day after, he's pulling everyone off the special shift the day after that. So that's my word for you."

  Hurtado bent over the counter and kissed Yvonne on the cheek. 'Thanks for good tidings," he said. "When I get down there again, I promise to say an extra prayer for you. Good-night."

  He limped to the elevator, disgruntled that he would have to wait for two more days, but happy that the deed could finally be done. There was one benefit in the delay. He could be with Natale that much longer.

  Thursday, August 18

  Throughout the day Gisele Dupree had led her two tours about Lourdes like a somnambulist. Her mind was in faraway New York trying to imagine the progress or lack of progress that her faithful friend Roy Zimborg was making. Sometimes her mind floated back to Lourdes, to some fringe of the town where her prey, her Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, her Dr. Talley and Mr. Tikhanov, was innocently (but secretly) going about his rites for self-rejuvenation.

  When the second tour had ended, and as she rested in the agency for the third tour to begin, Gisele had begun to display signs of a migraine headache. No Rachel or Bernhardt could have matched her subdued histrionics. At last, knowing that a replacement tour guide was available, she had begged o£f further work, insisting that the pain behind her forehead was excruciating and that she must take medication and go to bed.

  Once released, she had staggered out to the first available taxi, and had directed it to Dominique's apartment beyond the domain.

  Safe in the living room of the apartment at last, with plenty of time before the crucial long-distance call was to come, her simulated migraine had happily disappeared. She had sat next to the telephone, and willed it to ring.

  The appointed time had come with no ring. The appointed time had gone. Still no ring.

  And now, almost a half hour later, she was beginning to suffer a real headache, one formed of tension and fading hopes.

  Then, like a clarion call, the phone rang out.

  Automatically, Gisele stumbled to her feet to take it, realized the telephone was beside her, and sat down hard, snatching the receiver from the cradle.

  As if through a wind tunnel, she heard dear Roy Zimborg speaking, distinctly enough, from the far-off land of spacious skies and amber fields of gold. "Gisele? This is Roy. Can you hear me?"

  "Loud and clear," Gisele half shouted from outer space.

  "Sorry to be late, but—"

  "Never mind, Roy. Just tell me if you found out anything."

  "I really tried my best, Gisele, but I'm af
raid you're going to be disappointed."

  Gisele's heart sank to her stomach.

  She did not want to hear, but said, "Tell me."

  "I made calls to my faculty friends at Columbia. I had them call me back. I even used an early lunch break to trek out to the school to do some research digging myself. As I said, I'm sorry to disappoint you. That fellow in Lourdes who told you he's Professor Samuel Talley in the language department at Columbia University—he's Ijdng. He's just trying to put the make on you. I hate to give you bad news—"

  Gisele regarded the telephone as if it were the Kohinoor, just handed her on Christmas morning. For the moment she was unable to handle such riches. She wanted to kiss Roy for the Kohinoor, but it would be too long and too difficult to explain the truth. So she kept controlled, her voice feigning disappointment as she hid her wild elation.

  She interrupted his consolations. "You mean there is no Professor Talley at Columbia University."

  "Nobody on the faculty by that name. There is no Talley on the staff of Columbia. There is no such person teaching there, and there never has been. The person you met, the man you're involved with, he's either pretending or simply pulling your leg."

  "The bastard," blurted Gisele, which was realistic and ambiguous enough.

  "I'm sorry—" Zimborg's far-off voice tried to soothe her again.

  "Never mind, Roy," she said, recovering. "I'll hve. I'll live to see you and thank you properly in person."

  "I wish it had worked out."

  "You've done your part, and I appreciate it. You're a love, and I can't wait to see you. I'll write you when I'm coming to New York."

  "I hope it's soon, Gisele."

  "Somehow, real soon, I promise you, Roy."

  After she'd hung up on him, she realized that she was smiling like an idiot and that her heart had risen from her stomach to its familiar and happier cage.

  God, this was wonderful.

  No more uncertainty. There was no Talley. There was only Tikha-nov. There was Tikhanov here and in Lourdes and at her mercy.

  Now to nail him.

  Relishing what came next, she brought the Lourdes telephone book to her lap, thumbed through it until she found the telephone number for the Hotel de la Grotte. Dialing, she wondered if she should ask to be connected to Samuel Talley's room, but decided against that. She wanted no confrontation on the telephone. She preferred to present her terms to Talley in person. It would be more threatening, more effective. She would meet with him in his room, if he was in. She would find out if he was in.

  When the switchboard operator answered, Gisele asked to speak to her friend, Gaston, at the receptionist's desk.

  "Reception desk," she heard Gaston say.

  "Gaston, this is Gisele Dupree. How are you?"

  "Gisele, dear. Never better. And you?"

  "Fine. I'd like to know if one of your guests is in, the one we found the room for. You know. Mr. Samuel Talley, of New York. Is he in?"

  "One moment, I can tell you." A pause. "Yes, Gisele, his key is not here. He must have it and be in his room. You want me to put you through?"

  "No. I prefer to see him. I'll drop by."

  Hanging up, she came to her feet, grabbed her purse, and was out the door in less than a minute.

  Emerging from the apartment building, she sought a taxi. Not one was in sight. She knew that there was a taxi stand two blocks away. She made for it in quick strides. There were three taxies lined up at the curb. The familiar driver in the first one hailed her with a greeting, and started the motor as Gisele opened the rear door and climbed in.

  "Hotel de la Grotte," she ordered him breathlessly. "Make it fast, Henri."

  "At your service, Gisele."

  Ten minutes later they swung into the blacktop driveway and pulled up before the blue and orange awning of the white stucco hotel.

  Unlatching the rear door, Gisele said, "Keep your meter going, Henri. Til need you to go back. I won't be long."

  The driver pointed off to the parking lot below and alongside the hotel. "I'll park down there."

  "Be right back," she called, and hurried under the awning to the glass entrance door and pushed it open. With growing confidence, she went down the hall past the lobby and started for the elevators, which were beyond the reception desk. At the desk Gaston was taking a room key from a male guest and speaking to him.

  Gisele was going past the two men when she caught a glimpse of the guest turning away to go to the hotel entrance. She recognized him inmiediately. The Slavic face and flowing fake mustache belonged to the estimable Samuel Talley, the professor who never was.

  She skidded to a halt, put a finger to her lips so that Craston would not address her, and pivoted to sneak up on her quarry. She fell in behind her ambulatory gold mine, matching him step for step as he moved to the door.

  Suddenly, she spoke. "Mr. Tikhanov," she called out.

  He stopped so abruptly that she almost collided with his back. She retreated a step and waited. He had not moved an inch. He stood very still.

  She wondered if he was shocked to the roots and trying to recover his composure.

  "Mr. Tikhanov," she repeated mercilessly.

  Because there was no denying that he was the one being addressed, he slowly wheeled around, feigning surprise. "Oh, it's you. Miss Du-pree? Were you calling me by some other name? You must have thought I was someone else."

  Wearing her most innocent expression, Gisele shook her head and her blond ponytail gently. "No, I was not mistaken. It was you I wanted. Perhaps I should have addressed you more correctly as Foreign Minister Sergei Tikhanov. Now do I have it right?"

  He made an effort at exasperation. "Miss Duprec, you know my name very well. We've spent enough time together. What kind of nonsense game is this?"

  "I think in most countries, even yours, it is called the truth game. I suggest you play it with me. I'd like a word with you, Mr. Tikhanov."

  He was beginning to show irritation. "Unless you stop calling me by that ridiculous name—I won't speak to you any further."

  "I think you'd better, for your own sake," said Gisele. "I think we should sit down for a minute and talk. Please follow me."

  "Really, Miss Dupree—" he protested. "I must get to dinner."

  But she went back down the hall, and she knew that he was following her. She continued, without slowing, past the reception desk, and then said over her shoulder, "There's a nice little lounge here. We can have a lovely tete-a-tete in privacy."

  She entered the small blue lounge as he caught up with her. He was protesting again. "Miss Dupree, I have no time to humor your foolishness. I—"

  Ignoring him, she went directly to an armchair, and plumped herself down into it, reaching to draw a second armchair closer to her own. Imperiously, she gestured toward the seat beside her, and reluctantly he took it.

  "You want to know what this is all about," she said in a low voice. "Now I will tell you with no embellishments. Please listen and don't interrupt. I told you once that I had worked at the United Nations. There I saw you up close briefly. I was with the French ambassador, Charles Sarrat. When you came to Lourdes at the beginning of the week, I did not recognize you. But when I was taking some photographs at the grotto last Monday, I saw you and happened to take some pictures of you just as your mustache fell off, after the baths. When I compared this snapshot of you with the photograph of you in the newspaper, and some I have seen from a magazine file, I could see that the picture of Samuel Talley near the grotto and the pictures of Sergei Tikhanov were one and the same. Now you know I know—"

  "A mere happenstance," he broke in, with a short laugh. "My resemblance to Tikhanov has been remarked upon before. Every one of us has a Doppelganger, a look alike, somewhere in the world."

  "I wanted to be sure I'd made no mistake," resumed Gisele, relentlessly, "so I decided to check on the person you claim to be. I telephoned New York to inquire about the status of Professor Samuel Talley, a faculty member of Columbia Unive
rsity." She barely paused. "I had my reply from New York not an hour ago. There is no Professor Talley at Columbia, and there never has been. But assuredly, most assuredly, there is a Minister Sergei Tikhanov in Lourdes, France -- the foreign minister, and soon to be premier, of the leading atheistic nation on earth, now begging for health at the shrine of the most Holy Blessed Virgin. I tell myself—that is incredible. I also tell myself—it need be only between us, the two of us, if you wish it so, if you are ready to be reasonable."

  Gathering up her purse, she studied his drained face, and she rose to her feet with cool poise.

  Never taking her eyes off him, she said, "If you want my print of the photograph of you, and the negative, and my silence, you must pay

  the fair market price for my initiative and cleverness. After all, as you know, I am only a poor working girl who wants to live -- and let live. If you will bring yourself and $15,000 to my apartment -- an apartment I'm temporarily using -- at eleven o'clock tomorrow morning, you will find me there waiting to conclude our exchange. Here, I will leave you the address and apartment number." She took a slip of paper from her purse and offered it to him. He ignored it. She placed the slip on the table behind her.

  "If you have the money in cash," she resumed, "it must be in francs, dollars, or pounds. If it is too much to expect you to carry around such a sum in cash, you may pay by a cashier's check on a Paris, New York, or London bank. If that can't be done, then mail me the sum in cash next week, and give me a place where I can send you the pictures and negatives. What do you say to that, Mr. Tikhanov?"

  He sat Sphinx-like, both of his hands spread flat on the arms of his chair. His flinty face was raised toward hers. "What do I say, Miss Dupree? I say you are quite insane. I am not coming to your apartment at eleven tomorrow morning or at any other time. I will not allow myself to be frightened by your fiction—not frightened or blackmailed. If you expect me to submit to this madness of yours, you can wait till hell freezes over."