But he was neither on the bed nor in the room. What was on the bed, instead, was a note, a sheet of stationery folded over and bearing her own name on it.
Unfolding the note, she found the handwriting barely recognizable, but realized it was from Ken. Deciphering the words, she read:
Amanda, became more ill this mom. The hotel arranged for me to be taken to Centre Hospitalier General de Lourdes, 2, Avenue Alexandre-Marque, for examination and treatment Don't worry. God will look after me.
Love, Ken
Amanda felt herself sag. Maybe it was too late. Maybe all her efforts, and her great find, had been for nought. Ken's potentially fatal disease was overcoming him, and now probably the hasty return to Chicago would do no good.
Amanda pulled herself together. Snatching up one of the envelopes that contained a copy of Bernadette's journal, she was immediately on the run.
Twenty minutes later, following the hotel receptionist's directions, Amanda was inside the Centre Hopitalier General de Lourdes, hurrying along the second-floor hallway until she found the number of Ken's room. There was a sign posted on the door stating "No Visitors." Ignoring it, Amanda nervously knocked. After a brief wait, the door partially opened. A woman poked her head out and gazed at Amanda inquiringly.
Amanda said, "I'm told Mr. Kenneth Clayton is here. I must see him."
The woman bobbed her head. "You are Mrs. Amanda Clayton?"
"Yes, his wife."
"One moment, please."
The door closed once more, and Amanda waited impatiently until the door opened again.
The woman, who was in street dress, not uniform, took Amanda lightly by the arm and turned her away, moving her down the hall.
"But I want to see him," Amanda protested.
"Not yet," said the woman. "I am Dr. Kleinberg's nurse, Esther Levinson, and I will explain. We will go to the visitors' room where we can talk."
"How is he?" Amanda demanded to know.
"Better, better."
Inside the shaded waiting room, Esther pushed Amanda toward the sofa, and sat down beside her.
"Why can't I see him?" Amanda insisted.
"Because the doctor is with him," said Esther. "You have apparently been outside the city—"
"Yes, but if I'd known—"
"Never mind. Allow me to give you the sequence. When Mr. Clayton felt so ill before noon, he summoned the hotel reception to get him help. The reception telephoned Dr. Berryer at the Medical Bureau, and he said that there was a sarcoma specialist in Lourdes from Paris, my employer, Dr. Paul Kleinberg. Since Dr. Kleinberg had gone to the airport to pick up a colleague, and to pick me up as well, he could not be reached. So Dr. Berryer located a resident physician in Lourdes, Dr. Escaloma, who is with Mr. Clayton right now. As for Dr. Kleinberg, after he picked us up at the airport, he dropped me at our hotel, and went off—I do not know where—to sit and confer with his colleague. In the meantime, in our hotel, I found the message for Dr. Kleinberg from Dr. Berryer. Since I had no idea where Dr. Kleinberg was, I decided to come straight to the hospital to see what was going on and to wait for Dr. Kleinberg."
"I'm so grateful," said Amanda. "But what is going on with Ken now?"
"He is being examined, and being made comfortable until Dr. Kleinberg gets the message and comes here." Esther cocked her head, studying Amanda, and said, "I can be frank with you, can I not?"
"Please tell me what you can."
"There is only one thing to tell you, but you must already know it. I have seen so many of these cases, and I know Mr. Clayton's one hope is to have surgery. I am sure Dr. Kleinberg will confirm the necessity. But I am afraid Dr. Kleinberg will get no further than I did when I discussed the matter with your husband. He refused."
"He still won't consider surgery?"
"Unfortunately, he will not consider it. He is putting his life entirely in the hands of the Virgin Mary and her curative powers. But— forgive me if you are a believer—"
"Just the opposite."
" -- but the Virgin Mary is not the specialist I would depend upon in a case as—as grave as this one."
"I agree," said Amanda. "I've been working every day to get Ken back to Chicago and on the operating table. I haven't been able to convince him." She touched the manila envelope on her lap, about to speak of it but decided against it. "Now I think I have the means of
convincing him to submit to surgery immediately. That's why I want to see him this minute."
"Mrs. Clayton, you cannot see him this minute nor for a while. When I stepped out, Mr. Clayton was being sedated. By now he'll be fast asleep."
"When will he wake up so I can speak to him?"
"Not for a couple of hours, at least, that is my guess."
'Then I'll stay right here and wait. I want to be here when he awakens."
Esther came to her feet. "Stay if you wish. I'll let you know when Mr. Clayton is awake."
Once alone, Amanda settled back on the sofa and lightly tapped the copy of Bernadette's journal on her lap. It made her feel safer. In her mind's eye she saw Ken post-surgery, restored to health and vigor, she saw the two of them at their wedding, she saw them on their honeymoon in Papeete, and she saw them a few years later with their first child, their son.
Amanda closed her eyes to shut out all else except the sweetness of what her mind's eye sought. She tried to open her eyes, but the lids were heavy, and drooped, and she closed them again. Her body, enveloped by fatigue, gradually relaxed and soon she dozed off.
How long she slept on the waiting room sofa, she did not know, but a gentle hand on her shoulder finally wakened her.
She squinted up at the nurse, the one named Esther, who was standing over her with a smile. Amanda looked around. The lamps in the room were on, and through the shutters she could see that it was night outside.
A sudden awareness of what had happened and where she was roused Amanda to full wakefulness. She sat erect.
"What time is it?"
"After eleven, going on midnight."
"Can I see Ken now?"
"No, not tonight. He will sleep through the night. Dr. Kleinberg was here after dinner and looked in on him. Dr. Kleinberg says Mr. Qayton must rest—the best thing for him—and must not be disturbed tonight. Dr. Kleinberg will return in the morning. Then Mr. Clayton will be awake, and you will be permitted to see him. Right now I thought you should be notified and you should return to your hotel and get a good night's rest yourself."
"Yes, I guess there's no choice." Amanda struggled to her feet. "How early can I see Ken?"
"I'm sure nine-thirty in the morning will be fine. By then Dr. Kleinberg will have examined him."
"I'll be here before then. Thanks for everything."
After departing the hospital, and once inside her rented car again, Amanda realized that she still had the manila envelope containing the photocopy of Bernadette's journal in hand. But since Ken would not be able to read it until morning, she decided to bring Ken one of the other copies in their hotel room and turn this one over to Liz Finch as soon as possible. It would give Liz the story of her lifetime, and Liz deserved the break.
Instead of going directly to the hotel, Amanda detoured toward the press tent and parked her car close to the domain. The streets of Lourdes were virtually abandoned at this hour. Amanda walked toward the press tent, carrying her manila envelope, reached the entrance of the tent, and went inside.
The interior was brightly illuminated, and only three correspondents could be seen at work. Liz Finch's desk was unoccupied. By this time, Liz was certainly asleep, so Amanda decided to leave her gift on Liz's desk top with a brief note to her.
Going to the desk, Amanda sat in the swivel chair, found a red pencil and printed boldly on the manila envelope:
FOR LIZ FINCH, API. PERSONAL AND VERY IMPORTANT
Then Amanda took up a piece of scratch paper and scribbled out a hasty note:
Liz dear,
I hit pay dirt in Bartris. Here is a copy of
Bernadette's journal I acquired — the part the church didn 't see. Read iL This should give you the scoop of the year. But don't do anything about it until we talk. I'll let you know all the details. Ken's in the hospital I'm seeing him at nine-thirty. Should be able to meet you at the hotel around eleven.
Ever, Amanda.
Rereading her note, Amanda had second thoughts about leaving it open on Liz's desk. Other reporters who shared or passed Liz's desk might be tempted to read—and possibly confiscate—the journal. Wondering where Liz received her private mail, Amanda gave the interior of the press tent more careful scrutiny. Then she saw against a side wall
what she had overlooked upon entering. There were rows of what resembled tiers of safe deposit boxes—several hundred of them—and, at one end, in front of them, a plump middle-aged female in the garb of a security guard, sitting at a sturdy table, reading a book.
Hastily folding the note that she had written, Amanda placed it inside the manila envelope. Then staggering to her feet, she approached the security guard.
"Pardon me, madame," said Amanda, "but where does one leave private mail for the reporters? In those deposit boxes?"
"Yes, every accredited reporter has a locked box with his own key."
"Good. Well, I'd like to leave something personal for the American reporter Liz Finch."
"If you give it to me, I can take care of it."
The security woman appeared bland and trustworthy, but having come this far with her precious find, Amanda was taking no chances. "If you don't mind, I'd prefer to leave it in her box myself."
"As you wish." The woman had pulled out a middle drawer beneath the table and was consulting some kind of cardboard directory. "Liz Finch. Box 126." Taking out a ring of keys, the woman got up and led Amanda past the rows of safe deposit boxes. The woman halted before a stack of tiers, inserted her key in a metal box at shoulder height, and opened it. "You can put your envelope in here. It will be absolutely private."
Inside the deposit box Amanda could see some other envelopes, Dentyne gum, several packs of cigarettes, and a tin of Altoid mints. Smiling to herself, Amanda pushed her valuable manila envelope into the box.
The woman closed the box and made a show of carefully locking it. 'There you are. Now you can be sure Miss Finch alone will have it."
"I thank you very, very much," said Amanda.
Relieved, Amanda watched the woman return to her table. Pleased at having given her friend a scoop, she stretched her aching muscles, became aware once more of her exhaustion, and then slowly she headed for her car and the hotel, smd a night of sound sleep which would reinforce her for what the morning would bring.
At eleven thirty-two that night, having quietly left the bed, feeling reassured that Natale would not awaken but sleep the night through, Nfikel Hurtado slowly dressed and then searched for the keys to the European Ford he had rented. With a last backward glance at Natale's reposeful body, and a stab of regret at their enforced parting, he slipped
out of the room, locked the door, and started for the elevator and his rendezvous with Basque destiny.
Outside the Hotel Gallia & Londres, Hurtado turned right on the Avenue Bernadette Soubirous. Tension within him mounted as he approached the comer. He had gone to the comer twice in the past three days, and the Lourdes police had maintained their patrol of the ramp entrance to the domain below. This had not disconcerted Hurtado, because he had been alerted to expect them by Yvonne, the receptionist. Her girl friend, who slept with Pohce Inspector Fontaine, had told Yvonne that the pohce would be continuing their watch through Friday, but would end the surveillance no later than tonight.
For the past three days, Hurtado realized, he might have been out of his skull with worry and restlessness had it not been for Natale. Her very presence morning, afternoon, and night for seventy-two hours had distracted and soothed him. He had never met a young woman like her. Despite her handicap, she had been unfailingly cheerful and fim. Witty and teasing as they woke each morning and began to make love. Passionate and intense in her coupling. Serious and devout at the grotto every late morning and mid-afternoon. Fascinating and philosophical in her conversations at lunch and dinner. A totally sensual female in their evening lovemaking. Hurtado had never experienced such an abihty to give wholly of the flesh from a member of the opposite sex. Natale was a wonder, a unique being, and the perfection of her beauty from forehead to toes was breathtaking. And after they had soared to a climax together just two hours ago, and after she had fallen asleep, he was hesitant for the first time about completing his mission.
In bed beside her, he had reflected on what lay ahead. To begin with, the guilt he would experience for obliterating the grotto before the last day of the Virgin Mary's reappearance, a day, he knew, during which Natale planned a marathon session to reach the only one she believed might possibly take pity on her. Natale would leave without the mystical final day in which to offer up prayer, without the grotto to kneel before, and without the young man with whom she'd fallen in love. She would return to Rome, crushed and alone.
For himself, he would be many kilometers away, hiding with fellow Basques in a village in France, awaiting the day when the French pohce would cease their hunt for the most blasphemous terrorist of all time, and for the inspections at the frontier to Spain, in Hendaye, to be eased. Then he would creep back into Spain, and build force and pressure against Minister Bueno and the Spanish government, and he would be able to join the jubilant crowds in the streets of San Sebastian when Basque Spain became the independent nation of Euskadi. Only then—
how long? how many years?—might he be able to set out on a lone pilgrimage to Rome, to seek and hopefully to find an older Natale. Perhaps in her disillusionment and anger she would reject him.
Lying there in bed with those thoughts, he'd had his second thoughts, considered abandoning this violent mission and praying with Natale and for her on the last day, and if nothing changed for her (and he knew that it wouldn't), accompanying her back to Rome. There he could resume his career as a writer—an author could write anywhere— and he could be with her and care for her through the rest of their lives. Let others, someday, try to free Euskadi.
But then these second thoughts seemed like real heresy, a mockery of his faith in the cause. Others were not as capable as he in the underground fight. Not even Lopez, the onetime master organizer and planner, showed persistent strength. Growing old, Lopez had been weakening, ready to compromise with that monster in Madrid. No, it was Hurtado himself who was the most qualified and needed. He could not be a traitor to the thousands of oppressed and to the memory of his dearly beloved father.
The second thoughts prevailed over selfish sentiment. He was here to bring down the obstruction to Basque freedom. Tonight was the night he would blow it to smithereens.
He hoped.
Almost at the comer, his heart and stride quickened, and although no praying man himself, he now offered a prayer to a God Unknown that Yvonne's gossip had been accurate and that the French police guards had been removed.
He was at the comer, teetering on the curb, and what he saw made him want to jump with joy. The avenue was devoid of life, no police in view anywhere, and the ramp leading down to the domain wide open.
Half-running, he was across the avenue to the top of the ramp. He peered down the paving to the bottom and the heart of the domain area. He descended fast, his confidence growing. At the foot of the ramp, on level ground, he peered out across the Rosary Esplanade to the other side, carefully searching as far as he could see for a sign of the lone security guard whom he'd observed on patrol in the late hours of the night. But even this one guard was nowhere in sight.
Trying to contain his jubilation, Hurtado swung off" to his left, passing the Rosary Basilica, and circled the towering Upper Basilica which looked down on it, striding rapidly toward the grotto.
It was there, that holy hole in the mountain, seeming eerie in the light of flickering candles which also caught the
image of the Virgin
Mary, the long-worshipped statue of the white-clad Virgin in the niche high above.
The niche was his target. When it was blown to smithereens, a large portion of the mountainside would come down, joining the rubble of the grotto itself.
One last time Hurtado pivoted, cautiously looking around, looking for any obstacle or potential threat. The interior of the grotto was empty. The chairs and benches empty. The area where spigots provided water from the spring and the bathhouses beyond were empty.
The long wait was over. The high moment had come.
Without another instant's hesitation, Hurtado started toward the steep rise, covered with grass, bushes, yellow buddleia shrubs, small magnolia trees, and tall oak trees, that rose sharply next to the narrow barren rock that was the grotto's surround. Hurtado was off the groimd, and onto the rise, firmly planting each foot into the grassy turf as he climbed.
Going higher and higher, he was soon able to support himself by grabbing evergreen branches and the trunks of trees in the thickening forest. His breath was short now, but not from lack of stamina. He had the conditioning of an athlete. What affected his breathing was his anticipation and mounting excitement mingled with a hunter's tension.
He was at the large trees and counting off to locate the right one, and at one of the largest, he was sure he would find his treasure. He scrambled up and around the tree, tugging the pocket flashlight from his jacket, and pointing the circle of yellow light at the entwining foliage at his feet.
Then he spotted it, the depression, with the leafy camouflage he had prepared three days ago to cover and hide it. He dropped to his knees, placing the flashlight at the edge of the depression so its beam could guide him, and with bare hands he began to gather up the leaves and branches and cast them aside. The debris was moist from the night air, but this made it easier to scoop up and cast away.
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