For some unaccountable reason, Armstead was beginning to feel stimulated. "You tell me what you want. They shouldn't be hard to find."
"We'll give Mr. Pagano a detailed list of what we need, as well as information on how and where we'll take delivery."
Armstead tried to think of where to turn for weapons, and Nick Ramsey over in Paris came into his mind. Surely Ramsey would know where to turn, or be able to find out.
"Is that all?" asked Armstead.
"Not quite," said Cooper. "Normally we could handle what comes next ourselves. But the shortage of time involved makes it clear we will require some help. I refer to two items. One is reconnaissance. We must know the king's schedule in San Sebastián, so that we can study it and assess his vulnerability. We must also know the degree of his security during the visit. Every detail will be useful. Can you give us a hand on this?"
"I can," promised Armstead.
"One final matter. The five-million-dollar payment to us. We must have half of it in advance."
"It will be done. Pagano will deliver the information on the king of Spain's schedule, his protection, and he will deliver half your payment. Be sure to tell him where to contact you. I will tell him where to contact me. Is that it? Are you ready to go?"
Cooper gave a tic of a smile. "We're ready to go."
Armstead stood up. "Let's consider ourselves in business."
When Victoria let herself into the Plaza Athénée suite, after a full afternoon of rummaging through the reference files of the International Herald Tribune at their offices in Neuily, she realized that Ramsey was already there speaking to someone.
In the sitting room she found him on the telephone. He cupped his palm over the mouthpiece and handed her a written message.
"He's in London," Ramsey said.
"Who?" Then she saw that the phone message was from Edward Armstead, who had called and missed them earlier this afternoon. "Armstead at the Ritz," she said. "What's he doing in London?"
"I've a call in to him," said Ramsey. "We should know any second."
In a few seconds Armstead's gruff voice came on. "Hello."
"Mr. Armstead? This is Nick Ramsey in Paris. We just came in—"
"I was wondering when you'd return my call."
"We were both out doing some research on other groups."
"Never mind," said Armstead. "I had to fly over here to London on some business. Getting away from the office gave me a little time to think. I've been giving some thought to your terrorist series. One thought has come to mind particularly. I keep wondering where they get their arms."
"From nations, big and small, through go-betweens," said Ramsey.
"You mean, the United States sells weapons to terrorists?"
"Not exactly. But as a matter of fact, the United States is the biggest arms dealer in the world, followed by the Soviet Union, France, Great Britain, Italy, and West Germany. Of course, there is government arms control in those countries, and most of their export is in heavy weapons—airplanes, tanks, so forth. Terrorists are usually interested in smaller weapons."
"How do terrorists get weapons from us or the Soviet Union?"
"Not directly, of course," said Ramsey. "A big nation will sell weapons to Libya, Ethiopia, Belgium, Liechtenstein. They, in turn, may resell the arms to terrorist groups. I'd say most weapons arrive in the hands of terrorists that way."
"Hold on there, Nick. You say most weapons get to terrorists that way, through countries. How do other weapons get to terrorists?"
"Through individuals or private arms dealers. The legendary merchants of death."
"Individuals are in this business?" asked Armstead.
"Yes, there are any number around."
"I'd like to meet one, interview him," said Armstead. "For our series."
"Oh, you don't have to bother, Mr. Armstead. Vicky and I can find one of them to interview."
"No," said Armstead firmly. "I'd like to do it myself. Talk to one of those merchants, as one businessman to another. I find the idea fascinating. Also gives me a chance to keep my hand in, keep my journalist skills from getting rusty."
Ramsey glanced at Victoria as he spoke into the telephone. "Very well. You want to interview a private arms dealer. When and where?"
"Wherever he is. When? Soon as possible. In two or three days, if you can arrange it."
"We'll have to make some inquiries, learn who the best and most available dealer is."
"Good," said Armstead. "As soon as possible. Don't tell him who I am or that this is for a newspaper. Say you're setting up an appointment for a buyer, an anonymous buyer—no, better if I have a name. Say you're representing Walter Zimberg, an American businessman."
"Walter Zimberg. Okay, Mr. Armstead. Vicky and I will get on the ball tomorrow morning. Soon as we have someone you can see, I'll call you back."
"No more calls," said Armstead, "not about this. When you've set it up, come straight over to London with the information. In the next two days. I'll wait for you at the Ritz."
"Okay, Mr. Armstead. See you in a day or two."
Hanging up, Ramsey related to Victoria everything that Arm-stead had-discussed.
"Well, I guess our next assignment is clear," said Ramsey.
"Where do we find a private arms dealer for him?" asked Victoria.
"That's not what bothers me. We'll get a lead from some of the correspondents in town or from old clips. What bothers me is—why the hustle for an interview on weapons when we haven't even got the terrorist series started yet? What's the big hurry all about?"
The big hurry did produce results. Despite his complaint, Nick Ramsey had to admit that.
By late the following evening Ramsey and Victoria Weston were in London, were in the Ritz with Edward Armstead, who was pleased with their speed.
"I've reserved two single bedrooms for you for overnight, and you can check in downstairs when we're through here," said Armstead, propping himself on the sofa with his martini in one hand. "Pour yourselves drinks."
Ramsey went to the tray atop the television set and poured himself a straight scotch. Victoria refused a drink.
Now, gathered around the coffee table, Armstead seemed almost benign. "I received the Telex that you were on your way here. I assume you found someone reliable, and you've arranged an interview for me."
"We found several big-time arms dealers," said Ramsey. "But I think Vicky has the man you really want to meet."
Victoria spoke. "Everyone agreed he's the best," said Victoria. "He's the most important in the trade since Zaharoff. He's Helmut Middendorf in Frankfurt. I spoke to him on the phone. He'll see you, Mr. Armstead. He said he'll, see you if you're serious."
"How do I prove I am serious?" asked Armstead.
Ramsey intervened. "By proving you have a Swiss bank account. All those arms merchants insist on that. You must have a Swiss bank account."
"I have one," said Armstead.
"In your name?" asked Ramsey.
"In the name of Walter Zimberg."
"The name Victoria used for you," said Ramsey. 'Perfect."
"When do I go to Frankfurt?" asked Armstead.
"You don't," said Victoria. "Mr. Middendorf went to Antibes today for his vacation. He's at the Hotel du Cap d'Antibes. He'll see you there."
"What day? What time?"
"The day after tomorrow at eleven in the morning. You go to the Mel du Cap."
"I've been there before."
"If it's a sunny day, he'll be down by the pool. He'll be pool-side, in a lounge chair to the left of the clubhouse entrance, with a bare-breasted girl on a pad beside him."
Armstead smirked. "Rich old men with young girls, breasts unsheathed, that's routine for the Hotel du Cap. A number of scenes like that on the Riviera."
Victoria looked down at the protrusion of her breasts against her blouse, and shook her head. "Anyway—" She determined to return to the business on hand. "You spot them. Mr. Middendorf described himself as a hairless—meani
ng bald—fat, middle-aged man wearing tinted glasses, blue jock trunks, and smoking a pipe. He'll probably be reading a Swiss magazine. You go directly to him. The bare-breasted girl will leave and make way for you on her pad. You settle down next to him and show him the deposit book for your Swiss bank account. After that you're on your own. Don't forget, he thinks you're a buyer."
"Good work, Victoria," said Armstead, pleased.
"One last thing. If it isn't a sunny day, if it's not poolside weather, buzz Mr. Middendorf in his suite. He'll be waiting one place or the other."
"Fine, Victoria."
"Mr. Armstead," said Ramsey, "maybe you'd like us to come to the Riviera with you. We might be of some help."
"No, thanks," said Armstead emphatically. "As a matter of fact, I have something else in mind for you and Victoria. I have a new assignment for you. I want you to go to San Sebastian, Spain, tomorrow. That's the coastal city in the Basque area."
"I lived there one summer," said Ramsey.
"All the better. In less than two weeks the king of Spain is going to be visiting San Sebastian for a day. I have a file of clippings on the table here. There's talk that the ETA—the Basque separatist movement—may go after him."
"I doubt it," said Ramsey flatly.
"Well, there could be some trouble from them," persisted Armstead.
"Never," said Ramsey. "The odds are that local security will be covering every Basque who looks suspicious. I don't think anything newsy will happen."
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, 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 hail porter and arrange for two first-class tickets on Air France tomorrow for Nice. Also, have him phone the Hôtel 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 the Eden Roe 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 oversized 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?"
"I 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 do 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, bitte."
Armstead gave him the two sheets of pape
r.
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- 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. "I 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?"
The Almighty Page 14
