The Almighty

by Irving Wallace

  Cooper squinted at his watch, lifted his head to encompass the others, and dipped his head toward the staircase. "All right," he ordered.

  As if on signal, the six of them whipped out their grotesque colored woolen ski masks and pulled them over their heads. Quiggs had already extracted his Koch submachine gun from one of the shopping bags he was carrying. Hurrying down the staircase, each of the others tugged free his loaded Spanish Magnum handgun. They hit the floor of the courtyard almost in concert. They spun left and dashed across the court to the actual entrance to the underground museum.

  In the lead, Cooper could see the personnel he had expected—at the open metal doorway, inside the entrance, two museum employees, one a ticket taker wearing an ordinary suit, the other an elderly guard in some semblance of a uniform, wearing a drooping gun holster. Not far behind them, seated next to a souvenir stand of booklets and tapes, a beardless clerk sat reading a paperback.

  Cooper's sudden appearance in the frightening slit-eyed mask, brandishing a gleaming handgun, startled all three members of the museum personnel into temporary paralysis. Cooper burst inside, and the other five masked figures streamed in after him. As Shields came abreast of him, Cooper reminded him, "The alarm you located yesterday—probably off, but make sure it's fully disengaged."

  The ticket taker had his hands up, and so did the souvenir clerk. The only one who tried to resist, the elderly entrance guard, slid one trembling hand to his holster. Cooper took a rapid step forward, lashed him on the head with his gun. The old man groaned, began to crumple. Cooper caught him, jerked free the guard's gun, and let the limp body fall to the floor. Quiggs, having set aside the submachine gun and shopping bags, was in back of the ticket taker, bringing his arms down. Tying his wrists behind him with a thin hemp rope removed from the pocket of his suit coat, Quiggs shoved the man to the floor, then dipped into his own pocket again for a wadded-up handkerchief and stuffed it in the ticket taker's mouth. At the same time Cooper was binding the wrists of the unconscious guard and gagging him. Overly was doing the same with the souvenir clerk.

  Swiftly Cooper leaped to his feet. Gesturing for Quiggs to remain at the entrance, he snatched up the shopping bags, passed one to Overly, passed the others out to Lafair, De Salvo, Shields as they ran into the museum tunnel. Overly followed them and Cooper brought up the rear.

  On the run, they scurried through the crushed-basalt tunnel between the illuminated display cases holding the Bar Kokhba and Masada documents. As they approached the ascent to the main circular museum room, a squat uniformed museum guard materialized. Cooper sprinted ahead, gun high, and saw that this guard was unarmed and already had his hands up. Cooper gestured for his cohorts to bind and gag the second guard.

  As they did so, Cooper quickly circled inside the exhibit room to see if it was otherwise occupied. Hidden by the central pedestal, a short couple, apparently man and wife in their sixties and apparently both partially deaf from the hearing aids in evidence, were peering intently into a showcase bearing the brown Habakkuk Commentary scroll. Cooper was upon them with his gun before they knew it. They were too bewildered to resist, and Cooper hastily herded them, stumbling, to the others, where they were tied and gagged and ordered to lie down beside the prone guard.

  Without the loss of a second, members of the gang fanned out around the room, each inserting his key into a preassigned display case. Five glass lids went up, the genuine fragile Dead Sea scrolls, sheets of ancient leather, some sewn with threads of flax, were drawn out and stuffed into the shopping bags, several scrolls coming apart. Five more glass lids went up. More scrolls were dropped into the shopping bags.

  The heist was over.

  At the entrance to the Israel Museum and The Shrine of the Book, Prime Minister Salmon of Israel, with Egyptian Ambassador Nahas beside him, had quickly left the limousine and escort at the curb, had ignored the public entrance and led his guest through the open gate next to it.

  Despite his seventy-two years, the prime minister was striding across the pebbled concrete walk as rapidly as an athlete, fast enough to force the Egyptian ambassador to gasp for air and the three younger bodyguards, two mustached Israeli ones and the ambassador's clean-shaven Egyptian one, to break into a trot to keep up with him.

  The prime minister was late, very late. A politician who always took pride in his promptness, he considered tardiness an unforgivable sin. But the last-minute meeting with Ambassador Nahas had gone on longer than he had expected. Salmon had been painfully aware that his entourage, the consultants, aides, ministers accompanying him to the Cairo meeting, were already on the plane awaiting his arrival.

  Still, this further delay was necessary. Leaving the Knesset, he had promised the Egyptian ambassador a brief glimpse of the Dead Sea scrolls museum. For Salmon, it was a matter of pride. His father, as much as any man, had been responsible for the museum's holdings. The new ambassador had not yet seen them, and Salmon was eager and proud to show them off.

  The prime minister slowed down slightly. "You know the story of the discovery of the scrolls?"

  "Yes, I had read about it," Ambassador Nahas puffed.

  "My father, Yitzhak, was one of the main people responsible for their acquisition. On the eve of the United Nations vote to partition Palestine, and the outbreak of fighting, my father accompanied Professor Eliezer Sukenik, the Hebrew University archaeologist, from Jerusalem to Bethlehem where a dealer had the recently discovered scrolls. Very dangerous, very dangerous. But the trip was made safely and the ancient parchments purchased, and now they reside here for all the world to see. Nearly two thousand years old, those scrolls!"

  Salmon pointed to one aide.

  "Let's take a shortcut, go into the museum by the back way. It'll save time, give us a few minutes extra to view the treasures. Then we'll be off, fast as we can, for the airport and Cairo."

  Inside the Dead Sea scrolls museum, Cooper had run to the tunnel opening and whistled loudly three times. He waited, heard Quiggs whistle back three times and was satisfied. The signal for all to depart. He waited again, saw Quiggs and his submachine gun coming toward him swiftly. When Quiggs joined him, Cooper whirled, shouting to the others for the benefit of his bound victims, "Carlos says let's get out of here!"

  He and Quiggs and their colleagues, with their filled bags, were rushing across the room to the doorway leading into the rear corridor when suddenly, unexpectedly, the doorway was filled with men, strangers—one, two, three, four, five of them entering the museum, two in mufti, three in uniforms and armed. Cooper saw the startled looks on their faces and 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 to
o 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 Laf air.

  "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 bookiess 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 event, 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 long-distance 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 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—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. "I 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 a 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."

  Armsteadstood 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."