"I'll have the same," said Pagano.
"I'll have the vanilla custard cream," said Jacklin, handing back the menu.
"Krem Karamel Vanilyah," said the captain, as he wrote. "You are sure you do not wish something to start with?"
"Nothing," said Jacklin.
They waited for the captain to go. Once he was out of sight, Armstead addressed himself to Jacklin quietly. "I assume by now you know what this is all about?"
Jacklin dipped his head. "I have a good idea, from the note Carlos wrote and from your friend here."
"Can you do it?"
"We've done nearly everything, at some time or other. Not exactly one like this, but others, more dangerous. This one is a little unusual."
The muscles in Armstead's features went rigid. "I am not asking your judgment. I am asking if you can do it?"
Jacklin's expression was bland. "We want Carlos back."
"You'll do it," said Armstead.
"We have to," said Jacklin. "Yes, I have talked to the others in Paris. They 'have agreed. We can do everything you want. Not simple, but it can be done. Fortunately, the key person required is available to us in Japan, through the Japanese Red Army. He will join us, if the price is acceptable."
"The price is Carlos."
"For us, yes. But for the key person in Japan, no. He has no interest in Carlos. He needs a guaranteed sum of money separately for his own purposes. Perhaps one million American dollars. I cannot say precisely. But he will cooperate if the price he requests is met. We must have him to make the operation work."
Armstead did not give it a second thought. "I'll see that the price is right."
They all fell mute as a waiter rolled up the table containing their quickly prepared lunch orders. He passed out the dishes.
When the waiter had retreated and they were alone, Armstead poked his fork at his eggs, but he was too anxious to be hungry.
Jacklin resumed. "The one in Japan will require a few days of special training."
"No problem about that?" said Armstead.
"None. The day before the operation, he will be brought from Tokyo to join us. Actually, to join you. He will insist on meeting you first, seeing evidence that his payment is on deposit in his wife's name. You can meet him anywhere."
"At his point of departure from the United States," said Armstead hastily.
Jacklin spooned his custard. "Very well."
Armstead continued. "My friend here—" He indicated Pagano. "—he will arrange everything with you in Paris. He is going back to Paris today."
"I will be there tomorrow," said Jacklin. "Mr. Pagano has the means to reach us by phone." Jacklin's gaze fixed on Armstead. "No change in schedule?"
"Still one week from today," said Armstead. "The timing will have to be perfect."
"It will be perfect," Jacklin stated, eyes holding on Armstead. "With the operation concluded, the ransom will have been paid. Then, Carlos. When do we get back Carlos?"
Armstead nodded. "Within an hour after I have verified the result, your Paris contact shall receive a call from Mr. Pagano. He will tell you Carlos is free and where you can pick him up." Armstead spoke the next words with deliberation. "You do your part. We'll do our part."
A ghost of a smile crept across Jacklin's face. "Terrorism depends on trust," he said softly, "even when we terrorize each other."
In the main editorial office of the Paris bureau of the New York Record, Victoria carried four distended manila folders of still photographs from the picture file cabinets and set them down on the metal reading table in the center of the room.
She sat down to confront a picture of the man she sought, and there was an unbelievable relief in getting off her feet.
This was the middle of the afternoon of the fourth day since Victoria had witnessed the abduction of a member of the Carlos gang—possibly Carlos himself—by strangers, who had whisked the victim off to a hideout on the Left Bank. She had been fortunate in being able to follow the abductors to the Rue Jacob. She had been unfortunate in missing a chance to follow two of them, a driver and a passenger, who had left the hideout on the Rue Jacob that first day.
Since that time, Victoria had been relentless in her vigilance. For three days, except for the briefest periods to munch a croissant or a sandwich or visit a hotel bathroom, and to catch six hours of sleep after each midnight, she had maintained her station at the corner of the Rue de Seine and the Rue Jacob. This morning and early afternoon had been her fourth day at the fatiguing game. She had not been sure what she was on the lookout for—actually, she supposed, it was to see someone emerge from the hideout, someone she could follow and later describe. But her purpose had changed. Her original intent at the Rue Martel, based on Nick's clue, had been to hope for some kind of link between the exclusive stories that had appeared in the Record and the Carlos gang. Some sight of Carlos himself, or of an informant who might be followed. Instead, she had been treated to an actual kidnapping, the snatching of someone leaving Carlos's hideout, by a set of strangers. After that, her intent had shifted to learning the identity of the strangers and the man they had abducted. This might lead her, she believed, to the most sensational news story of the year, reported by herself, and never mind who had reported the previous terrorist acts.
But in her four-day vigil at the Rue Jacob, not one other person had emerged from that driveway beside the bookstore, not one. Perhaps, she wondered, they had only come out at night, when she was asleep on the Right Bank. Yet they had to sleep, too, and probably slept when she slept. By early this afternoon, the vigil had become too difficult. Passing police, on routine rounds, and proprietors in neighborhood shops had undoubtedly begun to eye her with suspicion. The same young woman, always hanging around. To them she must have looked like a hooker, or an advance scout for thieves. The discomfort created by familiarity and, worse, the sheer exhaustion of constantly standing there, moving around on her feet there, had begun to take a toll on her calves and thighs, her spine and neck, and early this afternoon she had begun to feel faint.
She had just about given up, considered quitting, when she realized there was something more useful she might be doing.
In all this time, from the Rue Martel to the Rue Jacob, she had seen only one individual clearly. The person who had emerged from the Carlos hideout and been kidnapped. This was a person she believed she could recognize if she saw him again, recognize and possibly identify. This might tell her whether the victim had been Carlos himself or a lesser member of the gang. Photographs of Carlos did exist. She had fleetingly seen some in Nick's possession. She might find out exactly whom she had seen abducted if she sought out pictures of Carlos.
With this thought as a fresh motive, she had reason to quit her unproductive vigil at the Rue Jacob at last, and she had got into her Renault and driven to the Right Bank and to the offices of her paper's Paris bureau.
Now, from the bureau's photographic archives, she had four files of still pictures taken of terrorists and their victims.
She brought the first folder down from the pile, and slowly started to turn over the eight-by-ten glossies, one by one.
There they were, the rogues' gallery of violence worldwide. Italian underground revolutionary Feltrinelli, scholarly glasses and weak chin. PFLP leader George Habash, more menacing and formidable. The corpse of Aldo Moro. The Olympic Village room riddled with bullet holes. West German terrorist Gabriele Kroecher-Tiedemann. Hassan Salameh of Black September. Professor Antonio Negri of the Red Brigades. Libya's infamous Colonel Qaddafi.
On and on. One folder, two folders, no familiar face.
The third folder. Pay dirt.
Ilich Ramirez Sanchez.
Otherwise known as, and captioned, Carlos.
There were four photographs of him. A pudgy round face. A nice friendly face. The hanger-on at cocktail parties. The busboy. The exchange student. But no killer. And not the face of the man she had seen abducted in the Rue Martel.
A fifth photograph, and t
his one she recognized.
Dark hair, bushy eyebrows, wide nose, thick lips—hollowed cheeks, no pudginess, thinner, harder—and this one, too, was captioned Carlos, the most recent photograph of Carlos.
This was the one in the oversized plaid topcoat who had emerged from No. 10 Rue Martel. This was the one who had been kidnapped by strangers. This was the one being held captive in Rue Jacob.
No question.
Victoria heard a footstep, half-turned in her chair to find Sid Lukas peering over her shoulder.
"What are you up to, Vicky?" he inquired. "Can I be of any help?"
"Just going through your photo files on terrorists."
"I see you found Carlos."
"Yes. Have you ever seen him?"
Lukas emitted a short laugh. "If I had, the whole world would have known about it."
Victoria avoided his eyes, considering how far she might go.
"Sid, what—what if you ever got a lead on him—some information—?"
"On Carlos?"
"Like where he might be hiding. Something like that."
Lukas grunted. "That would be the day."
"What would you do?"
"It's just never going to happen."
"But if it did?" persisted Victoria.
"Why, I'd go straight to the French Sûreté, of course."
"You would?"
Sid Lukas hesitated, furrowing his brow, considering the idea.
"Well—given Armstead's predilection for exclusives, I might notify him first. I suppose I would." He shrugged. "But why daydream? Anyway, what are you up to? Still messing with the old terrorist series? Because if I can be of any help—"
Victoria came to her feet, invigorated. She pecked a kiss at Lukas. "You already have been, Sid. Thanks." She hastily began to gather together the pictures and files, and shoved them at the bewildered bureau chief. "Many thanks."
She knew what to do next.
In the Plaza Athénée bedroom, Victoria, having kicked off her shoes, stood on the carpet in her stocking feet with the telephone receiver clutched between her ear and shoulder, waiting for the connection.
She heard Harry Dietz answer.
"Oh, Mr. Dietz hello. Victoria Weston in Paris. Actually, I was trying to get through to Mr. Armstead."
"I know," said Dietz. "He's not available. He's been out of the city, just returned, and is probably still resting. I thought I could take your call and pass on anything."
"You can," Victoria said. "It's tremendous news, and for once I wanted to be the one to get the scoop." She caught her breath. "Carlos," she blurted, "I saw Carlos kidnapped!"
Dietz's voice was distant. "The terrorist leader?"
"I located his new hideout. I saw him come out of it. I saw him abducted. I saw where they took him, where they have him."
"Who took him—who has him—?"
"I don't know yet. Strangers. Another gang. They're holding him now. Nobody knows about it outside, except us. It's a tremendous story right now. Let's break it before the police find out."
"You're right—" Dietz's voice trailed off, then came on again waveringly. "But wait. Hold it, Vicky. You haven't told anyone about this, have you?"
"Of course not."
"Don't. I want to get this to Mr. Armstead first—before we go any further—he may have some ideas—"
"About what?" Victoria said impatiently.
"Well," Dietz hedged, "there just might be more—"
Victoria understood. "You mean about who has Carlos, who's holding him? I've tried to find out. I can keep trying."
"Something like that. Let me pass this on to Mr. Armstead and see what he advises. Yes, you're right, it is a hot story. But let's sit on it until I contact Mr. Armstead. You hang up, and stay where you are. I'll be in touch with you again in a few minutes."
Dietz knew that he had awakened Armstead from the moment he had heard his chief's voice. But Dietz also knew that what he had to tell Armstead was of vital importance, and that Armstead would not mind.
The call had been to Armstead's private line in his extremely private and locked-off study inside his Fifth Avenue penthouse. He had been sleeping and working there alone since inheriting the newspaper, not only to avoid the annoyance of Hannah, his wife, but to keep what he was doing away from her prying eyes. Normally Armstead would have been up at this hour, and readying himself for the office, but yesterday morning and this morning he had been sleeping later to recover from the Turkey trip and jet lag.
"What is it?" Armstead said fuzzily.
"You awake, Ed?" Dietz inquired, to give him more time. "I wouldn't have bothered you, Chief, but it's important."
"I'm awake. What's up?"
"I had a call from Paris just now, from our girl there, Victoria Weston. She was quite excited. Thinks she's onto a tremendous story." Dietz paused. "She claims to have seen Carlos kidnapped."
Dietz let the thunderbolt strike. He knew it would be a thunderbolt.
"What?" exclaimed Armstead. "How could she have?"
"I don't know," Dietz hastened to say. "I didn't want to push her yet. But she saw the kidnapping."
"Does she know who did it?" Armstead asked quickly.
"No. Strangers, she said."
"You're sure?"
"She didn't know, Chief. If she'd known anything about Cooper, or Cooper and us, she wouldn't have called."
"You're right," Armstead agreed. "She knows it happened—but doesn't know who did it."
"Exactly. She wants us to blast the story wide open. I stalled. I told her I thought I should consult you first—uh, that you might want her to find out more before we broke the story. She offered to stay on and keep an eye on the hideout and find out who was holding Carlos."
"Nosy bitch," muttered Armstead. "She could cause real trouble, throw a monkey wrench into our whole operation."
"That's what has me worried. I persuaded her to stand by until I contacted you. I promised to call her right back. What do you want me to tell her, Chief?"
Armstead's answer was immediate. "Tell her to come home."
"What about Carlos?"
"Tell her we'll have someone in Paris keep an eye on the hideout. Promise her she'll have the story as her own by-line exclusive. But get her back here to New York. Tell her I want to see her personally, hear firsthand what she's seen." He was briefly silent. "After that, I'll decide what to do with her."
"I wouldn't want her to become suspicious."
"Don't worry, Harry. Leave her to me."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The instant the bell over the entrance door to Dr. Scharf's reception room tinkled, indicating the arrival of the next patient, Edward Armstead gripped the arms of his worn armchair and hoisted himself to his feet. "Guess my time's up," he muttered, with a show of irritation.
Dr. Carl Scharf, partially slumped in the armchair opposite, fingers intertwined across his bulging belly, feet propped on the ottoman, remained unperturbed. He made no effort to rise. "Why don't you let me tell you when your time's up?" said Scharf for what must have been the hundredth time. "We were still talking—"
He watched Armstead stride to the couch to retrieve his overcoat, and he knew it was no use. Most patients usually reacted this way when the bell reminded them of the end of their fifty-minute hour, especially the more dependent patients, and Armstead was no exception. Dr. Scharf gave an inner sigh. There was no way to change this resentment. Patients became emotionally involved with their analysts. They gradually accepted their psychiatrist as friend and confidant, and were always resentful when reminded that they were being followed by other patients, that they were paying for this involvement, that these sessions were after all a business, and their analyst a businessman (or, at least, someone who treated them with concern for love—and money). However, Armstead had been more difficult than most patients, especially lately, with his reinforced ego that showed signs of insufferable arrogance. Armstead had originally come to him wanting love, and now seemed to demand it
as his special prerogative, his right and his privilege.
Dr. Scharf wasted no more time in rising to his feet.
He joined his patient as Armstead finished buttoning his coat. Scharf wanted to soothe him. "Well, I'm certainly glad you'll be going to the White House to dine with the President," said Scharf. "Quite an honor. But you've earned it. I'll be seeing you right afterward. I want to hear about everything that happens."
"I'm not going," said Armstead brusquely. "I'm too busy for that nonsense." Noting the analyst's surprise, as they started for the exit door to the corridor Armstead added, "What the hell, Presidents come and go. Breaking bread with one of them really doesn't mean that much. My work is more important." He waited for Dr. Scharf to open the door for him. With an abrupt nod Armstead said, "Take it easy," and left.
Dr. Scharf had meant to say, "And you'd better take it easy, too," but had not said it.
He closed his office door and leaned against it, thinking.
He was worried about Edward Armstead. In this session, in the last, in the one before, more and more Armstead was beginning to show signs of megalomania. He was definitely in a hypomanic state right now, with a real psychotic-manic condition impending, an ultimate state that might seriously impair any balanced judgment he had in relation to others.
Dr. Scharf walked slowly back to his armchair, reviewing his patient's symptoms. There had been subtle indications for weeks, when Armstead revealed his behavior toward his wife, son, mistress, employees, of his hypomanic state. Armstead had been more frequently irritable, showing no consideration for others, only for his own satisfaction, showing the possibilities of cruelty and violence in his growing omniscience. This last remark, no time for the President of the United States, revealing a belief that he was more important than the Chief Executive, seemed to cap it all. Armstead had become, in his own eyes, omnipotent. Dr. Scharf tried to trace at what point, after the death of Armstead'sfather, he had seen it happening. Well before the Time magazine cover. Somewhere along the way, during Armstead's meteoric journalistic rise with all those exclusive stories, certainly by the time he had been the first to tell the world that the prime minister of Israel had been murdered.
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