"Has this room always been his private study?" asked Victoria.
"Yes, but never before locked," said Hannah, "until a few weeks before the king of Spain was kidnapped in San Sebastian, when he installed the special lock and issued the no-trespassing order."
Hannah and Victoria exchanged looks and went inside.
Victoria took in her surroundings. A handsome room with exquisite light brown paneling with neoclassical detailing, a wall of leather-hound volumes on one side, an immense television screen on a stand in a corner, an oil portrait of Napoleon Bonaparte above the huge fireplace ahead, two pastel-covered armchairs behind an oak table, a wide couch draped with a velvet coverlet, a door to a private bathroom, finally a Victorian library-table desk with an electric typewriter on a stand beside it.
Hannah pointed to the straight chair resting between the typewriter and the desk. "He's been coming in here almost every night, and he sits on that chair typing," she said. "I haven't seen him, but I know he does it and has been doing it since several weeks after he inherited his father's newspaper."
A kind of awe rooted Victoria to the spot. Her eyes were on the typewriter. "Do you suppose he's writing those terrorist stories?" she wondered.
"You want to know if I suppose my husband is Mark Bradshaw?" Hannah said. "Let's find out."
She turned around and lifted a forefinger to the wall across the study and behind the pastel armchairs. "See that?"
Victoria had missed it the first time around. It was a medium-sized painting, lightly framed, of a young boy, perhaps ten or eleven, attired in a military uniform and posing as a juvenile version of the Napoleon portrait hanging over the fireplace.
"A memento of Edward's childhood," Hannah explained. "The safe is in the wall behind it."
Victoria glanced sharply at Hannah. "The safe?" she mouthed.
"The proof," said Hannah. "If it exists, it will be in that concealed safe." She pulled a shred of paper from her dressing-gown pocket. "Here's the combination. I found it, and copied it, the only time I was inside this room before, the time with the locksmith. Take this chair. Climb up and remove the painting. You'll find the safe. I'll call the combination out to you. if there's proof, it'll be inside. It is all the help I can offer you. I wish you —not luck—I wish you truth."
Momentarily Victoria wavered. She remembered reading in high school of a New England schoolteacher who had been the first to theorize seriously that Shakespeare had not written his own plays and that final proof might be found in Shakespeare's grave in the chancel of the Holy Trinity Church in Stratford-upon-Avon. When, after years of applying to open Shakespeare's grave, the schoolteacher had been given the opportunity to do so, she was afraid to follow through. "A doubt stole into her mind," her friend Hawthorne had written, "whether she might not have mistaken the depository . . . she was afraid to hazard the shock of uplifting the stone and finding nothing." She had retreated and quit.
In these frozen seconds, Victoria was afraid to hazard the shock of finding nothing. Then the madness would be her own, not Armstead's.
"I—I don't know," whispered Victoria.
"It'll be the last chance you'll ever have," urged Hannah. "We both deserve to know the truth."
Victoria bobbed her head. She dragged the straight chair across the study to a position behind the armchairs and under the youthful painting of the publisher. She climbed up on the chair, and with ease was able to lift the framed painting off its hook and hand it down.
A miniature silver combination-lock dial, set into a blue onefoot-square metal safe door, was revealed.
"I'm ready," said Victoria to Hannah, who stood beneath her.
Hannah peered at the directions on the shred of paper. "Spin the dial three times around to the left, and the fourth time around stop at 56."
Victoria spun the dial left past zero three times, and on the fourth time stopped at 56. "Okay."
"Spin it right two times, and the third time around stop at 26." Victoria did as she was told. "Okay."
"Now turn it left once, and the second time around stop at 74.
Once more Victoria followed the instructions. "Done. Any more?"
"Turn the dial right to zero. That should do it."
Carefully, filled with doubt, Victoria moved the dial to zero.
Click. The bolt had retracted.
She pulled at the lever, and the wall safe was open.
She reached inside it, probing with her fingers, and felt a large manila envelope. She withdrew it. There was nothing else in the safe. She looked down at the brown envelope. It bore no identification, only a neat penciled date across it. Tomorrow's date.
"Only this," said Victoria, stepping down off the chair.
"What's in it?" said Hannah. "What's inside?"
Victoria pulled up the back clasp and lifted the flap of the envelope. There were three sheets inside. They were doublespaced and neatly typed.
There was a by-line.
By Mark Bradshaw.
There was a story.
Side by side, Victoria and Hannah scanned it together. After the first page, the two women stared at each other aghast.
"My God," whispered Victoria. "Hannah—"
Hannah was trembling. "I can't believe it—"
"You'd better!" a voice rasped at them from across the room.
Both women looked up, horrified, petrified at the sight of Edward Armstead inside the open door. He wore a set smile upon his face as he started into the room.
"It is not always, ladies, that you can read tomorrow's news today."
He stopped beside his desk, leaned over, and ripped the telephone cord out of the wall.
He resumed his slow advance across the room toward the two women huddled together.
Reaching them, his smile was almost benign. He raised one hand, and almost delicately removed the pages from Victoria's hold.
"I came back for this," he said. "Foolish to have overlooked it in my haste to leave." He folded the pages of the story with care and slipped them into his overcoat pocket. "Now, if you'll excuse me—oh, yes, Hannah, the duplicate key, please—"
Dumbly, his wife handed the key to him. As he turned to go, she suddenly came to life, clutching at him with both hands. "Edward, you can't!"
With a shrug, Armstead shook free of her. "My dear," he said, "everyone has to die sometime, doesn't he? As for yourself and your friend, you won't have to wait past morning."
He walked back through the room into the corridor. He turned, and gave a courteous nod.
The door closed. The dead bolt sounded. The study was sealed.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Hannah awakened gradually, and when she was able to open her eyes, she was disoriented. It took seconds for her to realize that she was lying on the couch in her husband's study. The events of the evening, the night, the long hours of imprisonment, surfaced. She was too exhausted to be horrified. She moved her head sideways and made out Victoria standing beside her, staring down at her.
"I—I must have fallen alseep," said Hannah. "Did you sleep at all?"
"Briefly," said Victoria, "in an armchair."
Hannah stared at the ceiling. "I think you had better tell me again what it was," she said. "The story he wrote. The story he is running today. I barely had a glimpse of it. I missed most of the details. The—the President's plane—"
"Air Force One will be hit in midair over the Atlantic by another plane," said Victoria, her voice hollow. "The collision will make Air Force One explode. There will be no survivors. President Callaway will die. His press secretary, Hugh Weston, will die. The newspaper correspondent Nick Ramsey will die. More than one hundred occupants of the President's plane will die."
"Edward wrote that."
"As if it had already happened. It will happen in little more than an hour."
"At what time?" asked Hannah.
"The story announced that it had happened at 9:32 this morn-mg.
"What time is it now, Victoria?"
> Victoria glanced at the clock on the desk. "It's 8:o8 in the morning right now."
Hannah shuddered. "How? How will he do it?"
"His story didn't dare tell too much. His lead, of course, was that President Callaway had been deliberately killed in a midair crash. Details were not known, but there was word from Havana TV that a Cuban Air Force MiG-27F, an imported Soviet plane, had been stolen by one of Castro's more violent anti-American factions from a military base near Cienfuegos. The pilot may have been a deranged ex-kamikaze officer who had written a threatening letter a week before, a crank letter not taken seriously. He had been assigned to kill President Roosevelt in 1945, had failed, and to restore his honor had determined to kill another United States President. With the help of Cuban reactionaries, this Japanese had made off with the MiG Foxbat fighter, obtained and charted Air Force One's flight course from Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland to London, and plunged the stolen craft into the President's plane izo miles off the Atlantic coast, some forty minutes after it took off. Then there followed a fuller recounting of those who were believed to have perished—the President and everyone else aboard. That was all I had time to read."
Hannah was sitting up. "It's unimaginable. Edward must have hired the best professional terrorists in the world to attempt this." Her head bowed in grief. "We were right, Victoria. My husband's gone insane."
"But logical enough to have arranged this," said Victoria.
"He's utterly insane," Hannah said again.
Victoria began to pace wearily. "What do you think will happen to us? What will he do?"
"He made that clear, Victoria. By morning—any time now—he will send someone—probably two of them—to unlock the door and take us away somewhere and kill us the way poor Kim was killed."
"But he could have killed us himself last night," Victoria said. Hannah was shaking her head. "No, Edward's too smart for that. Kill us, and be left with the bodies? Easier to have someone more professional do it, march us out of here and do it."
"There's a guard downstairs in the lobby. He'd know."
"It's my guess the guard won't be there. They'll take him by surprise and put him away somewhere. Then they'll come up for us.
Victoria's eyes roved the paneled study. "Hannah, there must be some way out."
"You know it's impossible," said Hannah helplessly. "We spent hours last night, after he left, checking every inch of the wails, the room. There's no way out until someone takes us out."
Victoria ceased her pacing. "I—I don't care about myself, Hannah, I honestly don't. I'm sorry for you."
"Never mind about me—"
"But what sickens me most is thinking of all of them in that plane—my father, and a man I love, truly love, and the President himself and all the rest of those innocent people. Nothing like this, nothing, has ever happened in history. Hannah, it mustn't happen."
"Maybe it won't," said Hannah as kindly as she could.
"But you think it will?"
"I'm afraid it will. What's to prevent it? There's not a thing we can do." She closed her eyes. "We've lost."
Four hours earlier, an eerie scene had taken place.
The eeriest in his experience, Armstead decided as he allowed Gus Pagano to guide him into the vaulted living room of the dilapidated wooden mansion on the outskirts of Newport, Rhode Island.
Armstead, adorned with wig and false mustache and glasses, had arrived in a leased Learjet, been met by Pagano in a nondescript Dodge sedan, and been driven through the town to this crumbling, isolated twenty-two-room mansion. The Carlos vanguard had rented it from an absentee landlord, and had used it as the base of operations and as a safe house.
Leaving Armstead in the living room, Pagano explained, "It's perfect. No outsiders ever come here, and we'll fly Matsuda to the Bahamas from the private airport runway which, as you know, is only a short ride away. Everything is in readiness, and time is running out, so the meeting will have to be short. But he insisted on the meeting before going ahead."
"Okay by me," said Armstead.
"You've got what he wants?" asked Pagano.
"No problem."
"Wait here. I'll get him."
Pagano left the room, and Armstead was alone, marveling at his surroundings. This room had probably hosted the likes of Diamond Jim Brady, James Gordon Bennett, Jay Gould . . . a pantheon of giants. He studied the once elegant run-down nineteenth-century furniture, and was amused that the original china cuspidors with their hand-painted flowers still rested in their places.
Ancient history.
Armstead strutted to the center of the room. He was living history, and after today no media Hall of Fame would fail to award him its most prominent pedestal.
He heard someone enter, and he wheeled to greet his star.
Instead of one, there were two of them advancing toward him. The first he recognized as Robert Jacklin, whom he had not seen since Istanbul and who had been directing the entire operation for Carlos. The second was the star, a diminutive, bowlegged, elderly Japanese, perhaps five feet two, perhaps sixty-five years of age, attired in a leather helmet bearing the emblem of the Rising Sun and an ill-fitting dark business suit, the jacket carrying another representation of the Rising Sun, a felt badge of the Nipponese Imperial Air Force of 1945.
"Mr. Walter Zimberg," said Jacklin curtly, "Flight Lieutenant Yosuke Matsuda, once of the Japanese Special Attack Corps and the leader of your mission."
Armstead offered his hand and an uncertain smile. Lieutenant Matsuda took his hand and shook it heartily, offering a wide grin that revealed an upper row of gold teeth.
"He speaks limited English," Jacklin said. "Understands almost none. However, I am fluent in Japanese and will help out, since it's necessary."
"Good," said Armstead. He was fascinated by the lieutenant's gold teeth. "How could he afford those teeth?"
"Prewar gift paid for by his parents."
"Okay," said Armstead.
"I will explain what has brought him here. Flight Lieutenant Yosuke Matsuda was stationed at Konoya Air Base, a member of the 721st Air Group and of a suicide squadron sent out against a United States aircraft carrier on April 1, 1945—Matsuda's assignment was to make a kamikaze assault on the aircraft carrier in his Suisei 4Y1 dive bomber, driving his plane with its 520-pound bomb attached to the fuselage into the carrier's bridge tower where President Franklin D. Roosevelt was supposed to be stationed as an observer."
"Hold on," said Armstead. "When did that happen?"
"On April 17, 1945."
"But President Roosevelt was dead by then. President Truman—"
Jacklin wagged a finger. "You and I know that, but Lieutenant Matsuda did not know it at the time. The main fact is that Matsuda failed to carry out his mission. At the last minute, going into his final dive, he lost his nerve. He did not want to die. He had a bride waiting for him in Tokyo. He wanted to return alive to her. So he aborted his kamikaze attack, avoided the carrier's bridge and crash-landed it in the water. He was picked up alive and made a prisoner of war. After the war he was released to go back home and join his bride. But he had disgraced himself, was without honor, and in the years after was never able to obtain gainful employment. He and his wife and their three children have lived in poverty in all the years since. His wife is a cripple. Lieutenant Matsuda has lived for one thing. To find a means of providing security for his wife and children. He let it be known that if he had a kamikaze assignment to perform over again, he would do it if it would bring him what he needed, an annuity for his family. When Carlos heard of this from the Japanese Red Army he contacted the old aviator, and kept him under wraps for a day when he might be useful. The day has come."
Armstead continued to eye the bantam, grinning Japanese uncertainly. "What if he aborts this mission, like he did the first one?"
"No chance of that," said Jacklin. "His only desire is to provide for his family. Also, there is the matter of honor, as he will tell you. He is even carrying an omamori in
his pocket."
"A what?"
"The wooden Buddhist good luck charm, to guarantee success of the mission."
Observing that Armstead seemed satisfied, Jacklin addressed Lieutenant Matsuda in Japanese. Matsuda jabbered back in Japanese. Jacklin faced Armstead. "Yes, he says that he is ready to go right now, carry out the mission, if you will prove to him that you have made the deposit in the DKB—the Dai-Ichi Kanayo Bank—in Tokyo for one million American dollars."
"It is taken care of," said Armstead, withdrawing the DKB receipt from inside his jacket pocket. "Here is a duplicate of the receipt. The money is in his wife's name. Your representative in Tokyo is presenting the original to his wife today."
Jacklin took the receipt and showed it to the Japanese pilot. Matsuda read it, and finishing, offered his shining mouthful of gold teeth. Matsuda spoke in Japanese.
"I will interpret," said Jacklin. "He is satisfied. He thanks you. But he wishes you to know, as I told you he would, that there is also a point of honor involved."
"What point of honor?"
"Long ago he failed to fulfill a mission as he had been ordered. He welcomes this second opportunity, to kill a different President, namely Mr. Callaway. This time he will succeed. Have no concern. He will carry it out."
Armstead's attention lingered on the Japanese uneasily. "He looks so ridiculous. Is he capable?"
"Perfectly. Sufficiently trained to bring the new jet fighter to the target."
"How was he trained?" Armstead wondered. "And the plane, how are you getting the plane?"
"Not too difficult," said Jacklin. "We bought off one of Castro's pilots for a large sum. Right about now he's starting on a routine training mission, but instead of returning to base in Cuba he'll defect and land on a deserted airstrip in the Bahamas. Never mind where—the drug syndicate also uses it, and they don't want the location publicized. There the defector will be met by our people and replaced by Lieutenant Matsuda here, who'll take over." Jacklin tapped his wristwatch. "We must hurry to the airport if we're to be on schedule."
He took the little Japanese by the arm. The Japanese showed his gleaming teeth a last time. "Tenno banzai," he said with restraint, inoffensively, and he swaggered out of the room with Jacklin.
The Almighty Page 38
