Ramsey came out of his slouch, more alert. ‘I’ll be glad to
tell you anything that’s not in my notes, Mr. Armstead, anything I can remember or help you with.’
‘I want an evaluation from you, Nick,’ said Armstead. ‘There are so many of these terrorist groups running around, I was wondering - well, simply put, which ones are the most important?’
‘The most important in what sense?’ inquired Ramsey.
‘Relatively, a lot of these groups must be fly-by-nighters or Mickey Mousers. Ignore them. Which are the most powerful and effective?’
‘Of those currently in existence?’
‘Right now,’ said Armstead.
‘The most powerful, the most effective…’ repeated Ramsey. ‘Easily the biggest, the best trained, the best financed is the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine, known as the PFLP. They’re a Marxist organization directed out of Damascus. Saudi Arabia gives them $25 million a year. Colonel Qaddafi of Libya gives them at least $50 million a year. One of their cadres pulled off the Munich Olympics massacre in 1972.’
‘Name some others.’
‘Others who are powerful?’ mused Ramsey, giving it some thought. ‘Without ranking them exactly, I’d say the best disciplined and most active after the PFLP are the Red Brigades of Italy, the Baader-Meinhof gang in West Germany, the Japanese Red Army, the Irish Republican Army or IRA, the Turkish Popular Liberation Front, the ETA Basque separatists in Spain and - down in South America - the Tupamaros in Uruguay.’
‘Any common bond?’ wondered Armstead.
‘Revolution in our time, down with capitalism,’ said Ramsey. ‘Most of them are supported with money, weapons, training, by the Kremlin, the Soviet Union. I suppose the one person who’s had something to do with a majority of the groups is the leading terrorist hitman, the man known as Carlos.’
‘Ah, Carlos,’ said Armstead, touching the research folder. ‘The Venezuelan playboy turned killer. I saw several of the photographs you had of him. A fat, soft, moon-faced young man. He looks harmless.’
‘Don’t let his looks fool you,’ said Ramsey. ‘Carlos is
ruthless. Human life means nothing to him. Before Carlos was well known, he was living in a third-floor apartment in the Rue Toullier in the Latin Quarter of Paris. A friend of his, a Lebanese named Moukarbel, was forced to turn informer, and he led three French intelligence detectives to Carlos. During his interrogation, Carlos got permission to go to the bathroom. He came out with a 7.65mm Russian automatic blazing, killed two of the detectives, seriously wounded the third, shot the informer in the head, and escaped. All in ten seconds. His other credits are in my notes.’
‘I don’t recall the details,’ said Armstead. ‘There’s so much.’
‘Carlos helped organize the Japanese Red Army massacre at Israel’s Lod Airport,’ said Ramsey. ‘He tossed a grenade into Le Drugstore in Paris, killing two, injuring twelve, burning the store down. He drove a Peugeot to a runway at Orly Airport and unleashed a hand rocket launcher against a Boeing 707 El Al plane with 136 passengers. That was a miss. He set up the hijacking of an Air France plane in Athens that led to the Entebbe rescue by the Israelis. I personally think his most successful caper was the one in Vienna in 1975, when he and five comrades took a streetcar to OPEC headquarters in the Texaco Building. Carlos and his group walked in and murdered three security guards, took eleven oil ministers hostage, flew them to Algiers where they were released-once he had his payoff. That took planning and guts. He’s a tough one.’
‘You speak as if he’s still around. Is he?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Ramsey. ‘He was when I researched the story for you in Paris. That’s the last I heard.’
‘You don’t know if he’s alive?’
‘I really don’t know. But I’d guess so. There’s been no word of his death. He was alive in 1982 when he sent a threat, with his thumbprints, to the French Interior Ministry from somewhere in Holland.’
‘Where would he be now?’
Ramsey shrugged. ‘Could be in London, in Bonn, in Damascus. But he’s probably in Paris.’
The publisher stared past Victoria reflectively, then engaged Ramsey again. ‘Nick, tell me what this is all about. This Carlos, is he a Commie?’
Ramsey shook his head. ‘Oddly, I don’t think he is. From his background in my notes, you might believe so. His father was a Colombian who moved to Venezuela and made millions in real estate. The father had three sons and he named them after Lenin. The father was a rich Marxist. He gave his son Carlos the name Ilich after Lenin’s middle name. Carlos was Ilich Ramirez Sanchez, born in 1949. He got Communist training at Camp Matanzas, outside Havana, under a KGB colonel. Later, Carlos attended Patrice Lumumba Friendship University in Moscow. He was thrown out for drinking and womanizing - probably a KGB ploy to get him underground. But I don’t think he was a Communist. You know, when he did that OPEC caper in Vienna, one of his hostages was Sheikh Yamani, the oil minister from Saudi Arabia. Yamani talked to Carlos a great deal, and had no sense that Carlos believed in either the Communist or Palestinian cause.’
Armstead remained puzzled. ‘Why has he been going around kidnapping and shooting people?’
Ramsey lifted his shoulders. ‘Not certain. He is supposed to believe in international revolution, Maoist variety. Don’t bet on it. Maybe he likes the adventure. Maybe he likes the money. Maybe he likes the power. He’s supposed to have his own group, hand-picked German and Arab assassins. All the other groups are purely political. Carlos’s group may or may not be.’
The publisher busied himself unwrapping a fresh cigar. After a few moments he inquired, almost casually, ‘How’d you get all this material on Carlos and his gang?’
‘Many sources,’ said Ramsey. ‘The best one was an informant in the Carlos group. A minor member who mostly did errands, but a member. I was in Paris, spreading money around, and met this Middle Eastern type who had a girl friend in the Carlos group and did errands for her. I asked Mr. Dietz for a thousand dollars, and I paid off the informant for the information you’ve just read. It was all I could get.’
‘I want more,’ said Armstead, standing up and lighting his cigar.
Ramsey showed his surprise. ‘On Carlos?’
‘On Carlos and his group.’
‘I’m not sure that’s possible,’ said Ramsey.
‘Anything is possible,’ said Armstead. He made a meandering tour of his office, talking as he walked. ‘I want to reactivate the terrorist series, now that I’m in charge. I want Carlos to be the focal point, at least to start with. I want you to go back to Europe, Nick, to Paris - you and Victoria Weston together; you’ll need all the assistance you can get.’
Ramsey met Victoria’s eyes, and frowned. ‘I’m not sure this is woman’s work -‘ he started to say to the publisher.
‘Nick, stop it,’ Victoria interrupted. ‘Male chauvinism went out with bloomers, or should have. I can speak French. I’ve been to Paris, to every part of France, three times. I can be of real help, and you know it. I’m not afraid.’
‘I am,’ said Ramsey.
Armstead intervened. ‘I agree with Victoria,’ he said. ‘I want her on this series. For two main reasons. One is, I want you to continue to break her in. Another is, I want the female touch, stories that can appeal to women as well as men.’
The other main reason, the one he had mentioned to Dietz, he now left unspoken. He wanted to do something for Hugh Weston’s daughter, because he wanted to please Hugh even more. After all, he had told Dietz, Hugh Weston was now press secretary to the President of the United States. It would help to have him grateful to them. Someday a favor could be needed. Besides, Victoria might do well on the assignment. She was capable, even if relatively inexperienced. Armstead felt that his was a smart move.
‘Also, there’s a lesser reason I want Victoria along on this assignment,’ he went on smoothly. ‘I want a good facade in Paris. With both of you there, you can pose as married tourist
s, at least while working on the outside. In the hotel, I’ll register you as separate individuals. I want the Recordleh out of this investigation. You’re not journalists. You want to see the Eiffel Tower, have duck at the Tour d’Argent.’ Armstead returned to his desk. ‘I think, Nick, you might start off by reviving your Carlos contact. What’s his name?’
‘Ahmet.’
‘Okay, Ahmet. Learn if he’s still in Paris. Can you do that?’
‘I had a bartender who used to be able to reach him.’
‘Try to reach him,’ said Armstead. ‘Mainly, I want to know if Carlos has some action coming up.’
‘That’s asking a lot,’ said Ramsey, doubtfully.
‘I’m paying a lot,’ said Armstead. ‘You can pay that informant of yours, Ahmet, ten thousand dollars to find out. I’ll pay others more to find out even more. What do you say?’
There was concern in Ramsey’s expression. ‘I can’t say what we’ll learn from Ahmet about Carlos. I can say you’ll find money won’t buy you anything from the other terrorist gangs. They can use money, but they are not after it. Their interests are purely ideological.’
‘Money is ideology,’ said Armstead flatly. ‘Money is everything, as you’ll find out when you start passing it around. Right now let’s start with Ahmet. You and Victoria get ready to take off for Paris.’
Ramsey rose to his feet, followed by Victoria.
‘When do we leave?’ Ramsey wanted to know.
‘Tomorrow. Concorde. There’ll be a Mercedes and driver to meet you both at De Gaulle, and a two-bedroom suite waiting for you at the Plaza Athenee. You are going as first-class tourists. When you have news, call my private number. After that, Harry Dietz or I will have your next assignment ready.’
‘Also first-class?’ asked Ramsey.
‘If your work is first-class,’ said Armstead. ‘Bon voyage.’
The following gray day the Air France Concorde had taken off from New York’s John F. Kennedy Airport at 1:00 in the afternoon and landed at the almost deserted Charles de Gaulle Airport 3 hours and 32 minutes later, at 10:32 in the evening, Paris time. Once they had cleared passport control and picked up their luggage, Ramsey and Victoria found their young French chauffeur, who led them in the cool late evening to the Mercedes sedan.
By midnight they had settled into suite 505 of the Plaza Athenee Hotel. Although neither was hungry - they had just had a full lunch on the plane - they telephoned room service for sandwiches gruyere. Ramsey located the small refrigerator behind a cabinet door in the entry hall, mixed himself two scotches before the sandwiches arrived and a double scotch after, and Victoria had a soft drink labelled Framboise-Raisin de Fruite with her meal. Even though it was six hours earlier in their heads, Victoria found herself exhausted by the movement and change and she retired to the larger bedroom
after her snack. Ramsey, a more seasoned traveler, was less tired and stayed awake two hours longer, going over his old notes on terrorism and nursing his drink. When he had finished both notes and drink, he yawned twice and knew that he was ready for sleep. He also knew what he must undertake the next day.
After an early breakfast in the suite, and accompanied by a rested and eager Victoria, Ramsey strolled along the Avenue Montaigne, chose the longer way up the Champs-Elysees toward the Etoile to give the bar time to be open. Paris was not new to Victoria, but she hadn’t visited it for five years and she was stimulated and wanted to talk. Ramsey did not want to talk. The tension of his first act preoccupied him.
They turned into the Avenue George V, then into the Rue Pierre Charron. Ramsey led Victoria to a modest bistro where four outdoor tables were being set up by a waiter.
Ramsey touched Victoria’s elbow. ‘We’re going inside. Let me do the talking. You just be quiet and have a drink.’
‘What should I drink?’
‘Anything.’
Victoria felt a flare of resentment at the way Nick was taking over, treating her as an unwanted appendage. She had felt constrained by this foreign assignment anyway. When Armstead gave it to her, despite his apparent reasonableness she had felt a twinge of suspicion that there might be nepotism involved. It was a possibility, the publisher currying favor with her father for some payoff down the road. She couldn’t prove this was true, but the thought of nepotism niggled at her.
Instinctively she jutted her jaw, resolving to prove herself on her own on this trip. She quickly followed Nick into the bistro, going between the empty tables and the pinball machines being played by two tieless older men. With Nick, she went to the abbreviated zinc bar.
Ramsey perched on a stool, and Victoria sat next to him. A hunchbacked bartender sorting bottles left his work to request their order. Ramsey lit a cigarette and said, ‘Scotch and Evian.’
Victoria had determined to order whatever Nick ordered, to show that she was tough and experienced, too, but the very idea of hard liquor at this hour in the morning nauseated her.
She decided to be her independent self. Fearlessly she said, ‘I’ll have a Coke.’
The bartender fixed their drinks, and when he served them Ramsey said to him, ‘Monsieur, last time when I was here, a year ago, there was a bartender named Henri. I wondered -‘
‘Henri is here, oui. He has arrived. He is in the back changing.’
‘Would you tell him a friend would like to see him?’
The hunchbacked bartender disappeared through a doorway at one side of the bar, and seconds later a handsome, gray-haired, broad-shouldered man emerged, pulling on a white jacket. He squinted at the only occupants of the bar, coming toward Ramsey.
‘Hello, Henri,’ said Ramsey. ‘Remember me?’
Henri’s face broadened into a smile of recognition. ‘Monsieur Nick. How are you?’
‘Better than ever. As you can see. I’m a newlywed. Meet my wife, Victoria.’
Henri greeted her with a gallant kiss of her outstretched hand. ‘My best to you. Why do you marry such an old man?’
‘For money,’ said Victoria, falling into it.
‘And you, Henri, how are you?’ inquired Ramsey.
T now have a grandson.’ He fished inside his jacket for his wallet, withdrew a snapshot and handed it over. Ramsey and Victoria dutifully clucked over the picture.
Handing it back, Ramsey said, ‘Congratulations, Grand-pa.’
‘You must not waste time,’ said Henri. ‘You are here on a honeymoon?’
‘On business,’ said Ramsey.
The bartender’s expression sobered. ‘The same business?’ he asked softly.
‘The same,’ said Ramsey, lowering his voice. ‘Is he still in Paris?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can I speak to him?’
‘When?’
‘Soon.’
‘Where do you stay?’ asked Henri.
‘Plaza Athenee. Suite 505.’
‘He will call you there in an hour.’
‘Thanks.’ Ramsey swung off the stool, paid for the drinks, left 500 francs for the bartender, and departed from the bistro with Victoria at his heels.
They took a shortcut back to the hotel and waited nervously in their suite for the telephone to ring.
They had waited fifty minutes when the telephone rang.
Ramsey, sitting on the sofa, grabbed for it. ‘Hello.’
‘Mr. Ramsey?’
‘Yes, this is Nick Ramsey.’
‘I am Ahmet.’
‘Hello, Ahmet. I’m glad you called. Can you speak?’
‘No. Not now. I will be fishing in the Seine, near the Quai de Montebello stairs. Three o’clock this afternoon. We can speak then.’
‘All right, that’s fine. See you there at three o’clock.’
Ramsey hung up. ‘That was quick,’ said Victoria. ‘Any luck?’
‘He was jittery. Didn’t want to talk from wherever he was. He indicated the best way to talk would be to see him at three o’clock. He will be fishing in the Seine. He told me where on the river.’
‘You mea
n literally fishing - trying to catch fish in the Seine?’
‘As good a place as any. Better. Hard to be picked up by electronic devices or bugged there. Carlos may keep a close eye on his crew.’ Ramsey glanced at his wristwatch. ‘Well, we have a few hours to waste. I think I’ll look up Sid Lukas, head man at the Record bureau. We broke into this business at the same time. Anything you want to do?’
‘Nap,’ said Victoria. ‘Wake me when the countdown begins.’
By midafternoon she was refreshed, her face shining and apprehensive as she strode beside Ramsey on the Quai de Montebello above the river and across from the towering Gothic cathedral of Notre-Dame.
‘Down here,’ said Ramsey, pointing to stone steps leading from the street to the banks of the Seine. Victoria followed him down the steps to the cobblestone walk that ran along the river. Orienting himself, Ramsey looked about, then searched off to his right. Victoria could see what he saw - four or five fishermen scattered at intervals along the riverbank.
‘He’s the nearest one, the one with the cowboy hat,’ said Ramsey. He started along the bank, and she chased after him. They went on for thirty yards, and as they neared the fisherman with the broad-brimmed cowboy” hat, Victoria could make out the concave face of a brown-skinned youngish man, thin, seated holding a bamboo pole and line, with a closed wicker basket next to him.
Ramsey halted to light a cigarette and said to Victoria in an undertone, ‘You can come along, but stay in the background. Don’t talk. I’ll tell him you’re my wife. Okay, let’s go.’
Ambling nonchalantly, dragging on his cigarette, Ramsey approached the fisherman, with Victoria lagging to the rear.
Reaching the fishermen, Ramsey stopped at the basket. He looked off. The rest of the fishermen were farther up the river, well out of earshot. Ramsey pointed to the basket. ‘How’s the catch today, Ahmet?’
The swarthy young man in the cowboy hat and sweater shrugged. ‘See for yourself.’
Ramsey kneeled close to him and opened the basket. It was empty.
(1982) The Almighty Page 11
