He yanked Ramsey past the counter, and they went into the confined room behind the pharmacy. Unlike the modernized shop area, the room had never been finished. Actually a storage and accounting room, it contained a roughhewn wooden table that served as a desk, and two wooden chairs. The adding machine had been pushed to one side of the table, and a carafe of red wine and two plain glasses rested in the middle.
Josu shoved Ramsey into one chair and he squatted on the other, filling the wineglasses. ‘Chacoli wine,’ Josu announced. ‘Clears the cobwebs from the brain.’
‘Exactly what I need,’ said Ramsey, toasting and drinking.
Josu smacked his lips, licked at his wet mustache and set down his glass. ‘Why you here this week, Nick?’
‘Why is the king of Spain here next week?’
‘He, to mend fences.’
‘Me, to watch him mend fences.’
‘You are writing another book?’
‘I’m gainfully employed this time. I’m on the newspaper again. The New York Record. I’m paid to be curious.’
The gnome of a pharmacist sucked at his wine, poured himself a refill. ‘You are curious about our so-called king?’
‘A Spanish king in Basque country? It could become a story.’
Josu shook his head sadly. ‘No story this time. He is safe as if he wears armor. Because he comes here, he will be made safe. Normally, in Madrid, he is lax about protection. In San Sebastian he will have heavy protection.’
‘How much?’
‘Who can say exactly?’
‘You must have an idea, Josu. Make a good guess. I will not speak of my source, you know that.’
‘A good guess,’ mused Josu.
‘An educated guess, based on knowledge.’
About to pick up his wineglass once more, Josu left it untouched. He scratched his mustache. It was, Ramsey could see, as if he were trying to determine how far to go.
‘I am your friend,’ Ramsey prodded him.
Josu appeared not to have heard him. He began speaking in a quiet monotone. ‘It is our practice to keep all major government officials in Madrid under constant surveillance. The king among them, of course. He is accompanied everywhere by six personal bodyguards in plainclothes. They are armed with handguns. If the king is flying up from Madrid, he will bring with him these bodyguards. The mayor of San Sebastian will meet him with three cars and military chauffeurs. The middle car, the limousine, will carry the king. The limousine will be preceded and followed by the other cars carrying the personal bodyguards.’
‘No additional personal guards?’
‘No evidence of more,’ said Josu. ‘The king does not have a budget for a large security force. But even if he did, he might not use it. Spain tries to show it is a democracy, with the king a mere figurehead. As such, the officials do not wish to display too much protection. They do not want to look like a police state again. Of course, once he arrives in San Sebastian, you can certainly expect the Guardia civil will be on hand, stationed at every stop.’
Ramsey conjured up a picture of the Guardia civil, the well-trained elite guardsmen with their unique tricornered hats, gray uniforms, rifles and revolvers. ‘How many?’ Ramsey wondered.
T would not know. But for a special state occasion such as this, there might be fifty or sixty strategically placed, no
more. Also, the province will furnish a military unit scattered in the streets, on rooftops and elsewhere.’
‘That’s it?’
‘As far as we can tell. There will also be the usual San Sebastian police in the streets for crowd control.’
‘The king’s protection does not seem too heavy to me.’
‘It will not be heavy. But it is formidable.’
‘Still, if I were a leader of the ETA, I would think him vulnerable.’
‘No, Nick,’ said the diminutive Basque. ‘It is all too obvious a situation for the National Liberation. The king’s security will be alert. We cannot sustain such losses or a failure.’
‘So the ETA will not move.’
The gnome offered a wisp of a smile. ‘My educated guess is that they will not move.’ He pushed back his chair and rose. ‘Now I had better be seen in the shop. If you are still here when the king has left, call me. We will drink to his continued safety.’
Ramsey escorted Victoria to a late dinner at an old two-story rustic restaurant called Salduba. They sat at a small table covered by a spotless red-checked tablecloth, under a wagon-wheel chandelier.
Ramsey had suggested sopa de pescado, a delicious fish soup, and changurro al homo, the local specialty of baked crab, and they had ordered both dishes, Victoria eating hungrily and Ramsey eating lightly as he devoted himself to his straight scotches.
Peering past the candles on their table, Ramsey could see that despite her appetite his partner was unhappy. Victoria’s unlined pretty face remained uncharacteristically morose. It bothered him to see her so troubled, and he considered how he might cheer her up.
‘Vicky, you didn’t really expect to have anyone in the mayor’s office hand you the king’s schedule, did you?’ he asked.
She shrugged. ‘Maybe not. Yet I expected something, a morsel or two. But they were totally uncommunicative, and a few of them were actually rude.’
‘Well, try to see their point of view,’ Ramsey said. ‘Handing you the royal itinerary would be like handing out an invitation to assassination.’
‘I know,’ said Victoria, ‘but I wasn’t expecting everything. Just a tidbit or two. They could even have lied to me, just to give me a couple of paragraphs to write about.’
Ramsey smiled. ‘The Basques do not lie much, at least as far as I know. What did you do after Town Hall? Did you try anywhere else?’
‘Of course. The police department. They thought I was crazy. They almost threw me out.’
‘Did you try the local newspapers?’
‘Yes,’ said Victoria. ‘The editors were friendlier. One even made a pass at me. But they insisted that they knew nothing. They’d know the king’s schedule when he was here, when he kept it. What good will that do? Armstead is expecting something from us the day after tomorrow. What can I tell him?’ She pushed her plate aside and had a sip of white wine. ‘What about you, Nick? I haven’t asked about you. Forgive me - I’m usually not this self-centered. How did you do on the security thing? I’m sure the city officials wouldn’t cooperate with you, either.’
‘I didn’t bother with the officials, Vicky.’
‘Oh.’ She looked at him harder, but posed no more questions. ‘But you got something, evidently.’
‘Very little, very little,’ he told her, lighting a cigarette. ‘Vicky, as I knew from the beginning, this is a bust assignment. There’s going to be no incident. Nothing’s going to happen to the king.’
‘You’re sure of that?’
‘Fairly certain. I won’t have much more to tell Armstead than you do. Look sweetie, you lose some, you win some. This is no win. Have a dessert.’
‘I don’t want a dessert. I want a story.’
‘You’ve still got tomorrow,’ he said encouragingly. He signaled the waiter for another scotch. ‘We won’t be talking to Armstead until the morning after. There’s time.’
Victoria’s eyes were fixed on Ramsey. ‘You did not go to official sources,’ she said. ‘Then you went to unofficial sources.’
He sized up the other diners at nearby tables. ‘If that’s what you want to call them,’ he said.
Her expression was alive for the first time this evening. ‘That’s what I’m going to do tomorrow, Nick. I think I know what to do. I’m going to dig up something for Armstead after all. Thank you, Nick. Thank you very much. And yes, I will have a dessert.’
It was late Friday morning, and they were both in Ramsey’s spacious single room in the Londres. Victoria sat on the side of the bed, listening as Ramsey dictated to the stenographer in Armstead’s suite in London with Armstead on a second line. The ceiling lights were on.
It was an overcast day outside, with a steady rain tapping at the window. Victoria watched the rain dance against the panes, nervously fingered her notes, and listened with more concentration.
Ramsey had no notes. He spoke fluently from memory. He said, ‘The end,’ to the stenographer. ‘There is no more.’
Victoria could hear the stenographer say, ‘Thank you.’ Next, she could hear Edward Armstead’s voice resound from the receiver.
‘Nick,’ Armstead said.
‘Yes?’
‘You’re sure of what you have?’
‘Fairly sure.’
‘Pretty light security for the head of state in a guerrilla center.’
T can only repeat what I heard,’ said Ramsey evenly. ‘Looks like a great big zero. No hit planned.’
‘By the locals.’
‘Right. No action, far as I can learn.’
‘Thanks,’ said Armstead abruptly. ‘Put Victoria on.’
‘Here she is,’ said Ramsey. He got out of the chair, handing the receiver to Victoria, who sat down, sorting her notes in her lap.
‘Hello, Victoria,’ Armstead said. ‘Did you get an official schedule for the king?’
‘There is no official schedule, Mr. Armstead. I tried every source. They were uncooperative. But I do have an unofficial schedule.’
‘Unofficial,’ said Armstead. ‘What exactly does that mean?’
‘No one handed me a certified itinerary,’ Victoria said. ‘But I figured that if the king was going to be here for a full morning and afternoon, he’d have to go somewhere, visit something. So I sat down and made a summary of the most likely sites he would look in on. Then I beat the pavements all morning and afternoon yesterday calling on the minor individuals who are in charge of these logical places. They were easier to get to, easier to talk to - like a museum curator, the supervisor of the street cleaners in the main plaza, an assistant to the bishop at the biggest church - people like that. Some did not expect a visit from the king. Others had been instructed to expect him and to have everything in readiness. It worked out. I got together a list of where he’ll be -‘
Hearing her, Ramsey made a circle with his forefinger and thumb. ‘Smart girl,’ he whispered.
Pleased, she pressed closer to the mouthpiece of the telephone. T can read if off to you right now, Mr. Armstead.’
‘You’re sure of your sources?’ said Armstead.
‘Pretty much. There could always be some last-minute changes. But it’s a tight itinerary and I believe the king will stick to it. Let me read it to you.’
‘Hold it, Victoria. The stenographer is on the line. You can dictate it to her. Here she is.’
Armstead’s voice faded. ‘Are you there?’ inquired Victoria.
‘I’m ready,’ said a woman with a British accent.
‘Let’s go,’ said Victoria. She organized the notes in her lap. ‘What follows is my dictation.’ She paused and read aloud from her notes: ‘9:00 a.m. - King arrives at Fuenterrabia Airport. 9:30 a.m. - King takes military helicopter to San Sebastian. 10:00 a.m. - King arrives at Palacio de Ayete, Generalissimo Franco’s onetime summer residence. 10:30 a.m. - His Majesty takes motorcade to Casas Consistoriales, the Town Hall, where greeted by the mayor. 11:30 a.m. - King arrives by motorcade at Catedral Del Buen Pastor for confession with bishop. 12:00 - Royal party departs for Palacio de Escoriazo-Esquibel for luncheon hosted by governor general. 2:30 p.m. - King addresses crowd from platform in front of Palacio for ten minutes.’ Victoria paused. ‘Am I speaking too fast?’
‘Go on,’ said the stenographer. ‘I’ll want to check some of the spellings when you’re through.’ ‘Very good, so far,’ Armstead cut in. Victoria cleared her throat and resumed her reading.
Nightfall had come to London, and in the living room of Armstead’s suite in the Ritz the publisher had pulled on his ski mask and allowed Gus Pagano to help him adjust it.
‘How many of them are here?’ Armstead asked.
‘Only two. Cooper and Quiggs. Cooper wants to give you a final report before leaving.’
Armstead nodded and followed Pagano to the door of the adjoining bedroom. The two went inside. Except for a few dull lamps, the room was lost in darkness. Near the center of the sitting area a large circular walnut table had been set up with a half-dozen folding chairs around it. One chair held the rangy Cooper, the other the pimpled, stocky British youth named Quiggs.
Armstead greeted them briefly and took a place opposite them at the table, with Pagano beside him.
Momentarily the publisher was concerned by Cooper’s unsmiling face, and Quiggs’s phlegmatic one. Did this mean that something had gone wrong, that there was bad news?
But in seconds Armstead’s apprehension was put to rest.
‘We’re leaving in an hour,’ Cooper began. ‘Before leaving, I thought we should report to you on the status of the operation. Everything is going exactly as planned.’
Armstead exhaled his relief.
‘Most of our team is in place for the secondary stage,’ Cooper went on, ‘some in Lyons, some en route to St-Jean-de-Luz with equipment.’
‘With weapons?’ asked Armstead.
‘All the lighter arms are in hand. The Lyons shipment arrived early, except for the helicopters, which we won’t require until next week. The other goods are being transported from Wales into France and to the Spanish frontier.’
Armstead was incredulous. ‘You mean most of the arms have been delivered? That’s fast.’
‘It’s what you paid for,’ said Cooper. ‘We’ll be crossing into Spain in the next forty-eight hours. We’ll then begin to
familiarize ourselves with the various locales and sites on the king’s schedule.’
‘You found our reports satisfactory?’
‘Mr. Pagano delivered them right after lunch. That was prompt, and we found them thorough,’ said Cooper.
Quiggs shifted in his chair. ‘We hope the king stays with that schedule.’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ Cooper assured Armstead. ‘We’ll be double-checking in the field, up to the very last moment. If the royal party makes any change, we will be able to accommodate it with our alternative plans.’
‘Was our security report also satisfactory?’ Armstead wanted to know.
‘Most useful,’ said Cooper. ‘Because of the nature of the king’s security, we were forced to alter our original plan.’
At once Armstead was consumed with curiosity. ‘How do you plan to take him?’ he asked bluntly.
‘I’m afraid I cannot tell you,’ Cooper replied with equal bluntness.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Armstead, contrite. ‘I don’t want to interfere.’
For several seconds, Cooper was silent. When he spoke, his demeanor had softened. ‘You are paying for this, so I suppose you deserve to know something.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Armstead.
Cooper appeared not to have heard him. ‘I don’t mind telling you, since it is no longer operative, that our original plan was the one most often successful in previous operations. Perform the kidnapping while the subject is in a car. Use two vehicles to intercept and block the target - swerve one car in front of his car, one in back of it, grab him, throw him into the front getaway vehicle and follow it with the second car. This was our original plan, and the one we abandoned.’
‘Why did you give it up?’ Armstead wanted to know. ‘The subject will be in his car, in a continuous motorcade, in San Sebastian.’
‘Let me tell you why we abandoned that plan,’ said Cooper. ‘Have you ever heard of an outfit called Control Risks?’
‘Control -? No, what’s that?’
‘The insurance company, Lloyd’s of London, has an underwriter that sells kidnap insurance. If you are afraid of
being kidnapped, you apply for this insurance. Lloyd’s sends a team of surveyors and consultants to visit you, determine the potential of risk, and brief you on how to reduce the risk. Then they issue you a policy in secrecy. Your po
licy is with an underwriter called Control Risks. They try to help you prevent a kidnapping. But if you are kidnapped and pay a ransom, they reimburse you. It’s a little-known but popular thing now.’
‘Most unusual,’ said Armstead. ‘What does it have to do with your change in plans?’
‘We have a woman in Control Risks. She’s having an affair with one of our men. She does him favors. She has access to the Control Risks confidential files. From these files we learned that ninety percent of all kidnapping today, nine out of every ten cases, occurs when the victim is riding in a car. We realized that if Control Risks works with that statistic, they must have developed better protection for potential victims who are riding in cars. We realized that if we went for the king while he was in his limousine, Spanish security would be prepared for it. The chance of failure would be too great. So we decided against this mode of kidnapping. We changed our plans. Now you understand.’
Armstead understood and was impressed. He was tempted to inquire further and try to learn Cooper’s alternative plan. Yet, earlier, Cooper had been adamant against revealing it. He would probably still refuse to reveal his plan. And suddenly Armstead did not want to know the modus operandi. He wanted to keep the operation at arm’s length. He had to remind himself that he was a publisher and not really a terrorist, after all. ‘Now you think you can succeed,’ was all he could bring himself to say.
Cooper stood up. ‘We hope to succeed. We cannot guarantee it. We can only try. We must leave at once. You want Mr. Pagano to accompany us?’
Armstead came to his feet. ‘Pagano is essential. He will be my liaison with your activities. I will be leaving London tomorrow. Pagano knows how to reach me. He will keep us in touch with one another.’ He faced Pagano. ‘Are you ready to go, Gus?’
‘All set,’ said Pagano.
‘I’ll wait to hear from you.’ Armstead hesitated. ‘You’re
sure you’ll be able to contact me?’
‘Minutes after it happens,’ promised Pagano, ‘I’ll be on my way across the frontier into France, by the same way we smuggled the weapons in - underground. I have a phone reserved. I’ll report to you immediately.’
(1982) The Almighty Page 16
