Yet, led by an assistant manager with buck teeth and swallow tails into the hotel’s presidential suite, prepared for Bauer’s arrival the next day, Victoria doggedly determined to make the story possible.
Her notebook was already filled with scribblings about her drive on Route de Ferney to the Hotel Intercontinental, the doorman with black plug hat and emerald green coat and white trousers, the large ground-floor lobby with twin escalators connecting it to the mezzanine with its shops and reception desk (padded counter), and elevators.
Now, from the elevator, she had come to Bauer’s suite. Slowly she wandered through the vast sitting room, the assistant manager beside her babbling away. An awesome room, a majestic one. At the left was a great grouping of two four-cushioned sofas and four deep velour armchairs. To the right, a grand piano and bench, a bar, a table circled with straight-backed chairs, another table bearing an oversized basket heaped with fresh fruit.
When she had finished her inspection and was at the door ready to leave, she looked back once more.
In her mind’s eye, she tried to infuse the suite with life, tried to animate it with Bauer and nuclear conference
delegates in private consultations.
But it didn’t happen. The rich living room remained what it was - a room.
Disgusted, Victoria left the suite and the hotel, embarrassed by what she would have to report to Armstead.
When her Jaguar was returned to her, she tipped the doorman for helping her in behind the wheel, snapped on her seatbelt, and considered the time on the clock dashboard. It was still morning, far too early to telephone Armstead in New York - he would not be in the office yet - and she knew that she had three or four hours of freedom ahead of her. She had planned tomorrow, her day off before the conference, to take a tour of the city. She had the choice of moving that up, doing that now, and then decided against it. She was in the mood for countryside. Her map of Switzerland lay folded on the passenger seat. She opened it. As she scanned it, her focus held on the Geneva-to-Lausanne highway along the lake, labeled Nl, and on instinct she felt that the drive gave promise of being colorful. She started the Jaguar and wheeled away from the Intercontinental to find the Nl.
The leisurely drive outside Geneva did indeed prove to be colorful. Victoria drove at a slackened pace, inhaling the fresh air, taking in the villas built along the lake, the placid small farms, the fruit orchards. After half an hour on the road she had covered only twenty kilometers and found herself in the ancient town of Nyon, which she decided to explore.
She had slowed to a stop at the intersection of the avenues Viollier and Perdtemps, idly casting about for sight of an outdoor cafe where she might pause to have tea, when she thought she saw something - someone - that made her blink.
What she saw was a man sauntering toward, and turning into, a building that might be a hotel - that was a hotel, she could see, a five-story building with a sign reading: hotel des alpes. She had blinked because she thought that she recognized the man, knew him from some other place, and because it was so surprising to see him here in this little-known Swiss town.
She’d had only a glimpse of him at the corner, turning away and entering into the hotel, disappearing from sight. She tried to recall who he was. Her glimpse of him had been of a slender, youngish man, around six feet, a brimmed hat sitting
on a head of dark curly hair, close-set eyes, hooked nose, thick lips, maybe a blemished complexion.
Like a fugitive from an Edward G. Robinson gangster movie.
She had characterized him like that the first time she had met him, and instantly she made the association and had full recognition.
Gus Pagano.
Of course. Gus Pagano, the onetime petty thief and informant whom she had interviewed in New York as her first assignment on the Record.
What was Pagano, of all people, doing in someplace called Nyon, Switzerland?
A horn was honking behind her, and immediately she wanted to park and have a reunion with Pagano. Out of curiosity. Out of a sudden need to talk to someone from faraway who was familiar. Out of desire to have a companion for tea or lunch.
The honking behind her was persisting, and Victoria tried to get her bearings. Then she saw that a parking lot was right at hand, the Place Perdtemps, a huge free parking lot for tourists who had come to visit the chateau that housed a museum down below.
Victoria stepped on the gas pedal, wrenched her Jaguar off the street into the half-empty lot, and pulled into the nearest parking space.
Jumping out of the car, she traversed the lot and the street and entered the Hotel des Alpes.
It was a confined lobby with only three lounge chairs, and a reception desk toward the back. There was no one in the lobby, not Gus Pagano or anyone else. Victoria strode quickly to the reception desk, but this was also empty, unattended. She saw a bell on the counter, obviously to be rung for service, and so she pushed it.
In seconds a swarthy young waiter, possibly Italian, popped out of the adjacent restaurant, sized Victoria up, determined that she was American, and spoke apologetically in English. ‘Forgive me,’ he said. T am waiting on the restaurant tables but I am also the reception clerk today. You wish to register?’
‘No,’ said Victoria. ‘You have a guest here who is a friend of mine. I’d like to see him. Can you tell me his room number?’
The waiter went behind the reception counter, and brought the guest register closer. ‘His name, please?’
‘Mr. Pagano. Gus Pagano. From New York.’
T will see.’ The waiter-clerk went down the open page, turned to the previous page, then to the one before that. ‘Will you spell the name for me, please?’
‘P-a-g-a-n-o. Pagano.’
The young man ran his finger down each page again, shaking his head. ‘Sorry, there is no name Pagano.’
‘Let me see the register,’ Victoria said. He handed it to her. She scanned both pages. No Pagano. Puzzled, she said, T saw him come in here a few minutes ago.’
‘Not registered.’
‘Maybe he was just going to the restaurant?’
‘No, not there. No one has come there for a half hour. Miss, maybe he is just visiting a friend who stays in the hotel. Then, of course, we would not know his name.’
This was a possibility that had not occurred to Victoria. More than a possibility, it was a likelihood. She thanked the young man, and walked out of the Hotel des Alpes lobby. She felt vaguely disappointed. Which was ridiculous, she told herself, because she hardly knew Pagano and could not even remember if she had liked him.
Glancing at her watch as she left the hotel, she decided that it might be best to skip Lausanne and get back to Geneva. She would want a little while to review her notes before telephoning Armstead.
She still dreaded phoning her publisher - when the most exciting sight she had seen today was only another member of his staff, a part-time one at that, in Switzerland on a holiday.
By midafternodn Victoria had made her connection with New York City and was holding the receiver to her ear, waiting for Estelle to put Edward Armstead on the phone.
The loose pages torn from her notebook with their scribbled information on the Hotel Intercontinental were assembled on her lap, and she reviewed them a fourth time, helplessly.
‘This is Armstead. That you, Victoria?’
‘Yes, Mr. Armstead. You wanted me to call you with my notes on the Intercontinental.’
‘You’re right on time, I see. Did you confirm that Anton Bauer is still going to be staying there?’
‘He’s checking in tomorrow.’ She hesitated, and swallowed. ‘Mr. Armstead, I must tell you, I did my very best at the hotel. They gave me every cooperation, a bright assistant manager to show me around -‘
‘I’d expect that. I used to stay there.’
‘- so I’m not complaining about their part. But I must say, Mr. Armstead, despite seeing everything, there’s very little to write about.’
‘Let me be the judge
of that, Victoria.’
‘Yes, of course. I was simply trying to point out - true, it’s a five-star hotel - but really nothing special -‘
‘No special preparations for the UN secretary-general?’
‘Not that I could observe.’
‘Well, you go ahead and dictate what you saw and heard.’
‘Are you going to take down every word of it?’
‘No, don’t worry, young lady. I have Estelle on the line with me. She’ll take what you dictate in shorthand. I’ll stay on the line to listen in, in case I have some questions… Estelle, you ready?’
‘Ready,’ Victoria could hear his secretary say.
‘Okay,’ Armstead said to Victoria, ‘you can dictate - go ahead.’
Victoria held up her notes and began to read them. She described the interior of the Hotel Intercontinental from the shops in the lobby to Anton Bauer’s presidential suite. Several times she faltered, as if to apologize for the blandness of the material that she was dictating. She went on for ten minutes, uninterrupted. At last she was finished.
‘The end,’ she said. ‘You’ve heard all of it.’
‘Thank you,’ said Estelle, and got off the line.
‘You still there, Mr. Armstead?’
‘I’m here, Victoria.’
‘I told you,’ she said hastily, ‘I didn’t think there was much. I don’t know if there’s a story.’
‘It’ll do,’ said Armstead. ‘It’s exactly what I expected. We’ll run a short feature - the secretary-general of the United
Nations in the lap of luxury, while preparing to tackle recalcitrant non-nuclear nations - or we should say part-nuclear nations who threaten to go all the way. Yes, it’ll do.’
Victoria wanted to say that she did not think the angle a very good one, but she held her tongue. She said, ‘I’m glad.’
‘Okay, you’ve done your job. Take tomorrow off, then get back to the opening of the conference for a few sidebars -‘
‘Oh, one silly thing I must tell you, Mr. Armstead,’ she interrupted. T had some time to spare before I could call you, so I took a spin into the Swiss countryside. Guess whom I saw - or thought I saw? One of your employees -‘
‘One of my what? Employees?’
‘Gus Pagano,’ she blurted.
‘Who?’
‘Gus Pagano. Remember the first assignment I had the day after I started on the Record} I was told to talk to one of the informants who worked for the paper. A fellow who had occupied the same cell Yinger occupied later? His name was Pagano.’
T remember. What about him?’
T was out driving in the countryside a few hours ago. I came to a little town named Nyon. There I saw Pagano go into a hotel. I thought I’d say hello, so I went into the hotel. But he wasn’t registered. I thought it was Pagano, - anyway, that’s all unimportant -‘
‘It wasn’t Pagano,’ said Armstead. ‘You’re quite mistaken.’ He chuckled. ‘He could hardly be in two places at the same time. He’s right here in New York. Harry Dietz and I saw him just a half hour ago.’
‘Oops, my goof. I was chasing the wrong man. That could have been pretty awkward. Sorry to bend your ear with such nonsense, Mr. Armstead.’
‘Never mind. Enjoy yourself in Geneva. And stay with the conference. Goodbye.’
For more than a minute Armstead remained motionless in his swivel chair. Inside, he was steaming.
He pressed the button of his intercom. ‘Harry?’
‘Yes, sir, Mr. Armstead.’
‘Come right in here,’ Armstead ordered. T want to see you.’
Harry Dietz materialized in Armstead’s office almost at once, his chalky countenance perplexed.
‘Anything wrong, Chief?’
‘Anything wrong?’ Armstead exploded. ‘That fucker, Pagano, almost blew the ball game.’
Dietz came forward, more perplexed than ever. ‘What do you mean?’
‘That idiot, Pagano, he was seen in the town where he’s staying -‘
‘Nyon.’
‘Whatever. He wasn’t supposed to be seen.’
‘But how -?’
‘One of our staff, the Weston girl - she was out taking a drive, eating up time before calling here. She got to Nyon, and there she saw Pagano. He was going into his hotel. She parked and chased after him. Luckily, she couldn’t find him. Luckily, too, he wasn’t registered.’
‘He’s registered as James Ferguson.’ Dietz seemed to be thinking. He wagged his head slowly. T don’t know, boss, I don’t know if it’s a good idea to have both of them out there -Weston and Ramsey, even if they’re in different places. Something like this can always happen again -‘
‘I need them there,’ Armstead insisted. ‘They’re useful. The material they’ve been digging up helps. This run-in was a wild coincidence. If Pagano had followed instructions -‘ He slapped his hand on the desk. ‘Harry, you get Pagano for me right away. I’m going to eat his ass out. Before you do, tell Estelle to type up those pages as fast as possible. I’ve got to pass the information on to Pagano. Now get me that fucker on the phone.’
Dietz dashed out of the office.
Soon Armstead heard from Dietz on the intercom. The longdistance circuits were tied up. There would be a short delay.
For twenty minutes Armstead remained in place, constantly drumming his fingers on the desk, gradually building up a head of steam.
When word came through the intercom that Gus Pagano was on hold, Armstead was ready for him.
‘Gus?’ he shouted into the phone.
‘What’s going on, boss?’
‘You goddam idiot, you let yourself be seen!’ Armstead bellowed.
Pagano sounded confused. ‘I don’t get it.’
‘Somebody saw you,’ persisted Armstead, trying to simmer down. ‘Somebody on our staff, one of our reporters -remember the girl, Victoria Weston, who once interviewed you?’
‘Don’t remember.’ Then he did. ‘You mean the good-looking broad who talked to me about Yinger?’
‘She’s the girl on our staff who’s in Switzerland researching the Intercontinental. She was taking a drive, and she got to wherever you are, and she saw you go into your hotel -‘
‘She was in this godforsaken town-?’
‘Sightseeing, dammit. The point is, what in the hell were you doing out in the street in the daytime where you could be recognized? You had your instructions about that.’
‘Listen, boss, let me explain. Cooper -‘
‘Is this a safe line?’
‘Nobody gives a damn about this line. I’m just another crummy tourist here to see the museums. Let me explain. I know my instructions. But Cooper buzzed me from the Hotel Xenia in Geneva and wanted me to case an alternate site for the - the hideout - so I had to leave the hotel -‘
‘He should have known better. Don’t you ever let it happen again.’
‘Well, sometimes I may have to move around-‘
‘Then grow a beard or mustache or some goddam thing. No, there won’t be time. Buy one. Buy a disguise, anything.’
‘Okay, boss.’ He was disbelieving still. ‘You mean that girl really saw me?’
‘She saw you all right and told me so. I was able to persuade her it hadn’t been you. That you were in New York and I’d just been with you. She bought it. So no problem there.’
Pagano sighed with relief. ‘I’ll be more careful from now on.’
‘I’ve got the Intercontinental material for you.’
‘Good. Though I don’t think Cooper will need much of it. He’s already had one of his own men in and out of the place. Anyway, I’ll pass it on to him. Want to give it to me?’
‘One second. Let me get the notes.’
Armstead left his chair and opened the door to his
secretary’s office, holding out his hand. She leaped to her feet with the typed pages and gave them to him. He shut his door and returned to the phone.
‘You set with your pencil?’ asked Armstead.
&n
bsp; ‘All set.’
‘I’ll try to read it to you slowly.’
Lovingly, with care, Armstead read the three and a half pages of typescript aloud. Victoria had done an admirable job and Armstead was pleased.
When he was finished, he inquired, ‘Got it all?’
‘Got it.’
Armstead dropped his voice. ‘Is the event on schedule?’
‘Day after tomorow at the time planned. No change.’
‘I’ll be in the office here. You’ll get word straight to me.’
‘The second I hear, I’ll let you know.’
‘It’s an important one, Gus. Hope they get it right.’
‘They’ll get it right, boss. They can’t afford to get it wrong. Don’t worry.’
But hanging up, Armstead was worried. When news just happened spontaneously you were not involved, except to report it. When you made the news happen, that was another matter, a strain. You had a stake in it, full responsibility.
You had to worry.
It wasn’t all that easy, playing God.
The day after tomorrow in Geneva.
Nine twenty-five in the morning.
The press and visitors’ gallery of the Spanish chamber in the Palais des Nations was jam-packed. Victoria had arrived early to be sure to claim a place at the best vantage point. She had a seat in the front row of the balcony. Bending forward, arms on the brass railing, she once more surveyed the scene in the chamber below. The chamber was crowded with delegates, most in their seats, a few moving about, many of them chattering in many tongues.
It was a colorful spectacle, this polyglot gathering, and Victoria was eager to see the proceedings get underway. As timepieces clicked closer to nine-thirty, more and more of the delegates became attentive to the speaker’s table and the chair that at any moment would be filled by the arrival of
Secretary-General Bauer from his headquarters at the Hotel Intercontinental.
(1982) The Almighty Page 20
