The Miracle

by Irving Wallace

  Eyes on the traffic, concentrating, because this was no time for an accident, he asked Juha, "Identification confirmed?"

  "Confirmed. Minister Luis Bueno himself right there."

  Hurtado was jubilant. "We're on target. We blast him tomorrow. Good work, Julia. Thanks."'

  "You're welcome."

  For a short while he drove in silence. "What took you so long?"

  "I'll tell you—" But she did not tell him more until the Seat Panda had attained the Gran Via, and they were rolling along the sweeping boulevard. "Fascinating thing," she said. "I heard one of Bueno's bodyguards talking about it to some official, so I hung around to listen. It seems that Bueno had a call from a Spanish journalist in Paris yesterday. A French Catholic cardinal held a press conference. He had an announcement to make about Lourdes."

  "Lourdes? What about it?"

  "They just found Saint Bernadette's diary. The Virgin Mary told her that She would reappear in Lourdes this very year, in about three weeks, I think. Interesting, isn't it?"

  "Not especially. What's more interesting is the news we'll give the world tomorrow."

  "Maybe," said Julia uncertainly, feeling in her purse for a cigarette. "Anyway, this news made our friend Luis Bueno very happy. Even with the solemnity of Mass, he couldn't hold back his pleasure. I'd never seen him smile that broadly before. In fact, he was reading the Lourdes story when he went into church."

  "Yeah, I saw him reading the paper," said Hurtado. He spun the wheel of the Seat Panda off" the Gran Via and headed for their apartment. "Can't wait to tell the others it's on. They've probably got the dynamite by now. Tonight we'll place it, and tomorrow morning the big bang."

  Ten minutes later, Hurtado led the way up the hall to their apartment. He felt good about the apartment, the building, the neighborhood. Despite the cost, it was worth every peseta because it was safe. This was an upper middle-class neighborhood, white collar, and therefore attracted fewer informers or grises, the Spanish security police.

  At the door, Hurtado could hear the television playing inside. "They must have got the explosives," he whispered to Julia as he took out his key and let them in. The room was darkened, the curtains drawn, the lights off, obviously to make television viewing better. Hurtado turned on the overhead lights, and to his surprise he saw seated in the armchair not one of his commandos but the husky, rough-hewn figure of Augustin Lopez, their leader and the ETA president

  from San Sebastian. Lopez had straggly eyebrows and fiill mustache, a lined, leathery wide face with a jagged scar along one cheek. At first, devoting himself to the television program, he did not look up.

  "Why, hello, Augustin, what brings you here? This is unexpected."

  Even more surprising was Lopez's attire. He was actually wearing a suit and a tie. Hurtado could not remember when he had seen his leader dressed up before.

  With a grunt and the movement of a big bear, Lopez pushed himself out of the armchair, acknowledging Hurtado and Julia, reaching down to turn off the television set. As their leader returned to the armchair, and busied himself lighting a cigar, Hurtado followed him.

  "You've come at the right moment to hear good news," said Hurtado. "We've just finished our final check on Luis Bueno. We know he'll be going to Mass tomorrow morning at nine, following the same route and procedure he has followed for ten days. We're set to assassinate the pig in the morning." Hurtado glanced around the room. "Where are the others?"

  Lopez drew on his cigar. "I sent them home to San Sebastian," said Lopez calmly, "one in the panel truck with the explosives, the other on the Talgo Express with the detonating device."

  Hurtado blinked, uncertain that he had heard right. "You what?"

  "I sent them both back to San Sebastian," said Lopez. "I'm sending you and Julia back today. That's what I came here to tell you."

  "What the hell," said Hurtado, bewildered. "I don't understand. What about our operation tomorrow—?"

  Lopez remained unperturbed. "There will be no operation tomorrow," he stated matter-of-factly. "It has been cancelled—or at least temporarily postponed."

  Hurtado stepped closer to his leader. "Hey, what are you talking about? What's going on here?"

  "Let me tell you," said Lopez, lighting his cigar again.

  'There's nothing to tell," said Hurtado. "We're all set—"

  Julia had gripped the sleeve of Hurtado's jacket. "Mikel, give Augustin a chance to explain."

  "He'd better explain," snapped Hurtado.

  Augustin Lopez straightened in his chair. He was not a man of many words, but now he mustered the words to relate what had happened. "Yesterday, in San Sebastian, I had a telephone call from Madrid, from the minister himself, Luis Bueno. He wanted to see me at once. He wanted to have a preliminary talk about Basque autonomy. He wanted to see me at his home this morning before he went to church."

  Hurtado was astounded. "You saw Luis Bueno?"

  "For the first time, yes. Until now we had always communicated through intermediaries. But this time he wanted to do so in person. So I met with him for an hour. It was the first time, also, I ever found him ready to discuss our nationalist cause and our autonomy."

  To Hurtado this was beyond belief. It was something that he would never have been able to imagine. "He discussed our freedom with you?" said Hurtado. A dark suspicion crept in. "Or did he have word of our assassination plan?"

  Lopez shook his head. "He had not even a suspicion of that. It was our freedom he wanted to talk about." Lopez placed his burning cigar on the edge of an ashtray. "It had to do with negotiating our freedom. Luis Bueno is, as you know, an extremely religious man. When he heard about the announcement in Paris yesterday, about the expected return of the Virgin Mary to the grotto in Lourdes—or have you heard about that?"

  "Everyone's heard," said Hurtado irritably. "What's that got to do with us?"

  "Shh, Mikel," said Julia tugging his sleeve once more. "Let Augustin speak."

  "Apparently, it has very much to do with us and our future," continued Lopez. "Bueno was extremely and deeply moved by the announcement of the reappearance of the Virgin Mary. He believes it will happen, and if it does, he believes it will be a sign that Christ wants him, and all those in positions of power, to show more charity on earth. Therefore, with the coming of the Virgin Mary, Bueno will release all Basque political prisoners, proclaim a broad amnesty, and initiate a series of formal talks here and in Bilbao to resolve the Basque problem. These talks, he promised me, will lead to some form of autonomy for us, something satisfactory to both sides." Lopez took up his cigar, waved it. "So, in the light of this real possibility, this reasonableness— and there was every indication that Bueno was sincere—I decided that I should indefinitely postpone any further violent actions."

  Hurtado had been fidgeting throughout the recital. He spoke at last. "Augustin, I have always had the greatest respect for your counsel, your judgment, but about this matter I must express my doubts. Surely, you don't trust Luis Bueno, do you?"

  "I do. I must. This is the first time the government has offered to negotiate. If we can resolve this through negotiation, it would be the most satisfactory means to a happy end."

  "That bastard is just buying time, trying to soften us up," insisted Hurtado. "Augustin, this Madrid operation was your plan. You had lost

  patience with them. Now, after weeks of planning, days of work, we have everything in order. The operation can be our greatest success. It will make the King see how strong we are, how determined, and that we must be dealt with as equals. Augustin, I implore you, recall the others and the equipment."

  "No," said Lopez with finality. "If we can achieve autonomy without bloodshed, all the better. We are not killers. We are patriots. If the enemy wants to give us our freedom peacefully, we must allow him the opportimity."

  Hurtado would not let go. "What you're saying is we may not be killers—and what I am saying is that they are. They are oppressors and ruthless murderers who cannot be trusted. I w
ill not forget what they did to my family—that raid—killing my father, my uncle, my cousin in one night, simply because of their anti-Falangist pamphlets."

  Lopez stood up, a giant presence. "That was under Franco. This may be a new day."

  "New day?" said Hurtado loudly. "Bueno was a Franco puppet."

  "Mikel," Julia interrupted, "maybe he's right. Give it a chance. For all the violence, you've never killed a man before. It's worth the risk to avoid that."

  Mikel turned on her furiously. "Who asked you? What do you know about killing."

  "I know it's a sin."

  "I have already killed him in my heart, for what that's worth. I am not afraid to do what has to be done." He turned to Lopez. "Bueno is a murderer. The leopard does not change his spots. He is no different from before."

  "I am guessing he is different, both mellowed and excited by the miracle he expects to happen at Lourdes. I am betting that the possibility of the miracle has wrought a change in him, and if it happens, the change will be permanent. To our benefit."

  "What if the miracle doesn't happen?"

  "Then we would have to reassess matters. And see how Bueno behaves toward us. Let's wait for the happening at Lourdes. Let's wait and see."

  Lopez started across the room to the door, but Hurtado was at his heels, angrily mocking him. "Wait and see, wait and see," Hurtado shouted. "The Virgin Mary, that lousy cave, that's all bullshit. I was raised a Catholic like my father. Where did it get him, get any of us? Bueno's God is not my God. I won't recognize a God that allows oppression and genocide. Dammit, Augustin, come to your senses. Don't let us be handcuffied by their God. Nothing will happen in

  Lourdes, and nothing will be changed for us. Their tactic is to pacify us, slow us down, splinter us, bring resistance to a halt. Bueno hasn't guaranteed you autonomy. He's guaranteed you only talks, more talks, more wind. I beg you not to fall for it. We must go ahead with our plan. The language of bombs is the only language they understand and respect."

  Lopez stopped at the door. "Mikel, the answer is still No. As of now, for the time being, all plans of violence are suspended. We will listen for a different language, the language of the Virgin Mary. I will see you in San Sebastian."

  The leader opened the door and left.

  Hurtado swayed on his feet, almost apoplectic with rage and frustration.

  After a few seconds, seething, he whirled about to the table next to the television set, uncapped the bottle of Scotch and slopped a glass full of the whisky. He drank it down in long gulps, glaring at a troubled Julia who had dropped into the armchair.

  Juha began to plead with him, gesticulating with her arms. "Mikel, maybe Augustin is right. He has always been right before. Maybe there are better ways than bombs to settle things. Let's wait and see."

  "You, too," said Hurtado, swallowing the last of his raw whisky, and filling the tumbler once more. "Another Catholic nut waiting to see what? Waiting for the Virgin Mary to show up in some damn grotto and give us the freedom we deserve? Is that what we're waiting to see—the damn Virgin in the goddam grotto—a miracle that will tell that bastard Bueno to free Euskadi? Is that what is holding us up, stopping us dead?" He was drinking steadily, almost done with the second glass of straight whisky.

  He set the glass down with a clatter and turned on Julia. "No," he rasped, "now I'm the one saying No. I won't let that happen. I'm putting an end to this nonsense."

  He wove his way toward the bedroom.

  "Mikel," Juha called out, "where are you going?"

  "To the telephone, and don't interrupt me. I'm calling San Sebastian, my mother, and telling her to get hold of her priest and have him put me on one of the Spanish pilgrimages to Lourdes as soon as he can."

  Julia was filled with disbelief. "You—you're going to Lourdes?"

  Hurtado held himself steady in the doorway. "I'm going to Lourdes," he said thickly. "That's where I'm going. You know what I'm going to do there? I'm going to blow up the goddam grotto, blast the whole shrine to smithereens—so the Virgin'll have no place to show

  up and Bueno'll have nothing to wait for—and there'll be no more

  reason to stop us from going ahead with our plans."

  Juha had jumped to her feet, eyes filled with fright. "Mikel, you

  don't mean it!"

  "Watch me. I'll blow that grotto into a million pieces."

  "Mikel, you can't! It would be a terrible sacrilege."

  "Comrade sister, there's only one sacrilege. Letting that fucking

  Bueno stall us, sidetrack us, and keep us in bondage. When I'm through

  there'll be no more grotto, no more miracles, and no more Basque

  slavery. No more, ever."

  Lourdes

  Liz Finch was walking slowly up the twisting Avenue Bernadette Soubirous, which she assumed was one of the main thoroughfares of Lourdes, and she was stunned by what met her eye. Walking, she tried to think of the tawdriest honky-tonk streets she had ever visited. Several came to mind right away:

  Forty-second Street in New York, Hollywood Boulevard in Los Angeles, the streets leading to the birthplace of Jesus, in Bethlehem. They had been tawdry enough, but somehow for crass commercialism, cheap commercialism, sheer vulgarity, this street in Lourdes surpassed them all.

  She recalled, from her preparatory homework done in Paris, what Joris Karl Huysmans, the French Catholic novelist, had written upon seeing Lourdes. She drew her notes out of her purse, and found the Huysmans quote: "The ugliness of everything one sees here ends by being unnatural, for it falls below the known low-water marks. ... At Lourdes there is such a plethora, such a flux, of base and bad taste that one cannot get away from the idea of an intervention of the Most Base."

  Amen, brother, she thought, as she continued to walk along in a daze.

  Liz Finch had purposely arrived in Lourdes a day early, on this hot Saturday afternoon, August 13, before additional crowds of pil-

  grims began to descend on the town the following day, the beginnmg of the much-publicized Holy Reappearance Time. For her assignments in unfamiliar cities, Liz Finch always tried to arrive twenty-four hours before an occasion, to get the feel of the community, to get some leads, to map out a plan for what she was to do.

  It had been an eleven-kilometer ride from the airport to Lourdes, and not scenic at all except for the vineyards and cornfields, the usual outcropping of flamboyant French billboards, and some roadside cafes with unexpected religious names.

  Her immediate impression of Lourdes itself was the meanness of it, the countless shops, cafes, hotels crammed together on a narrow street that twisted downhill toward a river. She had to remind herself that it was really a small town of 20,000 inhabitants, yet it accommodated 5,000,000 tourists annually in its 402 hotels and numerous outlying campsites.

  Suddenly, she found herself being discharged before her own hotel, something identified on a marble overhang as the hOtel gallia & LONDRES, its front jutting out to the sidewalk of a busy thoroughfare. Liz had followed her taxi driver, who was carrying her two bags, between columns through a dark entry flanked by souvenir shops, and found herself inside a broad, bright, rather sizable reception lobby. After paying the driver, she had gone to the plump young blond lady waiting behind the wide reception counter, paneled in wood with inlaid marble squares, and registered.

  Liz had not bothered to accompany her bags up to her room, or to inspect the room itself—whatever it was would have to do, because in the coming eight days Lourdes would be entertaining one of the largest mobs of pilgrims and tourists in its history.

  As soon as possible, Liz had wanted to take a stroll along the gaudy street she had seen from the taxi. She was told that to obtain an overview of the town, upon leaving the hotel lobby she should turn left, walk the length of the Avenue Bernadette Soubirous, and then proceed up the Rue de la Grotte. That was it, the main street.

  And now, for ten minutes, she had been doggedly walking uphill, and it was a horror. Maybe, for people of pie
ty, people seeking remembrances of Lourdes to take home, it was promising and attractive. But for anyone with a cold, unblinking, and sophisticated eye, like Liz Finch, it was a horror.

  Side by side, unrelentingly, without break, both sides of the narrow street were lined with hotel entrances, cafes, small restaurants, and souvenir shops. The hotels, some advertising garages, ranged from the Grand Hotel de la Grotte to the Hotel du Louvre. The outdoor cafe

  with their inevitable whitewashed statues of the Virgin Mary set in niches above the entries and their bright wicker chairs on the sidewalk, bore such names as Caft Jeanne d'Arc, Cafe au Roi Albert, Cafe le Carrefour and featured, in four or five languages, quick meals of hot dogs, pizza, steaks, French fried potatoes, croque-monsieurs, sweet cakes, ices. Cokes, beer. The restaurants, usually located beneath hotels, displayed their prix-fixe menus prominently outside.

  But what made Liz Finch's head swim were the endless open-fronted souvenir shops with glass cases abutting the sidewalks, with even more cases in their dim interiors. Liz stopped at several—Con-frerie de la Grotte, A la Croix du Pardon, Saint-Francis, Magasin de la Chapelle -- and browsed through their wares. Almost everything was exploitive of the historic happenings at Lourdes -- mostly there were plastic bottles in all sizes, many shaped like a statue of the Virgin Mary, to contain the curative water; thin square cardboard shields to slip over long candles; copper frying pans decorated with portraits of Bernadette; tiny imitation grottoes lit by batteries; countless rosaries and crucifixes; ceramic dishes emblazoned with the word "Lourdes"; plaques bearing religious homihes; posters and leather purses and wallets, all reproducing the figure of either Bernadette or the Virgin Mary; and worst of all, white pieces of candy (called "Pastilles Malespine") with tiny engravings of the Virgin in the center and guaranteed to be made with water from the grotto.

  Really, it was shocking, the vulgarity of it, Liz Finch told herself, and no wondrous event could redeem this low-grade cheapness.