No problem. None whatsoever.
When the guard was out of sight once more, Hurtado hurried down off the ramp, and silently as possible made his way around the comer of the church to the grotto. Again, there was not a human being in sight. The pilgrims slept in their beds through the night and early morning hours, and the grotto was abandoned.
Hastening past the benches and the tiers of burning waxen candles, Hurtado did not give the grotto a second look. He went to the grassy slope beside it, trying to find the best way to climb up the steep incline. He did not want to take the regular path, the one that led to the top of the hill much farther on. Fortunately, there was the semblance of a worn path, overgrown, that earlier adventurous visitors had trodden in making their way toward the basilicas for a view of the extent of the domain below. Having come to a midpoint in the hill, parallel to the statue of the Virgin in the niche overlooking the grotto, Hurtado cut to his left, going crabwise toward the niche so that he could examine it close-up and consider the practicahty of planting the dynamite and running the wiring off.
Now that part of it was done, every aspect studied with care, and he was crawling upward again, into the more thickly wooded area, hunting for an obscure but perfect spot where he could set his detonator. In less than ten more minutes he had found the spot he wanted, a natural depression in the earth beside the broad base of a leafy oak tree. He marked it carefully in his mind. He would be ready tomorrow night.
He brought his wristwatch with its luminous dial up to his face in the darkness. The time was right to leave. The guard would already be departing the immediate area of the church and walking away on his circuit of the domain.
On his feet once more, a trifle uneasy about the shppery footing, Hurtado slowly made his way downward until the tops of the burning candles came in view. Cautiously, before crawling down the rest of the
way, he bent forward to see if the area in front of the grotto was still devoid of life.
It was.
It wasn't! His heart skipped a beat. Someone was there.
Crouching at his high perch, holding onto the branch of a stunted tree, he tried to focus on the figure below. The figure, he could make out, was that of a young woman with dark hair, wearing black glasses, on her knees in a position of prayer. Her hands were clasped at her breast, and apparently she was silently praying before the grotto. There was something about her, the lack of movement, the stillness of her person, that indicated she was praying fervently, in a trancelike state. There was also something about her that Hurtado found vaguely familiar, as if he had seen her somewhere before. Then it came to him -- the dark hair and black glasses—the girl he had seen leaving the room next to his own at the hotel during the dinner hour last night. But to be here alone, at this ungodly hour, holding communion with the Virgin Nfary really exceeded religious fanaticism.
Also, her presence hampered his own plan to leave the area. The one thing he could not risk was being detected by anyone. He would have to remain in hiding until she had ceased petitioning the Virgin and departed.
He continued to stare down at the immobile, entranced young woman, when suddenly she began to move, or rather her body involuntarily moved. She seemed to be swaying, leaning sideways, and then she toppled over, collapsed on the ground and lay unconscious. Obviously, succumbing to religious ecstasy, she had fainted. Now she lay crumpled on the ground, as inert as if she were dead.
Instinctively, Hurtado wanted to scramble down the hill—or at least crawl down as swiftly as possible—and go to her aid. But if she became conscious, and he was revealed to her, she might be able to recognize and identify him later when suspects were sought after the explosion. Caught between the desire to help and the fear of danger, Hurtado wished the security guard would return and spot her and revive her. But the watchman would not be returning for another twenty minutes, and he would be passing at some distance from the grotto area, and might overlook her inert figure.
As the inner debate continued to worry Hurtado's mind, something unexpected happened below.
A second figure had appeared, on the run, a young man, going directly to the woman who had fainted before the grotto, and quickly kneeling beside her. He was making an effort to revive her, rubbing her limp wrists, patting her cheeks, pulling her up to a sitting position. At
last she moved her head, shaking it, regaining consciousness. The man continued speaking to her, until she finally nodded. The man jumped to his feet, bounded to the water spigots, collected some water in a cupped hand, and hastened back to her. He dabbed the water on her face with a handkerchief, and at once she was fully conscious and speaking. The man was helping her to her feet, and on her feet she seemed completely revived, yet confused in some way. There was something odd about the way she reached out a hand, as if trying to feel her way, before the young man took a grip on her arm and led her from the grotto.
It was during this that Hurtado realized the woman who had been praying so fervently at the grotto was probably blind. Trying to recall the moment he had set eyes on her at the hotel, Hurtado remembered that he had thought then that she was blind. He had completely forgotten it.
Hurtado cursed beneath his breath. Her affliction meant that she would not have seen him if he had chosen to leave the area fifteen minutes earher. Now he was uncomfortably stuck on the hillside near the grotto until the pair had gone, and the guard had come again and gone once more. Hurtado watched the couple leaving. He tried to understand their relationship. She had undoubtedly told her boyfriend that she was going to the grotto by herself, and had made an appointment with him to pick her up at a certain time, and he had come to get her just after she had fainted.
The pair was gone now. But the guard could be seen at a distance on his patrol. Gradually, Hurtado began to crawl down the hillside, to be ready to depart once the guard was out of the way.
Near the bottom of the hill, Hurtado waited for the guard to have his smoke, and to start patrolling again. Seven or eight minutes passed, and Hurtado knew that the man would now be on his long amble around the domain. Hurtado carefully picked his way down the remainder of the hill and was relieved to be on level terra firma once more.
Satisfied with his exploration, despite the delay, and pleased that everything was set for his final act, which would bring the Basque nationalists closer to success, he strode hurriedly past the eerie grotto and the towering Upper Basihca, and made for the street ramp and the Hotel Gallia & Londres.
Leading the grateful girl—he had learned her name was Natale and that she was Italian (the best kind)—into the hotel lobby, ignoring the reception desk that he had left unattended, Anatole took her to the elevator that was waiting. She thanked him for the hundredth time, and
insisted that she could make it up to her room by herself, but he was equally insistent that he wanted to escort her safely to her room.
Going up in the elevator with her, Anatole was pleased with this lucky break. After she had left the hotel, he had intended to go back behind the desk and resume his nap. But all interest in sleep had vanished. His mind had been filled with images of the girl, those tits, that ass, undressing her, putting it into her, and his erection had not abated. At last, he had determined to seek her out at the grotto, speak to her, try to seduce her. He had convinced himself that she might want a warm body, a French lover, and that she might be impressed by his pursuit of her in the early hours of the morning. His intention had been to encourage her to invite him to her room or to invite her to his own room several blocks away from the Gallia & Londres, for a few drinks and finally some real lovemaking. But finding her in a faint, being the big hero who had saved her, had been more than he had counted on. Now he had her gratefulness, and this would make her vulnerable. He knew that he need but ask her if he could stay the night, and he would have her immediate compliance.
His erection, briefly down, was growing once more.
The elevator had stopped and they were on the second floor. "Let me see you to yo
ur room," Anatole said. "What's the number again?"
"You needn't bother. I know my way."
"Well, I've brought you this far, so let me get you to where you're going. The number?"
"Room 205," she said.
At the door of the room, she fished inside her purse, found her key, and put it in the lock.
Aware of his continued presence, she said, "Thank you."
She unlocked the door, pushed it open, and went inside. He followed her, shutting the door behind him.
"I thought I'd see you safely inside," he said.
"You have," she said. "I appreciate it."
"Are you all right?" he asked.
"I'm fine. I'd better get to sleep. Thank you again." She put out her hand, and taking it, feeling the warm flesh of her hand, he was further aroused.
He held her hand tightly. "Any time," he said quietly. Abruptly, he pulled her to him, and pressed his rough lips against hers, kissing her hard. She struggled, tearing herself free.
She was breathing fast. "What are you doing?" she gasped.
"Natale, I just wanted to kiss you. I—I'd like to stay here tonight."
"You can't. I don't want anything like that. Now please go."
"Come on, be a sport, Natale. You owe me. Don't you want to do something for me? Sure you do."
"Not that," she said, her voice rising. "I don't owe you that." She tried to contain herself. "You were nice to me, and I appreciate it, but now you're not being so nice, and I don't like it. I'd suggest you not cause any trouble. Just be a gentleman and leave right now."
"All right, you win," he said with mock contriteness. "But you are something special, so don't blame me for trying. Sorry it didn't work out. Good-night."
"Good-night," she said with finality.
Anatole walked to the door, opened it noisily, and then banged it shut firmly, but remained in the bedroom. Soundlessly, he eased himself against the wall beside the closed door.
She stood at the foot of her bed a few moments, sagging with relief. Then with a sigh, she felt her way along the bed to the closet, reached inside for her white nightgown and threw it on the bed.
Anatole held his breath, wondering whether or not she was aware that he was still in the room.
Then he was sure that she was not aware of him, was certain that he had left and that she was quite alone.
Through narrowed eyes, he watched her. She had unbuttoned her dress and was pulling it off. She was wearing only a flimsy brassiere and tight string bikini briefs now. She turned away from him to hang her dress in the closet, and then stepped back to the bed, unhooking her bra. The bra was off now and those fantastic firm breasts, with the great brown buttons of nipples, bobbed free, were facing him. She was reaching down to take off her panties. He caught his breath, his heart hammering with excitement, and the bulge at his crotch about to burst.
Her bikini panties were coming down now, she was lifting one bare leg and then the other to step out of them, and the triangle of curly pubic hair was visible, and Anatole was out of control, unable to restrain himself a second longer.
He zipped open the fly of his trousers, let his full erection burst out, and charged across the bedroom toward her.
Mikel Hurtado, having left the elevator at the second floor, proceeded down the corridor toward room 206. He had just passed the door of 205, and was nearing his own door, when he heard a muffled scream, a scream from somewhere nearby.
Startled, Hurtado halted in his tracks, listening intently.
Another mufiled drawn-out scream, high-pitched, a woman's, and definitely from inside the room next door to his.
Next door. The blind girl, the blind girl at the grotto. The beginning of another scream, abruptly choked off. Something was going on in there, something terribly wrong, and Hurtado did not bother to think, did not hesitate.
Whirling around, he rushed back to the door of 205. He could clearly hear scuffling. He had grabbed at the doorknob, meaning to grip it and heave himself against the door to break it down, when the door, unlocked, flew open.
Hurtado was inside the room.
Instantly, he saw what was happening—the young girl naked on the bed, beating with her fists, as some animal, the palm of one hand clamped over her mouth, trousers half down, was trying to get on top of her and between her legs.
Rape, savage attempted rape, was what Hurtado saw. Neither of them on the bed, in their struggle, was aware that someone else was in the room.
Enraged by what he was seeing, in a mindless fury at what the monster was trying to do to this helpless girl, Hurtado hurtled himself across the room to the bed. His hands clutched at the assailant's shoulders, yanking him off the girl, and throwing him on the floor. Anatole, stunned by surprise, scrambled to his feet, hampered by the trousers around his ankles, too amazed to lift his hands. Hurtado was on Anatole in a single motion, driving his right fist to the assailant's jaw and smashing his left fist into the rapist's abdomen. As Anatole groaned, doubling up, Hurtado unleashed more punches, battering the other's head and face. Anatole began to crumple, and Hurtado kept landing his pile-driver punches.
Anatole lay sprawled on the rug, half senseless, blood trickling from his mouth.
Hurtado reached down, hooked his hands under the man's arms and dragged him across the room and through the doorway into the hall. There, he dropped the dazed rapist. Briefly, Hurtado considered whether he should summon the police, but quickly decided against it. He wanted no contact with any police while he was in Lourdes.
Instead, he kicked the rapist in the ribs, and in a low voice, so as not to awaken any guests, he warned him. "You get out of here, you fucking bastard, you get out of here and get out fast, or I'll grind you into a meatball."
With effort, fright showing in his puffed eyes, Anatole climbed to his feet clutching his trousers, dribbling blood and nodding. He turned, almost tripping, and staggered toward the staircase. Snatching at the rail, he plunged down the stairs and out of sight.
Hurtado grunted, and slowly went back into the girl's bedroom. She was standing in a bathrobe, tying the sash, and groping for her dark glasses on the bed and putting them on.
"Don't worry, senorita, he's gone," Hurtado said in Spanish. She asked him something in Italian. He said in English, "I don't understand Italian. You speak English?"
"Yes, English . . . Did you call the police?" she asked, still trembling.
"Not necessary," Hurtado said. "He won't be back. I think he's the fellow who works as a night receptionist downstairs. But I'm sure he won't be back on the job or even stay in town. Are you okay?"
"Just scared," she said.
"Don't blame you," Hurtado said. "That's an awful thing to have happen. How did it happen?"
She explained what had taken place, how she had gone down to the grotto by herself to pray, how the spiritual intensity had made her faint, how this person had come out of nowhere to revive her and bring her back to her room, how he'd tricked her into believing that he had left the room when he had actually remained inside determined to rape her.
"Thank God for you," she concluded. "How you got in here in time I don't know, but I owe you a lot."
"It was sheer luck," Hurtado said matter-of-factly. "I was out for a late night walk, was coming back to my room to go to sleep—I have the bedroom next to yours—when I heard you scream. I was going to break in to see what was happening, but the door had been left unlocked." He paused. "Are you better now?"
"Much better," she said with a wonderful smile. She came hesitantly around the bed toward him, stumbling once, righting herself, apologizing. "I—I'm blind, you know."
"I know," he said.
She put out her hand. "I'm Natale Rinaldi, from Rome."
He took her hand, shook it, released it. "I'm Mikel Hurtado," he said, "from—from Spain."
"Pleased to know you," she said, "to put it mildly. Are you here for the Virgin?"
He hesitated. "For a cure, an arthritic condition."
"Maybe both of us will be fortunate."
"I hope so," he said.
"Well, I don't know what more to say except thank you again. Thank you a million times."
"If you really want to thank me," he said sternly, "you can do so
by promising never to let strangers see you to your room -- and by keeping the door locked from the inside from now on."
She held up one hand. "I promise," she said.
"Now you get some sleep, Natale, and I will, too."
"Good-night, Mikel"
"Good-night," he said, and he went through the doorway, closing the door.
He listened for the lock to turn. The lock turned. He put his mouth close to the door, and said, "Good girl."
He heard her say, "I hope we run into each other again."
"We will," he assured her. "Good-night."
At his door, unlocking it, he knew that he wanted to see her again. She was a dehcious girl, so lovely, so sweet. He had never met a young woman quite like her, and he did want to see her again. Maybe he would. But he reminded himself he was here for business not romance.
He must be all business from now on. No diversions. No failure.
Euskadi was his life. The freedom of Euskadi came before anything. There was work to do. Sorry, Natale, he thought. There is only one love, the homeland I've never had, and will have yet.
Behind the steering wheel of her venerable Renault, Gisele Dupree, her blond hair tied in a neat ponytail, her features scrubbed and shiny and without makeup, drove unhurriedly through Tarbes and on the highway toward Lourdes. Sergei Tikhanov sat uneasily in the passenger seat beside her. His uneasiness came from Gisele's disturbing habit of turning toward him when she spoke instead of keeping her eyes on the road.
The Miracle Page 18
