The Miracle

by Irving Wallace

  Hurtado knew that he must reach his room on the second floor before the police did. He must get rid of the explosives.

  Real danger.

  He felt the warm moisture of perspiration on his brow.

  He waited for the elevator.

  Hurtado was inside his room, the door shut behind him, falling against it to control his breath.

  He had poked his head out of the elevator cautiously, praying that the police were not already there. If the police were there, he had made up his mind to get downstairs, get his car, and make a run for it. He might have a head start before they found the dynamite and detonator in his room, and before they issued an all-points bulletin for his arrest. But when he had come out of the elevator, and quickly scanned the second floor corridor, he realized that it was empty and he was momentarily safe. Immediately, he had made a dash for his room, unlocked the door, and thrown himself inside.

  Now, breathing hard, exhaling in gasps, he waited for his body to settle into some degree of normalcy. In these fleeting seconds, he tried to figure out his next move. The first thing to do was to get the explosives and his person out of the room, out of the hotel. But then what? Another hotel? A boarding house? Neither promised any more refuge. He would go for his rented car, drive out of Lourdes to some neighboring town, Pau maybe, and hole up there. He could safely commute to Lourdes, scout the domain, and soon enough the police, empty-handed, would give up their vigil, determining that the anonymous call had been a crank call. The moment the lawmen let down their guard, he would slip in with his explosives and do the job.

  Fuck you, Augustin Lopez, he shouted in his head to his betrayer. I said you couldn't stop me and you won't.

  But ahead of anything else, he had to put distance between himself and the hotel. Flinging himself away from the door, he lifted his suitcase, put it on the bed, and opened it. Then he went for the shopping bag of dynamite, and by maneuvering his sparse effiects around, was able to make room to fit in the explosives. He looked around the room to see if he had missed anything, and then remembered his toothbrush, toothpaste, and shaving kit in the bathroom. He scooped them up, stuffied them into the suitcase, and shut it tight.

  Not another second to lose.

  Lifting the suitcase off" the bed, gripping it, he opened the door and glanced up and down the corridor. Empty. Time was still on his side. Relieved, he went out into the corridor, closed the door, and started swiftly toward the elevator. Reaching the gate, hoping that the elevator would be there, he saw that it was not there but in use by somebody else. No choice then but to take the staircase next to it down the two floors to the lobby. As he moved to the head of the stairs, he heard sounds, the tramping of footsteps ascending from below and a voice addressing someone else. The voice spoke in French. He eased himself

  to the side of the staircase, and peered down into the stairwell. He had the briefest glimpse of blue uniforms one flight below.

  Trapped though he was, Hurtado did not panic. He had escaped at least a half-dozen similar close calls in Spain during his underground years. There was no time to think. There was only his survival instinct. If there was no exit, and no place to hide his suitcase, there might still be one uncertain refuge.

  Hastily, he strode back toward his room, but stopped at the door just before his room, the door numbered 205. He could only hope that she was still inside where he had deposited her after dinner. He could only hope that she had not left to grope her way to the grotto alone once more.

  His knuckles rapped the wood door panel. No reply. About to try again, he thought that he heard some kind of movement behind the door.

  More certainly, he could hear the heavy footsteps off to his left tramping up the steps to the second floor corridor.

  And then he heard Natale's voice on the other side. "Who is it?"

  He tried to keep his voice down, yet above a whisper. Pressing against the door he said urgently, "Natale, it's Mikel—Mikel Hurtado. I—I need your help. Open the door."

  Almost instantly, as the French voices to his left filled the corridor, her door came away. Without another word, he shpped into her bedroom and shut the door, locking it from the inside. He wheeled around and saw her standing a few feet ft-om him, wearing no more than a diaphanous low-cut, sleeveless white nightgown. No dark glasses this time. Just her blank, unseeing eyes fixed in his direction.

  "Mikel," she said, "it is you?"

  "It's me—" He set his suitcase against the wall.

  "You sounded so—you sounded like you were in trouble. Are you all right?"

  He stepped close to her, gripping her bare arm. "I am in trouble, Natale. The local pohce have been alerted that there's a terrorist loose. They're making a room-by-room search of the hotels. They're in this one now. They've just come to this floor. If they find me, a Basque— they might take me for a suspect. Wrongly. But I could be in trouble. I had to find someplace to hide. Is there anyplace in this room I can hide?"

  "Mikel," she said helplessly, "I don't know what's really in this room. What do you see?"

  He'd forgotten her blindness, and now he used his eyes. The room was four ungiving walls. A closet, like the one he'd had, too shallow.

  "Maybe the bathroom," he said, "the shower."

  She was shaking her head. "No. When they come, it's the first place they'll look." Her face came alive. "I know how you can hide. Do as I say, quickly. Take off all your clothes—"

  "What?"

  "Mikel, no matter, I can't see you. Undress, fast. I've undone the bed. Crawl into it. Get beneath the covers and pretend you're asleep. Put your clothes on a chair—"

  "I brought my suitcase."

  "Under the bed."

  He grabbed the suitcase and shoved it out of sight.

  "Are the lights on?" she asked.

  "Yes. The chandelier."

  "Turn it off."

  He turned off the overhead lights. "There's still a dim lamp the other side of the bed."

  "Leave it on. Are you undressing?"

  "I will." He yanked off his corduroy sport jacket. He unbuttoned his shirt and hung it on the nearest chair. Kicking off his shoes, he unbuckled his belt. Awkwardly, he stepped out of his trousers and dropped them on the chair. He stood naked except for his jock shorts and socks.

  "All right," he said, "I'm undressed."

  "Now get into bed. Cover yourself. Close your eyes. Be asleep." He stepped to the bed, had begun to get into it, when he saw her feeling her way along the foot of the bed and around it to the other side.

  She sat down on the side of the bed. "I'm getting into bed with you. We're married. When the police knock, I'll get up and answer. You'll be asleep. Leave the rest to me." She was under the covers beside him, and he could sense her nearness and imagine her body. It would have been erotic, exciting, but he was too tense and worried to allow his mind to be stimulated by it.

  "I have an acute sense of hearing," she whispered, "and I'm sure they're very near. So pretend sleep, and be very still, and don't stir when they knock. Leave everything to Natale. I used to be an actress, you know."

  The suspense was full in his throat, almost gagging him, but he lay there unmoving, playing slumber, and waiting for the knock on the door.

  Perhaps a minute or two had passed in silence.

  And then it came. Three sharp knocks on the door. Three more

  knocks. A male voice speaking French. "Anyone in the room? If so, open the door. It's the police."

  Natale sat up in the bed. "Yes, I'm here," she called out. "I was asleep—"

  "Come, open the door. It is the gendannes. We just want a few words with each of the guests. Nothing to worry about."

  "I'm coming," called out Natale, leaving the bed. "One second."

  Hurtado kept his eyes shut, drawing the blanket up to his chin. He could hear Natale padding around the bed to the door. He could hear the lock turning. He could hear the bedroom door creaking slowly, until a thin shaft of light from the corridor fell across the bottom of
the bed.

  Through the slit of one eye, Hurtado had a glimpse of the confrontation. He could see Natale, in her transparent nightgown, in the partially open doorway, and facing her, towering over her in the corridor two police officers.

  The foremost of the officers, the older one, was speaking to Natale apologetically. "I'm Inspector Fontaine of the Lourdes Commissariat de police, and I'm sorry to disturb you like this, madame. But it is a necessity. We have received a warning that there is a terrorist loose in the city, probably armed, and we must treat it seriously. Now, with the assistance of our police colleagues from Pau and Tarbes, we are making an overnight sweep of Lourdes, searching every hotel."

  Natale had reacted with fright. "A terrorist, you say?"

  "Don't worry, madame, we have many on the search. There is nothing to fear. You are alone here? Or are there others in the room?"

  "Only my poor husband, so exhausted from a long plane trip to join me in Lourdes that he's already fallen asleep. But of course, if you must, you can come in and wake him. Are there many of you to search my room? I can't tell. I can't—I'm unable to -- to—" She had let her helpless voice drift off.

  In the bed, under the blanket, feigning sleep, Hurtado steeled himself for what might happen next. But he guessed, without being able to look, that Natale had somehow indicated her condition.

  He listened. Apparently she had, for he heard a second and diffcr-ent male voice, higher pitched, probably the first policeman. "Inspector, I believe the young woman is blind."

  Natale was confirming this sadly. "Yes, I'm afraid I am. I've come to Lourdes to seek help from the Virgin. Nevertheless, you can—"

  The inspector's voice broke in. "Never mind, madame. Forgive us." He tried to be jocular. "I'm sure you're not our terrorist person."

  "Nor is my husband," Natale said coolly.

  "Neither of you, I'm certain," said the inspector. "Sorry to have awakened you. Just doing our duty. You can go back to sleep now. Sorry to have disturbed you. We'll be moving on to finish the rest of the floor. Good-night, madame."

  Hurtado heard them march off, opened his eyes as Natale shut and locked the door. In the semidarkness he watched her navigate around the bed once more and waited as she crawled under the blanket.

  "How was that?" she asked proudly.

  He rolled onto his back, pushing the blanket off his chin. "Bravo, you were wonderful, Natale." He added, "I never attended a better performance."

  From her pillow, she was smiling. "It was easy. It didn't need much acting. Others are always embarrassed and uneasy when they confront someone who is blind." She paused. "Are you?"

  "Embarrassed and uneasy? Of course not."

  "No, not that—I meant, are you the one they are after, Mikel? Are you some sort of terrorist?"

  "I'm not quite what the word implies. But the pohce might think so. What I am really—"

  "You needn't tell me."

  "—is a fighter for the freedom of my homeland, the Basque homeland presently in Spain." His eyes held on her delicate pale face framed by the spread of her shiny raven hair on the pillow. "Are you afraid of me?" he asked.

  "How can I be afraid of someone who saved me from a rapist?"

  "It was natural to want to protect you. I'd never let anyone hurt you."

  "In the same way, I'd never let anyone hurt you."

  "You're marvelous, Natale." He lifted himself on an elbow. "I want to thank you once more." He leaned toward her, to peck a kiss on her cheek, but at that moment her head moved and the kiss found her full soft lips.

  Quickly, he pulled away. Throwing his part of the blanket aside, he abruptly sat up.

  "What are you doing, Mikel?"

  "I'd better get dressed and leave you alone. I'll be on my way."

  "Mikel—" She had reached out, fumbling for his bare arm, holding it. "You can't. It's still too dangerous. Where would you go?"

  "I'm not sure yet, but I'd better leave you."

  "No," she said, gripping his arm more firmly, "you needn't. You might be stopped in the corridor, in the lobby, in the town. I won't have

  you risk it. You can stay here until morning, and then see if it is safe. If it isn't yet, you can stay with me until it is safe."

  Hurtado hesitated. "Well . . ."

  "Please."

  His hand covered hers. "Well, maybe -- maybe I could just sleep on the floor."

  "Don't be foolish. You can stay right here in bed with me."

  Briefly, Hurtado was bewildered by her invitation and her frankness. It was not the way with women he had known in his country. He said quietly, "Are you sure you can trust me?"

  She said simply, "Are you sure I want to trust you?" She removed her hand from his arm, took the fringe of the blanket and threw it off" her. She sat up and then in what seemed a single gesture, lifted her nightgown, drew it over her head and luxurious hair, and flung the nightgown aside. She faced in his direction, utterly naked, her small but full nippled breasts exposed to him, the fold in her soft stomach, the generous thighs, with only the upper portion of her pubic hair visible.

  He sat speechless, unable to move.

  "Mikel, what is it? Does my blindness inhibit you?"

  "God, no—"

  "Because it need not. In love, I don't have to see. Feehng is enough."

  Her arms were outstretched, and he tore off" his shorts, came to his knees, and fell into her arms, embracing her.

  His entire body was shaking as he pressed to her, and she felt it. "You are shivering, Mikel," she said. "Why? Because of the police?"

  "Because of you, it's you," he gasped, holding her tightly, feeling the hardness of her nipples, conscious of his own growing hardness.

  Her mouth was at his ear. "Don't worry about virginity," she whispered. "I—I'm not exactly one—there were youthftil episodes, but child's play. I've never made love with a man, a beautiful man."

  "I—I'm not anything," he tried to tell her m a strangled voice.

  Her fingertips were passing over his face. "For me you are beauti-fiil, what I want." His hand guided her hand over his features, continued to guide her hand as her fingers touched his neck and the soft hairs of his chest. When his hand released her fingers, her hand continued downward on its own. "You are young and strong and wonderfiil," she whispered, her breath catching.

  Her warm fingers had found his hard erection, and her warm fingers curled aroimd his penis.

  "You want me," she whispered breathlessly.

  "I want you, darling—more than anything in the world—I want you . . ."

  "Love me," she whispered, sinking back on the bed and into the pillow, and drawing him down with her, atop her. "Love me, darling Mikel."

  Her knees had come up, and her legs had spread, and he reached to touch the long stretch of sweet pubic hair, to caress the distended clitoris, to find the wetness between her legs.

  His penis was swollen larger and stiffer than he had ever known it, and he guided it to the moist vulva, and easily slid into it deeply, groaning as he did so, and hearing her short cries and gasps as his hardness rose and sank within her.

  Her hands had been clutching his shoulders, but now her arms clamped around his back, and she was squeezing her fleshy thighs against the friction of the perpetual motion of his body, until she lifted her legs higher and entwined them around his back.

  They were together now, as one, in perfect unison, rising and falling, she all liquidity below, he perspiring and panting.

  He had known many women intimately, enjoyed the couplings, the physical stimulation and excitement and release, but he sensed the difference now. The others had been only one half of lovemaking, physical, nothing more, but what he was experiencing with this young woman was total lovemaking.

  There had been no easing in their coupling, only a rising crescendo, she heaving her hips uncontrollably, rolling her buttocks, pushing and pulling him, and he in and out, almost peaking, both peaking, near bursting.

  Then bursting.

/>   With outcries and sighs and utter relief. Holding and kissing and loving, each closer than they had ever been to another opposite human being.

  Long minutes after, drained, lying on the bed separately but together, hands touching, exchanging endearments, Nfikel realized that his Natale was silent. He looked closely, and saw that she had fallen deeply asleep in her own special darkness, asleep with a smile on her lips. Smiling down at her, tenderly, he drew the blanket up over her shoulder.

  At last, he lay back to be with himself. He had not known such a period of peace in years. He marveled at the absence of his anger. There was left in him, pervading his entire being, merely the residue of love he had felt for this young woman.

  Gradually, in his drowsiness, he sought the purpose of being in this bed in this town of Lourdes. Reality, the larger reality, slowly surfaced.

  It was not easy to superimpose reahty on, even obliterate briefly, the love that he felt. It was difficult to bring harsh hatred and his reason for being here back to his consciousness. But images of his Basque childhood and adolescence, his father's murder, the masters of his slavery, evoked anger and hatred once more.

  With regret, he considered the child woman he adored in slumber beside him. What he was feeling contradicted all that he felt for her. She, this dear one, was a person of unblemished faith in a fairy story that she fervently believed could restore her to normality and living. He, by necessity, remained an enemy of that faith that was now misleading his people into compliance with inevitable treachery and certain continuous enslavement. To free his people, he must destroy the symbol of faith that might lead to their deception and endless thralldom. By his act of destruction, he would also destroy forever Natale's foolish hope and her love.

  But, he saw, it must be done. He owed himself -- and the loss he must endure -- to an even greater love.

  Oh, Natale, Natale, when it is over and I have succeeded, try to understand.

  But, he knew, she would never understand.

  At the same time, it suddenly occurred to him, considering that he had been forced into hiding, that he might never succeed. The police were everywhere, and might continue to be everywhere until the eight days had ended.