The large flat folded shopping bag that he had brought here to cover the smaller packages was now before him. He lifted it off the cache, dropped it behind him, and concentrated on bringing the packages of explosive and equipment out of the hiding place.
As if he were handling precious porcelain, Hurtado laid out each piece of explosive equipment with care. From the start he had chosen an electrical timing device as the safest, the most certain, and the one that could help put the greatest distance between him and the dynamite when the explosion took place. The idea was to wire the explosive with a delayed-action fuse and attach the fuse to a clock or timer. This
involved the use of a battery and terminals, as well. The clock was set as an alarm was set. The clock ticked away, and when the clock hands touched the designated position, this closed the terminals and the circuit sent an electrical charge through the detonator and the fuse connected to the dynamite. For a while, at the outset, he had considered using the plastic C-4—what the French called plastique —as the explosive instead of old-fashioned dynamite, but then had decided that dynamite—nitroglycerine in a sawdust mix -- was simpler, as long as the dynamite sticks were fresh.
This dynamite, the sticks already neatly bound together, was new and fresh. With practiced hands—he had prepared at least a dozen of these devices to destroy sites in recent years—Hurtado unwound the coil of green wire and placed one end near the detonator and battery which were fixed to the baseboard. This done, Hurtado began to creep down the slope, running the wiring out as he descended surefooted toward the grotto. Now he shut o£f the flashlight as the illumination from the wax candles below flickered streaks of light across the fohage and dimly outlined in dark yellow the niche above the grotto and the marble statue of the Virgin Mary.
Briefly, between prickly bushes, he had a glimpse of the grotto area far below. His entire concentration was upon the niche as he crawled closer to it, running out his green fuse. When the niche was at arm's length, he edged even closer, bringing the package of dynamite sticks around in front of him with both hands and placing the explosive inside the niche. He prodded it gently so that it was settled perfectly behind the marble statue and out of sight.
Satisfied, he turned away on his knees, then began to retrace his path, fingering the long stretch of thin fuse as he crawled upward. In a few minutes he was back behind the large tree where the detonator and battery and clock rested. Speedily, he connected the wire to the terminal, taking care to prevent the terminals from making contact. Then he set the electrical timer. He had gauged the actual time for automatic contact in advance. He required enough time to get safely away, yet not too much time to permit the device to be exposed to someone who might accidentally notice it. Fifteen minutes seemed exactly right. Five minutes to get down from the mountainside, four minutes to hasten from the grotto to the ramp, one minute to reach his Ford (his suitcase had been packed in the trunk earlier), and five minutes to spin through the empty town and reach the back road to Pau.
By then, the grotto would be obliterated, and Euskadi would rise from the ashes. And he would have vanished from Lourdes, be in hiding far away, and protected by his French compatriots.
Fifteen minutes, starting this split second. He had finished the connection. No need to bury or camouflage the device. It, with everything else, would be blown into countless pieces.
He came to his feet, and immediately began his precarious descent downhill. Aiming his flashlight on the ground before him, gripping tree trunks and sturdy branches, he maintained his balance, slipping only once, remaining upright and steady all the way down. When he could see the bottom of the slope below, the flat ground of the area that led to and around the grotto, he doused his flashlight. He was able to move faster now, as the flat earth came closer. At the rim of the last protective foliage, he halted, and surveyed what he could of the area. No guard in sight yet, no one, and he was safe.
He stepped down to the ground, and quickly brought up his left arm to consult his wristwatch. The descent had taken him five minutes and ten seconds.
Ten seconds lost, but still he was fairly close to schedule.
Not another second to waste.
Hurrying, he swung off", starting past the grotto in the direction of the ramp.
Striding between the benches and chairs that faced the altar inside the grotto, Hurtado cast one final look upward at the statue and the niche to see if the bundle of explosives could be seen. Nothing was visible except the dumb statue.
Nothing. Perfect.
But then as his gaze dropped—something.
With a gulp, he halted in midstride, halted and stood transfixed. With disbelief he stared at the entrance to the grotto beneath the niche and could see that something was there, someone, a human being, a small human being, head covered by a shawl, kneeling, its back to him, praying. He had seen this very figure before in this headdress and posture, and it came to him, the resemblance. He had seen a photograph of Bernadette herself in this garb and this posture praying before the grotto.
In the first rush of disbelief, Hurtado was concerned with self-survival, self-preservation, keeping going, getting away as fast as he could, and to hell with this fool in prayer.
But up there on the mountain a clock was ticking, and in nine minutes the mammoth explosion would occur, and a poor human being would be blasted to shreds. At once, a stronger instinct prevailed. Hurtado wanted to kill no one here, certainly not an innocent believer. In a matter of seconds, he could save her -- and still save himself. He
need only warn her that she was in danger, warn her to retreat, to flee, get out of here, and then himself continue on his way.
He turned toward the grotto, racing between the chairs, and as he closed in on the kneeling woman, he threw caution to the winds and shouted, "Hey, you! Get away from therel It's going to blow up!"
He expected the kneeling woman to turn around, frightened, react to his warning, and retreat on the run from the endangered area.
But she did not stir, made no motion, remained on her knees in silent supplication, as unmoving as the marble statue high above her.
The lack of response was incredible to Hurtado, beyond all understanding, and he ran faster toward the woman, and when he was nearly upon her, ready to shout once more, he suddenly came to a jarring stop.
He had the young woman in profile and he could make her out.
Natale. Natale Rinaldi. His own Natale.
He had left her asleep, but she had not slept. She had dressed in darkness, and found her way counting her steps in darkness, and sightless as ever, she had come here to undertake her last vigil.
"Oh, Je-sus," he cried out. "Natale!" he roared.
No reaction, no response, not a movement. It was as if she could not hear him.
He could see her plain now, the dark glasses, the pale waxen face, merely the slightest movement of the lips.
She was in a trance, out of this world.
He was upon her, snatching at her shoulders, grabbing wildly for a grip, trying to lift her to her feet and tear her away from here.
But she did not budge. She was deadweight, anchored to the ground, immovable.
He tugged and tore at her, trying to make her rise, attempting to lift her, but it was impossible to move her an inch.
Breathing heavily, he stopped trying. This was a phenomenon beyond his understanding. He stood over her, staring down at her, not knowing how to make contact, by what means to remove her, to propel her to safety.
And then, to his utter astonishment, he watched her shake herself and slowly rise to her feet.
"Natale!" he cried out, grabbing for her arms.
But she was smiling at him, raising one hand, removing her dark glasses. For the first time her eyes were wide and clear and luminous, and they held on him. "Mikel—you are Mikel—you must be," she said softly. "Mikel, I saw the Virgin Mary, I saw Her. She came to me, and spoke to me, and allowed me to see Her. I could see Her, as I can see you." She turned
her head. "And the grotto, for the first time I can see
it and see all the world again. The Blessed Virgin, She gave me the gift of sight again. Mikel, I can see."
He stood frozen, awestricken, hardly able to comprehend the miracle and the wonder of it.
He found his voice. "You -- you can see me?"
"Yes, you, everything around. It's glorious."
"You -- you saw the Virgin?"
"When I knelt to pray, I was in darkness as always. And as I prayed, I could make out a cone of brightness, a light, and then I could see the opening, the grotto itself, and I saw Her, this woman in white, no bigger than I am, bowing Her head, arms extended, one hand holding a long-stemmed rose. I reached for my rosary, and the Virgin stood there, smiling graciously at me. She was as Bernadette had seen Her, except for the rose in her hand. A white veil covered Her head, and Her long dress was of the purist white, with a sash of blue, and a yellow rose was on each foot. And She said sweetly, 'You shall see again, for the length of your earthly stay, every wonder of God.' There was more but —Mikel, Mikel, it was wonderful! I love you, the entire world, life, and I love our precious Massabielle—"
She'd gone into his open arms, embracing him, but the mention of Massabielle triggered remembrance.
"Oh, my God!" he exclaimed, releasing Natale and looking at his watch.
Less than six minutes left.
He gripped the arm of the bewildered Natale tightly, and began pulling her away from the grotto, going fast, pulling and dragging her along.
"Run," he urged her, running with her along the foot of the hill and dragging her beside him, forcing her to keep up with him.
Suddenly, he halted, pushing her away.
"What is it, Mikel?" she wanted to know.
"Never mind. I'll explain later. Just do as I tell you, exactly as I tell you." He pomted off toward the bathhouses. "Go there, past the baths, as far as you can. Just go, stay away from the grotto, far away as possible. I'll catch up with you in five or ten minutes. Now, go!"
Without waiting to see her go, he leaped onto the slope and scrambled upward among the foliage as fast as the slippery footing would allow him. He kept climbing on the double, stumbling and falling, rising and falling again, but moving upward without pause. He was grasping sturdy branches, holding on to the trunks of trees, ascending steadily. Once more sprawling forward, pushing himself upright, he saw the
timepiece on his wrist. Four and a half minutes had passed, and he still wasn't there.
In a frenzy, he resumed climbing, and time was ticking away, and still he wasn't there. For moments he was lost, couldn't find it, his landmark, the giant oak, and then he saw it, staggering and going down to his knees before it.
One more glimpse at his watch.
Less than a minute left. Less than a half minute.
Seconds remained, twenty-four, twenty-three, twenty-two seconds.
And on his knees, he was crawling desperately around the tree to the depression and the detonator and battery and wired clock on its baseboard.
He flung himself headlong at the device, clawing for the wiring, and tearing at it with all his strength. It would not loosen. He was a madman, yanking away until his forearm and bicep twinged with pain, certain that he had lost, awaiting the catastrophic explosion, the eruption that would bring death to Massabielle and to himself.
And suddenly the wiring ripped free, and the device was disconnected, and there was no thunder in his ears.
In the darkness he tried to make out the time on his wristwatch.
Two seconds left.
The hand moved one second, two seconds, and then one second beyond what would have been the moment of hell.
He sat with the loose wiring in his dirty hands, and listened to the beautiful silence.
After a while, when breath returned, he struggled to his feet. There was work to do and it must be done. He made his way recklessly, falling again and again, not caring, and finally crawling until he could see the marble statue set in the niche above the grotto. When it was within reach, he put a hand inside, and behind the statue's base he felt the bulky packet of dynamite. With patience and caution, he withdrew the explosive from the niche. When he had the dynamite in hand, he started back to his cache, treading more carefully this time.
At the oak tree once more, he opened the heavy brown shopping bag and laid the dynamite packet inside it, and then one by one he picked up his pieces of equipment and piled them inside the bag, also.
He had stuffed the last of the loose wiring into the bag, when he was startled to hear his name.
"Mikel." He heard it again, and there was Natale standing over him.
"Natale, what are you doing here? I told you—you might have— never mind."
"I wanted to see where you were. I followed. I had to crawl most of the way. I thought I was lost, but—here we are."
He was on his feet, taking her in his anns, kissing her. "I love you," he said, "forever."
"I love you forever and more."
Releasing her, he placed one arm around her waist, the hand holding her side, and with the other hand he had the bag.
As they started down the slope, he grinned at her. "So now you can see me. How do I look to you?"
"Sinfully ugly," she laughed, "but I adore sinful and ugly men." Her expression sobered. "Mikel, you're lovely, not as lovely as the Virgin Mary, but for a mere mortal you're lovely enough."
When they had reached the bottom, he did not turn toward the grotto and the domain, but continued straight ahead toward the bridge that crossed the Gave de Pau to the meadow that spread out before them in the moonlight.
Stumbling along beside him, Natale wondered, "Mikel, where are we going?"
"To the river up ahead," he said. He lifted the loaded shopping bag. "To get rid of this, some part of my past." He smiled down at her as they went on. "For the first time, darling," he said, "I can see, too."
Sunday, August 21
Liz Finch was walking on air.
Actually, she was walking finnly on the carpeting of the fifth-floor corridor of the Hotel Gallia & Londres, but for the first time since her arrival and stay in Lourdes she felt that she was walking on air.
With Amanda's manila envelope, and its contents, held fast in her hand, she was high and had never been higher. She had at her side the expose of the decade, and certainly the most tremendous and sensational story of her career, thanks to that incredible young lady, Amanda Spenser; and she had it for her very own for the millions and millions of readers on earth who would see it and go over it absorbing every word in stunned amazement. Liz would give anything to see Bill Trask's face as she dictated it to him. Better yet, she would give more to see the face of that bitch Marguerite when she heard about it and realized that her Viron disclosures were common dross compared to this.
Amanda's room was 503, and Liz had arrived before it. Amanda's note had promised that she would be back from the hospital and waiting in her room, ready to give a full explanation of the fantastic Bernadette journal before Liz wrote and phoned in the headline story.
After that, this dreary town would be blown away, blown off the face of the map forever and all time, as it deserved to be.
There was almost a lilt in the rhythm of Liz's knocking on the
door. She waited for the door to open, and when it didn't, she rapped harder, hoping that Amanda was in and had not been delayed at the hospital with Ken, whatever had happened to him.
Abruptly, the doorknob rattled, and the door swung wide, and there was Amanda in her silk nightgown, sleepy-eyed, her hair a mess, her expression confused.
"Liz, it's you?"
"Who else? Did you forget?" She held up the manila envelope. "You left this super dynamite, and made a date for me to meet you here."
"God, what time is it?"
"Eleven-thirty on the nose, as agreed."
"Dammit, I overslept. Yesterday exhausted me. I must have slept straight through when my alarm went off. I was
supposed to be up at eight, and at the hospital to see Ken's doctor at nine-thirty. But mainly to see Ken and get him back to Chicago. Come in, Liz, come in while I get dressed in a hurry."
Liz went gaily inside, shutting the door as Amanda padded across the room to the bureau to pull out the drawers in search of clean pantyhose and a fresh brassiere.
Liz plopped into a chair, hoisting the manila envelope. "You ain't going to have no trouble with dear Ken, once he sees this. Say, what's he doing in the hospital anyway?"
Amanda was tearing off her nightgown. "He left me a message that he'd become worse and was carted off to the main Lourdes hospital in the Avenue Alexandre-Marqui. I went to see him right away, when I came in from Bartres, but he was sedated and out of it."
"How is he?"
"That's what I was supposed to find out at nine-thirty." She shpped her milky-white breasts into the brassiere cups and was fastening the bra in back. "Hell, I wish I hadn't overslept. I don't even have time for a bath."
But Liz Finch was again devoted to the copy of Bernadette's last journal that she had removed from the envelope. "Amanda, you're going to have no more problem with Ken once he sets eyes on this. He'll never be a believer in any of that Lourdes nonsense any more. He'll see how soundly, or unsoundly—unwittingly—Bernadette branded herself a fake. Imagine that little peasant hysteric seeing the Virgin Mary and Jesus all over the place—time and again among the sheep in Bartress— and then, after that dress rehearsal, doing her act all over again a month later in Lourdes. Wow, Amanda, the story of our time. But you didn't want me to phone it in until I talked to you, and I wanted every backup
detail of how you laid your hands on it, anyway. How did you, Wonder Girl, how in the devil did you ever do it?"
"Got to go to the bathroom," Amanda said, fluttering the pantyhose she had in her hand. "Got to hurry."
"Amanda, please," Liz implored as Amanda disappeared into the bathroom, "you asked me not to file my story till I heard how you pulled it off. Will you tell me?"
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