(1982) The Almighty (39 page)

As luck had it, two stoplights had allowed her to keep

within range of the fugitive taxi.

It had been a long, tense ride to the Left Bank.

She had observed them swing off the Rue de Seine into the Rue Jacob, and she had slowed to see the taxi vanish in a driveway beside a used bookstore on the street floor. She had been tempted to go after them in the Rue Jacob, but had been afraid that she might be spotted as suspicious. Instead, she had proceeded up the Rue de Seine, impatient to find a parking place, and at last found an illegal spot in the Rue Dauphine.

Victoria had hastened back to the Rue Jacob, wondered if it could be foolhardy to enter the empty street, and at last cautiously ventured into it. Crossing over to the other side, she strolled along past the bookstore and driveway on the opposite side. There had been no sign of the taxi. But upstairs, she could see there were apartments, windows shielded by gray metal shutters and fronted by black-painted balcony bars.

Worried about being noticed lingering, she had retraced her steps to the corner of Rue Jacob and the Rue de Seine, where she hoped to be made less conspicuous by occasional foot traffic.

She was still at her same post on the corner, after twenty minutes or a half hour, when she saw the Citroen taxi poke out of the driveway. There was no way she could clearly make out the two men in the front seat, but she knew that they were vital to her investigation.

She charged into motion, running as fast as she could to the Rue Dauphine to recover the Renault and give chase, but when she approached her car she saw that there was a blue-uniformed policeman there, writing her a parking ticket.

It was hopeless now. She could never give chase. But she comforted herself with the fact that she knew where some unknown abductors had taken a member of the Carlos gang, probably Carlos himself.

She determined to return to her post and stand -watch as long as possible, until she could more plainly see someone else emerge and obtain a description of him for Armstead. Then, she felt positive, she might have the story of the year.

Upon his arrival at the Yesilkoy Airport outside Istanbul,

Gus Pagano had been met by the car and driver he had reserved in advance. The car was a small Turkish-made Anadol, and the driver was a mustached Muslim student named Vasif.

After checking into a comfortable suite in the Istanbul International Hilton Hotel, Pagano had taken an evening tour of the city, crossing the Galata Bridge over the Golden Horn, into the old city of Stamboul, then scouting the Mosque of Sultan Ahmed, which he learned was the formal name of the Blue Mosque.

The following morning, on schedule, Pagano, again impressed by the Obelisk and six minarets of the early seventeenth-century Blue Mosque, traversed the vast courtyard to the gate that led to a terrace. He descended steps to a cobbled path, brushing off the swarm of hawkers with their postcards and cheap souvenirs until he reached the green awning that covered the entrance to the mosque. To the left of the entrance he saw a wooden rack resembling a bookcase, where visitors were leaving their shoes. Pagano followed suit, pushing off his Gucci loafers and placing them neatly on the rack.

He ducked under the green awning, and in his stocking feet went inside.

The sight that assaulted him was entirely new to his experience.

The interior was a mammoth, colorful, man-made cavern. At the top, a mighty central cupola was supported by four thick grooved marble pillars. All around, from top to bottom and on all sides, were windows, stained-glass windows, mosdy blue - 260 windows, Vasif had told him - and the entire rectangular stone floor was covered with handmade patterned rugs of every size, contributed by various Turkish villages as well as by world heads of state. The dusty interior air seemed permeated by some kind of mystical atmosphere, and scattered throughout there were ordinary people, Turks and some foreigners, on their knees in prayer.

Pagano heard someone breathing beside him and saw that it was his driver, Vasif, who had followed him.

‘Extraordinary, no?’ said Vasif.

Pagano was reminded that he was not here for sightseeing. ‘Where’s the chanter’s balcony?’ Pagano asked.

Vasif pointed off to the right, to a square, windowless marble room within the mosque, atop which was a railed balcony. ‘From the balcony the chanter calls the prayer,’ explained Vasif.

‘Thanks,’ said Pagano. ‘I must be alone. Wait for me in the car.’

Watching until his driver left the mosque, Pagano turned back and fixed his sight on the small structure that held the balcony. At its doorway, a lone male figure knelt in prayer. Pagano had what he wanted. He had a glimpse of his wristwatch. Three minutes after eleven. On the nose.

Pagano trod quietly over the array of carpets, advancing on the lone kneeling figure. When he came up alongside, he lowered himself to his knees and took in the other. This was an olive-complexioned ferret of a man with slick black hair and the livid welt of a scar on his visible right cheek.

Losing no time, Pagano said under his breath, ‘You are Robert Jacklin?’

Jacklin was surprised, and attentive. ‘Who are you?’

T am here for Carlos,’ said Pagano.

‘Why?’

T am an emissary from a group in Paris that has kidnapped Carlos. We are holding him. You can have him back safe and sound if you comply with our ransom terms. I am to explain the terms to you.’

Not a muscle moved on Jacklin’s face. ‘How do I know you speak the truth?’

‘I will show you a message from Carlos. You will recognize his handwriting.’

‘I must see it.’

‘Yeah, you’ll see it, and then I will explain our demands to you. You will have time to consult with your compatriots in Paris. If you are willing to comply, you will meet with me -and my leader - at a table in the Bosphorus Terrace Restaurant of the Hilton at two o’clock tomorrow. Understand?’

Jacklin had raised himself off his knees. ‘Let me see the evidence that you have Carlos in custody. After that, outline your ransom demand. Please?’

‘Very well,’ said Pagano.

*

At a few minutes before two o’clock in the afternoon, Edward Armstead walked a step behind Pagano from the main lobby of the Istanbul International Hilton Hotel into the stretch of side lobby that led to the Bosphorus Terrace Restaurant at the far end.

Decidedly uncomfortable with the fluffy gray wig settled over his real hair, with the puttied extension of his nose and his flowing, pasted-down mustache, Armstead was nevertheless eager to go through any discomfort to attain the great achievement he had in mind.

Now he would meet Carlos’s right-hand man and he would know whether the operation would be undertaken. All would depend on the word from Robert Jacklin.

They strode past the alcove holding the cloakroom and WC’s, past the attractive walls tiled in green and blue, and stepped inside the restaurant. The maitre d’ came forward. Pagano said, ‘I believe you have a reservation for Mr. Walter Zimberg, a party of three, on the terrace.’ The maitre d’ scanned his reservation sheet. ‘Yes, of course/on the terrace for three. One of your guests has already arrived.’

Their table was really two square tables set side by side along a railing that looked down on a long, glistening pool. The neatly dressed, lean, smallish young man with a prominent scar on one tawny cheek did not bother to rise as Pagano pulled back a cane chair for Armstead directly across from him.

‘Mr. Robert Jacklin - Mr. Walter Zimberg.’

Jacklin jerked his head in curt acknowledgment as Armstead and Pagano sat down. Jacklin had a bottle of Kestana mineral water standing on the green-and-white-checkered tablecloth before him, and he poured himself a second glass.

‘I hope we haven’t kept you waiting,’ said Armstead politely.

‘No,’ said Jacklin. He eyed Armstead with a curl of his lips. ‘Your disguise is a poor one, poorly done. I mention this for your future welfare. Not that it matters, of course. I don’t really care who you are.’

Taken aback, Armstead sought a response, but before he could speak, a captain appeared with three menus. ‘Perhaps you would like to start with a drink first?’

Jacklin placed his hand over his glass. ‘I’m all right.’

Armstead opened the menu, then turned it over. ‘Do you have some white wine? Ah, yes, your beverage list. Want to share a bottle with me, Gus?’

‘Why not?’ said Pagano.

‘May I recommend the Cankaya,’ suggested the captain.

‘Whatever’s the best,’ said Armstead. ‘While we have you, let’s order a bite. What about the scrambled eggs here?’

‘Menemen,’ said the captain. ‘Eggs with tomatoes, green peppers, parsley, and white cheese.’

‘I’ll have the same,’ said Pagano.

‘I’ll have the vanilla custard cream,’ said Jacklin, handing back the menu.

‘Krem Karamel Vanilyah,’ said the captain, as he wrote. ‘You are sure you do not wish something to start with?’

‘Nothing,’ said Jacklin.

They waited for the captain to go. Once he was out of sight, Armstead addressed himself to Jacklin quietly. ‘I assume by now you know what this is all about?’

Jacklin dipped his head. ‘I have a good idea, from the note Carlos wrote and from your friend here.’

‘Can you do it?’

‘We’ve done nearly everything, at some time or other. Not exactly one like this, but others, more dangerous. This one is a little unusual.’

The muscles in Armstead’s features went rigid. ‘I am not asking your judgment. I am asking if you can do it?’

Jacklin’s expression was bland. ‘We want Carlos back.’

‘You’ll do it,’ said Armstead.

‘We have to,’ said Jacklin. ‘Yes, I have talked to the others in Paris. They have agreed. We can do everything you want. Not simple, but it can be done. Fortunately, the key person required is available to us in Japan, through the Japanese Red Army. He will join us, if the price is acceptable.’

‘The price is Carlos.’

‘For us, yes. But for the key person in Japan, no. He has no interest in Carlos. He needs a guaranteed sum of money separately for his own purposes. Perhaps one million American dollars. I cannot say precisely. But he will cooperate if the price he requests is met. We must have him to make the operation work.’

Armstead did not give it a second thought. ‘I’ll see that the price is right.’

They all fell mute as a waiter rolled up the table containing their quickly prepared lunch orders. He passed out the dishes.

When the waiter had retreated and they were alone, Armstead poked his fork at his eggs, but he was too anxious to be hungry.

Jacklin resumed. ‘The one in Japan will require a few days of special training.’

‘No problem about that?’ said Armstead.

‘None. The day before the operation, he will be brought from Tokyo to join us. Actually, to join you. He will insist on meeting you first, seeing evidence that his payment is on deposit in his wife’s name. You can meet him anywhere.’

‘At his point of departure from the United States,’ said Armstead hastily.

Jacklin spooned his custard. ‘Very well.’

Armstead continued. ‘My friend here-‘ He indicated Pagano.’- he will arrange everything with you in Paris. He is going back to Paris today.’

T will be there tomorrow,’ said Jacklin. ‘Mr. Pagano has the means to reach us by phone.’ Jacklin’s gaze fixed on Armstead. ‘No change in schedule?’

‘Still one week from today,’ said Armstead. ‘The timing will have to be perfect.’

‘It will be perfect,’ Jacklin stated, eyes holding on Armstead. ‘With the operation concluded, the ransom will have been paid. Then, Carlos. When do we get back Carlos?’

Armstead nodded. ‘Within an hour after I have verified the result, your Paris contact shall receive a call from Mr. Pagano. He will tell you Carlos is free and where you can pick him up.’ Armstead spoke the next words with deliberation. ‘You do your part. We’ll do our part.’

A ghost of a smile crept across Jacklin’s face. ‘Terrorism depends on trust,’ he said softly, ‘even when we terrorize each other.’

In the main editorial office of the Paris bureau of the New York Record, Victoria carried four distended manila folders of still photographs from the picture file cabinets and set them

down on the metal reading table in the center of the room.

She sat down to confront a picture of the man she sought, and there was an unbelievable relief in getting off her feet.

This was the middle of the afternoon of the fourth day since Victoria had witnessed the abduction of a member of the Carlos gang - possibly Carlos himself - by strangers, who had whisked the victim off to a hideout on the Left Bank. She had been fortunate in being able to follow the abductors to the Rue Jacob. She had been unfortunate in missing a chance to follow two of them, a driver and a passenger, who had left the hideout on the Rue Jacob that first day.

Since that time, Victoria had been relentless in her vigilance. For three days, except for the briefest periods to munch a croissant or a sandwich or visit a hotel bathroom, and to catch six hours of sleep after each midnight, she had maintained her station at the corner of the Rue de Seine and the Rue Jacob. This morning and early afternoon had been her fourth day at the fatiguing game. She had not been sure what she was on the lookout for - actually, she supposed, it was to see someone emerge from the hideout, someone she could follow and later describe. But her purpose had changed. Her original intent at the Rue Martel, based on Nick’s clue, had been to hope for some kind of link between the exclusive stories that had appeared in the Record and the Carlos gang. Some sight of Carlos himself, or of an informant who might be followed. Instead, she had been treated to an actual kidnapping, the snatching of someone leaving Carlos’s hideout, by a set of strangers. After that, her intent had shifted to learning the identity of the strangers and the man they had abducted. This might lead her, she believed, to the most sensational news story of the year, reported by herself, and never mind who had reported the previous terrorist acts.

But in her four-day vigil at the Rue Jacob, not one other person had emerged from that driveway beside the bookstore, not one. Perhaps, she wondered, they had only come out at night, when she was asleep on the Right Bank. Yet they had to sleep, too, and probably slept when she slept. By early afternoon, the vigil had become too difficult. Passing police, on routine rounds, and proprietors in neighborhood shops had undoubtedly begun to eye her with suspicion. The same young woman, always hanging around. To them she must