The Miracle (22 page)

"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.

But then he realized that the deeper uneasiness he felt came from an unnerving happening that had occurred last night. With a shudder, he relived it—

Last night, asleep in the Dupree apartment, Tikhanov had awakened from a terrible nightmare in a cold sweat at four in the morning. Once fully awake, the nightmare had swum vividly before his eyes. He was running frantically from members of the KGB, desperately trying to find a place to hide.

Sitting up in bed, turning on the lamp, he found that the horror of the nightmare had blurred slightly, and in the light he sought reason. What had brought on the scare? General Kossoff and the KGB weren't chasing him. They were, in reality, honoring him. He was their star, soon to be the most shining star in the Soviet Union. But he had tried to hide from them in the nightmare—and immediately he'd understood that aspect of the nightmare and tried to interpret it.

The hiding part had to do with the present risk he had undertaken, and his total failure to sublimate his fear of being found out.

By coming to Lourdes, he had put himself in a precarious situation, watching each step he made in his frontal move on faith and the hope for a cure. Yet, intent on this daring effort, he had neglected to protect his flank sufiiciently. He had neglected to keep in touch with those in the Soviet Union who might need him most any minute and not be able to find him. What if they searched for him, and somehow managed to find him here?

A tremor went through Tikhanov.

And then he realized he could prevent any suspicions by simply being in touch with his colleagues by phone before making himself visible to them once more in person.

At the first opportunity he would contact the Soviet Embassy in Paris. He would call there, supposedly from Lisbon—no, he had called from Lisbon already -- better to have returned to France to meet secretly with an arm of the Conmiunist apparatus near Marseilles.

Having decided this, he felt a weight lifted off him. For now, he had better concentrate on what was before him, meaning his absolute anonymity in Lourdes.

Worriedly, he glanced at his talkative driver behind the wheel.

Tikhanov was in no mood to engage in conversation with anyone, let alone this country girl. He wanted only to restore his health, and get to the seat of power that awaited him in the Kremlin as soon as possible. From a comer of his eye he saw a road sign. Twenty kilometers to Lourdes. Last night, in the taxi, the journey had taken a good half hour. At the rate the Dupree girl was going, it might take almost a full hour -- and give her too much time for conversation.

As if reading his mind, she turned her head and said, "No hurry. It's just after eight and I don't have my first tour until nine this morning. It is such a glorious day, not hot like yesterday." She inhaled the fresh air through the open window. "On days like this I could stay here forever." Then she added enigmatically, "But I won't." She looked at him. "Have you ever been to Lourdes before, Mr. Talley?"

At first he was unaware that he had been addressed, his mind drifting, and he did not respond. He had forgotten that he was Mr. Talley, but with a start he remembered his acquired name. Hastily he became more alert as he rephed. "No," he said, "no, I have never been anywhere near here."

"When did you get here?" she inquired. "Oh, yes, it was yesterday when you were trying to find a room."

"Yes, yesterday late."

"From Paris?"

"I stopped over in Paris, yes, I have friends in Paris."

"And you came here for a cure you told me last night. Is yours a recent illness?"

He was uncertain of how to answer her. He said, "Something I've had off and on for several years."

"What made you finally decide to come here? The news about the Virgin Mary reappearing?"

"I suppose that inspired me. It made me curious. I thought I would give it a try."

"Nothing to lose," she said with a lilt. "Possibly everything to gain."

"I am hoping."

"You will remain the entire week?"

"If necessary. I hope to go back home no later than next Monday. My vacation will be nearly over."

"Home," she said, eyes now on the road. "Where do you make your home in the States, Mr. Talley?"

He thought quickly. He had not anticipated personal questions and had not thought about this before. He tried to recall some remote places he had visited in the American East, places a person like Samuel Talley might have come from. He recalled a weekend trip he had made to a small town and resort called Woodstock, Vermont. "I come from Vermont," he said. "My wife and I have a modest farm in Woodstock."

"I've heard of it," she said. "I've heard it is picturesque."

"It is, it is." Tikhanov was worrying. He wondered if she had detected an accent in his English. He had better cover the possibility. He went on casually, "Actually, my parents emigrated from Russia, separately, when my mother was fourteen and my father eighteen. They met in New York at a social event, and fell in love, and were married. My father had been a farmer, and he found this property in Vermont and bought it. I was born there." Very casually, the next. "Growing up, I learned to speak Russian. It was natural. There was always Russian, as well as English, spoken around the house."

"I love languages," Gisele said. "I speak four but Russian is not one of them."

"No loss," said Tikhanov.

"And you work the farm?" inquired Gisele.

This girl was too inquisitive and smart. It was no use lying. She might see that his soft hands were not those of a farmer. He forced a short laugh. "Me labor on the farm? No, no. The truth is I'm a professor." He was feeling his way now. "Uh, a professor of the Russian

language. I went to Columbia University, in fact majored in Russian and linguistics. After I got my doctorate, I became a member of the language department at Columbia. I teach Russian there."

"How do you manage to do it? I mean, live in Woodstock and teach in New York?"

Traps, everywhere there were traps, but as a diplomat Tikhanov was used to avoiding them. "Quite simple," he said. "I keep a small apartment in Manhattan to use during the school year, but maintain our home in Woodstock, and commute there whenever I can. My wife stays mostly at the Vermont house these days. She's a Vermont native and we have a son at—at the University of Southern California. He is studying theater arts." In an effort to leave the fictitious past behind, he made a transition into the present. "My wife was a Catholic, so I became a Catholic, too. I am not too religious, as I mentioned last night. Still, enough so to come to Lourdes."

"But you work in New York City?" she said.

"Yes, of course."

"I love New York, absolutely love it. I can't wait to get back."

Tikhanov was worried again. "You've been to New York?"

"I've lived there," she said cheerily. "I had the best time ever. There is so much to do in New York. I lived in New York for over a year."

Tikhanov tried not to be too interested. "You did? What were you doing there?"

"I had a secretarial job at the United Nations."

"At the United Nations?"

"With the French delegation. I'd met the French ambassador to the UN in Lourdes. He hired me to be one of his secretaries, and took me along when he moved to New York. It was a memorable experience. I can't wait to go back. I made so many friends there. Some of my best friends are Americans. One of them was in the United States delegation to the UN. As a matter of fact, if I remember right, he was a graduate of Columbia University. Maybe he was a student of yours, for all I know. His name is Roy Zimborg. Does that ring a bell? Did you ever have a Roy Zimborg in any of your classes?"

A big trap and danger. "I have had so many students it is difficult to remember names. Maybe he did not study Russian?"

"Probably not," said Gisele.

Tikhanov could see that they were approaching Lourdes, and he was relieved. He could not wait to get away from this country girl who had lived in New York and worked at the United Nations where he had appeared and spoken so often. Her inquisitiveness and persistent prying

made him uncomfortable. Sooner or later she might catch him out in some error or inconsistency. He must rid himself of her.

Presently, they were on the Avenue Bernadette Soubirous, and entering the parking lot of number 26, which was connected to the Hotel Gallia & Londres.

"What's this?" Tikhanov asked.

"The hotel where Edith Moore and her husband are staying," said Gisele, getting out of the car. "I told you last night about Edith. She's our miracle woman, had a miracle cure of cancer right here in Lourdes. You'll find it encouraging to talk to her. You still want to, don't you?"

"Certainly I do."

"Let me see if she's in."

He watched the French girl go into the hotel. His resolve had hardened. He must separate himself from her and from her prying. If he continued to lodge in Tarbes with her family, he would have to commute to Lourdes with her every morning and evening, and answer a continual outpouring of questions, and inevitably be tripped up. He had to find a room of his own in town as soon as possible. That was the immediate priority.

Gisele had returned, and was slipping into the driver's seat. "Edith is at the Medical Bureau, checking in, but she'll be back at the hotel for lunch. I left her a note, and told the girl at the desk to reserve two places at Mrs. Moore's table for twelve o'clock noon. How's that, Mr. Talley?"

"Perfect."

"What are you going to do with yourself until then?"

"You are the expert on Lourdes. What do you suggest?"

"Well, you're here for your health, aren't you? You're after a cure? You're serious about that?"

"Most serious."

GKsele started the car. "Then here's what I suggest. Go through all the routine that every ailing pilgrim goes through. First, go to the grotto and pray."

"I'd like to. How long should I give it?"

She blinked at him. "Why, that's up to you -- five minutes, sixty minutes, whatever you feel. After that, walk over to the second trough, the one past the grotto, turn on one of the faucets and drink some of the curative water. Finally, next door you'll find the bath houses. Go inside, shed your clothes, and take a dip. And think of the Virgin Mary when you do so. The baths have proved to be the most effective remedy yet."

"The water cures?"

"No," said Gisele, shifting gears, "the water has nothing in it to

cure. But your head does. Don't forget to meet me in front of this hotel for lunch. Now I'll drop you off at the domain, Mr. Talley."

"My thanks," said Tikhanov. "I'll do everything you say, Miss Dupree."

Amanda Spenser had not been in a hurry to leave Eugenie-les-Bains and return to Lourdes. She had enjoyed a leisurely breakfast at the table on the balcony of her suite, thinking constantly of Ken, his illness, and finding it inconceivable that Ken, the fool, could have left this elegant paradise for that hovel in Lourdes. After breakfast she had dressed in pants, blouse, sandals, and taken a long stroll over the hotel's lawn.

The drive from beautiful Eugenie-les-Bains to miserable Lourdes had taken an hour and a half, but as she neared Lourdes, its monotony and accompanying depression had been alleviated by one valuable tidbit of information from her elderly balding driver. The driver had known a good deal about the Lourdes story and especially Bernadette herself. In passing, as they drove, he had mentioned Bernadette's early illness, and Amanda had been attentive. Amanda had known that Bernadette had been a frail youngster, but she had not known that the little girl had suffered so seriously from asthma.