Time continued to tick away, and still Bauer had not appeared. Victoria found herself fidgeting, and at last, on impulse, she came to her feet and left the gallery.

In the hallway she saw a cordon of Swiss federal policemen. She approached the nearest one.

'Pardon me, but do you speak English?'

'Yes, madame.'

'Has Anton Bauer shown up yet?'

'Not yet. We are expecting him for some time.' There would be some logical explanation for this delay shortly, Victoria told herself, and she should get back to the balcony and her press place to be on hand for the opening of the conference. But she did not return to the balcony. Instead she walked swiftly down the series of corridors that led to the exit, hurried outside, and made for her car. The automatic reporter's instinct that something might be amiss had surfaced in her. The nonappearance of Bauer was odd. It might even be news. It was worth looking into.

Victoria settled into her Jaguar, started it, and headed for the Hotel Intercontinental, only a few blocks away. Driving, she tried to define what was in her mind. Illness was one possibility. Anton Bauer might have suffered a heart attack. This would explain the delay. She must find out what was going on.

At the entrance to the hotel she left her car with the doorman, asking him to keep it handy, and then she hurried into the entry, made for the escalator, and rode it up to the mezzanine. She surveyed the area between the reception desk and the elevators. There was a large party of men, some in uniform, some in plainclothes, gathered near the elevator, a few milling about impatiently. Bauer's security detail, Victoria surmised, still waiting for him, but she had to be sure.

127.

Victoria's eyes went to the reception desk again, and this time she saw the buck-toothed a.s.sistant manager who had been her host during the tour of the hotel. She went directly to the counter.

'h.e.l.lo,' she said. 'Remember me?'

The a.s.sistant manager looked blank for a moment, and then recognition came. 'Yes, of course.

Good day, Miss Weston.'

She jerked her thumb over a shoulder. 'Is that Anton Bauer's escort party?'

The a.s.sistant manager glanced off. 'Yes, it is.'

'What happened to Herr Bauer?'

The a.s.sistant manager shrugged. 'We do not know.'

'Is he in his room?'

'We have called. There is no answer.'

'Maybe he's sick and can't answer.'

'No, Miss Weston. We have been in his suite. There is no one there. Herr Bauer has left.'

'But-'

That instant the a.s.sistant manager's head came up, his gaze fixing fast on something or someone behind Victoria. She immediately turned to see what had diverted his attention. There was a stocky gentleman, black hair pomaded flat, hornrimmed spectacles, nattily dressed even to a vest, beckoning imperatively. The a.s.sistant manager came erect. 'Excuse me, miss,' he said nervously, 'the manager must see me.' He left the counter in a hurry and trotted toward the manager. Victoria saw the manager's arm go around his a.s.sistant's shoulders and forcefully lead him away toward one of the squarish white marble pillars that held display cases framed in teakwood.

The bulky manager was leaning close to his aide, beginning to whisper conspiratorily as they disappeared behind the pillar. Victoria's inquisitiveness was instantly piqued. She started toward the pillar. The pair might be discussing only hotel business, but nevertheless it might be worth eavesdropping. Casually, Victoria sidled up to the near side of the pillar, tilted her head closer to the corner behind which the pair had disappeared.

She was safely out of their sight, but she could hear the manager's voice distinctly now. He was speaking rapidly in French but she could understand every word, and what she heard made her stand stock-still.

Listening intently, she heard the manager saying, 'Yes, it is true, Pierre, it is confidential from the police headquarters where they are interrogating the bodyguard. What happened, as far as I can learn, is that Bauer went with his bodyguard into the elevator we set for express, to bring him straight down to his escort. But somehow it was stopped and opened before the mezzanine. Armed terrorists - we now know it is the Carlos gang - abducted both men, rushed them out of the hotel to a large car, blindfolded them both, and drove them out of the city.'

'Impossible,' Victoria heard the a.s.sistant croak. 'The secretary-general of the United Nations kidnapped in Geneva - no.'

128.

The manager was going on in French. 'But true, Pierre -alas, it is true. It is all from the bodyguard.

Carlos took him not only to keep it quiet until they had a good start, but to use him to report the kidnapping to the police and to reveal the ransom terms. I do not know these terms yet. They not only blindfolded the bodyguard but bound his hands behind his back. After an estimated twenty or thirty minutes' driving, the vehicle stopped, and the bodyguard was pulled out of the back seat and left in a field and the vehicle sped away. He was loosely tied, deliberately so I am sure, and after a while he was able to free himself, remove his blindfold, and hike to the main road. He realized that he was outside Coppet. He caught a ride from a motorist, went to the village and reported to the police, who brought him back to the headquarters here. He remembered his captors' mentioning Carlos, how pleased Carlos would be. He was addressed directly only once, when they released him. He was given ransom terms to pa.s.s on. The police called me to cooperate.'

'But how?'

'They want no word of this out yet. But they want me to inform the escort party that it need not wait any longer - but there must be some innocent explanation given -'

'That Monsieur Bauer is ill - ill for a day or two - must rest -'

'Perfect, Pierre. You will so inform the escort party. Meanwhile, I am requested to phone the Palais to have this morning's conference postponed because of Bauer's indisposition. The truth must not be revealed, Pierre - it will hurt the police effort - perhaps do damage to the hotel -'

For the first time, Victoria stirred.

She must not be caught eavesdropping. She must get the incredible news to New York as fast as possible.

Quietly she left her post at the pillar. Although her cheeks burned with excitement, she tried to appear calm as she approached the escalator to the lobby.

In seconds she was off the escalator, and on the run for her car and the biggest story of her career.

Once locked in her room at the Hotel Beau-Rivage, Victoria tried to relate the time in Geneva to the time in New York City. It was slightly after the noon hour here, therefore only daybreak or early morning in Manhattan. No one important would be in command at the Record. What she had ready was too big to pa.s.s on to any underling. She must go straight to the top.

Eager to call Edward Armstead, she realized that he would be at home and she did not possess his apartment phone number. No use trying New York information for his number. It would be unlisted. Calming down, she remembered that Harry Dietz had told her that if ever there was an emergency she could call him at his apartment, and that was a suite he had recently purchased in the Sherry Netherland Hotel.

She s.n.a.t.c.hed up the telephone and put through her call to the Sherry Netherland.

Apparently the circuits to New York were open at this time of day, because in a few minutes she had a woman operator in the Sherry Netherland. Victoria announced that she wanted to speak to Mr. Harry Dietz.

The hotel operator, like most lonely night operators, was a chatty type. 'I dunno,' she said, 'usually he has his phone shut off at two a.m., won't be disturbed until eight in the morning. Lemme see.

No, it's not shut off this morning. Maybe he's not in. Let's find out.'

129.

There was a brief ringing, and a quick answer.

'h.e.l.lo, there.'

Victoria's heart leaped. The voice was unmistakably that of Harry Dietz.

Victoria wanted to shout out her news, explode it in his ear, but she also wanted to be a cool professional. She contained herself. 'Mr. Dietz, this is Victoria Weston in Geneva,' she said briskly.

'I'm sorry to wake you at this hour but -'

'Don't worry about it, you haven't awakened me,' Dietz interrupted. 'Matter of fact, I haven't gone to sleep yet.' He sounded a trifle slurry, like someone who had recently had two or three drinks.

'Edward and I just now left the paper. What a night this has been, but we got a big one going, just got it off on the presses, should hit the streets very soon.'

'Well, listen, I -'

Dietz ignored her, went on speaking. 'In fact, it's from your neck of the woods. A real big one, and we have it all by ourselves. Not a peep from the wires anywhere. What a beauty. The secretary-general of the United Nations - Anton Bauer - he's been kidnapped - grabbed while leaving his hotel room -'

'By the Carlos gang.' Victoria's voice had gone flat. She sank down on the side of the bed. She felt pain, as if she had suffered a stomach blow.

Dietz seemed not to have heard her.'- abducted by Carlos and his terrorist gang. Ed and I saw the ransom demand just as we were leaving to get some sleep. We've got a full crew back at work - this'll give us an exclusive follow-up for the next edition -'

'What was the ransom demand?' Victoria asked dully.

'Weird, real weird. But guess it makes sense if you know about someone like Carlos. The ransom is to break up the Non-Nuclear Nations Conference and send the delegates home. Because the conference was a big nations power ploy to keep the smaller nations disarmed and weak. It was to discriminate against them. So if everyone is sent home, allowed to make their little bombs, it will be fair. Once everyone is sent home, sent home from Geneva, Anton Bauer will be set free.'

'Can't there be another conference soon?'

'Sure, but Carlos promises if there is he will terrorize it once more. Whole thing, just his way of making a political statement. Well, the Record and Mark Bradshaw score another beat. Read about it in the Record. Hey, I better hit the sack and get a few winks of sleep. Got a long day ahead tomorrow - mean today. Thanks for calling, Vicky.'

She heard him hang up, too s.p.a.ced out even to have asked her why she had called.

She sat there, limp and dazed.

A scoop kicked out from her again. Mark Bradshaw, the whiz kid of the Record again.

How?

Her wrist.w.a.tch told her the kidnapping had happened only three hours ago. She'd had it, owned it, herself alone. Yet she hadn't. Someone else had reported it before her, and in New York the thunderous story would momentarily be in the streets and on the airwaves. Yet, in Geneva and in 130 the wide world out there, no public knew. They would know only when the infallible Record told them.

How?

Maybe an old master like Nick Ramsey would have an answer. She must find him and tell him, and hear what he had to say.

CHAPTER NINE.

Relieved to be in an air-conditioned place again, Nick Ramsey sat sprawled in one of the chairs available in the Israeli press officer's temporary room on the second floor of the terminal at Ben Gurion International Airport and watched as the officer poured scotch from a quart bottle for the other foreign correspondents lounging along the walls. When the officer reached him, Ramsey was pleased to note that there was still plenty of liquor in the bottle. He held out his gla.s.s, empty except for two ice cubes.

'Say when, Nick,' said the Israeli press officer, pouring slowly.

Ramsey said nothing until his gla.s.s was filled to the brim. Then, with a grin, he said, 'When.'

He brought the gla.s.s of scotch to his lips and enjoyed a long drink. His body's response seemed almost instantaneous. The throbbing ache of fatigue in his muscles, chest, arms, gradually his thighs, began to disappear.

Now the press officer was addressing the group of reporters. 'Prime Minister Salmon will be boarding, taking off for Cairo to meet the Egyptian President Ma.s.souna, in one hour. Well, it could maybe be an hour and a half. It depends.' He squinted down at his wrist.w.a.tch. 'The prime minister should just be finishing his meeting with Egyptian Amba.s.sador Nahas at the Knesset about now.

Salmon mentioned something about detouring briefly to take the Egyptian amba.s.sador to the Dead Sea scrolls museum across the way. A quick fifteen- or twenty-minute tour. As your know, Salmon is pretty proud of the role his father played in acquiring the scrolls. After that they'll both head straight for the airport here, to catch the official plane to Cairo.' The press officer picked up his own drink. 'Youil board your El Al 707 press plane in fifteen minutes. There'll be an open bar, but I advise a minimum of insobriety. Egyptian President Ma.s.souna is personally welcoming our prime minister. There will be a little ceremony for you to cover.'

'Meaning we'll have to hang around the Cairo airport for over an hour before the ceremony,'

protested Ramsey.

'You'll be well taken care of at Cairo International Airport,' said the Israeli press officer. 'The Egyptians will be putting on a fancy Faroukian feed for you in the press area. Food catered by the Nile Hilton, and served by those zaftig waitresses. I promise you, you won't suffer. Well-' The officer held up his gla.s.s. 'Shalom.'

Ramsey stifled a yawn, and drank again.

He did not like the idea of leaving. He felt comfortable in Tel Aviv, and constantly interested in Jerusalem. He hated Cairo, the crowdedness of it, the dirt and poorness of it, and no sum on earth could induce him to go out to the pyramids once more, to suffer those nagging and lying hawkers with their awful trinkets. Staying on in Israel would have been preferable, except for the fact that there was not much doing these days on the story side, certainly no event that would make the first 131 four pages of the New York Record. The coming meetings in Cairo between the heads of Israel and Egypt promised little more. There had been endless similar meetings in the past few years, and not one had produced a decent international news story.

Lazily, Ramsey finished his drink and wondered what was happening to Victoria Weston. He missed her brightness, her chatter. Almost every morning since their separation he had awakened picturing her, her body, and had an erection. He wished that she were here to accompany him to Cairo and make the visit more bearable.

The thought that he would see her one day soon, and perhaps stop acting as foolishly as he had, made him feel even more relaxed.

He held out his gla.s.s for another shot of scotch. Leaning forward, he picked a few more ice cubes out of the bowl on the desk, dropped them into his gla.s.s, and drank again, waiting for the last ache of exhaustion to drain away.

For Ramsey, the past ten days had been wearying. No sooner had he reached the Tel Aviv Hilton Hotel from Paris than he had heard from New York and from Ollie McAllister. There was a new priority a.s.signment for Ramsey. Instead of merely researching background material for coverage of the Israeli prime minister's flight to Egypt and his meetings there with his Egyptian counterpart, Ramsey was to accompany Israel's defense minister on an inspection tour around the country. This would take five days. The sixth day he was to go to The Shrine of the Book - the Dead Sea scrolls museum in Jerusalem - and cover an anniversary of the museum, which was to feature a gathering of eminent international archaeologists.

The defense tour of Israel had quickly worn Ramsey to a frazzle not because he was in soft physical condition, or because of the unremitting heat, or because the military provided few comforts (no hotels on this tour, only barracks and tents), but because the young, vigorous defense minister was a dynamo. Ramsey had ridden with the minister or hiked at his heels from Haifa to Afula to Gaza to Beersheba, and throughout the Negev. The resultant story - Israel's preparedness for a possible war in the near future against any combination of Arab states - proved interesting enough until Israeli censors emasculated it.

The sixth day, in Jerusalem, Ramsey had gone to cover the ceremony at the Dead Sea scrolls museum. He had never before visited The Shrine of the Book, the Israelis' name for the sacred sanctuary that housed and preserved the seven priceless Dead Sea scrolls discovered in a Qumran cave in 1947. Walking between the white dome -fashioned after the cover of the scrolls' earthen jar - and a black basalt wall, descending to the subterranean main repository, Ramsey had found himself interested but doubtful that the inanimate story of a museum could provide much excitement for the busy readers of a harum-scarum, hyped-up New York metropolitan newspaper.

Yet, once inside, Ramsey had been forced to suspend all doubts. He had been utterly intrigued by what he was shown beneath the double parabolic dome. As he followed an archaeologist guide during an inspection tour before the ceremony, Ramsey had been open-mouthed with fascination.

An arched tunnel lined with showcases ascended to the central circular main hall, which was highlighted by an elevated main column displaying the Isaiah scroll, the entire book of Isaiah. It was as if the ancient Qumran community of two thousand years ago had come to life, resurrected by the numerous jagged leather sheets bearing in Aramaic their accounts of the persistent struggle of Good against Evil.

132.

With reluctance Ramsey attended to his job, made notes for his story, noted everything from the fact that the museum's interior architecture was in the form of the cave in which the scrolls had been found to the fact that the scrolls were enshrined behind thick gla.s.s in ten display cases to the fact that the fragments of the main scroll, the Isaiah, were not the originals but clever photocopies, since the fragile real fragments might be destroyed by exposure to light in the building.

Ramsey, with an interpreter at his side, had joined other guests in the makeshift seating arrangements, had tried to be attentive to the ceremony, had half-listened to speeches by biblical scholars and archaeologists. For Ramsey, the speakers had been relatively lifeless. What had pumped life and blood into the day had been the scrolls themselves.

That evening, in the King David Hotel, Ramsey had tried to infuse some of that energy into his story. Calling New York to dictate the piece, he had been modestly pleased with his handiwork.

But he had still suspected, despite knowledge that Armstead had personally suggested the a.s.signment, that the story would be given little prominence in a normal New York day replete with murders and muggings, bribery and graft, and at least several s.e.x scandals.

This morning, which was hot as ever, Ramsey had hired a taxi to take him the three quarters of an hour drive from Jerusalem to the Tel Aviv Hilton. There had hardly been time for a shower, a change of clothes, a sandwich on the run, and no time at all to reply to the phone messages from Victoria -who, to his surprise, was in Paris, not Geneva - before he had to catch the press bus to Ben Gurion International Airport. He was still in the airport's temporary press room, finishing his second drink, when he realized that he was being paged on the public-address system.

Setting down his gla.s.s, he came to his feet. 'They're paging me. I missed it - where do I pick up the call?'

The Israeli press officer beckoned him. 'You can take it next door. Let me help. Come along.'

They walked to the claustrophobic adjacent room. The officer picked up the phone, spoke twice in Hebrew, handed over the receiver. 'Paris on the line for you. They're making the connection.' He went to the door. 'Don't-forget, we're leaving any minute.'