He went wordlessly through the door, slamming it shut.

Having finished his conversations with Ramsey and Victoria in Paris, Armstead hung up the receiver of his office telephone and fell back in his swivel chair, utterly drained.

He began to think that what he wanted now was the tall, strong drink he had failed to get at Kim Nesbit's. As he was about to act on it, his buzzer sounded.

It was Estelle. 'Mr. Armstead, I'm leaving now, but I wanted to tell you Bruce Harmston is here. He wonders if he can have a minute with you.'

158.

Armstead groaned audibly. 'Is it something that can hold until tomorrow?'

He heard Estelle speaking to Harmston, and then she was back on the line again. 'Mr. Harmston says it would be better if he could see you right now.'

'Okay, okay, send him in.'

Moments later, Harmston was seated edgily before him, the forehead below his receding hairline perspiring, his moon face troubled. 'Mr. Armstead, I hate to bust in on you like this, but it's something I have to handle as soon as possible. It's Time magazine again.'

Armstead showed his annoyance. 'What in the h.e.l.l do they want now? I've given them an interview, I've sat for pictures -'

'Oh, you've been most cooperative, they know that. But they're still not satisfied with what you told them - or, in their words, did not tell them - about your star foreign correspondent, Mark Bradshaw.'

'Bradshaw, Bradshaw, they're driving me nuts.'

'I'm sure you are aware, sir, we've been getting many inquiries about Bradshaw. I've managed to concentrate all stories on you, on your intuitive genius, your brilliance. Everyone is accepting that - it's so obvious - but still they want to know more about the man you've been a.s.signing to cover those exclusives. Time has been the most persistent. The editors feel you're being evasive. They're insisting on another interview with you, a brief one just about Bradshaw -who he is, how you found him, how you work with him. Do you think -?'

'f.u.c.k Time magazine!' Armstead burst out. 'I'm not wasting another second on them, even if it costs me the story.'

'No, no, Mr. Armstead, don't misunderstand. They want to feature you. They want to play up the story. They just thought the lack of information on Bradshaw left a big hole in their profile. But they're going ahead with the piece, of course -'

'Sorry, Bruce, you tell them I'm simply too busy to see them again. Besides, my handling of Bradshaw, working with him, is a highly cla.s.sified and private business matter. I'm not giving our private methods out to anyone. Our success depends on secrecy, and I intend to maintain it. No, I'm not going to discuss Bradshaw with them or with anyone else.'

Like all good press agents, Harmston was dogged. Not even a tornado would turn him away. He was clearing his throat now. 'Mr. Armstead, if you could just let me throw them a bone - something, anything, from you through me - to placate them.'

'Like what?'

'Like a few biographical tidbits. Anything. I don't have even a line about Bradshaw on file. I know your wish for secrecy, but - you understand, I have to do my job -'

Armstead did understand. Harmston was a veteran loyalist, and deserved better. But Armstead also knew that he must tread cautiously. Harmston had never been let in on what was going on. Only Dietz and Pagano, in Armstead's inner circle, were informed. No one else, no one, nor would they ever be. Still, Armstead realized that he would be giving away nothing if he threw the dogged one a bone.

159.

'Okay,' said Armstead, more agreeably. 'Maybe I can give you a few bio facts - very little, but something that will placate everyone.'

'Thank you, thank you very much,' said Bruce Harmston, fumbling in his jacket for his miniature notebook and pencil. 'Any tidbit about Mark Bradshaw will be extremely useful. It will stop all the clamoring.'

Armstead closed his eyes, considering what to say. When it was formulated in his mind, he spoke.

'Bradshaw, Mark,' he said. 'Born in Liverpool, England. A Cambridge man. Was on the staff of two London dailies. Published three expose books.' Armstead paused. 'The ones badgering us need not try to trace him. He was born, educated, worked under another name. He took the name of Bradshaw only after I saw merit in him and personally hired him. He's on my private payroll full time.'

Armstead stopped speaking.

Harmston lifted his head. 'Is that all?'

'That's all.'

'I mean - could you just give me something about where you keep him headquartered?'

'I keep him under a rock. I let him out at night.'

'Mr. Armstead-'

'That's all, Bruce. Sorry. See you soon.'

Unhappily, Harmston came to his feet, pocketing his notebook. 'Well, thank you. It's something. I'll try to make it go a long way. Yes, hope to see you soon.'

He backed off, turned, and left the office in haste.

Armstead sighed. It had been a long, hard day, especially the very end, this taking care of Nick Ramsey and then the Mark Bradshaw matter.

He pushed himself upright. He was ready for that tall, strong drink. He would find Dietz. They would have a drink together.

It was close to two o'clock in the morning in Paris.

In her bedroom, at the Plaza Athenee, Victoria Weston removed her robe, laid it neatly across a chair, tied the ribbon at the cleavage of her white silk nightgown, kicked off her slippers, turned off the bed lamp, and got into bed.

Lying on her back in the darkness, she unhappily reviewed the last of the evening with Nick.

For her, at least, their dinner had been unsatisfactory. She had eaten, as she wanted to, but had not enjoyed it. He had left his food mostly untouched, and had drunk too much. She had tried, several times, to bring up the subject of what had been troubling her about the Armstead operation, about the mystery of Mark Bradshaw, about the strangeness of their own a.s.signments. She had not been able to communicate successfully with Nick. He simply had refused to listen to her, preferring to talk, when he did talk, about Israel and Egypt. She liked him too much to have pity for him, and had kept wondering why he drank so much and why he seemed to be constantly avoiding her.

Before midnight they had returned to the suite for their prearranged call. Shortly afterward, Armstead had telephoned from New York. Armstead had spoken to Nick, and then to her. There 160 had been disappointments. Armstead had revealed that he had tipped off his connections in the French Surete about Carlos, but Carlos had moved on before the police could trap him. A sensational story had been lost for all of them. Further, Nick had been informed that, for his own safety, he was being transferred from Paris to Washington, D.G., in the morning. As for herself, she was to stay on in Paris alone to gather material for a feature story on Lourdes that was to run in advance of the Pope's visit there next week. Before finishing with Armstead, she'd had the temerity to ask him if he had contacted Mark Bradshaw. The publisher had replied, 'I've taken care of Bradshaw,' that and no more.

After the phone call Victoria had made up her mind that this would be the time to discuss the whole puzzle with Nick. But again Nick had evaded discussion. Too busy for any serious talk, then and there. He had to get downstairs, he insisted, and arrange with the night concierge for an early flight to Washington, D.C. Don't wait up for me, he had said, speech slurred from alcohol, pecking her on the forehead with a kiss, don't wait up 'cause got too much to do. Meaning, Victoria was sure, not only making his reservations but visiting the Plaza Athenee bar to have one or two more for the road.

Now, in bed, knowing Nick had not returned from his protracted excursion to the lobby, Victoria discovered that sleep would not come. Weariness was dominated by-unanswered questions. She tried to understand Nick. She tried to understand Armstead and his elusive Bradshaw. She tried to understand why she and not the Paris bureau had been handed the routine a.s.signment on Lourdes.

Trying to put everything out of her mind, she beckoned sleep as she might a lover.

Sleep would not join her.

Fixing on her illuminated travel clock, she could make out that she had been suffering insomnia for at least forty minutes. For the first time in months, she considered taking a sleeping pill, but just then she thought that she heard the noisy rattling of the door to the suite. She definitely heard a door being shut, listened harder, and knew that someone was b.u.mping into furniture in the living room. When she heard the other bedroom door close, she knew that Nick had returned.

She lay still a long interval, wide awake, trying to decide whether she should corner Nick in the morning before he left or make an effort to confront him now. Tomorrow he might elude her. Right now, confined to his bedroom, he could not escape. Drunk or not, he would have to listen. This was the moment.

Throwing off her covers, she fumbled for the bed lamp, turned it on, and swung off the bed. She drew on her robe, glanced at the mirror, patted down her hair, and went into the living room. She crossed past the television set and the desk and stood before Nick's door.

For an instant, she hesitated. Maybe he was not in condition to hear her out.

Never mind, dammit, she told herself, it had to be now.

She rapped on the door.

No answer. Perhaps already asleep.

She rapped again, more sharply.

This time, Nick's m.u.f.fled voice. 'Come in.'

She opened his door and went inside his room.

161.

The bedroom was dimly lit by lamps on either side of the unmade bed. Nick had turned from the bureau to face her, and he was undressed, naked except for his white jock shorts.

Victoria gave a small gasp, ready to leave, saying, 'Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't know -'

'Get off it, Vicky. You've seen plenty of men before.' He grinned. 'Not that I've been much of a man these days.'

She remained rooted, staring at him, realizing his body contradicted his self-deprecation. He was plenty of man. Her surprise was that he was neither bloated nor flabby from drink. His hairy chest and stomach were flat and his thighs strong. But when he stepped away from the bureau toward her he almost lost his balance, and when he spoke his words were thick. 'Wanna join me for a nightcap?' He held up his brandy gla.s.s.

'Thanks, but no, Nick. I really wanted to talk to you briefly about something before you left. When are you leaving?'

'The hotel? Eleven o'clock.' He walked carefully around the bed and sat on it, drinking, looking intently at her over the gla.s.s.

'I guess it can wait,' she said awkwardly. 'You'd better get some sleep. Maybe we can talk- in the morning. It is important.'

'No, Vicky,' he said, setting his gla.s.s down on the marble- topped bed table. 'Less - Let's talk. Been wanting to talk to you for a long time.'

'Well, if you really feel like it.'

'Feel like it,' he said. 'Wanna talk about something important to me.' He patted the bed. 'Sit here.'

'Okay,' she said bravely, going to the bed, sitting. 'But let me start first, then it'll be your turn.'

He stared at her blearily, shook his head. 'No,' he said. 'My turn first. My turn's more important.

About us.'

She raised her eyes to meet his, at once curious, wondering, waiting.

'About us,' he repeated. 'Never made a pa.s.s at you. Wanted to every time. Never did. Explain - lemme explain.'

'You don't have to, Nick.'

'Have to, because.' His speech was cottony. He was making an effort to pull himself together, be articulate. 'Been a bachelor. Fell hard for a young woman, six, seven years ago. Was afraid to get involved, so close, but she loved me as much, I believed, I thought. We got married. Right after, found out she was pregnant by another guy, another guy she really loved, but he wouldn't make it legal so she faked it with me to get married. I wanted to kill myself or her. I wanted to.'

She took his hands. Tm sorry, Nick.'

'Old story, old hat. But never did it, never killed anyone. Just divorced her, left her. Vowed never to trust another woman, never to let myself be hurt. Meant loneliness, frustration, started drinking, never stopped drinking. Good company. Course had one-night stands all the time, f.u.c.king, no commitment, never trusted another one again. Never fell in love, till I met you.'

She felt her heart hammering.

162.

'Was afraid to fall for you,' he was saying. 'Afraid to trust any woman who meant so much -'

'I mean so much to you?'

'What the h.e.l.l, I'm in love with you, Vicky, and not holding back.'

'Oh, Nick.' She was on her feet over him, almost moved to tears. She sought his lips and kissed him and kissed him. 'I've been so in love with you from the start.'

His arms came heavily around her, pulling her down to his lap, kissing her back. 'Vicky, come to bed with me.'

She felt him hardening beneath her, and heat pervaded her from cheeks and b.r.e.a.s.t.s to the inside of her thighs. She caught her breath, tried to be flippant. 'I - I thought you'd never ask.'

He started to bring her down on the bed with him. 'Now, darling.'

She squirmed free. 'Yes, now,' she said huskily. She came to her feet. 'Let me go into the bathroom first. I'll only be a minute.'

Barefoot, she hastened to his bathroom, closed herself in. Divesting herself of the bathrobe, hanging it up on his hook, she reached down and pulled up her cotton nightgown, drawing it up over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and her head. She was flushed, throbbing with excitement. He loved her. He wanted her. They would never be apart again.

She looked into his mirror over the sink. She wished that she had her makeup, her lotions, her perfume. But never mind. Her reflection told her what he would see, and what he would see was a flawless naked young woman in full blossom of love, from hardened nipples to moist v.a.g.i.n.a.

He would enjoy her. And she wanted him.

Not another second of their togetherness to lose.

She left the bathroom, turning down the light, went in measured step around the corner and, in her nudity, entered the bedroom as unself-consciously as possible.

He was waiting for her on the bed, she could see.

She advanced to the side of the bed, arms limply at her sides, b.r.e.a.s.t.s rising and falling.

She could see him fully now. He was lying on his side, still in his jock shorts, his head deep in a pillow. His eyes were shut. He was snoring lightly. He was sound asleep.

He had pa.s.sed out completely.

Glaring down at him, she remained transfixed, wanting to cry, and wanting to laugh.

Considering his inert figure, she tried to a.s.sess his earlier confession. Uninhibited, had he truly spilled out his love for her, or had he been merely plain stupid drunk and capable of saying anything?

The answer?

She'd once, as a youngster with her father, attended a movie festival of silent films, clips of silent day Sat.u.r.day serials. They always left you hanging at the end of an episode. To be continued, they said.

She smiled ruefully to herself.

163.