The Miracle (32 page)

"No doubt about that," agreed Liz. "Still, it doesn't make what he gave us any less true."

"But you haven't told me what you really think," said Amanda.

"True or not—and I'd guess most of what Cayoux told us has some basis in fact -- it's mainly a conversation piece, peripheral material," said Liz. "None of it adds up to an API expose story. I still need some piece of hard central evidence that shows Bernadette up as a charlatan or an adolescent nut. Unless I have that piece of provable evidence, I can't file a story."

"Maybe you're right," said Amanda.

Liz started down the steps to the Place Jean Moulin and its parked cars, with Amanda falling in beside her. "Let's head back to Lourdes before it gets dark," Liz said. "Once we're there, I'll find out how to get to Nevers. I believe it is nearer to Paris than Lourdes. If we want to spend tomorrow there, we may have to leave tonight. You game?"

"Why not?"

"We can't miss a bet," said Liz. "Nevers may give us the key -- the key that'll open up the grotto and show us Bernadette's big secret."

"If there is a secret," said Amanda.

"Are you kidding?" said Liz.

Rarely in his life had Mikel Hurtado felt more frustrated and puzzled than he felt this evening as he once more trudged back to the Hotel Gallia & Londres.

For the third time this day, he had been blocked in his efforts to plant the dynamite and detonator beside the grotto.

Retreating slowly to the hotel, Hurtado reviewed his forays and failures and tried to make sense out of them. Early in the afternoon.

anned with his shopping bag of explosives, he had confidently undertaken his first efibrt of the day. He had wended his way down the crowded Avenue Bernadette Soubirous to the corner, intent on following the stream of pilgrims crossing the street to the head of the ramp, and going down the ramp into the domain.

Stepping ofi" the curb, he had stopped dead in his tracks. Past the pedestrian traffic, across the way, at the top of the ramp, were the police and one of the white-and-red squad cars with a blue light on its roof. The police were strung out, barring access to the ramp and the domain, observing visitors, apparently halting and questioning some. Hurtado could not make out clearly what the police were up to, but they were there all right, exactly where he had seen them gathered last night. Realizing that he did not dare go closer, considering the contents of his shopping bag, he had backed off yet again and returned to the hotel.

In his hotel room, he had taken a deck of cards from his suitcase and devoted himself to endless games of solitaire. Tiring of this pasteboard masturbation, he had picked up a paperback novel by Kafka, flung himself on the bed, and read until he had dozed off. Awakened by the sound of singing outside the window, the late afternoon procession, he had squinted at his bedside clock. Five-thirty. By now, he had hoped, the police would be done with whatever they were doing. He had washed his face and hands, retrieved the shopping bag, and for the second time this day had strolled over to the Boulevard de la Grotte. Across the thoroughfare, the hub of the scene had been a rephca of what he had witnessed four hours or so before. There was the milling crowd, vocally annoyed by the slowdown while going into the domain, and the uniformed pohce apparently examining each worshipper and tourist passing through a temporary barrier at the ramp entrance. Once more, Hurtado knew that he dared not risk it, until he was certain that the police had left.

Returning to his hotel room, he had disposed of the shopping bag and, feeling a pang of hunger, he had taken the elevator down to the dining room for dinner. At the table for eight where a place was reserved for him, he had seen that his neighbor and new friend, Natale Rinaldi, was already there, eating, and that the chair next to her was unoccupied. He had taken his place, greeting Natale and the other guests, all French, apologized for being late and ordered his dinner. The guests, along with Natale, had been deeply engaged in discussing some of the more dramatic cures that had occurred in the last ten years at the grotto and baths. Disinterested, Hurtado had not deigned to be drawn into the conversation, but consumed his meal moodily, his mind constantly intent on getting into the domain.

Not until the dinner was over, and the others were rising to leave and go to the nightly procession, had Hurtado attempted to speak to Natale. He had offered to escort her to her room, and she had thanked him and accepted. In the elevator, going to the second floor, Natale had asked him what he had done with himself this day. He had invented a he about hours of shopping to find a suitable gift for his mother in San Sebastian. Leaving the elevator, he had inquired politely how she had spent her day. At the grotto, of course, she had told him, at the grotto, praying. He had seen an opportunity of finding out about the swarm of police there and inquired if she had run into any trouble getting to the grotto. She had told him she'd had no trouble and wondered why he had asked. He had told her about the police at the ramp, and the long delay in reaching the domain, and was curious about the sudden gathering of gendarmes. At the door to her room, Natale had remembered that this had been briefly discussed at the beginning of dinner by several of their dinner partners. Yes, there had been some police, and those who had discussed it assumed that the police had been trying to spot veteran pickpockets and prostitutes. While the table speculation had proved nothing, still Hurtado felt it was something, and after seeing Natale into her room, bidding her good-night, and going back to his own quarters next door, he had felt encouraged.

Once in his room, he had decided to try again, and felt that he would make it. Certainly by now, by nightfall, the police would have found their petty criminals and dispersed so that the pilgrim traffic could resume at a normal pace. Preparing for a third advance on the domain, meaning to take the shopping bag with him, Hurtado had hesitated about carrying it, had felt unaccountably cautious. He had decided that he would examine the terrain, just to be sure that the path was clear, and once assured that it was clear, he would hasten back for his shopping bag and once more go to the domain and the grotto, and lose himself there, and do his preparatory job.

For the third time he had walked to the comer, and for the third time the scene had not changed. He could see the delayed lines of visitors pushing toward the ramp, and the bulwark of uniformed Lourdes policemen at the head of the ramp. Dismayed, but unencumbered by his explosives and feeling safer, Hurtado had determined that this time he would have a closer look and see what this was all about He had strolled into the street to the cafe Le Royale, found a seat and table near the curb, ordered a Cacolac, and fixed his sight on the activity directly across the street. Pulling at the straw in his drink, he had finally been able to make out something of what was going on. The pohce, he could observe, were stopping only those pilgrims and tourists

with packages and shopping bags, unwrapping the packages and searching the bags, then passing the people through to the ramp. Odd, Hurtado had told himself. What in the devil were they looking for? One thing for certain, he had been glad he had not attempted to enter the domain with his own shopping bag.

Now, still puzzled, he was returning to the hotel.

Inside the entrance, calling for the key to 206 from the special key desk, taking it, going into the reception lobby, he became aware of the lone receptionist, the plump French lady known as Yvonne, behind the desk busy as ever with some kind of ledger. The moment he saw her, he knew what to do. She would know what was going on—most hotel personnel like this one knew everything, all the town news and gossip— and she would tell him.

Hurtado detoured from the elevator and strode to the reception desk with a cheerful smile.

"Hello, Yvonne," he said to her.

She raised her head from the ledger and smiled back. "Good evening, Mr. Hurtado. Why aren't you down at the procession?"

It was a perfect opening, and he took it. "Too hard to get down there. Police at every entrance. What's going on?"

"Well ..." But she was reluctant to answer.

He summoned up his most flirtatious smile. "Aw, come on, Yvonne, you know everything."

"Not quite everything -- but some things."

"So you're not going to give a poor pilgrim a break?"

"Well, it's confidential—if it could be strictly between us—"

"You have my promise on the head of the Virgin."

"Really, Mr. Hurtado—"

"In fact, in return for enlightenment, I promise to treat you to a drink this week. If I don't keep my word, I'll owe you two drinks, even three."

She rose and leaned across the counter conspiratorially, and he cooperated by putting his head closer to hers. Dropping her voice, she said, "You won't break your word, now? This is absolutely confidential. I have it from my closest girl friend, Madeleine—she, uh, has a special relationship with Inspector Fontaine, who is the head of the Lourdes gendarmerie — "

"Yes?"

Yvonne whispered, "The police have had a tip that a terrorist may attempt to blow up the grotto, of all things, this week."

Hurtado felt the clutch at his heart. He tried to keep his voice ev«i.

"I don't believe it," he said. "Nobody would do that, certainly not this week. A tip, you say?"

"It was an anonymous call. The inspector did not tell Madeleine more. But he has stationed gendarmes at every entrance to the grotto, and they search everyone going into the domain for explosives. They are taking it seriously all right. In fact—" She lowered her voice even more. "They are now checking the foreigners in every hotel. I—I'm not supposed to tell, but they are right here in the Gallia & Londres this very minute. The inspector himself and a large contingent of police. They have keys to all rooms, to open the rooms right now unoccupied and inspect what is in them and to examine the possessions of guests who are in their rooms."

Hurtado's throat was dry. "They're here, now, the police?"

"They started on the first floor about fifteen minutes ago, and they are working their way up."

Hurtado shook his head. "I can't believe it, a police search in Lourdes in a week like this."

Yvonne shrugged. "There always could be some crazy one loose."

"Thanks for the gossip, Yvonne. I owe you one drink." About to turn away, something occurred to him. He addressed Yvonne once more. Casually. "By the way, almost forgot to tell you. I have to be out of town for a day or two. A friend's birthday. But hold my room. I'll be back to use it. And—oh, yes, if the police want to know why 206 is unoccupied—you can assure them it's still occupied. Okay?"

"No problem."

He pivoted toward the elevator, and tried to appear unhurried, but in fact his legs were leaden. The realization of what had probably happened struck him all at once. He had half forgotten Julia's telephone call from San Sebastian yesterday morning, her call confessing that she'd told their leader, Augustin Lopez, what he was up to. He remembered defying Augustin on the phone with Julia, and he remembered her warning him that if he insisted on going ahead Augustin would try to stop him. He had insisted on going ahead, and that sonofabitch Augustin Lopez had anonymously phoned the Lourdes pohce and warned them of a possible terrorist act.

Hurtado knew that he must reach his room on the second floor before the police did. He must get rid of the explosives.

Real danger.

He felt the warm moisture of perspiration on his brow.

He waited for the elevator.

Hurtado was inside his room, the door shut behind him, falling against it to control his breath.

He had poked his head out of the elevator cautiously, praying that the police were not already there. If the police were there, he had made up his mind to get downstairs, get his car, and make a run for it. He might have a head start before they found the dynamite and detonator in his room, and before they issued an all-points bulletin for his arrest. But when he had come out of the elevator, and quickly scanned the second floor corridor, he realized that it was empty and he was momentarily safe. Immediately, he had made a dash for his room, unlocked the door, and thrown himself inside.

Now, breathing hard, exhaling in gasps, he waited for his body to settle into some degree of normalcy. In these fleeting seconds, he tried to figure out his next move. The first thing to do was to get the explosives and his person out of the room, out of the hotel. But then what? Another hotel? A boarding house? Neither promised any more refuge. He would go for his rented car, drive out of Lourdes to some neighboring town, Pau maybe, and hole up there. He could safely commute to Lourdes, scout the domain, and soon enough the police, empty-handed, would give up their vigil, determining that the anonymous call had been a crank call. The moment the lawmen let down their guard, he would slip in with his explosives and do the job.

Fuck you, Augustin Lopez, he shouted in his head to his betrayer. I said you couldn't stop me and you won't.

But ahead of anything else, he had to put distance between himself and the hotel. Flinging himself away from the door, he lifted his suitcase, put it on the bed, and opened it. Then he went for the shopping bag of dynamite, and by maneuvering his sparse effiects around, was able to make room to fit in the explosives. He looked around the room to see if he had missed anything, and then remembered his toothbrush, toothpaste, and shaving kit in the bathroom. He scooped them up, stuffied them into the suitcase, and shut it tight.

Not another second to lose.

Lifting the suitcase off" the bed, gripping it, he opened the door and glanced up and down the corridor. Empty. Time was still on his side. Relieved, he went out into the corridor, closed the door, and started swiftly toward the elevator. Reaching the gate, hoping that the elevator would be there, he saw that it was not there but in use by somebody else. No choice then but to take the staircase next to it down the two floors to the lobby. As he moved to the head of the stairs, he heard sounds, the tramping of footsteps ascending from below and a voice addressing someone else. The voice spoke in French. He eased himself