The Miracle (43 page)

"If you have the money in cash," she resumed, "it must be in francs, dollars, or pounds. If it is too much to expect you to carry around such a sum in cash, you may pay by a cashier's check on a Paris, New York, or London bank. If that can't be done, then mail me the sum in cash next week, and give me a place where I can send you the pictures and negatives. What do you say to that, Mr. Tikhanov?"

He sat Sphinx-like, both of his hands spread flat on the arms of his chair. His flinty face was raised toward hers. "What do I say, Miss Dupree? I say you are quite insane. I am not coming to your apartment at eleven tomorrow morning or at any other time. I will not allow myself to be frightened by your fiction—not frightened or blackmailed. If you expect me to submit to this madness of yours, you can wait till hell freezes over."

A tough bastard, the foreign minister, she thought, as hard as a rock. But she was certain that there was a fissure in that seeming solidity.

"Up to you," she said cheerfully. "It's your grave—to avoid or to dig. Be my guest."

Feeling good, feeling victorious, after the encounter with Tikhanov, and free of an engagement to lead another tour, Gisele had requested that her taxi driver make a detour to the photo shop. There she had picked up another package of prints of her tourists, then hopped back into the taxi and told Henri he could now take her to Dominique's apartment.

As they drove toward the domain, slowed by the evening traffic, Gisele spotted someone famihar eating in one of the outdoor caffes. Squinting through the rear window, she made out the mop of orange hair that could only belong to Liz Finch.

As Liz slid from view, and the taxi proceeded on its course, Gisele had a sudden thought.

The probabihty that she had been victorious in her meeting with Tikhanov was still likely, but yet not entirely certain. One shadow of a doubt had cast itself over her encounter. While she did not wish espe-

dally to expose the Russian leader -- her only interest was obtaining money from him—there was always the faint possibility that Tikhanov might stand firm. He was a man of peculiar character, on the surface inflexible, and he might decide not to give in to her demand for money but instead risk having his abberation of behavior publicized, feeling that he was powerful enough to ride out any storm. Gisele believed that he would not hazard exposure, yet his stubbornness might induce him to stonewall it, another one of her favorite American expressions.

If, by chance, her prospects of getting money from Tikhanov fell through, she would be left with an empty victory, with merely the knowledge that she had destroyed a Soviet leader. In that case, she would want the money from another source, and having just fleetingly seen Liz Finch, she realized that there remained a second source.

Conjuring up her first meeting with Liz Finch last Saturday, Gisele remembered that Liz had spoken of a big story, possibly an expose of Bernadette's veracity. When Gisele, knowing the impossibility of undermining the honesty of Bernadette, the very foundation of Lourdes, had inquired if anything else might qualify as a big story, she recalled Liz Finch's reply: Thousands of people /mm all over the world have been pouring into Lourdes, and more will come tomorrow for the Virgin's encore. Maybe some of them will be newsworthy, and crazy things will happen to them. There could be a story there, too, that would be worth considerable money. Mind you, it would have to be a big story.

It struck Gisele at once that she had what Liz Finch wanted.

The foreign minister of the Soviet Union in Lourdes for a cure by the Virgin Mary.

Certainly there couldn't be many bigger stories.

Liz Finch, Gisele realized, could be her life insurance. If Tikhanov, himself, failed to come through, there would be Liz to come up with the money.

Her mind made up, Gisele determined not to pass over this opportunity. Leaning forward, she tapped her taxi driver on the shoulder.

"Henri, I think I saw someone a few blocks back that I'd like to speak to for a minute or two. You can find a place to turn around, can't you?"

Nodding, the driver swung his car into the first side street, made a short U-turn, and drove down into the main thoroughfare and began to cover the distance they had already traveled. "Where to?" he wanted to know.

"I think it was the Cafe au Roi Albert," said Gisele, peering out the window and hoping that Liz Finch had not already left.

Then she saw the mop of orange hair once more, and felt relieved.

"You can let me off here, Henri," said Gisele. "Find a place to park somewhere. I'll just be a little while."

Negotiating the foot traffic in the street, Gisele could see that Liz Finch was quite alone, relaxed in a red wicker chair, munching away at a plate of pommes/rites and sipping an iced Coca-Cola. What ghastly eating habits Americans had, Oisele thought, but she knew that she loved them nevertheless.

"Hi, Miss Finch," Gisele greeted her.

Liz looked up. "It's you. How've you been?"

"Busy as usual." Gisele pulled back a chair. "Mind if I join you for a minute?"

"Please do," said Liz. "Just having an hors d'oeuvre before dinner. Want some?"

"No, thanks," said Gisele. "How's it been going for you? Found any big stories yet?"

Liz shook her head dolefully. "Not a damn thing, nothing but pious hymn singers in this goddam dull village. I'm just hanging around the whole eight days until someone shouts hallelujah, I've seen the Virgin Mary, which seems to me most unlikely at this point. I can't wait to get back to Paris empty-handed and be fired."

"Be fired?"

"That's something else. Forget it." She held a French fry high and dropped it into her mouth. "How about you? Got any hot scoops for httle Liz?"

"As a matter of fact, I may have. I thought I should have a word with you, Miss Finch."

"Oh, yeah?" Liz stopped eating and sat up. "You've come across something?"

"I think I have, maybe," Gisele said with great earnestness. "I was remembering, when we first met, you advised me to keep my eyes open for a big story. You told me if I found one, well, it might be worth a lot of money, and your syndicate would willingly pay. Is that correct?"

"It's true." Liz was alert now. "What have you got?"

"Well, Miss Finch, I may be on the verge of obtaining such a story—"

"And you're sure this is a big one? No diddling smalltown crap?"

"Miss Finch, I promise you, this is not merely a big one. It is a big, big one. The biggest, and with international overtones." She paused. "Are you interested?"

"You know I'm interested in any real news, anything super big that you can authenticate. It's not about Bernadette, is it?"

"No. More timely."

Liz pressed forward. "Okay, go on."

"It'll have to wait overnight. I'll know tomorrow if you can have it."

Liz sat back. "If it works out, if I decide it is that important, if you can prove it—all right, how much?"

"In your money, $15,000."

Liz emitted a low whistle. "You're not kidding around, I can see. You're sure this one is worth that much?"

"Maybe it is worth more, but $15,000 would satisfy me."

"I won't deny that's a lot of money, Gisele, but if the story is really a blockbuster, and you have the goods to support it, I could certainly get API to pay for it. You said you'd know tomorrow. How will I know when you have it available?"

Gisele took an agency card from her purse and wrote on it. She handed the card to Liz and stood up. "That's my phone number and address. It's a girl friend's apartment I'm staying at. Call me at noon tomorrow. I'll tell you if you have it."

"I'll be calling. Fingers crossed, for both of us."

Another Americanism Gisele adored. She smiled. "Yes, fingers crossed—until then."

Striding away, toward her driver on the comer, she felt giddy about her prospects. Now not one buyer, but two.

It was in the bag, as Roy Zimborg used to say.

Having heard in the press tent that Liz Finch had gone off to a cafe, Amanda Spenser was proceeding up the street, searching in every caffe for her. Then, at last, she saw Liz up ahead sitting at a sidewalk table with some young woman. The young woman was rising, leaving, and Amanda quickened her pace to catch Liz before she left, too.

Amanda reached the table just as Liz was cleaning up the last of her French fries.

"I'm glad I found you, Liz. I was looking everywhere for you."

"Well, this must be old home week," said Liz. "Sit down, sit down. What's on your mind?"

Amanda tentatively took a chair. "I have an appointment with Father Ruland in half an hour. I thought maybe you'd like to come along."

"I've been keeping Ruland busy myself. But anyway, what are you seeing him about?"

"Bernadette's journal. What we heard about it from Sister Fran-cesca in Nevers yesterday. I'd like to delve into the matter of the journal

a little deeper, find out more about how the church acquired it— how the church was able to be sure of its absolute authenticity—"

"Fbrget it," said Liz. "It's authentic all right. Like I told you before. You can be sure the church wouldn't lead with its chin unless it knew it had the goods."

"How can you be so certain?"

"Because," said Liz, "I don't let any grass grow under my feet. I met with Father Ruland on that very point early this morning. He dragged out the actual journal Bernadette had kept, the one in which she had confided the Virgin Mary's secrets. Then he displayed the various certifications of authenticity."

"Like putting it through the carbon-14 dating process?"

"No, not that -- that's for ancient papers, parchment, papyrus— Bernadette's journal wasn't old enough to require that kind of test. It was much simpler, really. There were many specimens of Bernadette's handwriting around. The journal script has been compared to those by any number of prominent handwriting experts. There were also numerous other tests made—overkill really—the use of ultra-violet lamp, chemical analysis of the pigments in the ink, close studies by scholars of the style or language usage in the journal, to be positive it jibed with the style and language usage in Bernadette's previous writings, for example, her letters. No, you're wasting your time, Amanda. On authenticity, the church has an airtight case. I think we'd both better drop our researches on Bernadette."

Amanda stiffened. "You can, but I'm not ready to, not yet. Even if it is authentic, I want to know more about the journal, how the church acquired it, and from whom, and whatever else I can find out. Maybe I'll stumble on something, some lead, that'll bring Ken to his senses."

"I can only wish you good luck. For my part, I'm finished with that journal. I'm just going to sit here and wait for the apparition."

"Very well," said Amanda, annoyed. "From here on in, I'll go it alone."

They were in a quiet, plain room of the Rosary Basilica, in a sparsely furnished room that Father Ruland had identified as his office. Because Ruland was so open, so generous and cooperative, Amanda made every effort not to let him know that she was a doubter. But she perceived that he was an insightful and sophisticated man, well-versed in the understanding of human nature, and she guessed that he was aware of her doubts from the outset of their meeting.

She sat at an antique wooden table in the middle of the office, and he brought exhibits of Bernadette memorabilia from a fireproof wall

safe to impress her. And to cooperate with her on the article about Bernadette that she had told him she was writing for a psychology journal. Ruland's exhibits were mostly paper objects, scraps of paper, letters, documents with writings in Bernadette's hand, as well as records of the events at the grotto and of talks between Bernadette and various neighbors and officials of Lourdes who had been witnesses in the year of the apparitions and the years that followed.

"But foremost of all, you are interested in Bernadette's last journal, the one that revealed the most dramatic and exciting of the Virgin Mary's three secrets, and the one that brought about this Reappearance Time," Father Ruland had said, carrying the journal from the safe and laying it down before Amanda. "There it is, our treasure. You may have a look inside for yourself. With care, of course, great care."

"I'm afraid to touch it," said Amanda. "Do you mind opening it, Father?"

"A pleasure, believe me, Mrs. Clayton," said Father Ruland coming around the table. When he had bent down beside her, his handsome and imposing presence and his worldly assurance had briefly dwarfed Amanda's doubts, had made them seem niggling and foolish. Nevertheless, she had remained attentive.

He had pulled the leather-bound folio from its shpcase, and opened it, spreading the pages before Amanda.

Now she was examining two of the pages, and the old-fashioned and slanted script gave Bernadette a reality that she had not possessed for Amanda earlier, not even at Nevers.

"Why, I can read this," Amanda said. "It's in French."

"What did you expect?" inquired Ruland.

"I'd been told she usually wrote in some native patois or village dialect that no one—"

"Ah, yes, Mrs. Clayton, that much is trae. She was brought up speaking not a dialect but a special language of the Pyrenees. But by the time she wrote this version of the events as a nun in Nevers, she had learned the fundamentals of the French language. You know, to satisfy many people after 1858, Bernadette made a number of accounts in writing of her experience at the grotto, some for clergymen, others for jouraahsts and historians. This account was the last one she set down on paper, to make a chronology of what happened to her one final time before memory of the apparitions escaped her and before her serious illness would make writing impossible."

"I'd like to know more about the journal. Father Ruland."

"I'm delighted with your interest," the priest said, closing the bound journal, and pressing it back into its shpcase. He went to the wall

safe, deposited the precious journal and the other memorabiha inside it, shut the door, twirled the knob to lock it, and returned to the table, sitting down across from Amanda. "I'll tell you whatever you want to know."