The Miracle (53 page)

Half-running, he was across the avenue to the top of the ramp. He peered down the paving to the bottom and the heart of the domain area. He descended fast, his confidence growing. At the foot of the ramp, on level ground, he peered out across the Rosary Esplanade to the other side, carefully searching as far as he could see for a sign of the lone security guard whom he'd observed on patrol in the late hours of the night. But even this one guard was nowhere in sight.

Trying to contain his jubilation, Hurtado swung off" to his left, passing the Rosary Basilica, and circled the towering Upper Basilica which looked down on it, striding rapidly toward the grotto.

It was there, that holy hole in the mountain, seeming eerie in the light of flickering candles which also caught the image of the Virgin

Mary, the long-worshipped statue of the white-clad Virgin in the niche high above.

The niche was his target. When it was blown to smithereens, a large portion of the mountainside would come down, joining the rubble of the grotto itself.

One last time Hurtado pivoted, cautiously looking around, looking for any obstacle or potential threat. The interior of the grotto was empty. The chairs and benches empty. The area where spigots provided water from the spring and the bathhouses beyond were empty.

The long wait was over. The high moment had come.

Without another instant's hesitation, Hurtado started toward the steep rise, covered with grass, bushes, yellow buddleia shrubs, small magnolia trees, and tall oak trees, that rose sharply next to the narrow barren rock that was the grotto's surround. Hurtado was off the groimd, and onto the rise, firmly planting each foot into the grassy turf as he climbed.

Going higher and higher, he was soon able to support himself by grabbing evergreen branches and the trunks of trees in the thickening forest. His breath was short now, but not from lack of stamina. He had the conditioning of an athlete. What affected his breathing was his anticipation and mounting excitement mingled with a hunter's tension.

He was at the large trees and counting off to locate the right one, and at one of the largest, he was sure he would find his treasure. He scrambled up and around the tree, tugging the pocket flashlight from his jacket, and pointing the circle of yellow light at the entwining foliage at his feet.

Then he spotted it, the depression, with the leafy camouflage he had prepared three days ago to cover and hide it. He dropped to his knees, placing the flashlight at the edge of the depression so its beam could guide him, and with bare hands he began to gather up the leaves and branches and cast them aside. The debris was moist from the night air, but this made it easier to scoop up and cast away.

The large flat folded shopping bag that he had brought here to cover the smaller packages was now before him. He lifted it off the cache, dropped it behind him, and concentrated on bringing the packages of explosive and equipment out of the hiding place.

As if he were handling precious porcelain, Hurtado laid out each piece of explosive equipment with care. From the start he had chosen an electrical timing device as the safest, the most certain, and the one that could help put the greatest distance between him and the dynamite when the explosion took place. The idea was to wire the explosive with a delayed-action fuse and attach the fuse to a clock or timer. This

involved the use of a battery and terminals, as well. The clock was set as an alarm was set. The clock ticked away, and when the clock hands touched the designated position, this closed the terminals and the circuit sent an electrical charge through the detonator and the fuse connected to the dynamite. For a while, at the outset, he had considered using the plastic C-4—what the French called plastique —as the explosive instead of old-fashioned dynamite, but then had decided that dynamite—nitroglycerine in a sawdust mix -- was simpler, as long as the dynamite sticks were fresh.

This dynamite, the sticks already neatly bound together, was new and fresh. With practiced hands—he had prepared at least a dozen of these devices to destroy sites in recent years—Hurtado unwound the coil of green wire and placed one end near the detonator and battery which were fixed to the baseboard. This done, Hurtado began to creep down the slope, running the wiring out as he descended surefooted toward the grotto. Now he shut o£f the flashlight as the illumination from the wax candles below flickered streaks of light across the fohage and dimly outlined in dark yellow the niche above the grotto and the marble statue of the Virgin Mary.

Briefly, between prickly bushes, he had a glimpse of the grotto area far below. His entire concentration was upon the niche as he crawled closer to it, running out his green fuse. When the niche was at arm's length, he edged even closer, bringing the package of dynamite sticks around in front of him with both hands and placing the explosive inside the niche. He prodded it gently so that it was settled perfectly behind the marble statue and out of sight.

Satisfied, he turned away on his knees, then began to retrace his path, fingering the long stretch of thin fuse as he crawled upward. In a few minutes he was back behind the large tree where the detonator and battery and clock rested. Speedily, he connected the wire to the terminal, taking care to prevent the terminals from making contact. Then he set the electrical timer. He had gauged the actual time for automatic contact in advance. He required enough time to get safely away, yet not too much time to permit the device to be exposed to someone who might accidentally notice it. Fifteen minutes seemed exactly right. Five minutes to get down from the mountainside, four minutes to hasten from the grotto to the ramp, one minute to reach his Ford (his suitcase had been packed in the trunk earlier), and five minutes to spin through the empty town and reach the back road to Pau.

By then, the grotto would be obliterated, and Euskadi would rise from the ashes. And he would have vanished from Lourdes, be in hiding far away, and protected by his French compatriots.

Fifteen minutes, starting this split second. He had finished the connection. No need to bury or camouflage the device. It, with everything else, would be blown into countless pieces.

He came to his feet, and immediately began his precarious descent downhill. Aiming his flashlight on the ground before him, gripping tree trunks and sturdy branches, he maintained his balance, slipping only once, remaining upright and steady all the way down. When he could see the bottom of the slope below, the flat ground of the area that led to and around the grotto, he doused his flashlight. He was able to move faster now, as the flat earth came closer. At the rim of the last protective foliage, he halted, and surveyed what he could of the area. No guard in sight yet, no one, and he was safe.

He stepped down to the ground, and quickly brought up his left arm to consult his wristwatch. The descent had taken him five minutes and ten seconds.

Ten seconds lost, but still he was fairly close to schedule.

Not another second to waste.

Hurrying, he swung off", starting past the grotto in the direction of the ramp.

Striding between the benches and chairs that faced the altar inside the grotto, Hurtado cast one final look upward at the statue and the niche to see if the bundle of explosives could be seen. Nothing was visible except the dumb statue.

Nothing. Perfect.

But then as his gaze dropped—something.

With a gulp, he halted in midstride, halted and stood transfixed. With disbelief he stared at the entrance to the grotto beneath the niche and could see that something was there, someone, a human being, a small human being, head covered by a shawl, kneeling, its back to him, praying. He had seen this very figure before in this headdress and posture, and it came to him, the resemblance. He had seen a photograph of Bernadette herself in this garb and this posture praying before the grotto.

In the first rush of disbelief, Hurtado was concerned with self-survival, self-preservation, keeping going, getting away as fast as he could, and to hell with this fool in prayer.

But up there on the mountain a clock was ticking, and in nine minutes the mammoth explosion would occur, and a poor human being would be blasted to shreds. At once, a stronger instinct prevailed. Hurtado wanted to kill no one here, certainly not an innocent believer. In a matter of seconds, he could save her -- and still save himself. He

need only warn her that she was in danger, warn her to retreat, to flee, get out of here, and then himself continue on his way.

He turned toward the grotto, racing between the chairs, and as he closed in on the kneeling woman, he threw caution to the winds and shouted, "Hey, you! Get away from therel It's going to blow up!"

He expected the kneeling woman to turn around, frightened, react to his warning, and retreat on the run from the endangered area.

But she did not stir, made no motion, remained on her knees in silent supplication, as unmoving as the marble statue high above her.

The lack of response was incredible to Hurtado, beyond all understanding, and he ran faster toward the woman, and when he was nearly upon her, ready to shout once more, he suddenly came to a jarring stop.

He had the young woman in profile and he could make her out.

Natale. Natale Rinaldi. His own Natale.

He had left her asleep, but she had not slept. She had dressed in darkness, and found her way counting her steps in darkness, and sightless as ever, she had come here to undertake her last vigil.

"Oh, Je-sus," he cried out. "Natale!" he roared.

No reaction, no response, not a movement. It was as if she could not hear him.

He could see her plain now, the dark glasses, the pale waxen face, merely the slightest movement of the lips.

She was in a trance, out of this world.

He was upon her, snatching at her shoulders, grabbing wildly for a grip, trying to lift her to her feet and tear her away from here.

But she did not budge. She was deadweight, anchored to the ground, immovable.

He tugged and tore at her, trying to make her rise, attempting to lift her, but it was impossible to move her an inch.

Breathing heavily, he stopped trying. This was a phenomenon beyond his understanding. He stood over her, staring down at her, not knowing how to make contact, by what means to remove her, to propel her to safety.

And then, to his utter astonishment, he watched her shake herself and slowly rise to her feet.

"Natale!" he cried out, grabbing for her arms.

But she was smiling at him, raising one hand, removing her dark glasses. For the first time her eyes were wide and clear and luminous, and they held on him. "Mikel—you are Mikel—you must be," she said softly. "Mikel, I saw the Virgin Mary, I saw Her. She came to me, and spoke to me, and allowed me to see Her. I could see Her, as I can see you." She turned her head. "And the grotto, for the first time I can see

it and see all the world again. The Blessed Virgin, She gave me the gift of sight again. Mikel, I can see."

He stood frozen, awestricken, hardly able to comprehend the miracle and the wonder of it.

He found his voice. "You -- you can see me?"

"Yes, you, everything around. It's glorious."

"You -- you saw the Virgin?"

"When I knelt to pray, I was in darkness as always. And as I prayed, I could make out a cone of brightness, a light, and then I could see the opening, the grotto itself, and I saw Her, this woman in white, no bigger than I am, bowing Her head, arms extended, one hand holding a long-stemmed rose. I reached for my rosary, and the Virgin stood there, smiling graciously at me. She was as Bernadette had seen Her, except for the rose in her hand. A white veil covered Her head, and Her long dress was of the purist white, with a sash of blue, and a yellow rose was on each foot. And She said sweetly, 'You shall see again, for the length of your earthly stay, every wonder of God.' There was more but —Mikel, Mikel, it was wonderful! I love you, the entire world, life, and I love our precious Massabielle—"

She'd gone into his open arms, embracing him, but the mention of Massabielle triggered remembrance.

"Oh, my God!" he exclaimed, releasing Natale and looking at his watch.

Less than six minutes left.

He gripped the arm of the bewildered Natale tightly, and began pulling her away from the grotto, going fast, pulling and dragging her along.

"Run," he urged her, running with her along the foot of the hill and dragging her beside him, forcing her to keep up with him.

Suddenly, he halted, pushing her away.

"What is it, Mikel?" she wanted to know.

"Never mind. I'll explain later. Just do as I tell you, exactly as I tell you." He pomted off toward the bathhouses. "Go there, past the baths, as far as you can. Just go, stay away from the grotto, far away as possible. I'll catch up with you in five or ten minutes. Now, go!"

Without waiting to see her go, he leaped onto the slope and scrambled upward among the foliage as fast as the slippery footing would allow him. He kept climbing on the double, stumbling and falling, rising and falling again, but moving upward without pause. He was grasping sturdy branches, holding on to the trunks of trees, ascending steadily. Once more sprawling forward, pushing himself upright, he saw the

timepiece on his wrist. Four and a half minutes had passed, and he still wasn't there.

In a frenzy, he resumed climbing, and time was ticking away, and still he wasn't there. For moments he was lost, couldn't find it, his landmark, the giant oak, and then he saw it, staggering and going down to his knees before it.

One more glimpse at his watch.

Less than a minute left. Less than a half minute.

Seconds remained, twenty-four, twenty-three, twenty-two seconds.

And on his knees, he was crawling desperately around the tree to the depression and the detonator and battery and wired clock on its baseboard.

He flung himself headlong at the device, clawing for the wiring, and tearing at it with all his strength. It would not loosen. He was a madman, yanking away until his forearm and bicep twinged with pain, certain that he had lost, awaiting the catastrophic explosion, the eruption that would bring death to Massabielle and to himself.