The Miracle Part 27

Hungry as she was, Gisele put off any thought of food until she could satisfy a more urgent craving. To know if Samuel Talley and Sergei Tikhanov were one and the same.

Dropping the manila envelope and her purse on the dining room table, Gisele hastened into the bedroom where she kept the packet of pictures she had taken at the grotto. She had carefully placed them in her friend Dominique's drawerful of lingerie. Emptying the packet, Gisele found the snapshot of Talley without his fake mustache, and she brought it back to the dining room.

She settled into a chair and, with a clutch in her stomach, she unfastened the large manila envelope from Paris-Match. She pulled out the two pictures inside. They were enlarged black-and-white glossies, both head close-ups of the world renowned Soviet foreign minister. They were extremely sharp, and almost the same. But Sergei Tikhanov almost always looked the same in all photographs. The look could best be described as stony. Here he was in each-stony, etched from granite -the lined low brow, piercing eyes, bulbous nose, thin lips, upper lip with its brown wart, clean square jaw. The only difference between the photographs was that they had been taken a year apart, one last year outside the Elysees Palace in Paris, the other the year before inside a hall of the Albertina in Brussels. Since Tikhanov's face filled each pho- tograph, the backgrounds were actually unidentifiable, except for the typed captions that explained the settings on the rear of each shot.

Gisele felt sure, but she had to make sure.

Lovingly, she laid the two enlarged photographs of Tikhanov a few inches apart on the table top, and then she reached for her snapshot of Talley near the grotto and carefully set it down between the two larger ones. She inspected the Paris photograph of Tikhanov and her own Lourdes snapshot of Talley. She examined the Brussels portrait of Tikhanov and her own Lourdes snapshot of Talley.

Her pulse raced.

All three, one and the same. Hair, forehead, eyes, nose, lip and wart, mouth, chin, all features alike and the same.

Professor Samuel Talley of New York and Minister Sergei Tikhanov of Moscow were one man.

If so, Gisele told herself once more, the snapshot of the Soviet foreign minister near the Lourdes grotto could be a scandal of such proportions in his homeland, that Tikhanov would pay anything to erase the evidence.

But being sure was not enough, Gisele knew. When you dealt in a possibility as sensational as this, you had to be positive.

After all, Gisele reminded herself, the world was populated by a fair number of look alikes. Two men, separated by a geographical distance, could appear to be the same man but might very well be two utterly different men. Occasionally, nature made its Xerox copies. Talley and Tikhanov could be to the eye as one, as if identical twins, yet be in fact two different individual human beings. Two different men who looked exactly the same? Or one man, the same man, playing a second role?

There was only one way to be positive: Find out if Professor Samuel Talley, instructor in Russian in the language department of Colmn-bia University in New York City, really existed. Gisele knew beyond doubt that Sergei Tikhanov existed and was the foreign minister of the Soviet Union and a candidate for the premiers.h.i.+p. But his look alike, Samuel Talley, an actual professor at Columbia University in New York, a professor and separate ent.i.ty from the Soviet foreign minister?

If there was a Talley at Columbia, a real Talley who looked like this, then Gisele knew that it had all been an incredible coincidence, and that she had lost. The gate to freedom for her would remain closed.

On the other hand, if . . . she did not want to speculate further. She wanted the truth and she would find it soon enough.

She peered at the electric clock that rested on the polished bureau holding the table linens.

The hour was ten forty-six in the evening in Lourdes.

This translated to four forty-six in the afternoon in New York.

Too early. Her old United Nations friend, Roy Zimborg, would still be hard at work. He would not be back in his apartment until six. Tempted as she was to phone him at the UN, she repressed her desire. You don't take a person away from an important job to ask a favor. You would want them in a relaxed mood. Nice as Roy Zimborg was, she still had to be considerate.

Gisele decided to restrain herself, wait until it was midnight here and six in the evening in New York. That would be a sensible hour to ring Roy long-distance at home.

To hurry the time between now and midnight, she had to occupy herself, do something, distract herself. She did not want to dwell any further on the future. She would contain herself until the future became a reality. Dinner, that was something to do. She would busy herself with dinner although she was no longer hungry.

For an hour Gisele puttered about the kitchen, cooking, preparing dinner, carrying it into the dining room, trying to eat slowly, her attention always given to the three photographs spread on the table.

When she had finished eating, had washed the dishes and put them away, it was still fifteen minutes before midnight and she could not contain herself any longer. She would call Roy Zimborg in New York, and pray that he was already home from work.

Five minutes later, when she had his breathless voice on the line, she knew that he had arrived just as the phone began ringing.

"Roy," she repeated, "it's Gisele-Gisele Dupree-calling from France. Roy, I'm so glad I caught you in."

"Gisele, by G.o.d, no kidding? What time is it? Lemme see. Yeah, ten to six. Well, just walked through the door and heard the phone. I had to run for it." He exhaled. "Hey, Gisele, it's really you? That's great. Where are you?"

"Still in Lourdes, still the girl guide. What about you?"

Distantly, Zimborg exhaled noisily again, as if to regularize his breathing. "Me? At the UN, still with the U.S. delegation. No change. Who else would want a French into English translator?"

"I may be joining you one day soon at the UN, like old times."

"That would be great!"

"Well, it's not certain yet, Roy, but there's a good possibility of getting out of here. First, I'd have to go to the translator's school in Paris. Then I'll probably be able to get a job with the French delegation to the UN. But before that I've got to have enough money to go to the translator's school. There's a chance I can get it all at once, without waiting forever. There might be an angel who'll sponsor me."

"Oh, yeah?"

"An American academic, seems prosperous, who is here in Lourdes right now. He's taken a special interest in me. I want to ask you a favor, Roy. It's about this man."

"Anything I can do, just name it," said Zimborg.

"It has to do with Columbia University. If I remember correctly, you graduated from Columbia, didn't you?"

"With honors, sweetie."

"While you were there, did you ever have or know or hear about a member of the faciJty named Professor Samuel Talley?"

"Spell it, the last name."

Gisele spelled it out.

"That's Talley, Samuel Talley," said Zimborg. "No, it doesn't ring a bell. Why do you want to know?"

"This man I met. Professor Samuel Talley, claims to be in the language department of Columbia University."

"Could be," said Zimborg. "There are a million professors and a.s.sociates at Columbia. I just may not have heard of this particular one. Or he may have come on since my time. After all, I haven't been at Columbia for some years."

"Do you still have any connections at the school, Roy?"

"You mean contacts? Someone I know? I know a number of faculty members quite well, now that I'm a bigshot at the UN. I see them for lunch, dinner, well, at least a couple of times a year."

"Would it be imposing on you, Roy, to ask if you could get in touch with one of your contacts at Columbia tomorrow? It would be sort of complicated for me to call Columbia directly. But if you could-"

"No problem whatsoever. What do you want to know? You want to know about this Professor Talley?"

"Exactly. I want to know if Talley's there, as he says he is."

"Hold on a sec, Gisele. Lemme get a piece of paper and a pencil, so's to be sure I've got it right. Just hold on." She held on briefly, and then heard his voice again. "Hi, Grisele. Okay, give it to me slowly once more."

"I want to know if currently, or recently, there is or was a Professor Samuel Talley in the language department at Columbia University. He has an apartment in Manhattan, and a permanent residence in Vermont. I just want to verify that he is who he says he is, and is on the faculty at Columbia. Can you do that?"

"No sweat, honey. I can find out at lunchtime. I'll call you with the info. When should I call you?"

"Let's see, the time difference is six hours. When it is one in the afternoon in New York, it is-what?-it is seven in the evening in Lourdes tomorrow. Can you call me at one tomorrow your time? I'm at someone's apartment. I'll give you the number. It is right in Lx>urdes. The phone number is 62-34.53.53. Do you have it?"

"Got it," chirped Zimborg. "I'll be back to you with all the dope during my lunch break."

'That's a real favor, Roy. Now I owe you one. Anything I can do for you, Roy, let me know. Whatever you want."

"Do you still look like you used to look, sweetie?"

"Of course, the same. Maybe better."

"Then you know what I want."

She grinned at the mouthpiece of the phone. "Just help me get there," she said, "and you've got it."

Mikel Hurtado had patiently waited until it was nearly midnight before leaving the hotel to visit the grotto one last time. Hopefully, at this late hour, the last of the pilgrims would be gone and asleep, and the police would have lifted their intensive security and abandoned the area. He would have plenty of time in which to climb the hillside beside the grotto, a.s.semble his equipment, wire it to the dynamite, plant the dynamite behind the statue of the Virgin Mary in the niche -- and then set the timer for the explosion and be off and far away before it blasted sky-high.

During his short walk to the ramp, his purpose was undimmed, tinged only with one regret.

Less than an hour ago he had finished sleeping with Natale, making pa.s.sionate love to her, for the second time this day. The last coupling had been incredible, perfect, and when he left her sound asleep in bed, it pained him to see her there, in innocent repose, so giving and trusting-it pained him not only because he was going off to destroy an object of veneration that she held so holy, but because in departing the town in the night he might never see her again. It was a terrible thing to do to her, and to himself as well, but all the way to the ramp he did not falter. It had to be done.

At the top of the ramp to the domain, there was no one in sight except the G.o.ddam police. They were there again this night, not as many as before, but still there, three of them standing around talking and smoking.

But this time he was not daunted. He had nothing to hide or to be afraid of. Just one more pilgrim, one with insomnia, who wanted to go below and offer up more fervent prayers.

Hurtado limped along, traversing the street, and nonchalantly approaching the lawmen. When he was almost abreast of the pohce, the tallest of them stepped to one side to size him up. Hurtado gave a quick smile and short wave, and continued down the ramp. The policeman neither bothered to stop him nor call out to him. Good sign.

Hurtado went on down the ramp to the Rosary Esplanade, then veered around the church toward the grotto.

He strode hastily, and suddenly the grotto was in view and so were the benches in rows before it. On one of the rear benches sat two uniformed and armed policemen, chatting away.

They did not see him, but he could see them, and they looked like they would be there until dawn.

Hurtado cursed under his breath.

Impossible. When would those G.o.ddam bloodhounds be tired of their unremitting surveillance and be through with it? When would they give up and go back to their normal duties and leave him alone? Again, he cursed them -- and Augustin Lopez.

Turning away, he hiked wearily back up the ramp to the street and the hotel.

Entering the reception lobby, wondering how he could find out when the domain would be free of security and he would have an all-clear, he saw Yvonne seated behind the reception counter. She wasn't dozing. She was reading a book. He reminded himself that it had been Yvonne who had unwittingly and originally alerted him to the police search for a terrorist. She'd had the tip from a girl friend who was bedding down with Fontaine, the superintendent of the Lourdes police. Possibly, now, she would know more and not mind repeating it.

Hurtado wandered over to the reception desk.

"Hi, Yvonne," he said. He took out his cigarette package and shook one free. "Want to have one?"

"No, thanks, but I appreciate your thoughtfiilness." She put a marker in her book. "When do you ever get sleep?"

"I felt like going to the grotto tonight and praying by myself. But no use. Police all over the place. I don't like company when I'm praying. So I just gave up. It's just no use. They're there every night. When are they going to give up this security c.r.a.p?"

Yvonne put down her book, and came to him. She leaned over, whispering. "They're giving it up."

"They are?"

"You'll soon have the whole grotto to yourself to pray as long as you want to."

"When's that happening?"

'The police are giving it two more days and nights. Then they're calling it quits. They're lifting super security and going back to normal on Sat.u.r.day. Inspector Fontaine told my friend that the phone tip was probably from some crackpot anyway. And he's tired of keeping his force on overtime, and overworked. You know, we're not supposed to say, but the pohce really have their hands full at those campsites out of town -- you know, where all the people who couldn't get rooms in Lourdes are staying. You'd think people coming to see the Blessed Mother would behave better, wouldn't you? Anyway, my friend said Inspector Fontaine threatened to call in the soldiers if he couldn't pull his men off crackpot duty. If nothing happens tomorrow or the day after, he's pulling everyone off the special s.h.i.+ft the day after that. So that's my word for you."

Hurtado bent over the counter and kissed Yvonne on the cheek. 'Thanks for good tidings," he said. "When I get down there again, I promise to say an extra prayer for you. Good-night."

He limped to the elevator, disgruntled that he would have to wait for two more days, but happy that the deed could finally be done. There was one benefit in the delay. He could be with Natale that much longer.

Thursday, August 18 Throughout the day Gisele Dupree had led her two tours about Lourdes like a somnambulist. Her mind was in faraway New York trying to imagine the progress or lack of progress that her faithful friend Roy Zimborg was making. Sometimes her mind floated back to Lourdes, to some fringe of the town where her prey, her Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, her Dr. Talley and Mr. Tikhanov, was innocently (but secretly) going about his rites for self-rejuvenation.

When the second tour had ended, and as she rested in the agency for the third tour to begin, Gisele had begun to display signs of a migraine headache. No Rachel or Bernhardt could have matched her subdued histrionics. At last, knowing that a replacement tour guide was available, she had begged of further work, insisting that the pain behind her forehead was excruciating and that she must take medication and go to bed.

Once released, she had staggered out to the first available taxi, and had directed it to Dominique's apartment beyond the domain.

Safe in the living room of the apartment at last, with plenty of time before the crucial long-distance call was to come, her simulated migraine had happily disappeared. She had sat next to the telephone, and willed it to ring.

The appointed time had come with no ring. The appointed time had gone. Still no ring.

And now, almost a half hour later, she was beginning to suffer a real headache, one formed of tension and fading hopes.

Then, like a clarion call, the phone rang out.

Automatically, Gisele stumbled to her feet to take it, realized the telephone was beside her, and sat down hard, s.n.a.t.c.hing the receiver from the cradle.

As if through a wind tunnel, she heard dear Roy Zimborg speaking, distinctly enough, from the far-off land of s.p.a.cious skies and amber fields of gold. "Gisele? This is Roy. Can you hear me?"

"Loud and clear," Gisele half shouted from outer s.p.a.ce.

"Sorry to be late, but-"

"Never mind, Roy. Just tell me if you found out anything."

"I really tried my best, Gisele, but I'm afraid you're going to be disappointed."

Gisele's heart sank to her stomach.

She did not want to hear, but said, "Tell me."

"I made calls to my faculty friends at Columbia. I had them call me back. I even used an early lunch break to trek out to the school to do some research digging myself. As I said, I'm sorry to disappoint you. That fellow in Lourdes who told you he's Professor Samuel Talley in the language department at Columbia University-he's Ijdng. He's just trying to put the make on you. I hate to give you bad news-"

Gisele regarded the telephone as if it were the Kohinoor, just handed her on Christmas morning. For the moment she was unable to handle such riches. She wanted to kiss Roy for the Kohinoor, but it would be too long and too difficult to explain the truth. So she kept controlled, her voice feigning disappointment as she hid her wild elation.

She interrupted his consolations. "You mean there is no Professor Talley at Columbia University."

"n.o.body on the faculty by that name. There is no Talley on the staff of Columbia. There is no such person teaching there, and there never has been. The person you met, the man you're involved with, he's either pretending or simply pulling your leg."

"The b.a.s.t.a.r.d," blurted Gisele, which was realistic and ambiguous enough.