The Miracle Part 5

Forced to quit her job, knowing that she was doomed, she had sought any means of cure. Four years ago, when her parish priest. Father Woodcourt, had heard of her failing condition and been kind enough to call upon her -- kind enough, because she had not seen him often since her marriage, had ceased attending Ma.s.s or going to confession and, like Reggie, had paid only mild attention to their Catholic faith-she was ready for anything. Father Woodcourt had reminded her that he had begun to lead an annual pilgrimage from London to Lourdes, and if she wished to accompany his Pilgrims of the Holy Spirit this summer, there would certainly be room for her. He could not guarantee any favorable results. Still, he had been impressed during the two pilgrimages he had previously led by the inexplicable cures that he had observed at the shrine.

Edith had been uncertain, but had realized that there was no place else to turn. After talking it over with Reggie, and finding that she could borrow the money from her widowed father, she had enlisted in Woodcourt's Pilgrims of the Holy Spirit. During the first three-day visit to Lourdes and the grotto, barely able to get around with the use of a crutch, she had enjoyed no cure but did experience some sense of well-being and hope. The winter and spring following had been one of continuous pain and lessened mobihty. Although it had been a financial strain, without a job and Reggie's promotional scheme having failed, she had insisted upon a second visit to Lourdes with Father Wood-court's next pilgrimage.

On the last day in Lourdes, after prayer at the grotto, drinking water from the spring, taking a bath, she was suddenly able to discard her crutch and walk on her own. There had been remission, then regression, the disappearance of pain, and ultimately self-reconstruction of the ihac bone and the acetabular cavity. Spontaneously, her good health had returned. Between London, and the Medical Bureau in Lourdes, after three more visits there, sixteen doctors had scientifically attested to the wonder of her cure.

Over a year ago, she had resumed full-time employment with the movie agency. Meanwhile, Reggie had been more prolific in his promotional speculations, always on the verge of success and of striking it rich, with his introduction of the all-black soccer team, the all-star private detective agency that used experts in every field of criminology, his clever introduction of a rock group composed of midgets -- but always success had eluded his genius. Meanwhile, too, after having the opportunity to witness his daughter's cure, Edith's father had died and in his will had left her 50,000 pounds. It had been a mighty sum, and while Edith and Reggie had deposited it in their joint savings account, she had made it clear to him that this money must never be used for speculation but should be kept as a nest egg to support them if she ever lost her job, or until the medical profession positively reiterated that she would be well for the remainder of her days.

Entirely lost in memories of the recent past, Edith realized that the taxi had arrived in Ashley Place, was slowing and halting before the main entrance to the Byzantine-style Westminster Roman Catholic Cathedral.

"Here we are, ma'am," the taxi driver said.

She paid him the sum on the meter, added a generous tip because she was in high spirits, opened the taxi door, and walked in an even step to the cathedral.

Inside, directed to Archbishop Henning's quarters, she was surprised to find three men in the tastefully decorated study waiting for her. All three came to their feet as she entered. The dour large-boned archbishop she recognized, but the other two she knew better. One was Father Woodcourt, young and pink as ever, her devoted parish priest.

and the other the full-bearded, amusing Dr. Macintosh, who had been the physician in attendance on her last pilgrimage to Lourdes.

They all greeted Edith warmly, as the archbishop pointed her to the most comfortable chair opposite his desk. While they were being seated. Father Woodcourt inquired about her health and her husband's health, and Dr. Macintosh made some funny reference to the grim weather. Archbishop Henning, alone, seated at his desk, seemed to have no taste for small talk.

"Mrs. Moore," the archbishop said, riffling a handful of papers, "I promised you this visit would be a short one-I want to be sure you have time for lunch -- and so it will be. A short and happy one. Before I begin, may I offer you some coffee?"

"No, thank you. Your Excellency," said Edith nervously, even though relieved to know that this was going to be a happy visit. He had said "happy," hadn't he? She was sure he had.

"I've summoned you here today," said the archbishop, "and have invited two persons who have been closer to you in the matter of your health than I have, to discuss with you the merits of your cure."

Edith sat puzzled. The merits of her cure? What could that possibly mean?

"As you may know, Mrs. Moore," Archbishop Henning went on, "it was Pope Benedict XIV who set down the criteria for each Canonical Commission to apply when trying to determine if a cure at Lourdes is miraculous or not. To decide that a cure is supernatural, the Canonical Commission must be satisfied beyond any doubt . . . that the malady was a grave one, and impossible or at least difficult to cure . . . that the cured malady was not in a state of decline to such an extent that it could have declined soon afterward . . . that no medication had been used, or if there had been, that its inefficacy was certain . . . that the cure was sudden-instantaneous . . . that the cure was perfect . . . that there had not been beforehand a crisis produced by some cause and at its natural hour; in this case, one cannot say that the cure was miraculous but natural, wholly or in part . . . finally, that after the cure there had been no recurrence of the illness."

The archbishop raised his eyes to Edith. "This is clear to you?"

"Perfectly, Your Excellency," said Edith, her heart thumping.

The archbishop was turning over the papers in his hand, reading to himself. He fixed his attention on Edith once more. "At the end of your third year and last examination by the physicians at the Medical Bureau in Lourdes, the partic.i.p.ating doctors were asked five key questions. I will read you four of them. 'Did Mrs. Moore's illness described by the medical record exist at the moment of the patient's pilgrimage to Lourdes? Was the malady suddenly stopped in its course at a time when there was no tendency toward improvement-and did all symptoms disappear at this time? Is there a cure-can you prove it with certainty -and did the cure take place without medical treatment?' Then the most important question, in two parts. "Is there any possible medical explanation of this cure? In the present state of science, can any natural or scientific explanation be given?' "

Feeling more rea.s.sured, Edith dared speak up. "Of course, the answer to all those questions is Yes, except the final one in two parts, which is No."

"And, indeed, so the doctors of the Medical Bureau have found," said Archbishop Henning. "I can tell you they were looking for the following characteristics in your cure -- that no outside treatments or drugs made it possible, that your cure was instantaneous and did not require convalescence, and that your natural functions were immediately restored. The Medical Bureau members were satisfied that these characteristics were evident in your cure. They noted, 'We find no natural or scientific explanation of this cure.' "

Archbishop Henning gathered up his papers, and sat back, his eyes on Edith once more.

"The Medical Bureau sent on its recommendation to the bishop of your diocese here in London. He appointed a Canonical Commission of five to study the findings and evaluate them. Then the Canonical Commission sent its own recommendation on to me.

"Mrs. Moore, I am prepared to state that your cure is definite and durable and ends an extremely serious pathological state. I am prepared to state that your cure has received no vahd medical explanation. I am prepared to state that only your pilgrimage to Lourdes can be related to the disappearance of a terminal illness and that your cure was entirely unforeseeable. I am prepared to state that your cure can be regarded as extraordinary owing to the fact that you not only have normal use of the limb and hip joint, but also have experienced bone regeneration in the affected areas. I am prepared to make the final statement affirming the veracity of your cure-except for one minor technicality-a minor question remains unanswered among the five that the Medical Bureau undertook to answer. The question: 'Is it necessary to delay a decision?' My answer: 'Yes, but only briefly.' It seems that the Medical Bureau would like to have a final routine examination made by one of the two leading medical experts in the field encompa.s.sing your onetime illness. They have requested that Dr. Paul Kleinberg, of Paris, come to Lourdes and give you one last examination. This must be done at the Lourdes Medical Bureau. I repeat, it is a mere routine examination.

Once Dr. Kleinberg has confirmed what the Medical Bureau has found, I will be able to announce officially in a few weeks that there are sufficient elements in your cure to recognize special intervention of the power of G.o.d, the Father Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth." He paused. "Mrs. Moore, are you ready to go to Lourdes one more time, to undergo this final examination?"

Edith was breathless. "Of course, Fll go. I'd like to be there during the week in which the Virgin Mary will reappear. I-I might see her and be able to thank her."

For the first time, the archbishop displayed the semblance of a smile. "You might, you might at that. In any case, except for the short delay, you may consider yourself one of the miraculously cured of Lourdes, an authentic one of the handful of Lourdes miracle cures. With my entire soul I wish to convey to you my happiness and congratulations."

Her heart had gone wild. Edith Moore, a miracle woman. She would be world famous, inmiortal. But now she only wanted to get to a telephone and tell Reggie, tell Reggie he was married to a miracle woman.

Reggie Moore was never one to get discouraged. No matter how many of his daring schemes evaporated into thin air, no matter how many setbacks he suffered, he somehow always believed that there was a silver hning up there and a pot of gold (marked Reginald Moore) at the end of the rainbow.

But this morning, he suspected, he had badly overslept, not from lack of sleep but for lack of a reason to get up. He was always awake by eight o'clock, and on the move by nine, with some new promotional venture to research, investigate, organize, sell. But this morning, uncharacteristically, perhaps because he had no special new venture in mind, he had half awakened, turned over in bed, and slept on until ten minutes to noon.

When he had seen the time, he had worried about it, pushed himself out of bed, reluctantly done his sitting-up exercises (which gains would be lost to ale consumed in several pubs throughout the day), shaved, showered, dressed, and waddled into the combination kitchen-dinette of their Chelsea ground-floor flat for breakfast. While eating his breakfast-two eggs, black coffee, a scone-he had opened the book he had recently found in the outdoor bin of a secondhand bookstore. It was a thick old reprint of an autobiography by a onetime famous American who'd also sought success in Great Britain. The book was Struggles and Triumphs; or. Forty Years' Recollection by P. T. Bamum. Although Reggie Moore rarely read books, in fact never read them, he considered himself well-read and knowledgeable due to the fact that he religiously perused both the London Mirror and News of the World from first page to last every day. His purchase of the Bamum autobiography had been motivated by a desire to seek creative stimulation, maybe come on one of Bamum's old schemes that might lend itself to conversion into some modern exhibit and promotion.

He had started to read the Bamum book in the middle -- the early years would be a waste and unprofitable-at the time the old humbug had been at the peak of his powers with his Tom Thumb and Feejee Mermaid enterprises, when Reggie had been intemipted by the unexpected phone call from Edith.

The old girl had sounded crazy at first, words tumbling one over the other in a rush that made them almost incomprehensible. He had finally realized that she had just finished her visit with Archbishop Henning, and then it came back to Reggie that Edith had told him last night about the mysterious appointment.

She was trying to explain what had happened at the meeting, and in order to understand her, Reggie had finally broken in on the torrent of words to say, "Edith, slow down, it's hard to make out what you're saying, slow down. You seem very excited. What's this all about?"

After that, she had gone on a bit more slowly, articulately, but still very excited.

After a minute or two he had understood, grasped it all, and somehow had realized that this was not only of great importance to Edith, but might be of importance to both of them.

"Edith," he said, before hanging up, "don't bother to shop for dinner tonight. This deserves a celebration at a proper restaurant. Let's say Le Caprice."

"Oh, Reggie, but that's so expensive." Edith was beginning to come down.

But then Reggie was high. "Nothing is too good for a miracle woman."

He had trouble finis.h.i.+ng his breakfast. His mind was dancing. He shut the boring Bamum book and shoved it aside. He gulped down his coffee, and gave his mind the freedom to wheel and deal.

Miracle woman!

My G.o.d, there must be a thousand ways to convert this into cash, gold, coin of the realm. Immediately, it came to him-it always came to him fast and whole when he was at his best-what could be done.

The initial inspiration had come on a previous visit with Edith to Lourdes three years ago. They had taken to having dinner in a small, comfortable restaurant in Lourdes, Cafe Ma.s.sabielle, on the Avenue Bernadette Soubirous. Despite the wretched and colorless replica of the Virgin Mary in a niche above the red awning, the little restaurant was attractive, homelike, with a first-rate cuisine and chef, and a wonderful location. But what appealed to Reggie most about the eatery had been its proprietor. Reggie had got to know the owner, Jean-Claude Jamet, whose father had been French, his mother Enghsh. Although Jamet had proved a bit aloof, reserved, his fish-faced countenance and pencil-thin mustache put-offs, there was something special about the man that appealed. Reggie could discern that Jamet, at heart, was also a promoter. Unfortunately, he did not use his gifts to make a good thing of his restaurant in Lourdes. He used the restaurant only for a small profit. His real devotion was to his lively and innovative travel agency, Full Circle, in London, which arranged numerous money-making pilgrimages to Lourdes during the season.

Yet, Reggie had felt, the restaurant could be more than a minor adjunct, could become a major adjunct, an equal in profitabihty. True, it needed expansion and modernization -- but even more it needed a partner who believed in it. Reggie had gone to Jamet and offered himself as that partner, the right partner, one with get-up-and-go. For his investment Reggie had offered a modest sum of money and his own creativity. Jamet had flatly turned him down. The money offered was not enough and the creativity was not proved. Reggie had not brooded over the defeat. He was a veteran of rejection. He had turned to other things.

But today, his mind was back on Jamet and the restaurant. Because, today, Reggie had the money to invest and a stimning creative idea.

Reggie went quickly to the telephone to learn whether Jamet was still in London, and if in London but out to lunch, to learn when he would be back in the office and available. He was there, but not easily available. He was eating a sandwich at his desk. He was extremely busy trying to schedule additional pilgrimages to Lourdes because of the demand created by the news of the Virgin Mary's expected reappearance in three weeks, or soon after.

"Great turn, that Virgin Mary bit," said Reggie, "and I've got something super that will tie in with it. I have a wonderful piece of news that will help both of us."

"Like the last time?" said Jamet dryly.

"Jean-Claude, this is something special, a once-in-a-lifetime thing, manna from heaven. I thought of you right away. You've got to find a minute for me."

"Well, I'm still eating, haven't gone back to work yet. I suppose I could see you while I'm on the dessert, if you can come right over. Might as well get it done with or you'll keep nagging me. If you have to see me, do it now, right now."

"Be over in a flash," said Reggie, hanging up and grabbing for his sports jacket.

Outside, the sprinkles had stopped, the sun was doing its late act, and Reggie was whistling as he strode to the garage. There was trouble in starting his old Rover, but at last he had it going. He backed out of the garage, s.h.i.+fted into high, and raced off in the direction of Piccadilly Circus. Jamet's Full Circle Agency was three blocks north of the Circus.

Once at his destination, and snugly parked, Reggie straightened his tie and plaid jacket, pressed down a stray lock of hair, and moved confidently into the agency. It was busy, all right, as Jamet had said it was, and there were at least a dozen would-be tourists at the two counters vying for the attention of the three clerks. With a possessive air, Reggie barged in behind the long counter. When the nearest clerk made an effort to stop him, Reggie said airily, "Jamet's expecting me. We have an appointment."

Reggie moved on to Jamet's private cubbyhole of an office in the rear. Jamet, at his desk surrounded by walls decorated with scenic de-lights of the European Grand Tour and a square of color photos of Lourdes including the Cafe Ma.s.sabielle, was shoving the last piece of his apple pie into his mouth.

He gave Reggie an uninviting sour look as his visitor entered breezily. When Reggie was up, nothing could put him down. He had a salesman's armadillo sh.e.l.l, thick and insensitive. Reggie tugged a straight wooden chair around to the front of the desk and quickly seated himself, ready to start.

"What's the big deal this time?" Jamet asked coldly.

"Your restaurant in Lourdes. I'm still interested in buying into it. I still think it can become an enormous winner."

"Do you now? Well, my friend, you'll have to do much better than you did last time."

"I'm prepared to, or I wouldn't be here," promised Reggie with verve. "This time I've got it all together, and you won't be able to resist. Jean-Claude, for a half owners.h.i.+p of the restaurant, I'm ready to put up fifty thousand pounds in cash toward expansion and improvement of your property. The money is my wife's inheritance that she's held on to in case she should ever become ill again. But now she knows she's not going to be ill anymore. She's cured, and she won't need her nest egg.

Yes, rm ready to toss in the whole sum, the entire fifty thousand pounds-"

Jamet had been listening stonily. He interrupted. "Sorry, not enough." He dumped the remnants of his lunch into a wastebasket, prepared to terminate the meeting. "For you to come in, you'd have to have much more to offer."

"But I have much more," Reggie exclaimed. "I have something far more valuable than a mere fifty thousand pounds to invest. I have something unique, a surefire thing that'll make the Lourdes end of your business boom."

"Oh, yes?" said Jamet with unconcealed boredom, twisting to look in the desk mirror as he combed his hair.

"Listen to me. My wife, Edith, was called to a meeting by Archbishop Henning a few hours ago. It was to report something important to her about her cure at Lourdes over three years ago. The Medical Bureau of Lourdes and the Canonical Commission have decided that Edith's cure is of a miraculous nature, and she is being officially added to the 'Cures of Lourdes Recognized as Miraculous by the Church.' Since 1858 there have been only sixty-nine of these-only five since 1978-and now Edith Moore will be the seventieth."

For the first time, Reggie had Jamet's undivided attention. "Really? This is true?"

"You can confirm it. Call Archbishop Henning's office. Tell him I told you."

"I congratulate you," said Jamet, cautiously but interested. "This will be good for both of you."

"Good for both of us?" said Reggie, jumping up from his chair. "It'll be slam-bang sensational. Overnight, Edith will be famous, a living legend. Everyone will want to meet her, everyone. In fact, she's going to Lourdes again, the center of everything, to be honored. She's probably the one the Virgin Mary is coming to see. Now, as to the rest of my proposition, Jean-Claude. Besides the fifty thousand pounds, I'm ready to throw Edith in as well, Edith Moore the authentic miracle woman. Can't you see it? Edith to go along on your pilgrimages and give advice. Why, you could immediately raise your rates for the next pilgrimage groups. And at the restaurant-after you enlarge it, improve it-Edith could be the star, the special attraction, in effect the hostess. In order to meet her, see her, touch her, listen to her, even dine with her, the wealthier tourists and pilgrims would order from a Miracle Menu at our new Miracle Restaurant at double your present prices. I tell you, you'd triple your profit. Pilgrimages arranged at one end, restaurant waiting at the other-and Edith Moore, the latest miracle woman, your main attraction." Reggie gulped for air. "Now, what do you say to that?"

For the first time, Jamet's stony exterior displayed a fissure. It was a reluctant smile, but an actual smile. He stood up, hand extended. "Reggie, my friend, now you are talking my language. Let's shake on our partners.h.i.+p."

Grinning, Reggie pumped the other's hand. "We're celebrating tonight at Le Caprice. Join us, partner, and get to know the miracle woman."

Mikel Hurtado sat tensely at the wheel of the dusty blue Seat Panda parked in the Calle de Serrano across from the iron gate at the entrance to the ma.s.sive Catholic church and kept an eye on the schoolchildren and Madrid matrons going inside for nine o'clock Ma.s.s. This was the tenth and last day of their scouting vigil. If their quarry arrived today, as he had the previous nine mornings, the pattern was set. They would place the dynamite in the tunnel beneath the street tonight. They would detonate the explosives and a.s.sa.s.sinate their hated enemy tomorrow morning.

Hurtado peered at his wrist.w.a.tch. "You better go in now," he said quietly to the girl in the front seat beside him. "If our man is on schedule, he should be here in five minutes for Ma.s.s."

"Do I have to?" Juha Valdez protested. "What purpose? He'll never get to the church tomorrow morning."

"For positive identification," said Hurtado. "I want you to see him close up. We've got to be certain he is Luis Bueno, our deputy prime minister in charge of defense, and no other. Go ahead, Julia, it's the last time."

"Father knows best," she said with a shrug, and then laughed and they both laughed. It was a joke between them because she was nineteen and he, in her eyes, an elder at twenty-nine.

Hurtado watched her leave the car, cross over, and reach the landing below the ma.s.sive church door. She fell in among other wors.h.i.+ppers at the steps, climbing up and going inside the church.

A good girl, this one, Hurtado thought, and brave for one so young. They were lucky to have her enlisted in their cause. Julia had come down to Madrid from Bilbao two months ahead of the rest of them. She had enrolled at the University of Madrid for the fall term, and then spent her spare time acquainting herself with the big city and finding them a $200-a-month apartment, all in preparation for her comrades' arrival. Their leader, Augustin Lopez, had met her through family ties, had been satisfied with her loyalty to the nationalist cause, and had recruited her for the ETA-the underground Euskadi Ta As-katasuna, or Basque Homeland and Freedom Organization-two years ago.

When Hurtado had begun to work with her, he was pleased by her intelligence. Although she had not been exactly his type of woman-too much nose and jaw, too short and st.u.r.dy (he had always preferred the more dehcate, fragile feminine types in his writing days)-he had slept with her any number of times. Neither had been in love with the other, but they had respected and liked each other, and their s.e.xual encounters had usually been for physical release and fim. If Julia could be faulted at all, it was for a hangover of religiosity which she had carried into the separatist revolutionary movement with her.

He consulted his wrist.w.a.tch once more. Any minute now. His mind went to his two veteran Basque companions at the apartment, awaiting this last scouting expedition and eager to prepare for tomorrow's a.s.sa.s.sination.

Suddenly Hurtado became aware of a bustle among the spectators at the entrance across the street. Casually, from the comer of his eye, he observed the arrival of the three government cars, one, two, three. The middle one was the maroon Mercedes in which Minister Luis Bueno should be sitting. Sure enough, it appeared to be the devil himself who emerged from the Mercedes, as his bodyguards leaped out of the other two cars and flanked him. Oddly enough, Bueno was still reading a newspaper as he started for the entrance to the church.

Bueno was an ugly old man, small and strutting in his immaculate black suit. His mustached monkey face could be seen as he turned toward one of his guards. He was smiling cheerfully and handing the guard the newspaper. Since Bueno rarely smiled, Hurtado was curious. Bueno was a mean man, and even though he had been a friend of Franco, he had been retained by the King as minister in charge of defense. A rigid Catholic and conservative, Bueno had proved to be the ETA's main enemy in the cabinet and had been unswervingly opposed to Basque autonomy. Now, Hurtado thought, the little b.a.s.t.a.r.d will pay for it.

Watching Bueno disappear into the church, Hurtado thought -- go and pray, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d, for the last time.

Tomorrow, Luis Bueno would be roasting in h.e.l.l alongside Admiral Carrero Blanco.

It gave Hurtado much joy, picturing Bueno and Blanco and the devil in the deepest recess of Dante's flaming h.e.l.l.

Hurtado could not deny that the a.s.sa.s.sination of Admiral Blanco, in 1973, a cla.s.sical Basque a.s.sa.s.sination operation, had provided the blueprint for the current Operation Bueno and had made the preparation for it easier, almost too easy.

In the upheaval after Franco's death, the Basques' killing of Admiral Blanco had been half-forgotten, relegated to Spam's distant past. But no Basque had ever forgotten it, and the ETA's president, Augustin Lopez, and Mikel Hurtado least of all. The 1973 Basque commandos- there had been a dozen of them-had carefully spied on Admiral Blanco, and learned that every morning he attended Ma.s.s at this same church (a practice that Minister Bueno, a more fervent Catholic, happily emulated).

Having been rea.s.sured of Admiral Blanco's consistent route to the church every morning, the 1973 Basque commandos had rented a bas.e.m.e.nt apartment on this route near the church. They had painstakingly dug an eighteen-inch-high tunnel beneath the street, removing the dirt in baskets, and planted seventy-five kilos of dynamite in three spots in the tunnel. Then they had run electrical wires from the detonating cord into a comer room in the apartment from which Admiral Blanco's approach could be seen.

On the fateful morning, Admiral Blanco had ridden to Ma.s.s in his black Dodge, and as the car pa.s.sed over the tunnel, the dynamite had been detonated.

Admiral Blanco and his vehicle had been blown over a five-story building.

Fantastic.

Tomorrow morning. Minister Luis Bueno, enemy of the Basques, would be given the same free flight.

And this one act of terror, after a long period of pa.s.sivity, would remind the government that the ETA was prepared to go to any length to unshackle the 2,500,000 Basques in northern Spain from their servitude.

Not that he was by nature a violent person, Hurtado told himself. He had been a writer from the time he had first been able to pick up a pencil, and writers by and large achieved action through fantasy. He had published three books -- a collection of his poetry, a play about Lope de Vega, and a short novel based on the hfe and death of Garcia Lorca-when Franco's terror had struck against his own family and convinced him to put down his pencil for a rifle. Words, he had realized, would never be enough to fight the oppressors. He had joined the ETA to take up arms.

He wondered what was delaying Julia this long, and then as he wondered about it, he saw her emerging from the church.

He started the car, waited for her to settle into the seat beside him, and began to drive the Seat Panda away from the curb and into Calle de Serrano.

Eyes on the traffic, concentrating, because this was no time for an accident, he asked Juha, "Identification confirmed?"

"Confirmed. Minister Luis Bueno himself right there."

Hurtado was jubilant. "We're on target. We blast him tomorrow. Good work, Julia. Thanks."'

"You're welcome."

For a short while he drove in silence. "What took you so long?"

"I'll tell you-" But she did not tell him more until the Seat Panda had attained the Gran Via, and they were rolling along the sweeping boulevard. "Fascinating thing," she said. "I heard one of Bueno's bodyguards talking about it to some official, so I hung around to listen. It seems that Bueno had a call from a Spanish journalist in Paris yesterday. A French Catholic cardinal held a press conference. He had an announcement to make about Lourdes."