Robert Ludlum - Road To Gandolfo.txt

by The Road To Gandolfo [lit]

  Actually, you weren't capable of

  drinking a great deal. I think your

  bloodstream 134

  . .

  went into revolt." Lillian picked up

  a pencil from the bedside table and

  lightly checked the menu.

  "You smell terrific," he said after

  several moments of looking up at her,

  remembering the sightlines from her

  lap and the touches of angels over his

  chest.

  "So do you, lamb," she replied,

  smiling, removing her glasses, and

  gazing down at Sam. "Do you know, you

  have a very acceptable body?"

  "It has its points."

  "I mean you have a fundamentally

  sound physique moderately well

  proportioned and coodinated. It's

  really a pity you've let it

  disintegrate." She tapped her glasses

  against her chin like a doctor

  studying postoperative cond~tions.

  "Well, I wouldn't go so far as to

  say disintegrate. I played lacrosse

  once. I was pretty good."

  I m sure you were, well over a

  decade ago. Now look here " Lilly put

  down her glasses and peeled the

  blankets away from Devereaux's chest.

  "See here. And here and here and here!

  Absolutely no tone whatsoever. Muscle

  pockets that've had no discernible use

  for years! And here."

  "Ouch!"

  "Your latissimi dorsi are positively

  nonexistent. When was the last time

  you exercised?"

  "Last night. In the shower."

  'what aspect of your condition

  cannot be debated. But it's a minor

  part of the whole being "

  "Not to me it isn't!"

  " relative to the muscular network.

  Your body is a temple; don't let it

  crumble and decay with misuse and

  neglect. Spruce it up! Give it a

  chance to stretch and breathe and be

  useful, that's what it's meant for.

  Look at MacKenzie "

  "I object! I don't want to look at

  MacKenzie!"

  "I'm speaking clinically.

  "I knew it," mumbled Devereaux in

  defeat. "I can't escape him. I'm

  possessed."

  "Do you realize~that Mac is well

  over fifty' And take his body. It's

  taut. It's a coiled spring toned to

  perfection...." 135

  Lilly's eyes drifted up at nothing. As

  Anne's had done at the Savoy.She was

  remembering, as Anne had remembered and

  those memories were not cold.

  "Well, for God's sake," said Sam.

  "Hawkins spent his whole life in the

  army. Running and jumping and killing

  and torturing. He had to stay in shape

  so he could stay alive. He had no

  choice."

  "You're wrong. Mac understands the

  meaning of full capacity, experiencing

  the total potential. He once said to

  me well, never mind, it's unimportant."

  The girl removed her hand from

  Devereaux's chest and reached for her

  glasses.

  "No, please." The bedroom in the

  Kempinsky might have been a bedroom at

  the Savoy. But the wives were not

  interchangeable; they were very

  individual. "I'd like to hear what Mac

  said."

  Lilly held her glasses in both hands,

  fingering the stems pensively. "'Your

  body should be a realistic extension of

  your mind, pushed to its limit but not

  abused.'"

  "I liked the 'change the outside, mix

  up the inside' better "

  "What?"

  "Something else he said. Maybe I don't

  understand; the intellectual and the

  physical are poles apart. I might

  imagine I could fly off the Eiffel

  Tower, but I'd better not try it."

  "Because that wouldn't be realistic,

  it would be abusive. But you might

  train yourself to scale down it in

  record time. That would be the

  realistic, physical extension of your

  imagination. And it's important to

  attempt it."

  "Scale down the Eiffel Tower?"

  "If Eying off it is a serious

  consideration."

  "It's not. If I follow this

  pseudoscholastic doggerel, you're

  saying that if you think about doing

  something you should actually translate

  it as much as possible into physical

  terms."

  "Yes. The main thing is not to remain

  inert." Lilly waved her arms in

  emphasis; the sheet plummeted down.

  Unbearably lovely, thought Devereaux.

  But at the mo

  ment untouchable; the girl was in

  debate. 136

  - "This is either far more

  complicated or much simpler

  than it sounds," he said.

  "It's more complicated, believe me,"

  she answered. "The subtlety is in the

  obviousness."

  "You believe in this challenge

  concept, don't you?" Sam said. "I mean

  it's fundamentally the necessary

  satisfaction of meeting the challenge,

  isn't it?"

  "Yes, I suppose it is. For its own

  sake; to try to reach out for what you

  can imagine. To test your potential.""

  "And you believe that." There was no

  question implied.

  "Yes, I do. Why?"

  "Because at this moment my imagination

  is working so hard I can't stand it. I

  feel the necessity of physical

  expression; to test my potential. Within

  reasonable limits, of course." He rose

  from his base camp until he sat facing

  her their eyes level. He reached out and

  took her glasses, folded them, and

  dropped them over the side of the bed.

  He held out his hand and she gave him

  the menu.

  I~illian's eyes were bright, her lips

  parted in a half smile. "I was wondering

  when you were going to ask."

  And then the Nazi telephone rang.

  The voice on the other end of the line

  belonged to a man brought up in his

  formative years watching all those war

  movies from Warner Brothers. Every

  syllable dripped evil.

  "Ve do not vill not cannot shpeak on der

  telephone."

  "Go across the street and open a

  window. We'll shout," replied Devereaux

  irritably.

  "Der time ist der essence! You vill go

  down to der lobby, to der fart chair in

  front of der vindow, on der richt of der

  hentrancel Under der arm carry a folded

  copy of Der Spiegel. Und you vill be

  crossing der legs every tventy seconds.

  "I'm sitting down?"

  "You vould look foolish crossing der

  legs standing up, mein Herr."

  "Suppose someone's sitting in the

  chair?"

  The pause conveyed both anger and

  confusion. There followed a short,

  strange sound that gave rise to the

  image 137

  .

  of a small pig squealing in

  frustratio
n. "Remove him!" was the

  reply that followed the squeal.

  "That's silly."

  "You vill do as I say! Dere is no

  time to argue! You vill be contacted.

  Fifteen minutes."

  "Hey, wait a minute! I just got up.

  I haven't had breakfast; I've got to

  shave "

  "Fourteen minutes, mein Herr!"

  "I'm hungry!"

  The connection was broken by a loud

  click on the line. "To hell with him,"

  said Devereaux, turning back in

  anticipation to the extraordinary

  Lillian.

  But Lillian was not where she should

  have been. Instead, she was standing

  on the other side of the bed in Sam's

  bathrobe.

  "To coin a phrase, my darling, we

  were saved by the bell. You have

  things to do, and I really must get

  ready for class.

  "Class?"

  "Der erstklassig Strudelschule,"

  said Lilly. "Less expert but probably

  more fun than the Cordon Bleu in

  Paris. It starts at noon. We're over

  in the Leipziger Strasse; that's past

  Unter der Linden. I really should

  hurry."

  "What about us? And breakfast

  and don't you shower in the morning?"

  Lillian laughed; it was a nice,

  genuine laugh. "Der schule is finished

  by three-thirty. I'll meet you back

  here."

  "What's your room number?"

  "Five eleven."

  "I'm five nine."

  "I know. Isn't that marvelous."

  "Or something...."

  The confusion in the Kempinsky lobby

  was absurd. "Der fart chair in front

  of der vindow" was occupied by an

  elderly gentleman whose close-cropped,

  bejowled head kept nodding down into

  the folds of neck flesh as he dozed.

  On his lap, unfortunately, was a

  folded copy of Der Spiegel.

  The elderly man was, at first, annoyed,

  then furious at 138

  the two men who flanked his chair and

  told him in no uncertain terms to get

  up and come with them. Twice Sam tried

  to intercede, explaining as best he

  could that he, tool had a folded copy

  of Der Spiegel. It did no good; the

  troopers were interested only in the

  gentleman sitting in the huge

  armchair. Finally, Devereaux stood

  directly in front of the two contacts

  and every twenty seconds, crossed and

  uncrossed his legs.

  At which point the bell captain came

  up to Sam- and in perfectly good, loud

  English gave him the directions to the

  men's room.

  Whereupon a large woman with a

  striking resemblance to Dick Butkus

  approached the trio around the

  armchair and began hitting the two

  Gestapo men with both a hatbox and an

  extremely large, black leather

  handbag.

  There was only one thing for it,

  thought Devereaux. He grabbed one of

  the contacts around the neck and

  pulled him away from the fire zone.

  "You crazy son of a bitchl I'm the

  one! You're from Koenig, aren't you'd"

  Thirty seconds later Devereaux was

  propelled out of the Kempinsky

  entrance and into a nearby alley.

  Halfway-down the alley, taking up

  most of the space between the

  buildings, was an enormous open truck

  with a canvas tarpaulin stretched

  across the rear rigging poles. Under

  the tarpaulin, from deck to canvas,

  were hundreds of crates piled on top

  of one another, filled with thousands

  (it seemed like thousands) of

  screeching chickens.

  There was a narrow corridor in the

  center of the van between the crates.

  It led to the rear window of the cab.

  In front of the window were two tiny

  stools.

  "Hey, come on! This is ridiculous!

  It's goddamn it, it's unsanitary!"

  His escorts nodded Germanically and

  smiled Germanically and Germanically

  heaved Sam up into the tiny corrido;

  and shoved him down the eighteen-inch

  passageway toward the stools.

  All around him sharp beaks pecked at

  his person. The noonday sun was

  completely blanketed out by the heavy

  canvas tarpaulin above. The odor of

  chickenshit was unbearable.

  139

  They drove for nearly an hour into

  the countryside stopping every now and

  then to be looked over by cooperative

  East German soldiers who waved them

  on, pocketing deutschmarks as they did

  so.

  They entered a large farming

  complex. Cattle were grazing in the

  fields, silos and barns could be seen,

  barely, through the opening of the

  tiny passageway between the crates and

  the flying feathers at the rear of the

  truck.

  Finally they stopped. Escort number

  one grinned his Germanic grin and led

  Sam into the sunlight.

  He was marched into a large barn

  that reeked of cattle urine and fresh

  manure. He was led Germanically down

  a crisscross series of turns through

  the stinking building until they came

  to an empty stall. A row of blue

  ribbons denoted the residence of a

  prize steer.

  Inside, sitting on a milking stool,

  surrounded by piles of bullshit, was

  the heavyset man Sam knew was Heinrich

  Koenig.

  He did not get up; he sat there and

  stared at Devereaux. In his tiny eyes,

  surrounded by folds of blemished

  flesh, were thunderbolts.

  "So...." Koenig remained immobile,

  drawing out the word disdainfully,

  waving the escorts away.

  "So?" replied Sam, his voice

  cracking slightly, aware of the wet

  chicken droppings on his back.

  "You are the representative from

  this monster, General Hawkins?" Koenig

  pronounced the word "general" with a

  hard Germanic G.

  "I'd like to clear that up, if I

  may," said Devereaux with false

  laughter. "Actually, I'm just a slight

  acquaintance, barely know the man. I'm

  a low-profile attorney from Boston;

  actually not much more than a law

  clerk. I work for a little Jewish man

  named Pinkus. You wouldn't like him.

  My mother lives in Quincy and through

  the strangest coincidences'

  "Enough!" A very loud fart could be

  heard in the vicinity of the milking

  stool. "You are the contact, the

  intermediary, with this devil from

  hell!"

  "Well, as to that, I would have to

  debate the legal association; said

  association subject to the

  clarification of intent with regard to

  foreknowledge. I don't believe - " 140

  "You are a jackal, a hyena! But such

  dogs bark loudly if the meat is

  sufficient.
Tell me. This Hawkins. He

  is a Gehlen operation,.nein?"

  "A who?"

  "Gehlen!"

  Devereaux remembered. Gehlen was the

  master spy of the Third Reich who

  bought and sold for all factions after

  the war. It would not do for Koenig to

  think there was any connection between

  Hawkins and Gehlen; for it would mean

  there was a link to one Sam Devereaux,

  who was way out of his league.

  "Oh, I'm sure not. I don't think

  General Hawkins ever heard of

  what's-his-name. I know I haven't."

  The chickenshit was melting under

  Sam's shirt, all over hisfevered back.

  Koenig rose slowly from the milking

  stool, a second flatus loudly

  proclaiming his ascent. He spoke with

  quiet, intense hostility.

  "The general has my reluctant

  respect. He has sent me a babbling

  idiot. Give me the papers, fool."

  "The papers ." Sam reached into his

  jacket pocket for another Xerox copy

  of the Shepherd Company's limited

  partnership agreement.

  The German fingered the papers

  silently, squeezing each one as he

  flipped it. His audible reactions were

  blunt: a combination of Arts and

  grunts.

  "This is outrageous! A great

  injustice! Political enemies

  everywhere! All wishing only to

  destroy me!" Beads of saliva formed at