Robert Ludlum - Road To Gandolfo.txt

by The Road To Gandolfo [lit]

  by someone quite like you, I think.

  Although few would recognize the

  similarity."

  "I am flattered. This someone, give

  him the blessings of a

  farmhand-priest."

  Lillian smiled. She started for the

  door, where Quartze's handkerchief

  fluttered a tattoo in front of his

  agitated face and the sounds of mucus

  still could be heard beyond his

  aquiline nose and very thin lips. The

  prelate sidestepped to let her pass,

  doing his best to ignore her. So

  Lillian paused briefly, forcing him to

  look at her. When he did so, she

  winked.

  As she closed the door the words from

  Pope Francesco were clear and firm.

  For in his anger, the pontiff raised

  his voice, in English.

  "Talk to me not of the Sistine,

  Ignatiot Instead, discuss these plans

  I requested for your waterfront home

  at Sam Vincentet What are 'security

  arrangements'P They include a steam

  bath)"

  Hawkins had reserved both seats in

  the first-class section of the

  Lufthansa 747. Since he needed elbow

  room, there was no point in

  inconveniencing a fellow passenger.

  This way, he was able to place file

  folders beside him for quick

  referrals.

  He had specifically chosen the night

  flight to Zurich. The travelers, by

  and large, would be diplomats, bankers

  or corporate executives used to

  transatlantic flights; they 192

  -

  would use the night for sleep, not

  socializing. He would have a minimum

  of interruptions.

  For selections would have to be

  made, offers of recruitment dispatched

  immediately from Zurich.

  MacKenzie's briefcase contained

  assorted personnel profles from which

  he would choose his troops. They were

  the last of the files he had Xeroxed

  at the G-2 archives. Those fortunate

  enough to be chosen would be his bri-

  gade; his personal army that would be

  privileged to engage, in the most

  unusual maneuver in modern military

  history.

  And each soldier would return from

  the engagement one of the richest men

  in his pelt of the world.

  For, where possible, they would be

  from separate parts of the world. For

  the inviolate condition of recruitment

  was that none would ever acknowledge

  the existence of the others once the

  engagement was completed. It would be

  better if they came from different

  places.

  The dossiers in the Hawk's briefcase

  were those of the most accomplished

  double and triple agents in the U.S.

  Army data banks. And there was a

  common denominator running through

  each file: All were in forced retire-

  ment.

  The state of double and triple

  agenting was at a low ebb. The experts

  described in the dossiers had not had

  really gainful employment - for some

  time, and for such men inactivity was

  anathema. It meant not only a loss of

  prestige within the community of

  international criminals, but also a

  reduced scale of living.

  The prospects of $500,000 per man

  would not be lightly dismissed. And

  each potential recruit was worth it.

  Each was the best at his specialty.

  It was all a question of logistics.

  Think then outthink. Every function

  handled by an expert, every move timed

  to the split second.

  And that required a commander who

  demanded flawless precision from his

  troops. Who trained them to perform at

  peak efficiency levels. Who did not

  stint when it came to equipment and

  simulation; who would duplicate as far

  as technically possible the exact

  conditions projected for the 193

  .

  i

  assault. In essence a general officer

  the first rank. Himself. Goddamni

  Once the brigade was selected and

  assembled, Mac would outline the basic

  strategy. Then he would allow his

  officers to offer suggestions and

  refinements. A good commander always

  listened to his subordinate officers

  but, of course, reserved final

  judgment for himself.

  The weeks of training would show

  where the strengths and weaknesses

  lay; the objective was merely to

  eliminate all weakness.

  The fewer troops the better, but not

  so few as to impair the efficiency of

  the mission. Which was why there was

  only one payment for each soldier:

  $500,000. There would be no rewards if

  they were caught. At least, not the

  kind they were after. There would be

  certain family allotments in the case

  of capture. It was the sort of thing

  all armies had learned to take for

  granted. Men performed better under

  combat conditions if their minds were

  free of concern about their families.

  It was a good thing, too. It was

  another proof of separation between

  the species.

  The Shepherd Company would bank

  funds for denendents in advance of

  Ground Zero; to be deducted, of

  course, from all final payments upon

  the successful completion of the

  operation.

  Goddamn! He was not only pro, he was

  a very "borough pro at that! If those

  idiots in the Pentagon had turned over

  the whole U. S. Army to him, they

  would not be having all that trouble

  with volunteer enlistments. The

  Pentagon pricky-shits did not really

  understand "the book." If a soldier

  took the book for what it was and

  didn't try to bend it politically, or

  find ambiguities to hide behind well,

  it was a goddamned good book. Flawed

  but workable.

  He had no time to think about

  pricky-shits. He had about refined his

  brigade. The required areas of

  expertise were seven: camouflage,

  demolition, sedative medicines, native

  orientation, aircraft technology,

  escape cartography, and electronics.

  Seven experts. He had narrowed the

  dossiers down to twelve. Before he

  reached Zurich he knew he would have

  the seven. It was just a question of

  reading and rereading. He would send

  out his offers from Zurich, not from

  the 194

  Chateau Machenfeld, nothing could be

  traced to Machenfeld. He even had to

  be careful in Zurich. Not with regard

  to traces, however, he could handle

  that problem. But he had to make damn

  sure he didn't run into Sam Devereaux.

  Sam was due within hours of his own

  arrival, he wasn't ready for Sam's

  kind of pan
ic. He could handle that

  problem better within the confines of

  Machenfeld.

  But then, thought the Hawk, he

  didn't really have anything to worry

  about. Devereaux was the girl's prob-

  lem and they had each and every

  one carried out their assignments with

  real know-how.

  Goddamn! They were splendid! A man

  had to count himself fortunate,

  indeed, to have such a quartet of fine

  women behind him. "Behind every great

  man..." they said. Behind him there

  wasn't one fine lass, there were four.

  And a grander, more upstanding group

  of girls there never were! Sam was a

  lucky fellow and he didn't know it.

  Hawkins made a mental note to tell him

  when he saw Sam at Machenfeld.

  Tomorrow, if the schedule held

  Devereaux walked down the station

  platform looking for the correctly

  numbered railway car. The task was

  made difficult because he could not

  stop belching. He had eaten his way

  from Tizi-whatever-the-hell-it-was,

  through Algiers, past Rome, into

  Zurich. Madge had seen him off at Dar

  el Beida airport admitting no more

  during their good-byes than she had

  saying hello in the Aletti Hotel room.

  But Sam had made up his mind not to

  speculate any further about the girls.

  Whatever propelled them to do what

  they did for the Hawk could be left to

  KrafEt-Ebing; he had other things to

  concentrate on.

  The capitalization of forty million

  dollars was committed. Hawkins now had

  his marbles (no, he did not have his

  marbles, but that was another

  question), and he would start playing

  the game. The-Hawk would begin his

  final arrangements, make his

  purchases, recruit his what was

  its "support personnel."

  Jesus! Support personnel!

  195

  So he could kidnap the popel

  Oh, my God! The whole world was an

  enormous fruitcake!

  There was only one thing to bear in

  mind, one objective to keep in focus:

  How to stop MacKenzie Hawkins.

  Two objectives: Stay out of jail

  himself. And out of the homicidal

  clutches of the Mafia, the Peerage,

  the Nazis and particularly those Arabs

  who wanted to stuff his unmentionables

  into unspeakables.

  He found his compartment, the sort

  made famous by Rex Harrison and

  Margaret Lockwood. Shadows and black

  velvet collars and the incessant

  therumping of the metal wheels against

  the metal tracks below signifying the

  inevitable approach of terror. And

  large windows on the sliding doors,

  with curtains suddenly drawn back

  revealing the faces of evil.

  Night Train, Orient Express with

  slow dissolves to hands inching into

  folds of dark overcoats, ever so

  slowly withdrawing the black steel of

  murderous pistols. The train started.

  ~

  "Well, Ah declare! Ah said to

  myself, Ah simply don't heleeve it!

  It's the mayor! Right here in li'l ole

  Zurich!"

  There was no reason to be the least

  astonished. After all, Titan*s was on

  schedule.

  Regina Sommerville Hawkins Clark

  Madison Greenberg stood in the

  corridor outside the railroad

  compartment and spoke through the

  wood-framed window. She slid the door

  open and filled the small enclosure

  with remembrances of magnolia

  blossoms. Sam sat down calmly by the

  window, amazed at his own casualness.

  "Your timing's nothing short of

  brilliant. The train rolls and so do

  you. If I tried to get off at Lucerne

  I have an idea you'd start screaming

  'rape!' "

  "Why, what a peculiar thing to say.

  I hope you haven't forgotten the

  Beverly Hills Hotel; I never will."

  "My memories have no beginnings, no

  middles, no ends. The world fornicates

  in a thousand broken mirrors; we abuse

  ourselves in the reflections of Sodom

  and Gomorrah....

  "Now, tell me why you just happen to

  be in Zurich. At

  196

  i

  i

  the Hauptbahnhof, on this particular

  train, in this particular car.'

  "Oh, that's easy. Manny's shooting a

  picture in Geneva. For UA. I think

  it's so porn they had to make it

  outside the States."

  "That's Geneva; this is Zurich. You

  can do better than that. Let's have it

  for Hawkins's Harem. A little imagina-

  tion, please."

  "Honestly! Now you're downright

  offensive!" Regina swept her vicuna

  back and placed her hands defiantly on

  her hips. Two cannons had Devereaux in

  their sights. "I don't think you've

  got a damn thing to complain about. We

  root ourselves up out of very

  comfortable circumstances; traipse all

  over the world, subject ourselves to

  every kind of inconvenience~rush,

  rush, rush~heck on everything look

  after you, body and soul make sure no

  one hurts you see to your every

  comfort . Oh, Lawdy, what more could

  we do?! And for what? Abuse! Just

  plain, big ale abuse!"

  Regina dropped her defiant pose and

  began to cry. She opened her purse,

  withdrew a Kleenex, and sat down

  opposite Sam, dabbing her eyes.

  A lost, hurt little girl.

  "Hey, come on. That's not fair."

  As are most men, Sam was helpless

  before a tearful woman.

  Regina sobbed; her chest throbbed.

  Devereaux got out of his seat and

  knelt in front of her. "It's okay.

  It's all right. Don't cry, please."

  Between subsiding gasps, the girl

  looked at him gratefully. "Then you

  don't hate me? Say you don't hate me."

  "How could I hate you? You're

  lovely and sweet and for Christ's

  sake, please stop crying."

  She put her face next to his and her

  lips against his ear. "I'm sorry. It's

  just that I'm exhausted. The

  pressure's been simply God-awful. I've

  stayed by the telephone night and day,

  always worryin' and, of course,

  wonderin'. I really missed you."

  Ginny's coat was like a warm,

  comforting blanket between them. The

  huge, soft lapels came close to

  enveloping 197

  Devereaux's arms. She took both his

  hands and guided them between the Aids

  of thick fabric and placed them on the

  softer, warmer, more comforting swells

  of loveliness that were beneath the

  silk of her blouse.

  "That's better. Stop crying now." It

  was all he could think to say, so he

  said it softly.

 
She whispered into his ear, causing

  all kinds of things to happen to his

  metabolism. "Do you remember those

  marvelous old English movies that took

  place on trains like this?"

  "Sure. Rex Harrison saving Margaret

  Lockwood from the evil Conrad Veidt "

  "I think you can slide the door

  closed and lock it. And there are

  curtains...."

  Devereaux rose from the floor. He

  locked the door, closed the curtains,

  then turned back to Regina. She had

  removed her vicuna coat and spread it

  invitingly over the soft seat of the

  railroad compartment.

  Beneath them the therumping sounds

  of the metal against metal signified

  the inexorable journey, the beat

  somehow sensual. Outside, the lovely

  countryside of Switzerland whipped by,

  bathed in a Swiss twilight.

  "How much time do we have before we

  reach Zermatt?" he asked.

  "Enough," she replied, smiling. She

  began unbuttoning her silk blouse.

  "And we'll know. It's the last stop."

  198

  CHAPTER EIGHI`EE~

  Hawkins registered at Zurich's Hotel

  D'Accordwith a counterfeit passport.

  He'd purchased it in Washington from

  a CIA agent who realized the courts

  would not let him write a book when he

  retired; the man also offered a

  selection of wigs and hidden cameras

  but MacKenzie demurred. On settling

  into the room, his first act was to go

  right down to the lobby again and

  negotiate with the head switchboard

  operator: cash for cooperation. Since

  the cash was one hundred dollars, it

  was agreed that all his calls and

  cablegrams would be routed through her

  board.

  He returned to the room and spread