view, but he 205
had no idea how positively logical it was.
It might be all he needed.
He'd circulate rumors as massively
dangerous, as gigantically outrageous, as
the sight of Machenfeld itself. He'd start
with the servants, then the suppliers,
then everyone else who came near the
chateau until a state of isolation was
brought about and he could come to grips
with a deserted Hawkins and what the hell
was that noise?
He walked rapidly to the French doors
and through them to the small balcony
beyond. It overlooked the rear of Chateau
Machenfeld. He assumed it was the rear;
there was no circular drive below.
Instead, there were gardens in spring
bloom, with "raveled paths and latticed
arbors and scores of small fishponds
carved out of rock. Beyond the gardens
were green fields that merged into
greener, darker forests, and in the
distance were the majestic Alps.
The noise continued, spoiling the view.
He could not, at first, determine where it
came from, and so he squinted in the
sunlight. And instantly wished to hell he
hadn't. Because he could now see what was
making the noise.
One, two, three. . . five, six. . .
eight, nine! Nine assorted insanely
assorted vehicles were slowly going down
a dirt road that bordered the fields,
progressing south toward the surrounding
forests.
There were two long black limousines, a
huge earthmoving bulldozer, an outsized
tractor with pronged forks in front, and
five goddamn it, yes, five motorcycles!
It didn't take a lot of imagination to
get the picture. The Hawk was about to
enter maneuvers! He had bought himself his
own personal papal motorcade! Plus equip-
ment that could shove the ground around
into any design he liked: The route of
said papal motorcade!
But he hadn't even arrived at
Machenfeld! How the hell was he able
to and what the hell was that?
In his anger and confusion, Devereaux
gripped the balcony, shaking his head in
frustrated bewilderment. His eyes were
arrested by an extraordinary sight fifty
yards away.
Within a kind of patio, outside a pair
of open doors that looked like the
entrance to some sort of enormous kitchen,
stood a large man wearing a chefs hat, who
was 206
-
in the process of checking off items
from a thick sheaf of papers in his
hands. In front of the man was a
mountain of crates and cartons and
boxes that must have reached the
height of fifteen feet!
Lines of supply, shit!
There wasn't anything left in Europe
for Hawkins to buy. There was enough
food down there to eliminate half the
famine on the Ganges! The son of a
bitch had requisitioned enough rations
for an army, goddamn it, an army
setting out on a two-year bivouac!
Limousines, motorcycles, bulldozers,
tractors, food for the entire Lost
Battalion! Sam's counterstrategy move
number one was shot to hell by a
parade of nine idiotically assorted
vehicles and some gasping eccentric in
a chefs hat.
The only state of isolation in the
foreseeable future was from any and
all lines of supply. They were totally
unnecessary.
That left the minions. The dozen or
so servants that had to be around to
keep Machenfeld afloat. Kitchens, gar-
dens, fields (that probably meant
barns, maybe livestock), and at least
thirty to forty rooms with cleaning
and waxing and polishing and dusting.
Christ! There had to be a staff of
twenty!
He'd begin right away. Perhaps with
the drivers of the nine vehicles;
convince them to get the damn things
off the chateau's grounds before it
was too late. Then he'd rapidly go
from one group of servants to another.
Let them know in ominous terms, which
meant legal terms, that if they knew
what was good for them they'd get the
hell out of Machenfeld before all the
agents of-Interpol descended.
All the food in Switzerland wouldn't
do the Hawk any good if there was no
one on the premises. To run the
premises. And a few well-chosen words
to those manning the vehicles, words
like "international violations," "per-
sonal accountability," and "life
imprisonment," would surely cause that
stream of motorcycles and limousines
and trucks to barrel-ass back over the
moat into safer territory.
Sam was so preoccupied with his new
strategy that he wasn't really aware
that his undershorts kept sagging,
causing him to hold them 'up with a
free hand. He was 207
forced to be aware of it now because
as he gripped the railing his shorts
had plummeted down to his ankles.
Swiftly, he retrieved his modesty,
noting with a degree of
self-satisfaction that the games with
Ginny Greenberg must have be'en pretty
damned exciting indeed. But it was no
time for pleasant reminiscence, there
was work to do. His watch read nearly
eleven; he hadn't realized he'd slept
so long the games were not only
exciting, but exhausting. He had
barely five or six hours to get
everybody out. Such a large staff of
servants probably had lots of personal
belongings. That would mean
transportation, perhaps more
complicated than he had considered.
But one thing had to be clear: when
the minions left the grounds of
Machenfeld, they were not to return.
For any reason. Anything less would
weaken his basic premise: Machenfeld
was a threat to everyone who remained,
therefore no one was to do so.
Evacuation!
The chateau was to be deserted!
Then what the hell was MacKenzie going
to do?
Stew in his cigar juice, that's what
he was going to do! It was merely a
question of logistics and execution.
Goddamn! Logistics and execution! He
was beginning to think like the Hawk!
And have the confidence of the Hawk!
Be bold! Be outrageous! Take fate by
the balls and . . .
Shitl Before anything could happen,
he had to get dressed. He raced
through the French doors into the
room. Ginny stirred and moaned a
little and then buried her head
farther into the eiderdown quilt. He
stepped out of the torn underwear, and
crossed quietly to his suitcase which
was on an overstuffed armchair against
the velourcovered wall.
It was empty.
There wasn't a goddamn thing in his
suitcase.
He looked around for the closet.
Closets. There were four.
Empty. Except for Ginny's dresses.
Shit!
He ran as quietly as possible to the
sculptured door and opened it.
Sitting across the wide hallway was the
black beret with '208
the gold front tooth and catlike eyes
which were now focused on Sam's lower
extremities. In the confusion that,
perhaps, was understandable. The sneer
was not.
"Where are my clothes!?" whispered
Devereaux,-partially closing the door,
leaning against it.
"In the tauntree, mein Herr,"
replied the black beret in an accent
formed in some Swiss canton run by
Hermann Goring.
"Everything?"
"Courtesy of Chateau Machenfeld. All
was dirty."
"That's ridiculous!" Sam tried to
keep his voice low. He did not want to
wake Ginny. "Nobody asked me "
"You were asleep, mein Herr,"
interrupted the black beret, grinning
suggestively, his gold tooth gleaming.
"You were very tired."
"Well, now I'm very angry! I want my
clothes back. Right away!"
"I cannot do that."
"Why not?"
"It is the launtree's day off."
"What? Then why did you take them?"
"I told you, mein Herr. They were
dirty."
Sam stared at the catlike eyes
across the hallway. They had narrowed
ominously; ~ and the gold tooth was no
longer seen because the grin had
disappeared, replaced by an adamant
mouth. Sam closed the door. He had to
think. Quickly. As Mac would say, he
had to weigh his options. And he had
to get out.
He did not consider himself a
brawler, yet he was not a physical
coward. He was a pretty big fellow,
and regardless of what Lillian said in
Berlin, he was in fair shape. Still,
all things considered it was a good
guess that the black-berated maniac
across the hall could beat the shit
out of him. Even naked, he could not
leave by the stairs.
Option One considered and rejected.
That left the windows, more
specifically the small balcony beyond
the French doors. He grabbed his
shorts off the floor, put them on,
held them up, and walked silently
outside. The room was three stories
off the ground, but directly below was
another balcony. With sheets, or
drapes, tied together he could make it
with reasonable safety.
209
Option Two was feasible.
He went back inside and studied the
drapes. As his mother in Quincy would
say, they were spring drapes. Silk,
billowy, not strong. Option Two was
fading. Then he looked at the bed
sheets, ignoring the inviting sight of
Regina who was now more outside the
eiderdown quilt than under. If the
sheets were combined with the drapes,
this would probably hold him. Option
Two was reemerging.
Battle dress.
That was a problem. There was nothing
but dresses.
So, assuming Option Two succeeded
and he reached the ground, he had
Options Three and Four to consider.
And as he considered them there was a
sinking feeling in his stomach. He
could race around Machenfeld in
underwear that kept falling down to
his ankles or he could put on one of
Ginny's Balenciaga prints and hope the
zipper held.
A man running around spreading
alarms in disheveled underwear, or a
Paris original, was not likely to be
taken too seriously. There might even
be Options Five and Six to contend
with: be locked up, or be raped.
Shit!
He had to keep his head; he had to
get hold of himself and think things
out. Slowly. He could not allow a
minor item like clothing to stand in
the way of evacuation. What could the
Hawk do? What was that goddamned term
he used so frequently?
Support personnel! That was it!
Sam raced back out on the balcony.
The man in the chefs hat was still
checking off items on his list. It'd
probably take him a week.
"Psssst! Psssst!" Devereaux leaned
over the railing, remembering at the
last instant not to let go of the
underwear. "Hey you!" he whispered
loudly.
The man looked up, startled at
first, then smiled broadly. 'huh!
Bonjour, monsieur! (ha Ha?" he
shouted.
Sam held his finger to his lips.
"Shhh!" He gestured for the chef to
come closer.
He did so, carrying his papers,
making a last notation as he walked.
"Oui monsieur?"
"I'm being held prisoner!" whispered
Devereaux with solemn urgency and much
authority. "They've taken my
210
clothes. I need clothes. And when I
get down I want you to get everyone
who works here into the kitchen; I've
got some very important things to say.
I'm a lawyer. Avocat." The man in the
chef's hat cocked his head. "ye ne
comprends pas, monsieur Desirez-vous
le petit d~jeuner?"
"Who.7 No. I want clothes. See? All
I've got is this, these." Sam
stretched his torn undershorts so they
could be seen between the rails; then
he pointed to his legs. "I need pants,
trousers! Right away. Please!"
The expression on the man's face
changed from bewilderment to
suspicion. Perhaps even distaste
mingled with hostility. "Vos
sous-vetements vent tres jolts," he
said shaking his head, turning back
toward the patio and the crates of
food.
"Wait! Wait a minute!"
"The chef is French, mein Herr, but
not that French." The voice came from
below, from the balcony directly
underneath. The speaker was an
immense, bald man with shoulders
nearly as wide as the depth of the
ruling. "He thinks you are making a
most peculiar offer. I can assure you
he's not interested."
"Who the hell are you?"
'My name is unimportant. I leave the
chateau when the new master of
Machenfeld arrives. Until then his
every instruction is my command. His
instructions do not include your
clothing."
Devereaux had an overpowering urge
to let his shorts fall and copy
Hawkins's action on the roof of the
d
iplomatic mission in Peking, but he
controlled himself. The man on the
balcony below was huge. And obviously
couldn't take a joke. So instead he
leaned over and whispered the words
conspiratorially.
"Hell Hitler, you fuckerI"
The man's arm shot forward; his
heels clucked like the bolt of a
rifle. ''lawohl! Sieg hell!"
"Oh, shit!" Sam turned and walked
back into the room. In exasperation,
he kicked offhis shorts. Then he
absently studied them as they lay on
the floor. Perhaps it was the angle of
the fabric, he was not sure. But
suddenly they looked strange.
He bent down and picked them up. all
Christ! What games?
The elastic waist had been cut
deliberately in three places! The
incisions were incisions, not tears.
There were no loose threads or
stretched cloth. Someone had taken a
sharp instrument and sliced the
goddamn things! On purpose.
Immobilizing him by the simplest
method possible!
"Lawdy! What's all that shoutin'
about?" Regina Greenberg yawned and
stretched, modestly pulling the
eiderdown quilt over her enormous
breasts.
"You bitch," said Devereaux in quiet
anger. "You devious bitchI"
"What's the matter, honeychile?"
"Don't 'honeychile' me, you Southern
retardant! I can't get out of herel"
Ginny blinked and yawned again. She
spoke with calm authority. "You know,
Mac once said something that's been a
comfort to me all through the years.
Robert Ludlum - Road To Gandolfo.txt Page 30