Robert Ludlum - Road To Gandolfo.txt

by The Road To Gandolfo [lit]

Any larger automobile would not have room

  to turn around. To reverse direction a

  driver would have to steer his car

  backward for the better part of a mile,

  over countless potholes and around

  numerous blind curves. Of course the same

  driver might opt for negotiating the wide

  expanses of fields that regularly

  interrupted the Appian forests, but they

  were filled with rocks and mounds and

  intermittent stone walls, some built in

  ancient times. The fields were not only

  treacherous, but it was against the law to

  drive on them.

  These thoughts went through Captain

  Noir's head, his black face powdered under

  the stocking mask, as he lay motionless in

  the bushes off the side of the road beyond

  the barrier. He had heard the sounds of

  the motorcycles in the distance.

  260

  All was ready.

  Ground Zero had arrived.

  The location was perfect. Only trees

  and fields hills the general had

  planned well. The abduction could

  probably be carried out on this

  isolated stretch of road without the

  detour but in some ways the detour was

  the most important aspect of Ground

  Zero. The vehicles could turn around

  by inches but they wouldn't. They

  would use the detour.

  Still, in case they didn t, Captain

  Noir held in his hand a piercing,

  high-frequency whistle. Its use meant

  that Plan Able, Phase One, Positions

  One through Three were aborted,

  instantly implementing Plan Baker,

  Phase Double Zero, Positions One

  Hundred One through One Hundred Ten:

  abduction farther up the Appia.

  Down the road beyond the barrier,

  the blue helmet with the white cross

  enameled on the steel stood out like

  an enormous jewel in the Italian

  sunlight. It was on the head of the

  motorcycle patrolman in front of the

  papal column; the Vatican point, as

  the general termed him. The uniformed

  officer was traveling at medium speed,

  any faster on the old road would be

  uncomfortable for those in the

  limousines.

  The patrolman spotted the barrier

  with the large official sign and drove

  up to it. Captain Noir held his

  breath. The officer jumped off his

  motorcycle, kicked out the stand, and

  walked up to the obstruction. He

  raised his eyebrows in bewilderment,

  looked beyond the barricade for signs

  of construction and grumbled

  unintelligibly.

  He turned and held up his hands. The

  lead automobile had reached a point

  approximately a hundred feet from the

  barrier.

  The patrolman returned to his idling

  bike, mounted, swung the bars, drove

  swiftly to the lead limousine, and

  spoke excitedly to those inside.

  The rear door opened, a priest in a

  black cassock got out. He and the

  patrolman walked back toward the

  barrier, their attention on the

  sloping road down the Appian hill. --I

  There was rapid, indistinguishable

  chatter between them; and then a

  series of gestures that conveyed only

  indeci

  '- 261

  sign. The priest turned, picked up the

  cloth of his cassock, and trotted back

  past the lead car to the papal

  limousine.

  Captain Noir could not see too well,

  but the slight Appian breeze carried

  the sounds of more excited chatter.

  Noir swallowed and gripped the

  high-frequency whistle in his hand.

  Then to his great relief he heard

  laughter. And the priest returned to

  the lead car, nodded his head,

  gesturing to the left at the

  patrolman, and climbed back into the

  limousine.

  An adventurous decision had just

  been made; the general knew his enemy.

  The motorcade turned left down the

  hill, led by the patrolman. All the

  vehicles entered cautiously, at very

  slow speeds, and when the two rear

  motorcycles reached the first curve on

  the slope, Noir got out of the grass

  and raced to the barrier, pulling it

  across the opening of the detour. He

  ripped off the top sign revealing the

  second:

  DINAMITE! FERMAI PERICOLOI

  He had done it! By God, he'd done

  it! He had escaped Flynn Machenfeld

  and was on his way to Rome, and if

  everything held firm, no one would

  know he was gone until morning! Then

  it would be too late! The Hawk would

  be on his way to Ground Zero!

  There was no way they could know he

  was gone. Unless they broke down the

  door to his room, which was highly

  unlikely under the circumstances. Anne

  wasn't talking to hire; she'd stamped

  off to her room in the south wing. He

  had provoked an argument that could be

  heard on the peaks of the Matterhorn,

  eliciting language from her she must

  have learnedirom her felonious family.

  Rudolph and No Name wanted

  absolutely nothing to do with him.

  Especially proximity. After the battle

  with Anne he had proceeded to complain

  to his guards of sudden, agonizing

  pains in his groin. He had doubled up

  and screamed.

  "Oh, Jesus! It's Kuwaiti

  encephalitis! I saw it in the Algerian

  desert five weeks ago! Oh, my God! I

  caught it! The testicles swell like

  basketballs, but heavier! I've got to

  have a doctor! Get me a doctor!"

  262

  "No doctor. No outside

  communications until master of

  Machenfeld returns." Rudolph was

  stern.

  "Then you better watch it!" Sam

  continued. "It's highly contagious!"

  Whereupon he had fainted, clutching

  himself through the sweat pants.

  Panicked, No Name and Rudolph moved

  back swiftly against the wall in the

  drawing room. Revived but in agony,

  Sam crawled out of the room and up the

  staircase. To meet h* Maker in peace,

  and with enormous testicles.

  Rudolph and No Name stayed well

  behind until Sam reached h* room and

  closed the door. When he opened the

  door for one last time he saw that his

  guards were far down-the hallway with

  double handkerchiefs fled around

  theirfaces, aerosol cans of

  disinfectant billowing clouds of spray

  around them.

  The coast was clear! For a

  beautiful, foolproof exitirom

  Machenfeld.

  Lillian and two of the staff were

  driving the limousines to an airfield

  somewhere south. He'd overheard the

  Hawk explaining the route to Mrs.

  Hawkins number three; the trip was

  four hours long
and it was vital that

  she position the vehicles on a mad by

  the west highway of the airfield.

  An airfield!

  That meant airplanes! And

  airplanesilew to Rome! And even if

  they didn't or wouldn't there were

  telephones! And radios!

  His new plan had jelled instantly.

  He would be inside the trunk of the

  second limousine, the one being driven

  by a member of the chateau staff. It

  had been a simple matter to jam the

  lock of the vehicle's trunk while he

  had been saying good-bye to Lillian,

  helping her with the suitcases.

  As soon as h* guards disappeared in

  the cloud of disinfectant, Sam tied

  three blankets together, scaled down

  to the ground from the balcony, raced

  to the limousine in the drive, and

  crawled into the trunk.

  Once inside' he wrapped the blankets

  around h* upper body, grateful he

  still had h* sweat pants, and waited.

  He was counting on nature to provide

  him with a shortcut to his objective

  and he was not disappointed.

  The limousines sped through the gate

  and the trip had

  263

  l

  l

  begun. After three and a half hours of

  bouncing, plunging, climbing, and

  racing through the Swiss mountains,

  Sam heard the rapid blasts of the

  limousine's horn. Within seconds

  there'd been a corresponding reply in

  the distance, from the lead

  automobile, and the car slowed down

  and stopped. The driver got out

  quickly. Devereaux could hear the

  footsteps outside the trunk. And then

  he'd heard the unmistakable muted

  splashing.

  He opened the trunk, climbed

  silently out, and hit the urinating

  Swiss with a jack handle.

  Before a half minute had passed,

  Devereaux had removed the man's

  trousers, jacket, shirt, and shoes.

  Pulling on the trousers and the

  jacket enough to obscure him in the

  night darkness he had raced around to

  the door and leaped into the driver's

  seat, tapping the horn twice as a

  signal to resume the trip.

  Lillian honked back, and started

  offimmediately.

  The airfield at Valtournanche

  (that's what the sign had said) did

  present a minor problem, but it was

  more than compensated for by the

  extraordinary sum of money Sam found

  in the jacket he had taken from the

  Swiss. Five thousand dollars,

  American! The Hawk must have given the

  staff member a bonus!

  It automatically gave birth to

  another, incredible plan! A

  magnificent finale!

  He could stop the Hawk without the

  police! Without the authorities! Stop

  him cold, dismantle Ground Zero and

  disperse the brigade all at the same

  time! With no Bring squads or hangmen

  or life imprisonment in the offing! It

  was perfect. Beyond error.

  There was a curve in the road on the

  west border of the airfield. Sam

  slowed his limousine, and the instant

  LiUian's vehicle rounded the turn, he

  stopped the cat; turned of the

  ignition, grabbed the shirt and the

  shoes, jumped out, and raced into the

  woods.

  He waited in the darkness for the

  inevitable. Lillian's automobile could

  be heard in reverse gear. She and her

  escort got out and ran back to the

  abandoned second car.

  "Isn't that the limit!" Lillian was

  angry. "The ungrateful worm chickened

  out at the last moment! And after Mac

  gave him all that money. WeU, it

  doesn't surprise me. His neck

  264

  muscles had no tone; it's always a

  sign of weakness. Come on! Get in!

  We're almost there."

  An hour later Devereaux, dressed in

  a leather jacket and baggy trousers

  oddly too large for his frame, was

  counting out $2,500 to a stunned pilot

  in a Valtournanche hangar, the fee for

  a rushed, unscheduled light to Rome.

  Sam had chosen a man quite a bit

  smaller than himself, with no apparent

  muscle tone whatsoever. Pilots who

  took this kind of employment were not

  generally considered to be of the

  highest moral character. He didn't

  care to be rolled and dropped off into

  an Alpine mountain pass.

  But he had made it! They were

  airborne! They'd reach Rome well

  before dawn. And then he, Sam

  Devereaux, the finest young attorney

  in Boston, would deliver the best

  summation of his career.

  Captains Gris and Bleu, dressed in

  tight-fitting police uniforms, stood

  erect and motionless behind the trunks

  of two Appian maples on opposite sides

  of the winding road motionless except

  for their right hands, which they

  flexed at their sides, thumbs

  caressing the short hollow needles

  that protruded from the inverted

  rings.

  As the commander had predicted, the

  two motorcycles at either side of the

  papal limousine had dropped back and

  now rode parallel in front of the

  bikes flanking the rear. And again, as

  the commander had projected, the noise

  was deafening.

  One by one the vehicles passed. As

  the final two patrolmen came between

  the two maple trees, Gris and Bleu

  leaped out, hammerlocked both men with

  their left arms, and each plunged a

  small needle into his man's neck.

  Within seconds the patrolmen were

  limp.

  Gris and Bleu lowered the

  motorcycles~between their legs and

  dragged each body off into the

  underbrush. Together they entered the

  woods and raced diagonally downhill

  through the tangled foliage to

  position themselves for their next

  assignment. Secreted in these posi-

  tions were the cassocks they would

  slip over their uniforms.

  ads

  Captains Orange and Vert lay on

  their stomachs across from one another

  hidden by the tall weeds. Their posts

  were at the start of the second curve

  on the descending side road. Through

  the dense reeds they saw and smiled as

  they did so that the two final

  motorcycles failed to appear. The

  other team of patrolmen struggled to

  keep their bikes upright, riding

  behind the second limousine.

  Captain Orange crossed himself as

  the pontiffs vehicle passed.

  Captain Vert spat. It was long past

  time for the Church to install a

  French pope; the Italians were pigs

  about that.

  The papal car turned into the final

  downhill curve. Orange and Vert spr
ang

  up and out and executed the practiced

  maneuvers with lightning-swift

  dispatch against the motorcycle

  escorts.

  The patrolmen collapsed; the papal

  limousine was entering the turn at the

  base of the Appian hill. There were

  only seconds remaining before the

  detonations of Phase Four, the smoke

  bombs from the overturned Fiat. Orange

  and Vert ran to their next

  assignments the most prestigious of

  all: Phase Seven. Phases Five and Six,

  the destruction of the communications

  equipment and the sedation of the

  papal entourage, would be occurring

  any second.

  Phase Seven was the zenith of Ground

  Zero: the exchange of the popes. Guido

  Frescobaldi for Giovanni Bombalini.

  The explosions from the Fiat were

  positively frightening; the screams of

  the hysterical Turks terrifying. The

  Hawk grinned in appreciation. Goddamn!

  What a beautiful sight! All that smoke

  and noise and well, the screams were

  overdone.

  The motorcade stopped in shock,

  agitated voices swelling. One

  motorcycle and two limousines in an

  isolated back country road bordered by

  a steep hill on the south side and a

  tall, thick forest on the north.

  Optimum, observed the Hawk, holding

  a weaving Guido Frescobaldi in the

  bushes.

  Captain Noir reached his post and

  signaled Captains Rouge and Brun; they

  were strung out at ten-yard intera66

  vals, prepared for the moment to

  implement Phase Five: the destruction

  of all communications equipment.

  It came.

  The single Vatican policeman jumped

  off his motorcycle and ran toward the

  smoking Fiat with the trapped, scream-

  ing passengers. Every door of both