Robert Ludlum - Road To Gandolfo.txt
Page 41
Alps, in which was installed the
finest, most sophisticated radio
equipment obtainable. It had been
delivered to Machenfeld by Les Chateau
Suisse but put into operation by the
Hawk himself. No one but MacKenzie
knew the location of the mountain
retreat.
Oh, my God! Five o'clock this
afternoon! Sam forced his thoughts
away from the awful thing.
There was movement up at the
chateau. Anne had walked out the
terrace door carrying the usual large,
glossy picture book under her arm and
a silver tray with glasses on it in
her hands. She started across the lawn
to the gardens. Her walk was firm,
feminine; a graceful, natural dancer
oblivious to the subtle rhythms
inherent in her grace. Her light brown
hair fell casually, framing the clear
pink skin of her lovely face. Her
wide, bright blue eyes reflected
whatever light they faced.
He had learned something from all
the girls, thou-glut Devereaux.
Something different and individually
their own gifts to him. And if a
normal life was ever to return
he would be grateful for their
gifts.
But perhaps he had learned the most
important thing from Anne: Try for
improvement but don't deny what's
past.
There was laughter on the lawn. Anne
was looking up at the ramparts where
Francesco, dressed in a colorful she
sweater, was leaning over the parapet.
It had become their private game,
Anne's and Francesco's. Whenever the
Hawk was out of sight they held
conversations. And Sam was
sure because Anne would not deny
it that she had made numerous trips up
to his private apartments bringing him
glasses of chianti, which was
specifically forbidden from his diet.
Anne and Francesco had become good
friends.
284
Several minutes later that judgment
was confirmed. Anne placed the silver
tray with the drinks on the table next
to Sam. Her eyes were smiling.
'Did you know, Sam, that Jesus was a
very practical, down-to-earth person.
When he washed Mary Magdalene's feet,
He was letting everybody know she was
a human being. Maybe a very fine one,
in spite of what she sed to do. And
that people shouldn't throw rocks at
her because maybe their feet weren't
so clean, either."
MacKenzie climbed the final
precipice by means of an Alpine hook.
The last two hundred yards of the
spiraling summit road were too deep
with mountain snow for the motorcycle,
so it was faster to make the final
ascent directly. It was eleven minutes
to five, Zurich time.
The signals would commence in eleven
minutes. From Beirut. They would be
repeated after an interval of five
minutes, to double-check for decoding
errors. At the end of the second
series he would confirm reception by
transmitting the air-clearance code to
the relay in Beirut: four dashes,
repeated twice.
Once inside, the Hawk started the
generators and watched with
satisfaction as the myriad wheels spun
with a smooth whirring sound within
the casing, and the dials began
registering output.
When the two green lights went on,
signifying maximum performance, he
plugged in the single electric heater,
feeling the warmth of the glowing
coils. He reached over to the powerful
shortwave equipment, flipped on the
receiving switches and turned the
amplifier spools to high volume. Three
minutes to go.
He walked to the wall. Slowly he
began to turn a handle, hearing the
gears mesh. Outside, beyond the iron
grillwork of the tiny window, he could
see a webbed disc swing out and up on
its track.
He returned to the radio receiving
panel and revolved the parallel
megacycle and tetracycle dials with
delicate precision. The voices of a
dozen languages emerged from the
amplifiers. When the needles were in
the exact parallel cycle points there
was silence. One minute to go.
285
MacKenzie took out a cigar from his
pocket and lighted up. He inhaled with
real contentment and blew out the
smoke in ring after ring.
Suddenly the signals were there.
Four short, highpitched dashes;
repeated once. The channel was
cleared.
He picked up a pencil, his hand
poised above a page of notepaper,
prepared to write out the code as it
was beamed from Beirut.
The message terminated, the Hawk had
five minutes to decode. To convert the
signals into numbers, then transfer
the numbers into letters and the
letters into words.
When he had finished, he stared in
disbelief at the Vatican reply.
It was impossible!
Obviously, he had made several
errors in receiving the Beirut
transmission.
The signals began again.
The Hawk started writing on a fresh
page of notepaper. Carefully.
Precisely.
The transmission ended as it began:
four dashes, repeated once.
MacKenzie put the decoding schedule
in front of him. He believed he had
memorized it thoroughly, but this was
no time to make a mistake. He
cross-checked every dot, every dash.
Every word.
There were no errors.
The unbelievable had happened.
Relative to the insane request
regarding the contri
bution of four hundred million
American dollars, by
assessing worldwide dioceses on the
basis of one
dollar per communicant, the treasury
of the Holy See
is in no position to consider such a
request. Or any
request at all for this particular
charity. The Holy
Father is in excellent health and
sends his blessings in
the name of the Father, the Son, and
the Holy Spirit.
Ignatio Quartze,
Cardinal Omnipitum,
Keeper of the Vatican Treasury as6
The Shepherd Company suspended
operations.
MacKenzie Hawkins walked the grounds
of Chateau Machenfeld, smoking his
cigars, staring blankly at the
infinite beauty of the Alps.
Sam made an accounting of the
corporation's monetary assets,
exclusive of the properties and
equipment. Of the original
capitalization of $40,000,000, there
remained $12,810,431.02.
Plus a contingency expense fund of
$150,000, which had not been touched.
Not bad at all. Especially since the
investors, to a panicked vulture,
refused reimbursement. They wanted
nothing whatsoever to do with the
Shepherd Company or any of its
management personnel. None would even
bother to file for tax losses as long
as Shepherd's corporate executives
promised on the Bible, Burke's
Peerage, Mein Kampf, and the
Koran never to get in touch with him
again.
And Francesco, now sporting a
Tyrolean hat along with his favorite
ski sweater, was allowed out of the
top-floor apartments. For the sake of
everybody's sanity, it was agreed to
refer to him as Zio Francesco,
somebody's uncle.
Since he showed no inclination to go
anywhere or do anything other than
enjoy the company, Zio Francesco
roamed freely. There was someone
always nearby, but not to prevent
escape; for assistance. He was, after
all, in his seventies.
The cook was especially taken with
him, for he spent long periods in the
kitchen, helping with the sauces, and
every once in a while asking
permission to fix a particular dish.
He made one request of the Hawk. The
Hawk refused it.
No! Absolutely no! Zio could not
telephone his apartment in the
Vatican! It made no difference
whatsoever that his telephone was
private or unlisted or concealed in
the drawer of his bedside tablet
Telephone calls could be traced.
Not if they were radioed, insisted
Francesco. The Hawk had impressed them
all, frequently, by telling them about
,287
his complicated methods of
communicating with Rome. Of course, a
simple telephone call would not have
to be nearly so complex. One little
relay, perhaps.
No! All that spaghetti had gone to
Zio's head. His brain was soft.
The Hawk's was softer, perhaps,
suggested Francesco. What progress was
the general making? Were not matters
at a stalemate? Had not Cardinal
Quartze outflanked him?
How could a telephone call change
that?
How could it make things any worse?
persisted Francesco. The Hawk could be
at the radio, his hand on a switch,
prepared to break the connection
should Zio say anything improper. Was
it not more advantageous to the
general for at least two people to
know he was alive? That the deception
was truly a deception? There certainly
was nothing to lose, for the Hawk had
already lost. And possibly there was
something to gain. Perhaps four hun-
dred million American dollars.
Besides, Guido needed help. This was
no criticism of his cousin, who was
not only strong as a bull but a most
gentle and thoughtful person. But he
was new at the job and would certainly
listen to his cousin Giovanni Bom-
balini. Helped, of course, by
Giovanni's personal aide, the young
American priest from Harlem.
The situation might not be remedied
overnight for there were matters of
health and logistics to be considered.
But when all was said and done, what
alternative did the Hawk have?
He obviously had none. And so
MacKenzie came down from the Alpine
cabin one afternoon carrying three
canvaswrapped cartons of radio
equipment and proceeded to install the
instruments in a Machenfeld bedroom.
When all was completed, the Hawk
issued an irrevocable command.-Only he
and Zio Francesco were allowed inside
during radio transmissions.
That was fine with Anne and Sam.
They had no desire to be there. The
cook thought everybody was crazy and
went back to the kitchen.
And at least twice a week from then
on very late at night the huge disk
antenna was wheeled out and raised
above the battlements. Neither Sam nor
Anne knew what 288
was being said or whether anything was
being accomplished, but often when
they sat in the gardens to talk and
look at the glorious Swiss moon, they
heard great peals of laughter from the
upstairs room. The Hawk and the pope
were like small boys thoroughly
enjoying a new game.
A secret game, played in their
personal clubhouse.
Sam sat in the garden absently
looking at his copy of the London
Times. Life at Chateau Machenfeld had
become routinized. For instance, every
morning one of them would drive into
the village to pick up the newspapers.
Coffee in the gardens with the
newspapers was a wonderful way to
start the day. The world was such an
unholy mess; life was so peaceful at
Machenfeld.
The Hawk, having discovered the
existence of riding trails on the
property, purchased several fine
horses and rode frequently, sometimes
for hours at a time. He'd found
something he'd been looking for,
thought Sam.
Francesco discovered oil painting.
He would trek over the fields in his
Tyrolean hat with Anne or the cook,
set up his easel and paints, and
render for posterity his impressions
of the Alpine splendors. That is, when
he wasn't in the kitchen, or teaching
Anne to play chess, or debating
always pleasantly with Sam over points
of law.
There was one thing about Francesco
that nobody talked about, but all knew
had something to do with his attitude.
Francesco had not been a well man when
he was taken out of the Appian hills.
Not well at all. It was the reason Mac
had insisted on the availability of
the New York specialist.
But as the weeks went by, Francesco
seemed to improve in the Alpine air.
Would it have been the same,
otherwise?
No one, of course, would speculate,
but Francesco had said something at
dinner one evening that registered on
them all.
'Those doctors. I shall outlive
every one of theml They would have had
me buried a month ago."
The Hawk responded with a coughing
fit.
And Sam? What of him?
Whatever it was, he knew that it
included Anne.
He looked at her now in the late morning
sun, sitting in 289
the chair reading the newspaper, the
ever present book on the table beside
her. A Pictorial History, of
Switzerland was the title today.
She was so lovely so
gloriously herself. She'd help him
became a better lawyer, by making the
law seem not so important.
Now he began to think about other
things.
Like reading quietly. Understanding.
Evaluating.
Like Judge Devereaux.
Oh, Boston was going to like Anne!
His mother would like her, too. And
Aaron Pinkus. Aaron would approve
wholeheartedly.
If Judge Devereaux ever got back to
Boston.
He'd think about that tomorrow.
"Sam'?" said Anne, looking over at
him.
"What'?"
"Did you read this article in the
Tribune?"
"What articled I haven't seen the
Tribune."
"llere." She pointed but did not
give him the paper. She was engrossed.
"It's about the Catholic Church. All
kinds of things. The pope has called
a Fifth Ecumenical Council. And
there's an announcement that a hundred
and sixtythree opera companies are
being subsidized, to elevate the
spirit of creativity. And a famous
cardinal my God, Sam it's that
Igllatio Q''artze! The one Mac yells
about.''
"What about him?''
"It seems he's retiring to some
villa called San Vincente. Something
to do with papal disputes over Vatican
allocations. Isn't that strange?"
Devereaux was silent for several
moments before he replied. "I think
our friends have been very busy up on
the ramparts."
In the distance were the sounds of