The Road to Gandolfo: A Novel

by Robert Ludlum

  Basta! All he needed was to collapse doing push-pulls. Ignatio Quartze would roll his body under the bed and they would not find him for a week. In the meantime, Quartze would pack the Curia.

  The pontiff reached his favorite white bench and lowered himself on the cool stone. A breeze came from the garden walls, fluttering the leaves of the tree above him. Was it a sign? It was refreshing. Then the breeze stopped; the still air returned and the fluttering of leaves was replaced by footsteps clattering over the path.

  It was the new papal aide. A young Black priest from the diocese of New York City, a brilliant student who had done much good work in the Harlem districts. Francesco had sought out just such a deserving young prelate—over considerable opposition. It was a small part of a large design.

  “Your Holiness?”

  “Yes, my son. You look agitated. What’s the matter?”

  “I think I did something quite wrong. I was bewildered and you weren’t in your rooms and there didn’t seem to be anything else to do. I’m very sorry.”

  “Well, now, we won’t know the extent of this calamity until you describe it. You didn’t, by any chance, find Cardinal Quartze in my closet and call the guards?”

  The Black priest smiled. Ignatio had made clear his disapproval of the aide’s appointment. Francesco took every opportunity to lessen the insult.

  “No, Your Holiness. I heard your private telephone ringing. The one in the drawer of your bedside table; it just kept ringing.”

  “It would, my son,” interrupted the pontiff. “It is not connected to the Vatican switchboard. A minor indulgence. So you answered it. Who was calling? Only a few old friends and an associate or two of long standing have the number. There is no great harm in what you did. Who was it?”

  “A monsignor in Washington, Holy Father. He was very upset—–”

  “Ahh, Monsignor Patrick Dennis O’Gilligan! Yes, he calls frequently. We play chess together long distance.”

  “He was very excited—and he thought I was you. He didn’t give me a chance to speak. He rattled on so fast I couldn’t stop him.”

  “Yes, that sounds like Paddy; he’s had his problems. The Berrigans again? Those two keep busy—–”

  “No, Holy Father. Much worse. The President called him. Something about the confidence of the confessional, and whether it was admissible. He wants to convert, Holy Father!”

  “Che cosa? Madre di Dio!”

  “It gets worse, Your Holiness. Sixteen White House aides want to find Jesus right away. Under certain conditions of Vatican privilege and something called Christian immunity.”

  Giovanni sighed. There was so much to do.

  Four months, Oh, Lord?

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The unfamiliar faces had one thing in common, thought Sam. Very muscular bodies. As though each enjoyed the outdoors, kept in trim by moving rocks under the eyes of penitentiary guards. And speaking of eyes, that was another thing in common. All their eyes seemed a little sleepy at first, the lids half closed. But it was only appearance. On closer examination the eyes could be seen spinning in their sockets like pinballs caught between magnets; very little went unobserved.

  There was a tall, blond man who looked like he jumped out of a television commercial for Scandinavian cigars; a Black who nodded silently a great deal and spoke an English refined in university lecture rooms; another dark-skinned fellow with distinctly sharp, northern features whose accent was like all those people in formal clothes at the Savoy; two Frenchmen who had something to do with boats; a long-haired man in very tight trousers who strutted when he walked like a tango dancer, aware of his ass—unmistakably Italian; and finally, a rather wild-eyed Greek who wore a red kerchief and kept telling jokes no one quite understood.

  There was a soft-spoken politeness among them that was positively unctuous, complemented by manners that seemed born of breeding and wealth, were it not for the shifty eyes. They certainly were very much at home in the huge drawing room of Château Machenfeld, where the Hawk had everyone gather before the late dinner.

  Gathered, but in the interests of international security, not introduced. No names were used.

  Sam had returned to the château at seven. It would have been an hour earlier but he had to walk the last three miles because no taxi out of Zermatt was allowed to travel beyond certain zones and Rudolph was nowhere to be found. When Sam called information for Machenfeld’s telephone number, he discovered there was no such place.

  It all might have taken the heart out of him, but Option Seven kept him going. He knew when a case was won.

  MacKenzie had greeted him with mixed feelings. The Hawk was pleased that he had brought back the financial papers so promptly, but felt that his treatment of Regina was most ungentlemanly. She was a fine girl, and now Sam could not properly say good-bye to her.

  Why not?

  Because her luggage had been sent to the airport. Ginny was on her way back to California, with a stop in Rome to look at the museums.

  So much for Ginny, thought Devereaux. He was a little sad, but there was Option Seven to think about. And he began to think the timing was perfect.

  MacKenzie told him that there would be no business discussed the first evening. Just social chitchat and strolls through the gardens and cocktails and dinner and brandy. Why? Because the troops would like a chance, he believed, to size each other up, check their rooms for bugs, oil their weapons, and generally assure themselves that Machenfeld was no Interpol trap. Sam could expect to hear noises during the night; most of the men would carry out their own surveillance, and that was good because they would undoubtedly run into one another and realize further that everything was on the up-and-up.

  In the morning, when all were refreshed, the Hawk would hold his first briefing. Before he did that, however, he would certainly take the time to say good-bye to Sam. He was going to miss his young friend, no question about it. But the word of a general officer was his bond; it was the glue that held his battalions together.

  Devereaux’s work was finished. Rudolph would drive him into Zermatt, where’d he’d take the morning train to Zurich and the late-afternoon flight to New York.

  There was one thing Sam should be aware of, however, just in case he became nervous or was afflicted with hypertension. For the next month or so, several associates of the Shepherd Company’s first investor, Mr. Dellacroce, would stay in close touch with him. Their names were Fingers and Meat, Hawkins believed; it was just a temporary arrangement, no offense intended.

  Yes. Sam understood. There was no point in MacKenzie being redundant.

  Devereaux had terminated the conversation, saying he would shave and shower the sweat of three mountain miles off him, and return for cocktails.

  In his room, Sam found the scissors Ginny had used on his underwear and cut out seven strips of paper five inches long, one inch wide. He wrote out the identical message on each.

  Vitally important you meet with me in my room—third floor, rear of house, last door in the north hallway on the right. 2:00 A.M. sharp. Your life depends on it. I am a friend. Remember two o’clock this morning!

  He folded the strips of paper neatly so they fit into the palm of his hand and put them in his jacket pocket. He then removed the seven index cards from his briefcase, the ones with the account numbers and sequential codes-of-release written on them and put them in his trousers pocket. They were his high cards. Irresistible!

  He returned to the drawing room downstairs and put to use all the social graces a fine Boston upbringing provided. He shook hands with the men.

  And passed each his message.

  By one thirty in the morning he was ready. The Italian came first, his hands encased in sheer, skintight black gloves, his feet laced in ballet-like slippers with ridged rubber soles. And then, one by one, the rest showed up in apparel not much different. There was a proliferation of gloves, and soft shoes or sneakers, and black sweaters, and narrow trousers with thick belts holding thicker knives, and small
holsters with single straps across small pistols, and in several cases coils of wire.

  Altogether a very professional group of psychopaths, thought Sam, as he told them with quiet, not completely heartfelt authority to relax and get comfortable, and smoke if they wished.

  Since they all were relaxed, and most smoking already, he wasn’t sure it was a good opening. But the best summations were those that built from quiet even awkward beginnings.

  So he began. Softly, at first. Starting with a man as a tribal being, looking to the heavens for meaning beyond his daily battle for survival, finding solace in that which he could not really comprehend, because there was comfort in primitive faith. There was structure, an organization to natural phenomena, and that meant there had to be a force, a mind, a profound all-knowing intelligence that conceived the whole. Yet could never be truly understood.

  There was beauty in that lack of understanding, for men strove beyond themselves for the all-seeing, all-knowing force that created the earth, created them, knew them—loved them.

  Without this search, man was an animal. With it he reached out, and compassion became a part of him.

  Sam explained that symbols and titles were not important in themselves, for correlations could be drawn between all religions. The essence was the differentiation between good and evil. But symbols and titles held mystical meaning, and profound comfort, for millions everywhere. Faith. The poor and the oppressed prayed to them, held them in reverence and hope. And for millions these symbols were the warm light in their unceasing winters of darkness.

  Devereaux paused. It was the moment for a crescendo.

  “Gentlemen, facing you is a crime of such monstrous porportions, a crime of such profound evil—a crime which cannot possibly succeed and can only lead each of you to your death, or to a life endured, not lived, in a brutal prison cell. For within the walls of this château is a man who would rob you of your most priceless possessions! Your freedom! Your very lives! For he conceives the impossible. In his unbalanced—woefully unbalanced—mind he is convinced he can overcome the swift and terrible reaction, the vengeance, of the entire world! He expects to lead you into the gaping jaws of oblivion. He intends to kidnap the pontiff of the Catholic Church! He is, in a word, insane!”

  Sam stopped. He bored his eyes into the face of each man. Cigarettes were suspended in midair, mouths were open in disbelief, eyelids were stretched, stares conveying a paralysis born of shock.

  He had them! The jury was in the palm of his hand! The phrases had come out like thunder!

  It was time for his high cards. Those irresistible figures and sequential code words that would make each man in the room rich. Very, very rich. For doing nothing but avoiding the risk of oblivion.

  “Gentlemen, I realize the state of shock you’re in and it pains me to see it. It pains me to have caused it. As that great Roman, Marcus Aurelius, observed: We must all do what we have to do, at the moment fate demands that we do it. But as the Indian prophet, Baga Nishyad, also observed: Buckets filled with tears can be spread over grain and the rice will grow like jewels. I do not have jewels, gentlemen, but I do have riches for each of you. Deserved rewards. Sums of money that will lessen your pain, and send you back to the lands of your choice, to live in freedom, freedom from fear, from oblivion. And from want. Here. I pass among you these small index cards. Each is a passport to your personal nirvanas. Let me explain.”

  And Sam did.

  And the seven subordinate officers studied the cards, glancing at one another as they did so.

  “Do you speak French?” asked one of the Frenchmen.

  Devereaux laughed—a touch too gaily he felt. “Not really.”

  “Thank you,” said the Frenchman, turning to the others. “Vous parlez tous français?”

  To a man they nodded affirmatively.

  So they all began speaking French.

  Quietly. Rapidly. Until seven heads nodded once again affirmatively. Sam was touched; he knew they were trying to find a way to thank him.

  Which was why he was bewildered when two of the men suddenly approached and grabbed him, spun him around, and began wrapping his wrists in wire.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he yelled. “What are you doing to my hands? And what the hell is that?”

  He gestured his head at the red kerchief the Greek had whipped from his neck and was now twirling.

  “And what the hell are they?!”

  He referred to a number of metallic cracks that sounded strangely like weapons being inspected.

  “We have that compassion you spoke of, monsieur,” said the Frenchman. “We offer a man the choice of a blindfold before we execute him.”

  “What!?”

  “Be brave, signore,” said the Italian. “We all know this business. We accept the odds or we do not play.”

  “Ya,” added the Viking. “It is a game. Some vin. Some lose. You lost.”

  “Whaaat?!”

  “Take him down to the patio,” said the second Frenchman. “We’ll tell the staff it’s target practice.”

  “Mac! Maac! Maaac!” He was led down the hallway. Several pairs of hands clapped themselves over his mouth; he bit them. “For Christ’s sake! Hawkins! Where the fuck are you?!”

  Again the hands clamped over his face. The cordon marched with precision down the hallway toward the magnificent winding staircase. Devereaux again forced his mouth open and bit furiously at the flesh around his teeth; hands and arms whipped back momentarily. It was enough for Sam to kick out behind him and for an instant free himself.

  He raced and plunged bodily down the curving steps, tumbling over and over as he fell.

  “Hawkins! You son of a bitch, get out here! These maniacs want to shoot me!”

  He bounced over the treads, careened against the wall, and plummeted shoulders over backside down into the last straightaway. His shouts were progressively blurred, but the overall meaning was unmistakable.

  “Shit-kickers! Blindfolds—ouch! Pistols! Goddamn—you—oh—ohh—. Hawkins! Uhu! Jesus—my head!”

  He reached the bottom of the staircase, a disheveled heap. The Hawk strode through the cathedral arch from the drawing room, a cigar clenched between his teeth, several folded maps in his hand. He looked at Sam on the floor and then up at the band of subordinate officers. “Goddamn, boy! This changes everything!”

  Once again his clothes were taken. Only now there weren’t even any dresses in the closet. His meals were brought up by Rudolph.

  The Hawk explained that it had taken a command counterdecision to save his life; and the troops did not like it one bit.

  “For a fact, I nearly had a mutiny on my hands before the brigade set its colors,” Hawkins had told him the next morning.

  “Set its what? Never mind, don’t tell me.”

  “I mean it, son. I had to take stern measures and let them know right off that in matters of extreme prejudice, no authority—regardless of consensus—exceeded that of a field general. It was touch and go for a while, but I’ve handled the roughest in my day. Those pups, good as they are, weren’t any match. It’s in the eyes, boy. Always the eyes.”

  “I don’t understand,” Devereaux had moaned sincerely. “I spelled everything out beautifully. I unraveled the whole ball of wax. The background, the motive. Jesus! Even the money! I had them!”

  “You had nothing,” the Hawk replied concisely. “You made two big mistakes. To begin with, you assumed that such a group of men, such a fine contingent of officers, would accept money surreptitiously, without earning it—–”

  “Get off it!” Devereaux had roared his interruption. “You can’t sell that honor-among-thieves bullshit because I won’t buy it!”

  “I think you’re misjudging, boy, but if that’s the way you see it, there’s your second mistake to consider.”

  “What mistake?”

  “One of the oldest traps in Interpol is to set up a hot bank account and send someone after it. I’m surprised you didn’t know tha
t. You set up seven all at once.” Sam had retreated under the eiderdown quilt and pulled it over his head. Unfortunately, he could not block out MacKenzie’s words.

  “You know, Sam, life is a series of compartments, some related to each other, most separate. But every once in a while these parallel compartments, as I call them, have to acknowledge one another’s existence. Now, you saved my life in Peking. You brought to bear your skills and your experience and kept me from that oblivion I hear you talked about. And last night, here in Switzerland, I saved your life. Using what skills and experience I have. We’re even. Our compartments in this area aren’t parallel anymore. So don’t fuck up, son. I can’t be responsible. And that’s the word of a general officer.”

  By the end of two weeks, Sam was sure he’d lose what was left of his sanity. The mere thought of clothes drove him mad. Throughout his life clothes were an accepted part of living—sometimes pleasant, even ego-fulfilling—but they had not been a subject he ever dwelled on for any length of time.

  That’s a nice jacket; the price is okay. Get it. Shirts? His mother said he should get shirts. What’s wrong with Filene’s? So I’m a lawyer. Okay, J. Press. Shirts and gray flannels. Socks? His bureau drawer somehow always had socks in it. And shorts and handkerchiefs. A suit was a pretty big occasion, the few times in his adult life when he went out and bought one. Still, he’d never been tempted to have one tailor-made. And in the goddamned army, his civilian jackets and trousers were on hand only because they meant a change from the goddamned uniform. No. Clothes had never been a major factor in his life.

  They were now.

  But necessity—part of which was not losing one’s sanity—was the mother of invention. And truer words were never said. So Sam began to invent, and the thesis of his invention was that he was undergoing a sincere change of position.

  It had to be gradual, based on available alternatives. Since he was so completely, intrinsically, legally enmeshed in the Shepherd Company’s operations and since all avenues of separation had been blocked, what was the point of fighting any longer? Life was compartmentalized; and he was locked into a big vault named MacKenzie Hawkins—which also held some forty million dollars, which was a lot of chopped liver.