“Now, as to this latrine rumor that some of you are unhappy over Phase Eight, the escape routes to Zaragolo; that a few of you figure we should have two copters at Ground Zero. Well, let me tell you, there’s no contingency for radar, gentlemen. One small bird with Italian air force markings, flying low, can get through. Two choppers would be picked up on a scanner. I don’t think any of you cotton to having your asses a thousand feet in the air, surrounded by the whole guinea air force. No offense, Captain Orange.”
The captains looked at each other. They’d obviously discussed Phase Eight among themselves, and since the small helicopter at target center was lifting out only the Hawk, the pope, and the two pilots, they had grumbled. But the commander painted a convincing picture. The escape routes on the ground had been exhaustively analyzed by Gris and Bleu, who were not only the best in the business, but who would be using them as well. It was conceivable that the ground was safer.
“We withdraw our objections,” said Captain Vert.
“Good,” said MacKenzie. “Now let’s concentrate on—–”
It was as far as he got. For in the distance, across the south field, running through the grass was the figure of Sam Devereaux in sweat pants, shouting at the top of his lungs.
“One, two, three, four! What do we like to jog for? Good health, good health! Five, six, seven, eight! Get the weight! Out of the freight! Four, three, two, one! Jogging is a lot of fun!”
“Mon Dieu!” cried Captain Bleu. “The soft-headed one never stops! He has carried on so for five days now!”
“Before we rise in the morning!” added Gris. “During rest periods, whenever there is a peaceful moment he is below the windows, shouting.”
The other captains joined in a chorus of agreement. They had accepted the general’s decision not to shoot the idiot, even grudgingly allowed that there was no harm in letting the fool out of the room to exercise—as long as two guards from the Machenfeld staff were assigned to him. The jackass wasn’t going anywhere; not in sweat pants, with no top, over a high barbed-wire fence that led only to impenetrable Swiss mountain forests. But they had drawn the line regarding the clown’s participation in Ground Zero.
So here he was, trying to impress them with his training. A pathetically poor athlete who cannot make the team, but will not stop trying.
“All right. All right,” said the Hawk, suppressing a laugh. “I’ll talk to him again, make him quiet down. He’s just doing it for your benefit, you know. He really wants to join the big fellas.”
He was driving them all crazy, and he knew it. Of course there were times when he thought he might collapse from exhaustion, but the knowledge that his grotesqueries were having their desired effect kept him going. Everyone avoided him, some actually ran at the sight of him. His insane behavior had become an irritating, aggravating joke. Already three dogs which had appeared out of nowhere to guard him were taken from the corridor outside his room to the staff quarters below because of their incessant barking. And he made it a point to run by the staff area repeatedly. The hounds, themselves weary of being screamed at for their perfectly natural reactions, now merely raised their heads and stared with hatred at him from behind the gates as he passed by.
As did the staff—and MacKenzie’s officers. Sam was a loud nuisance, a joke that had worn thin. What was happening, of course, was that he was being taken for granted. And in a few days he would take advantage of that scorn.
Although he was not allowed to eat with Mac and his band of psychopaths, the Hawk was considerate enough to continue visiting him every day in the late afternoon when Sam was brought back to his room and the sweat pants removed. Devereaux understood. Hawkins needed a sounding board for his enthusiasms. And, bragging, he dropped the information that he and his men would be away for a day or two to execute a surveillance check of Ground Zero. They would then return for any last-minute alterations of strategy.
But Sam shouldn’t be concerned. He would not be lonely at Machenfeld. What with the guards, and the dogs, and the staff.
Sam smiled. For when the Hawk and his freaks left the château, it was his own personal Ground Zero. He had begun to prime his guards, the wild-eyed Rudolph and some obvious killer with no name. He had convinced Rudolph and No Name on several occasions to sit in the middle of a field as he ran around it. It was not difficult; they were grateful to be stationary. They simply sat in the grass with two ominous looking pistols trained on him as he jogged and intermittently stopped to perform calisthenics. On each occasion he had gradually widened the distance between him and his guards so that this afternoon he was nearly 250 yards away from them.
The army had taught him something about small weapons; he knew that there was no handgun that was any damned good beyond thirty yards. Not in terms of accuracy; scatter shot was something else, but he had to take some chances. Stopping the Hawk was the kind of objective that in war made heroes of unheroic soldiers. What had MacKenzie said? “It’s commitment. Nothing takes its place. All the ammo in the world can’t be a substitute.…”
Sam was committed. The prospects of World War III loomed larger every day.
His plan was simple … and relatively safe. He had been tempted to give it an option number, but his options had not been noticeably successful so he decided against it. He would jog here in the south field, as he was doing now, where the bordering forest was thickest and the grass higher than in the other pastures. He would widen the distance between himself and the guards as he had done this afternoon and institute intermittent calisthenics. Among them pushups. Which naturally brought him close to the ground, below the level of the grass.
At the proper moment, he would crawl away as fast as he could toward the forest, then race to the fence. However, when he reached the fence, he would not climb it. Instead, he would remove the sweat pants—properly torn—and throw them over. And then, if all went as it should, if Rudolph and No Name were racing in several directions at once, he would scream as though severely hurt and get the hell out of the area. Into the thickest woods.
Rudolph and No Name would naturally run to the spot at the fence, see the sweat pants on the other side, and undoubtedly take the appropriate actions: One would go over the fence, while the other raced back to the château for the dogs.
At which point Sam would wait until he heard the barking. Then he would return to Machenfeld, go in through the door, steal clothes and a weapon. From that point to an automobile in the circular drive, and a pistol to threaten the gatekeeper, had to be clear sailing.
It had to be!
What could go wrong?
The Hawk wasn’t the only one capable of strategies. He’d learn not to mess with a Boston lawyer who worked for Aaron Pinkus!
The shouts interrupted his thoughts. He was within sight of the maneuver area; he could see the strange looking road signs and the vehicles. Rudolph and No Name were yelling at him to come back. Naturally, he would oblige; he was not permitted to observe maneuvers.
“Sorry fellas!” he yelled breathlessly as he reversed direction, his legs pounding the soft earth. “Let’s head down to the gate and back and call it a day!”
Rudolph and No Name grimaced and got up from the grass. Rudolph gave him a finger; No Name a thumb to the teeth.
Sam made it a point every afternoon to end his jogging with a run down to the main gate. It was a good idea to study the premises as thoroughly as possible in anticipation of his escape. It was conceivable that he might have to operate the mechanism himself, depending upon the state of panic at the moment. If it was maximum (as MacKenzie would say) the gate might even be left open.
He contemplated this possibility as his feet clattered over the boards on the moat, when suddenly his musings were replaced by a feeling of discomfort. For down at the gate a long, black limousine was being admitted with much bowing and obsequious grinning on the part of the gatekeeper. And when he heard the words shouted from the driver’s seat as the automobile was expertly whipped out of the gate area to
ward him, he froze and instantly considered drowning himself in the Machenfeld moat.
“I don’t believe it!” yelled Lillian Hawkins von Schnabe at the wheel. “Sam Devereaux in sweat pants! God almighty, you took my advice. You’re toning up that wreck of a vessel you live in!”
And if he considered drowning himself at Lillian’s words, the next voice he heard drove him to the railing.
“You surely look better than you did in London!” shouted Anne from Santa Monica, Mrs. Hawkins number four—Sloping yet Argumentative. “Your little trip must have done you a world of good!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Devereaux’s escape plan did not become unglued as had Options One through Four. Neither was it bypassed as Options Five and Six had been. Nor had it exploded in a torrent of abuse as was the fate of Option Seven. It was, however, postponed.
He suddenly had two additional guards to contend with, one of whom was as much a shock to the Hawk as both were to Sam. MacKenzie admitted it. Casually, without letting it upset his schedule; merely using the reality to bolster his overall strength—turning a liability into an asset.
“Annie’s got a problem, counselor,” the Hawk said back in Devereaux’s room. “I think you might give it some legal thought. Do something about it when this is over.”
“All problems pale into insignificance—–”
“Not hers. You see, Annie’s family—the whole goddamn family—spent more time in prison than out of it. Mother, father, brothers—she was the only girl—they had record sheets that took up most of the precinct files in Detroit.”
“I never came across any of that. It’s not in the data banks.” Devereaux was momentarily sidetracked from his own concerns. MacKenzie wasn’t trying to con him now. There was no fire in the eyes, only sadness. Truth. But there hadn’t been any mention of a criminal record in Anne’s dossier. If he remembered correctly, she’d been listed as the only daughter of two obscure Michigan school teachers who wrote poetry in medieval French. Parents deceased.
“Course not,” said the Hawk. “I changed all that for the army. And everybody else, mainly her. It was a big hangup for the girl; it was holding her back.” MacKenzie lowered his voice, as if the words were painful, but nevertheless a reality that could not be brushed aside. “Annie was a hooker. She fell into poor ways—very artificial ways for her—when she was growing up. She worked the streets. She didn’t know any better then. She had no home life, most of the time no home. When she wasn’t hooking she’d spend her time in libraries, looking at all the pretty magazines, imagining what it would be like to live decent. She was constantly trying to improve herself, you know. She never stops reading, even now, always after bettering herself. Because underneath there’s a very fine person. There always was.”
Sam’s memory went back to the Savoy. Anne in bed with a huge, glossy paperback of The Wives of Henry VIII on her lap. Then later, the words spoken with such conviction in the foyer doorway as she was about to get dressed. Words that meant a great deal to her. Devereaux looked up at the Hawk and repeated them quietly. “ ‘Don’t change the outside too much or you’ll mess up the inside.’ She said you told her that.”
MacKenzie seemed embarrassed. It was obvious he had not forgotten. “She had problems. Like I just said, underneath there was a very fine person she didn’t recognize. Hell, I did. Anybody would.”
“What’s her legal problem?” Sam asked.
“This goddamned gigolo-waiter husband of hers. She’s stuck with that fucker for six years; helped him go from a hot-pants beach boy to owning a couple of restaurants. She built those restaurants. She’s damned proud of them! And she likes the life. Overlooking the water, all those boats, nice people. She lives descent now, and she did it.”
“So?”
“He wants her out. He’s got himself another woman and he doesn’t want any lip from Annie. A quiet divorce and just get the hell out.”
“She doesn’t want the divorce?”
“That’s immaterial. She doesn’t want to lose the restaurants! It’s principle, Sam. They represent everything she’s worked for.”
“He can’t simply take them. There’s the property settlement to consider, and California laws are rough as hell.”
“So’s he. He went back to Detroit and dug up her police record.”
Sam paused. “That’s a legal problem,” he said.
“You’ll work on it?”
“There’s not much I can do here. It’s a confrontation problem, big attack variety. Fire for fire, dig up counteraccusations.” Devereaux snapped both his fingers—the legal wunderkind making a brilliant decision. “Tell you what. Let me out of here and I’ll fly straight to California! I’ll hire one of the best LA private detectives—like on television—and really go after this prick!”
“Good thinking, boy,” replied the Hawk, clucking his tongue in respect. “I like that aggressive tone; you bear it in mind for later. Say, in a month or two.”
“Why not now? I could—–”
“I’m afraid you can’t. That’s out of the question. You’re here for the duration. Talk with Annie, though. Learn what you can. Maybe Lillian can help; she’s a resourceful filly.”
With these words MacKenzie dispensed with his liability and gained an asset: Sam now had two additional people to keep an eye on him. He might outwit Rudolph and No Name; the girls were something else again.
Within hours after their arrival, however, it was apparent to Sam that Lillian would have very little time to pay attention to him. In her usual forthright manner she plunged into furious activity, commandeering two of the Machenfeld staff to help her. The work began first thing in the morning when the brigade went out for maneuvers.
Upstairs. In the top floor rooms and on the ramparts of the château.
There was the banging of hammers and the whirring of saws and the cracking of plaster. Furniture was carried up and down the long winding staircase; those pieces too large or too awkward were raised and lowered by pullies and ropes over the outside walls. Scores of potted plants and bushes and small trees were placed around the battlements—seen from the ground by Sam for he was not permitted above the third floor. Paints and brushes and panels of wood were transported daily by Lillian and her two helpers and when Sam could no longer politely ignore her labors, he asked her what she was doing.
“A little arranging, that’s all,” she replied.
Finally, crates of crushed stone and washed gravel were hoisted up the walls, accompanied by several concrete benches and (if Sam was not mistaken, and being from Boston he was not) a marble prayer stall.
It was suddenly very clear to Devereaux exactly what Lillian was doing. She was turning the top floor and the ramparts of Château Machenfeld into a full-fledged papal residence! Complete with apartments and gardens and prayer stalls!
Oh, my God! A papal residence!
Anne, on the other hand, spent most of her time with Sam. Since MacKenzie had deemed it improper for the girls to eat at the officers’ mess—it was diversionary for women to break bread with a strike force prior to combat—Anne and Lillian were assigned their meals in Devereaux’s room, Sam under the eiderdown quilt, of course. But Lillian was rarely there; she spent most of her time upstairs—arranging.
So Sam and Anne were thrown together. On a surprisingly platonic basis. True, he made no pass, but she made no offer either. It was as though both understood the insanity whirling around them, neither wanting the other to be involved, each, in a very real sense, protecting the other. And the more they talked together, the more Sam began to understand what MacKenzie meant about Anne. She was the most genuine, guileless person he had ever met in his life. All the girls were devoid of artifice, but there was something different about Annie. Whereas the others had reached certain plateaus, conscious of their worth, Annie was not satisfied. There was about her a delightfully irreverent sense of purpose that proclaimed for all the world to hear that she could expand, could experience—but good heavens! o
ne did not have to be gloomy about it.
Devereaux recognized his imminent danger: he could get really sidetracked. He began to think that he had been looking for this girl for about fifteen years. And he couldn’t think about that. Another plan had come into focus. One he knew would work.
The very day Hawkins and his brigade of banana captains took off for Ground Zero!
The last sweet and sour strains of the orchestra filled the theater. Guido Frescobaldi took his curtain calls, wiping a tear from his eyes. He had to shed his art and think of things plenipotentiary now. He had to hurry to his dressing room and lock up his makeup box.
The call had come! He was going to Rome! He was going to be embraced by his beloved cousin, the most beloved of all popes, Giovanni Bombalini, Francesco, Vicar of Christ! Ohh! Such blessings had come to him! To be reunited after all these years!
But he could say nothing. Absolutely nothing. That was part of the arrangements. It was the way Bombalini—Madre di Cristo—Pope Francesco wished it, and one did not question the ways of so munificent a pontiff. But Guido did wonder just a little bit. Why did Giovanni insist that he tell the management that small lie that he was going to visit family in Padua, not Rome? Even his friend, the stage manager, had winked when he told him.
“Perhaps you might ask your family to pray to Saint Peter for a little sacred lire, Guido. The box office has not been good this season.”
What did the stage manager know? And when did he know it?
It was not like the Giovanni of old to be secretive. And yet who was he, Frescobaldi, to doubt the wisdom of his beloved cousin, the pope.
Guido reached his small dressing room and began to take off his costume. As he did so his eyes fell on his Sunday church suit, pressed and hanging neatly in the center of the wall. He was going to wear it on the train to Rome. And he suddenly felt very ungrateful and ashamed of himself.
Giovanni was being so good to him. How could he even think a compromising thought?
The Road to Gandolfo: A Novel Page 26