The Road to Gandolfo: A Novel

  He, Sam, was clean. Legally clean. In every other way the mud was an inch thick, but in evidentiary considerations, he was not a good case for any prosecutor.

  “Okay, Mac, I’m not going to fight you. You were screwed and I did say it, and I believe you. You hate war. Maybe that’s good enough. I don’t know anymore. Personally, I just want to go back home to Quincy, and if I read about you in the papers, I’ll remember the words of a scarred but honest warrior spoken in this room.”

  “A tongue of silver, boy! I admire that.”

  “As long as it’s not a head of lead, I’ll accept that. Do you have the papers for the Zurich bank?”

  “Don’t you want to hear the amount I’ve … accrued for your participation? How do you like that ‘accrued’? I’m a corporate president, you know; we don’t fuck around with second-rate vocabularies.”

  “I’m impressed. What’s the entry figure?”

  “The what?”

  “The accrual; that’s the noun root of the verb ‘to accrue.’ ”

  “Smartass shavetail. What do you say to a half a million dollars?”

  Sam could not say anything. He was numb. He saw his hand move in astonishment, and he watched it with a certain fascination, not sure if the appendage belonged to him. It must have; when he thought about jiggling the fingers, they jiggled.

  A half a million dollars.

  What was there to think about? It was as insane as everything else. Including the fact that he was not indictable.

  It was Monopoly time. Let’s buy Boardwalk and Park Place.

  Stop. Go To Jail.

  Why worry?

  It didn’t do any good anyway.

  “That’s reasonable—severance pay,” Sam said.

  “That’s all you’ve got to say? With what I banked for you in New York, you can hire that Jewish fella and he’ll be happy to take the job.” MacKenzie was the injured party. He obviously expected Devereaux to practice a little bit of his well-advertised overreaction.

  “Let’s say I’ll erupt with enthusiasm when I’m looking at those figures—in a bank book—in Boston—with my mother sitting across the room complaining about the new management at the Copley Plaza. Okay?”

  “Do you know something?” said Hawkins, his eyes squinting. “You’re kind of weird.”

  “I’m kind of …” Devereaux did not finish the sentence. There was no point.

  There was the abrupt, episodic clicking of high heels. Regina Greenberg walked through the cathedral arch into the drawing room. She was dressed in a beige pants suit, the rather severe jacket buttoned over Titanics. She looked, well, rather efficient, thought Sam. She smiled briefly and addressed Hawkins.

  “I’ve met with the staff. Five will stay. Three couldn’t; they’d have to live in the village and I explained that wasn’t acceptable.”

  “I hope they weren’t hurt.”

  Ginny laughed confidently. “Hardly. I spoke to each individually, and gave all three two months’ wages.”

  “The rest understand the conditions?” MacKenzie reached into his pocket for a fresh cigar.

  “And their bonuses,” said Ginny. “Minimum three months. All with families to explain that they’ve been hired for resident staff work in France for the duration. No questions are to be asked.”

  “No different from overseas duty,” commented the Hawk, nodding his head. “And the money’s a hell of a lot better than combat pay—without a weapon in sight.”

  “The logistics are in your favor, too,” continued Ginny. “Only two of the five are married. Not too happily, I gather. They won’t miss, or be missed.”

  “We’ll have to get women, though,” countered MacKenzie, “for R and R. I’ll scout the grounds later; spec out tent arrangements—far enough away from the maneuvers, of course. And the counselor here is going into Zurich to take care of several financial items for me. What do you think, Sam? How long do you figure it will be before you’re finished?”

  Devereaux had to force himself to consider the Hawk’s question. He was stunned by the obvious control MacKenzie wielded over Ginny. According to the data banks, she had divorced MacKenzie over twenty years ago; yet here she was deferring to him like a schoolgirl with a crush on her teacher.

  “What did you say?” Sam knew the question but wanted a few seconds to evaluate.

  “How long will Zurich take?”

  “A day. Maybe a day and a half, with no hitches. A lot will depend on the account clearances. I think the transfers are coded through Geneva, but I may be wrong about that.”

  “Can ‘hitches’ be eliminated with a little honey in the pot?”

  “Probably. Relinquishing-of-interest could apply. The time period’s minor but the sums aren’t. The depositories would pick up several thousand—on paper. That might act as a general incentive.”

  “Goddamn, son, you hear yourself? You hear how good you are?”

  “Elementary bookkeeping. A trial lawyer figures litigation with banks is prime meat. They’ve got more ways to lie to themselves—and everybody else—than anyone since tribes started to barter. A decent attorney simply picks the lies he knows will suit him best.”

  “You hear that, Ginny? Isn’t that boy something?!”

  “You’re mighty impressive, Sam; I’ve got to admit it. And, Mac, since the mayjor here’s got everything under control, maybe I could go up to Zurich with him and kind of keep him company.”

  “Why, that’s a splendid idea! Don’t know why I didn’t think of it.”

  “I can’t imagine how it escaped you,” said Devereaux quietly. “You’re all heart.”

  From all points of the compass the Hawk’s subordinate officers arrived. They were met at the Zermatt railroad station by the bereted, gold-toothed, cat-eyed chauffeur whose name was Rudolph. And Rudolph had a hectic two days.

  Crete showed up first, without incident. That is, he managed to cross international boundaries under the scrutiny of very professional authorities without incident (but with a forged passport) and got as far as the Zermatt station, where his troubles erupted. For Rudolph refused to acknowledge Crete to be Crete in spite of the proper identity markings on his clothing, and consequently would not let him into his Italian taxi.

  Because, for reasons that escaped Hawkins, none of the G-2 data bank entries on Crete had established the fact that he was Black. Yet there it was. Crete was a brilliant aeronautical engineer, a Soviet sympathizer as long as the Ruskies paid him, a defected espionage agent complete with a doctor’s degree and very black skin. Rudolph was totally bewildered, so MacKenzie had to use some very harsh language over the telephone with Rudolph, and finally the bereted maniac let the schwarzer in the back seat of his car.

  Marseilles and Stockholm were next. They flew in together out of Paris because they met each other on the previous night at Les Calavados on the Boulevard George Cinque and renewed an old acquaintanceship that went back to the days when both were making money from the Allies and the Axis. They were delighted to discover that they were both on a trip to the same yellow mountain in Zermatt. Rudolph had no trouble with Stockholm and Marseilles because they spotted him before he spotted them and they criticized him for his stupidity at being obvious.

  Beirut did not take the train from Zurich; he hired an ambulance, instead. He had his reasons; they went back to several contraband run-ins with the Zurich police. So he flew into Geneva, drove a rented car in the name of a socially elite transvestite, dropped it in Lausanne, contacted I’Hôpital des Deux Enfants in Montreux and leased the ambulance, ordering it to transport him as a coronary wishing to spend his last days in Zermatt. He timed everything to the Zurich train however and all would have gone smoothly except for Rudolph. Unfortunately, Rudolph had a flat tire on the back roads of Machenfeld, and in his subsequent haste to reach the Bahnhoff on time he had a minor collision in the railroad station’s parking lot. With the ambulance.

  Therefore it was difficult for Rudolph to identify the highly agitated coronary patie
nt, who climbed out of the rear door yelling about imbeciles, with the figure whose markings identified him as Beirut.

  But Rudolph was beginning to shrug more and more. The master of Machenfeld, he was beginning to suspect, was not all there in the head. And neither were the people he was sent up to Zermatt to meet.

  And the lovely lady of his late-night dreams, the beautifully breasted fraulein, had left the château for several days. Things were not the same.

  Rome and Rudolph got along splendidly. Rome lost his luggage on the train. The combined chaos of finding his three suitcases and his contact from the château proved a strain nearly too much for Rome. Rudolph sympathized and allowed him to sit in the front seat on the trip to the château.

  Biscay was extremely secretive. Once he displayed the coded identification (a pair of white gloves with black roses stitched on the back) Biscay excused himself to go to the men’s room and disappeared through a window. After a half hour, Rudolph’s impatience turned to curiosity and the curiosity, in turn, became panic when he discovered the men’s room empty. He tried to remain inconspicuous as he looked in nooks and crannies and luggage bins. Biscay followed him discreetly. And it was only after Rudolph called Machenfeld in panic that Biscay, listening from an adjacent booth, decided that his contact was authentic.

  Biscay sat in the back seat, and Rudolph did not say a single word all the way to Machenfeld.

  The last to arrive was Athens. If Biscay was suspicious, Athens was paranoid. To begin with, he pulled the emergency cord on the train, stopping it in the freight yards just outside the station. Conductors and engineers ran through the cars looking for the emergency, while Athens jumped off and raced over the tracks to the platform, where he concealed himself behind a concrete pillar. It was not difficult for Athens to spot Rudolph.

  The train finally proceeded into the station. Rudolph examined all the disembarking passengers; Athens could see his anxiety. When there was no one left on the platform but railroad personnel, Athens approached Rudolph from the rear and tapped him on the shoulder. As he did so, he displayed his identification (a red ascot) and gestured for Rudolph to follow him.

  At which point, Athens raced back to the end of the platform, jumped down onto the tracks and started running toward the freight yard. He soon outdistanced Rudolph and started a series of I-See-You’s between the immobile cars.

  Five minutes later a distraught Rudolph was being comforted by the energetic Athens as they walked out of the freight yards toward the taxi.

  And as MacKenzie Hawkins watched the car approach from the ramparts of Machenfeld, he congratulated himself once more on his professionalism. Seventy-two hours had passed since he had begun making his coded contacts from the D’Accord; and in that seventy-two hours every one of his subordinate officers was physically on the premises.

  Goddamn!

  Based on the accepted principle that larceny goes a long way in the banking business, Sam’s trip to Zurich—more specifically his trip to the Staats Bank to centralize the Shepherd Company’s capital—was so successful so rapidly that he would be able to catch the early afternoon train back to Zermatt. And since Regina Greenberg was out shopping, he left a message for her at the Hotel D’Accord: Have gone bowling. Will be home late.

  He wanted those hours on the train by himself; to think, to refine. For Option Seven was becoming more sharply defined as the hours passed. Due mainly to the papers he carried out of the bank given him by a perspiring trust officer who was considerably richer than he was before he’d met Sam.

  Among the fourteen documents, four pertained to the account transfers from Geneva, the Cayman Islands, Berlin, and Algiers—minus accrued interest, of course; one listed the total assets of the Shepherd Company, with its bond of confidentiality, its codes of release and the account number; one was in the name of the family Devereaux (Sam did not explain it and the banker had asked no questions, treating the item as though it did not exist); and eight separate documents defined eight separate trusts.

  One of these accounts was larger than the others and within it were four individual sets of figures … obviously meant for four individuals. It did not take much reflection on Devereaux’s part to identify them: Mrs. Hawkinses one, two, three, and four.

  That left seven trusts, each with an identical maximum figure.

  Seven.

  The Hawk’s support personnel.

  MacKenzie had recruited seven men to kidnap the pope. (Sam couldn’t imagine that any were women; the Hawk’s four ex-wives were capable of anything calling for feminine skills.) These seven were his—what was it?—subordinate officers. MacKenzie had allowed that his subordinate officers would be arriving at Machenfeld shortly.

  “What do you mean ‘subordinate officers’?” Devereaux had asked.

  “The troops, son, the troops!” the Hawk had replied, the flame reignited in his eyes.

  “What do you mean ‘shortly’?”

  “We’re on blue alert, boy. That means all posts are manned, contact expected from here on in.”

  “Like in a few days?”

  “Maybe sooner, depending on enemy counterpersonnel blockades. Our troops will have to cross hostile territory on their way to base camp.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Nothing you have to be concerned with. Just bring back that money stuff from Zurich. Before I give my first briefing on the mission, I want my subordinate officers to see for themselves just how thoroughly command center has taken care of their interests. It’ll give ’em a real sense of purpose, of comradeship; it emanates from the top, you know. It always has.”

  That was the other reason why Option Seven was coming into focus. Bring back that money stuff … before I give my first briefing … command center has taken care of their interests.

  The Hawk’s troops had been recruited without knowing precisely what the war was all about. Militarily speaking there was nothing unusual in that, but considering the enormity of the projected enemy’s resources—namely, the whole world—a few well-chosen words like, “Do you realize what this maniac intends to do? Kidnap the pope!” and “You’re dealing with a certified mental case!” and “Your commander is a fruitcake!” and “This lunatic shot the jade balls off a Chinese monument.”—things like that could very well make the support personnel look to other fields of endeavor.

  It was a question of timing. And psychology. If Sam read him correctly, Hawkins was going to hit his subordinate officers with a double-barreled salvo: a highly technical, strategically “feasible” description of the abduction, and bona fide documents from the Staats Bank du Zurich that guaranteed each man a fortune, regardless of outcome! It would be a tough act to cripple, but that’s what Option Seven was all about.

  Sam would reach the subordinate officers first. He would shoot off cannons of doubt regarding the Hawk’s fundamental sanity. There was nothing more frightening to criminal underlings than the possibility that their employers were unbalanced. Lack of balance meant lack of judgment, no matter how well disguised. And lack of judgment could spell ten-to-twenty-to-life; in this case, probably a long rope and a blindfold.

  Even the criminal element in Europe had to have heard of the paranoid general who was thrown out of China. It wasn’t that long ago. And when he had finished this part of his oral summation, Sam would place his high card on the table.

  High? There were none higher. It was irresistible.

  For on the train to Zermatt he would go through the documents from the Staats Bank du Zurich, specifically the trust accounts, and write out all the numbers and the sequential codes of release, and put them on seven pieces of paper.

  He would give each man a card with the information written on it. Each could leave Château Machenfeld without so much as sitting through a meal, head for Zurich—and claim his money.

  Each subordinate officer would make a fortune! For doing absolutely nothing. Irresistible!

  Giovanni Bombalini, Vicar of Christ, walked out
into his beloved garden to be alone. He did not wish to see anyone or talk with anyone. He was angry with the world, his world, and when one was angry it was always best to meditate.

  He sighed. If he was to be truthful with himself, he had to admit he was angry with God. It was so senseless! He raised his eyes to the afternoon sky and a single word emerged plaintively from his lips.

  “Why?”

  He lowered his head and continued down the path. The sprays of lilies were in spring bloom, greeting life.

  As he was about to leave it.

  The doctors had just delivered their collective report. His vital signs were diminishing with increased acceleration. He had no more than six or seven weeks.

  Death itself was easy. Good heavens, it was a relief! Life was the struggle. But struggle or no, he had not consolidated the necessary forces to carry on his and Roncalli’s work. He needed more time; he needed the authority of the office to bring divergent factions closer together. Why could not God understand that?

  Eh, my beloved Lord? Why? Just a little more time? I promise not to lose my temper. Nor will I insult the nasal-toned—pardon, most Holy Father—the cardinal or his band of antediluvian thieves. Six months would do nicely. Then I shall rest in the arms of Christ with grateful devotion. Five months, perhaps? Much could be accomplished in five months …

  Giovanni tried with all his heart to perceive a heavenly response. If there was one, it was too weak to get through his vital signs.

  Perhaps, dear Father, if you would speak to the Holy Virgin? She might find more eloquent words to convey my supplication. It is said that women are more persuasive in these matters … .

  Still nothing. Just a minor pain in his knees which meant the weight was hard on his old bones and he should sit for a while. What was it that lovely giornalista had said? There were certain exercises—