The Road to Gandolfo: A Novel

  The lady journalist who was bringing them together had asked for all his measurements. Every last one. When he asked why, she told him. And he had wept.

  Giovanni was buying him a new suit.

  The Hawk and his subordinate officers returned from Rome. The final check of Ground Zero had gone off without a hitch; no alterations were required.

  Further, all intelligence data had been gathered and processed. Using basic surveillance techniques employed in hostile territories, Hawkins had donned an enemy uniform (in this case a black suit and a clerical collar) and obtained a Vatican pass, and identification that certified him to be a Jesuit doing an efficiency study for the treasury. He had free access to all calendars and personnel schedules. From apartments to barracks.

  They all confirmed the Hawk’s projections.

  The pope would leave for Castel Gandolfo on the same day he had chosen for the past two years. He was an organized man; time was to be allocated properly with regard to needs and functions. Castel Gandolfo expected him, and he would be there.

  The pope would use the same modest motorcade he had employed previously. He was not a wasteful or pretentious man. One motorcycle point with two front and rear flanks. Basic. The limousines were restricted to two: his own, in which his most personal aides accompanied him; and a second, for secretaries and lesser prelates, who carried his current working papers.

  The route of the motorcade was the scenic road he had spoken of with feeling whenever he mentioned Gandolfo: the beautiful Via Appia Antica, with its rolling hills and remnants of ancient Rome along the way.

  Via Appia Antica. Ground Zero.

  The two Lear jets had been delivered to Zaragolo. It was an airfield for the rich. The small Fiat sedan, which was the diversion equipment for the Turk privates, had been purchased by Captain Noir, in the name of the Ethiopian embassy. It was parked in an all-night garage next to a police station where the crime rate was at a minimum.

  Guido Frescobaldi was on his way to Rome. Regina would handle him. She’d put him up at a pensione she rented called The Doge, on the Via Due Macelli, right near the Spanish Steps, and take good care of the old man until the morning of the assault. And first thing that morning she’d load him up with a thiopental solution that would keep him on a harmless high for damn near twelve hours.

  The Hawk planned to pick Guido up in the Fiat on his way to Ground Zero. Of course, Regina would have him properly dressed by then, with a very large overcoat that covered his fancy clothes. Skirts, really.

  There was only one last item to take care of. The two limousines used in maneuvers had to be driven to a place called Valtournanche, several miles northwest of the Alpine town of Champoluc. To a little-used private airfield frequented by the jetsetters heading for their ski chalets. The limousines were a natural. They were registered to nonexistent Greeks, and the Swiss never bothered Greeks who could afford such automobiles.

  Lillian could take care of the transfer. Oversee it, actually. She could use the two men who had helped her shape up the pope’s BOQ. Once the cars were in position they could vanish along with Lillian. Mac, of course, would give them bonuses.

  He’d get rid of Rudolph, too, and that psycho, what’s-his-name, the minute they were back from Ground Zero and the pope was safely—secretly—in his quarters. The chef had to stay; what the hell, even if he did find out who he was cooking for, he was a French Huguenot wanted by the police in sixteen countries.

  That left Anne. And Sam, of course.

  He could handle Sam. Sam was so lashed to that loaded howitzer he was part of the casing. But he couldn’t figure out Annie. What was the girl up to? Why wouldn’t she leave? Why had she used his own oath against him?

  “You gave your solemn word that if ever any of us came to you in need, you’d never abandon us. You’d never allow an injustice to be done if you could prevent it. I’m here. I’m in need, and an injustice has been done. I’ve nowhere else to go. Please let me stay.”

  Well, of course, he had to. After all, it was the word of a general officer.

  But why? Could it be Sam?

  Goddamn!

  So he would die in Gandolfo. It could be worse, thought Giovanni Bombalini, gazing out the windows of his study. A half century ago all he had to look forward to was a gravesite in the Gold Coast, preceded by a long, drawn-out Last Rites ceremony delivered half in Latin, half in Kwa with swarms of flies circling hs head. Gandolfo certainly held advantages over that exit.

  He would be able to work better, too, at Gandolfo; use the weeks left to straighten out his own affairs, which were minimal, and do his best to set a course for the immediate future of the Church. He would bring with him several hundred analyses of the most powerful dioceses throughout the world and issue scores of promotions; balancing, but balancing in favor of younger, more vigorous perspectives. Which often had nothing to do with youth.

  He had to keep reminding himself that the intractable old guard was not to be scorned, and should not be. The old war-horses had gone through ecclesiastical battles unknown to the vast majority of those who screamed for reform and change. It was not easy to alter the philosophies of a lifetime. But the fine old war-horses knew when to step aside and graze in the pastures, ready with an affectionate eye to offer advice when asked, compassion regardless. The others—the Ignatio Quartzes of the world—needed a push.

  Pope Francesco decided that among his last acts would be a little pushing. It would take the form of a Last Rites Dissertation to be read to the Curia after his death, and then made public. It was a bit presumptuous, he supposed, but if God did not want him to complete it, He could always summon him at His will.

  He had begun the dissertation, dictating to the young Black priest. And he had sent a papal memorandum to every office in the Vatican appointing his young aide as executor of his personal effects in the event he was called to the arms of Christ.

  Giovanni was told that Ignatio Quartze threw up for nearly an hour after receiving the papal instruction. It must have wrecked havoc with the cardinal’s nasal passages.

  “Your Holiness?” The young Black aide came through the door of the bedroom carrying a suitcase. “I can’t find the miniature chessboard. It’s not in the drawer with the telephone.”

  Giovanni thought for a moment, then coughed an embarrassed laugh. “I’m afraid it’s in the bathroom, Father. Since Monsignor O’Gilligan solved his conversion problems by explaining penance, he’s been an absolute terror in his moves. Concentration was required.”

  “Yes, sir.” The young priest smiled as he put down the suitcase. “I’ll put it in the vestment trunk.”

  “Are we about packed? I say ‘we,’ but you’ve done the work.”

  “Almost, Holy Father. The pills and the tonics will stay in my briefcase.”

  “A little fine brandy could do just as well.”

  “I have that, too, Your Holiness.”

  “You are truly a man of God, my son.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  RIGIRATI! COSTRUZIONE!

  The large metal sign was secured to the center of the wooden barrier which stretched across the width of the back country road.

  It looked very official, right down to the last tiny red reflector, and the imposing insignia of Rome’s municipal government. It also officially closed off a section of the Via Appia Antica to all approaching vehicles, offering instead a detour cut out of the forest down the Appian hill. And since this particular stretch of the Appian road was the narrowest on the entire route, there was no feasible alternative to the detour if the vehicles in question were larger than the smallest Fiat. Not even the size of the Fiat sedan which the Hawk had driven out of the garage next to the police station and which now lay overturned at the bottom of the hill.

  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 m
ight 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.

  All was ready.

  Ground Zero had arrived.

  The location was perfect. Only trees and fields and 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.

  There was rapid, indistinguishable chatter between them; and then a series of gestures that conveyed only indecision. 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! FERMA! PERICOLO!

  He had done it! By God, he’d done it! He had escaped from 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 him; 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 learned from 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!”

  “No doctor. No outside communications until the 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 his Maker in peace, and with enormous testicles.

  Rudolph and No Name stayed well behind until Sam reached his 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 tied around their faces, aerosol cans of disinfectant billowing clouds of spray around them.

  The coast was clear! For a beautiful, foolproof exit from 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 road by the west highway of the airfield.

  An airfield!

  That meant airplanes! And airplanes flew 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 château 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 his 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 his upper body, grateful he still had his 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 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 off immediately.

  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 firing 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 Lillian’s vehicle rounded the turn, he stopped the car, turned off 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. Well, it doesn’t surprise me. His neck 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 flight 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 positions were the cassocks they would slip over their uniforms.