The Road to Gandolfo: A Novel

  Captains Orange and Vert lay on their stomachs across from one another hidden by the tall weeds. Their posts were at the start of the second curve on the descending side road. Through the dense reeds they saw—and smiled as they did so—that the two final motorcycles failed to appear. The other team of patrolmen struggled to keep their bikes upright, riding behind the second limousine.

  Captain Orange crossed himself as the pontiff’s vehicle passed.

  Captain Vert spat. It was long past time for the Church to install a French pope; the Italians were pigs about that.

  The papal car turned into the final downhill curve. Orange and Vert sprang up and out and executed the practiced maneuvers with lightning-swift dispatch against the motorcycle escorts.

  The patrolmen collapsed; the papal limousine was entering the turn at the base of the Appian hill. There were only seconds remaining before the detonations of Phase Four, the smoke bombs from the overturned Fiat. Orange and Vert ran to their next assignments—the most prestigious of all: Phase Seven. Phases Five and Six, the destruction of the communications equipment and the sedation of the papal entourage, would be occurring any second.

  Phase Seven was the zenith of Ground Zero: the exchange of the popes. Guido Frescobaldi for Giovanni Bombalini.

  The explosions from the Fiat were positively frightening; the screams of the hysterical Turks terrifying. The Hawk grinned in appreciation. Goddamn! What a beautiful sight! All that smoke and noise and—well, the screams were overdone.

  The motorcade stopped in shock, agitated voices swelling. One motorcycle and two limousines in an isolated back country road bordered by a steep hill on the south side and a tall, thick forest on the north.

  Optimum, observed the Hawk, holding a weaving Guido Frescobaldi in the bushes.

  Captain Noir reached his post and signaled Captains Rouge and Brun; they were strung out at ten-yard intervals, prepared for the moment to implement Phase Five: the destruction of all communications equipment.

  It came.

  The single Vatican policeman jumped off his motorcycle and ran toward the smoking Fiat with the trapped, screaming passengers. Every door of both limousines was swung open. The drivers and the priests screamed and waved their hands and shouted orders at everyone and no one, then ran toward the overturned car.

  Now!

  Dressed as priests, Noir, Rouge, and Brun dashed from their hidden recesses. Brun and Rouge plunged into the front seat of the first limousine, ripping out every wire in sight. Noir raced to the second automobile, the papal car, and dove through the open door toward the equipment.

  Suddenly a hand lashed out over the seat, followed by an arm extending from a white cassock. But the hand and the arm were not white. They were black!

  And the grip that held Noir’s neck—accompanied by the swift, hard rabbit punches that hammered his head—was a street tactic Noir knew well. It was indigenous to a plot of turf called Harlem!

  Noir wrenched his aching, pounding head and was suddenly, astoundingly, face to face with a brother!

  A brother in the honkey white robes of the Church!

  It went against Noir’s grain to coldcock a brother, but there was nothing for it. The Catholic kid was good, but he hadn’t taken advanced training above 138th Street and Amsterdam. Noir twisted his thumb and forefinger into the sensitive flesh; the Black priest screamed and released Noir’s head as Noir yanked him halfway over the seat. He sighed as he chopped the Catholic kid at the base of the skull. He immediately went about his business, ripping wires and smashing dials. The fat old honkey in white robes—the man, himself, figured Noir—leaned forward and pulled the kid into the back seat, cradling the kid’s head as if the kid was really hurt.

  “He’ll be okay, pops. I don’t know how you boys do it. I swear I don’t! The Baptists got his turf tied up in ribbons. They’ve got rhythm! Course, you’ve got the cops.…”

  Son of a bitch! What the hell else could go wrong? What other delays were concealed in the blinding sunlight of Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci Airport? It was a nightmare being played out in the bright morning without benefit of sleep!

  The goddamned, dwarf son of a bitch of a pilot from Valtournanche insisted that his aircraft be cleared by the narcotic inspectors! Nobody gave a damn if a plane flew in six vaults of stolen gold, or undeclared diamonds, or eyes-only defense plans for all of NATO, as long as there wasn’t a joint on board! No amount of protesting on Sam’s part made any difference whatsoever—Well, yes it did. It caused him to be stripped and searched.

  “Per favore, signore. Where is your underwear? Where did you leave it?—Search the plane again!”

  “That’s crazy!” screamed Devereaux. “How could a pair of shorts—–”

  “Che cosa?” inquired the capitano suspiciously.

  “Shorts!” Sam outlined a pair of briefs. “Where could I hide …”

  “Ah haaa,” interrupted the capitano. “The mountain Swiss wear long underwear. With pockets. And flaps. And many buttons. Buttons are hollow.”

  “I’m not Swiss! I’m American!”

  The capitano’s eyebrows shot up as he lowered his voice. “Ah haaa—–Mafia, signore?”

  And so it went until Sam had dispensed ten one-hundred-dollar American bills, which happened to coincide with the end of the capitano’s shift, whereupon Sam was released.

  “Where can I get a taxi?”

  “Have your money exchanged first, signore. No taxi has change for American one-hundred-dollar bills.”

  “I don’t have any hundreds left. Only five hundreds.”

  “Then they will call the police. For certainly such money cannot possibly be authentic. You will need lire.”

  Oh, my God, the police! thought Sam. The police and hysterical taxi drivers were the last thing he wanted. They definitely were not part of hs grand finale to thwart the Hawk.

  And so he spent the better part of an hour in the exchange line only to be told by the lady with a moustache that bills of such denominations had to be examined by spectographs.

  “Thank you, signore,” said the face of fur finally. “We have processed these under four different machines. They are very nice. Here is your lire. Do you have an empty suitcase?”

  It was 9:45. Still time! A taxi into Rome took about an hour when one considered the traffic, and then perhaps a half hour to get to the southern outskirts where he could pick up the Via Appia.

  The ride down the Appia couldn’t be more than twenty minutes or so. He would recognize the signs he had seen during maneuvers, he was sure of that. He’d reach Ground Zero with at least a half hour to spare!

  He’d stop the Hawk, prevent World War III, eliminate the specter of life imprisonment, and go home to Boston with a real Swiss bank account!

  Goddamn! If he had two cigars, he’d smoke them both at the same time!

  He ran across the terminal to the doors under the signs that read Taxi in three languages. He raced breathlessly onto the concrete.

  Up and down the whole area were hundreds of immobile dollies filled with luggage. Groups of men were gathered in the street, close to riot.

  Sam approached a tourist. “What’s going on?”

  “Goldanged guinea bastards called a cab strike!” Sam backed away. He had several million lire stuffed in his pockets like football pads. There had to be somebody in one of the parking lots with an automobile.

  He found him. At twenty minutes past eleven. And offered money. The faster he drove the more thousands of lire he would get. The man agreed.

  11:32! He would make it!

  He had to!

  It was the summation of his life!

  Why was he kidding himself? It was his life.

  Gris and Bleu pulled at the clerical ropes around their cassocks. They were on their knees, concealed by the dense underbrush and cascading branches at the base of the hill by the edge of the old road. Both were prepared to spring through the foliage to execute Phase Six, the immobilization of the motorcade. The overturne
d Fiat was directly in front of them, the smoke billowing everywhere, the five papal aides, the two chauffeurs and the remaining patrolman all making genuine attempts to reach the screaming Turks.

  The numbers presented no problem. Once Gris and Bleu joined the smoke-engulfed melee, they would work swiftly, their church habits adding to the confusion. It would be a simple matter to incapacitate one adversary, then another. Rouge would join them on the west flank, intercepting anyone who might discover the conspiracy prematurely, and make a dash for the limousines.

  Now!

  Gris and Bleu lunged out of the brush into the confusion of smoke, screams, and flailing arms, their wide cassocks billowing, rings at the ready.

  One by one the members of the papal entourage collapsed to the ground, beatific smiles on their peaceful faces.

  “Tie them! Give me some cord!” yelled Gris to the Turks as the three “victims” crawled out of the windows and from under the car.

  “Not tight, you maniacs!” added Bleu harshly. “Remember what the commander said!”

  “Mon Dieu!” roared Bleu suddenly, grabbing Gris’s shoulder, pointing to the ground beyond the rising smoke. “Qu’est-ce que c’est ça?”

  In the middle of the road, halfway to the limousines, lay Rouge flat on his back, one arm raised, the wrist bent, as though frozen in mid-pirouette. The stocking mask could not disguise the expression of Olympian repose underneath. In the confusion, he had tripped over his cassock, plunging his needle into his stomach.

  “Quick!” yelled Gris. “The antidote! The general thinks of everything!”

  “He has to,” said Bleu.

  “Now!” ordered the Hark, holding Guido Frescobaldi, who had suddenly raised his voice in song.

  Across the dirt road, Mac could see Orange crossing himself as he leaped out of the bushes toward the papal limousine. It was wasted motion, he thought; the pope was not going to attempt any escape. He had helped his aide down on the seat and was getting out of the car, his face wrathful.

  The Hawk took Frescobaldi by the hand, and led him toward the limousine.

  “I bid you good day, sir,” said the Hawk to the pope. It was a proper military salutation for a surrender.

  “Animale!” roared the pontiff in a roll of thunder that reverberated throughout the Appian forests and hills. “Uccisore! Assassino!”

  “What’s that?”

  “Basta!” The thunder cracked again. And the lightning was in Francesco’s eyes; the eyes of a giant in the body of a mortal. “Take my life! You kill my beloved children! The children of God! You slay the innocenti! Send me to Jesus! Kill me, too! And may God have mercy on your soul!”

  “Oh, for Chri—–for heaven’s sake, shut up! Nobody’s going to kill anybody.”

  “I see what I see! The children of God are slain!”

  “That’s plain horseshit! Nobody’s hurt, and nobody’s going to get hurt.”

  “They are all morto,” said Francesco, with less conviction, his eyes darting everywhere in bewilderment.

  “No more than you are. We wouldn’t be tying them up if they were, would we? Orange! Over here!”

  “Sí, Generale.” Orange came around the hood of the limousine, crossing himself repeatedly.

  “Get that colored boy out of the car. Must be a house guest of the pope here.”

  “That man is a priest. My personal aide!”

  “You don’t say? Must be a fine lad with the choirs. Easy, Orange,” said MacKenzie as the Italian pulled the unconscious Black prelate from the automobile. “Put him in the brush and loosen that big robe. It’s too damn hot for ponchos.”

  “You mean,” asked Giovanni incredulously, “they’re all alive?”

  “Certainly, they’re alive,” replied MacKenzie, signaling Vert to prepare Frescobaldi for the exchange; the pope’s double sat serene.

  “I don’t believe you! You’ve murdered them!” roared the pope suddenly.

  “Will you keep quiet!” The Hawk did not ask a question. “Listen to me. I don’t know how you handle your command, but I assume you can tell if a soldier’s alive or not.”

  “Che cosa?…”

  “Captain Gris!” yelled MacKenzie to the masked Scandinavian tying up a priest by the hubcaps of the first limousine. “Lift that man up and bring him here, please.”

  Gris complied. MacKenzie took the pontiff’s right hand.

  “Here! Put your fingers on the side of the throat next to the collar bone. Now, see? Do you get pulse?”

  The pope’s eyes narrowed, his concentration on the touch. “The heart—. Yes. You speak the truth. The others? They are the same? The hearts beat?”

  “I gave you my word,” said the Hawk sternly. “I must reprimand you, sir. Opposing commands do not lie when capture is secure. We’re not animals, sir. But we haven’t much time.” The Hawk gestured for Vert to bring over the narcotized Frescobaldi. “I’m afraid we’ll have to change some of your clothes. I’ll have to—–”

  MacKenzie stopped. Pope Francesco was staring at Frescobaldi. It was the first moment he had taken cognizance of the singer who was clean shaven and now, without his moustache, looked more like Giovanni Bombalini than did Bombalini himself.

  “Guido! It is Guido Frescobaldi!” The pontiff’s voice could have been heard in the Bay of Naples, so loud was his roar. “Guido, my own flesh! My blood! It is Guido! Madre di Dio! You are a part of this—this heresy?!” Signore Guido Frescobaldi smiled.

  “Che gelida … manina … a rigido esanime … ah, la-la … la-laaa.…”

  “It’s him, all right, but he’s been a little out of things since this morning. And will be for a while longer. Come on, now. We’ve got to get some of that hardware off you and on him. Captain Orange? Captain Vert? Give Mr. Francesco a hand.”

  “There!” The Hawk spoke in the tones of a victorious general officer. He held the grinning Guido Frescobaldi by the shoulders, admiring the final result. “He looks real fine, doesn’t he?”

  Francesco, transfixed, could not help himself. “Jesus et Spiritus Sanctus. The ugly Frescobaldi is myself. It is a miracle of God.”

  “Two like-spits in the gunnery pool, Mr. Pope!”

  The pontiff was barely audible. “You put … Frescobaldi … in the chair of St. Peter?”

  “For about two hours with luck—by my calculations.”

  “But why?”

  “Nothing personal. I understand you’re a very nice fellow.”

  “But why? In the name of God, why? That is no answer.”

  “Didn’t expect it to be,” replied the Hawk. “I just don’t want you screaming your head off. You’ve got a mighty loud voice.”

  “Then I shall be—screaming my head out—if you do not tell me.… Aiyeeeee!…”

  “All right! All right! We’re kidnapping you. Holding you for ransom. You’ll be fine; no harm will come to you and that’s the word of a general officer.”

  The conference was interrupted by Captain Gris and Bleu, who raced up and snapped to attention.

  “The area is secured, General,” barked Gris.

  “All sedations are completed,” added Bleu. “We are prepared to move.”

  “Good! Let’s move then. Troops! Evacuate the area! Prepare to execute escape procedures! By your numbers! Move!”

  As if on cue, the sounds of the revving helicopter could be heard from the camouflaged area fifty yards away from the center of Ground Zero.

  And then there was another sound. From the road at the top of the Appian hill: A car screeching to a halt.

  “Stop!” came a plaintive wail from the woods. “For Christ’s sake, stop!”

  “What?”

  “Mon Dieu!”

  “Che cosa?!”

  “I say!”

  “Tokig!”

  “Bakasi!”

  “Shit!”

  Sam stumbled down the old dirt road on the hill. He came racing around the last curve and fell to one knee.

  Giovanni Bombalini watched in astonishment;
automatically he gave the kneeling figure his rather confused benediction, “Deus et figlio—”

  “Will you shut up!” MacKenzie glared at Francesco. “Goddamn, Sam! What the hell are you doing here? You’re supposed to be sick as a dog—–”

  “Listen to me, everybody!” broke in Sam. “Everyone gather around!” He struggled to his feet; the captains stood where they were, their faces betraying a certain insensitivity. “Escape! Run for your lives! Leave this man alone! It’s a trap! Machenfeld has fallen! It happened last night! Hundreds of Interpol police are swarming …” Sam’s jaw was suddenly a gaping orifice as he stared at the Hawk. “What did you say?”

  “You’re a real pistol, son. I respect your moxie, like I said before. But I can’t say you have much respect for my know-how.” MacKenzie snapped one of the straps that crisscrossed his chest over his field jacket. It was attached to a large leather case that was lashed over his hip. “No assault operation ever stays out of contact with its command center. Not since 1971, anyway. Hell, I used to patch relays from Ly Sol in Cambodia right straght down to the Mekong units.”

  “What?”

  “Tri-arced, high-frequency radio contact, boy. Set a schedule and receive-send simultaneously. You’re dated, Sam! As of an hour ago the only thing swarming around Machenfeld were butterflies. I don’t know how you did it, but you’re mighty lucky you got here alone.… Come to think of it, you’d be a damned fool to get here any other way. —All right, men! Resume Phase Eight! —Come on, Sam. You’re going for a ride. And I tell you this now, boy. Any more trouble and I’m going to open a door at two thousand feet and you can fly by yourself!”

  “Mac, you can’t! Think of World War Three!”

  “Think of a nice free-fall—without a parachute—straight into a plate of spaghetti!” And then there was another sound. A frightening one. From the top of the hill. From the road again.

  The captains and the Turks froze.