The Road to Gandolfo: A Novel

  The Hawk whipped his head around—and up—toward the Via Appia.

  The pontiff said one word.

  “Carabinieri.”

  The whining, jarring, two-note scream of the Italian state police sirens could be heard in the distance. Drawing nearer.

  “Goddamn! How?! What the hell happened? Sam, you didn’t!”

  “My God, no! I didn’t! I wouldn’t!”

  “I think there is a—miscalculation, signore,” said Pope Francesco softly.

  “What? What mother—what miscalculation?”

  “The motorcade was to stop at the small village—well, not so much a village—of Tuscabondo. It is a mile or so past the deviazone, your detour.”

  “Jesus!”

  “He can be merciful, Signore Generale.”

  “Those bastards will be swarming the hills, the fields. Goddamn!”

  “And the air, Generale,” said Captain Orange excitedly, breaking out in a sweat under his mask. “The carabinieri have fleets of elicotteri. They are the pazzi of the sky!”

  “Jesus H. Christ!”

  “Figlio di Santa Maria—Figlio di Dio—He is the way, Generale.”

  “I told you to shut up. Men! Check your maps! Quickly! Gris and Bleu, evaluate escape routes E-Eight and E-Twelve. Our previous routes were faster but more exposed. Deliver your decision in one minute! Orange and Vert. Give me Frescobaldi! Join the others! Sam, you stay here!”

  The screams of the sirens were nearer, almost at the intercept point of the Appia. Frescobaldi, weaving in MacKenzie’s grip, sang louder.

  “Signore.” Giovanni Bombalini took a step toward MacKenzie. “You speak of the word of a general. You have great sincerity when you say it.”

  “What? Yes, of course. You’re not much different, I suspect. Command’s a big responsibility.”

  “Indeed it is. And truth is responsibility’s right arm.” The pope looked once more at the unconscious figures of his motorcade, each body comfortably stretched out, none harmed. “And compassion, naturally.”

  The Hawk was barely listening. He was holding Frescobaldi, keeping an alert eye on a stunned Sam Devereaux, and watching Captains Gris and Bleu make their final evaluations over the maps. “What are you talking about?”

  “You say you have no wish to inflict harm on my person.”

  “Of course not. Wouldn’t get much ransom for a corpse. Well, maybe with your people—–”

  “And Frescobaldi is as strong as an ox,” said the pope, as much to himself as to MacKenzie, while studying the half-conscious Guido. “He always was. Signore Generale, if I said I would go with you without interference, perhaps even in the spirit of cooperation, would you grant me a small request? As one commander to another?”

  The Hawk squinted at the pontiff.

  “What is it?”

  “A brief note, only several words—in English—to be left with my aide. I would want you to read it, of course.”

  MacKenzie took out a combat pad from his field jacket, ripped off a page, unclipped the waterproof pencil and handed both to Francesco. “You’ve got fifteen seconds.”

  The pope put the paper against the limousine and wrote swiftly. He gave the page back to the Hawk.

  I am safe. With God’s blessing I shall reach you as the chess-playing O’Gilligan reaches me.

  Honkey

  “If it’s a code, it’s pretty piss-poor. Go ahead, put it in the colored fella’s pocket. I like that part that says you’re safe.”

  Giovanni ran to the figure of his papal aide, stuffed the note under his cassock and returned to the Hawk. “Now, Signore Generale, you waste time.”

  “What?”

  “Put Frescobaldi in the limousine! Hurry! Inside is a briefcase. With my pills. Get it, please.”

  “What?”

  “You would last five minutes in the Curia! Where is the elicottero?”

  “The copter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Over there. In a clearing.”

  Captain Gris and Bleu had completed their swift conference. Gris called out. “We have briefed the men, General. We go! We meet at Zaragolo!”

  “Zaragolo!” said the pontiff. “The airport at Monti Prenestini?”

  “Yes,” answered the Hawk, staring with sudden concentration on Pope Francesco. “What about it?”

  “Tell them to stay north of Rocco Priora! There are battalions of police in Rocca Priora.”

  “That’s east of Frascati—–”

  “Yes!”

  “You heard him, Captains! Outflank Rocco Priora! Now, scramble!” roared the Hawk.

  “No!” screamed Sam, backing away on the road, looking up at the hill. “Everybody’s crazy! You’re out of your minds! I’m going to stop you. All of you!”

  “Young man!” Giovanni stood erect and addressed Sam pontifically. “Will you please be quiet and do as the general says?!”

  Noir emerged from the clearing. “The bird’s ready, General! We’ve got a clean lift-off area.”

  “We’ve also got an extra passenger. Get the counselor, Captain. You might show him a needle, if you can manage it.”

  “With real pleasure,” said Noir.

  “One dosage, Captain!”

  “Shit!”

  And so Giovanni Bombalini, the Holy Father of the Catholic Church, and MacKenzie Hawkins, two-time winner of the Congressional Medal of Honor, put Guido Frescobaldi into the papal limousine and ran like hell through the Appian forest to the helicopter.

  It was difficult for Francesco. The pontiff swore mildly at Sebastian, the patron saint of athletes, and finally in desperation pulled up the skirts of his habit, displaying rather thick peasant legs, and damn near beat MacKenzie to the aircraft.

  The Lear jet soared above Zaragolo’s cloud cover, Captain Noir at the controls, Captain Rouge in the co-pilot’s seat. The Hawk and the pope sat in the forward section, across from one another, each by a window.

  Bewildered, MacKenzie glanced over at Francesco. He knew from long years of experience that when command was stymied, the best thing to do was to do nothing, unless the combat at hand required immediate counter-strike.

  Such was not the case now. The problem was that Francesco did not behave like any enemy the Hawk had ever fought.

  Goddamn!

  There he sat, his heavy robes unbuttoned down to his undershirt, his shoes off, and his hands folded casually across his wide girth, looking out the Lear’s window like some kind of happy delicatessen proprietor on his first airplane ride. It was amazing. And confusing.

  Goddamn!

  Why?

  MacKenzie realized that there was no point in wearing his stocking mask any longer. The others had to, for their own protection, but for him it made no difference.

  He removed it with a grateful sigh. Francesco looked over at him, not unpleasantly. The pope nodded his head, as if to say, Nice to meet you face to face.

  Goddamn!

  MacKenzie reached into his pocket for a cigar. He lifted one out, bit off the end, and pulled out a book of matches.

  “Per favore?” Francesco was leaning toward him.

  “What?” “A cigar, Signore Generale. For me. Do you mind?”

  “Oh, no, not at all. Here you are.” Hawkins extracted a second cigar from the pack and handed it to the pontiff. And then, as an afterthought, reached into his other pocket for the clipper.

  But it was too late.

  Francesco had bitten off the end, spat it out—somehow without offense—taken the matches from Mac’s hand, and struck one.

  Pope Francesco, the Vicar of Christ, lighted up. And as the circles of aromatic smoke rose above his head, the pontiff sat back in the seat, crossed his legs under his habit, and enjoyed the scenery below.

  “Grazie,” Francesco said.

  “Prego,” replied MacKenzie.

  PART

  IV

  The ultimate success of any corporation is dependent upon its major product or service. It is imperative that the projec
ted consumer be convinced through aggressive public relations techniques that the product, or service, is essential—to his very existence, if possible.

  Shepherd’s Laws of Economics:

  Book CCCXXI, Chapter 173

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Sam sat in the cushioned, wrought iron chair at the northwest corner of the Machenfeld gardens. Anne had picked the spot after careful deliberation; it was the area of the gardens that provided the best view of the Matterhorn whose peak could be seen in the distance.

  It had been three weeks now since the awful thing:

  Ground Zero.

  The captains and the Turks had departed—for unknown parts of the world, never to be heard from again. The staff had been reduced to one cook, who helped Anne and Sam with the housecleaning and the gardens. MacKenzie was not very good at either chore, but he did take turns driving into the village for the newspapers. Too, he checked daily with the high-priced doctor he had flown in from New York, just in case. The doctor, a specialist in internal medicine, had no idea why he was being paid such extraordinary sums of money to do absolutely nothing but live lavishly in a lakeside residence, and so in the spirit of the AMA he accepted the unreported cash and did not complain.

  Francesco (Sam could not bring himself to say pope) had settled comfortably into the sealed-off top-floor apartments and could be seen daily walking on the ramparts through his rooftop gardens.

  MacKenzie had really done it! He had won the biggest military objective of his career.

  And he was currently, through a convoluted series of extraordinarily complex, untraceable conduits, making his ransom demands of the Vatican. Ultrahigh-frequency radio codes arcing from the Alps to Beirut to Algiers; relayed by desert and ocean towers from Marseilles, to Paris, to Milan, and on to Rome.

  According to the schedules he had imposed, the Vatican reply was to be radioed out of Rome and relayed from Beirut by 5 P.M.

  MacKenzie had left Machenfeld to drive to the isolated transmission center—a lone cabin high in the upper Alps, in which was installed the finest, most sophisticated radio equipment obtainable. It had been delivered to Machenfeld by Les Château Suisse but put into operation by the Hawk himself. No one but MacKenzie knew the location of the mountain retreat.

  Oh, my God! Five o’clock this afternoon! Sam forced his thoughts away from the awful thing.

  There was movement up at the château. Anne had walked out the terrace door carrying the usual large, glossy picture book under her arm and a silver tray with glasses on it in her hands. She started across the lawn to the gardens. Her walk was firm, feminine; a graceful, natural dancer oblivious to the subtle rhythms inherent in her grace. Her light brown hair fell casually, framing the clear pink skin of her lovely face. Her wide, bright blue eyes reflected whatever light they faced.

  He had learned something from all the girls, thought Devereaux. Something different and individually their own—gifts to him. And if a normal life was ever to return, he would be grateful for their gifts.

  But perhaps he had learned the most important thing from Anne: Try for improvement—but don’t deny what’s past.

  There was laughter on the lawn. Anne was looking up at the ramparts where Francesco, dressed in a colorful ski sweater, was leaning over the parapet.

  It had become their private game, Anne’s and Francesco’s. Whenever the Hawk was out of sight they held conversations. And Sam was sure—because Anne would not deny it—that she had made numerous trips up to his private apartments bringing him glasses of chianti, which was specifically forbidden from his diet. Anne and Francesco had become good friends.

  Several minutes later that judgment was confirmed. Anne placed the silver tray with the drinks on the table next to Sam. Her eyes were smiling.

  “Did you know, Sam, that Jesus was a very practical, down-to-earth person. When he washed Mary Magdalene’s feet, he was letting everybody know she was a human being. Maybe a very fine one, in spite of what she used to do. And that people shouldn’t throw rocks at her because maybe their feet weren’t so clean, either.”

  MacKenzie climbed the final precipice by means of an Alpine hook. The last two hundred yards of the spiraling summit road were too deep with mountain snow for the motorcycle, so it was faster to make the final ascent directly. It was eleven minutes to five, Zurich time.

  The signals would commence in eleven minutes. From Beirut. They would be repeated after an interval of five minutes, to double-check for decoding errors. At the end of the second series he would confirm reception by transmitting the air-clearance code to the relay in Beirut: four dashes, repeated twice.

  Once inside, the Hawk started the generators and watched with satisfaction as the myriad wheels spun with a smooth whirring sound within the casing, and the dials began registering output.

  When the two green lights went on, signifying maximum performance, he plugged in the single electric heater, feeling the warmth of the glowing coils. He reached over to the powerful shortwave equipment, flipped on the receiving switches and turned the amplifier spools to high volume. Three minutes to go.

  He walked to the wall. Slowly he began to turn a handle, hearing the gears mesh. Outside, beyond the iron grillwork of the tiny window, he could see a webbed disc swing out and up on its track.

  He returned to the radio receiving panel and revolved the parallel megacycle and tetracycle dials with delicate precision. The voices of a dozen languages emerged from the amplifiers. When the needles were in the exact parallel cycle points there was silence. One minute to go.

  MacKenzie took out a cigar from his pocket and lighted up. He inhaled with real contentment and blew out the smoke in ring after ring.

  Suddenly the signals were there. Four short, high-pitched dashes; repeated once. The channel was cleared.

  He picked up a pencil, his hand poised above a page of notepaper, prepared to write out the code as it was beamed from Beirut.

  The message terminated, the Hawk had five minutes to decode. To convert the signals into numbers, then transfer the numbers into letters and the letters into words.

  When he had finished, he stared in disbelief at the Vatican reply.

  It was impossible!

  Obviously, he had made several errors in receiving the Beirut transmission.

  The signals began again.

  The Hawk started writing on a fresh page of notepaper.

  Carefully.

  Precisely.

  The transmission ended as it began: four dashes, repeated once.

  MacKenzie put the decoding schedule in front of him. He believed he had memorized it thoroughly, but this was no time to make a mistake. He cross-checked every dot, every dash.

  Every word.

  There were no errors.

  The unbelievable had happened.

  Relative to the insane request regarding the contribution of four hundred million American dollars, by assessing worldwide dioceses on the basis of one dollar per communicant, the treasury of the Holy See is in no position to consider such a request. Or any request at all for this particular charity. The Holy Father is in excellent health and sends his blessings in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.

  Ignatio Quartze,

  Cardinal Omnipitum,

  Keeper of the Vatican Treasury

  The Shepherd Company suspended operations.

  MacKenzie Hawkins walked the grounds of Château Machenfeld, smoking his cigars, staring blankly at the infinite beauty of the Alps.

  Sam made an accounting of the corporation’s monetary assets, exclusive of the properties and equipment. Of the original capitalization of $40,000,000, there remained $12,810,431.02.

  Plus a contingency expense fund of $150,000, which had not been touched.

  Not bad at all. Especially since the investors, to a panicked vulture, refused reimbursement. They wanted nothing whatsoever to do with the Shepherd Company or any of its management personnel. None would even bother to file for tax losses as long as S
hepherd’s corporate executives promised—on the Bible, Burke’s Peerage, Mein Kampf, and the Koran—never to get in touch with him again.

  And Francesco, now sporting a Tyrolean hat along with his favorite ski sweater, was allowed out of the top-floor apartments. For the sake of everybody’s sanity, it was agreed to refer to him as Zio Francesco, somebody’s uncle.

  Since he showed no inclination to go anywhere or do anything other than enjoy the company, Zio Francesco roamed freely. There was someone always nearby, but not to prevent escape; for assistance. He was, after all, in his seventies.

  The cook was especially taken with him, for he spent long periods in the kitchen, helping with the sauces, and every once in a while asking permission to fix a particular dish.

  He made one request of the Hawk. The Hawk refused it.

  No! Absolutely no! Zio could not telephone his apartment in the Vatican! It made no difference whatsoever that his telephone was private or unlisted or concealed in the drawer of his bedside table! Telephone calls could be traced.

  Not if they were radioed, insisted Francesco. The Hawk had impressed them all, frequently, by telling them about his complicated methods of communicating with Rome. Of course, a simple telephone call would not have to be nearly so complex. One little relay, perhaps.

  No! All that spaghetti had gone to Zio’s head. His brain was soft.

  The Hawk’s was softer, perhaps, suggested Francesco. What progress was the general making? Were not matters at a stalemate? Had not Cardinal Quartze outflanked him?

  How could a telephone call change that?

  How could it make things any worse? persisted Francesco. The Hawk could be at the radio, his hand on a switch, prepared to break the connection should Zio say anything improper. Was it not more advantageous to the general for at least two people to know he was alive? That the deception was truly a deception? There certainly was nothing to lose, for the Hawk had already lost. And possibly there was something to gain. Perhaps four hundred million American dollars.

  Besides, Guido needed help. This was no criticism of his cousin, who was not only strong as a bull but a most gentle and thoughtful person. But he was new at the job and would certainly listen to his cousin Giovanni Bombalini. Helped, of course, by Giovanni’s personal aide, the young American priest from Harlem.