Robert Ludlum - Road To Gandolfo.txt

by The Road To Gandolfo [lit]

  two-room suite at the Drake Hotel on

  Park Avenue, reserved and paid for.

  The suite was leased for a month

  Hawkins thought it would be enough

  time.

  For what? MacKenzie was not yet

  ready to "spell it out." However, Sam

  was not to worry; everything was "on

  the expense account."

  Whose expense account?

  The corporation's.

  What corporation?

  The one Sam would soon be forming.

  Absurd!

  Forty million dollars' worth of

  delusions that screamed for a frontal

  lobotomy.

  79 i

  And now a cashier's check for ten

  thousand dollars. Free and clear and

  no receipt required.

  Ridiculous! Hawkins could not afford

  it. Besides, he had gone too far.

  People did not send other people

  (especially lawyers) ten thousand

  dollars without some kind of expla-

  nation. It simply was not healthy.

  Sam walked over to the hotel

  telephone, checked the confusing

  litany on the pull-out tab beneath the

  instrument, and placed a call to

  MacKenzie.

  "Goddamn, boyt That's no way to

  behave! I mean, you might at least say

  thank you."

  "What the hell for? Accessory to

  theft? Where did you get ten thousand

  dollars?"

  "Right out of the bank."

  "Your savings?"

  "That's right. Didn't steal from

  anyone but myself."

  "But why?"

  There was a slight pause in

  Washington. "You used the word, son.

  I believe you called it a retainer."

  There was a second pause. In New

  York. "I think I said I was the only

  lawyer I knew who had a retainer based

  in the sort of blackmail that could

  march me in front of a firing squad."

  "That's what you said. And I wanted

  to correct that impression. I want you

  to know I value your services. I

  surely wouldn't want you to think I

  didn't appreciate you."

  "Cut it out! You can't afford it and

  I haven't done anything."

  "Well, boy, I believe I'm in a

  better position to judge what I can

  afford. And you did do something. You

  got me out of China some four thousand

  years before my parole was due."

  "That's different. I mean "

  "And tomorrow's going to be your

  first day of work," interrupted the

  Hawk. "Not much, but a beginning."

  There was now a long pause in New

  York. "Before you say anything, you

  should understand that as a member of

  the bar, I subscribe to a canon of

  ethics that is very specific. I'll do

  nothing to jeopardize my standing as

  an attorney."

  Hawkins replied loudly, with no

  pause whatsoever, "I should hope not!

  Goddamn, boy, I don't want any

  slippery shyster in my corporation.

  Wouldn't look good on the stationery

  "

  "Mac!" roared Devereaux in

  exasperation. "You didn't have

  stationery printed?"

  "No. I just said that. But it's a hell

  of an idea."

  Sam did his best to control himself.

  "Please. Please. There's a law firm in

  Boston and a very nice man who'll be

  on the Supreme Court someday who

  expects me back in a couple of weeks.

  He wouldn't look kindly on my being

  employed by somebody else during my

  leave. And you said my work for you

  would be finished in three or four

  weeks. So no stationery."

  "All right," agreed Hawkins sadly.

  "Now, what's on for tomorrow? I'll

  charge you by the day and deduct it

  from the ten thousand and return the

  rest at the end of the month. From

  Boston."

  'Oh, don't worry about that."

  "I do worry. I should also tell you

  that I'm not licensed to practice in

  the state of New York. I may have to

  pay outside attorney's'fees; depending

  upon what you want done. I gather it

  involves filing for this corporation

  of yours." Devereaux lit a cigarette.

  He was happy to see that his hands

  were not shaking.

  "Not yet. We'll get to that in a

  couple of days. Tomorrow I want you to

  check out a man named Dellacroce.

  Angelo Dellacroce. He lives in

  Scarsdale. He's got several companies

  in New York."

  "What do you mean, 'check out'?"

  "Well, I understand he's had

  business problems. I'd like to know

  how serious they are. Or were. Sort of

  find out what his current state of

  well-being is."

  " 'Well-being'?"

  "Yeah. In the sense of his being

  around and not in jail, or anything

  like that."

  Devereaux paused, then spoke calmly,

  as if explaining to a child. "I'm a

  lawyer, not a private investigator.

  Lawyers only do what you're talking

  about on television."

  Again MacKenzie Hawkins replied quickly.

  ''I can't be81

  lievethat. If somebody wants to become

  part of a corporation, the attorney

  for the company should find out if the

  fellow's on the up-and-up, shouldn't

  he?"

  "Well, it would depend on the degree

  of participation, I suppose."

  "It's considerable."

  "You mean this Angelo Dellacroce has

  expressed interestP"

  "In a way, yes. But I wouldn't want

  him to think I was being rude by

  making inquiries, if you know what I

  mean."

  Devereaux noticed that his hand now

  trembled slightly. It was a bad sign;

  better than a pained stomach but still

  bad. "I've got that strange feeling

  again. You're not telling me things

  you should tell me."

  "All in good time. Can you do what I

  ask?"

  "Well, there's a firm-here in the

  city that my office uses used to use,

  anyway. Probably still does. They

  might be able to help."

  "That's fine. You see them. But

  don't forget, Sam, we've got a

  lawyer-client relationship. That's

  like a doctor or a priest or a good

  whore; my name doesn't get mentioned."

  "I could do without the last

  reference," said Devereaux.

  Damn it. His stomach growled. He hung

  up.

  ':Angelo Dellacroce!" Jesse Barton,

  senior partner, sonof-founder, Barton,

  Barton and Whistlewhite, laughed.

  "Sam, you've been away too long!"

  "That bad?"

  "Let's put it this way. If our

  mutual Boston friend and your

  erstwhile employer I assume he's still

  your employer Aaron Pinkus, thought

  you were seriously considering

  Dellacroce for some kind of money

  deal, he'd ca
ll your mother."

  "That bad?"

  "I'm not kidding. Aaron would

  question your sand* and personally

  remove your name from the office

  door." Barton leaned forward.

  "Dellacroce is Cosa Nostra with a

  capital Mafia. He's so high in the

  charity rackets the cardinal invites

  him to the Alfred E. Smith dinner

  every year. And naturally, he's

  untouchable. He drives district

  attorneys 82

  and prosecutors right out of their

  gourds. They can't get him, but not

  for lack of trying."

  "Then Aaron mustn't learn of my very

  innocent inquiry," replied Sam in

  confidence.

  "Your indiscretion is safe with me.

  Incidentally, is it an indiscretions

  This party of yours, is he really that

  naive?"

  Sam's stomach began to answer for

  him. He spoke rapidly to cover the

  sound. "In my judgment, yes. I'm

  paying back a debt, Jesse. My client

  saved my ass in Indochina."

  "I see."

  "So he's important to me," continued

  Sam. "And according to you he's naive.

  About this Dellacroce."

  "Don't take my word for it," said

  Barton, reaching for his telephone.

  "Miss Dempsey, get me Phil Jensen

  downtown, please." Jesse replaced the

  receiver. "Jensen's second in command

  at the prosecutor's office. Federal

  district, not municipal. Dellacroce's

  been a target over there ever since

  Phil joined; that was damn near three

  years ago. Jensen gave up an easy

  sixty thou' to go after the evil

  people."

  ''Commendable."

  "Bullshit. He wants to be a senator

  or better. That's where the real money

  is " The telephone rang. Barton picked

  it up. "Thank you.... Hello, Phil?

  Jesse. Phil, I've got an old friend

  here; he's been away for a few years.

  He was asking me about Angelo

  Dellacrocc

  The explosion on the other end of

  the line reverberated throughout the

  office. Jesse winced. "No, for

  Christ's sake, he's not involved with

  him. Do you think I'm crazy?. . . I

  told you he's been away; out of the

  country, as a matter of fact." Jesse

  listened for a moment and looked over

  at Sam "Were you in northern Italy?.

  . . Where, Phil?. . . Around Milan?"

  Devereaux shook his head. Barton

  continued, one ear at the telephone,

  his words directed at Sam

  "Or Marseilles? . . . Or Ankara? . .

  . What about Rashid?"

  Devereaux kept shaking his head.

  "Algiers?. . . Were you in Algiers?.

  . . No, Phil, you're way off. This is

  very straight. I wouldn't be calling

  you if it was anything else, now would

  I?. . . Simple investment stuff, very

  legitimate.... Yes, I know, Phil....

  Phil says 83

  -

  those bastards will own Disneyland

  next.... Come on, Phil, that's not

  kosher; he'll simply walk away from

  him. I just wanted to confine

  Dellacroce's status.... Okay. All

  right. I've got it. Thanks."

  Barton replaced the phone and leaned

  back. "There you are.'

  "I touched a raw nerve."

  "The rawest. Dellacroce not only

  skipped free of an airtight indictment

  last week, but because of a grand jury

  leak, the prosecutor's office has to

  issue a public apology. How does that

  grab you?"

  "I'm glad I'm not Jensen."

  "Jensen's not. His office will lay

  off Dellacroce for a couple of months

  then ring him in again. Won't do them

  any good; Dellacroce's got his ass in

  butter. He slides in and out of

  courtrooms."

  "But my client should stay away."

  Devereaux did not ask a question.

  "Several continents," replied Barton.

  "Clothes don't make the man; his

  investors do. Ask anyone from Biscayne

  to San Clemente."

  "Well, goddamn, isn't that

  interesting? You just can't tell

  ^,,

  anymore, can your

  "Stay clear of him," said

  Devereaux, shifting the hotel phone

  and reaching for the glass of bourbon

  on the other side of the desk. "He's

  bad news and you don't want

  . ,,

  m near you.

  "I see what you mean "

  "I'd rather you said 'Yes, Sam, I'll

  stay away from Angelo

  Dellacroce.' That's what I'd like to

  hear you say."

  "See what you mean."

  "You're not listening. When you pay a

  lawyer a retainer

  you listen to him. Now, repeat after

  me: 'I will not go

  near ' "

  "I know you've had a hard day, but

  you might put your

  mind to the next order of business.

  Just sort of think about it."

  "I'm still thinking about Angelo

  Dellacroce."

  "That part's finished with "

  "Glad to hear it."

  " for the time being. Now, I want you

  to begin roughing

  84

  .

  ,~

  out a kind of standard corporation. A

  real legal document that has blanks

  for people putting in money."

  "People like Dellacroce?"

  Devereaux's voice made clear his

  position. - ~

  Goddamn, forget about that guinea

  bastard!"

  "From what I know about him I think

  you should refer to him as the

  Roman-blood-royal. But I'd rather you

  never referred to him again. What kind

  of corporation? If you want it filed

  in New York, I'll have to bring in

  another attorney. I told you that."

  "No, &~; bog!" Hawkins shouted the

  words. "I don't want anyone else

  involved! Just you!"

  "I made it very clear: I'm not

  licensed to practice here. I can't

  file in the state of New York."

  "Who said anything about filing? I

  just want the papers.

  Sam was numb. He was not sure what

  he was supposed to say; what he could

  say. "Do you mean to tell me you

  retained me for ten thousand dollars

  to prepare legal papers you are not

  going to execute strike that file?"

  "Didn't say I wouldn't sometime. I'm

  just not going to worry about it now."

  "Then why get a lawyer until you

  need one? And why the hell am I in New

  York?"

  "Because I don't want you in

  Washington. For your own good. And

  when a man raises money for a

  corporation, he's got to have real

  legal-looking documents to give for

  it. I reversed the order of your

  questions."

  "I'm glad you told me. I won't

  pursue either one. What kind of

  corporation?"

&n
bsp; "A regular one."

  "There's no such thing. Every company

  is different."

  "The kind where profits are shared.

  Among investors."

  "In that they're all the same. Or

  should be."

  "That's the kind I want. No monkey

  business."

  "Wait a minute." Devereaux put down

  the phone and crossed to the chair

  where he'd left his attache case. From

  it he took out a yellow legal pad and

  two pencils and returned to the desk.

  "I'll need the specifics. I'm going to

  ask you some questions so I can rough

  out this not-to-befiled, unexecuted

  legal document."

  85

  "Go ahead, boy."

  "What's the title? The corporate

  name."

  "I thought about that. What do you

  think of the Shepherd Company?"

  "Not a hell of a lot. I don't know

  what it means. Not that it makes any

  difference. Call it anything you

  like."

  "I like the Shepherd Company."

  "Fine." Sam wrote out the words.

  "What's the address?"

  "United Nations."

  Devereaux looked at the telephone.

  "What?"

  "The address. Whatever the United

  Nations building

  .,.

  IS.

  "Why?"

  "It's. . . symbolic."