room. He was too late. The lady
speaking to Guido surely was the
Signora Greenberg. She was very
American and, indeed, very well
endowed. Her Italian was a little
strange, however. Her words were drawn
out like yawns, but the lady did not
appear sleepy.
"You see, Signore Frescobaldi, the
purpose will be to counteract those
nasty things the Communists wrote."
"Oh, yes, please!" cried Guido
imploringly. "They were infamous!
There is no finer man in the world
than my dear cousin, 11 Papa. I weep
for the embarrassment I caused!"
"I'm sure he doesn't feel that way. He
speaks so well of
you.
"Yes yes, he would," replied
Frescobaldi, the moisture clouding his
blinking eyes. "As children we would
play in the fields together, when our
families visited. Giovanni excuse me,
Pope Francesco was the best of all.
the brothers and cousins. He was a
good nutn even as a boy. Does that
make sense? And brains!"
'He'll be happy to see you again,"
said the Signora. "We haven't
scheduled the exact time yet but he
hopes you'll meet with him for the
photographs.'
Guido Frescobaldi could not help
himself. Although he lost not a dram
of dignity, he wept~uietly, without a
sound or a gesture. "He is such a kind
man. Did you know that when that
terrible magazine came out he sent me
a note, in his own hand. He wrote to
me: 'Guido, my cousin and dear friend
Why have you hidden yourself all these
years? When you come to Rome, please
call on me. We will play some bocce.
I put a course in the garden. Always,
my blessing, Giovanni.'" Frescobaldi
dabbed his eyes with the edge of the
makeup towel. "Not a hint of anger or
even displeasure. But of course I
would never disturb so great a
personage. Who am 1?"
"He knew it wasn't your fault. You
understand that your cousin would
rather not have it known that we're
planning this anti-Communist story.
With politics the way they are
"Not a word!" interrupted Guido. "I say
nothing. I wait 163
only to hear from you and I shall come
to Rome. If need be and I am scheduled
to perform I shall allow my understudy
to take my place. The audiences may
throw vegetables, but for Francesco,
anything!"
"He'll be touched."
"Did you know," said Frescobaldi,
leaning forward in the chair, lowering
his voice, "that under this moustache
of mine, the face is very like my
exalted cousin's?"
"You mean you really look alike?"
"It was ever so since we were
children."
"It never would have crossed my
mind. But now that you mention it, I
do see a resemblance."
The stage manager closed the door
silently. It had been partially open;
they had not seen him and there was no
point in interrupting. Guido might be
embarrassed; the dressing room was
small. So Frescobaldi was going to see
his cousin, the pope. Buenissimo!
Perhaps he might beseech the pontiff
to allocate some funds to La Scala
Minuscolo. They could use the money.
The singing was really terrible.
'Aigee! Al Fatah! Arafat!"
The screaming Palestinian
revolutionaries dashed through the
exit doors and down the steps to the
concrete of Dar el Beida airport. They
hugged and kissed each other and
slashed at the night air with their
blades. One unfortunate had his finger
sliced off in the rejoicing, but it
did not cause much conern. Under the
leadership of Rat Eyes the group made
a dash for the fence that surrounded
the feld.
No one tried to stop them. Indeed,
the searchlights were swung in their
direction to help them see their way
over the fence. The authorities
understood that it was desirable for
the idiots to leave the field this
way. If they walked into the terminal
and out through the doors, a large
degree of face would be lost. Besides,
the quicker they left the better. They
were doing nothing for the tourist
trade.
The instant the final Palestinian
raced out of the aircraft Sam had
lurched into the Air France galley. To
no avail. In the midst of crisis, Air
France had kept its head and its 164
financial acumen. The gleaming mental
trays were in place for the next
contingent of passengers.
"I paid for some goddamned food!"
yelled Sam.
"I'm sorry," said the stewardess,
smiling blankly. "Regulations prohibit
the serving of food after landing."
"For God's sake, we were hijacked!"
"Your ticket reads Algiers. We are
in Algiers. On the ground. After
landing. There can be no food."
"That's inhuman!"
"That is Air Frawnce, monsieur."
Devereaux staggered through the
Algerian customs. He held four
American five-dollar bills in his
hand, separated as though they were
playing cards. Each of the four
Algerian inspectors down the line took
one, smiled, and passed him on to the
next man. No luggage was opened; Sam
grabbed his suitcase off the conveyor
and looked frantically for the airport
restaurant.
It was closed. For a religious
holiday.
The taxi ride from the airport to
the Aletti Hotel on Rue de l'Enur El
Khettabi did nothing to calm his
nerves or soothe his agonizingly empty
stomach. The vehicle was ancient, the
driver more so, and the road down into
the city steep and filled with winding
curves and hairpin turns.
"Were terribly sorry, Monsieur
Devereaux," said the dark-skinned desk
clerk in overly precise English. "All
of Algiers is in a state of fasting
until the sun rises in the morning. It
is the will of Mohammed."
Sam leaned over the marble counter
and lowered his voice to a whisper.
"Look, I respect everyone's right to
worship in his own way, but I haven't
eaten and I've got a little money "
"Monsieur!" The clerk's eyes widened
in Algerian shock as he interrupted
and drew himself up to his full height
of roughly five feet. "The will of
Mohammed! The way of Allah!"
"Good Lord! I don't believe my
eyes!" The shout came from across the
Aletti lobby. The light was dim, the
ceiling high. The figure wa
s obscured
in shadows. The only thing Sam knew
was that the voice was deep and
feminine. And 165
deeply feminine. Perhaps he had heard
it before, he could not be sure. How
could he be sure of anything at that
moment in such an unlikely spot as an
Algerian hotel lobby during an
Algerian religious holiday in the last
stages of starvation. All was beyond
sureness.
And then the figure walked through
the hazy pools of light, led by two
enormous breasts that cleaved the air
in majestic splendor.
Full and Round. Naturally; why did
he even bother to act surprised? Ten
million thirty million, forty million
dollars no longer shocked him. Why
should the sight of Mrs. MacKenzie
Hawkins, number two?
She pressed the cool, wet towel on
his forehead; he lay back on the bed.
Six hours ago she had taken off his
shoes and socks and shirt and told
him. to lie back and stop shaking. In
truth, she'd ordered him to stop
shaking. And while he was at it, to
stop babbling incoherently about crazy
things like Nazis and chicken
droppings and wildeyed Arabs who
wanted to blow up airplanes because
they flew where they were supposed to
fly. Such talk!
But that had been six hours ago. And
during the interim she had taken his
mind off food, and MacKenzie Hawkins
and some sheik named Azaz-Varak,
and oh my Godl the kidnapping of the
pope!
She had reduced the dimensions of
the whole insanity to the simpler
proportions of a terrifying nightmare.
Her name was Madge; he had
remembered that. And she had sat next
to him on the bean bag in Regina
Greenberg's living room; and she had
reached over to touch him every time
she emphasized a point. He remembered
that distinctly because each time she
had leaned toward him, Full and Round
seemed to burst out of her peasant
blouse, as they seemed now about to
burst out of the silk shirt she wore.
"Just a bit longer," she said in her
deep, somewhat breathless voice. "The
desk clerk promised you'd be the first
tray out of the kitchen. Now just
relax."
"Tell me again."
"About the food?"
166
"No. About how come you're here in
Algiers. It'll take my mind off the
food."
"Then you'll just start babbling again.
You simply won't believe me."
"Maybe I missed something "
, "You're teasing me," said Madge,
leaning over dangerously, adjusting the
towel. "All right. Short and to the
point. My
late husband was the leading West
Coast-importer of African art. His
gallery was the largest in.California.
When he died he had over $100,000 fled
up in seventeenthcentury Musso-Grossai
statuary. What the hell am I going
- to do with five hundred statues of naked
pigmies? I mean really! You'd do just
what I'm doing. Try to stop the shipment
and get your money back! Algiers is the
clearing house for Musso-Grossai Now,
damn it! There you go again!"
Devereaux could not help himself. Tears
of laughter rolled down his cheeks. "I'm
sorry. It's just that it's so much more
inventive than a sudden London vacation
from a philandering husband. Or a
gourmet school in Berlin. My God, it's
beautiful! Five hundred naked pigmies!
Did you think it up, or did Mac?"
"You're too suspicious." Madge smiled
gently, knowingly, and lifted the towel
from his forehead. "That's no-way to
live. Here, I'll soak this with some
cool water. Breakfast should be here in
fifteen or twenty minutes." She rose
from the bed and looked over at the
window in silent thought. The orange
rays of the new day were streaming
through the window. '1he sun's up."
Devereaux watched her; the dawn's light
washed over her striking features,
heightening the sheen of her auburn hair
and adding a soft, deep glow to her
face. It was not a young face but it had
something better than youth. An openness
that accepted the years and could laugh
gracefully at them. There was a
directness that touched Sam.
"You're a terrific looking person," he
said.
"So are you," she replied quietly.
"You've got what an old friend of mine
used to call a face you'd like to know.
Your eyes level. My- friend used to say
'watch the eyes especially in a crowd;
see if they listen.' Actually, Mac said
167
. .. ~
it. A long time ago. I suppose that
sounds silly, eyes listening."
"It doesn't sound silly at all. Eyes
do listen. I had a friend who used to
go to Washington cocktail parties,
he'd repeat the word 'hamburger' over
and over again just 'hamburger,'
nothing.else. He swore that ninety
percent of the time the people around
him would say things like, 'Very
interesting. I'll check the statistics
on that'; or 'Have you mentioned it to
the undersecretary?' He always knew
who'd say those things because their
eyes were moving so fast; you see, he
wasn't very important."
Madge laughed softly; their eyes
locked and she smiled. "He sounds very
important to me."
"You're a nice person, too."
"Yes, I try to be." She looked over
at the window again. "MacKenzie also
said that too many people run from
their perfectly natural inclination to
be concerned human beings. As if
concern was a sign of weakness. He
said: 'Goddamn Midgey, I'm concerned
and no son of a bitch better call me
weakl' And no one ever did."
"I suppose being concerned is
another way of being nice," added
Devereaux, mulling over the latest
homily.
"There's no better way," said Madge,
carrying the towel into the bathroom.
"I'll be out in a minute."
She closed the door. Sam repeated
the words to himself: Too many people
run from their perfectly natural
inclination to be concerned human
beings. MacKenzie was a man of more
complications than Devereaux cared to
think about. At least, until breakfast
arrived.
The bathroom door opened. Madge
stood in the door frame and smiled
deliberately, a sense of marvelous fun
in her eyes, very much aware of the
picture she presented. She no longer
wore her skirt. Instead
her breasts
were now lovingly encased in an
ivory-colored brassiere made of webbed
lace. Below, her short slip
accentuated the curve of her hips and
bore witness to the soft white flesh
that touched and wanted to be
touched between her upper thighs.
She walked around to the side of the
bed and took his immobile hand. She
sat down gracefully and leaned over,
168
her incredible spheres touching him,
sending electricity through him
causing him to suddenly inhale very
short breaths. She kissed him on the
lips. She pulled back and undid his
belt and with the swift, graceful
movements of a dancer, pulled down his
trousers.
"Why Major, you have been thinking
nice thoughts "
And the Algerian terrorist telephone
rang.
The galaxy went out of whack again.
Sanity vanished in a sudden rush of
hysteria. Sweet reason and laced bras-
sieres and soft flesh were no more.
Instead, screams in Arabic, commands
that threatened unbelievable violence
should they be disobeyed.
"If you'll stop yelling about pigs
and dogs and vultures for a second,
maybe I can figure out what you're
trying to say," said Sam, holding the
phone away from his ear. "All I said
was that I couldn't come down right
now."
"I am the emissary from Sheik
Azaz-Varak!"
"What the hell is that?"
"Dog!"
"It's a dog? You mean a puppy dog?"
"Silencel Azaz-Varak is the god of
all khans! The possessor of the desert
winds, the eyes of the falcon, the
Robert Ludlum - Road To Gandolfo.txt Page 24
