walked out into his beloved garden to
be alone. He did not wish to see
anyone or talk with anyone. He was
angry with the world, his world, and
when one was angry it was always best
to meditate.
He sighed. If he was to be truthful
with himself he had to admit he was
angry with God. It was so senseless!
He raised his eyes to the afternoon
sky and a single word emerged
plaintively from his lips.
"Why?" .
He lowered his head and continued
down the path. The sprays of lilies
were in spring bloom, greeting life.
As he was about to leave it.
The doctors had just delivered their
collective report. His vital signs
were diminishing with increased
acceleration. He had no more than six
or seven weeks.
Death itself was easy. Good heavens,
it was a relief! Life was the
struggle. But struggle or no, he had
not consolidated the necessary forces
to carry on his and Roncalli's work.
He needed more time; he needed the
authority of the office to bring
divergent factions closer together.
Why could not God understand that?
Eh, my beloved Lord? Why? Just a
little more time?-l promise not to
lose my temper. Nor will I insult the
nasal-toned pardon, most Holy
Father the cardinal or his band of
antediluvian thieves. Six months would
do nicely. Then I shall rest in the
arms of Christ with grateful devotion.
Five months, perhaps? Much could be
accomplished in five months....
Giovanni tried with all his heart to
perceive a heavenly 226
response. If there was one, it was too
weak to get through his vital signs.
Perhaps, dear Father, if you would
speak to the Holy Virgin? She might
find more eloquent words to convey my
supplication. It is said that women
are more persuasive in these
matters....
Still nothing. Just a minor pain in
his knees which meant the weight was
hard on his old bones and he should
sit for a while. What was it that
lovely giornalista had said? There
were certain exercises
Basta! All he needed was to collapse
doing push-pulls. Ignatio Quartze
would roll his body under the bed and
they would not find him for a week. In
the meantime, Quartze would pack the
Curia.
The pontiff reached his favorite
white bench and lowered himself on the
cool stone. A breeze came from the
garden walls, fluttering the leaves of
the tree above him. Was it a sign? It
was refreshing. Then the breeze
stopped; the still air returned and
the fluttering of leaves was replaced
by footsteps clattering over the path.
It was the new papal aide. A young
Black priest from the diocese of New
York City, a brilliant student who had
done much good work in the Harlem
districts. Francesco had sought out
just such a deserving young
prelate over considerable opposition.
It was a small part of a large design.
"Your Holiness?"
"Yes, my son. You look agitated.
What's the matter?"
'1 think I did something quite
wrong. I was bewildered and you
weren't in your rooms and there didn't
seem to be anything else to do. I'm
very sorry."
"Well, now, we won't know the extent
of this calamity until you describe
it. You didn't, by any chance, find
Cardinal Quartze in my closet and call
the guards?"
The Black priest smiled. Ignatio had
made clear his disapproval of the
aide's appointment. Francesco took
every opportunity to lessen the
insult.
"No, Your Holiness. I heard your
private telephone ringing. The one in
the drawer of your bedside table; it
just kept ringing."
227
l
"It would, my son," interrupted the
pontiff. "It is not connected to the
Vatican switchboard. A minor indulgence.
So you answered it. Who was calling? Only
a few old friends and an associate or two
of long standing have the number. There
is no great harm in what you did. Who was
it?"
"A monsignor in Washington, Holy
Father. He was very upset "
"Ahh, Monsignor Patrick Dennis
O'Gilligan! Yes, he calls frequently. We
play chess together long distance."
"He was very excited and he thought I
was you. He didn't give me a chance to
speak. He rattled on so fast I couldn't
stop him."
"Yes, that sounds like Paddy; he's had
his problems. The Berrigans again? Those
two keep busy "
"NQ, Holy Father. Much worse. The
President called him. Something about the
confidence of the confessional, and
whether it was admissible. He wants to
convert, Holy Father!"
"she cosa? Madre di Dio!"
"It gets worse, Your Holiness. Sixteen
White House aides want to fad Jesus right
away. Under certain conditions of Vatican
privilege and something called Christian
immunity."
Giovanni sighed. There was so much to do.
- Four months, Oh, Lord?
Is
!
CHATTIER I1VENIY
The unfamiliar faces had one thing in
common, thought Sam. Very muscular
bodies. As though each enjoyed the
outdoors, kept in trim by moving rocks
under the eyes at. penitentiary
guards. And speaking of eyes, that was
and other thing in common. All their
eyes seemed a little sleepy at first,
the lids half closed. But it was only
appearance. On closer examination the
eyes could be seen spinning in their
sockets like pinballs caught between
magnets, very little went unobserved.
There was a tall, blond man who
looked like he jumped out of a
television commercial for Scandinavian
cigars, a Black who nodded silently a
great deal and spoke an English
refined in university lecture rooms,
another darkskinned fellow with
distinctly sharp, northern features
whose accent was like all those people
in formal clothes at the Savoy; two
Frenchmen who had something to do with
boats; a long-haired man in very tight
trousers who strutted when he walked
like a tango dancer, aware of his ass
unmistakably Italian; and finally, a
rather wild-eyed Greek who wore a red
kerchief and kept telling jokes no one
quite understood.
There was a soft-spoken politeness
among them that was positively
unct
uous, complemented by manners that
seemed born of breeding and wealth,
were it not for the shifty eyes. They
certainly were very much at home in
the huge drawing room of Chateau
Machenfeld, where the Hawk had
everyone gather before the late
dinner.
Gathered, but in the interests of
international security, not
introduced. No names were used.
Sam had returned to the chateau at
seven. It would have been an hour
earlier but he had to walk the last
three 229
miles because no taxi out of Zermatt
was allowed to travel beyond certain
zones and Rudolph was nowhere to be
found. When Sam called information for
Machenfeld's telephone number, he
discovered there was no such place.
It all might have taken the heart
out of him, but Option Seven kept him
going. He knew when a case was won.
MacKenzie had greeted him with mixed
feelings. The Hawk was pleased that he
had brought back the financial papers
so promptly, but felt that his
treatment of Regina was most
ungentlemanly. She was a fine girl,
and now Sam could not properly say
good-bye to her.
Why not?
Because her luggage had been sent to
the airport. Ginny was on her way back
to California, with a stop in Rome to
look at the museums.
So much for Ginny, thought
Devereaux. He was a little sad, but
there was Option Seven to think about.
And he began to think the timing was
perfect.
MacKenzie told him that there would
be no business discussed the first
evening. Just social chitchat and
strolls through the gardens and
cocktails and dinner and brandy. Why?
Because the troops would like a
chance, he believed to size each other
up, check their rooms for bugs, oil
their weapons, and generally assure
themselves that Machenfeld was no
Interpol trap. Sam could expect to
hear noises during the night; most of
the men would carry out their own
surveillance, and that was good
because they would undoubtedly run
into one another and realize further
that everything was on the up-and-up.
In the morning, when all were
refreshed, the Hawk would hold his
first briefing. Before he did that,
however he would certainly take the
time to say good-bye to Sam. He was
going to miss his~young friend, no
question about it. But the word of a
general officer was his bond; it was
the glue that held his battalions
together.
Devereaux's work was finished.
Rudolph would drive him into Zermatt,
where'd he'd take the morning train to
Zurich and the late-afternoon flight
to New York.
There was one thing Sam should be
aware of, however, just in case he
became nervous or was afflicted with
hypertension. For the next month or
so, several associates 230
of the Shepherd Company's first
investor, Mr. Dellacroce, would stay
in close touch with him. Their names
were Fingers and Meat, Hawkins
believed; it was just a temporary
arrangement, no offense intended.
Yes. Sam understood. There was no
point in MacKenzie being redundant.
Devereaux had terminated the
conversation, he would shave and
shower the sweat of three mountain
miles off him, and return for
cocktails.
In his room, Sam found the scissors
Ginny had used on his underwear and
cut out seven strips of paper five
inches long, one inch wide. He wrote
out the identical message on each.
Vitally important you meet with me
in my room third floor, rear of house,
last door in the north hallway on the
right. 2:00 A.M. sharp. Your life
depends on it. I am a friend. Remember
two o'clock this morning!
He folded the strips of paper neatly
so they fit into the palm of his hand
and put them in his jacket pocket. He
then removed the seven index cards
from his briefcase, the ones with the
account numbers and sequential
codes-ofrelease written on them and
put them in his trousers pocket. They
were his high cards. Irresistibly
He returned to the drawing room
downstairs and put to use all the
social graces a fine Boston upbringing
provided. He shook hands with the men.
And passed each his message.
By one thirty in the morning he was
ready. The Italian came first, his
hands encased in sheer, skintight
black gloves, his feet laced in
ballet-like slippers with ridged
rubber soles. And then, one by one,
the rest showed up in apparel not much
different. There was a proliferation
of gloves, and soft shoes or sneakers,
and black sweaters, and narrow
trousers with thick belts holding
thicker knives, and small holsters
with single straps across small
pistols, and in several cases coils of
wire.
Altogether a very professional group
of psychopaths, thought Sam, as he
told them with quiet, not completely
heartfelt authority to relax and get
comfortable, and smoke if they wished.
231
I .
Since they all were relaxed, and
most smoking already, he wasn't sure
it was a good opening. But the best
summations were those that built from
quiet even awkward beginnings.
So he began. Softly, at first.
Starting with a man as a tribal being,
looking to the heavens for meaning
beyond his daily battle for survival,
finding solace in that which he could
not really comprehend, because there
was comfort in primitive faith. There
was structure, an organization to
natural phenomena, and that meant
there had to be a force, a mind, a
profound all-knowing intelligence that
conceived the whole. Yet could never
be truly understood.
There was beauty in that lack of
understanding, for men strove beyond
themselves for the all-seeing,
all-knowing force that created the
earth, created them, knew them loved
them.
Without this search, man was an
animal. With it he reached out, and
compassion became a part of him.
Sam explained that symbols and
titles were not important in
themselves, for correlations could be
drawn between all religions. The
essence was the differentiation
between good and evil. But symbols and
titles held mystical meaning, and<
br />
profound comfort, for millions ev-
erywhere. Faith. The poor and the
oppressed prayed to them, held them in
reverence and hope. And for millions
these symbols were the warm light in
their unceasing winters of darkness.
Devereaux paused. It was the moment
for a crescendo.
'Gentlemen, facing you is a crime of
such monstrous porportions, a crime of
such profound evil a crime which
cannot possibly succeed and can only
lead each of you to your death, or to
a life endured, not lived, in a brutal
prison cell. For within the walls of
this chateau is a man who would rob
you of your most priceless
possessions! Yourfreedom! Your very
lives! For he conceives the impos-
sible. In his unbalanced woefully
unbalanced mind he is convinced he can
overcome the swift and terrible reac-
tion, the vengeance, of the entire
world! He expects to lead you into the
gaping jaws of oblivion. He intends to
kidnap the pontiff of the Catholic
Church! He is, in a word, insane!"
232
I
Sam stopped. He bored his eyes into
the face of each man. Cigarettes were
suspended in midair, mouths were open
in disbelief, eyelids were stretched,
stares conveying a paralysis born of
shock.
He had them! The jury was in the
palm of his hand! The phrases had come
out like thunder!
It was time for his high cards.
Those irresistible figures and
sequential code words that would make
each man in the room rich. Very, very
rich. For doing nothing but avoiding
the risk of oblivion.
' Gentlemen, I realize the state of
shock you're in and it pains me to see
Robert Ludlum - Road To Gandolfo.txt Page 33
