Robert Ludlum - Road To Gandolfo.txt

by The Road To Gandolfo [lit]

  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