Robert Ludlum - Road To Gandolfo.txt

by The Road To Gandolfo [lit]

  limousines was swung open. The drivers

  and the priests screamed and waved

  their hands and shouted orders at

  everyone and no one, then ran toward

  the overturned car.

  Now!

  Dressed as priests, Noir, Rouge, and

  Brun dashed from their hidden

  recesses. Brun and Rouge plunged into

  the front seat of the first limousine,

  ripping out every wire in sight. Noir

  raced to the second automobile, the

  papal car, and dove through the open

  door toward the equipment.

  Suddenly a hand lashed out over the

  seat, followed by an arm extending

  from a white cassock. But the hand and

  the arm were not white. They were

  black!

  And the grip that held Noir's

  neck accompanied by the swift, hard

  rabbit punches that hammered his

  head was a street tactic Noir knew

  well. It was indigenous to a plot of

  turf called Harlem!

  Noir wrenched his aching, pounding

  head and was suddenly, astoundingly,

  face to face with a brother!

  A brother in the honkey white robes of

  the Church!

  It went against Noir's grain to

  coldcock a brother, but there was

  nothing for it. The Catholic kid was

  good, but he hadn't taken advanced

  training above 138th Street and

  Amsterdam. Noir twisted his thumb and

  forefinger into the sensitive flesh,

  the Black priest screamed and released

  Noir s head as Noir yanked him halfway

  over the seat. He sighed as he chopped

  the Catholic kid at the base of the

  skull. He immediately went about his

  business, ripping wires and smashing

  dials. The fat old honkey in white

  robes~the man, himself, figured

  Noir leaned forward and pulled the kid

  into the back seat, cradling the kid's

  head as if the kid was really hurt.

  "He'll be okay, pops. I don't know

  how you boys do it. I swear I don't!

  The Baptists got his turf tied up in

  ribbons. They've got rhythm! Course,

  you ve got the cops...."

  267

  Son of a bitch! What the hell else

  could go wrong? What other delays were

  concealed in the blinding sunlight of

  Rorr~e's Leonardo da Vinci Airport? It

  was a nightmare being played out in

  the bright morning without benefit of

  sleep!

  The goddamned, dwarf son of a bitch

  of a pilot from Valtournanche insisted

  that his aircraft be cleared by the

  narcotic inspectors! Nobody gave a

  damn if a plane flew in six vaults of

  stolen gold, or undeclared diamonds,

  or eyes-only defense plans for all of

  NATO, as long as there wasn't a joint

  on board! No amount of protesting on

  Sam's part made any diffemace

  whatsoever Well, yes it did. It caused

  him to be stripped and searched.

  ''Per favom, signom. Where is your

  underwear? Where did you leave

  its Search the plane again!"

  "That's crazy!" screamed Devemaux.

  "How could a pair of shorts -

  "she cosa?" inquired the capitano

  suspiciously.

  "Shorts!" Sam outlined a pair of

  briefs. "Whem could I hide . . ."

  'Ah haaa," interrupted the

  capitally. "The mountain Swiss wear

  long underwear. With pockets. And

  flaps. And many buttons. Buttons are

  hollow."

  "I'm not Swiss! I'm American!"

  The capitano's eyebrows shot up as

  he loweKd his voice. 'Ah haaa Mafia;

  SignOKP

  And so it went until Sam had

  dispensed ten one-hundred-dollar

  American bids, which happened to

  coincide with the end of the

  capitano's shift, whereupon Sam was

  released.

  "Where can I get a taxi?"

  "Have your money exchanged first,

  signom. No taxi has change for

  American one-hundred-doUar bills."

  "I don't have any hundreds left. Only

  five hundreds."

  "Then they will cad the police. For

  certainly such money cannot possibly

  be authentic. You will need lim."

  - Oh, my God, the police! thought Sam.

  The police and hysterical taxi drivers

  were the last thing he wanted. They

  definitely were not part of hs grand

  finale to thwart the Hawk.

  And so he spent the better part of an

  hour in the 268

  exchange line only to be told by the

  lady with a moustache that bills of such

  denominations had to be examined by

  spectographs.

  "Thank you, signore," said the face of

  fur finally. "We have processed these

  under four different machines. They are

  very nice. Here is your fire. Do you

  have an empty suitcase?"

  It was 9:45. Still time! A taxi into

  Rome took about an hour when one

  considered the traffic, and then perhaps

  a half hour to get to the southern

  outskirts where he could pick up the Via

  Appia.

  The ride down the Appia couldn't be

  more than twenty minutes or so. He would

  recognize the signs he had seen during

  maneuvers, he was sure of that. He'd

  reach Ground Zero with at least a tray

  hour to spare!

  -He'd stop the Hawk, prevent World War

  111, eliminate

  the specter of life imprisonment, and

  go home to Boston

  with a real Swiss bank account!

  Goddamn! If he had two cigars, he'd

  smoke them both at the same time!

  He ran across the terminal to the

  doors under the signs that read Taxi in

  three languages. He raced breathlessly

  onto the concrete.

  Up and down the whole area were

  hundreds of immobile dories fined with

  luggage. Groups of men were gathered in

  the street, close to riot.

  Sam approached a tourist. "What's going

  on?"

  "Goldanged guinea bastards called a

  cab strikel" Sam backed away. He had

  several million fire stuffed in his

  pockets like football pads. There had to

  be somebody in one of the parking lots

  with an automobile.

  He found him. At twenty minutes past

  eleven. And offered money. The faster he

  drove the more thousands of fire he

  would get. The man agreed.

  11:32! He would make ill

  He had to!

  It was the summation of his life!

  Why was he kidding himself? It was his

  life.

  Gris and Bleu pulled at the clerical

  ropes around their cassocks. They were

  on their knees, concealed by the 269

  dense underbrush and cascading

  branches at the base of the hill by

  the edge of the old road. Both were

  prepared to spring through the foliage

  to execute Phase Six, the

  immobilization of the moto'rcade.
The

  overturned Fiat was directly in front

  of them, the smoke billowing

  everywhere, the five papal aides, the

  two chauffeurs and the remaining

  patrolman all making genuine attempts

  to reach the screaming Turks.

  The numbers presented no problem.

  Once Gris and Bleu joined the

  smoke-engulfed melee, they would work

  swiftly, their church habits adding to

  the confusion. It would be a simple

  matter to incapacitate one adversary,

  then another. Rouge would join them on

  the west flank, intercepting anyone

  who might discover the conspiracy

  prematurely, and make a dash for the

  limousines.

  Now!

  Gris and Bleu lunged out of the

  brush into the confusion of smoke,

  screams, and flailing arms, their wide

  cassocks billowing, rings at the

  ready.

  One by one the members of the papal

  entourage collapsed to the ground,

  beatific smiles on their peaceful

  faces.

  "Tie them! Give me some coral"

  yelled Gris to the Turks as the three

  "victims" crawled out of the windows

  and from under the car.

  "Not tight, you maniacs!" added Bleu

  harshly. "Remember what the commander

  said!"

  "Man Dies!" roared Bleu suddenly,

  grabbing Gris's shoulder, pointing to

  the ground beyond the rising smoke.

  "Qu'est-ce que c'est pa?"

  In the middle of the road, halfway

  to the limousines, lay Rouge flat on

  his back, one arm raised, the wrist

  bent, as though frozen in

  mid-pirouette. The stocking mask could

  not disguise the expression of

  Olympian repose underneath. In the

  confusion, he had tripped over his

  cassock, plunging his needle into his

  stomach.

  "Quick!" yelled Gris. "The antidote!

  The general thinks of everything!"

  "He has to," said Bleu.

  "Now!" ordered the Hark, holding

  Guido Frescobaldi, who had suddenly

  raised his voice- in song.

  270

  Across the dirt road, Mac could see

  (grange crossing himself as he leaped

  out of the bushes toward the papal

  limousine. It was wasted motion, he

  thought; the pope was not going to

  attempt any escape. He had helped his

  aide down on the seat and was getting

  out of the car, his face wrathful.

  The Hawk took Frescobaldi by the

  hand, and led him toward the

  limousine.

  "I bid you good day, sir," said the

  Hawk to the pope. It was a proper

  military salutation for a surrender.

  'lAnimale!" roared the pontiff in a

  roll of thunder that reverberated

  throughout the Appian forests and

  hills. "Uccisore! Assassino!"

  "What's that?"

  ''Basta!" The thunder cracked again.

  And the lightning was in Francesco's

  eyes; the eyes of a giant in the body

  of a mortal. "Take my life! You kill

  my beloved children! The children of

  God! You slay the innocent)! Send me

  to Jesus! Kill me, too! And may God

  have mercy on your soul!"

  "Oh, for Chri for heaven's sake, shut

  up! Nobody's going to kill anybody."

  "I see what I see! The children of God

  are slain!"

  "That's plain horseshit! Nobody's

  hurt, and nobody's going to get hurt."

  "They are all morto," said

  Frances'co, with less conviction, his

  eyes darting everywhere in

  bewilderment.

  "No more than you are. We wouldn't be

  tying them up if they were, would we?

  Orange! Over here!"

  "Sl, Generate." Orange came around

  the hood of the limousine, crossing

  himself repeatedly.

  'tGet that colored boy out of the

  car. Must be a house guest of the pope

  here."

  "That man is a priest. My personal

  aide!'

  "You don't say? Must be a fine lad

  with the choirs. Easy, Orange," said

  MacKenzie as the Italian pulled the

  unconscious Black prelate from the

  automobile. "Put him in the brush and

  loosen that big robe. It's too damn

  hot for

  ~ ,,

  ponchos.

  "You mean," asked Giovanni

  incredulously, "they're all alive?"

  "Certainly, they're alive," replied

  MacKenzie, signaling

  271

  Vert to prepare Frescobaldi for the

  exchange; the pope's double sat

  serene.

  --"I don't believe you! You've

  murdered them!" roared the pope

  suddenly.

  "Will you keep quiet!" The Hawk did

  not ask a question. ' Listen to me. I

  don't know how you handle your

  command, but I assume you can tell if

  a soldier's alive or not.

  "she coca?. ."

  "Captain Gris!" yelled MacKenzie to

  the masked Scandinavian tying up a

  priest by the hubcaps of the first

  limousine. "Lift that man up and bring

  him here, please."

  Gris complied. MacKenzie took the

  pontiffss right hand.

  "Here! Put your fingers on the side

  of the throat next to the collar bone.

  Now, see? Do you get pulse?"

  The pope's eyes narrowed, his

  concentration on the touch. 'The

  heart . Yes. You speak the truth. The

  others? They are the same? The hearts

  beat?"

  1 gave you my word," said the Hawk

  sternly. "1 must reprimand you, sir.

  Opposing commands do not lie when

  capture is secure. We're not animals,

  sir. But we haven't much time." The

  Hawk gestured for Vert to bring

  over-the narcotized Frescobaldi. "I'm

  afraid we'll have to change some of

  your clothes. I'll have to " ~

  MacKenzie stopped. Pope Francesco

  was staring at Frescobaldi. It was the

  first moment he had taken cognizance

  of the singer who was clean shaven and

  now, without his moustache, looked

  more like Giovanni Bombalini than did

  Bombalini himself.

  "Guido! It is Guido Frescobaldi!"

  The pontiff's Voice could have been

  heard in the Bay of Naples, so loud

  was his roar. "Guido, my own flesh! My

  blood! It- is Guidol Madre di Dio! You

  are a part of this this heresy?!"

  Signore Guido Frescobaldi smiled.

  "she gelida . . . marina . . . a rigido

  esanime . . . ah, la-la . . .14-laaa.

  . ~ ."

  "It's him, all right, but he's been

  a little out of things since this

  morning. And will be for a while

  longer. Come on, now. We've got to get

  some of that hardware off you and on

  him. Captain Orange? Captain Vert?

  Give Mr. Francesco a hand."

  an

  "Them!" The Hawk spoke in the tones

  of a vict
orious general officer. He

  held the grinning GuidoFrescobaldi by

  the shoulders, admiring the final

  result. "He looks real fine, doesn't

  he?"

  Francesco, transfixed, could not

  help himself. "Jesus et Spiritus

  Sanctus. The ugly Frescobaldi is

  myself. It is a miracle of God."

  "Two like-spits in the gunnery pool,

  Mr. Pope!"

  The pontiff was barely audible. "You

  put . . . Frescobaldi . . . in the

  chair of St. Peter?"

  "For about two hours with luck by my

  calculations."

  "But Why?"

  "Nothing personal. I^understand

  you're a very nice fellow."

  "But why? In the name of God, why?

  That is no answer."

  "Didn't expect it to be," replied

  the Hawk. "I just don't want you

  screaming your head off. You've got a

  mighty loud voice.

  "Then I shall be screaming my head

  out if you do not tell me....

  Aiyeeeee! ...'

  "All right! All right! We're

  kidnapping you. Holding you for

  ransom. You'll be fine no harm will

  come to you and that's the word of a

  general officer."."

  The conference was interrupted by

  Captain Gris and Bleu, who raced up

  and snapped to attention.

  "The area is secured, General," barked

  Gris.

  "All sedations are completed," added

  Bleu. "We are prepared to move."