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Robert Ludlum - Road To Gandolfo.txt

Page 40

by The Road To Gandolfo [lit]

"Good! Let's move then. Troops!

  Evacuate the area! Prepare to execute

  escape procedures! By your numbers!

  Move!"

  As if on cue, the sounds of the

  revving helicopter could be heard from

  the camouflaged area fifty yards away

  from the center of Ground Zero.

  And then there was another sound.

  From the road at the top of the Appian

  hill: A car screeching to a halt.

  "Stop!" came a plaintive wail from

  the woods. "For Christ's sake, stop!"

  "What2"

  "Mon Dieu!"

  273

  "she rosa?!"

  "I say!"

  "Tokig!"

  "Bakasi!"

  "Shit!"

  Sam stumbled down the old dirt road on

  the hill. He came racing around the last

  curve and fell to one knee.

  Giovanni Bombalini watched in

  astonishment; automatically he gave the

  kneeling figure his rather confused

  benediction, ' Dens et f glib"

  "Will you shut up!" MacKenzie glared at

  Francesco. "Goddamn, Sam! What the hell

  are you doing here? You're supposed to be

  sick as a dog "

  "Listen to me, everybody!" broke in Sam.

  "Everyone gather aroundI" He struggled to

  his feet; the captains stood where they

  were, their faces betraying a certain

  insensitivity. "Escape! Run for your

  lives! Leave this man alone.! It's a trap!

  Machenfeld has fallen! It happened last

  night! Hundreds of Interpol police are

  swarming..." Sam's jaw was suddenly a

  gaping orifice as he stared at the Hawk.

  "What did you says"

  "You're a real pistol, son. I respect

  your moxie, like I said before. But I

  can't say you have much respect for my

  know-how." MacKenzie snapped one of the

  straps that crisscrossed his chest over

  his field jacket. It was attached to a

  large leather case that was lashed over

  his hip. "No assault operation ever stays

  out of contact with its command center.

  Not since 1971, anyway. Hell, I used to

  patch relays from Ly Sol in Cambodia right

  straght down to the Mekong units."

  "What2"

  "Tri-arced, high-frequency radio contact,

  boy. Set a schedule and receive-send

  simultaneously. You're dated, Sam! As of

  an hour ago the only thing swarming around

  Machenfeld were butterflies. I don't know

  how you did it, but you're mighty lucky

  you got here alone.... Come to think of

  it, you'd he a damned fool to get here any

  other way. All right, men! Resume Phase

  Eight! Come on, Sam. You re going for a

  ride. And I tell you this now, boy. Any

  more trouble and I'm going to open a door

  at two thousand feet and you can fly by

  yourself"

  274 -'

  "Mac, you can't! Think of World War

  Threel"

  "Think of a nice free-fall without a

  parachute straight into a plate of

  spaghetti!"

  And then there was another sound. A

  frightening one. From the top of the

  hill. From the road again.

  The captains and the Turks froze.

  The Hawk whipped his head around and

  up toward the Via Appia.

  The pontiff said one word.

  "Carabinieri."

  The whining, jarring, two-note

  scream of the Italian state police

  sirens could be heard in the distance.

  Drawing nearer.

  "Goddamn! How?! What the hell

  happened? Sam, you didn't!"

  'My God, no! I didn't! I wouldn't!"

  "I think there is a miscalculation,

  signore," said Pope Francesco softly.

  'What? What mother what

  miscalculation?"

  "The motorcade was to stop at the

  small village well, not so much a

  village of Tuscabondo. It is a mile or

  so past the deviazone, your detour."

  "Jesus!"

  "He can be merciful, Signore

  Generale."

  "Those bastards will be swarming the

  hills, the fields. Goddamn!"

  "And the air, Generale," said

  Captain Orange excitedly, breaking out

  in a sweat under his mask. 'The

  carabinieri have fleets of elicotteri.

  They are the pozzi of the skyl"

  "Jesus H. Christ!" -.

  "Figlio di Santa Maria Figlio di

  Dio He is the way, Generale."

  "I told you to shut up. Men! Check

  your maps! Quickly! Gris and Bleu,

  evaluate escape routes E-Eight and E-

  Twelve. Our previous routes were

  faster but more exposed. Deliver your

  decision in one minute! Orange and

  Vert. Give me Frescobaldi! Join the

  others! Sam, you stay here!"

  The screams of the sirens were

  nearer, almost at the intercept point

  of the Appia. Frescobaldi, weaving in

  MacKenzie's grip, sang louder.

  Is

  "Signora." Giovanni Bombalini took a step

  toward MacKenzie. "You speak of the word

  of a general. You have great sincerity

  when you say it."

  "What? Yes, of course. You're not much

  different, I suspect. Command's a big

  responsibility."

  "Indeed it is. And truth is

  responsibility's right arm." The pope

  looked once more at the unconscious

  figures of his motorcade, each body

  comfortably stretched out, none harmed.

  "And compassion, naturally."

  The Hawk was barely listening. He was

  holding Frescobaldi, keeping an alert eye

  on a stunned Sam Devereaux, and watching

  Captains Gris and Bleu make their final

  evaluations over the maps. "What are you

  talking about?

  'You say you have no wish to inflict harm

  on my person.

  "Of course not. Wouldn't get much ransom

  for a corpse. Well, maybe with your people

  "

  "And Frescobaldi is as strong as an ox,"

  said the pope, as much to himself as to

  MacKenzie, while studying the

  half-conscious Guido. "He always was.

  Signore Generale if I said I would go with

  you without interference, perhaps even in

  the spirit of cooperation, would you grant

  me a small request? As one commander to

  another?"

  The Hawk squinted at the pontiff.

  "What is it?"

  "A brief note, only several words in

  English to be left with my aide. I would

  want you to read it, of course."

  MacKenzie took out a combat pad from his

  field jacket, ripped off a page, unclipped

  the waterproof pencil and handed both to

  Francesco. "You've got fifteen seconds."

  The pope put the paper against the

  limousine and wrote swiBly. He gave the

  page back to the Hawk.

  I am safe. With GodEs blessing I shall

  reach you as

  the chess-playing O'Gilligan reaches me.

  Honkes' .

  "If it's a code, it's pretty piss-poor.

  Go ahead, pu
t it in the colored fella's

  pocket. I like that part that says you're

  safe." ~-

  276

  Giovanni ran to the figure of his papal

  aide, stuffed the note under his cassock

  and returned to the Hawk. "Now, Signore

  Generale, you waste time."

  'What?"

  "Put Frescobaldi in the limousine!

  Hurry! Inside is a briefcase. With my

  pills. Get it, please."

  "What?"

  "You would last five minutes in the

  Curia! Where is the elicottero'?"

  "The copter?"

  "Yes."

  "Over there. In a clearing."

  Captain Gris and Bleu had completed

  their swift conference. Gris called out.

  ' We have briefed the men General. We

  go! We meet at Zaragolo!"

  "Zaragolo!" said the pontiff. "The

  airport at Monti Prenestini?"

  "Yes," answered the Hawk, staring with

  sudden concentration on Pope Francesco.

  "What about it?"

  "Tell them to stay north of Rocco

  Priora! There are battalions of police

  in Rocca Priora."

  "That's east of Frascati "

  Yes!"

  "You heard him, Captains! Outflank

  Rocco Priora! Now, scramble!" roared the

  Hawk.

  No!" screamed Sam, backing away on the

  road, looking up at the hill.

  Everybody's crazy! You're out of your

  minds! I'm going to stop you. All of

  you!"

  Young man!" Giovanni stood erect and

  addressed Sam pontifically. 'Will you

  please be quiet and do as the general

  says?!"

  Noir emerged from the clearing. "The

  bird's ready, General! We've got a clean

  lift-off area."

  'We've also got an extra passenger. Get

  the counselor, Captain. You might show

  him a needle, if you can manage

  "With real pleasure," said Noir.

  One dosage, Captain!"

  -"Shit!"

  And so Giovanni Bombalini, the Holy

  Father of the Catholic Church, and

  MacKenzie Hawkins, two-time win277

  nerof the Congressional Medal of Honor,

  put Guido Frescobaldi into the papal

  limousine and ran like hell through the

  Appian forest to the helicopter.

  It was difficult for Francesco. The

  pontiff swore mildly at Sebastian, the

  patron saint of athletes, and finally.in

  desperation pulled up the skirts of his

  habit, displaying rather thick peasant

  legs, and damn near beat MacKenzie to

  the aircraft.

  The Lear jet soared above Zaragolo's

  cloud cover, Captain Noir at the

  controls, Captain Rouge in the

  co-pilot's seat. The Hawk and the pope

  sat in the forward section, across from

  one another, each by a window.

  Bewildered, MacKenzie glanced over at

  Francesco. He knew from long years of

  experience that when command was

  stymied, the best thing to do was to do

  nothing, unless the combat at hand

  required immediate counterstrike.

  Such was not the case now. The problem

  was that Francesco did- not behave like

  any enemy the Hawk had ever fought.

  Goddamnt

  There he sat, his heavy robes

  unbuttoned down to his undershirt, his

  shoes off, and his hands folded casually

  across his wide girth, looking out the

  Lear's window like some kind of happy

  delicatessen proprietor on his first

  airplane ride. It was amazing. And

  confusing.

  Goddamnt

  Why?

  MacKenzie realized that there was no

  point in wearing his stocking mask any

  longer. The others had to, for their own

  protection, but for him it made no

  difference.

  He removed it with a grateful sigh.

  Francesco looked over at him, not

  unpleasantly. The pope nodded his head,

  as if to say, Nice to meet you face to

  face.

  Goddamn!

  MacKenzie reached into his pocket for

  a cigar. He lifted one out, bit off the

  end, and pulled out a book of matches.

  "Per fawre?" Francesco was leaning

  toward him.

  "What?"

  "A cigar, Signore Generale. For me. Do

  you mind?"

  278

  . .

  .

  "Oh, no, not at all. Here you are."

  Hawkins extracted a second cigar from

  the pack and handed it to the pontiff.

  And then, as an afterthought, reached

  into his other pocket for the clipper.

  But it was too late.

  Francesco had bitten off the end,

  spat it out somehow without

  offense taken the matches from Mac's

  hand, and struck one.

  Pope Fraucesco, the Vicar of Christ,

  lighted up. And as the circles of

  aromatic smoke rose above his head,

  the pontiff sat back in the seat,

  crossed his legs under his habit, and

  enjoyed the scenery below.

  "Craze," Francesco said.

  "Prego," replied MacKenzie.

  279

  1

  PART

  I' ~

  The ultimate success of any

  corporation is dependent

  upon its major product~or

  service. It is imperative

  that the projected consumer

  be convinced through

  aggressive public reIations

  techniques that the

  product, or service, is

  essential to his very

  existence, if possible.

  Shepherd's Laws of Economics:

  Book CCCXXI, Chapter 173

  CHAPTER I1VENTY-I?OUR

  Sam sat in the

  cushioned, wrought

  iron chair at the

  northwest corner of

  the Machenfeld

  gardens. Anne had

  picked the spot after

  careful deliberation;

  it was the area of the

  gardens that provided

  the best view of the

  Matterhorn whose peak

  could be seen in the

  distance.

  It had been three

  weeks now since the

  awful thing:

  Ground Zero.

  The captains and the

  Turks had departed tor

  unknown parts of the

  world, never to be

  heard from again. The

  staff had been reduced

  to one cook, who

  helped Anne and Sam

  with the housecleaning

  and the gardens.

  MacKenzie was not very

  good at either chore,

  but he did take turns

  driving into the

  village for the

  newspapers. Too, he

  checked daily with the

  high-priced doctor he

  had flown in from New

  York, just in case.

  The doctor, a

  specialist in internal

  medicine, had no idea

  why he was being paid

  such extraordinary

  sums of money to do

  absolutely nothing but

  live lavishly in a<
br />
  lakeside residence,

  and so in the spirit

  of the AMA he accepted

  the unreported cash

  and did not complain.

  Francesco (Sam could

  not bring himself to

  say pope) had settled

  comfortably into the

  sealed-off top-floor

  apartments and could

  be seen daily walking

  on the ramparts

  through his rooftop

  gardens.

  MacKenzie had really

  done it! He had won

  the biggest military

  ol>jective of his

  career.

  And he was currently,

  through a convoluted

  series of

  extraordinarily

  complex, untraceable

  conduits, making his

  ransom demands of the

  Vatican.

  Ultrahigh-frerluency

  radio codes arcing

  from the Alps to

  Beirut to Algiers;

  relayed by 283

  desert and ocean towers from

  Marseilles, to Paris, to Milan, and on

  to Rome.

  According to the schedules he had

  imposed, the Vatican reply was to be

  radioed out of Rome and relayed from

  Beirut by 5 P.M.

  MacKenzie had left Machenfeld to

  drive to the isolated transmission

  center a lone cabin high in the upper

 

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