The Road to Gandolfo

by Robert Ludlum

  Devereaux smiled gently. “I’d never laugh at a thing like that. I don’t think it’s anything to laugh at. A man’s religious thoughts are not only his constitutional right, but often his very real sustenance.”

  “That’s a mighty nice way to phrase it. Real deep, Sam. By the way, just one other thing about this Brokemichael business. Tomorrow morning at G-two. Keep your fucking mouth shut and do as I say.”

  Hawkins was waiting under the canopy when Sam pulled up to the curb in front of the hotel. He held what looked like a very expensive briefcase in one hand, opened the car door with his other and slid in. There was a broad grin on his face.

  “Goddamn! It’s a beautiful morning!”

  It was not. It was cold and wet and the skies promised a heavy rain.

  “Your barometer’s a little off.”

  “Nonsense! The day—like age—depends on how you feel, boy. And I feel just grand!” Hawkins smoothed the lapels of his tweed suit, adjusted the deep red paisley tie over the modish striped shirt, and ran his fingers delicately over the hair above his ears.

  “Glad you’re in such good spirits,” said Sam, starting up the car and entering the flow of traffic. “I don’t want to dampen them but you can’t take a briefcase with you. You can’t remove any papers. Nothing leaves the G-two offices.”

  Hawkins laughed. He pulled out a cigar from his shirt pocket. “Oh, don’t worry your legal head about details,” he said, snipping off the end of the cigar with a sterling silver clipper. “I’ve taken care of all that.”

  “There’s nothing to take care of! I’m responsible for you and I’ve got twenty-four hours to keep my nose clean.” Devereaux took his hostility out on the horn; the sound was returned in good measure by the surrounding vehicles.

  “Jesus, you’re in a foul temper. You just keep your eyes on the high ground, don’t concern yourself with the flanks.”

  “Goddamn it, doesn’t anybody speak English anymore? What goddamned flanks? What does that mean?”

  “It means what I said last night.” MacKenzie spoke as he lighted his cigar. “Do as I say and don’t make waves. By the way, would you like to know the name of the fella in charge of the G-two archives? Well, no reason for you to know, but he’s a bright son of a bitch, a real genius. Didn’t know what I was doing for the service when I got him out of that prison camp west of Hanoi a few years back. He’s a Pointer, too. Can you beat that? Class of forty-seven. Same as me. Goddamn! The coincidences in this world—–”

  “No!… No, Mac! No! No, no, no! You can’t! I won’t let you!” Sam attacked the horn again. Viciously hammering on it. At a crippled old lady who was having a difficult time crossing the intersection. The poor, trembling thing sank her head farther into her quivering shoulders.

  “Regulation Seven Seven Five makes it clear that a legal escort is just that. An escort. Not an observer. He takes the clandestine operations officer to and from the place of examination, but he’s not permitted inside the room. I guess there’re a lot of dishonest lawyers, Sam.” MacKenzie took a long, savoring intake of cigar smoke.

  “There’s another thing that’s not allowed in that room, you son of a bitch!” Devereaux slammed his hand in fury on the rim of the horn once more. The crippled old lady was now splayed out in the middle of the street. “And that’s a briefcase!”

  “It is, if the officer is making his final contributions. Nobody can see those but the ranking archivist of G-two. It’s classified material.”

  “There’s nothing in there!” yelled Sam, pointing at his briefcase.

  “How do you know? It’s locked.”

  Upon entering the offices of army intelligence, Hawkins was escorted quietly, professionally, to the specific room selected for his 775, by two flanking military police. Sam took up the rear. It seemed to Devereaux as formal an exercise as an execution, except that Mac was loose and slightly slouched in his modish tweed suit, not ramrod at all. But once the four of them were inside the room, Hawkins straightened up and replaced his warm civilian tones with the harsh bark of a leather-lined general officer. He ordered the MPs to take Sam into the next room and summon their superior. The MP captains saluted, took Devereaux by the elbows silently into the adjacent room, slammed the door, locked it, checked the corridor, and walked in Wehrmacht unison out into the hallway. They locked that door, too.

  He had a vague feeling of déjà vu; then he remembered. He’d watched a late night movie on television several weeks ago. Seven Days in May. He walked to the single window and looked out. And down. Through the bars. It was four stories to the street. G-2 wasn’t taking any chances with legal escorts from the inspector general’s office, he thought.

  There was the sound of voices from the next room. And then overly masculine laughter accompanied by eruptions of profanity. Old comrades-in-arms recalling the good old days when everyone got his ass shot off, except the generals. Sam sat down in a chair and picked up a dogeared, worn-out copy of Let’s Stamp Out V.D. in G-2, and read.

  His reading—which was actually rather fascinating—was suddenly interrupted by the steady repetition of another sound from the examination room.

  Therump-chump. Therump-chump. Therump-chump.

  Devereaux swallowed several times, annoyed with himself for leaving his antacid tablets in the car. The sound he was hearing could not be confused with any other sound in his frame of reference, no matter how hard he tried. It was a Xerox machine.

  Why would an examination room for the processing of eyes-only classified files have a Xerox machine?

  On the other hand, why wouldn’t it?

  The first question was infinitely more logical. A Xerox machine was a contradiction—in spirit and in fact—to the purpose of Regulation 775.

  Sam went back to his reading, unable to keep his mind even on the pictures.

  An hour and twenty minutes later the therump-chumping stopped. Several minutes after that a metallic crack of a lock was heard and the door of the examination room was opened. MacKenzie emerged carrying his expensive briefcase, now bulging and strapped together with shining steel G-2 bands, and a foot-long steel chain dangling from the crossbar.

  “What the hell is that?” asked Devereaux from the chair, apprehensively and not at all kindly.

  “Nothing,” replied the Hawk casually. “Just some Fleet-Pac-Com-Sat transfer files.”

  “And what the hell is that?”

  “Major,” continued MacKenzie, raising his voice, standing suddenly very erect. “I present Brigadier General Beryzfickoosh! Atten … hut!”

  Devereaux shot up from the chair and snapped his hand in salute as a barrel-chested officer with twelve rows of ribbons, an eye patch and, Sam swore, a fright wig on his head, walked swiftly into the room. The salute was returned with a vibrating flourish; the officer then extended a large, muscular hand.

  “Hear you’re up for discharge, Major,” said the general gruffly.

  “Yes, sir,” answered Devereaux, gripping the outstretched hand.

  At which instant Hawkins slapped the briefcase chain over Sam’s wrist, securing the triple combination lock between the links, and barked, “First transfer completed, General!”

  “Confirmed, sir!” shot back the general, still holding Devereaux’s hand in an iron grip, his one eye staring at Sam. “Fleet-Pac-Com-Sat is now in your custody, Major! Prepare for second transfer!”

  “For what, General?”

  “Say!” The general released Sam’s hand. “Aren’t you the legal prick who shafted old Brokey Brokemichael?”

  Devereaux’s stomach was suddenly in agony; perspiration formed instantly on his forehead, as the heavy briefcase pulled him halfway to the floor. “There are two sides to that story, sir.”

  “Goddamned right!” shouted the general. “Brokey’s and some shit-ass noncombatant’s who should be on a stockade rock pile!”

  “Now, just a minute, General—–”

  “What, soldier? You being insubordinate?”

  “No, sir
. Not at all, sir. I would just like to point out—–”

  “Point out!? You point your ass in the direction of that door an secure the transfer of Fleet-Pac-Com-Sat, or I’ll point you right into a court-martial! For insubordination and incompetence!”

  “Yes, sir! Right away, sir!” Sam tried to salute but the chain and the briefcase were too heavy, so he made a rapid about-face and headed for the door, which was miraculously opened by the two MP captains.

  The formalities at the entrance desk were over with quickly. The steel G-2 bands securing the briefcase were some kind of symbol of authority. Devereaux signed the checkout book and the miniature camera silently took his photograph.

  Out on the street, Sam turned to the Hawk. “That guy’s crazy! Another ten seconds he would have thrown me into solitary! For what?”

  “Old Brokey’s got a lot of friends,” said MacKenzie. “Here, I’ll drive.”

  “Thanks.” Devereaux reached awkwardly into his pocket and gave Hawkins the keys, his hand still trembling. They walked to the parking lot and got in the car.

  Fifteen minutes later, in the middle of a Washington traffic jam, Sam’s nerves began to calm down. His panic at being faced with a weird, apoplectic general screwing up his discharge at the last minute was fading. But that concern was being inexorably replaced with another very genuine fear. Brought about partially by the Hawk’s silence.

  “Mac, now that this pile of fleet-kumquats is in my custody, what the hell am I supposed to do with them? Where’s this second transfer taking place?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “Of course, not.”

  “The general thinks you do.”

  “Well, I don’t!”

  “You want to go back and ask him, Sam? Personally, I don’t recommend it. Not with the way he feels about you. Jesus! He might dig up all kinds of very serious violations. And you just got your picture taken. One thing always leads to another, you know what I mean? Like the domino theory. Your trial could last for a year or two.”

  “What the hell’s in here, Hawkins? Don’t bullshit me! What is it?”

  “Sorry, Sam. I’m afraid I can’t discuss it. You understand, boy. It’s classified.”

  Sam sat forward on the couch, his arm stretched out over the coffee table. MacKenzie manipulated the hacksaw back and forth over the chain.

  “Once I get this goddamned chain off, we can work on the lock,” said Mac comfortingly. “It would be easier with a small blowtorch.”

  “Not on my arteries, you son of a bitch! And thanks for not telling me you didn’t have the combination.”

  “Now, don’t worry, I’ll have it off in ten or fifteen minutes. The steel’s a touch harder than I figured.”

  An hour and fourteen minutes later the last links were severed, leaving one dangling chain and a triple combination lock around Devereaux’s wrist.

  “I’ve got to get in touch with my office,” Sam said. “They’ll expect me to check in.”

  “No, they won’t. You’re with me. Covering my Seven Seven Five. That’s what the agreement states. One day minimum, three days maximum.”

  “But we’re not there.”

  “We went to lunch.…” MacKenzie cleared his throat.

  “I should still telephone—–”

  “Goddamn, you’ve no faith in me at all! Why the hell do you think I waited until this morning before going to G-two? You’ve got one day left and I account for your time. You can’t get in trouble if you’re not there.”

  “Of course not. No trouble—just a firing squad.”

  “Nonsense.” Hawkins got up from the floor, carrying the freed briefcase to the hotel writing desk. “You’re safer with me. I know those IG close-outs. You think you’re winding everything up and some pricky-shit waltzes in and tells you you’re not going anywhere until some brief is completed.”

  Devereaux looked over at the general, now snapping the G-2 bands and opening the expensive briefcase. There was logic in Mac’s madness. There was sure to be some ball-breaking file or other that a confused superior did not care to have left in his lap. A memorandum could be misplaced—or not read. A confrontation, even a discussion,between legal officers could not be overlooked. Hawkins definitely had a point: Sam was safer away from the office.

  MacKenzie removed several hundred Xeroxed pages and put them on the desk beside the briefcase. Devereaux pointed to them and spoke cautiously, “That’s all your Seven Seven Five?”

  “Well, not actually. A lot of it’s open stuff that’s never been closed out.”

  Sam was suddenly more uncomfortable than he had been for the past three hours. “Wait a minute. You said back at G-two that it was just raw material on people you’d run across.”

  “Or people other people ran across. I added that, son, I really did. You were just so upset you didn’t listen.”

  “Oh, Christ! You removed raw files on subjects that weren’t yours?”

  “No, Sam,” replied the Hawk as he squared off some pages. “You did. It says so right at the security desk. Your signature.”

  Devereaux sank back in the couch. “You devious son of a bitch.”

  “That kind of says it,” agreed Hawkins sadly. “There were times in the field—operating way the hell behind the lines, of course—when I wondered how I could bring myself to do the things I did. But then the answer was always the same. I was trained to survive, boy. And survive I do.” The Hawk now had four piles of Xeroxes neatly to the left of the briefcase on the desk. He tapped his fingers over them as if playing a piano and then looked over at Sam pensively. “I think you’re going to do real fine. You will accept the temporary appointment as my attorney, won’t you? Won’t be for long.”

  “And it’s a little more complicated than investments, isn’t it?” Devereaux remained well back in the couch.

  “A mite, I suspect.”

  “And if I refuse I don’t even have to worry about Brokemichael. He’s minor. Now there’s a small matter of removing classified files from G-two. No statute of limitations on that little caper.”

  “Don’t imagine there is.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Work up some contracts. Pretty simple stuff, I should think. I’m forming a company. A corporation, I guess you’d call it.”

  Sam inhaled deeply. “That’s really kind of amusing, if it weren’t so sad. Purpose and intent notwithstanding, there’s a not-so-minor item called capitalization required when you form a corporation. I know your finances. I hate to disabuse you but you’re not exactly in the corporate assets league.”

  “No faith, that’s your trouble. I expect you’ll change.”

  “And what does that cryptic remark mean?”

  “It means I’ve got the assets figured out to the dollar, that’s what it means.” Hawkins planted his fingers over the Xeroxes in an elongated press. As if he had found the Lost Chord.

  “What assets?”

  “Forty million dollars.”

  “What!” In his stunned disbelief, Sam leaped up from the couch. The dangling steel chain followed swiftly and, in a howling instant of pain, the bottom links whipped across his eye.

  His left eye.

  The room went around and around.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Devereaux ripped open the envelope the instant he closed the hotel door. He pulled out the rectangular slip of heavy paper and stared at it.

  It was a cashier’s check made out to his name. The amount was for ten thousand dollars.

  It was absurd.

  Everything was absurd; nothing made any sense at all.

  He had been a civilian for exactly one week. There had been no hitches regarding his discharge; no Brokemichael surfaced, and no last-minute problems developed in the office because he had not gone to the office until an hour before his formal separation from the army. And when he arrived he not only had a patch over his left eye, but a thick bandage around his right wrist. From burns.

  He had moved out of hi
s apartment, sent his belongings to Boston, but did not follow them because a devious son of a bitch named MacKenzie Hawkins stated that he needed “his attorney” in New York. Therefore Sam had a two-room suite at the Drake Hotel on Park Avenue, reserved and paid for. The suite was leased for a month; Hawkins thought it would be enough time.

  For what? MacKenzie was not yet ready to “spell it out.” However, Sam was not to worry; everything was “on the expense account.”

  Whose expense account?

  The corporation’s.

  What corporation?

  The one Sam would soon be forming.

  Absurd!

  Forty million dollars’ worth of delusions that screamed for a frontal lobotomy.

  And now a cashier’s check for ten thousand dollars. Free and clear and no receipt required.

  Ridiculous! Hawkins could not afford it. Besides, he had gone too far. People did not send other people (especially lawyers) ten thousand dollars without some kind of explanation. It simply was not healthy.

  Sam walked over to the hotel telephone, checked the confusing litany on the pull-out tab beneath the instrument, and placed a call to MacKenzie.

  “Goddamn, boy! That’s no way to behave! I mean, you might at least say thank you.”

  “What the hell for? Accessory to theft? Where did you get ten thousand dollars?”

  “Right out of the bank.”

  “Your savings?”

  “That’s right. Didn’t steal from anyone but myself.”

  “But why?”

  There was a slight pause in Washington. “You used the word, son. I believe you called it a retainer.”

  There was a second pause. In New York. “I think I said I was the only lawyer I knew who had a retainer based in the sort of blackmail that could march me in front of a firing squad.”

  “That’s what you said. And I wanted to correct that impression. I want you to know I value your services. I surely wouldn’t want you to think I didn’t appreciate you.”

  “Cut it out! You can’t afford it and I haven’t done anything.”

  “Well, boy, I believe I’m in a better position to judge what I can afford. And you did do something. You got me out of China some four thousand years before my parole was due.”