The Road to Gandolfo

by Robert Ludlum

  “Good. I’ll button your shirt and tie your tie.” She grinned and dashed through the foyer door into the bedroom. Devereaux got up naked, throwing the long towel over his shoulder, and went to the side table where the bar was set up in a silver tray. He poured a small quantity of Scotch and thought about Mac Hawkins’s barroom philosophy.

  Change the outside too much—you mix up the inside.

  It wasn’t bad, all things considered.

  The tiny white light shone between the red and green bulbs on the small panel beside Devereaux’s door. Sam and the girl saw it simultaneously as they walked down the corridor and approached his suite. It was the sign that a message was at the front desk for the guest. Devereaux swore under his breath.

  Goddamn it! Geneva had not been erased that quickly. Or so completely, either. The least Hawkins could do was to let him get a decent night’s sleep!

  “One of those lights was on for me this afternoon,” said Anne. “I came back to change my shoes and found it; it means you have a phone call.”

  “Or a message.”

  “Mine was a call. From Don in Santa Monica. I finally got him back; you know, it was only eight o’clock in the morning in California.”

  “Nice of him to get up and phone.”

  “Not so. My husband owns two things in Santa Monica: a restaurant and a girl. The restaurant’s not open at eight in the morning; forgive my bitchiness. I think Don just wanted to make sure I was really seven thousand miles away.” Anne smiled up at him naīvely. He was not sure how to respond, all things considered.

  “Seems like a lot of trouble for, well, for checking up.” Sam snapped on the light switch in his foyer. Beyond, the sitting room lamps were on, as he had left them five hours ago.

  “My husband suffers from a mental illness peculiar to cheap strayers. As a lawyer, I’m sure you’re familiar with it. He’s paranoid about getting caught. Not morally, you understand; when he’s juiced up, he flaunts that part. Just financially; he’s scared to death some court will make him pay big if I opt for out.”

  They walked into his sitting room; he wanted to say something but, again, all things considered he was not sure what it should be. He chose the safest. “I think the man’s out of his mind.”

  “You’re sweet, but you didn’t have to say it. On the other hand, I suppose it’s the safest thing you could say—–”

  “Let’s find another subject,” he interrupted quickly, indicating the couch and the coffee table with the Savoy-supplied newspapers on it. “Sit down and I’ll be with you in a minute. I haven’t forgotten: You button the shirt and tie the tie.” Sam started for the bedroom door.

  “Aren’t you going to call the desk?”

  “It can wait,” he answered from the bedroom. “I have no intention of letting anything interfere with a quiet dinner. Or for that matter, showing you a pub or two, if they’re still open when we’re finished.”

  “You really should find out who’s trying to reach you. It could be important.”

  “You’re important,” shouted Sam, removing a tan double-knit suit from the awkward hanger in his suitcase.

  “It could be something vital,” said the girl from the sitting room.

  “You’re vital,” he replied, selecting a red-striped shirt from the next layer of clothes.

  “I can’t ever not answer a phone, or check for messages, or call back even a name I never heard of; that’s being too casual.”

  “You’re not a lawyer. Ever tried to get a lawyer the day after you’ve hired him? His secretary is trained to lie with the conviction of Aimee Semple McPherson.”

  “Why?” Anne was now standing in the bedroom doorway.

  “Well, he’s got your money; he’s scrounging around for another fee. What the hell, your case probably entails an exchange of letters with the opposing attorney, other explanations notwithstanding. He doesn’t want complications.”

  Anne approached him as he slipped on the red-striped shirt. She nonchalantly began buttoning it. “You’re a very cool Clyde. Here you are in strange country—–”

  “Not so strange,” he broke in, smiling. “I’ve been here before. I’m your tour guide, remember?”

  “I mean, you’ve just come from Geneva where you obviously had a bad time—–”

  “Not so bad. I survived.”

  “—and now someone is desperately trying to find you—–”

  “What’s desperate? I don’t know anybody so desperate.”

  “For Christ’s sake!” The girl yanked his collar as she fastened it. “Things like this make me nervous!”

  “Why?”

  “I feel responsible!”

  “You shouldn’t.” Devereaux was fascinated. Anne was very serious. He wondered.…

  And the telephone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Samuel Devereaux?” asked the precise voice of a male Britisher.

  “Yes, this is Sam Devereaux.”

  “I’ve been waiting for your call—–”

  “I just got in,” interrupted Sam. “I haven’t checked my messages yet. Who is this?”

  “At the moment, merely a telephone number.”

  Devereaux paused, annoyed. “Then I should tell you, you would have waited all night. I don’t return calls to telephone numbers.”

  “Come, sir,” was the agitated reply. “You’re not expecting any other caller of consequence.”

  “That’s a little presumptuous, I think—–”

  “Think whatever you like, sir! I’m in a great hurry and quite put out with you. Now, where do you wish to meet?”

  “I don’t know that I want to. Fuck off, Basil, or whatever the hell your name is.”

  The pause was now on the other end of the line. Sam could hear heavy breathing. In seconds the telephone number spoke. “For God’s sake, have pity on an old man. I’ve done you no harm.”

  Sam was suddenly touched. The voice had cracked slightly; the man was desperate. He remembered Hawkins’s last conversation. “Are you—–”

  “No names, please!”

  “All right. No names. Are you recognizable?”

  “Extremely. I thought you knew that.”

  “I didn’t. So we meet someplace out of the way.”

  “Very much so. I thought you knew that, too.”

  “Stop saying that!” Devereaux was as much annoyed with Hawkins as he was with the Englishman on the telephone. “Then you’d better choose it, unless you want to come to the Savoy.”

  “Impossible! That’s kind of you. I have several apartment buildings in Belgravia. One’s the Empire Arms; do you know it?”

  “I can find it.”

  “Good. I’ll be there. Flat four seven. It will take me an hour to get into London.”

  “Don’t hurry. I don’t want to meet in an hour.”

  “Oh? At what time then?”

  “When do the pubs close these days?”

  “Midnight. A little over an hour.”

  “Shit!”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’ll see you at one o’clock.”

  “Very well. The Empire security will be alerted. Remember, no names. Just flat four seven.”

  “Four seven.”

  “And, Devereaux. Bring the papers.”

  “What papers?”

  The pause was longer now, the English breathing heavier. “That goddamned agreement, you ass.”

  The girl not only accepted the fact that their dinner would be short and that he had to leave the hotel, but she seemed positively elated.

  Sam was wondering less and less. The why escaped him, but the what was becoming clearer. He agreed to have a nightcap with her when he returned. The hour was unimportant, Anne said; she gave him a key.

  The taxi stopped at the curb in front of the Empire Arms. At Sam’s mention of flat four seven, he was led by a doorman in a series of swift, secretive movements that took him through service doors, a short back staircase, a freight elevator, and the deliv
ery entrance of the flat.

  An ominous looking man with a north country accent asked for identification and then led Sam through a pantry, a large living room, a hallway, and finally to a small dimly lit library where a rather ugly little old man sat in shadows by the window. The door closed. Devereaux stood, adjusting his eyes to the light and the unattractive ancient in the armchair.

  “Mr. Devereaux—naturally,” said the wrinkled old man.

  “Yes. You must be the Danforth Hawkins spoke of.”

  “Lord Sidney Danforth.” The ugly little person spat out the ugly words, then suddenly his voice was syrup. “I don’t know how your employer pieced together what he did, nor do I for a moment admit anything; it’s all so preposterous. And so long ago. Nevertheless, I am a good man, a charitable man. Quite a wonderful man. Give me the damned papers!”

  “What?”

  “The agreement, you insufferable bastard!”

  Stunned, Sam reached into his breast pocket where he had a folded copy of the Shepherd Company’s limited partnership. He crossed to the ugly little person and gave it to him. Danforth swung out a portable desk panel from somewhere at the side of the armchair and snapped on a bright worklight at the top of the board. He grabbed the papers and started scanning them.

  “Fine!” said Danforth, wheezing, flipping over the pages. “They say absolutely nothing!” The little Britisher reached for a pen and began filling in the blank lines. When he had finished, he refolded the papers and handed them distastefully to Devereaux. “Now, get out! I am a marvelous man, a magnanimous provider; a humble multimillionaire whom everyone adores. I have richly deserved the extraordinary honors heaped upon my person. Everybody knows that. And nobody, I repeat, nobody could conceivably associate me with such madness! I am only—spreading brotherhood—do you understand me? Brotherhood, I say!”

  “I don’t understand anything,” said Sam.

  “Neither do I,” replied Danforth. “The transfer will be made in the Cayman Islands. The bank is listed and the ten million will be shifted within forty-eight hours. Then I’m through with you!”

  “The Cayman Islands?”

  “They’re in the Caribbean, you ass.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  He could see the tiny white light shining fifty feet down the Savoy corridor. He did not have to get any closer to know it was the door to his rooms; avoiding it was a second, very good reason to let himself into Anne’s suite.

  “If that’s not you, Sam, I’ve got problems,” she called from the bedroom.

  “It’s me. All your problems are happy ones.”

  “I like those kind.”

  Devereaux walked into the large bedroom with the windows overlooking the river. Anne was sitting up, reading a brightly colored paperback by the light of the table lamp. “What’s that?” he asked. “It looks impressive.”

  “A marvelous history of Henry the Eighth’s wives. I got it at the Tower this morning. That man was a monster!”

  “Not really. A lot of his troubles were geopolitical.”

  “In his crotch they were!”

  “That’s more historically sound than you may think. How about a drink?”

  “You’ve got to make a phone call first. I promised; first thing you did when you got back.”

  The girl turned a page calmly. Sam was not only astonished, he was curious. “What did you say?”

  “MacKenzie called. All the way from Washington.” She turned another page.

  “MacKenzie?” Devereaux could not help himself; he roared. “Just—MacKenzie called! You’re sitting there like you heard from room service and tell me MacKenzie called. How do you know he called? Did he call you?”

  “Really, Sam, stop being so uptight.” Cold as ice, she turned another goddamned page. “It’s not as though I didn’t know him. I mean, after all—–”

  “Oh, no! Spare me the odious comparisons! I just want to know about this extraordinary coincidence that has you seven thousand miles from home taking a telephone call from an ex-husband who’s calling me—three thousand miles from New York.”

  “If you’ll calm down, I’ll tell you. If you won’t, I’m just going to keep on reading.”

  Devereaux thought about how much he wanted a drink, but he suppressed his anger and spoke quietly. “I’m calm and I would very much like to have you speak. Please speak.”

  Anne put the book down on her lap and looked up at him. “To begin with, Mac was every bit as uptight as you are when I got on the line.”

  “How did you get on the line?”

  “Because I was worried.”

  “That’s why, not how.”

  “If you recall, and I think you will if you try real hard, you left me at the table downstairs. You were running late and I insisted. I told you I’d sign the check and go upstairs. Am I right so far?”

  “I owe you for dinner. Go on.”

  “A nice young man in white tie and tails came to the table and said there was an urgent transatlantic call for you. Are they always so dressed up?”

  “It’s a Savoy custom. What did you say?”

  “That you wouldn’t be back until very late; I wasn’t sure of the time. He seemed upset so I asked him if I could help. He said the caller was a General Hawkins from Washington, and I think the rank and the city made him nervous. Mac always does that; it gets better telephone service. So I told him not to worry about a thing. I’d talk to the old fart. He liked that.” Anne returned to her book. “Now, go call him. The number’s on the desk in the other room. It’s also on the desk in your place and also downstairs. I’m very flattered that you got it here first.”

  It was possible, Sam reflected. Unlikely but within the scope of possibility, as certain radio waves indicated the possibility of additional civilizations in galactic space. “What did Hawkins say? How was he uptight?”

  “Oh, just that I was here, I suppose,” said the girl, reluctantly taking her eyes off the page. “He started swearing and yelling and giving orders. I said, ‘Mac,’ I said, ‘go wash your mouth out with brown soap!’ I always used to tell him that. I mean he uses language we stayed away from in Belle Isle. Anyway, he calmed down and started to laugh.” Anne’s eyes drifted upward, at nothing. She was remembering, thought Sam, and those memories were not cold ones. “He asked me if I’d gotten rid of the fancy gigolo waiter yet—that’s what he calls Don—and if not, why not. And how you were such a nice fellow. You know, Mac thinks a great deal of you. Anyhow, it is very important that you call him back. I said it’d be awfully late; maybe not until three in the morning. But he said that was all right; it would only be ten o’clock in Washington.”

  “Can’t it wait until morning?”

  “No. Mac was very emphatic. He said if you thought about putting it off I should tell you it had something to do with an Italian gentleman who was asking for you.”

  “Did he add that he was in the undertaking business?”

  “No. But I think you should call him. If you want privacy, you can use the phone in the other room.”

  “Goddamn, boy! Isn’t it a real small world! There you are halfway across the globe and who do you run into but little old Annie. Not that she’s old, you understand—–”

  “I understand,” interrupted Sam, “that you’ve got greetings for me from Dellacroce. What did you tell your deeply religious friend now? That I crucified Jesus?”

  “Hell, no. That was just a little psycho-prod, in case you were reluctant to return my call. I haven’t even talked to Dellacroce. I don’t think he’s in favor of any further communications. Does that make you feel better?”

  Devereaux lit a cigarette. It helped cover the slight pain that was developing in his stomach. “I’ll tell you the truth, Mac. It simply makes me nervous that you called me at all. It makes me feel that you are about to say something that will not bring me any closer to Boston, or my mother, or my real employer, Aaron Pinkus; that’s the way your psych-prod makes me feel.”

  There was a long seri
es of audible tsks from MacKenzie Hawkins in Washington. “You are a very suspicious person. It must be the lawyer in you. How did everything go with Danforth?”

  “He’s a madman. He blows hot and cold like a psycho. He also signed the papers; he’s in for ten million for reasons I can’t possibly imagine. The bank’s in the Cayman Islands, which is, I assume, the reason for your telephone call.”

  “You mean you think I’d ask you to go to the Caymans?”

  “It crossed my mind.”

  “I wouldn’t do that. The Caymans aren’t any fun. Just dinky little hot spots with lots of banks and pricky-shit bankers. They’re trying to make the place into another Switzerland.… No, I’ll fly down there myself and take care of it. And you’ve got another ten thousand added to your account. Thought you’d like to know that.”

  “Mac!” Devereaux’s stomach experienced a sharp, stinging sensation. “You can’t do that!”

  “It’s easy, boy. You just make the cashier’s check out for deposit only.”

  “That’s not what I mean! You have no right putting money into my account!”

  “The bank didn’t argue—–”

  “The bank wouldn’t argue! I argue! I am arguing! Christ, don’t you understand? It means you’re paying me!”

  “One-tenth of one percent? Goddamn, boy, I’m cheating you!”

  “I don’t want to be paid! I don’t want anything to do with any money from you! That makes me an accessory!”

  “I don’t know anything about that, but it’s surely not right for one person to call upon the time and the talents of another person and not pay him for it.” Hawkins’s voice had the ring of a quiet evangelist.

  “Oh, shut up, you son of a bitch,” said Devereaux, recognizing the inevitability of defeat. “Outside of Danforth, why did you call?”

  “Well, now that you mention it, there’s a fellow in West Berlin I’d like you to talk with.”

  “Wait. Don’t tell me,” interrupted Sam wearily. “The airline tickets and the hotel reservations will be at the Savoy desk before I can say kippered herring.”

  “By morning, anyway.”

  “Okay, Mac, I know when I’m hung.” He was getting in deeper. Somehow, some way, sometime, Sam thought, he would have to climb out.