The Road to Gandolfo: A Novel

by Robert Ludlum

  “That’s different. I mean—–”

  “And tomorrow’s going to be your first day of work,” interrupted the Hawk. “Not much, but a beginning.”

  There was now a long pause in New York. “Before you say anything, you should understand that as a member of the bar, I subscribe to a canon of ethics that is very specific. I’ll do nothing to jeopardize my standing as an attorney.”

  Hawkins replied loudly, with no pause whatsoever, “I should hope not! Goddamn, boy, I don’t want any slippery shyster in my corporation. Wouldn’t look good on the stationery—–”

  “Mac!” roared Devereaux in exasperation. “You didn’t have stationery printed?”

  “No. I just said that. But it’s a hell of an idea.”

  Sam did his best to control himself. “Please. Please. There’s a law firm in Boston and a very nice man who’ll be on the Supreme Court someday who expects me back in a couple of weeks. He wouldn’t look kindly on my being employed by—somebody else during my leave. And you said my work for you would be finished in three or four weeks. So no stationery.”

  “All right,” agreed Hawkins sadly.

  “Now, what’s on for tomorrow? I’ll charge you by the day and deduct it from the ten thousand and return the rest at the end of the month. From Boston.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that.”

  “I do worry. I should also tell you that I’m not licensed to practice in the state of New York. I may have to pay outside attorney’s fees; depending upon what you want done. I gather it involves filing for this corporation of yours.” Devereaux lit a cigarette. He was happy to see that his hands were not shaking.

  “Not yet. We’ll get to that in a couple of days. Tomorrow I want you to check out a man named Dellacroce. Angelo Dellacroce. He lives in Scarsdale. He’s got several companies in New York.”

  “What do you mean, ‘check out’?”

  “Well, I understand he’s had business problems. I’d like to know how serious they are. Or were. Sort of find out what his current state of well-being is.”

  “ ‘Well-being’?”

  “Yeah. In the sense of his being around and not in jail, or anything like that.”

  Devereaux paused, then spoke calmly, as if explaining to a child. “I’m a lawyer, not a private investigator. Lawyers only do what you’re talking about on television.”

  Again MacKenzie Hawkins replied quickly. “I can’t believe that. If somebody wants to become part of a corporation, the attorney for the company should find out if the fellow’s on the up-and-up, shouldn’t he?”

  “Well, it would depend on the degree of participation, I suppose.”

  “It’s considerable.”

  “You mean this Angelo Dellacroce has expressed interest?”

  “In a way, yes. But I wouldn’t want him to think I was being rude by making inquiries, if you know what I mean.”

  Devereaux noticed that his hand now trembled slightly. It was a bad sign; better than a pained stomach but still bad. “I’ve got that strange feeling again. You’re not telling me things you should tell me.”

  “All in good time. Can you do what I ask?”

  “Well, there’s a firm here in the city that my office uses—used to use, anyway. Probably still does. They might be able to help.”

  “That’s fine. You see them. But don’t forget, Sam, we’ve got a lawyer-client relationship. That’s like a doctor or a priest or a good whore; my name doesn’t get mentioned.”

  “I could do without the last reference,” said Devereaux.

  Damn it. His stomach growled. He hung up.

  “Angelo Dellacroce!” Jesse Barton, senior partner, son-of-founder, Barton, Barton and Whistlewhite, laughed. “Sam, you’ve been away too long!”

  “That bad?”

  “Let’s put it this way. If our mutual Boston friend and your erstwhile employer—I assume he’s still your employer—Aaron Pinkus, thought you were seriously considering Dellacroce for some kind of money deal, he’d call your mother.”

  “That bad?”

  “I’m not kidding. Aaron would question your sanity and personally remove your name from the office door.” Barton leaned forward. “Dellacroce is Cosa Nostra with a capital Mafia. He’s so high in the charity rackets the cardinal invites him to the Alfred E. Smith dinner every year. And naturally, he’s untouchable. He drives district attorneys and prosecutors right out of their gourds. They can’t get him, but not for lack of trying.”

  “Then Aaron mustn’t learn of my very innocent inquiry,” replied Sam in confidence.

  “Your indiscretion is safe with me. Incidentally, is it an indiscretion? This party of yours, is he really that naïve?”

  Sam’s stomach began to answer for him. He spoke rapidly to cover the sound. “In my judgment, yes. I’m paying back a debt, Jesse. My client saved my ass in Indochina.”

  “I see.”

  “So he’s important to me,” continued Sam. “And according to you he’s naïve. About this Dellacroce.”

  “Don’t take my word for it,” said Barton, reaching for his telephone. “Miss Dempsey, get me Phil Jensen downtown, please.” Jesse replaced the receiver. “Jensen’s second in command at the prosecutor’s office. Federal district, not municipal. Dellacroce’s been a target over there ever since Phil joined; that was damn near three years ago. Jensen gave up an easy sixty thou’ to go after the evil people.”

  “Commendable.”

  “Bullshit. He wants to be a senator or better. That’s where the real money is—–” The telephone rang. Barton picked it up. “Thank you.… Hello, Phil? Jesse. Phil, I’ve got an old friend here; he’s been away for a few years. He was asking me about Angelo Dellacroce—–”

  The explosion on the other end of the line reverberated throughout the office. Jesse winced. “No, for Christ’s sake, he’s not involved with him. Do you think I’m crazy?… I told you he’s been away; out of the country, as a matter of fact.” Jesse listened for a moment and looked over at Sam “Were you in northern Italy?… Where, Phil?… Around Milan?”

  Devereaux shook his head. Barton continued, one ear at the telephone, his words directed at Sam.

  “Or Marseilles?… Or Ankara?… What about Rashid?”

  Devereaux kept shaking his head.

  “Algiers?… Were you in Algiers?… No, Phil, you’re way off. This is very straight. I wouldn’t be calling you if it was anything else, now would I?… Simple investment stuff, very legitimate.… Yes, I know, Phil.… Phil says those bastards will own Disneyland next.… Come on, Phil, that’s not kosher; he’ll simply walk away from him. I just wanted to confirm Dellacroce’s status.… Okay. All right. I’ve got it. Thanks.”

  Barton replaced the phone and leaned back. “There you are.”

  “I touched a raw nerve.”

  “The rawest. Dellacroce not only skipped free of an airtight indictment last week, but because of a grand jury leak, the prosecutor’s office has to issue a public apology. How does that grab you?”

  “I’m glad I’m not Jensen.”

  “Jensen’s not. His office will lay off Dellacroce for a couple of months then ring him in again. Won’t do them any good; Dellacroce’s got his ass in butter. He slides in and out of courtrooms.”

  “But my client should stay away.” Devereaux did not ask a question.

  “Several continents,” replied Barton. “Clothes don’t make the man; his investors do. Ask anyone from Biscayne to San Clemente.”

  “Well, goddamn, isn’t that interesting? You just can’t tell anymore, can you?”

  “Stay clear of him,” said Devereaux, shifting the hotel phone and reaching for the glass of bourbon on the other side of the desk. “He’s bad news and you don’t want him near you.”

  “I see what you mean—–”

  “I’d rather you said ‘Yes, Sam, I’ll stay away from Angelo Dellacroce.’ That’s what I’d like to hear you say.”

  “See what you mean.”

  “You’re no
t listening. When you pay a lawyer a retainer you listen to him. Now, repeat after me: ‘I will not go near—–’ ”

  “I know you’ve had a hard day, but you might put your mind to the next order of business. Just sort of think about it.”

  “I’m still thinking about Angelo Dellacroce.”

  “That part’s finished with—–”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “—for the time being. Now, I want you to begin roughing out a kind of standard corporation agreement. A real legal document that has blanks for people putting in money.”

  “People like Dellacroce?” Devereaux’s voice made clear his position.

  “Goddamn, forget about that guinea bastard!”

  “From what I know about him I think you should refer to him as the Roman-blood-royal. But I’d rather you never referred to him again. What kind of corporation? If you want it filed in New York, I’ll have to bring in another attorney. I told you that.”

  “No, sir, boy!” Hawkins shouted the words. “I don’t want anyone else involved! Just you!”

  “I made it very clear: I’m not licensed to practice here. I can’t file in the state of New York.”

  “Who said anything about filing? I just want the papers.”

  Sam was numb. He was not sure what he was supposed to say; what he could say. “Do you mean to tell me you retained me for ten thousand dollars to prepare legal papers you are not going to execute—strike that—file?”

  “Didn’t say I wouldn’t sometime. I’m just not going to worry about it now.”

  “Then why get a lawyer until you need one? And why the hell am I in New York?”

  “Because I don’t want you in Washington. For your own good. And when a man raises money for a corporation, he’s got to have real legal-looking documents to give for it. I reversed the order of your questions.”

  “I’m glad you told me. I won’t pursue either one. What kind of corporation?”

  “A regular one.”

  “There’s no such thing. Every company is different.”

  “The kind where profits are shared. Among investors.”

  “In that they’re all the same. Or should be.”

  “That’s the kind I want. No monkey business.”

  “Wait a minute.” Devereaux put down the phone and crossed to the chair where he’d left his attaché case. From it he took out a yellow legal pad and two pencils and returned to the desk. “I’ll need the specifics. I’m going to ask you some questions so I can rough out this not-to-be-filed, unexecuted legal document.”

  “Go ahead, boy.”

  “What’s the title? The corporate name.”

  “I thought about that. What do you think of the Shepherd Company?”

  “Not a hell of a lot. I don’t know what it means. Not that it makes any difference. Call it anything you like.”

  “I like the Shepherd Company.”

  “Fine.” Sam wrote out the words. “What’s the address?”

  “United Nations.”

  Devereaux looked at the telephone. “What?”

  “The address. Whatever the United Nations building is.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s … symbolic.”

  “You can’t use a symbolic address.”

  “Why not?”

  “I forgot. You’re not filing. All right. The depository?”

  “Who?”

  “The bank. Where the corporate funds will be deposited.”

  “Leave that blank. A couple of lines. There’ll be several banks.”

  Sam’s pencil involuntarily stopped. He forced it onward. “What’s the purpose of the company?”

  There was a pause in Washington. “Give me some legal-sounding choices.”

  Now a longer pause in New York. Devereaux’s pencil really objected. “Let’s start with ‘intent.’ ”

  “Obviously, to make money.”

  “How?”

  “By having something people will pay for.”

  “Manufacturing? Production of merchandise?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Marketing?”

  “That’s nearer. Keep going.”

  “Where?”

  “Some more words,” replied Hawkins.

  “I’m not a corporate attorney but if I remember the books, a company’s purpose—its motive for profit—is in one form or another of production, manufacturing, marketing, acquisition, services—–”

  “Hold it! That one.”

  “Services?”

  “That’s good, but I mean the one before that.”

  Sam exhaled. “Acquisition?”

  “That’s it. Acquisition.”

  “Acquiring at one price, disposing at a second, higher price. You’re in brokerage?”

  “That’s very good, Sam. That’s really using the old noodle.”

  Devereaux pushed the pencil against its inanimate will and wrote on the pad. “If you’re a broker, there’s got to be a product. Services or real estate or merchandise—–”

  “Of a deeply religious nature,” interrupted MacKenzie, his voice low and solemn.

  “What is?”

  “The product.”

  Sam inhaled; it was a long breath. When he exhaled it was with a hum. “Are you saying that you are forming a company to broker the acquisition of religious merchandise?”

  “That’ll do,” answered Hawkins simply.

  “Artifacts?”

  “That’s even better.”

  “For Christ’s sake, what is?”

  “ ‘Broker the acquisition of religious artifacts.’ Goddamn, boy. Perfect!”

  Devereaux borrowed the standard New York State forms for a limited partnership agreement from Barton. It was a relatively simple matter to transcribe his notes into the partnership forms and have the hotel stenographer retype the pages as though they had been dictated. Things were looking up, thought Sam as he scrutinized the finished product, replete with its blank lines for investors, depositories, amounts; and the inane description of “brokering the acquisition of religious artifacts.”

  But it looked as legal as a chapter in Blackstone. Yes, Sam mused as he balanced the envelope containing the gobbledygook he was about to mail to MacKenzie Hawkins. Things were looking up. He’d be back in Boston with Aaron Pinkus Associates in a few days; his “legal” work for the Hawk was finished. Altogether it had taken him nine days, some three weeks short of the month Mac had figured.

  He had agreed to stay at the Drake a day or two longer, giving Mac sufficient opportunity to approve of his labors. There was no question that approval would come, and it did.

  “My word, Sam, that’s a mighty impressive looking document,” said the Hawk over the telephone from Washington. “I’m downright amazed you were able to write it all up so quickly.”

  “There are certain guidelines to follow; it wasn’t that difficult.”

  “You’re too modest, young fella.”

  “I’m anxious, that’s what I am. Anxious to get back to Boston—–”

  “I can certainly understand that,” broke in Hawkins without the commensurate affirmative that would have curtailed the sudden, growing pain in Devereaux’s stomach.

  “Listen, Mac—–”

  “I see you made me president of the company. You didn’t tell me that.”

  “There were no other names. I asked you about the corporate officers and you said leave the lines blank.”

  “What are those titles secretary and treasurer? Are they important?”

  “Not if you’re not filing.”

  “Suppose someday I decided to?”

  “The standard procedure is to combine the two. Most states require a minimum of two general partners for a limited partnership agreement.”

  “But I could have more if I wanted to, couldn’t I?”

  “Certainly.”

  “I just wanted to know what’s right, Sam. Not important. It’s never going to be filed. Just passes the time.”

  Deve
reaux thought he detected a note of melancholy in Hawkins’s voice. Was Mac beginning to come to grips with his own fantasies? Did he begin to understand that his irrational foray into corporate legalities was simple compensation for the absence of command decision? Sam began to relax. He actually felt sorry for this old war-horse. Passes the time was a euphemism for filling up the days. “I’m sure it does, General.”

  “Why, Sam, you haven’t called me general in weeks.”

  “Sorry. A slip.”

  “I’ll be in touch with you tomorrow, boy. You’ve worked hard. Have a little fun tonight. Remember, it’s on the expense account.”

  “As to that ten thou’. It’s very generous of you but I don’t want it. I don’t need it. I’ll deduct whatever legal expenses—stenographer, supplies, that kind of thing—and return the rest. Then there’s an investment counselor I know in Washington—–”

  Devereaux stopped. He realized that the click on the other end of the line had terminated the conversation.

  There was no point in not having a good time. He had spent enough weekends in New York to know where the action was: the singles’ bars on Third Avenue.

  Sam was spectacularly successful. His catch was a nubile young thing who had come out of Omaha, Nebraska—the county seat of Henry Fonda and Marlon Brando—to scale the Broadway heights. She was terribly impressed with a lawyer who did a lot of work for Metro-Goldwyn-Warner-Brothers when he wasn’t handling contracts for Bowling For Dollars and Masterpiece Theatre.

  Sam was impressed, too. All during the night, throughout most of the next morning, well into the following afternoon and (with time out for food and limited discussion) into the next evening.

  It was 9:27 when the telephone rang; 9:29 when the nubile young thing spoke sleepily. “Sam, the phone’s on my side.”

  “You’re very observant.”

  “Shall I get it?” she asked.

  “Since it’s on your side, I’d say yes.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Sam opened his eyes. The girl had raised herself and was stretching; the sheet had fallen away. “Make it quick,” Devereaux said.

  “If you’re sure.”

  “I have no wife and my mother doesn’t know where I am and Aaron Pinkus wouldn’t be mad. Get the phone, talk fast, and hang up.”