The Road to Gandolfo: A Novel

by Robert Ludlum

  “Don’t be too confident,” said Sam out loud. “You’re dealing with a living, legal, spinal meningitis!”

  But it was possible. He could pretend to go along with MacKenzie (always with great reluctance; to act otherwise would be out of character), gather in the diseased money—and, at the last moment, convene the investors and blow the whole operation out of the sky. And to save his hide, there’d be a lot of “in the case of my sudden demise, my own attorneys are instructed to publicly reveal …” any number of things.

  Including the translation of the Shepherd Company’s “brokering of religious artifacts.”

  Who would believe it?

  “Stop that!” Sam grabbed his wrist, startled by the sound of his own voice. He was further startled by the sound of the telephone. He raced to it like a man facing execution rushing to hear what the governor had to say.

  “Goddamn! This must be the attorney and secretary and treasurer of the Shepherd Company! With assets over ten million dollars! How does that strike you?”

  “It’s a leading question. I’ll not indulge.”

  “You know something, boy? You must be a pistol of a lawyer!”

  “Are you sure you want to talk over the telephone?” asked Devereaux. “It’s been given a pretty good FCC rating lately.”

  “Oh, that’s all right. We won’t say anything we shouldn’t. At least, I won’t, and I hope to hell you know better. I just wanted to tell you that the additional copies of the partnership agreement are downstairs waiting for you. I sent them up last night with an old master sergeant I used to know—–”

  “Good God, you had duplicates made? You damn fool! Those copy places usually keep a set! If they’re photostats there’ll be negatives!”

  “Not where I was. Right down here in the Watergate lobby there’s a big machine. You put in a quarter for each page—–Jesus! You should have seen the crowds gather! They’re a little jumpy around here, aren’t they? But nobody saw anything. It was kind of weird. Everybody staring; nobody saying anything. Except two guys from the Washington Post who came running in from the street—–”

  “All right!” interrupted Devereaux. “The copies are downstairs. What the hell am I supposed to do with them?”

  “Put ’em in your fancy briefcase, the one I gave you. Take ’em to Geneva. You won’t need ’em in Switzerland, of course, but there may be one or two other stops on the way back. Namely, London; that’s pretty definite. You’ll be at the Savoy for a day or two. Airline tickets and everything will be at the hotel in Geneva. When you’re in London a gentleman named Danforth will call you. You’ll know what to do.”

  “That’s dirty pool. I won’t know what to do; I don’t know what I’m doing! You can’t just put me in this crazy situation and not tell me anything. I’m carrying documents! My name is on them! I’m involved with the transfer of ten million dollars!”

  “Now, calm down,” said the Hawk with gentle firmness. “Remember what I told you: There’ll be times when, as my adjutant, you’ll be asked to carry out orders—–”

  “Bullshit!” roared Sam. “What am I supposed to say to people?”

  “Well, what’s bullshit to one man may be sugar-coated wheat to another. If anyone presses you, you’re just helping an old soldier who’s quietly raising a few dollars to spread religious brotherhood.”

  “That’s absurd,” said Devereaux.

  “That’s the Shepherd Company,” said the Hawk.

  MacKenzie lifted up five specific pages from the Xeroxed G-2 files scattered over the hotel bed and took them to the desk across the room. He sat down, picked up a red crayon, and proceeded to mark each copy on the top left border. One through five.

  Goddamn! It was the sequence he had been looking for, the pattern he knew was there because a man can’t resist going back to his first method of fortune building if the circumstances appear right. And because time minimizes the problems and pressures a person felt decades ago, especially if the profits remain.

  The cover intelligence out of Hanoi three years ago had been confusing but authentic. Authentic, that is, on the bottom line; everything else was distorted.

  An Englishman was making a killing by brokering hardware and ammunition to North Vietnam.

  No big deal; London did not frown on trade to the Commie bloc, although there were specific regulations as to war machinery. But it was a period during that screwed-up, half-assed conflict when the boys in Hanoi and Moscow and Peking were running slow on the production lines. Money could be made in large bundles by anyone who could divert combat supplies into North Vietnamese ports.

  One Lord Sidney Danforth had done just that.

  Buying in the United States, West Germany, and France, he sailed under Chilean flag ostensibly for ports in the new African countries. Except the ships did not go anywhere near Africa. They altered their courses in international Pacific waters, sped north, refueled in the Russian out-islands, and headed south to Haiphong as regulation-bound trading vessels.

  G-2 could never prove Danforth’s involvement because the Communist payments were made directly to the Chilean companies and Danforth stayed well out of sight. And Washington was not about to provoke an incident. Danforth was a powerful Englishman with a lot of clout in the Foreign Office. Nam wasn’t worth it.

  What had intrigued MacKenzie, however, were the two keys: Chilean flag and African ports. They were covers that had been used before. Thirty years ago. During World War II.

  It was common knowledge in intelligence circles that certain South American companies with outside financing had fed war machinery to the Axis at enormous profit during the early forties. In those hectic wartime days the shipping destinations were always Capetown and Port Elizabeth because the manifest records in those harbors were chaotic at best, but usually nonexistent. Scores of ships that were supposed to dock in South Africa altered courses in the southern Atlantic waters and headed into the Mediterranean. To Italy, generally.

  Was it possible that one Lord Sidney Danforth had imitated his own operations of three decades past?

  It was one thing to chisel a few million out of Southeast Asia in the seventies, something else again to make a fortune out of the holocaust that tested the courage of the British Lion. A man could get his name taken off the Buckingham Palace guest list pretty quickly for something like that.

  It was time for the Hawk to have a transatlantic talk with Lord Sidney Danforth, seventy-two-year-old knighted paragon of British industry. And just about the wealthiest man in England.

  Goddamn! The Shepherd Company was attracting some of the most interesting investors.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Strand was crowded. It was shortly past five o’clock; the legion of office workers were heading home.

  Sam had arrived at Heathrow Airport on the 3:40 flight from Geneva and had wasted no time getting to the relaxed comfort of a Savoy suite. He needed it. Geneva had been a nightmare.

  He had realized that for any future record, he had to convey a very specific ignorance as to the objectives of the Shepherd Company, cloaking this lack of knowledge in profound respect for the unnamed principals involved; especially the president, who was motivated by deeply-felt religious convictions.

  The Geneva bankers were, at first, impressed by his humility. My God, ten million United States dollars and the overseeing lawyer only smiled and spoke convivial banalities, demurring when pressed for identities, nodding soulfully about religious brotherhood when the staggering amount was brought up. So they asked him out to lunch, where there were a lot of winks and drinks and offers of bedroom gymnastics of an incredible variety. This was, after all, Switzerland; a buck was a buck and this hard-nosed approach was not to be confused with yodeling and edelweiss and Heidi in her pinafores. Gradually, thought Devereaux, as the lunches evolved into dinners, the Geneva bankers thought he was either the dumbest attorney ever to practice before the American bar or the most implausibly secretive middleman ever to cross their borders.


  He kept up the charade for three days and nights, leaving behind a half-dozen confused Swiss burgomasters, tearfully frustrated over unrequited confidences and terribly sick to their stomachs after too much industrial lubricant. And the strain on Sam was unbearable. He had reached the point where he could not concentrate on anything but his own rigid, blank smile and the necessary quiet control of his fears. He was so preoccupied with himself that when the vice-president of the Great Bank of Geneva saw him off at the airport, Devereaux just smiled and said “Thank you” when the banker threw up over his raincoat.

  In his anxiety to get the hell out of Geneva, he had left his shaving kit behind, which explained why he was now on The Strand looking for a drugstore. He walked south for a block and a half, opposite the Hippodrome, and went into the Strand Chemists. His purchases made, he headed back to the hotel, anticipating a long, warm bath, a shave, and a good dinner at the Savoy Grille.

  “Major Devereaux!” The voice was enthusiastic, American, and feminine. It came from a taxi which stopped in Savoy Court.

  It was Sloping yet Argumentative, the fourth Mrs. MacKenzie Hawkins, the lovely lady named Anne. She hurled herself at Sam, encircling his neck with her arms, pressing her cheek and various other parts against him.

  Instantly she withdrew and rather awkwardly composed herself. “I’m awful sorry. Gosh, that was real forward of me. Please forgive me. It was just so terrific to see a familiar face.”

  “Nothing to apologize for,” said Sam, remembering that Sloping yet Argumentative had appeared to him as the most naīve, as well as the youngest, of the four wives. She had oohed a lot, if he recalled correctly. “Are you staying at the Savoy?”

  “Yes. I got in last night. I’ve never been to England before, so I spent the whole day just walking everywhere. Gosh, my feet are yelling at me.” She parted her very expensive suede coat and frowned at the lovely legs very much in evidence below her short skirt.

  “Well, let’s get you off them quickly. Into the bar, I mean.”

  “I can’t tell you! It’s just so marvy to see someone you know!”

  “Are you here by yourself?” asked Devereaux.

  “Oh yes. Don, he’s my husband—now—is so darned busy with his marinas and restaurants and all those other things that he just said to me last week in LA, he said, ‘Annie, honey, why don’t you get your pretty little ass out of the way for a while? This is going to be a heavy month.’ Well, I thought of Mexico and Palm Springs and all the usual places, and then I figured, damn! Annie, you’ve never been to London. So off I flew.” She nodded brightly to the Savoy doorman and continued as Sam gestured her through the entrance into the lobby. “Don thought I was crazy. I mean, who do I know in England? But I think that was part of it, you know? I wanted to go someplace where there weren’t all the usual faces. Somewhere really different.”

  “I hope I didn’t spoil it.”

  “How?”

  “Well, you said I was a familiar face—–”

  “Oh, my, no! I said familiar, but I didn’t mean familiar. I mean, one little short afternoon at Ginny’s isn’t that kind of familiar.”

  “I see what you mean. The lounge is right up those stairs.” Sam nodded toward the steps on the left that led to the Savoy’s American Bar. But Anne stopped, still holding onto his arm.

  “Major,” she began haltingly, “my feet are still screaming and my neck is sore from looking up and my shoulder’s aching from this darned purse strap. I’d really love to spend a little time straightening myself out.”

  “Oh, sure,” replied Devereaux. “I’m being thoughtless. And stupid. As a matter of fact I was going to do some, er, straightening out myself. I left my shaving gear in Switzerland.” He held up the bag from the Strand Chemists.

  “Well then, that’s marvy!”

  “I’ll call you in about an hour—–”

  “Why do that? Have you seen the size of those johnnies upstairs? Wow! They’re bigger than some of Don’s ladies’ rooms. In his restaurants, I mean. There’s plenty of room. And those big, groovy towels. I swear they’re terry cloth sheets!” She squeezed his arm and smiled ingenuously.

  “Well, it is a solution—–”

  “The only one. Come on, we’ll get some drinks from room service and really relax.” They started for the elevator.

  “It’s very kind of you—–”

  “Kind, hell! Ginny told us you called. She positively lorded it over us. Now it’s my turn. You were in Geneva?”

  Sam stopped. “I said Switzerland—–”

  “Isn’t that Geneva?”

  Anne’s suite was also on the Thames side, also on the sixth floor, and conveniently no more than fifty feet down the corridor from his.

  Switzerland. Isn’t that Geneva? Several thoughts crossed Devereaux’s mind, but he was entirely too exhausted to dwell on them. And, for the first time in days, entirely too relaxed to let them interfere.

  The rooms were very like his own. High ceilings with real moldings; marvelous old furniture—polished, functional—desks and tables and pictures and chairs and a sofa that would do credit to Parke-Bernet; mantel clocks and lamps that were neither nailed down nor with imbedded plastic cards proclaiming ownership; tall casement windows, flanked by regal drapes, that looked out on the river with the lights of small boats, the buildings beyond, and especially Waterloo Bridge.

  He was in the sitting room, on the pillowed sofa, with his shoes off and a tall drink in his hand. The London Philharmonic was on BBC1, playing a Vivaldi concerto, and the warmth from a heater filled the room with a splendid comfort. Good things came to the deserving, thought Sam.

  Anne came out of the bathroom and stopped in the frame of the doorway. Devereaux’s glass was suddenly checked on its way to his lips. She was dressed—if that was the word—in a translucent sheath that at once left little to, yet completely provoked, the imagination. Her Sloping yet Argumentative breasts swelled to blushing points beneath the soft, single layer of fabric; her long, light-brown hair fell casually and sensually over her shoulders, framing her extraordinary endowments. Her tapered legs were outlined under the sheath.

  Without saying a word, she raised her hand and beckoned him with her finger. He rose from the sofa and followed.

  Inside the huge, tiled bathroom, the enormous Savoy tub was filled with steaming water; several thousand bubbles gave off the scent of roses and wet springtime. Anne reached up and removed his tie, and then his shirt, and then unstrapped his buckle, unzipped his trousers and lowered them to the floor. He kicked them free himself.

  She placed her hands on both sides of his waist and pulled down his shorts, kneeling as she did so.

  He sat on the edge of the warm tub while she pulled off his socks; and she held his left arm as he slid over the side, his body disappearing under the steaming white bubbles.

  She stood up, undid a yellow bow at her neck, and the sheath fell to the floor on top of the thick white rug.

  She was utterly magnificent.

  And she got into the tub with Sam.

  “Do you want to go down to dinner?” asked the girl from beneath the covers.

  “Sure,” replied Devereaux from under same.

  “Do you know we slept for over three hours? It’s nearly nine-thirty.” She stretched; Sam watched. “After we eat, let’s go to one of those pubs.”

  “If you like,” said Devereaux, still watching her, his head on the pillow. She was sitting up now, the sheet had fallen to her waist. Sloping yet Argumentative were challenging all they surveyed.

  “Gosh,” Anne spoke softly, a touch awkwardly, as she turned and looked down at Sam, who could barely see her face. “I’m being real forward again.”

  “Friendly’s a better word. I’m friendly, too.”

  “You know what I mean.” She bent over him and kissed him on both eyes. “You may have other plans; things you have to do or something.”

  “Things I want to do,” interrupted Devereaux warmly. “All plans are completely
flexible, subject only to whim and pleasure.”

  “That sounds sexy as hell.”

  “I feel sexy as hell.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Thank you.” Sam reached above and beyond her soft, lovely back and pulled the sheet over them.

  Ten minutes later (it was either ten minutes or several hours, thought Devereaux) they made the decision: They really did need food, preceded, of course, by short, smoky drams of iced whiskey, which they had in the sitting room, on the pillowed couch, under two soft, enormous bath towels.

  “I think the word is ‘sybaritic.’ ” Sam adjusted the terry cloth over his lap. BBC1 was now playing a Noel Coward medley and the smoke from their cigarettes drifted into the sprays of warm orange light from the fireplace. Only two lamps were turned on; the room was dreamed of in a thousand ballads.

  “Sybaritic has a selfish meaning,” said the girl. “We share; that’s not selfish.”

  Sam looked at her. Hawkins’s fourth wife was no idiot. How in hell did he do it? Had he done it? “The way we share, it’s sybaritic, believe me.”

  “If you want me to,” she answered, smiling and putting her glass down on the coffee table.

  “It’s not important. Why don’t we dress and go eat?”

  “All right. I’ll just be a few seconds.” She saw his questioning expression. “No, I will. I don’t dawdle for hours. Mac once said—–” She stopped, embarrassed.

  “It’s okay,” he said gently. “I’d really like to hear.”

  “Well, he once said that if you try to change the outside too much, you can’t help but mix up the inside. And you shouldn’t do that unless there’s a goddamned good reason. Or if you really don’t like yourself.” She swung her legs out from under her and rose from the couch, holding the towel around her body. “One, I don’t see any reason; and two, I kind of like me. Mac taught me that, too. I like us.”

  “So do I,” said Devereaux. “When you’re finished, we’ll go down to my room and I’ll change.”