The Road to Gandolfo (14 page)

“What the hell are you talking about? What’s religion got to do with anything? Get off my neck!”

“Religion helps a man recognize the truth. He may not like it; his
religion
may not like it, or even admit it is the truth, but because he’s contemplated, the religious man can separate what’s real from what’s horseshit. You follow me?”

“Not for a goddamned second! My neck hurts!”

“Sorry. I’ll ease up, but it’s time we talk.” MacKenzie removed his hand. Instantly Devereaux bolted, but the Hawk merely rolled with him, pinning him back to the earth. “I said we’ve got to
talk
, boy. You’re a reasonable person; you can see the logic in that.”

“The problem,” whispered Sam, straining on the ground, “is that you’re
not
reasonable
or
logical! Do you know what you’ve done? Guys like that—” He gestured with his head; somehow, he could not use his hands. “They freeze people for welching on their bookies! They think nothing about paying for the biggest funeral in town—for a
paisan
who held out on a skim! I
know
. I’m from
Boston
.”

“You’re overreacting again. Mr. Dellacroce won’t do anything like that. He knows where he stands—which is roughly in twenty feet of lye if he doesn’t behave. That account in Geneva. He stole from his own people.”

Grudgingly, suspiciously, Devereaux stared at Mac in the moonlight. “You’re sure of that?”

“It was all in the G-two files. Trouble was nobody put it together. I don’t think they wanted to; Dellacroce’s crowd are big Pentagon supporters, what with government contracts and union affiliations—. Now, will you listen to me?”

With a reluctance born of fear, but with an assent formed in necessity, Sam nodded. The Hawk helped him up and the two men walked into the rough off fairway six. There was a large oak tree whose leaves filtered the moonlight. Sam sat down against the trunk; Mac fell to
one knee in front of him, the line officer clarifying orders at a fire base.

“Remember a couple of weeks ago my telling you how I was looking into things I hadn’t thought much about before? God and the church and things like that.”

“I remember saying I wouldn’t laugh—–” Devereaux’s reply was flat, wary. A monotone.

“That was very thoughtful, boy. Well, I
was
doing some thinking, but not quite in the way you maybe considered. You and I know that ninety-nine percent of all Commie propaganda is horseshit; everybody knows that. Ours is only—say, fifty to sixty percent, so we’re way ahead on that score. But that one percent of the Bolshie feedback got me to wondering. About this Catholic situation. Not what people
believe
, that’s their business. But how the organization operates. And it seemed to me that these Vatican fellows got such a good thing going they should spread a little more around. I mean, they got investments, son. When the stock market goes up a couple of points anywhere in the world, they make zillions.”

“And if it goes down, they lose zillions.”

“Not so! The brokers get ’em out in time or they get canned from the Knights of Malta. It’s part of the arrangement. And they can’t get their pictures taken with the pope.”

“That
is
horseshit.”

“If it is, why do all the Catholic brokers on Wall Street have all those initials after their names. You know of any college degrees that start with the letter
K
? Malta, Columbus, Lourdes. And the saints! Je
sus
! Knights of Assisi, Knights of Peter, Matthew—it goes on for pages. It’s kind of a social order. The more a fellow on the stock exchange does for the Vatican, the better the
K
after his name. And Wall Street’s only one example. It’s the same all over the place.”

“I think you’ve been reading some pretty strange books. The
Ku Klux Klanner
, maybe. Nineteen twenty edition.”

“Hell, no. I don’t cotton to that shit. A man’s got a right to believe anything he likes. I’m only talking about the financial part. Then there’s real estate. Do you know the sort of real estate the Vatican boys have? I swear they pick
up rent from the Ginza to the Gaza strips and most places in between. They own
the
prime properties in New York, Chicago, Hartford, Detroit—’most every place where the micks, the wops, the Polacks and all those kind of people migrated. They always do it the same way. They go in early—before all the ethnics get settled—and buy up land and build a big church. Naturally, all these Ellis Islanders are nervous being in a strange place and all, so
they
build their houses near the church. In a generation or so their kids are lawyers and dentists and own automobile dealerships. So what do they do? They move out to the suburbs and go to work where they once lived, which is now the center of
town
, the
business
district. And the church property skyrockets! It’s a regular pattern, boy!”

“I’m trying to find something negative here and I can’t,” said Sam, staring in the shadows at the excited Hawkins. “What’s wrong with the pattern?”

“I didn’t say it was wrong. I said it made for one hell of a centralized portfolio.”

“ ‘Centralized portfolio’? You’ve got a new vocabulary.”

“Like you said, I’ve been reading. And not such strange books as you might think. You see, Sam, the product these Vatican boys manufacture—that’s not meant disrespectfully, only in a business sense—doesn’t change. It may have to adjust a mite now and then, take a tuck here or a nip there, but the basic merchandise stays the same. That reduces a major cost factor and allows for a continuous profit figure with no chance of negative entry—–”

“ ‘Negative entry’?”

“That’s an accounting term.”

“I know it’s an accounting term. How do
you
know—don’t tell me. Your reading material.”

“Maggie’s drawers, son.”

“What?”

“Never mind. You’re on target, that’s all. Now, you take an economic situation where the stock exchanges and the real estate markets hold firm, and that means you got the banks, because you control both money
and
land. Prime economic resources. And you add to that a product that requires minimum assembly alterations with maximum purchase growth—hell, boy, it’s a worldwide
gold mine
.”

“You have been reading. But if you’re right, why’s there’s so much hassle over the parochial schools and
their
costs?”

“That’s services, Sam. That’s an entirely different entry column. I’m talking about basic portfolios, not annual operating expenditures; they fluctuate with economic conditions. Anyway, it’s mostly blackmail.”

“That’s succinct. They wouldn’t like you in Boston.”

The Hawk shifted his weight and spoke a little more softly, but with no loss of emphasis. “You mentioned before about something wrong. Well, I don’t like to mention it because it only applies to the pricky-shit high brass and not the troops, but there is something that’s got a bit of stink to it.”

“
You
found a
moral
position?”

“Morality and economics should be more related than they have been; everybody knows that. You take this political thing. Nobody’s traded fire power with the Reds any better’n I have. God
damn
, nobody’s going to bury me! But it strikes me that these Catholic fellas in the Vatican—and that means all the powerful dioceses—use the Bolshie excuse a mite too freely to oppose a lot of reforms that could make things easier for the peasant slobs scratching a life out of very tough ground.”

Devereaux eyed Hawkins skeptically. “That position’s a little dated. A great many changes are taking place in the Church. This new pope is opening a lot of windows. Like John the Twenty-third did.”

“Not quick enough, Sam. What the Vatican brass needs is a good shake-up in command!”

“You can’t change a two-thousand-year pattern overnight—–”

“Oh, I understand that,” interrupted the Hawk. “And I’m glad you brought up this new pope. This Francesco. Because he’s a very popular fellow. Even those who hate his guts—for doing what he’s doing—know he’s the biggest asset they’ve got in the whole damn church—–that’s not meant in a religious sense, of course. I don’t take positions that way.”

“What positions? What sense?”

“This Francesco,” continued Mac, overlooking Devereaux’s
questions, “is more than just the pope, which is enough to begin with. He’s a beloved individual, you know what I’m driving at?”

“I wish you wouldn’t say that.”

“He’s the sort of person every man jack of a Catholic would really sacrifice for, you see what I mean?”

“I don’t like that phrase, either.”

The Hawk changed knees rapidly; it was good to redistribute weight as often as possible when in an immobile position. “Do you know the estimated total communicant membership of the Catholic Church?”

“The
what
?”

“How many Catholics there are in the world? Never mind, I’ll tell you. Four hundred million. Now, taking the median figure of one American dollar—setting a specific date for the rate of exchange; some giving more, most less—that comes to
four hundred million dollars
.”

“What does?”

“The projected gross.”

“What projected gross?”

“Of the Shepherd Company’s business services. This here ‘brokering the acquisition of religious artifacts.’ It’s a clear ratio of ten to one in terms of capitalization, but naturally the profit ratio, as opposed to the gross figure, will be affected by the necessary outlay for equipment and support personnel.”

“What the hell are you babbling about?!”

“We’re going to kidnap the pope, Sam.”

“Whaat!”

“I’ve got a trunkful of books, boy. I’ve really been studying the tactical problems and I think I’ve got ’em licked. You see, there’s this place called Chiesa di San Tommaso di Villanova in Gandolfo—pardon my lousy Italian—and the route from the Vatican is over a kind of country thoroughfare called the Via Appia Antica. It’s the road to this here Gandolfo—Castel Gandolfo, they call it. These Italians, they never use one word when they can use two.”

“Whaaat?!”

“Now, don’t go overreacting. You’ll wake up Dellacroce.”

“Whaaat?”

“But first we have to corral the remaining capitalization.
There’s thirty million more coming. I believe I’ve almost narrowed down the three investors, but I’ve still got some refining to do.” The Hawk clapped his hand over Devereaux’s open mouth. “Now, don’t start that again. You keep repeating yourself.”

Devereaux’s eyes bulged above MacKenzie’s spread hand, but the rest of his body was frozen. Sort of a form of comatose shock, thought Hawkins. He’d seen a lot of that kind of thing when raw recruits got their first taste of a fire fight. At least Sam wasn’t screaming. Or struggling. He was just plain still and kind of cold. The Hawk continued; he had only a few words left to say. The in-depth command analyses would come later. In a way he was glad Devereaux’s overreaction was so extreme. In his enthusiasm he had nearly given Sam some tactical information he was not sure he wanted Devereaux to have.

“I didn’t choose you lightly. No superior-adjutant is an easy choice for a commander to make, for in many ways the SA is an extension of himself. You got it on
merit
, boy. I don’t say you’re ideal, you’ve got deficiencies. I’ve told you that. But goddamn, your assets outpoint your liabilities. I say that as an honest friend as well as a superior officer.

“Now, there’ll be certain executive orders that you’ll be asked to carry out, not always knowing precisely why they’re vital. You’ll just have to accept them. Command is a lonely responsibility; there’s not always the time to share the reasons for one’s decisions. Ask any frontline officer who sends a battalion into fire. But you’ll do splendidly I just know you will. And if by any chance you’re tempted to question the orders of your superior officer, or feel that you cannot in conscience implement them, I think you should know that our investor, Angelo Dellacroce, believes that you alone, as the attorney and secretary-treasurer of the Shepherd Company, compiled that list of his illegal activities and furnished me with them. I believe that’s why he didn’t care to shake hands with you. Coupled with your G-two espionage violations, I’d say your position was somewhat untenable. But if I were you and had my druthers, I’d choose to fight the government treason charges rather than our investor, Mr. Dellacroce. I think that
Mafia bastard would cut your balls off, grind ’em up in a blender, and serve ’em as a fancy pâté at your funeral. Like you said earlier, it’d probably be an expensive funeral.”

There was no point in the Hawk holding his hand over his superior-adjutant’s mouth any longer. Sam had
merfed
and
gleefed
in a spasm of panic and passed out cold.

The moonlight, filtering through the leaves of the large, sturdy oak in the rough off fairway six, cut shafts of yellow and white across Sam’s young, peaceful, unmistakably strong features.

Goddamn, thought MacKenzie, the boy’s going to be fine! He just needed a little time to absorb the facts. Of course, if a person didn’t know any better, he’d think the son of a bitch was dead.

Sam Devereaux sank despondently into the hotel chair and wished he were dead.

Well, not really, but it certainly would solve a lot of problems. Of course, it was entirely possible that the state of his demise might come about whether he desired it or not. Which brought his eyes back to the insane, unfiled but filled-out limited partnership agreement between the Shepherd Company, MacKenzie Hawkins, President, and the North Hampton Corporation, Mrs. Angelo Dellacroce, President; Depository; the Great Bank of Geneva, Switzerland. He held the legal document in his hand and wondered absently where his fingernails had gone.

Prominently on the first page, directly under the title of president and above the line reserved for the secretary-treasurer, was his name.

Mr. Samuel Devereaux, Counselor-at-law, Suite 4-F, The Drake Hotel, New York City.

He speculated for a moment whether he could alter the Drake’s registry and then abandoned the idea. What was the point? On one flank (
flank
?) was the United States government with very specific espionage laws, and on the other was Angelo Dellacroce and his guards-of-honor with their white ties on white shirts and dark glasses and black suits and very
un
specific methods of dealing with the likes of “squeals” such as S. Devereaux, counselor-at-law.