The Road to Gandolfo (17 page)

“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 delivery 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.”

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 series 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.

MacKenzie wrote out the figure numerically.

$20,000,000.00

Then he wrote it in words:

Twenty million dollars.

Strange, but it had no real effect on him. It was merely a means, not an end in itself. Although it had occurred to him that he could easily call it an economic day, wrap it up, and retire to the south of France. Certainly, neither Dellacroce nor Danforth would sue. Not bloody likely. But that wasn’t what it was all about; the money was both a conveyance and a by-product. And in its way, a legitimate form of punishment. The two marks deserved their losses.

But time was running short and he could not allow himself to get sidetracked. Summer was only a few months away; there was an enormous amount of work to do. The selection and training of the support personnel would be time-consuming. The leasing and stocking of the maneuver site would be difficult, especially the covert purchasing of equipment. The maneuvers themselves would take a number of weeks. All told, there was a great deal to accomplish in a short time. Because of this it was a natural temptation to veer from the initial strategy and go with less than the full capitalization, but it would be wrong. That’s for sure. He had set the figure of forty million not merely for the numerical symmetry to the four hundred million (although it certainly looked proper on the limited partnership agreement, in the blank lines he had filled out), but because forty million took care of
everything
, including last-extremity contingencies.

Otherwise known as quick-witted evacuation of the fire base.

It would have to be forty million. He was just about ready for his third investor.

Heinrich Koenig, Berlin.

Herr Koenig had not been easy. Whereas Sidney Danforth
had overworked his modus operandi in Chile, and whereas Angelo Dellacroce had been just plain sloppy with regard to his Mediterranean payments and entirely too ostentatious in his manner of living, Heinrich Koenig had made no obvious errors, and lived the quiet life of a country squire in a peaceful rural town twenty-odd miles from Berlin.

But twenty-two years ago Koenig had played an enormously dangerous game brilliantly. A game that not only netted him a fortune but also insured the capitalization and ultimate success of his various business enterprises.

During the height of the Cold War, Koenig was a double agent-cum-blackmailer. He began by secretly informing on single agents to both sides, then extorting cash—financed through opposing intelligence channels—from those seeking protection from exposure. Soon he was issued exclusive international, nontariff “franchises” for his new companies from scores of countries dependent upon the economic goodwill of both giant factions. Finally, with the grace of Mephistopheles, he forced Washington, London, Berlin, Bonn, and Moscow into declaring his companies
outside
the regulatory legalities that governed other industries. Koenig accomplished this by explaining to each that he would inform the others of its past activities.