The Road to Gandolfo (29 page)

“Just tell me there’ll be
one
change and I’ll go back and have dinner with Azaz-Varak.”

“Come on now, Sam, you’ve got a one-track mind. Let’s get on to other things. You sure you don’t want a shirt and a pair of trousers? Just take me a minute to go upstairs …” Hawkins made a gesture past a dozen or so overstuffed, antimacassared armchairs toward the great hall.

“No! I don’t want anything from you!—I take that back. I
do
want something. I want you to call off this crazy business and let me go home!”

MacKenzie bit off the chewed end of his cigar, spitting it between the feet of a suit of armor. “You
will
go home, I promise you that. The minute you centralize the company finances and make a few deposits that can be tapped under certain conditions, I’ll drive you to the airport myself. That’s the word of a general officer.”

“It’s the reasoning of a brain soaked in linseed oil! Do you have any idea what you’re asking me to do? That’s not chopped liver you’re talking about, it’s
forty million dollars
. I’m marked for life! They’ll have a record sheet on me in every Interpol headquarters and police station in the civilized world! You don’t put your name on forty million dollars’ worth of bank transfers and expect to go back to a normal law practice. Word gets out.”

“That’s not so, and you know it. All that Swiss banking stuff is confidential.”

Devereaux looked around to make sure no one else was within hearing. “Even if it’s supposed to be, it’s not
going
to be once a … certain attempt is made to snatch a … certain person in Rome! And that’s
all
it will be! An attempt! You’ll have your ass in a net, and every contact you’ve made since China will be put under a microscope and my name will surface and so will forty fucking million dollars in Zurich and that’s the
ballgame
!”

“Now, goddamn, boy, we’ve been over that! Your job’s finished now. Or will be soon’s you take care of the money. You don’t have to be involved anymore. And you’re
clean
, son. You’re a hundred percent Clorox!”

“I’m not.” Devereaux choked as he whispered and clutched the eiderdown quilt. “I just
told
you: The minute
you’re
nailed,
I’m
nailed!”

“For what? Say you happened to be right—which I don’t for a second consider remotely possible—what can they nail you for? Banking funds for an old soldier who told you he was raising money to support an organization dedicated to spreading religious brotherhood? Let me ask you a question, Mr. Attorney. Could you, under oath, testify to any wrongdoing?”

“You’re
insane
!” broke in Sam, stumbling slightly as he stepped forward. “You
told
me! You’re going to kidnap—–” Devereaux stopped and made charade-like gestures that included hauling a body over his shoulder and the sign of the cross.

“Well,
hell
, boy, there are
oaths
and there are
oaths
! Be reasonable. Anyway, that’s hearsay. Not admissible.”

Sam closed his eyes; he began to understand what
martyrdom was all about. He continued, his whisper strained but controlled. “I walked out of those archives with that fucking briefcase chained to my wrist!”

“Outside of that,” mumbled MacKenzie. “Anyhow, that’s army stuff; neither of us has much use for the army. Anything else?”

Devereaux thought. “Circumstantially, it’s the mother-loving end. There hasn’t been a single aboveboard transaction.”

“That’s subjective,” said Hawkins, shaking his head, confirming his own judgment. “There’s been no violence; no one’s lied. No theft, no collusion. Everything voluntary. And if the particular methods
seem
unusual, that’s the prerogative of every individual investor, as long as he doesn’t infringe on the rights of others.” Mac paused and held Sam’s eyes. “There’s something else, too. You said yourself that a lawyer’s first responsibility was to his client, not abstract moral dilemmas.”

“I said that?”

“You surely did.”

“That’s not bad—–”

“It’s goddamned eloquent, that’s what it is. You’ve got a silver tongue in your head, young man.”

Sam stared back at the Hawk, trying to see beneath his guile. But it wasn’t guile; he meant what he said. And since personal sincerity was the momentary leveler, Devereaux decided to be personally sincere.

“Listen to me,” he said quietly. “Say you go through with this—this insanity, because that’s what it is, you know. Say you really do it. You actually kidnap the pope and get away with it. Even for a few days. Do you know what might happen? What you could trigger?”

“Surely do. Four hundred million green samolians from four hundred million howling mackerel snappers. No offense intended, just a harmless phrase.”

“
No
, you gung-ho son of a bitch! There’d be international
revulsion! And recrimination
. And then mainly
accusations!
Governments would point their fingers at other governments! Presidents and chairmen and prime ministers would use blue lines and red lines and then very
hot
lines. And before you know it, some asshole recites a code
from a tiny black box in a briefcase because he didn’t like what some other asshole said. Jesus, Mac! You could start World War Three!”

“
Goddamn
! Is that what you’ve been thinking about?”

“It’s what I’ve tried
not
to think about.”

Hawkins threw his cigar into the cavern that was the Machenfeld fireplace and stood arms akimbo, a flame dying in his eyes. “Sam, boy, you couldn’t be farther from the truth. You know, son, war isn’t what it used to be. Hasn’t any spirit to it anymore. Bugles and drums, and men caring for men, and hating an enemy because he can hurt the things you love. That’s all gone now. Now it’s buttons and shifty-eyed politicians who blink a lot and wave their hands without meaning very much. I hate war. I never thought I’d hear myself say it, but I’m saying it and learning it now. I’d never allow a war.”

Devereaux bored into the Hawk’s eyes; he would not let MacKenzie look away. “Why should I believe that? Everything you’ve done reeks of con. Immense con. Why should a war stop you?”

“Because, young man,” replied Hawkins quietly, returning Sam’s stare in full measure, “I just told you the truth.”

“All right. Suppose you provoke one without meaning to?

“
Goddamn
! Now you’re pushing me too far!” MacKenzie strode from the fireplace to a second suit of armor to the right of the mantel. The face piece was open so he slammed it shut. “I put in damned near forty years and got fucked by the plastic men!
Your
words, boy! Now, I don’t feel sorry for myself because I knew what I was doing and was accountable for my actions! But, goddamn, don’t ask me to feel sorry for
them
or be accountable for
their
stupidity!”

So much for personal sincerity, thought Devereaux. Like Options One, Two, Three, and Four in the morning, it was shot to hell. This time in a burst of self-righteousness. There was nothing for it but to find another way. One would present itself, Sam was convinced of that. The Hawk had a way to go before the pontiff of the Catholic Church blessed the edelweiss at Machenfeld. Something would turn up; and Option Seven—Options Five and Six
happily avoided—was coming into focus. For the moment he had to calm MacKenzie down and under no circumstances lose his confidence. And then Mac did have a point. A legal point.

He, Sam, was clean. Legally clean. In every other way the mud was an inch thick, but in evidentiary considerations, he was not a good case for any prosecutor.

“Okay, Mac, I’m not going to fight you. You were screwed and I did say it, and I believe you. You hate war. Maybe that’s good enough. I don’t know anymore. Personally, I just want to go back home to Quincy, and if I read about you in the papers, I’ll remember the words of a scarred but honest warrior spoken in this room.”

“A tongue of silver, boy! I admire that.”

“As long as it’s not a head of lead, I’ll accept that. Do you have the papers for the Zurich bank?”

“Don’t you want to hear the amount I’ve … accrued for your participation? How do you like that ‘accrued’? I’m a corporate president, you know; we don’t fuck around with second-rate vocabularies.”

“I’m impressed. What’s the entry figure?”

“The what?”

“The accrual; that’s the noun root of the verb ‘to accrue.’ ”

“Smartass shavetail. What do you say to a half a million dollars?”

Sam could not say anything. He was numb. He saw his hand move in astonishment, and he watched it with a certain fascination, not sure if the appendage belonged to him. It must have; when he thought about jiggling the fingers, they jiggled.

A half a million dollars.

What was there to think about? It was as insane as everything else. Including the fact that he was not indictable.

It was Monopoly time. Let’s buy
Boardwalk
and
Park Place
.

Stop. Go To Jail
.

Why worry?

It didn’t do any good anyway.

“That’s reasonable—severance pay,” Sam said.

“That’s all you’ve got to
say
? With what I banked for you in New York, you can hire that Jewish fella and he’ll be happy to take the job.” MacKenzie was the injured party. He obviously expected Devereaux to practice a little bit of his well-advertised overreaction.

“Let’s say I’ll erupt with enthusiasm when I’m looking at those figures—in a bank book—in Boston—with my mother sitting across the room complaining about the new management at the Copley Plaza. Okay?”

“Do you know something?” said Hawkins, his eyes squinting. “You’re kind of weird.”

“
I’m
kind of …” Devereaux did not finish the sentence. There was no point.

There was the abrupt, episodic clicking of high heels. Regina Greenberg walked through the cathedral arch into the drawing room. She was dressed in a beige pants suit, the rather severe jacket buttoned over Titanics. She looked, well, rather efficient, thought Sam. She smiled briefly and addressed Hawkins.

“I’ve met with the staff. Five will stay. Three couldn’t; they’d have to live in the village and I explained that wasn’t acceptable.”

“I hope they weren’t hurt.”

Ginny laughed confidently. “Hardly. I spoke to each individually, and gave all three two months’ wages.”

“The rest understand the conditions?” MacKenzie reached into his pocket for a fresh cigar.

“And their bonuses,” said Ginny. “Minimum three months. All with families to explain that they’ve been hired for resident staff work in France for the duration. No questions are to be asked.”

“No different from overseas duty,” commented the Hawk, nodding his head. “And the money’s a hell of a lot better than combat pay—without a weapon in sight.”

“The logistics are in your favor, too,” continued Ginny. “Only two of the five are married. Not too happily, I gather. They won’t miss, or be missed.”

“We’ll have to get women, though,” countered MacKenzie, “for R and R. I’ll scout the grounds later; spec out tent arrangements—far enough away from the maneuvers, of course. And the counselor here is going into Zurich to
take care of several financial items for me. What do you think, Sam? How long do you figure it will be before you’re finished?”

Devereaux had to force himself to consider the Hawk’s question. He was stunned by the obvious control MacKenzie wielded over Ginny. According to the data banks, she had divorced MacKenzie over twenty years ago; yet here she was deferring to him like a schoolgirl with a crush on her teacher.

“What did you say?” Sam knew the question but wanted a few seconds to evaluate.

“How long will Zurich take?”

“A day. Maybe a day and a half, with no hitches. A lot will depend on the account clearances. I think the transfers are coded through Geneva, but I may be wrong about that.”

“Can ‘hitches’ be eliminated with a little honey in the pot?”

“Probably. Relinquishing-of-interest could apply. The time period’s minor but the sums aren’t. The depositories would pick up several thousand—on paper. That might act as a general incentive.”

“Goddamn, son, you hear yourself? You hear how
good
you are?”

“Elementary bookkeeping. A trial lawyer figures litigation with banks is prime meat. They’ve got more ways to lie to themselves—and everybody else—than anyone since tribes started to barter. A decent attorney simply picks the lies he knows will suit him best.”

“You hear that, Ginny? Isn’t that boy something?!”

“You’re mighty impressive, Sam; I’ve got to admit it. And, Mac, since the
mayjor
here’s got everything under control, maybe I could go up to Zurich with him and kind of keep him company.”

“Why, that’s a splendid idea! Don’t know why I didn’t think of it.”

“I can’t imagine how it escaped you,” said Devereaux quietly. “You’re all heart.”

From all points of the compass the Hawk’s subordinate officers arrived. They were met at the Zermatt railroad
station by the bereted, gold-toothed, cat-eyed chauffeur whose name was Rudolph. And Rudolph had a hectic two days.

Crete showed up first, without incident. That is, he managed to cross international boundaries under the scrutiny of very professional authorities without incident (but with a forged passport) and got as far as the Zermatt station, where his troubles erupted. For Rudolph refused to acknowledge Crete to be Crete in spite of the proper identity markings on his clothing, and consequently would not let him into his Italian taxi.

Because, for reasons that escaped Hawkins, none of the G-2 data bank entries on Crete had established the fact that he was Black. Yet there it was. Crete was a brilliant aeronautical engineer, a Soviet sympathizer as long as the Ruskies paid him, a defected espionage agent complete with a doctor’s degree and very black skin. Rudolph was totally bewildered, so MacKenzie had to use some very harsh language over the telephone with Rudolph, and finally the bereted maniac let the
schwarzer
in the back seat of his car.