The Road to Gandolfo (33 page)

Eventually, they accepted the limitations. “In Sweden there is a saying,” intoned Captain Gris in his Nordic lilt. “One Volvo in the garage is worth a lifetime of passes on the Scandinavian railroad. I shall accommodate the commander.”

“
Oui,”
agreed Captain Bleu, the Frenchman from Biscay.
“For the recompense involved, I shall sing them to sleep with Gascogne lullabies, if it is required.”

But lullabies were not required. Instead, sleep was to be induced by half-inch hypodermic needles dispensing solutions of sodium pentothal. Each officer would be outfitted with a thin bandolier across his chest, which carried tiny hypodermic needles in small rubber receptacles—where once had been bullets. They were easy to extract swiftly. If administered properly, within a three-inch diameter on the lower right area of the neck, the anesthetic would take effect in seconds. The problem was merely to immobilize the victim for those brief moments until the drug caused collapse. It was not a difficult problem and since there’d be considerable noise from the vehicles, even a partial scream or two might go unnoticed.

So the officers, heeding the words of wisdom from Gris and Bleu, reevaluated their objections to the Hawk’s order. In a way it was a challenge; and none were interested in lifetime passes on the Scandinavian railroad. Not when he could own a fleet of Volvos.

Each captain’s expertise was called on. Captain Gris and Bleu were masters of camouflage and escape cartography. Captain Rouge was an expert in demolition; he had personally blown up six piers in the Corinth strait when it was rumored the American fleet was sailing in. Sedative medicines were a specialty of the Englishman, Captain Brun, who had darkened his skin for a life in Beirut; most narcotics held interest for him. Aircraft technology and electronics were covered brilliantly. The first, of course, was the bailiwick of Captain Noir, whose exploits in Houston—and Moscow—were legend. The second was the province of Captain Vert, who found it necessary in Marseilles to devise an extraordinary variety of radio communications. It was such a busy port; and Interpol was always underfoot.

Lastly, native orientation was left to Captain Orange, who knew Rome like the back of his constantly gesturing hand. He would write out full descriptions of eight innocuous-looking sets of clothing that blended into the current dress, and further, he would provide a minimum
of four separate methods of transportation, using public conveyances where feasible, to the site of Ground Zero. For during the final days of the fourth week, each captain was to travel to Rome and personally survey the assault area.

The airfield at Zaragolo would be no problem; they agreed to that. And neither would the helicopter at Ground Zero. It would be flown in the night before the assault. Gris and Bleu assured them the camouflage would be undetectable.

Goddamn
, thought MacKenzie as he snapped the stopwatch at the end of the maneuver’s Phase Eight. Twenty-one minutes! In another day or so it would get to the optimum eighteen. He felt a surge of pride in his once bemedaled chest. His machine was emerging as one of the finest ministrike forces in the military books.

Even the three privates (the diversionary troops) were splendid. They had but two functions: scream and lie still. But as was proper for the lowest enlisted ranks, they knew nothing. They had been recruited by Captain Brun from the poppy fields high in the Turkish hills, to which they would return the instant Ground Zero was terminated. They’d been hired to perform at a fixed price, did not care to know anything and, naturally, were housed by themselves in enlisted quarters and did not eat at the officers’ mess.

They were called simply: Privates One, Two, and Three.

The run-through completed, the officers gathered around the Hawk beside the huge blackboard he’d set up on an A-frame in the field. Sweat was pouring through their stocking masks. Those in priestly habits took them off carefully, studying them for repairs that might be needed; and the inevitable cigarettes and matches came out of pockets. No lighters; fingerprints could be lifted from lighters.

The three privates, naturally, went off by themselves. In sight but not within hearing. Enlisted personnel were not privy to tactical analyses; it was not proper.

The analysis began. Although immensely pleased Hawkins did not dwell on the positive; he told them their mistakes,
marking up the blackboard with his criticisms with such sharp authority that the officers cowered like rebuked children.

“Precision, gentlemen! Precision is everything! You must never allow your concentration to lapse, even for a second! Captain Noir, you’re cutting your time too close between Phase One and your station in Phase Six. Captain Gris, you had trouble with your cassock over the uniform. Practice it, man! Captains Rouge and Brun, your execution of Phase Five was just plain sloppy! Take out that radio equipment! Go over your moves! Captain Orange! Yours was the most serious lapse of all!”

“
Che cosa?
I make
no
mistakes!”

“Phase Seven, Captain! Without the proper execution of Phase Seven, the whole mission goes up in mortar smoke! That’s the
exchange
, soldier! You’re the one who speaks Italian best. I put this Frescobaldi in the pope’s car and take the pope. Where the hell were
you
?”

“In position,
Generale!
”

“You were on the wrong side of the road! And Captain Bleu, for an expert at camouflage, you stuck out like a plucked duck in your Phase Four station!
Cover
, man! Use the foliage for cover!

“Now, as to this latrine rumor that some of you are unhappy over Phase Eight, the escape routes to Zaragolo; that a few of you figure we should have two copters at Ground Zero. Well, let me tell you, there’s no contingency for radar, gentlemen. One small bird with Italian air force markings, flying low, can get through. Two choppers would be picked up on a scanner. I don’t think any of you cotton to having your asses a thousand feet in the air, surrounded by the whole guinea air force. No offense, Captain Orange.”

The captains looked at each other. They’d obviously discussed Phase Eight among themselves, and since the small helicopter at target center was lifting out only the Hawk, the pope, and the two pilots, they had grumbled. But the commander painted a convincing picture. The escape routes on the ground had been exhaustively analyzed by Gris and Bleu, who were not only the best in the
business, but who would be using them as well. It was conceivable that the ground was safer.

“We withdraw our objections,” said Captain Vert.

“Good,” said MacKenzie. “Now let’s concentrate on—–”

It was as far as he got. For in the distance, across the south field, running through the grass was the figure of Sam Devereaux in sweat pants, shouting at the top of his lungs.

“One, two, three, four! What do we like to
jog
for?
Good
health,
good
health! Five, six, seven, eight! Get the weight! Out of the freight! Four, three,
two, one
! Jogging is a lot of
fun
!”

“
Mon Dieu
!” cried Captain Bleu. “The soft-headed one never stops! He has carried on so for five days now!”

“Before we rise in the morning!” added Gris. “During rest periods, whenever there is a peaceful moment he is below the windows, shouting.”

The other captains joined in a chorus of agreement. They had accepted the general’s decision not to shoot the idiot, even grudgingly allowed that there was no harm in letting the fool out of the room to exercise—as long as two guards from the Machenfeld staff were assigned to him. The jackass wasn’t going anywhere; not in sweat pants, with no top, over a high barbed-wire fence that led only to impenetrable Swiss mountain forests. But they had drawn the line regarding the clown’s participation in Ground Zero.

So here he was, trying to impress them with his training. A pathetically poor athlete who cannot make the team, but will not stop trying.

“All right. All right,” said the Hawk, suppressing a laugh. “I’ll talk to him again, make him quiet down. He’s just doing it for your benefit, you know. He really wants to join the big fellas.”

He was driving them all crazy, and he knew it. Of course there were times when he thought he might collapse from exhaustion, but the knowledge that his grotesqueries were having their desired effect kept him going. Everyone avoided him, some actually ran at the sight of
him. His insane behavior had become an irritating, aggravating joke. Already three dogs which had appeared out of nowhere to guard him were taken from the corridor outside his room to the staff quarters below because of their incessant barking. And he made it a point to run by the staff area repeatedly. The hounds, themselves weary of being screamed at for their perfectly natural reactions, now merely raised their heads and stared with hatred at him from behind the gates as he passed by.

As did the staff—and MacKenzie’s officers. Sam was a loud nuisance, a joke that had worn thin. What was happening, of course, was that he was being taken for granted. And in a few days he would take advantage of that scorn.

Although he was not allowed to eat with Mac and his band of psychopaths, the Hawk was considerate enough to continue visiting him every day in the late afternoon when Sam was brought back to his room and the sweat pants removed. Devereaux understood. Hawkins needed a sounding board for his enthusiasms. And, bragging, he dropped the information that he and his men would be away for a day or two to execute a surveillance check of Ground Zero. They would then return for any last-minute alterations of strategy.

But Sam shouldn’t be concerned. He would not be lonely at Machenfeld. What with the guards, and the dogs, and the staff.

Sam smiled. For when the Hawk and his freaks left the château, it was his own personal Ground Zero. He had begun to prime his guards, the wild-eyed Rudolph and some obvious killer with no name. He had convinced Rudolph and No Name on several occasions to sit in the middle of a field as he ran around it. It was not difficult; they were grateful to be stationary. They simply sat in the grass with two ominous looking pistols trained on him as he jogged and intermittently stopped to perform calisthenics. On each occasion he had gradually widened the distance between him and his guards so that this afternoon he was nearly 250 yards away from them.

The army had taught him
something
about small weapons;
he knew that there was no handgun that was any damned good beyond thirty yards. Not in terms of accuracy; scatter shot was something else, but he had to take
some
chances. Stopping the Hawk was the kind of objective that in war made heroes of unheroic soldiers. What had MacKenzie said? “It’s commitment. Nothing takes its place. All the ammo in the world can’t be a substitute.…”

Sam was committed. The prospects of World War III loomed larger every day.

His plan was simple … and relatively safe. He had been tempted to give it an option number, but his options had not been noticeably successful so he decided against it. He would jog here in the south field, as he was doing now, where the bordering forest was thickest and the grass higher than in the other pastures. He would widen the distance between himself and the guards as he had done this afternoon and institute intermittent calisthenics. Among them pushups. Which naturally brought him close to the ground, below the level of the grass.

At the proper moment, he would crawl away as fast as he could toward the forest, then race to the fence. However, when he reached the fence, he would
not
climb it. Instead, he would remove the sweat pants—properly torn—and throw them over. And then, if all went as it should, if Rudolph and No Name were racing in several directions at once, he would scream as though severely hurt and get the hell out of the area. Into the thickest woods.

Rudolph and No Name would naturally run to the spot at the fence, see the sweat pants on the other side, and undoubtedly take the appropriate actions: One would go over the fence, while the other raced back to the château for the dogs.

At which point Sam would wait until he heard the barking. Then he would return to Machenfeld, go in through the door, steal clothes and a weapon. From that point to an automobile in the circular drive, and a pistol to threaten the gatekeeper, had to be clear sailing.

It had to be!

What could go wrong?

The Hawk wasn’t the only one capable of strategies. He’d learn not to mess with a Boston lawyer who worked for Aaron Pinkus!

The shouts interrupted his thoughts. He was within sight of the maneuver area; he could see the strange looking road signs and the vehicles. Rudolph and No Name were yelling at him to come back. Naturally, he would oblige; he was not permitted to observe maneuvers.

“
Sorry fellas
!” he yelled breathlessly as he reversed direction, his legs pounding the soft earth. “Let’s head down to the gate and back and call it a day!”

Rudolph and No Name grimaced and got up from the grass. Rudolph gave him a finger; No Name a thumb to the teeth.

Sam made it a point every afternoon to end his jogging with a run down to the main gate. It was a good idea to study the premises as thoroughly as possible in anticipation of his escape. It was conceivable that he might have to operate the mechanism himself, depending upon the state of panic at the moment. If it was maximum (as MacKenzie would say) the gate might even be left open.

He contemplated this possibility as his feet clattered over the boards on the moat, when suddenly his musings were replaced by a feeling of discomfort. For down at the gate a long, black limousine was being admitted with much bowing and obsequious grinning on the part of the gatekeeper. And when he heard the words shouted from the driver’s seat as the automobile was expertly whipped out of the gate area toward him, he froze and instantly considered drowning himself in the Machenfeld moat.

“I don’t believe it!” yelled Lillian Hawkins von Schnabe at the wheel. “Sam Devereaux in
sweat pants
! God almighty, you took my advice. You’re toning up that wreck of a vessel you live in!”