The Road to Gandolfo (34 page)

And if he considered drowning himself at Lillian’s words, the next voice he heard drove him to the railing.

“You surely look better than you did in London!” shouted Anne from Santa Monica, Mrs. Hawkins number four—Sloping yet Argumentative. “Your little trip must have done you a world of good!”

Devereaux’s escape plan did not become unglued as had Options One through Four. Neither was it bypassed as Options Five and Six had been. Nor had it exploded in a torrent of abuse as was the fate of Option Seven. It was, however, postponed.

He suddenly had two additional guards to contend with, one of whom was as much a shock to the Hawk as both were to Sam. MacKenzie admitted it. Casually, without letting it upset his schedule; merely using the reality to bolster his overall strength—turning a liability into an asset.

“Annie’s got a problem, counselor,” the Hawk said back in Devereaux’s room. “I think you might give it some legal thought. Do something about it when this is over.”

“All problems pale into insignificance—–”

“Not hers. You see, Annie’s family—the whole goddamn family—spent more time
in
prison than
out
of it. Mother, father, brothers—she was the only girl—they had record sheets that took up most of the precinct files in Detroit.”

“I never came across any of that. It’s not in the data banks.” Devereaux was momentarily sidetracked from his own concerns. MacKenzie wasn’t trying to con him now. There was no fire in the eyes, only sadness. Truth. But there
hadn’t
been any mention of a criminal record in Anne’s dossier. If he remembered correctly, she’d been listed as the only daughter of two obscure Michigan school teachers who wrote poetry in medieval French. Parents deceased.

“Course not,” said the Hawk. “I changed all that for the army. And everybody else, mainly her. It was a big hangup for the girl; it was holding her back.” MacKenzie
lowered his voice, as if the words were painful, but nevertheless a reality that could not be brushed aside. “Annie was a hooker. She fell into poor ways—very artificial ways for her—when she was growing up. She worked the streets. She didn’t know any better then. She had no home life, most of the time no home. When she wasn’t hooking she’d spend her time in libraries, looking at all the pretty magazines, imagining what it would be like to live decent. She was constantly trying to improve herself, you know. She never stops reading, even now, always after bettering herself. Because underneath there’s a very fine person. There always was.”

Sam’s memory went back to the Savoy. Anne in bed with a huge, glossy paperback of
The Wives of Henry VIII
on her lap. Then later, the words spoken with such conviction in the foyer doorway as she was about to get dressed. Words that meant a great deal to her. Devereaux looked up at the Hawk and repeated them quietly. “ ‘Don’t change the outside too much or you’ll mess up the inside.’ She said you told her that.”

MacKenzie seemed embarrassed. It was obvious he had not forgotten. “She had problems. Like I just said, underneath there was a very fine person she didn’t recognize. Hell,
I
did. Anybody would.”

“What’s her legal problem?” Sam asked.

“This goddamned gigolo-waiter husband of hers. She’s stuck with that fucker for six years; helped him go from a hot-pants beach boy to owning a couple of restaurants. She
built
those restaurants. She’s damned proud of them! And she likes the life. Overlooking the water, all those boats, nice people. She lives descent now, and
she did it.
”

“So?”

“He wants her out. He’s got himself another woman and he doesn’t want any lip from Annie. A quiet divorce and just get the hell out.”

“She doesn’t want the divorce?”

“That’s immaterial. She doesn’t want to lose the restaurants! It’s principle, Sam. They represent everything she’s worked for.”

“He can’t simply take them. There’s the property settlement
to consider, and California laws are rough as hell.”

“So’s he. He went back to Detroit and dug up her police record.”

Sam paused. “That’s a legal problem,” he said.

“You’ll work on it?”

“There’s not much I can do here. It’s a confrontation problem, big attack variety. Fire for fire, dig up counteraccusations.” Devereaux snapped both his fingers—the legal
wunderkind
making a brilliant decision. “Tell you what. Let me out of here and I’ll fly straight to California! I’ll hire one of the best LA private detectives—like on television—and really go after this prick!”

“Good thinking, boy,” replied the Hawk, clucking his tongue in respect. “I like that aggressive tone; you bear it in mind for later. Say, in a month or two.”

“Why not
now
? I could—–”

“I’m afraid you can’t. That’s out of the question. You’re here for the duration. Talk with Annie, though. Learn what you can. Maybe Lillian can help; she’s a resourceful filly.”

With these words MacKenzie dispensed with his liability and gained an asset: Sam now had two additional people to keep an eye on him. He might outwit Rudolph and No Name; the girls were something else again.

Within hours after their arrival, however, it was apparent to Sam that Lillian would have very little time to pay attention to him. In her usual forthright manner she plunged into furious activity, commandeering two of the Machenfeld staff to help her. The work began first thing in the morning when the brigade went out for maneuvers.

Upstairs. In the top floor rooms and on the ramparts of the château.

There was the banging of hammers and the whirring of saws and the cracking of plaster. Furniture was carried up and down the long winding staircase; those pieces too large or too awkward were raised and lowered by pullies and ropes over the outside walls. Scores of potted plants and bushes and small trees were placed around the battlements—seen from the ground by Sam for he was not permitted above the third floor. Paints and brushes and
panels of wood were transported daily by Lillian and her two helpers and when Sam could no longer politely ignore her labors, he asked her what she was doing.

“A little arranging, that’s all,” she replied.

Finally, crates of crushed stone and washed gravel were hoisted up the walls, accompanied by several concrete benches and (if Sam was not mistaken, and being from Boston he was not) a marble
prayer
stall.

It was suddenly very clear to Devereaux exactly what Lillian was doing. She was turning the top floor and the ramparts of Château Machenfeld into a full-fledged papal residence! Complete with apartments and gardens and prayer stalls!

Oh, my God! A papal residence!

Anne, on the other hand, spent most of her time with Sam. Since MacKenzie had deemed it improper for the girls to eat at the officers’ mess—it was diversionary for women to break bread with a strike force prior to combat—Anne and Lillian were assigned their meals in Devereaux’s room, Sam under the eiderdown quilt, of course. But Lillian was rarely there; she spent most of her time upstairs—arranging.

So Sam and Anne were thrown together. On a surprisingly platonic basis. True, he made no pass, but she made no offer either. It was as though both understood the insanity whirling around them, neither wanting the other to be involved, each, in a very real sense, protecting the other. And the more they talked together, the more Sam began to understand what MacKenzie meant about Anne. She was the most genuine, guileless person he had ever met in his life. All the girls were devoid of artifice, but there was something different about Annie. Whereas the others had reached certain plateaus, conscious of their worth, Annie was not satisfied. There was about her a delightfully irreverent sense of purpose that proclaimed for all the world to hear that she
could
expand,
could
experience—but
good heavens
! one did not have to be
gloomy
about it.

Devereaux recognized his imminent danger: he could get really sidetracked. He began to think that he had been looking for this girl for about fifteen years.
And he
couldn’t
think about that. Another plan had come into focus. One he knew would work.

The very day Hawkins and his brigade of banana captains took off for Ground Zero!

The last sweet and sour strains of the orchestra filled the theater. Guido Frescobaldi took his curtain calls, wiping a tear from his eyes. He had to shed his art and think of things plenipotentiary now. He had to hurry to his dressing room and lock up his makeup box.

The call had come! He was going to Rome! He was going to be embraced by his beloved cousin, the most beloved of all popes, Giovanni Bombalini, Francesco, Vicar of Christ! Ohh! Such blessings had come to him! To be reunited after all these years!

But he could say nothing. Absolutely
nothing
. That was part of the arrangements. It was the way Bombalini—
Madre di Cristo
—Pope Francesco wished it, and one did not question the ways of so munificent a pontiff. But Guido did wonder just a little bit. Why did Giovanni insist that he tell the management that small lie that he was going to visit family in Padua, not Rome? Even his friend, the stage manager, had winked when he told him.

“Perhaps you might ask your
family
to pray to Saint Peter for a little sacred lire, Guido. The box office has not been good this season.”

What did the stage manager know? And when did he know it?

It was not like the Giovanni of old to be secretive. And yet who was he, Frescobaldi, to doubt the wisdom of his beloved cousin, the pope.

Guido reached his small dressing room and began to take off his costume. As he did so his eyes fell on his Sunday church suit, pressed and hanging neatly in the center of the wall. He was going to wear it on the train to Rome. And he suddenly felt very ungrateful and ashamed of himself.

Giovanni was being so
good
to him. How could he even
think
a compromising thought?

The lady journalist who was bringing them together had
asked for all his measurements. Every last one. When he asked why, she told him. And he had wept.

Giovanni was buying him a new suit.

The Hawk and his subordinate officers returned from Rome. The final check of Ground Zero had gone off without a hitch; no alterations were required.

Further, all intelligence data had been gathered and processed. Using basic surveillance techniques employed in hostile territories, Hawkins had donned an enemy uniform (in this case a black suit and a clerical collar) and obtained a Vatican pass, and identification that certified him to be a Jesuit doing an efficiency study for the treasury. He had free access to all calendars and personnel schedules. From apartments to barracks.

They all confirmed the Hawk’s projections.

The pope would leave for Castel Gandolfo on the same day he had chosen for the past two years. He was an organized man; time was to be allocated properly with regard to needs and functions. Castel Gandolfo expected him, and he would be there.

The pope would use the same modest motorcade he had employed previously. He was not a wasteful or pretentious man. One motorcycle point with two front and rear flanks. Basic. The limousines were restricted to two: his own, in which his most personal aides accompanied him; and a second, for secretaries and lesser prelates, who carried his current working papers.

The route of the motorcade was the scenic road he had spoken of with feeling whenever he mentioned Gandolfo: the beautiful Via Appia Antica, with its rolling hills and remnants of ancient Rome along the way.

Via Appia Antica. Ground Zero.

The two Lear jets had been delivered to Zaragolo. It was an airfield for the rich. The small Fiat sedan, which was the diversion equipment for the Turk privates, had been purchased by Captain Noir, in the name of the Ethiopian embassy. It was parked in an all-night garage next to a police station where the crime rate was at a minimum.

Guido Frescobaldi was on his way to Rome. Regina would handle him. She’d put him up at a
pensione
she rented called The Doge, on the Via Due Macelli, right near the Spanish Steps, and take good care of the old man until the morning of the assault. And first thing that morning she’d load him up with a thiopental solution that would keep him on a harmless high for damn near twelve hours.

The Hawk planned to pick Guido up in the Fiat on his way to Ground Zero. Of course, Regina would have him properly dressed by then, with a very large overcoat that covered his fancy clothes. Skirts, really.

There was only one last item to take care of. The two limousines used in maneuvers had to be driven to a place called Valtournanche, several miles northwest of the Alpine town of Champoluc. To a little-used private airfield frequented by the jetsetters heading for their ski chalets. The limousines were a natural. They were registered to nonexistent Greeks, and the Swiss
never
bothered Greeks who could afford such automobiles.

Lillian could take care of the transfer. Oversee it, actually. She could use the two men who had helped her shape up the pope’s BOQ. Once the cars were in position they could vanish along with Lillian. Mac, of course, would give them bonuses.

He’d get rid of Rudolph, too, and that psycho, what’s-his-name, the minute they were back from Ground Zero and the pope was safely—secretly—in his quarters. The chef had to stay; what the hell, even if he did find out who he was cooking for, he was a French Huguenot wanted by the police in sixteen countries.

That left Anne. And Sam, of course.

He could handle Sam. Sam was so lashed to that loaded howitzer he was part of the casing. But he couldn’t figure out Annie. What was the girl up to? Why wouldn’t she leave? Why had she used his own oath against him?

“You gave your solemn word that if ever any of us came to you in need, you’d never abandon us. You’d never allow an injustice to be done if you could prevent it. I’m here. I’m in need, and an injustice has been done. I’ve nowhere else to go. Please let me stay.”

Well, of course, he had to. After all, it was the word of a general officer.