The Road to Gandolfo (37 page)

“Guido! It is Guido Frescobaldi!” The pontiff’s voice could have been heard in the Bay of Naples, so loud was his roar. “Guido, my own flesh! My blood! It is Guido!
Madre di Dio!
You are a part of this—this heresy?!” Signore Guido Frescobaldi smiled.

“
Che gelida … manina … a rigido esanime … ah, la-la … la-laaa
.…”

“It’s him, all right, but he’s been a little out of things since this morning. And will be for a while longer. Come on, now. We’ve got to get some of that hardware off you and on him. Captain Orange? Captain Vert? Give Mr. Francesco a hand.”

“There!”
The Hawk spoke in the tones of a victorious general officer. He held the grinning Guido Frescobaldi by the shoulders, admiring the final result. “He looks real fine, doesn’t he?”

Francesco, transfixed, could not help himself. “
Jesus et Spiritus Sanctus
. The ugly Frescobaldi is myself. It is a miracle of God.”

“Two like-spits in the gunnery pool, Mr. Pope!”

The pontiff was barely audible. “You put … Frescobaldi … in the
chair
of St. Peter?”

“For about two hours with luck—by my calculations.”

“But
why
?”

“Nothing personal. I understand you’re a very nice fellow.”

“But why? In the name of God,
why?
That is no answer.”

“Didn’t expect it to be,” replied the Hawk. “I just don’t want you screaming your head off. You’ve got a mighty loud voice.”

“Then I shall be—screaming my head out—if you do not tell me.… Aiyeeeee!…”

“All right! All
right
! We’re kidnapping you. Holding you for ransom. You’ll be fine; no harm will come to you and that’s the word of a general officer.”

The conference was interrupted by Captain Gris and Bleu, who raced up and snapped to attention.

“The area is secured, General,” barked Gris.

“All sedations are completed,” added Bleu. “We are prepared to move.”

“Good! Let’s move then.
Troops
! Evacuate the area! Prepare to execute escape procedures! By your numbers!
Move!
”

As if on cue, the sounds of the revving helicopter could be heard from the camouflaged area fifty yards away from the center of Ground Zero.

And then there was another sound. From the road at the top of the Appian hill: A car screeching to a halt.

“
Stop!
” came a plaintive wail from the woods. “For Christ’s sake,
stop!
”

“What?”

“Mon Dieu!
”

“Che cosa?!”

“I say!”

“Tokig!”

“Bakasi!”

“Shit!”

Sam stumbled down the old dirt road on the hill. He came racing around the last curve and fell to one knee.

Giovanni Bombalini watched in astonishment; automatically he gave the kneeling figure his rather confused benediction, “
Deus et figlio
—”

“Will you shut up!” MacKenzie glared at Francesco. “
Goddamn
, Sam! What the hell are you doing here? You’re supposed to be sick as a
dog
—–”

“
Listen
to me, everybody!” broke in Sam. “Everyone gather around!” He struggled to his feet; the captains stood where they were, their faces betraying a certain insensitivity. “Escape! Run for your lives! Leave this man alone! It’s a trap! Machenfeld has fallen! It happened last night! Hundreds of Interpol police are swarming …” Sam’s jaw was suddenly a gaping orifice as he stared at the Hawk.
“What did you say?”

“You’re a real pistol, son. I respect your moxie, like I said before. But I can’t say you have much respect for my know-how.” MacKenzie snapped one of the straps that crisscrossed his chest over his field jacket. It was attached to a large leather case that was lashed over his hip. “No assault operation ever stays out of contact with its command center. Not since 1971, anyway. Hell, I used to patch relays from Ly Sol in Cambodia right straght down to the Mekong units.”

“What?”

“Tri-arced, high-frequency radio contact, boy. Set a schedule and receive-send simultaneously. You’re
dated
, Sam! As of an hour ago the only thing swarming around Machenfeld were butterflies. I don’t know how you did it, but you’re mighty lucky you got here alone.… Come to think of it, you’d be a damned fool to get here any other way. —All right, men! Resume Phase Eight! —Come on, Sam. You’re going for a ride. And I tell you this now, boy. Any more trouble and I’m going to open a door at two thousand feet and you can fly by yourself!”

“Mac, you can’t! Think of World War
Three
!”

“Think of a nice free-fall—without a parachute—straight into a plate of spaghetti!” And then there was another sound. A frightening one. From the top of the hill. From the road again.

The captains and the Turks froze.

The Hawk whipped his head around—and up—toward the Via Appia.

The pontiff said one word.

“
Carabinieri
.”

The whining, jarring, two-note scream of the Italian state police sirens could be heard in the distance. Drawing nearer.

“Goddamn! How?! What the hell
happened
? Sam, you
didn’t
!”

“My God,
no
! I didn’t! I
wouldn’t
!”

“I think there is a—miscalculation, signore,” said Pope Francesco softly.

“
What
? What mother—what miscalculation?”

“The motorcade was to stop at the small village—well, not so
much
a village—of Tuscabondo. It is a mile or so past the
deviazone
, your detour.”

“Jesus!”

“He can be merciful, Signore Generale.”

“Those bastards will be swarming the hills, the fields. Goddamn!”

“And the air, Generale,” said Captain Orange excitedly, breaking out in a sweat under his mask. “The
carabinieri
have fleets of
elicotteri
. They are the
pazzi
of the sky!”

“Jesus H. Christ!”

“
Figlio di Santa Maria—Figlio di Dio
—He is the way, Generale.”

“I told you to shut up.
Men
! Check your maps! Quickly! Gris and Bleu, evaluate escape routes E-Eight and E-Twelve. Our previous routes were faster but more exposed. Deliver your decision in one minute! Orange and Vert. Give me Frescobaldi! Join the others! Sam, you stay here!”

The screams of the sirens were nearer, almost at the intercept point of the Appia. Frescobaldi, weaving in MacKenzie’s grip, sang louder.

“Signore.” Giovanni Bombalini took a step toward MacKenzie. “You speak of the word of a general. You have great sincerity when you say it.”

“What? Yes, of course. You’re not much different, I suspect. Command’s a big responsibility.”

“Indeed it is. And truth is responsibility’s right arm.” The pope looked once more at the unconscious figures of his motorcade, each body comfortably stretched out, none harmed. “And compassion, naturally.”

The Hawk was barely listening. He was holding Frescobaldi, keeping an alert eye on a stunned Sam Devereaux, and watching Captains Gris and Bleu make their final evaluations over the maps. “What are you talking about?”

“You say you have no wish to inflict harm on my person.”

“Of course not. Wouldn’t get much ransom for a corpse. Well, maybe with
your
people—–”

“And Frescobaldi is as strong as an ox,” said the pope, as much to himself as to MacKenzie, while studying the half-conscious Guido. “He always was. Signore Generale, if I said I would go with you without interference, perhaps even in the spirit of cooperation, would you grant me a small request? As one commander to another?”

The Hawk squinted at the pontiff.

“What is it?”

“A brief note, only several words—in English—to be left with my aide. I would want you to read it, of course.”

MacKenzie took out a combat pad from his field jacket, ripped off a page, unclipped the waterproof pencil and handed both to Francesco. “You’ve got fifteen seconds.”

The pope put the paper against the limousine and wrote swiftly. He gave the page back to the Hawk.

“If it’s a code, it’s pretty piss-poor. Go ahead, put it in the colored fella’s pocket. I like that part that says you’re safe.”

Giovanni ran to the figure of his papal aide, stuffed the note under his cassock and returned to the Hawk. “Now, Signore Generale, you waste time.”

“What?”

“Put Frescobaldi in the limousine! Hurry! Inside is a briefcase. With my pills. Get it, please.”

“
What?
”

“You would last five minutes in the Curia! Where is the
elicottero?
”

“The copter?”

“Yes.”

“Over there. In a clearing.”

Captain Gris and Bleu had completed their swift conference. Gris called out. “We have briefed the men, General. We go! We meet at Zaragolo!”

“
Zaragolo!
” said the pontiff. “The airport at Monti Prenestini?”

“Yes,” answered the Hawk, staring with sudden concentration on Pope Francesco. “What about it?”

“Tell them to stay north of Rocco Priora! There are battalions of police in Rocca Priora.”

“That’s east of Frascati—–”

“Yes!”

“You heard him, Captains! Outflank Rocco Priora!
Now, scramble!
” roared the Hawk.

“
No!
” screamed Sam, backing away on the road, looking up at the hill. “Everybody’s crazy! You’re out of your minds! I’m going to stop you. All of you!”

“Young man!” Giovanni stood erect and addressed Sam pontifically. “Will you please be quiet and do as the general says?!”

Noir emerged from the clearing. “The bird’s ready, General! We’ve got a clean lift-off area.”

“We’ve also got an extra passenger. Get the counselor, Captain. You might show him a needle, if you can manage it.”

“With real pleasure,” said Noir.

“One dosage, Captain!”

“Shit!”

And so Giovanni Bombalini, the Holy Father of the Catholic Church, and MacKenzie Hawkins, two-time winner
of the Congressional Medal of Honor, put Guido Frescobaldi into the papal limousine and ran like hell through the Appian forest to the helicopter.

It was difficult for Francesco. The pontiff swore mildly at Sebastian, the patron saint of athletes, and finally in desperation pulled up the skirts of his habit, displaying rather thick peasant legs, and damn near beat MacKenzie to the aircraft.

The Lear jet soared above Zaragolo’s cloud cover, Captain Noir at the controls, Captain Rouge in the co-pilot’s seat. The Hawk and the pope sat in the forward section, across from one another, each by a window.

Bewildered, MacKenzie glanced over at Francesco. He knew from long years of experience that when command was stymied, the best thing to do was to do nothing, unless the combat at hand required immediate counter-strike.

Such was not the case now. The problem was that Francesco did not behave like any enemy the Hawk had ever fought.

Goddamn!

There he sat, his heavy robes unbuttoned down to his undershirt, his shoes off, and his hands folded casually across his wide girth, looking out the Lear’s window like some kind of happy delicatessen proprietor on his first airplane ride. It was amazing. And confusing.

Goddamn!

Why?

MacKenzie realized that there was no point in wearing his stocking mask any longer. The others had to, for their own protection, but for him it made no difference.

He removed it with a grateful sigh. Francesco looked over at him, not unpleasantly. The pope nodded his head, as if to say, Nice to meet you face to face.

Goddamn!

MacKenzie reached into his pocket for a cigar. He lifted one out, bit off the end, and pulled out a book of matches.

“
Per favore?
” Francesco was leaning toward him.

“What?” “A cigar, Signore Generale. For me. Do you mind?”

“Oh, no, not at all. Here you are.” Hawkins extracted a second cigar from the pack and handed it to the pontiff. And then, as an afterthought, reached into his other pocket for the clipper.

But it was too late.

Francesco had bitten off the end, spat it out—somehow without offense—taken the matches from Mac’s hand, and struck one.

Pope Francesco, the Vicar of Christ, lighted up. And as the circles of aromatic smoke rose above his head, the pontiff sat back in the seat, crossed his legs under his habit, and enjoyed the scenery below.

“
Grazie
,” Francesco said.

“
Prego
,” replied MacKenzie.

Sam sat in the cushioned, wrought iron chair at the northwest corner of the Machenfeld gardens. Anne had picked the spot after careful deliberation; it was the area of the gardens that provided the best view of the Matterhorn whose peak could be seen in the distance.

It had been three weeks now since the awful thing:

Ground Zero.

The captains and the Turks had departed—for unknown parts of the world, never to be heard from again. The staff had been reduced to one cook, who helped Anne and Sam with the housecleaning and the gardens. MacKenzie was not very good at either chore, but he did take turns driving into the village for the newspapers. Too, he checked daily with the high-priced doctor he had flown in from New York, just in case. The doctor, a specialist in internal medicine, had no idea why he was being paid such extraordinary sums of money to do absolutely nothing but live lavishly in a lakeside residence, and so in the spirit of the AMA he accepted the unreported cash and did not complain.