The Road to Gandolfo (38 page)

Francesco (Sam could not bring himself to say pope) had settled comfortably into the sealed-off top-floor apartments and could be seen daily walking on the ramparts through his rooftop gardens.

MacKenzie had really done it! He had won the biggest military objective of his career.

And he was currently, through a convoluted series of extraordinarily complex, untraceable conduits, making his ransom demands of the Vatican. Ultrahigh-frequency radio codes arcing from the Alps to Beirut to Algiers; relayed by
desert and ocean towers from Marseilles, to Paris, to Milan, and on to Rome.

According to the schedules he had imposed, the Vatican reply was to be radioed out of Rome and relayed from Beirut by 5
P.M.

MacKenzie had left Machenfeld to drive to the isolated transmission center—a lone cabin high in the upper Alps, in which was installed the finest, most sophisticated radio equipment obtainable. It had been delivered to Machenfeld by Les Château Suisse but put into operation by the Hawk himself. No one but MacKenzie knew the location of the mountain retreat.

Oh, my God! Five o’clock this afternoon! Sam forced his thoughts away from the awful thing.

There was movement up at the château. Anne had walked out the terrace door carrying the usual large, glossy picture book under her arm and a silver tray with glasses on it in her hands. She started across the lawn to the gardens. Her walk was firm, feminine; a graceful, natural dancer oblivious to the subtle rhythms inherent in her grace. Her light brown hair fell casually, framing the clear pink skin of her lovely face. Her wide, bright blue eyes reflected whatever light they faced.

He had learned something from all the girls, thought Devereaux. Something different and individually their own—gifts to him. And if a normal life was ever to return, he would be grateful for their gifts.

But perhaps he had learned the most important thing from Anne: Try for improvement—but don’t deny what’s past.

There was laughter on the lawn. Anne was looking up at the ramparts where Francesco, dressed in a colorful ski sweater, was leaning over the parapet.

It had become their private game, Anne’s and Francesco’s. Whenever the Hawk was out of sight they held conversations. And Sam was sure—because Anne would not deny it—that she had made numerous trips up to his private apartments bringing him glasses of chianti, which was specifically forbidden from his diet. Anne and Francesco had become good friends.

Several minutes later that judgment was confirmed. Anne placed the silver tray with the drinks on the table next to Sam. Her eyes were smiling.

“Did you know, Sam, that Jesus was a very practical, down-to-earth person. When he washed Mary Magdalene’s feet, he was letting everybody know she was a human being. Maybe a very fine one, in spite of what she used to do. And that people shouldn’t throw rocks at her because maybe their feet weren’t so clean, either.”

MacKenzie climbed the final precipice by means of an Alpine hook. The last two hundred yards of the spiraling summit road were too deep with mountain snow for the motorcycle, so it was faster to make the final ascent directly. It was eleven minutes to five, Zurich time.

The signals would commence in eleven minutes. From Beirut. They would be repeated after an interval of five minutes, to double-check for decoding errors. At the end of the second series he would confirm reception by transmitting the air-clearance code to the relay in Beirut: four dashes, repeated twice.

Once inside, the Hawk started the generators and watched with satisfaction as the myriad wheels spun with a smooth whirring sound within the casing, and the dials began registering
output
.

When the two green lights went on, signifying maximum performance, he plugged in the single electric heater, feeling the warmth of the glowing coils. He reached over to the powerful shortwave equipment, flipped on the receiving switches and turned the amplifier spools to high volume. Three minutes to go.

He walked to the wall. Slowly he began to turn a handle, hearing the gears mesh. Outside, beyond the iron grillwork of the tiny window, he could see a webbed disc swing out and up on its track.

He returned to the radio receiving panel and revolved the parallel megacycle and tetracycle dials with delicate precision. The voices of a dozen languages emerged from the amplifiers. When the needles were in the exact parallel cycle points there was silence. One minute to go.

MacKenzie took out a cigar from his pocket and lighted up. He inhaled with real contentment and blew out the smoke in ring after ring.

Suddenly the signals were there. Four short, high-pitched dashes; repeated once. The channel was cleared.

He picked up a pencil, his hand poised above a page of notepaper, prepared to write out the code as it was beamed from Beirut.

The message terminated, the Hawk had five minutes to decode. To convert the signals into numbers, then transfer the numbers into letters and the letters into words.

When he had finished, he stared in disbelief at the Vatican reply.

It was impossible!

Obviously, he had made several errors in receiving the Beirut transmission.

The signals began again.

The Hawk started writing on a fresh page of notepaper.

Carefully.

Precisely.

The transmission ended as it began: four dashes, repeated once.

MacKenzie put the decoding schedule in front of him. He believed he had memorized it thoroughly, but this was no time to make a mistake. He cross-checked every dot, every dash.

Every word.

There were no errors.

The unbelievable had happened.

Relative to the insane request regarding the contribution of four hundred million American dollars, by assessing worldwide dioceses on the basis of one dollar per communicant, the treasury of the Holy See is in no position to consider such a request. Or any request at all for this particular charity. The Holy Father is in excellent health and sends his blessings in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.

Ignatio Quartze,

Cardinal Omnipitum,

Keeper of the Vatican Treasury

The Shepherd Company suspended operations.

MacKenzie Hawkins walked the grounds of Château Machenfeld, smoking his cigars, staring blankly at the infinite beauty of the Alps.

Sam made an accounting of the corporation’s monetary assets, exclusive of the properties and equipment. Of the original capitalization of $40,000,000, there remained $12,810,431.02.

Plus a contingency expense fund of $150,000, which had not been touched.

Not bad at all. Especially since the investors, to a panicked vulture, refused reimbursement. They wanted nothing whatsoever to do with the Shepherd Company or any of its management personnel. None would even bother to file for tax losses as long as Shepherd’s corporate executives promised—on the Bible,
Burke’s Peerage, Mein Kampf
, and the Koran—never to get in touch with him again.

And Francesco, now sporting a Tyrolean hat along with his favorite ski sweater, was allowed out of the top-floor apartments. For the sake of everybody’s sanity, it was agreed to refer to him as Zio Francesco, somebody’s uncle.

Since he showed no inclination to go anywhere or do anything other than enjoy the company, Zio Francesco roamed freely. There was someone always nearby, but not to prevent escape; for assistance. He was, after all, in his seventies.

The cook was especially taken with him, for he spent long periods in the kitchen, helping with the sauces, and every once in a while asking permission to fix a particular dish.

He made one request of the Hawk. The Hawk refused it.

No! Absolutely no! Zio could not telephone his apartment in the Vatican! It made no difference whatsoever that his telephone was private or unlisted
or
concealed in the drawer of his bedside table! Telephone calls could be traced.

Not if they were radioed, insisted Francesco. The Hawk had impressed them all, frequently, by telling them about
his complicated methods of communicating with Rome. Of course, a simple telephone call would not have to be nearly so complex. One little relay, perhaps.

No!
All that spaghetti had gone to Zio’s head. His brain was soft.

The Hawk’s was softer, perhaps, suggested Francesco. What progress was the general making? Were not matters at a stalemate? Had not Cardinal Quartze outflanked him?

How could a telephone call change that?

How could it make things any worse? persisted Francesco. The Hawk could be at the radio, his hand on a switch, prepared to break the connection should Zio say anything improper. Was it not more advantageous to the general for at least two people to know he was alive? That the deception was
truly
a deception? There certainly was nothing to lose, for the Hawk had already lost. And possibly there was something to gain. Perhaps four hundred million American dollars.

Besides, Guido needed help. This was no criticism of his cousin, who was not only strong as a bull but a most gentle and thoughtful person. But he was new at the job and would certainly listen to his cousin Giovanni Bombalini. Helped, of course, by Giovanni’s personal aide, the young American priest from Harlem.

The situation might
not
be remedied overnight—for there were matters of health and logistics to be considered. But when all was said and done, what alternative did the Hawk
have
?

He obviously had none. And so MacKenzie came down from the Alpine cabin one afternoon carrying three canvas-wrapped cartons of radio equipment and proceeded to install the instruments in a Machenfeld bedroom.

When all was completed, the Hawk issued an irrevocable command. Only he and Zio Francesco were allowed inside during radio transmissions.

That was fine with Anne and Sam. They had no desire to be there. The cook thought everybody was crazy and went back to the kitchen.

And at least twice a week from then on—very late at night—the huge disk antenna was wheeled out and raised above the battlements. Neither Sam nor Anne knew what
was being said or whether anything was being accomplished, but often when they sat in the gardens to talk and look at the glorious Swiss moon, they heard great peals of laughter from the upstairs room. The Hawk and the pope were like small boys thoroughly enjoying a new game.

A secret game, played in their personal clubhouse.

Sam sat in the garden absently looking at his copy of the London
Times
. Life at Château Machenfeld had become routinized. For instance, every morning one of them would drive into the village to pick up the newspapers. Coffee in the gardens with the newspapers was a wonderful way to start the day. The world was such an unholy mess; life was so peaceful at Machenfeld.

The Hawk, having discovered the existence of riding trails on the property, purchased several fine horses and rode frequently, sometimes for hours at a time. He’d found something he’d been looking for, thought Sam.

Francesco discovered oil painting. He would trek over the fields in his Tyrolean hat with Anne or the cook, set up his easel and paints, and render for posterity his impressions of the Alpine splendors. That is, when he wasn’t in the kitchen, or teaching Anne to play chess, or debating—always pleasantly—with Sam over points of law.

There was one thing about Francesco that nobody talked about, but all knew had something to do with his attitude. Francesco had not been a well man when he was taken out of the Appian hills. Not well at all. It was the reason Mac had insisted on the availability of the New York specialist.

But as the weeks went by, Francesco seemed to improve in the Alpine air.

Would it have been the same, otherwise?

No one, of course, would speculate, but Francesco had said something at dinner one evening that registered on them all.

“Those doctors. I shall outlive every one of them! They would have had me buried a month ago.”

The Hawk responded with a coughing fit.

And Sam? What of him?

Whatever it was, he knew that it included Anne.

He looked at her now in the late morning sun, sitting in
the chair reading the newspaper, the ever present book on the table beside her.
A Pictorial History of Switzerland
was the title today.

She was so lovely, so gloriously—herself. She’d help him became a better lawyer, by making the law seem not so important.

Now he began to think about other things.

Like reading quietly. Understanding. Evaluating.

Like—Judge Devereaux.

Oh, Boston was going to like Anne! His mother would like her, too. And Aaron Pinkus. Aaron would approve wholeheartedly.

If Judge Devereaux ever got back to Boston.

He’d think about that—tomorrow.

“Sam?” said Anne, looking over at him.

“What?”

“Did you read this article in the
Tribune
?”

“What article? I haven’t seen the
Tribune
.”

“Here.” She pointed but did not give him the paper. She was engrossed. “It’s about the Catholic Church. All kinds of things. The pope has called a Fifth Ecumenical Council. And there’s an announcement that a hundred and sixty-three opera companies are being subsidized, to elevate the spirit of creativity. And a famous cardinal—my God, Sam—it’s that Ignatio Quartze! The one Mac yells about.”

“What about him?”

“It seems he’s retiring to some villa called San Vincente. Something to do with papal disputes over Vatican allocations. Isn’t that strange?”

Devereaux was silent for several moments before he replied. “I think our friends have been very busy up on the ramparts.”

In the distance were the sounds of galloping hooves. Seconds later MacKenzie Hawkins emerged on the dirt road from beyond the trees and the fields where only weeks ago maneuvers were held. He reined in his horse and trotted up to the northwest corner of the gardens.

“Goddamn! Isn’t it a glorious day? You can see the peak of the Matterhorn!”

There was the music of a triangle coming from the other direction. MacKenzie waved; Devereaux and Anne turned
and saw Francesco on the terrace outside the kitchen door, the triangle and the silver bar in his hands. He was dressed in a large apron, the Tyrolean hat firmly on his head.