The Road to Gandolfo: A Novel by Robert Ludlum
Devereaux watched her; the dawn’s light washed over her striking features, heightening the sheen of her auburn hair and adding a soft, deep glow to her face. It was not a young face but it had something better than youth. An openness that accepted the years and could laugh gracefully at them. There was a directness that touched Sam.
“You’re a terrific looking person,” he said.
“So are you,” she replied quietly. “You’ve got what an old friend of mine used to call a face you’d like to know. Your eyes level. My friend used to say ‘watch the eyes, especially in a crowd; see if they listen.’ Actually, Mac said it. A long time ago. I suppose that sounds silly, eyes listening.”
“It doesn’t sound silly at all. Eyes do listen. I had a friend who used to go to Washington cocktail parties, and he’d repeat the word ‘hamburger’ over and over again—just ‘hamburger,’ nothing else. He swore that ninety percent of the time the people around him would say things like, ‘Very interesting. I’ll check the statistics on that’; or ‘Have you mentioned it to the undersecretary?’ He always knew who’d say those things because their eyes were moving so fast; you see, he wasn’t very important.”
Madge laughed softly; their eyes locked and she smiled. “He sounds very important to me.”
“You’re a nice person, too.”
“Yes, I try to be.” She looked over at the window again. “MacKenzie also said that too many people run from their perfectly natural inclination to be concerned human beings. As if concern was a sign of weakness. He said: ‘Goddamn, Midgey, I’m concerned and no son of a bitch better call me weak!’ And no one ever did.”
“I suppose being concerned is another way of being nice,” added Devereaux, mulling over the latest homily.
“There’s no better way,” said Madge, carrying the towel into the bathroom. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
She closed the door. Sam repeated the words to himself: Too many people run from their perfectly natural inclination to be concerned human beings. MacKenzie was a man of more complications than Devereaux cared to think about. At least, until breakfast arrived.
The bathroom door opened. Madge stood in the door frame and smiled deliberately, a sense of marvelous fun in her eyes, very much aware of the picture she presented. She no longer wore her skirt. Instead her breasts were now lovingly encased in an ivory-colored brassiere made of webbed lace. Below, her short slip accentuated the curve of her hips and bore witness to the soft white flesh that touched—and wanted to be touched—between her upper thighs.
She walked around to the side of the bed and took his immobile hand. She sat down gracefully and leaned over, her incredible spheres touching him, sending electricity through him causing him to suddenly inhale very short breaths. She kissed him on the lips. She pulled back and undid his belt and with the swift, graceful movements of a dancer, pulled down his trousers.
“Why Major, you have been thinking nice thoughts—–”
And the Algerian terrorist telephone rang.
The galaxy went out of whack again. Sanity vanished in a sudden rush of hysteria. Sweet reason and laced brassieres and soft flesh were no more. Instead, screams in Arabic, commands that threatened unbelievable violence should they be disobeyed.
“If you’ll stop yelling about pigs and dogs and vultures for a second, maybe I can figure out what you’re trying to say,” said Sam, holding the phone away from his ear. “All I said was that I couldn’t come down right now.”
“I am the emissary from Sheik Azaz-Varak!”
“What the hell is that?”
“Dog!”
“It’s a dog? You mean a puppy dog?”
“Silence! Azaz-Varak is the god of all khans! The possessor of the desert winds, the eyes of the falcon, the courage of all the lions of Judea, the prince of thunder!”
“Then what does he need me for?” ventured Sam hesitantly, reluctantly recognizing the name of the Hawk’s fourth mark. The final ten million. Jesus! He thought about it now with no more emphasis than ten boxes of Pop Tarts!
“Silence, dog! Or both your ears will be cut from your head and placed with hot irons up your unspeakable.”
“Now, goddamn it, that’s not friendly! You talk nicer or I’m going to hang up; there’s a lady here.”
“Please, Mr. Deveroo,” said the Arabic voice, suddenly quite gentle with a trace of a whine. “In the name of Allah, for the love of Allah, do not be difficult. It will be my ears in unspeakable places if you are difficult. We must leave for Tizi Ouzou immediately.”
“Tizi—who?”
“Ouzou, Mr. Deveroo.”
“Ouzoo? Did you say Ouzoo?”
Suddenly, without any warning whatsoever, the most unexpected thing Sam could imagine happened. Madge grabbed the telephone from him.
“Give me that!” she ordered. “I know Tizi Ouzou; my husband and I stayed there once. It’s a dreadful place!—Listen here, whoever you are, you’d better have a damn good reason to ask my friend to go to Tizi Ouzou. It’s the godforsaken end of nowhere! Without a decent hotel or restaurant, to say nothing about toilet facilities!”
The girl held the phone to her ear, nodding briefly every three or four seconds. The whine on the line became very audible.
“Really, Madge, I can handle—–”
“Be quiet. This son of a bitch isn’t even Algerian … Yes. Yes.… All right. Then we’ll both be down! … Take it or leave it, you desert gnat, that’s the only way it’s going to be.… They’re your ears, sweetie.… And one other thing. The minute we get there, I want a huge meal waiting for my friend here, do you understand?… And no biscuits of camel dung, either! All right. Five minutes.”
She hung up and smiled at Devereaux, who was mostly naked and completely pale.
“That was very generous of you, but it’s not necessary—–”
“Don’t be silly. You don’t know these people; I do. You have to be firm; they’re quite harmless, despite those goddamned knives. Besides, do you think I’d let you out of my sight for a minute? After I’ve seen what nice thoughts you’ve been thinking? And in your condition.” She leaned over and kissed him again. “It’s really very touching.”
Devereaux realized that in his weakened condition he might be subject to hallucinations; but he was not prepared for the two robed Arabs that met them in the Aletti lobby.
Peter Lorre and Boris Karloff. Quite a bit younger than the more recent photographs Sam remembered, but other wise unmistakable.
The next twenty minutes were a blur. Yet he had to be able to think clearly. Azaz-Varak (whoever and wherever he was) signified the last of the investors. He had to begin putting together the pieces of his counterstrategy.
Peter Lorre sat in the front seat next to Boris, who drove. The car sped through the streets and careened dangerously around the corners of early morning Algiers. They were halfway up a winding, steep hill when Devereaux realized they were heading for Dar el Beida airport.
“We going on a plane?” asked Sam apprehensively.
Madge answered beside him. “Oh sure, sweetie. Tizi Ouzou’s like two hundred miles east. You wouldn’t want to drive. Remember, I’ve been there.”
Devereaux looked at her. He wondered, and whispered, “I remember. What I can’t understand is why you’re here. Do you know what you’re involved with? Do you know what you’re doing?”
“I’m trying to be helpful.”
“So was Rose Mary Woods.”
The interior of the helicopter was only slightly smaller than the main level of Pennsylvania Station. Pillows were everywhere and beside each seat was an elaborate water pipe attached to the wall with a kind of Bunsen burner underneath it. An open galley was at the rear.
And after three minutes in the air, Sam was given the first sustenance he could recall. A small cup of acrid, black liquid that vaguely smelled of coffee, but more of bitter licorice mixed with stale sardines.
He drank it in one swallow, grimaced, and looked at the tiny person wrapp
He took it and wondered. It probably would not do him any good, but on the other hand it was something to put in his mouth, and nothing of that nature at this point could be any worse than the numbed agony he was experiencing. He inserted the mouthpiece between his teeth and drew on it.
It wasn’t smoke exactly; it was more a vapor. Sweet and pungent at the same time. Really very pleasant. Actually quite delightful. Rather diverting in its way.
He drew more heavily; and then more rapidly; he looked across at Madge, sitting opposite him in a bank of pillows. “Would you mind, my dear?” he heard himself saying calmly. “Please remove all your clothes.”
“I’d go easy on that,” replied the girl in her most provocative, breathless whisper.
Was she whispering? Her voice seemed to arrive at his ears on different levels of sound.
“Your blouse first, if you please.” Again he was not quite positive he had said what he heard himself saying. “Then perhaps if you would remove your shirt while performing a small, undulating dance. That would be very accommodating.”
“Put that damn thing down.”
“It’s up?” He could actually smell her perfume. And the pains were gone from his stomach. Instead he could feel a surging force of great strength pulsating throughout his body. He was capable of giant deeds; he was—what was it?—the possessor of the desert winds. A prince of thunder, a hurler of lightning. With the courage of all the lions of Judea.
“That’s not a Lucky Strike you’re pulling on. It’s pure hashish.”
“Who … ?” The information reached that small section of his brain that was functioning. What the hell was he doing? He spat out the mouthpiece and tried to stabilize the aircraft; it had to be the helicopter because something was suddenly going around and around. The lion of Judea was shrinking. A mangy pussycat was taking its place.
And then he heard the whining words of Peter Lorre, who had walked back from the pilot’s area. “We are on a heading south-southeast of Tizi Ouzou.”
“How come?” Madge was upset and did not bother to conceal it. “You said Tizi, not someplace else. I’ve got friends on Rue Joucif, you fly! My late husband did a lot of favors for the Algerian government!”
“A thousand nights of blissful pardons, lady of Deveroo, but my government is Azaz-Kuwait. My sheik is the sheik of all sheiks, the god of all khans, the eyes of the falcon, the courage—–”
“When you’re calling mee, calling meee, calling meeee!” Sam suddenly found himself bursting forth in song; at least, it sounded like him. It was a song.
“Shut up, Major!” shouted Madge.
“Alone—alonnnnne on this night that was meant for—–”
“Will you be quiet!” yelled the girl.
“It seemed appropriate,” mumbled Sam.
“Where are we going?” asked Madge of the whining Arab, who was looking at Devereaux as though the American should be watched closely.
“Seventy miles southeast of Tizi Ouzou is a stretch of desert that is traversed only by Bedouin tribes. It is very remote and lends itself to confidential rendezvous. An eagle’s tent has been spread for the sheik of all sheiks, the god of all knans. Azaz-Varak, the magnificent, is flying in from his holiest of kingdoms to meet with the unspeakable dog named Deveroo.”
“When I’m calling yoooo—Deveroo—only yooooo—–”
“Will you shut up!”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
There were maps everywhere, covering the Watergate bed, spilling over the coffee table, scattered about the floor, propped up against the bureau mirror, and draped over the hotel sofa. There were gasoline road maps, railroad maps, elevation charts, geological and vegetation carto-analyses; even aerial photographs from sequential altitudes of 500, 1,500, 5,000 and finally 20,000 feet.
These plus 363 ground-level photographs of every inch of the terrain under study.
Nothing could be left to chance.
Five minutes ago he had made his final decision. The real estate broker from the highly confidential, international firm of Les Châteaux Suisse des Grands Siècles would be arriving imminently. Naturally, secretly; the first law of Les Châteaux Suisse was absolute secrecy.
Mac had selected a remote château in the canton of Valais, south of Zermatt, in the countryside near Champoluc. The surrounding lands—two hundred acres—were in the cartographical shadow of the Matterhorn and were virtually inaccessible.
What was uppermost in his mind were two factors. The first was terrain. It would have to come as close as possible to duplicating Ground Zero, as Hawkins had decided to name it. Every turn and curve and rise of the road; each slope and hill that might play a part in the approach to or the escape from Ground Zero would have to be simulated as precisely as possible. Maneuvers were useless if the training grounds did not reflect the combat zone.
The second factor was the inaccessibility. His base of operations, as Mac had come to think of the leased property, had to be completely concealed from the outlying country roads as well as from the air. The area had to be one where huge pieces of equipment could be hidden in seconds; where a complement of at least a dozen men could live and train for a minimum of eight weeks.
The château in question possessed these specifics. And it was not that far from Zurich. The Shepherd Company’s capital would be transferred to Zurich. Devereaux would have to see to this centralization of finances. As well as the vetting of the château’s lease.
There was a discreet knock at the hotel door. MacKenzie stepped carefully over the maps and photographs on the floor and went to it. He stood close to the panel and spoke.
“Monsieur D’Artagnan?” Les Châteaux Suisse used pseudonyms all the time.
“Oui, mon général,” was the quiet reply from the corridor.
Hawkins opened the door and a middle-aged, nondescript, portly man entered. Even his slightly waxed moustache was nondescript, thought MacKenzie. He’d be a tough fellow to spot in a crowd; there was absolutely nothing outstanding about him.
“I see you have perused the information we sent you,” said Monsieur D’Artagnan in an accent formed west of Alsace-Lorraine. He was obviously a man who wasted no time on the amenities, and the Hawk was grateful for that.
“Yes, I have. I’ve made my decision.”
“Which property?”
“Château Machenfeld.”
“Ahh, Le Machenfeld! Magnifique—extraordinaire! What history has been played on its rolling fields; what battles won and lost in front of its towering parapets of granite! And the indoor plumbing has been kept most functioningly modern. An exquisite choice. I congratulate you. You and your coterie of religious brothers will be very happy.” D’Artagnan removed the fattest envelope Hawkins had ever seen from his inner jacket pocket. The highly secretive firm did not carry briefcases, Mac remembered; so much confidential information crammed into one repository was too dangerous. The brokers carried only those papers of immediate concern.
“Are those the leasing arrangements?”
“Oui, mon général. All completed and ready for your chosen and agreed-upon mark. And the six months’ deposit, of course.”
“Well, before we get to that, let me go over the conditions—–”
“There are new ones, monsieur?”
“No. I just want to make sure you understand the old ones.”
“But, my général, everything was understood,” said D’Artagnan, smiling. “You dictated the specifications; I transcribed them myself, as is our policy, and you approved the transcript. Here. See for yourself.” He handed Hawkins the papers. “I think you know we would never alter our clients’ demands. We have only to fill in the specific château and cross-check to make sure the demands are not in conflict with the owner’s conditions of lease. I have done
MacKenzie took the papers and picked his way between the maps and photographs to the sofa. With one hand he removed two huge elevation charts and sat down.
“I want to be positive that what I’m reading is what I heard.”
“Ask any questions you wish. As is the policy of Les Château Suisse des Grands Siècles, each broker is completely familiar with all conditions. And when our business is concluded, the papers are microfilmed and placed in the company vaults in Geneva. We suggest you make similar arrangements with your copies. Untraceable.”
Hawkins read aloud. “Whereas the party of the first part, hereafter known as the lessee, takes possession in-nomen-incognitum.…” Mac’s eyes skimmed downward. “In the absence of … communicatum-directorum between the party of … and the party of … Goddamn! You boys got your training in clandestine operations.”
D’Artagnan smiled; the waxed moustache stretched a little. “Ask your questions, monsieur.”
And so it began.
Les Châteaux Suisse des Grands Siècles was nothing if not thorough and specific—in the language of a lease that would never from that moment on see the light of day.
To begin with all identities were held sacrosanct, never to be divulged to any individual, organization, court, or government. No law, national or international, superseded the agreement; it was the only law. Payments were made to the firm either in cash or treasurer’s checks; in the case of the Shepherd Company, from a Cayman Island depository.
Whenever explanations of “source” were desirable, they would be expedited where necessary and in the interests of controlling outside curiosity. In the case of the Shepherd Company, the sole explanation of “source” was a loose federation of international philanthropists interested in the study and promulgation of an historic religiosity.