The Road to Gandolfo: A Novel by Robert Ludlum
The interview with Viva Gourmet’s Lillian von Schnabe was productive and pleasant. Giovanni expounded on two of his favorite subjects: that good, substantial meals could be created from inexpensive stock and flavored with simple, spiced sauces; and that in these difficult days of high prices it was a mark of distinction—to say nothing of Christian brotherhood—to share one’s table with one’s neighbor.
Mrs. von Schnabe saw immediately what he was trying to communicate. “Is this a form of ‘the loaves and the fishes,’ Your Holiness?”
“Let us say He was not preaching to the wealthier sections of Nazareth. A number of His miracles were based in sound psychological principles, my dear. I open my basket of fruit, you open your basket of pasta; we have fruit and pasta. The simple addition alone gives variety. Variety we rightfully equate with more rather than less.”
“And the diet’s improved,” agreed Lillian, nodding.
“Perfetto. You see? Two principios: reduce the cost and share the supply.”
“That sounds almost socialistic, though, doesn’t it?”
“When stomachs are empty and prices are high, labels are foolish. In the Borsa Valori—the stock exchange, you call it—they are not prone to open baskets; they sell them. It is fitting that they do so, considering the nature of their labors. But I do not address such people. They eat at the Grand Hotel, on each other’s expense accounts. I believe that, too, is a derivative of the ‘loaves and fishes’ principle.”
They discussed numerous recipes based on the village dishes from the pope’s past. Giovanni could see that the nice lady with the lovely voice was impressed. He had done his nutritional homework; carbohydrates, proteins, starch, calories, iron, and all kinds of vitamins were to be found in his recipes.
Lillian filled half a notebook, writing as rapidly as the pope spoke, stopping him occasionally to clarify a word or a phrase. After nearly an hour had passed, she paused and asked a question Giovanni did not understand.
“What about your own personal requirements, Your Holiness? Are there any restrictions or specific necessities called for in the meals brought to you?”
“Che cosa? What do you mean?”
“We are what we eat, you know.”
“I sincerely hope not. I am in my seventh decade, my dear. An excess of onion or olive or pimento.… But such information is not needed for your article. People my age quite naturally gravitate to and regulate their personal needs in this area.”
Lillian put her pencil down. “I didn’t mean to pry, but you’re so fascinating a man—and I am considered one of the best nutritional experts in America. I suppose I just wanted to approve of the way your kitchen treats you.”
Ahh, thought Giovanni Bombalini, how many years it has been since a lovely person of the opposite gender has been concerned about him! He could not remember, it was so long ago! Pinched-faced nuns and officious nurses, yes. But so attractive a lady, with such a lovely voice.…
“Well, my dear, these outrageous doctors do insist on certain foods.…”
Lillian picked up her pencil.
And they talked for another fifteen minutes.
At the end of which time there was a knock on the door of the papal apartment. Francesco rose from the couch and returned to the elevated, high-backed, white velvet chair that belonged in one of those Cinecitta biblical spectaculars.
An agitated Cardinal Ignatio Quartze stood in the doorway, a handkerchief dabbing his aquiline nose, noises emerging from his throat. “I am sorry to interrupt, Holy Father,” he said in both Italian and high dudgeon, giving the word “holy” a rather profane but eminently courteous connotation, “but I’ve just been informed that Your Holiness has seen fit to disagree with my instructions regarding the convocation of the Bankers for Christ.”
“ ‘Disagree’ is too strong a term. I merely suggested that the convocation committee reconsider. To occupy the Sistine Chapel for two days at the height of the spring tourist season seems unwarranted.”
“If you will forgive my contrary observation, the Sistine is the most favored and frequented site we possess. All convocations of merit convene there.”
“Thus denying thousands every year of its beauty. I’m not sure there’s merit in that.”
“We are not an amusement park, Pope Francesco.” Strange noises continued to come from the area of the cardinal’s throat; he blew his nose with aristocratic vigor.
“I sometimes wonder,” replied Giovanni. “We sell such a diversity of baubles everywhere. Did you know there’s a stand featuring rhinestone rosary beads?”
“Please, Your Holiness. The Bankers for Christ. They expect the Sistine. We are finalizing extremely important matters.”
“Yes, my dear Cardinal, I received the memorandum. ‘Accruals for Jesus’ is somewhat labored, I think, but I suppose these are certain tax advantages.” Giovanni’s attention was suddenly drawn to Lillian. She had closed her notebook politely but firmly; she was anxious to leave. Ahh, it had been such a pleasant interlude! And Quartze was not going to spoil it; he could wait. He addressed the attractive lady with the lovely voice. In English, of course; a language only barely understood by Quartze. “How rude we are. Do forgive us. The agitated cardinal with the propellers in his nasal passages has once again found my judgments lacking.”
“Then I would have to say his judgment left much to be desired,” said Lillian, rising from the couch and placing her notebook in her purse. She looked into Giovanni’s eyes and spoke softly with feeling. “I suppose this isn’t a proper thing to say but since I’m not Catholic, I’ll say it anyway. You’re one of the most attractive men I’ve ever met. I hope you’re not offended.”
Giovanni Bombalini, Pope Francesco, Vicar of Christ felt the stirrings of memories of fifty years ago. And they were good. In a profoundly sacred sense—for which he was grateful. “And you, my dear, possess an honesty—however erroneous your present opinion—that walks in the warm light of God.”
“If I do, it’s because I was taught by someone quite like you, I think. Although few would recognize the similarity.”
“I am flattered. This—someone, give him the blessings of a farmhand-priest.”
Lillian smiled. She started for the door, where Quartze’s handkerchief fluttered a tattoo in front of his agitated face and the sounds of mucus still could be heard beyond his aquiline nose and very thin lips. The prelate sidestepped to let her pass, doing his best to ignore her. So Lillian paused briefly, forcing him to look at her. When he did so, she winked.
As she closed the door the words from Pope Francesco were clear and firm. For in his anger, the pontiff raised his voice, in English.
“Talk to me not of the Sistine, Ignatio! Instead, discuss these plans I requested for your waterfront home at Sam Vincente! What are ‘security arrangements’? They include a steam bath?”
Hawkins had reserved both seats in the first-class section of the Lufthansa 747. Since he needed elbow room, there was no point in inconveniencing a fellow passenger. This way, he was able to place file folders beside him for quick referrals.
He had specifically chosen the night flight to Zurich. The travelers, by and large, would be diplomats, bankers, or corporate executives used to transatlantic flights; they would use the night for sleep, not socializing. He would have a minimum of interruptions.
For selections would have to be made, offers of recruitment dispatched immediately from Zurich.
MacKenzie’s briefcase contained assorted personnel profiles from which he would choose his troops. They were the last of the files he had Xeroxed at the G-2 archives. Those fortunate enough to be chosen would be his brigade; his personal army that would be privileged to engage in the most unusual maneuver in modern military history.
And each soldier would return from the engagement one of the richest men in his part of the world.
For, where possible, they would be from separate parts of the world. For the inviolate condition of recruitment was that none would ever acknowledge
The dossiers in the Hawk’s briefcase were those of the most accomplished double and triple agents in the U.S. Army data banks. And there was a common denominator running through each file: All were in forced retirement.
The state of double and triple agenting was at a low ebb. The experts described in the dossiers had not had really gainful employment for some time, and for such men inactivity was anathema. It meant not only a loss of prestige within the community of international criminals, but also a reduced scale of living.
The prospects of $500,000 per man would not be lightly dismissed. And each potential recruit was worth it. Each was the best at his specialty.
It was all a question of logistics. Think—then outthink. Every function handled by an expert, every move timed to the split second.
And that required a commander who demanded flawless precision from his troops. Who trained them to perform at peak efficiency levels. Who did not stint when it came to equipment and simulation; who would duplicate as far as technically possible the exact conditions projected for the assault. In essence, a general officer of the first rank. Himself. Goddamn!
Once the brigade was selected and assembled, Mac would outline the basic strategy. Then he would allow his officers to offer suggestions and refinements. A good commander always listened to his subordinate officers but, of course, reserved final judgment for himself.
The weeks of training would show where the strengths and weaknesses lay; the objective was merely to eliminate all weakness.
The fewer troops the better, but not so few as to impair the efficiency of the mission. Which was why there was only one payment for each soldier: $500,000. There would be no rewards if they were caught. At least, not the kind they were after. There would be certain family allotments in the case of capture. It was the sort of thing all armies had learned to take for granted. Men performed better under combat conditions if their minds were free of concern about their families. It was a good thing, too. It was another proof of separation between the species.
The Shepherd Company would bank funds for dependents in advance of Ground Zero; to be deducted, of course, from all final payments upon the successful completion of the operation.
Goddamn! He was not only pro, he was a very thorough pro at that! If those idiots in the Pentagon had turned over the whole U.S. Army to him, they would not be having all that trouble with volunteer enlistments. The Pentagon pricky-shits did not really understand “the book.” If a soldier took the book for what it was and didn’t try to bend it politically, or find ambiguities to hide behind—well, it was a goddamned good book. Flawed but workable.
He had no time to think about pricky-shits. He had about refined his brigade. The required areas of expertise were seven: camouflage, demolition, sedative medicines, native orientation, aircraft technology, escape cartography, and electronics.
Seven experts. He had narrowed the dossiers down to twelve. Before he reached Zurich he knew he would have the seven. It was just a question of reading and rereading. He would send out his offers from Zurich, not from the Château Machenfeld; nothing could be traced to Machenfeld.
He even had to be careful in Zurich. Not with regard to traces, however; he could handle that problem. But he had to make damn sure he didn’t run into Sam Devereaux. Sam was due within hours of his own arrival; he wasn’t ready for Sam’s kind of panic. He could handle that problem better within the confines of Machenfeld.
But then, thought the Hawk, he didn’t really have anything to worry about. Devereaux was the girl’s problem and they had—each and every one—carried out their assignments with real know-how.
Goddamn! They were splendid! A man had to count himself fortunate, indeed, to have such a quartet of fine women behind him. “Behind every great man …” they said. Behind him there wasn’t one fine lass, there were four.
And a grander, more upstanding group of girls there never were! Sam was a lucky fellow and he didn’t know it. Hawkins made a mental note to tell him when he saw Sam at Machenfeld.
Tomorrow, if the schedule held.
Devereaux walked down the station platform looking for the correctly numbered railway car. The task was made difficult because he could not stop belching. He had eaten his way from Tizi-whatever-the-hell-it-was, through Algiers, past Rome, into Zurich. Madge had seen him off at Dar el Beida airport admitting no more during their good-byes than she had saying hello in the Aletti Hotel room.
But Sam had made up his mind not to speculate any further about the girls. Whatever propelled them to do what they did for the Hawk could be left to Krafft-Ebing; he had other things to concentrate on.
The capitalization of forty million dollars was committed. Hawkins now had his marbles (no, he did not have his marbles, but that was another question), and he would start playing the game. The Hawk would begin his final arrangements, make his purchases, recruit his—what was it?—“support personnel.”
Jesus! Support personnel!
So he could kidnap the pope!
Oh, my God! The whole world was an enormous fruitcake!
There was only one thing to bear in mind, one objective to keep in focus: How to stop MacKenzie Hawkins.
Two objectives: Stay out of jail himself. And out of the homicidal clutches of the Mafia, the Peerage, the Nazis, and particularly those Arabs who wanted to stuff his unmentionables into unspeakables.
He found his compartment, the sort made famous by Rex Harrison and Margaret Lockwood. Shadows and black velvet collars and the incessant therumping of the metal wheels against the metal tracks below signifying the inevitable approach of terror. And large windows on the sliding doors, with curtains suddenly drawn back revealing the faces of evil.
Night Train, Orient Express—with slow dissolves to hands inching into folds of dark overcoats, ever so slowly withdrawing the black steel of murderous pistols. The train started.
“Well, Ah declare! Ah said to myself, Ah simply don’t beleeve it! It’s the mayjor! Right here in li’l ole Zurich!”
There was no reason to be the least astonished. After all, Titanics was on schedule.
Regina Sommerville Hawkins Clark Madison Greenberg stood in the corridor outside the railroad compartment and spoke through the wood-framed window. She slid the door open and filled the small enclosure with remembrances of magnolia blossoms. Sam sat down calmly by the window, amazed at his own casualness. “Your timing’s nothing short of brilliant. The train rolls and so do you. If I tried to get off at Lucerne I have an idea you’d start screaming ‘rape!’ ”
“Why, what a peculiar thing to say. I hope you haven’t forgotten the Beverly Hills Hotel; I never will.”
“My memories have no beginnings, no middles, no ends. The world fornicates in a thousand broken mirrors; we abuse ourselves in the reflections of Sodom and Gomorrah.…
“Now, tell me why you just happen to be in Zurich. At the Hauptbahnhof, on this particular train, in this particular car.”
“Oh, that’s easy. Manny’s shooting a picture in Geneva. For UA. I think it’s so porn they had to make it outside the States.”
“That’s Geneva; this is Zurich. You can do better than that. Let’s have it for Hawkins’s Harem. A little imagination, please.”
“Honestly! Now you’re downright offensive!” Regina swept her vicuña back and placed her hands defiantly on her hips. Two cannons had Devereaux in their sights. “I don’t think you’ve got a damn thing to complain about. We root outselves up out of very comfortable circumstances, traipse all over the world, subject ourselves to every kind of inconvenience—rush, rush, rush—check on everything—look after you, body and soul—make sure no one hurts you—see to your every comfort—. Oh, Lawdy, what more could we do?! And for what? Abuse! Just plain, big ole abuse!”
Regina dropped her defiant pose and began to cry. She opened her purse, withdrew a Kleenex, and sat down opposite Sam,
A lost, hurt little girl.
“Hey, come on. That’s not fair.”
As are most men, Sam was helpless before a tearful woman.
Regina sobbed; her chest throbbed. Devereaux got out of his seat and knelt in front of her. “It’s okay. It’s all right. Don’t cry, please.”
Between subsiding gasps, the girl looked at him gratefully. “Then you don’t hate me? Say you don’t hate me.”
“How could I hate you? You’re lovely—and sweet—and for Christ’s sake, please stop crying.”
She put her face next to his and her lips against his ear. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m exhausted. The pressure’s been simply God-awful. I’ve stayed by the telephone night and day, always worryin’—and, of course, wonderin’. I really missed you.”
Ginny’s coat was like a warm, comforting blanket between them. The huge, soft lapels came close to enveloping Devereaux’s arms. She took both his hands and guided them between the folds of thick fabric and placed them on the softer, warmer, more comforting swells of loveliness that were beneath the silk of her blouse.
“That’s better. Stop crying now.” It was all he could think to say, so he said it softly.
She whispered into his ear, causing all kinds of things to happen to his metabolism. “Do you remember those marvelous old English movies that took place on trains like this?”
“Sure. Rex Harrison saving Margaret Lockwood from the evil Conrad Veidt—–”
“I think you can slide the door closed and lock it. And there are curtains.…”
Devereaux rose from the floor. He locked the door, closed the curtains, then turned back to Regina. She had removed her vicuña coat and spread it invitingly over the soft seat of the railroad compartment.
Beneath them the therumping sounds of the metal against metal signified the inexorable journey, the beat somehow sensual. Outside, the lovely countryside of Switzerland whipped by, bathed in a Swiss twilight.