The Road to Gandolfo (20 page)

Before too many months had passed, Father Bombalini was a regular guest at many of the larger hotel suites and great houses of the Côte d’Azur. This rather odd-looking, rotund prelate was a marvelous raconteur, and it always made everyone feel better to have him around before going out to covet—successfully—his neighbor’s wife.

And a number of excessively large contributions to the
church were made in Father Giovanni’s name. With increasing frequency.

Rome could no longer overlook Bombalini. The exchequers of the Vatican treasury said so.

The war found Monsignor Bombalini in various Allied capitals and occasionally attached to various Allied armies. This was brought about for two reasons. The first was his adamant deposition to his superiors that he could not remain neutral in light of the known Hitlerian objectives. He catalogued his thesis with sixteen pages of historical, theological, and liturgical precendents; none but the Jesuits could understand it, and they were on his side. So Rome shut its eyes and hoped for the best. The second reason for his wartime travels was that the international rich of Monte Carlo in the thirties were now colonels and generals and diplomats and ambassadorial liaisons. They
all
wanted him. There were so many intra-Allied requests for his services that in Washington, J. Edgar Hoover marked Bombalini’s file:
Highly Suspect. May be a fairy
.

The postwar years were a time of rapid acceleration up the Vatican ladder for Cardinal Bombalini. Much of his success was due to his close friendship with Angelo Roncalli, with whom he shared a number of unorthodox views, as well as a penchant for decent, but not necessarily exclusive, wine and a good game of cards after the evening prayers.

As he sat on the white stone bench in the Vatican gardens Giovanni Bombalini—Pope Francesco—reflected that he missed Roncalli. They had accomplished much together; it had been good. And the similarities of their respective ascendencies to the chair of St. Peter never ceased to amuse him. Roncalli, John, would have been amused, too; no doubt, was, of course.

They were both compromises offered by the stern, orthodox constituencies of the Curia to quiet the fires of discontent within the global flock. Neither compromise expected to reign very long. But Roncalli had it easy; he had only theological arguments and undeveloped social reformers to contend with. He didn’t have damn fool young priests who wanted to marry and have children and, when of other persuasions, run homosexual parishes! Not
that any of these personally bothered Giovanni; there was absolutely
nothing
in theological law or dogma that actually prohibited marriage and offspring; and, as far as the other, if love of fellow man did not surmount biblical ambiguities, what had they learned? But, Mother of God, the fuss that was made!

There was so much to do—and the doctors had made it clear that his time was limited. It was the only thing they
were
clear about; they could isolate no specific illness, no particular malady. They just conferred and confirmed that his “vital signs” were slowing down at an alarming rate. He had demanded openness from them; Mother of God, he had no fear of death! He welcomed the rest. He and Roncalli could plow the heavenly vineyards together and take up their baccarat again. At last count Roncalli owed him something over six hundred million lire.

He had told the doctors that they looked too long in their microscopes and too little at the obvious. The machine was wearing out; it was as simple as that. Whereupon they nodded pontifically and uttered somberly: “Three months, four at the most, Holy Father.”

Doctors.
Basta!
Veterinarians with
cugini
in the Curia! Their bills were outrageous! The goatherders of Padua knew more about medicine; they had to.

Francesco heard the footsteps behind him and turned. Walking up the garden path was a young papal aide whose name escaped him. The youthful priest carried a clipboard in his hand. There was a painted crucifix on the underside; it looked silly.

“Your Holiness asked that we resolve some minor matters before the vesper hour.”

“By all means, Father. What are they?”

The aide rattled off a series of inconsequential functions, ceremonial in nature, and Giovanni flattered the young prelate by requesting his opinion on most of them.

“Then there is a request from an American periodical,
Viva Gourmet
. I would not mention it to the Holy Father except that the inquiry was accompanied by a strong recommendation from the United States Armed Forces Information Service.”

“That is a most unusual combination, is it not, Father?”

“Yes, Your Holiness. Quite incomprehensible.”

“What was the request?”

“They had the effrontery to ask the Holy Father to submit to an interview with a lady journalist regarding the pontiffs favorite dishes.”

“Why is that an effrontery?”

The young prelate paused; he seemed momentarily perplexed. Then he continued with confidence. “Because Cardinal Quartze said it was, Holy Father.”

“Did the learned cardinal give his reasons? Or, as usual, did he commune with God all by himself and simply deliver the divine edict?” Francesco tried not to overdo his perfectly natural reaction to Ignatio Quartze. The cardinal was a loathsome fellow in just about every department. He was an
erudito aristocratico
from a powerful Italian-Swiss family, who had the compassion of a disturbed cobra. Looked like one, too, thought Giovanni.

“He did, Holy Father,” replied the priest. And the instant he spoke, the aide was struck by a sudden embarrassment. “He—he—–.”

“May I suggest, Father,” said the pontiff with graceful understanding, “that our splendidly berobed cardinal offered the opinion that the pope’s favorite dishes were less than impressive?”

“I—I——”

“I see he did. Well, Father, it is true that I subscribe to simpler cooking than does our cardinal with the unfortunate nasal drip, but it is not due to lack of knowledge. Merely lack of, perhaps, ostentation; not that our cardinal, who is afflicted with that unfortunate eye that strays to the right as he talks, is ostentatious. I don’t believe it ever crossed his mind.”

“No, of course not, Holy Father.”

“But I think that during these days of high prices and widespread unemployment, it might be a fine idea for your pontiff to outline a number of inexpensive, though I assure you, quite excellent dishes. Who is this journalist? A lady, you say? Don’t ever tell anyone I said it, Father, but they are not the best cooks.”

“No, surely not, Your Holiness. The nuns of Rome are strenuous—–”

“Galvanizing, Father. Positively galvanizing! Who is the journalist from this gourmet periodical?”

“Her name is Lillian von Schnabe. She is American, from the state of California, married to an older man, a German immigrant who fled Hitler. As coincidence would have it, she is currently in Berlin.”

“I merely asked who she was, Father. Not her biography. How do you know all this?”

“It was in the recommendation from the United States Army Information Service. The military think highly of her, apparently.”

“More than apparently. So, her husband fled Hitler? One does not turn away from such compassionate women. Coupled with the state of food prices—a number of inexpensive papal dishes is called for. Set up an appointment, Father. You may tell our resplendent cardinal, who suffers from the unfortunate affliction of a high-decibeled wheeze, that we truly hope our decision is not an affront to him.
Viva Gourmet
. The Lord God has been good to me; it is a mark of recognition. I wonder why its correspondent is in Berlin? There’s a monsignor in Bonn who makes an excellent
Sauerbraten
.”

“I swear, you’ve got feathers in your teeth!” said Lillian as Sam walked into the room.

“It’s better than chickenshit.”

“What?”

“My business contact had a strange method of transportation.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I want to take a shower.”

“Not with
me
, honey!”

“I’ve never been so hungry in my life. They wouldn’t even stop for a—what the hell is it? A strudel. Everything was
ein, zwei, drei
!
Mach schnell
! Christ, I’m starved! They really think they won the war!”

Lillian backed away from him. “You are the filthiest, most foul-smelling man I’ve ever seen. I’m surprised they let you in the lobby.”

“I think we goose-stepped.” Sam noticed a large white business envelope on the bureau. “What’s that?”

“The front desk sent it up. They said it was urgent and they weren’t sure you’d stop for messages.”

“I can only conclude your ex, the fruitcake, has been busy.” Devereaux picked up the envelope. Inside were airline tickets and a note. He didn’t really have to read the note; the airline tickets said it all.

Algiers.

Then he read the note.

“
No!
Goddamn it,
no
! That’s less than an hour from now!”

“What is?” asked Lillian. “The plane?”

“What plane? How the hell do
you
know there’s a plane?”

“Because MacKenzie called. From Washington. You can imagine his shock when I answered—–”

“Spare me your inventive details!” roared Devereaux as he raced to the telephone. “I’ve got several things to say to that devious son of a bitch! Even convicts get a day off! At least time for a meal and a shower!”

“You can’t reach him now,” said Lillian quickly. “That was one of the reasons he called. He’ll be out for the rest of the day.”

Sam turned menacingly. Then he stopped. This girl could probably cut him in two. “And I suppose he offered a suggestion as to why I should be on that plane. Once he got over the shock of hearing your lovely voice, of course.”

Lillian looked puzzled. It crossed Devereaux’s mind that the puzzlement was not entirely genuine. “Mac mentioned something about a German named Koenig. How anxious this Koenig was for you to leave Berlin—one way or the other.”

“The less controversial method being Air France to Paris and from Paris to Algiers?”

“Yes, he did say that. Although not in those exact words. He’s terribly fond of you, Sam. He speaks of you as a son. The son he never had.”

“If there’s a Jacob, I’m Esau. Otherwise, I’m fucked as Absolom.”

“Vulgarity isn’t called for—–”

“It’s the only thing that
is
called for! What the hell is in Algiers?”

“A sheik named Azaz-Varak,” answered Lillian Hawkins von Schnabe.

Hawkins left the Watergate in a hurry. He had no desire to talk to Sam; he had absolute faith in Lillian, in all the girls, actually. They were doing their jobs splendidly! Besides, he was to meet with an Israeli major who, with any luck, could put the final pieces of the puzzle together for him. The puzzle being Sheik Azaz-Varak. By the time Devereaux reached Algiers a telephone call would have to be made. The Hawk could not make it without that final item which would insure the last of the Shepherd Company’s capitalization.

That Azaz-Varak was a thief on a global scale was nothing new. During the Second World War he sold oil at outrageous prices to the Allies and the Axis simultaneously, favoring only those who paid instantly in cash. This did not make him enemies, however; instead, his policies engendered respect, from Detroit to Essen.

But the war was ancient history. That war. It was Azaz-Varak’s behavior in a far more recent conflagration that interested Hawkins: the Mideast crisis.

Azaz-Varak was nowhere to be found.

While oaths were hurled across the lands of the Middle East, and the world watched armies clash against armies, and crisis-laden conferences took place, and outrageous profits were made, the greediest sheik of them all claimed to have a case of shingles and went to the Virgin Islands.

Goddamn!
It didn’t make sense! So MacKenzie went back into Azaz-Varak’s raw files and studied them with the eye of a professional. He began to find the pattern in the years between 1946 and 1948. Sheik Azaz-Varak had apparently spent a considerable amount of time in Tel Aviv!

According to the reports, his first few trips were made quite openly. It was supposed that Azaz-Varak sought Israeli women for his harem. Thereafter, however, Azaz-Varak continued to fly into Tel Aviv, but not openly; landing at night in outlying private airfields that could accommodate his most modern and expensive private planes.

More women? Hawkins had researched exhaustively and was unable to unearth the name of a single Israeli female
who ever went back to the sheikdom of Azaz-Kuwait.

Then, what had Azaz-Varak been doing in the state of Israel? And why had he traveled there so frequently?

MacKenzie’s breakthrough came, strangely enough, from information supplied by naval intelligence on the island of St. Thomas, where Azaz-Varak had fled during the Mideast war. There, he tried to buy up more property than anyone wished to sell. Rebuffed, he became furious.

The islanders had enough trouble. They did not need Arabs with harems and slaves. Jesus!
Slaves!
The very idea sent the bureau of tourism into apoplexy; visions of all that kitchen help in revolt were positively nauseating. Azaz-Varak was systematically prevented from buying two buckets of sand. When it was suspected he was trying to negotiate through second and third parties, covenants were included that would have made Palm Beach green with envy and the ACLU purple with rage. Simply put: no fucking Arabs could own, lease, sublease, visit, or trespass.

So in his frustration, the acquisitive sheik angrily, and hastily, brought in an American holding company called the Buffalo Corporation and tried to negotiate through it. There
were
laws and St. Thomas was a United States possession. And it did not take much research on Hawkins’s part to uncover the fact that the Buffalo Corporation—address: Albany Street, Buffalo, New York; telephone: unlisted—was a subsidiary of an unknown company called Pan-Friendship, main office: Beirut; telephone: also unlisted.

Subsequent overseas calls to several Israeli clearing-houses made stunningly clear what Azaz-Varak had been doing during all those visits to the Jewish homeland. He owned half the real estate in Tel Aviv, much of it in the poorer sections of town. The sheik was a Tel Aviv slumlord.