The Road to Gandolfo (24 page)

“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 so with all potential locations; there are no conflicts.”

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.

All supplies, equipment, transportation, and services would be expedited in complete confidentiality by Les Châteaux Suisse des Grands Siècles and consigned to branch offices in Zermatt, Interlaken, Chamonix, or Grenoble. Any and all deliveries of consequence to Le Château Machenfeld would be made between the hours of midnight and 4
A.M.
Drivers, technicians, and laborers, where possible, would be from the ranks of the Shepherd Company’s brotherhood, who would be sent down from Le Machenfeld to the branch offices. In the absence thereof, only employees of Les Châteaux Suisse who had no less than ten years acceptable service with the firm would be assigned the deliveries.

All payments were to be made in advance, based on book retail value, with a surcharge of 40 percent for the confidential services of Les Châteaux Suisse.

“That’s a lot of percent,” said MacKenzie.

“It’s a very wide boulevard,” replied D’Artagnan. “We don’t avail ourselves to those who drive in narrow streets. We think our consultation fee is ample proof of this.”

It was, thought the Hawk. The “consultation fee”—applied against whatever lease was arrived at,
if
a lease
was
signed—was $500,000.

“You do mighty fine work, Mr. D’Artagnan,” said Hawkins, taking up a fountain pen.

“You’re in good hands. In a few days you will, as it were, vanish from the face of the earth.”

“Don’t worry. Everybody I know—that’s
everybody
—will be extremely grateful never to hear from me again. Seems I generate complications.” The Hawk laughed quietly to himself. He signed his name:
George Washington Rappaport
.

D’Artagnan left with MacKenzie’s treasurer’s check drawn on the Cayman Islands’ Admiralty Bank. The amount was for $1,495,000.

The Hawk picked up a handful of photographs and walked back to the hotel sofa. As he sat down, however, he knew he could not dwell on the majesty of Machenfeld. There were other immediate considerations. Machenfeld would be worthless without the personnel to train within its borders. But former Lieutenant General MacKenzie Hawkins, twice winner of the Congressional Medal of Honor, knew where he was going and how to get there. Ground Zero was several months away. But the journey had begun.

He wondered how Sam and Midgey were doing. Goddamn, that boy was getting around!

The helicopter descended, dropping straight down and causing torrential clouds of sand to blast up in increasingly furious layers from the desert floor. So thick was the enveloping storm that the only way Sam knew they had landed was the jarring thud of the undercarriage as it met and was swallowed by the dunes.

They had been in the air somewhat longer than had been anticipated. There had been a minor navigational problem: The pilot was lost. It had to be the pilot since it was unthinkable to admit the possibility that the eagle’s tent of Azaz-Varak was in the wrong place. But at last, they saw the complex of canvas below.

The sand settled and Peter Lorre opened the hatch. The desert sun was blinding. Sam held Madge’s arm as they stepped out of the aircraft; if the sun was blinding, the sand was boiling. “Where the hell are we?”

“
Aiyee!
” “
Aiyee!
” “
Aiyee!
” “
Aiyee!
”

The screams were everywhere, and
from
everywhere there was rushing movement. Turbaned Arabs, their sheets flying in the wind like a hundred white sails, raced out of
the various tents toward them. Peter Lorre and Boris Karloff flanked Sam, gripping his arms as if displaying an animal carcass. Madge stood in front, somewhat protectively, thought Devereaux uncomfortably, as though she were about to give instructions to a slaughterhouse butcher. The racing battalion of sheets and turbans formed two single lines that created a corridor leading slightly uphill in the sand to the largest of the tents, about fifty yards away.

Peter Lorre’s nasal shriek filled the air. “
Aiyee!
The eye the falcon! The hurler of lightning! The god of all khans and the sheik of all sheiks!” He turned to Sam and screamed even louder. “
Kneel! Unworthy white hyena!
”

“
What?
” Devereaux wasn’t arguing; he just thought the sand would melt his trousers.

“It is better to kneel,” said the deep-throated Boris Karloff, “than to find yourself standing on stumps.”

The sand was, indeed, uncomfortable. And Sam, in an instant of real human concern, wondered what Madge was going to do; she wore a very short skirt above her desert boots. He squinted and looked at her.

He need not have indulged in human concern, he thought. Madge was not kneeling at all. Instead she had moved slightly to the side and was standing erect. She was spectacular.

“Bitch,” he whispered.

“Keep your head,” she answered quietly. “That’s meant figuratively—I think.”

“
Aiyee!
Behold the prince of thunder and lightning!” shrieked Peter Lorre.

There was movement at the tent at the end of the corridor of abus and turbans. Two minions swept back the front flap and prostrated themselves on the ground, their faces in the sand. From the shadowed recesses emerged a man who was a major disappointment, a walking anticlimax, to the dramatic preparations for his entrance.

The prince of thunder and lightning was a spindly little Arab. Peering out from the shrouds was about the ugliest face Devereaux had ever seen. Below the outsized, narrow, hooked nose, Azaz-Varak’s lips were curled—actually
curled
—so that his thick black moustache seemed fused to his nostrils. The pallor of his skin (what could be seen) was
a sickly beige, which served to emphasize the dark, deep circles under his heavy-lidded eyes.

Azaz-Varak approached, lips pressing, nostrils sniffing, head bobbing. He looked only at Madge. When he spoke there was a certain authority in his whine.

“The wives of the lion’s lair, the royal harem—none understand the awesome responsibilities that befall my generous person. Would you like a camel, lady?”

Madge shook her head with a certain authority of her own. Azaz-Varak continued to stare.

“Two camels? The airplane?”

“I’m in mourning,” said Madge respectfully but firmly. “My wealthy sheik passed away just after the last crescent moon. You know the rules.”

The heavy-lidded eyes of Azaz-Varak were filled with disappointment; his curled-up lips smacked twice as he replied. “Ahh, it is the awesome burdens of our faith. You have two crescents of the calendar to survive. May your sheik rest with Allah. Perhaps you will visit my palaces when your time has passed.”

“We’ll see. Right now, my escort is hungry. Allah wants him to protect me; he can’t do that if he faints.”

Azaz-Varak looked at Sam as though studying the preslaughtered carcass. “He has two functions, then. One worthy, one despicable. Come, dog. To the eagle’s tent.”

“That’s where the food is, isn’t it?” Devereaux smiled his best, most ingratiating smile as he scrambled to his feet.

“You will partake of my table when our business is concluded. Pray to Allah that it is finished before the northern snows come to the desert. Did you bring the unmentionable agreement?”

Devereaux nodded. “Did you bring any hot corned beef?”

“
Silence!
” shrieked Peter Lorre.

“Lady,” said Azaz-Varak, addressing Madge, “my servants will see to your every wish. My palaces are lovely; you would like them.”

“It’s tempting. We’ll see where I am in a month or so.” She winked at Azaz-Varak. His lips went through a series
of wet pressings before he snapped his fingers and proceeded toward the eagle’s tent.

The minutes stretched into quarter hours, those to the inevitable hour, and then two more of them. Devereaux honestly believed he had reached the end. A promising legal career was being snuffed out, starved out, in the middle of some godforsaken stretch of desert, seventy miles south of a ridiculously named place called Tizi Ouzou in North Africa.

What made the ending so ludicrous was the sight of Azaz-Varak poring over each sentence of the Shepherd Company’s limited partnership papers, with eight to ten screeching Arabs looking over his shoulder, arguing vehemently among themselves. Every page was treated as though it were the only page; every convoluted—and unnecessary—legalism torn apart for a meaning that was not there. Sam saw clearly the terrible irony: the esoteric, legalistic nonsense that was the essence of every lawyer’s livelihood was keeping him from his own survival.

An insane thought went through his pained brain: if all legal documents were written to be understood between meals—all meals postponed until said understanding was clear—the state of justice would be on a much higher plane. And most lawyers of his acquaintance out of work.

Every now and then one of Azaz-Varak’s ministers would carry over a page and point to a particular paragraph, asking him in excellent English what it meant. Invariably Devereaux would explain that it was a standard clause—which invariably it was—and not important.

If it was not important, why was the language so confusing? Only significant items were in confusing words; otherwise there was no need for the confusion.

And, too, good things were stated clearly; unworthy things were often obscured. Did standard mean unworthy?

And so it went. Until at one point Sam screamed.

Nothing else; he simply screamed.

Azaz-Varak and his gaggle of ministers looked over at him. They nodded as if to say, “Your point is well taken.” And then went back to screaming at each other.

At the instant the darkness started to cloud his vision, his last look at living things, thought Sam, he heard the words, whined by the sheik of sheiks.

“The northern snows have reached the desert, unspeakable one. These foul papers are like camels’ prints in storms of sand: They are without meaning. Not any meaning that would bring the wrath of Allah, or certain international authorities. My generous, all-knowing person has signed them. Not that I subscribe to the despicable suggestions made to my ear, but only to help unite the world in love, you hated dog.”

Azaz-Varak rose from the mountain of pillows beneath him. He was escorted to a screened-off section of the enormous tent by several hunched-over ministers and disappeared beyond the silks.

Peter Lorre came up to Sam, the limited partnership agreement in his hands. He gave it to Devereaux and whispered, “Put this in your pocket. It is better that the eye of the falcon not fall on it again.”

“Is falcon edible?”

Perplexed, the tiny Arab looked at Sam. “Your eyeballs are swimming in their sockets, Abdul Deveroo. Have the faith of the Koran, first paragraph, book four.”