The Road to Gandolfo (27 page)

MacKenzie took off his jacket, threw it on the bed, and withdrew a fresh cigar from his shirt pocket. He chewed the end to its proper consistency and lighted up. It was just nine-fifteen; the afternoon train to Zermatt was at four-fifteen.

Seven hours. Now that was a good omen if ever one existed! Seven hours and seven subordinate officers to recruit.

He carried the three dossiers to the desk and arranged the files in front of the telephone. The cablegrams would be sent first.

At precisely twenty-two minutes to four the Hawk replaced the telephone and made a red check mark on the dossier titled
Marseilles
. It was the last of the phone contacts; he needed only two replies—to the cables to Athens and Beirut. Rome had responded two hours ago. Rome had been out of work longer than the others.

The calls had gone smoothly. In each case the initial conversations with the middlemen—and women—had been reserved, polite, general, almost abstract. And with each MacKenzie employed just the right words, quietly, confidentially. Each expert he had wanted to reach called him back.

There had been no hitches with anyone. His proposals were couched in the same universally understood language; the term
yellow mountain
the springboard. It was the highest score an agent could make for himself. The
yellow mountain
figure was a “five hundred key” with advance funds banked against contingencies. The
security controls
included “inaccessible clearinghouses” that maintained no connections with international regulatory agencies. The
time factor
was between six and eight weeks, depending on the “technological refinements called for in the sophisticated engineering process.” And finally, as leader, his own background encompassed wholesale service to entire governments in most Southeast Asia, proof of which could be confirmed by several accounts in Geneva.

He had done his research well. To a man, they all needed to mine the
yellow mountain
.

Hawkins got up from the desk and stretched. It had been a long day and it wasn’t over yet. In twenty minutes he would have to leave for the railroad station. Between now and then he would speak with the switchboard operator and give her instructions for those callers who might try to reach him. The instructions would be simple: he had reserved the room for a week; he would return to Zurich in three days. The callers could contact him there, or leave numbers where they could be reached. MacKenzie did not want to return to Zurich, but Athens and Beirut were exceptional recruits.

The telephone rang. It was Athens.

Six minutes later Athens was in.

One more to go.

The Hawk moved his untouched luggage to the door and repacked his briefcase, leaving Beirut’s dossier in a separate, easily accessible spot. He looked at his watch: three minutes to four. There was no point in procrastinating any longer. He had to leave for the station. Returning to the desk he dialed the switchboard operator and told her he wanted to leave a few simple instructions—–

The operator interrupted politely.

“Yes, of course, mein Herr. But may I take them later? I was about to ring your room. An overseas call has just come in for you. From Beirut.”

Goddamn!

Sam opened his eyes. The sun was streaming through the huge French doors; the breeze billowed the drapes of blue silk. He looked around the room. The ceiling was at least twelve feet high, the fluted columns in the corners and the intricately carved moldings of dark wood everywhere bespoke the word “château.” It all came into focus. He was in a place called Château Machenfeld, somewhere south of Zermatt. Outside the thick, sculptured door of his room was a wide hallway with Persian prayer rugs scattered over a glistening dark floor, and muted candelabra on the walls. The hallway led to an enormous winding staircase and a proliferation of crystal chandeliers above a great hall the size of a respectable ballroom. There, among priceless antiques and Renaissance portraits, was the entrance—gigantic
double doors of oak opening on a set of marble steps that led to a circular drive large enough to handle a funeral for the chairman of General Motors.

What had Hawkins
done
? How did he do it? My God.
Why
? What was he going to use such a place for?

Devereaux looked at the sleeping Regina, her dark brown hair lying in waves over the pillow, her California-tanned face half buried under the eiderdown quilt. If she had any answers, she wouldn’t tell him. Of all the girls, Ginny was the most outrageously manipulative; she had orchestrated him right down to the moment of sleep. Partially, granted only partially, because he was fascinated by her. There was a will of steel beneath the soft magnolia exterior; she was a natural leader who, as all natural leaders, took delight in her leadership. She used her gifts, mental and physical, with imagination and boldness, and a considerable dash of humor. She could be the strong moral proselytizer one moment, and the lost little girl in the middle of burning Atlanta the next. She was the laughing, provocative siren in the plantation moonlight, and with the flick of a switch, a conspiratorial, whispering Mata Hari giving orders to a suspicious looking chauffeur in the shadows of the Zermatt railroad station.

“
Mack Feldman’s ass is in the bitter seltzer!
”

To the best of Sam’s recollection those had been the words Ginny had whispered to the strange man in the black beret, with the gold front tooth, whose catlike eyes riveted themselves to the front of her blouse.

“
Mac’s in felt!
” had been the whispered reply. “
His sight’s in an auto bomb’s flower pot!
”

With that less-than-articulate rejoinder, Ginny had nodded, grabbed Devereaux’s arm, and propelled him into the Zermatt street.

“Carry your suitcase in your left hand and whistle something. He’ll turn into an alley and we’ll wait at the corner for him to bring out the car.”

“Why all the nonsense? The left hand. The whistling—–”

“Others are checking. To make sure we’re not being followed.”

The
Orient Express
syndrome was being somewhat
overdone, Sam had thought at the time, but nonetheless he’d switched the suitcase to his left hand and started whistling.

“Not
that
, you ninny!”

“What’s the matter? It’s some kind of hymn—–”

“Over here it’s called ‘Deutschland Uber Alles’!”

He’d switched to “Rock of Ages” as another man, this one in a real Conrad Veidt overcoat complete with velvet lapels, came up to Regina and spoke softly.

“
Your warts are in the wagon
.”

“
Mack Feldman’s ass surely has sweet sheckles
,” she had answered quietly, rapidly. And within seconds a long black automobile raced out of the dark alley and they had climbed in.

That was how the tortuous, two-hour drive had begun. Miles of winding, uphill roads cut out of the Swiss mountains and forests, intermittently illuminated by the eerie wash of moonlight. Until they reached some kind of massive gate that wasn’t a gate; it was an honest-to-god
portcullis
. In front of a
moat
.

A real moat! With heavy planks and the sounds of water below. Then another winding, uphill road that ended in the enormous circular drive in front of the largest country house Sam had seen since he toured Fontainebleau with the Quincy Boy Scouts. And even Fontainebleau didn’t have parapets. This place did, certainly high and definitely stone, with the sort of cutout patterns one associated with
Ivanhoe
.

Quite a place, Château Machenfeld. And he had only seen it at night. He wasn’t sure he wanted to see it in daylight. There was something frightening about the mere thought of such a massive edifice when related to one MacKenzie Hawkins.

But where did the château fit in? What was it for? If it was going to be the son of a bitch’s command post, why didn’t he just rent Fenway Park and be done with it? It had to take an army of minions to keep the place running; minions talked. Ask anyone at Nuremberg or in Sirica’s courtroom.

But Regina wouldn’t talk. (Of course, she wasn’t a minion; in no way did the word fit.) Yet he had tried. All
the way down from Zurich—well, perhaps not every moment—and half the night in Machenfeld—perhaps less than half—he had done his best to get her to tell him what she knew.

They had sparred verbally, each talking obliquely, neither coming to grips with any positive statements that could lead to any real conclusions. She admitted—she had no choice—that all the girls had agreed to turn up in the right places at the right times so that he, Sam, would have company and not be led into temptations that could be debilitating on such a long business trip. And have someone trustworthy to take messages for him. And watch out for him. And where the goddamned cotton-pickin’ hell was the harm in
that
? Where was he going to find such a concerned group of ladies who had his best interests at heart? And kept him on schedule?

Did she know what the
business trip
was about?

Lawdy, no!
She never asked. None of the girls asked.

Why not?

Landsakes, honey!
The Hawk told them not to.

Couldn’t any of them draw … certain inferences? I mean, my God, his itinerary wasn’t exactly that of a New England shoe salesman.

Honeychile!
When they were married to the Hawk—individually, of course—he was always involved with top-secret army things they all knew they shouldn’t ask questions about.

He wasn’t
in
the army now!

Well-live-and-die-in-Dixie!
That’s the
army’s
fault!

And so it went.

And then he began to understand. Regina was no patsy. None of the girls was.
Fall guy
was not in their collective vocabulary. If Ginny, or Lillian, or Madge, or Anne knew anything concrete they weren’t about to say so. If they perceived a lack of complete integrity, each put on blinders, and her own particular activity remained unrelated to any larger action. None certainly would discuss anything with
him
.

There was another problem in the midst of the Hawk’s insanity: Sam genuinely liked the girls. Whatever the whack-a-doo furies were that drove them to do MacKenzie’s
bidding, each was her own person, each an individual, each—God help him—had an honesty he found refreshing. So, if he did spell out what he knew, the instant he did so they were accessories. To a
conspiracy
. It didn’t take a lawyer to know that. What was he thinking about; he
was
a lawyer.

As of this … point in time … each girl was clean. Maybe not like a hound’s tooth; maybe not even like a wino’s bridgework, but legally it could be argued that each had operated in a vacuum. There was no conspiracy under the circumstances.

Thank you, Mr. Defense Attorney. The bench suggests that you reclaim your tuition from law school
.

Sam got out of the ridiculously oversized, canopied bed as quietly as possible. He saw his shorts halfway across the room toward the French doors, which was where he was heading, anyway, and briefly wondered why they were so far from the bed. Then he remembered, and he smiled.

But this was morning, a new day, and things were going to be different. Ginny had given him one specific to hang onto: Hawkins would arrive by late afternoon or early evening. He would use the time until then to learn whatever he could about Château Machenfeld. Or more precisely, what the Hawk was planning for Château Machenfeld as it related to one Pope Francesco, Vicar of Christ.

It was time for him to mount his own counterstrategy. Hawkins was good, no question about it. But he, Sam Devereaux from the Eastern Establishment’s Quincy-Boston axis, wasn’t so bad, either. Confidence! Mac had it; so did he.

As he put on his shorts, the obvious first move in his counterstrategy came into focus. It wasn’t just obvious, it was blatant; bells rang! Such an extraordinary place (mansion, estate, compound, small country) as Machenfeld would demand an unending series of supplies to keep it functioning. And suppliers were like minions, they could see, and hear, and bear witness. The Hawk’s proclivity for massiveness could be the most vulnerable aspect of his plans. Sam had considered disrupting Mac’s supply lines as
one
of his options, from a military point of view, but he
had no idea how positively logical it was. It might be all he needed.

He’d circulate rumors as massively dangerous, as gigantically outrageous, as the sight of Machenfeld itself. He’d start with the servants, then the suppliers, then everyone else who came near the château, until a state of isolation was brought about and he could come to grips with a deserted Hawkins and—
what the hell was that noise
?

He walked rapidly to the French doors and through them to the small balcony beyond. It overlooked the rear of Château Machenfeld. He assumed it was the rear; there was no circular drive below. Instead, there were gardens in spring bloom, with graveled paths and latticed arbors and scores of small fishponds carved out of rock. Beyond the gardens were green fields that merged into greener, darker forests, and in the distance were the majestic Alps.

The noise continued, spoiling the view. He could not, at first, determine where it came from, and so he squinted in the sunlight. And instantly wished to hell he hadn’t. Because he could now see what was making the noise.

One, two, three … five, six … eight, nine! Nine assorted—
insanely
assorted—vehicles were slowly going down a dirt road that bordered the fields, progressing south toward the surrounding forests.

There were two long black limousines, a huge earth-moving bulldozer, an outsized tractor with pronged forks in front, and five—goddamn it, yes, five motorcycles!

It didn’t take a lot of imagination to get the picture. The Hawk was about to enter maneuvers! He had bought himself his own personal
papal motorcade
! Plus equipment that could shove the ground around into any design he liked: The route of said papal motorcade!