The Road to Gandolfo (28 page)

But he hadn’t even arrived at Machenfeld! How the hell was he able to—and what the hell was
that
?

In his anger and confusion, Devereaux gripped the balcony, shaking his head in frustrated bewilderment. His eyes were arrested by an extraordinary sight fifty yards away.

Within a kind of patio, outside a pair of open doors that looked like the entrance to some sort of enormous kitchen, stood a large man wearing a chef’s hat, who was
in the process of checking off items from a thick sheaf of papers in his hands. In front of the man was a mountain of crates and cartons and boxes that must have reached the height of fifteen feet!

Lines of supply,
shit
!

There wasn’t anything left in Europe for Hawkins to buy. There was enough food down there to eliminate half the famine on the Ganges! The son of a bitch had requisitioned enough rations for an army, goddamn it, an army setting out on a two-year bivouac!

Limousines, motorcycles, bulldozers, tractors, food for the entire Lost Battalion! Sam’s counterstrategy move number one was shot to hell by a parade of nine idiotically assorted vehicles and some gasping eccentric in a chef’s hat.

The only state of isolation in the foreseeable future was from any and all lines of supply. They were totally unnecessary.

That left the minions. The dozen or so servants that had to be around to keep Machenfeld afloat. Kitchens, gardens, fields (that probably meant barns, maybe livestock), and at least thirty to forty rooms with cleaning and waxing and polishing and dusting. Christ! There
had
to be a staff of twenty!

He’d begin right away. Perhaps with the drivers of the nine vehicles; convince them to get the damn things off the château’s grounds before it was too late. Then he’d rapidly go from one group of servants to another. Let them know in ominous terms, which meant legal terms, that if they knew what was good for them they’d get the hell out of Machenfeld before all the agents of Interpol descended.

All the food in Switzerland wouldn’t do the Hawk any good if there was no one on the premises. To
run
the premises. And a few well-chosen words to those manning the vehicles, words like “international violations,” “personal accountability,” and “life imprisonment,” would surely cause that stream of motorcycles and limousines and trucks to barrel-ass back over the moat into safer territory.

Sam was so preoccupied with his new strategy that he wasn’t really aware that his undershorts kept sagging, causing him to hold them up with a free hand. He was
forced to be aware of it now because as he gripped the railing his shorts had plummeted down to his ankles. Swiftly, he retrieved his modesty, noting with a degree of self-satisfaction that the games with Ginny Greenberg must have been pretty damned exciting indeed. But it was no time for pleasant reminiscence; there was work to do. His watch read nearly eleven; he hadn’t realized he’d slept so long—the games were not only exciting, but exhausting. He had barely five or six hours to get everybody out. Such a large staff of servants probably had lots of personal belongings. That would mean transportation, perhaps more complicated than he had considered. But one thing had to be clear: when the minions left the grounds of Machenfeld, they were
not to return
. For
any
reason. Anything less would weaken his basic premise: Machenfeld was a threat to everyone who remained, therefore no one was to do so.

Evacuation!

The château was to be deserted!

Then what the hell was MacKenzie going to do?

Stew in his cigar juice,
that’s
what he was going to do!

It was merely a question of logistics and execution.

Goddamn!
Logistics and execution! He was beginning to
think
like the Hawk! And have the confidence of the Hawk! Be bold! Be outrageous! Take fate by the balls and …

Shit!
Before anything could happen, he had to get dressed. He raced through the French doors into the room. Ginny stirred and moaned a little and then buried her head farther into the eiderdown quilt. He stepped out of the torn underwear, and crossed quietly to his suitcase which was on an overstuffed armchair against the velour-covered wall.

It was empty.

There wasn’t a goddamn thing in his suitcase.

He looked around for the closet.

Closets. There were four.

Empty. Except for Ginny’s dresses.

Shit!

He ran as quietly as possible to the sculptured door and opened it.

Sitting across the wide hallway was the black beret with
the gold front tooth and catlike eyes which were now focused on Sam’s lower extremities. In the confusion that, perhaps, was understandable. The sneer was not.

“Where are my clothes!?” whispered Devereaux, partially closing the door, leaning against it.

“In the
launtree
, mein Herr,” replied the black beret in an accent formed in some Swiss canton run by Hermann Göring.

“Everything?”

“Courtesy of Château Machenfeld. All was dirty.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Sam tried to keep his voice low. He did not want to wake Ginny. “Nobody asked me—–”

“You were asleep, mein Herr,” interrupted the black beret, grinning suggestively, his gold tooth gleaming. “You were very tired.”

“Well, now I’m very angry! I want my clothes back. Right away!”

“I cannot do that.”

“Why not?”

“It is the
launtree’s
day off.”

“What? Then why did you take them?”

“I told you, mein Herr. They were dirty.”

Sam stared at the catlike eyes across the hallway. They had narrowed ominously; and the gold tooth was no longer seen because the grin had disappeared, replaced by an adamant mouth. Sam closed the door. He had to think. Quickly. As Mac would say, he had to weigh his options. And he had to get out.

He did not consider himself a brawler, yet he was not a physical coward. He was a pretty big fellow, and regardless of what Lillian said in Berlin, he was in fair shape. Still, all things considered it was a good guess that the black-bereted maniac across the hall could beat the shit out of him. Even naked, he could not leave by the stairs.

Option One considered and rejected.

That left the windows, more specifically the small balcony beyond the French doors. He grabbed his shorts off the floor, put them on, held them up, and walked silently outside. The room was three stories off the ground, but directly below was another balcony. With sheets, or drapes, tied together he could make it with reasonable safety.

Option Two was feasible.

He went back inside and studied the drapes. As his mother in Quincy would say, they were spring drapes. Silk, billowy, not strong. Option Two was fading. Then he looked at the bed sheets, ignoring the inviting sight of Regina who was now more outside the eiderdown quilt than under. If the sheets were combined
with
the drapes, this would probably hold him. Option Two was reemerging.

Battle dress.

That was a problem. There was nothing
but
dresses.

So, assuming Option Two succeeded and he reached the ground, he had Options Three and Four to consider. And as he considered them there was a sinking feeling in his stomach. He could race around Machenfeld in underwear that kept falling down to his ankles or he could put on one of Ginny’s Balenciaga prints and hope the zipper held.

A man running around spreading alarms in disheveled underwear,
or
a Paris original, was not likely to be taken too seriously. There might even be Options Five and Six to contend with: be locked up, or be raped.

Shit!

He had to keep his head; he had to get hold of himself and think things out. Slowly. He could not allow a minor item like clothing to stand in the way of evacuation. What could the Hawk do? What was that goddamned term he used so frequently?

Support personnel
! That was it!

Sam raced back out on the balcony. The man in the chefs hat was still checking off items on his list. It’d probably take him a week.

“
Psssst! Psssst!
” Devereaux leaned over the railing, remembering at the last instant not to let go of the underwear. “Hey
you
!” he whispered loudly.

The man looked up, startled at first, then smiled broadly.
“Ahh! Bonjour, monsieur! ça va?”
he shouted.

Sam held his finger to his lips. “Shhh!” He gestured for the chef to come closer.

He did so, carrying his papers, making a last notation as he walked.
“Oui, monsieur?”

“I’m being held prisoner!” whispered Devereaux with solemn urgency and much authority. “They’ve taken my
clothes. I need
clothes
. And when I get down I want you to get everyone who works here into the kitchen. I’ve got some very important things to say. I’m a lawyer.
Avocat.”
The man in the chef’s hat cocked his head.
“Je ne comprends pas, monsieur. Desirez-vous le petit déjeuner?”

“Who?—No. I want
clothes
.
See?
All I’ve got is this,
these
.” Sam stretched his torn undershorts so they could be seen between the rails; then he pointed to his legs. “I need pants,
trousers
! Right away.
Please!”

The expression on the man’s face changed from bewilderment to suspicion. Perhaps even distaste mingled with hostility.
“Vos sous-vêtements sont très jolis
,” he said, shaking his head, turning back toward the patio and the crates of food.

“Wait! Wait a minute!”

“The chef is French, mein Herr, but not
that
French.” The voice came from below, from the balcony directly underneath. The speaker was an immense, bald man with shoulders nearly as wide as the depth of the railing. “He thinks you are making a most peculiar offer. I can assure you he’s not interested.”

“Who the hell are
you?”

“My name is unimportant. I leave the château when the new master of Machenfeld arrives. Until then his every instruction is my command. His instructions do not include your clothing.”

Devereaux had an overpowering urge to let his shorts fall and copy Hawkins’s action on the roof of the diplomatic mission in Peking, but he controlled himself. The man on the balcony below was huge. And obviously couldn’t take a joke. So instead he leaned over and whispered the words conspiratorially.

“Heil Hitler, you fucker!”

The man’s arm shot forward; his heels clicked like the bolt of a rifle.
“Jawohl! Sieg heil!”

“Oh, shit!” Sam turned and walked back into the room. In exasperation, he kicked off his shorts. Then he absently studied them as they lay on the floor. Perhaps it was the angle of the fabric, he was not sure. But suddenly they looked strange.

He bent down and picked them up.

Christ!
What
games?

The elastic waist had been cut deliberately in three places! The incisions were
incisions
, not tears. There were no loose threads or stretched cloth. Someone had taken a sharp instrument and sliced the goddamn things! On purpose. Immobilizing him by the simplest method possible!

“Lawdy! What’s all that shoutin’ about?” Regina Greenberg yawned and stretched, modestly pulling the eiderdown quilt over her enormous breasts.

“You bitch,” said Devereaux in quiet anger. “You devious bitch!”

“What’s the matter, honeychile?”

“Don’t ‘honeychile’ me, you Southern retardant! I can’t get
out
of here!”

Ginny blinked and yawned again. She spoke with calm authority. “You know, Mac once said something that’s been a comfort to me all through the years. He said, when the mortars are falling all around you and things look terrible—and, believe me, there were times when the world looked pretty terrible to me—he said, think of the good things you’ve done, the accomplishments, the contributions. Don’t ponder your mistakes or your sorrows; that only puts you in a depressed state of mind. And a depressed state of mind is not equipped to take advantage of that one moment that could arise and save your ass. It’s all a question of mental attitudes.”

“What the hell has that bullshit got to do with the fact that I don’t have any clothes?”

“Not an awful lot, I guess. It’s just that you sounded so depressed. That’s no way to face the Hawk.”

Devereaux started to answer blindly, angrily. Then he stopped, looked at the sincerity in Ginny’s eyes and began again. “Wait a minute. ‘Face the Hawk.’ You mean you want me to fight him?
Stop
him?”

“That’s your decision, Sam. I only want what’s best for everyone.”

“Will you help me?”

Ginny was pensive for a moment, then replied firmly. “No, I won’t do that. Not in the way you’re thinking. I owe MacKenzie too much.”

“Lady!” burst out Devereaux. “Do you have
any idea
what that lunatic is up to?”

Mrs. Hawkins number one looked at him with an expression of suddenly imposed innocence. “A lieutenant doesn’t question a general officer, Major. He can’t be expected to understand the intricacies of command—–”

“Then what the hell are we talking about?”

“You’re a smart fellow. The Hawk wouldn’t have promoted you if you weren’t. I just want him to have the finest advice he can get. So he can do whatever it is he wants to do the best way possible.” Ginny rolled over under the eiderdown quilt. “I’m really very sleepy.”

And Devereaux saw them on the bedside table next to her head.

A pair of scissors.

“Sorry about the clothes,” said the Hawk in the huge drawing room. Sam glared and retied the curtain sash he used as a belt around the eiderdown quilt. “You’d think the laundry would have more than one key, wouldn’t you? These big fancy places don’t trust anyone; shows the kind of house guests they must be used to, I suppose.”

“Oh, shut up,” mumbled Devereaux, who found it necessary to double-loop the sash because the silk kept slipping. “The laundress
will
be here in the morning, I presume.”

“I’m sure of it. She’s one of the few who go home at night. To the village. That’ll change, of course; there’ll be a lot of changes.”