Robert Ludlum - Road To Gandolfo.txt Read online

  THE ROAD TO GANDOLFO

  by

  Robert Ludlum

  Bantam Books by Robert Ludlum

  Ask your bookseller for the hooks you have

  missed

  THE BOURNE IDENTITY

  THE CHANCELLOR MANUSCRIPT

  THE HOLCROFT COVENANT

  THE MATARESE CIRCLE

  THE OSTERMAN WEEKEND

  THE- ROAD TO GANDOLFO

  THE SCARLATTI INHERITANCE

  The Road to

  Gandolfo

  Robert Ludlum

  ~

  BANTAM BOOKS

  TORONTO-NEW YORK LONDON SYDNEY

  This low~pricedBantam Book

  has been completely reset in a type face

  designed for easy reading, and was printed

  from new plates. It contains the complete

  text of the original hard-cover edition.

  NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN Oh41TTED.

  THE ROAD TO GANDOLFO

  A Bantam Book I published by arrangement with

  the Author

  Bantam Export editionlApril /982

  Bantam edition I June /982

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright O /975 by Michael Shepherd.

  Cover art copyright ID /982 by Bantam Books, Inc.

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or in pan, by

  - mimeograph or any other means, without

  permission.

  For information address: Bantam Books, Inc.

  ISBN 0~553-20531-5

  Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada

  Bantam Books are published by Bantam Hooks, Inc. Its trade

  mark, consisting of the words "Bantam Books" and the por

  trayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and

  Trademark

  Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam

  Books, Inc., 666 Fifih Avenue, New York, New York 10103.

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  098765432 1

  7 ~

  For John Patrick

  A distinguished writer and an

  honored man whose idea this was.

  , .

  A WORD FROM THE

  AUTHOR

  The Road to Candolfo

  is one of those rare

  if insane accidents

  that can happen to a

  writer perhaps once or

  twice in his lifetime.

  Through divine or

  demonic providence a

  concept is presented

  that fuels the fires

  of his imagination. He

  is convinced it is

  truly a staggering

  premise which will

  serve as the spine of

  a truly staggering

  tale. Visions of one

  powerful scene after

  another parade across

  his inner screen, each

  exploding with drama

  and meaning and. . .

  well, damn it, they're

  just plain staggering!

  Out come reams of

  paper. The typewriter

  is dusted and pencils

  are sharpened; doors

  are closed and heady

  music is played to

  drown out the sounds

  of man and nature

  beyond the cell of

  staggering creation.

  Fury takes over. The

  premise which will be

  the spinal thunderbolt

  of an incredible tale

  begins to take on

  substance as

  characters emerge with

  faces and bodies,

  personalities and

  conflicts. The plot

  surges forward,

  complex gears mesh and

  strip and make a hell

  of a lot of

  noise drowning out the

  work of true masters

  like that Mozart

  fellow and

  what's-his-name

  Handel.

  But suddenly something

  is wrong. I mean

  wrongl

  The author is

  giggling. He can't

  stop giggling.

  That's horrible!

  Staggering premises

  should be accorded

  awed respect. . .

  heaven knows not

  chuckles!

  But try as he may the

  poor fool telling the

  tale is trapped,

  bombarded by a fugue

  of voices all

  repeating an old ars

  antigua phrase.

  You've-got-to-be-kidd

  ing.

  Poor fool looks to

  his muses. Why are

  they winking? Is that

  The Messiah he's

  hearing or is it

  Mairzy-Dotes? What

  happened to the

  staggering

  thunderbolt? Why is it

  spiraling

  out of whack in a clear blue sky,

  hiccuping its way to a diminished. .

  . giggle?

  Poor fool is bewildered; he gives

  up. Or rather, he gives in because by

  now he's having a lot of fun. After

  all, it was the time of Watergate, and

  nobody could invent that scenario! I

  mean it simply wouldn't play in

  Peoria. At that point-in-time, that

  is.

  So poor fool plunges along, enjoying

  himself immensely, vaguely wondering

  who will sign the commitment papers,

  figuring his wife will stop them

  because the oaf does the dishes now

  and then and makes a damn good

  martini.

  The ocavre is finally presented and,

  most gratefully for poor fool, the

  closeted sound of laughter is heard.

  Followed by screams of revolt and

  threats of beyond-salvage termination

  with extreme-prejudice.

  'Not under your namer"

  Time mandates change, and change is

  cleansing.

  Now it's under my name, and I hope

  you enjoy. I did have a lot of fun.

  Robert

  Radium Connecticut Shore, 19~32

  A LARGE PART OF THIS STORY TOOK

  PLACE A WHILE BACK. AND QUITE A BIT OF IT TOMORROW.

  SUCH IS THE POETIC LICENSE OF

  LITURGICAL DRAMA.

  pa

  Behind each corporation

  must be the singular

  force, or motive, that

  sets it apart from any

  other corporate

  structure and gives it

  its particular identity.

  Shepherd s Laws of Economies:

  Book XXXII, Chapter 12

  ..

  PROLOGUE

  The crowds gathered in

  St. Peter's Square.

  Thousands upon

  thousands of the

  faithful waited in

  hushed anticipation

  for the pontiff to

  emerge on the -balcony

  and raise his hands in

  benediction. The

  fasting and the

  prayers were over, the

  Feast of San Genarro

  would be ushered in

  with the pealing of

  the twilight Angelus

  echoing throughout the

 
Vatican. And the bells

  would be heard

  throughout all Rome,

  heralding merriment

  and good feeling. The

  blessing of Pope

  Francesco the First

  would be the signal to

  begin.

  There would be

  dancing in the

  streets, and torches

  and candlelight and

  music and wine. In the

  Piazza Navonna, the

  Trevi, even sections

  of the Palatine, long

  tables were heaped

  with pasta and fruit

  and all manner of

  homeproduced pastries.

  For had not this

  pontiff, the beloved

  Francesco, given the

  lesson? Open your

  hearts and your

  cupboards to your

  neighbor. And his to

  you. Let all men high

  and low understand

  that we are one

  family. In these times

  of hardship and chaos

  and high prices, what

  better way to overcome

  but to enter into the

  spirit of the Lord and

  truly show love for

  thy neighbor?

  For a few days let

  rancors subside and

  divisions be healed.

  Let the word go forth

  that all men are

  brothers, all women

  sisters; and all

  together brothers and

  sisters and very much

  each others' keepers.

  For but a few days let

  charity and grace and

  concern rule the

  hearts of everyone,

  sharing the sweet and

  the sad, for there is

  no evil that can

  withstand the force of

  good.

  Embrace, raise the

  wine; show laughter

  and tears and accept

  one another in

  expressions of love.

  Let the world 3

  ~..

  see there is no shame-in the

  exultation of the spirit. And once

  having touched, having heard the

  voices of brother and sister, carry

  forth the sweet memories beyond the

  Feast of San Genarro, and let life be

  guided by the principles of Christian

  benevolence. The earth can be a better

  place; it is up to the living to make

  it so. That was the lesson of

  Francesco 1.

  A hush fell over the tens of

  thousands in St. Peter's Square. Any

  second now the figure of the beloved

  Papa would walk with strength and

  dignity and great love onto the

  balcony and raise his hands in

  benediction. And for the Angelus to

  begin.

  Within the high-ceilinged Vatican

  chambers above the square, cardinals,

  monsignors, and priests talked among

  themselves in groups, their eyes

  continuously straying to the figure of

  the pontiff seated in the corner. The

  room was resplendent with vivid

  colors: scarlets, purples, immaculate

  whites. Robes and cassocks and head

  pieces symbols of the highest offices

  in the Church swayed and were turned,

  giving the illusion of a constantly

  moving fresco.

  And in the corner, seated in a wing

  chair of ivory and blue velvet, was

  the Vicar of Christ, Pope Francesco 1.

  He was a plain man of wide girth, and

  the strong yet gentle features of a

  campagnuolo, a man of the earth.

  Standing beside him was his personal

  secretary, a young Black priest from

  America, from the archdiocese of New

  York. It was like Francesco to have

  such a papal aide.

  The two were talking quietly, the

  pontiff turning his enormous head, his

  huge, soft brown eyes looking up at

  the young priest in serene composure.

  "Mannaggi'!" whispered Francesco,

  his large peasant hand covering his

  lips. "This is crazyl The entire city

  will be drunk for a weekl Everyone

  will be making love in the streets.

  Are you sure we have it right?"

  ''1 double-checked. Do you want to

  argue with him?" replied the Black,

  bending down in tranquil

  solicitousness.

  "My God, not He was always the

  smartest one in the villages!"

  A cardinal approached the pontiffss

  chair ard leaned

  4

  forward. "Holy Father, it is time. The

  multitudes await you," he said softly.

  "Who ? Yes, of course. In a minute, my

  good friend."

  The cardinal smiled under his

  enormous hat, his eyes were filled

  with adoration. Francesco always

  called him his good friend. "Thank

  you, Your Holiness." The cardinal

  backed away.

  The Vicar of Christ began humming.

  Then words emerged. "she

  gelida...manina...a rigido

  esanime...ah, la, la-laa tra-la, la,

  la-laaa...."

  "What are you doing?" The young

  papal aide from the archdiocese of New

  York, Harlem district, was visibly

  upset.

  "Rodolfo's aria. Ah, that Puccini!

  It helps me to sing when I am

  nervous."

  "Well, cut it out, man! Or pick a

  Gregorian chant. At least a litany."

  "I don't know any. Your Italian's

  getting better, but it's still not so

  good."

  "I'm trying, brother. You're not the

  easiest to learn with. Come on, now.

  Let's go. Out to the balcony."

  "Don't push! I go. Let's see, I

  raise the hand, then up and down and

  right to left "

  "Left to right!" whispered the

  priest harshly. "Don't you listen? If

  we're going on with this honkey

  charade, for God's sake learn the

  fundamentals!"

  "I thought if I was standing,

  giving not taking I should reverse it.

  "Don't mess. Just do what's natural."

  "Then I sing."

  "Not that natural! Come on."

  "All right, all right." The pontiff

  rose from his chair and smiled

  benignly at all in the room. He turned

  once again to his aide and spoke

  softly so that none could hear. "In

  case anyone should ask, which one is

  San Genarro?"

  "Nobody will ask. If someone does,

  use your standard reply."

  "Ah, yes. 'Study the scriptures, my

  son.' You know, this is all crazy!"

  "Walk slowly and stand up straight.

  And smile, for God's sake! You're

  happy."

  5

  "I'm miserable, you African!"

  Pope Francesco I, Vicar of Christ,

  walked through the enormous doors out

  onto the balcony to be greeted by a

  thunderous roar that shook the very

  foundations of St. Peter's. Thousands

  upon thousands of the faithful raised

  their voices in exultation of the

  spirit.

  "11 Papa! 11 Papa!
11 Papa!"

  And as the Holy Father walked out

  into the myriad reflections of the

  orange sun setting in the west, there

  were many in the chambers who heard

  the muted strains of the chant

  emerging from the holy lips. Each

  believed it had to be some obscure

  early musical work, unknown to all but

  the most scholarly. For such was the

  knowledge of the erudite, Pope

  Francesco.

  "she . . . gelida . . . marina . . .

  a rigido esanimeee . . . ah', la,

  la-laaa . . .tra-la, la, la . . .

  Ia-la-laaa . . ."

  CHATTIER

  "That son of a bitch!" Brigadier

  General Arnold Symington brought the

  paperweight down on the thick layer of

  glass on his Pentagon desk. The glass

  shattered; fragments shot through the

  air in all directions. "He couldn't!"

  "He did, sir," replied the frightened

  lieutenant, shielding his eyes from the

  office shrapnel. "The Chinese are very

  upset. The premier himself dictated the

  complaint to the diplomatic mission.

  They're running editorials in the Red

  Star and broadcasting them over Radio

  Peking."

  "How the hell can they?" Symington

  removed a piece of glass from his

  little finger. "What the hell are they

  saying? 'We interrupt this program to

  announce that the American military

  representative, General MacKenzie

  Hawkins, shot the balls off a ten-foot

  jade statue in Son Tai Square'.P

  Bullshit! Peking wouldn't allow that;

  it's too goddamned undignified.""

  "They're phrasing it a bit

  differently, sir. They say he destroyed

  an historic monument of precious stone

  in the Forbidden City. They say it's as

  though someone blew up the Lincoln

  Memorial."

  - "It's a different kind of statue!