THE ROAD TO OMAHA

by ROBERT LUDLUM

Bantam Books by Robert Ludlurn

Ask your bookseller for the books you have missed

-THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION THE BOURNE IDENTITY JHE

BOURNE SUPREMACY THE BOURNE ULTIMATUM OHE

CHANCELLOR MANUSCRIPT THE GEMINI CONTENDERS E

HOLCROFT COVENANT E ICARUS AGENDA E MATARESE

CIRCLE c,THE MATLOCK PAPER ,-,fHE OSTERMAN WEEKEND

4HE PARSIFAL MOSAIC THE RHINEMANN EXCHANGE E ROAD

TO GANDOLFO ZHE ROAD TO OMAHA

THE SCARLATTI INHERITANCE

,-f'R E VAY N E

T H E *2

ROAD

TO

OMAHA

... : ....................

ROBERTLUDLUM

ON"

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THE ROAD TO OMAHA

A Bantam Book / published by arrangement with the author

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Random House edition published 1992 Bantam export edition /

August 1992

Bantam edition / February 1993

All rights reserved.

Copyright Q 1992 by Robert Ludlum.

Cover art copyright 0 1993 by Paul Bacon.

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has received any payment for this "stripped book."

ISBN 0-553-56044-1

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PRINTED IN THE UNrI'ED STATES OF AMERICA

OPM 0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For Henry Sutton

Godfather, wonderful actor, superb friend, and a great I human

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"r

PREFACE

A number of years ago, the undersigned wrote a novel entitled-The

Road to Gandolfo. It was based on a staggering premise, an

earthshaking concept that should have possessed the thunder of

the ages ... and you don't hardly come upon them things no more.

It was to be a tale told by demons, the legions of Satan marching

out of hell to commit a heinous crime that would outrage the world,

a mortal blow to all men and women of faith regardless of their

specific religion, for it would show how vulnerable are the great

spiritual leaders of our times. Stripped to its essentials, the story

dealt with the kidnapping of Rome's Pontiff, a true man of God and

of ordinary people everywhere, Pope Francesco the First.

Are you with me? I mean, it's really heavy, isn't it? It should have

been, but it wasn't.... Something happened. Poor Fool, the novelist,

peeked around the edges, glimpsed the flip side of the coin, and to

his eternal condemnation he began to giggle. That's no way to treat

a staggering premise, a magnificent obsession! (Not too shabby a

tide, by the way.) Unfortunately,,Poor Fool could not help himself,

he began to think, which is always dangerous for a storyteller. The

what-if syndrome came into play.

X PREFACE

What if the instigator of this horrible crime wasn't actually a bad

fellow, but in fiction's reality, a genuine military legend whom the

politicians crippled because he vociferously objected to their

hypocrisies ... and what if the beloved Pope wasn't actually averse

to being kidnapped, as long as his look-alike cousin, a none too

bright spear carrier from La Scala Opera, took his place, and the

true Pontiff could run the immense responsibilities of the Holy See

by remote, without the debilitating agenda of Vatican politics and

the endless procession of blessings administered to supplicants

expecting to buy their way into Heaven by way of the collection

plate? Now there was another story. I I can hear you, I can hear

you! He sold himself down his own river of betrayal. (I've frequently

wondered what river the bromide refers to. The Styx, the Nile, the

Amazon? Certainly not the Colorado; you'd get hung up on the

white-water rocks.)

Well, maybe I did, and maybe I didn't. I only know that during

the intervening years since Gandolfo, a number of readers have

asked me by letter, telephone, and outright threats of bodily harm,

"Whatever happened to those clowns?" (The perpetrators, not the

willing victim.)

In all honesty, those "clowns" were waiting for,another

staggering premise, And late one night a year ago, the squirrelfiest

of my insignificant muses shrieked, "By Jove, you've got it! " (I'm

quite sure she stole the line.)

At any rate, whereas Poor Fool took certain liberties in the areas

of religion and economics in The Road to Gandolfo, he hereby

freely admits having taken similar liberties in this current scholarly

tome with respect to the laws and the courts of the land.

Then again, who doesn't? Of course, not my attorney or your

attorney, but certainly everybody else's!

The accurate novelization of authentic undocumented history of

questionable origin demands that the muse must forego certain

ingrained disciplines in the search for improbable truths. And

definitely where Blackstone is concemed.

Yet never fear, the moral is here:

Stay out of a courtroom unless you can buy the judge. Or, if in

the unlikely event you could, hire my lawyer,

PREFACE xi

which you can't because he's all tied up keeping me out of jail.

So, to my many friends who are attorneys (they're either

attorneys, actors, or homicidal killers-is there a running

connection?), skip over the finer points of law that are neither fine

nor very pointed. However, they may well be inaccurately accurate.

-RL

What Robert Ludlum is too modest to say is that when The

Road to Gandolfo was published under his own name, it

immediately became an international best-seller in eighteen

different countries.

Readers were delighted to discover that his giftfor comedy

matched his talent for writing entertaining yet meaningful

thrillers.

The Publisher

DRAMATIS

PERSONAE

MacKenzie Lochinvar Hawkins-Former general of the army, former

by request,of the White House, the Pentagon, the State Department,

and most of Washington. Twice decorated with the Congressional

Medal of Honor. A.k.a. Madman Mac the Hawk.

Samuel Lansing Devereaux-Brilliant young attorney, Harvard Law

School, U.S. Army (reluctantly), lawyer for the Hawk in China

(disastrously).

Sunrise Jennifer Redwing-Also an attorney, also brilliant,

outrageously gorgeous, and a fiercely loyal daughter of the

Wopotami Indian nation.

Aaron Pinkus-Soft-spoken giant of Boston law circles, the

consummate attorney-statesinan who happens to be Sam

Devereaux's employer (unfortunately).

Desi Arnaz I-An impoverished miscreant from Puerto Rico who falls

under the Hawk's spell, and who one day may be the director of the

Central Intelligence Agency.

Xiv DRAMA71S PERSONAE

Desi Arnaz 11-See above. Less of a leader but a mechanical

genius, such as in hot-wiring cars, picking locks, fixing ski

lifts, and turning pesto sauce into an anesthetic.

Vincent Mangecavallo-The real director of the CIA, courtesy of the

Mafia dons from Palermo to Brooklyn. Any administration's secret

weapon.

Warren Pease-Secretary of State. Every administration's

malfunctioning weapon, but a former prep school ,4 roomie" of the

President.

Cyrus M-A black mercenary with a doctorate in chemistry. Screwed

by Washington, and a gradual convert to the Hawk's sense of

justice.

Roman Z-A Serbo-Croatian Gypsy who was a cell mate of the above.

In chaos he finds total delight, as long as he has an unfair

advantage.

Sir Henry Irving Sutton-One of the theater's finest character actors,

and, by happenstance, a hero of World War II's North African

campaign, because "there were no lousy directors to warp my

performance."

Hyman Goldfarb-The greatest linebacker ever to have graced the

football fields of the NFL. In his postprofessional days, he was

calamitously recruited

by the Hawk.

"Suicidal Six"

Duke

Dustin

Marlon

Sir Larry

sly

Telly

Professional actors who have joined the army and are considered

the finest antiterrorist unit ever produced by the military. They have

neverfired a shot.

DRAMA71S PERSONAE xv

Fawning Hill Country Club Members

Bricky Fine fellows from the right schools

Doozie and the right clubs who passionately

Froggie support the interests of the coun-Moose try-as long as

theirs comes

first,

Smythie way first.

Johnny Calfhose-Information officer of the Wopotami tribe; he picks

up a phone and usually lies. He also still owes Sunrise Jennifer

bail money. What more can be said?

Arnold Subagaloo-White House Chief of Staff. He flies off the

handle (free on government aircraft) whenever anyone mentions

that he's not the President. What more can anyone say?

The rest of the personae may be of lesser importance, but it is vital

to remember that there are no small parts, only small players, and

none of ours are in that ignominious category. Each carries forth

in the grand tradition of Thespis, giving his and her all for the play,

no matter bow inconsequential the offering. "The play's the thing

wherein [we'll] catch the conscience of the king!" Or maybe some-

body.

PROLOGUE

The flames roared up into the night sky, creating massive shadows

pulsating across the painted faces of the Indians around the

bonfire. And then the chief of the tribe, bedecked in the ceremonial

garments of his office, his feathered headdress swooping down

from his immensely tall fraine to the ground below, raised his voice

in regal majesty.

"I come before you, to tell you that the sins of the white man

have brought him nothing but confrontation with the evil spirits!

They will devour him and send him into the fires of eternal

damnation! Believe me, my brothers, sons, sisters, and daughters,

the day of reckoning is before us, and we will emerge triumphant!"

The only problem for many in the chief's audience was that the

chief was a white man.

"What cookie jar did he jump out of T' whispered an elderly

member of the Wopotanii tribe to the squaw next to him.

"Shhh!" said the woman, "he's brought us a truckload of

souvenirs from China and Japan. Don't louse up a good thing,

Eagle Eyes!"

THE

ROAD

TO -OMAHA

........................

The small, decrepit office on the top floor of the government

building was from another era, which was to say nobody but the

present occupant had used it in sixty-four years and eight months.

It was not that there were dark secrets in its walls or malevolent

ghosts from the past hovering below the shabby ceiling; quite

simply, nobody wanted to use it. And another point should be made

clear. It was not actually on the top floor, it was above the top floor,

reached by a narrow wooden staircase, the kind the wives of New

Bedford whalers climbed to prowl the balconies, hoping--most of

the time--for familiar ships that signaled the return of their own

particular Ahabs from the angry ocean.

In summer months the office was suffocating, as there was only

one small window. During the winter it was freezing, as its wooden

shell had no insulation and the window rattled incessantly,

impervious to caulking, permitting the cold winds to whip inside as

though invited. In essence, this room, this antiquated upper

chamber with its sparse furniture purchased around the turn of the

century, was the Siberia of the government agency in which it was

housed. The last formal employee who toiled there was a

2 ROBERT LUDLUM

discredited American Indian who had the temerity to learn to read

English and suggested to his superiors, who themselves could

barely read English, that certain restrictions placed on a reservation

of the Navajo nation were too severe. It is said the man died in that

upper office in the cold January of 1927 and was not discovered

until the following May, when the weather was warm and the air

suddenly scented. The government agency was, of course, the

United States Bureau of Indian Affairs.

For the current occupant, however, the foregoing was not a

deter-rent but rather an incentive. The lone figure in the

nondescript gray suit huddled over the rolltop desk, which wasn't

much of a desk, as all its little drawers had been removed and the

rolling top was stuck at half-mast, was General MacKenzie Hawkins,

military legend, hero in three wars and twice winner of the

Congressional Medal of Honor. This giant of a man, his lean

muscular figure belying his elderly years, his steely eyes and

tanned leatherlined face perhaps confirming a number of them, had

once again gone into combat. However, for the first time in his life,

he was not at war with the enemies of his beloved United States of

America but with the government of the United States itself. Over

something that took place a hun-dred and twelve years ago.

I

It didn't much matter when, he thought, as he squeaked around

in his ancient swivel chair and propelled himself to an adjacent

table piled high with old leather-bound ledgers and maps. They

were the same pricky-shits who had screwed him, stripped him of

his uniform, and put him out to military pasture! They were all the

goddamned same, whether in their frilly frock coats of a hundred

years ago or their piss-elegant, tight-assed pinstripes of today.

They were all pricky-shits. Time did not matter, nailing them did!

The general pulled down the chain of a green-shaded,

goosenecked lamp-circa early twenties-and studied a map, in his

right hand a large magnifying glass. He then spun around to his

dilapidated desk and reread the paragraph he had underlined in the

ledger whose binding had split with age. His perpetually squinting

eyes suddenly were wide and bright with excitement. He reached

for the

THE ROAD TOWAHA 3

only instrument of communication he had at his disposal, since the

installation of a telephone might reveal his more than scholarly

presence at the Bureau. It was a small cone attached to a tube; he

blew into it twice, the signal of emergency. He waited for a reply;

it came over the primitive instrument thirty-eight seconds later.

"Mac?" said the rasping voice over the antediluvian connection.

"Heseltine, I've got it!"

"For Christ's sake, blow into this thing a little easier, will you?

My secretary was here and I think she thought my dentures were

whistlin

. 9

"She's out?"

"She's out," confirmed Heseftine Brokernichael, director of the

Bureau of Indian Affairs. "What is it?"

"I just told you, I've got it!"

"Got what?"

"The biggest con job the pricky-shits ever pulled, the same

pricky-shits who made us wear civvies, old buddy!"

"Oh, I'd love to get those bastards. Where did it happen and

when?"

"In Nebraska. A hundred and twelve years ago."

Silence. Then:

"Mac, we weren't around then! Not even you!"

"It doesn't matter, Heseltine. It's the same horseshit. The same

bastards who did it to them did it to you and me a hundred years

later."

"Who's 'them'?"

"An offshoot of the Mohawks called the Wopotami tribe. They

migrated to the Nebraska territories in the middle 1800s."

"so?"

"It's time for the sealed archives, General Brokemichael."

"Don't say that! Nobody can do that!"

"You can, General. I need final confirmation, just a few loose

ends to clear up."

"For what? Why?"

"Because the Wopotamis may still legally own all the land and

air rights in and around Omaha, Nebraska."

4 ROBERT LUDLUM

"You're crazy, Mac! That's the Strategic Air Command!"

"Only a couple of missing items, buried fragments, and the facts

are there.... I'll meet you in the cellars, at the vault to the archives,

General Brokernichael.... Or should I call you cochairman of the

Joint Chiefs of Staff, along with me, Heselfine? If I'm right, and I

know damn well I am, we've got the White House-Pentagon axis in

such a bind, their collective tails won't be able to evacuate until we

tell 'em, to."

Silence. Then:

.41,11 let you in, Mac, but then I fade until you tell me I've got

my uniform back."

"Fair enough. Incidentally, I'm packing everything I've got here

and taking it back to my place in Arlington. That poor son of a bitch

who died up in this rat's nest and wasn't found until the perfume

drifted down didn't die in vain!"

The two generals stalked through the metal shelves of the musty

sealed archives, the dull, webbed lights so dim they relied on their

flashlights. In the seventh aisle, MacKenzie Hawkins stopped, his

beam on an ancient volume whose leather binding was cracked. "I

think this is it, Heseltine."

"Good, and you can't take it out of here!"

"I understand that, General, so I'll merely take a few

photographs and return it." Hawkins removed a tiny spy camera with

110 film from his gray suit.

"How many rolls have you got?" asked'fortner General Heseltine

Brokernichael as MacKenzie carried the huge book to a steel table

at the end of the aisle.

"Eight," replied Hawkins, opening the yellow-paged volume to

the pages he needed.

"I have a couple of others, if you need them," said Heseltine.

"Not that I'm so all fired-up by what you think you may have found,

but if there's any way to get back at Ethelred, I'll take it!"

"I thought you two had made up," broke in MacKenzie, while

turning pages and snapping pictures.

"Never!

TM ROAD TO CMAHA 5

"It wasn't Ethelred's fault, it was that rotten lawyer in the

Inspector General's office, a half-assed kid from Harvard named

Devereaux, Sam Devereaux. He made the mistake, not Brokey the

Deuce. Two Brokeinichaels; he got-'em mixed up, that's all."

"Horseshit! Brokey-Two put the finger on me!"

"I think you're wrong, but that's not what I'm here for and neither

are you.... Brokey, I need the volume next to or near this one. It

should say CXII on the binding. Get it for me, will you?" As the

head of Indian Affairs walked back into the metal stacks, the Hawk

took a single-edged razor out of his pocket and sliced out fifteen

successive pages of the archival ledger. Without folding the

precious papers, he slipped them under his suit coat.

"I can't find it," said Brokemichael.

"Never mind, I've got what I heed."

"What now, Mac?"

"A long time, Heseltine, maybe a long, long time, perhaps a year

or so, but I've got to make it right-so right there's no holes, no holes

at all."

"In what?"

"In a suit I'm going to file against the government of the United

States," replied Hawkins, pulling a mutilated cigar out of his pocket

and lighting it with a World War 11 Zippo. "You wait, Brokey-One,

and you watch."

"Good God, for what? ... Don't smoke! You're not supposed to

smoke in here!"

"Oh, Brokey, you and your cousin, Ethelred, always went too

much by the book, and when the book didn't match the action, you

looked for more books. It's not in the books, Heseltine, not the

ones you can read. It's in your stomach, in your gut. Some things

are right and some things are wrong, it's as simple as that. The gut

tells you."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Your gut tells you to look for books you're not supposed to

read. In places where they keep secrets, like right in here."

"Mac, you're not making sense!"

"Give me a year, maybe two, Brokey, and then you'll understand.

I've got to do it right. Real right." General MacKenzie Hawkins

strode out between the metal racks of

6 ROBERT LUDLUM

the archives to the exit. "Goddamn, " he said to himself. "Now I

really go to work. Get ready for me, you magnificent Wopotamis.

I'm yours!"

Twenty-one months passed, and nobody was ready for Thunder

Head, chief of the Wopotamis.

The President of the United States, his jaw firm, his angry eyes

steady and penetrating, accelerated his pace along the steel-gray

corridor in the underground complex of the White House. In

seconds, he had outdistanced his entourage, his tall, lean frame

angled forward as if bucking a torrential wind, an impatient figure

wanting only to reach the storm-tossed battlements and survey the

bloody costs of war so as to devise a strategy and repel the

invading hordes assaulting his realm. He was John of Arc, his rac-

ing mind building a counterattack at Orleans, a Harry Five who knew

the decisive Agincourt was in the immediate picture.

At the moment, however, his immediate objective was the

anxiety-prone Situation Room, buried in the lowest levels of the

White House. He reached a door, yanked it open, and strode inside

as his subordinates, now trotting and breathless, followed in unison.

"All right, fellas!" he roared. "Let's skull!"

A brief silence ensued, broken by the tremulous, highpitched

voice of a female aide. "I don't think in here, Mr. President."

"What? Why?"

8 ROBERT LUDLUM

"This is the men's room, sir."

"Oh? ... What are you doing here?"

"Following you, sir."

"Golly gee. Wrong turn. Sorry about that. Let's go. Out!"

The large round table in the Situation Room glistened under the

wash of the indirect lightin , reflecting the shad.9

ows of the bodies seated around it. These blocks of shadow on the

polished wood, like the bodies themselves, remained immobile as

the stunned faces attached to those bodies stared in astonishment

at the gaunt, bespectacled man who stood behind the President in

front of a portable blackboard, on which he had drawn numerous

diagrams in four different colors of chalk. The visual aids -were

somewhat less than effective as two of the crisis management team

were color-blind. The bewildered expression on the youthful Vice-

President's face was nothing new and therefore dismissible, but the

growing agitation on the part of the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of

Staff was not so easily dismissed.

"Goddamn it, Washburn, I don't---" "I'liat's Washburn, General."

"That's nice. I don't follow the legal line." "It's the orange one,

sir."

"Which one is that?"

"I just explained, the orange chalk." "Point it out."

Heads turned; the President spoke. "Gee whiz, Zack, can't you tell?"

"It's ' dark in here, Mr. President."

"Not that dark, Zack. I can see it clearly."

"Well, I've got a minor visual problem," said the general, abruptly

lowering his voice, distinguishing certain colors."

"What, Zack?"

"I heard him," exclaimed the towheaded, VicePresident, seated next

to the J.C. chairman. "He's colorblind."

::Golly, Zack, but you're a soldier!"

Came on late, Mr. President." "It came on early with me,"

continued the excitable heir

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 9

to the Oval Office. "Actually, it's what kept me out of the real army.

I would have given anything to correct the problem!"

"Close it up, gumball," said the swarthy-skinned director of the

Central Intelligence Agency, his voice low but his half-lidded, dark

eyes ominous. "The friggin' campaign's over."

"Now, really, Vincent, there's no cause for that language,"

intruded the President. "There's a lady present."

"That judgment's up for grabs, Prez. The ladyin question is not

unfamiliar with the lingua franca, as it were." The DCI smiled grimly

at the glaring female aide and returned to the man named Washburn

at the portable blackboard. "You, our legal expert here, what kind

of ... creek are we up?"

"That@ better, Vinnie," added the President. "I appreciate it."

"You're welcome.... Go on, Mr. Lawyer. What kind of deep ca-ca

are we really intoT'

"Very nice, Vinnie." - "Please, Big Man, we're all a little

stressed here." The director leaned forward, his apprehensive

eyes on the White House legal aide. "You," he continued, "put

away the chalk and let's have the news. And do me 'a favor,

don't spend a week getting ther ' e, okayT'

"As you wish, Mr. Mangecavallo," said the White House attorney,

placing the colored chalk on the blackboard ledge. "I was merely

trying to diagram the historical precedents relative to the altered

laws where the Indian nations were concerned."

"What nations?" asked the Vice-President, in his voice ,a trace

of arrogance. "They're tribes, not countries."

"Go on," interrupted the director. "He's not here."

"Well, I'm sure you all recall the information our mole at the

Supreme Court gave us about an obscure, impoverished, Indian

tribe petitioning the Court over a supposed treaty with the federal

government that was allegedly lost or stolen by federal agents. A

treaty that if ever found would restore their rights to certain

territories currently housing vital military installations."

"Oh, yes," said the President. "We had quite a laugh

10 ROBERT LUDLUM

over that. They even sent an extremely long brief to the Court

that nobody wanted to read."

"Some poor people will do anything but get a job!" joined in the

Veep. "That is a laugh."

"Our lawyer isn't laughing," observed the director.

"No, I'm not, sir. Our mole sends word that there've been some

quiet rumors which may mean absolutely nothing, of course, but

apparently five or six justices of the Court were so impressed by the

brief that they've actually debated its merits in chambers. Several

feel that the lost Treaty of 1878, negotiated with the Wopotami tribe

and the Forty-ninth Congress, may ultimately be legally binding

upon the government of the United States."

"You gotta be outta your lemon tree!" roared Mangecavallo.

"They can't do that!"

"Totally unacceptable," snapped the pinstriped, acerbic Secretary

of State. "Those judicial fruitcakes will never survive the polls!"

"I don't think they have to, Warren." The President shook his

head slowly. "But I see what you mean. As the great communicator

frequently told me, 'Those mothers couldn't get parts as extras in

Ben-Hur, not even in the Colosseum scenes.' "

"Profound," said the Vice-President, nodding his head. "That

really says it. Who's Benjamin Hurr?"

"Forget it," replied the balding, portly Attorney General, still

breathing heavily from the swift journey through the underground

corridors. "The point is they don't need outside employment.

They're set for life, and there's nothing' we can do about it!"

"Unless they're all impeached," offered the nasal-toned Secretary

of State, Warren Pease, his thin-lipped smile devoid of bonhomie.

"Forget that, too," rebutted, the Attorney General. "They're

pristine white and immaculate black, even the skirt. I checked the

whole spectrum when those pointyheads shoved that negative poll

tax decision down our throats."

"That was simply grotesque!" cried the Vice-President, his wide

eyes searching for approval. "What's five hundred dollars for the

right to vote?"

THE ROAD TO OMAHA I I

"Too true," agreed the occupant of the Oval Office. 'The good

people could have written it off on their capital gains. For instance,

there was an article by a fine economist, an alumnus of ours, as a

matter of fact, in The Bank Street Journal, explaining that by

converting one's assets in subsection C to the line item projected

losses in-2'

"Prez, please?" interrupted the director of the Central

Intelligence Agency gently. "Mat bum's doing time, six to ten years

for fraud, actually.... A lid, please, Big Man, okayT'

"Certainly, Vincent.... Is he really?"

"Just remember, none of us I remember him," replied the DCI,

barely above a whisper. "You forgot his line item procedures when

we had 'him at Treasury? He put half of Defense into Education, but

nobody got no schools."

"It was great PR-"

"Stow it, gumball--2'

" 'Stow it,' Vincent? Were you in the navy? 'Stow it' is a navy

term."

"Let's say I've been on a lot of small, fast boats, Prez.

Caribbean theater of operations, okay?"

"Ships, Vincent. They're always 'ships.' Were you by way of

Annapolis?"

"There was a Greek runner from the Aegean who could smell a

patrol boat in pitch dark."

"Ship, Vincent. Ship.... Or maybe not when applied to patrols--2'

"Please, Big Man." Director Mangecavallo stared at the Attorney

General. "Maybe you didn't look good enough into that dirtbag

character spectrum of yours, huh? On those judicial fruitcakes, as

our high-toned Secretary of State called 'em. Maybe there were

omissions, rightT'

"I used the entire resources of the Federal Bureau," replied the

obese Attorney General, adjusting his bulk in the inadequate chair

while wiping his forehead with a soiled handkerchief "We couldn't

hang a jaywalking ticket on any of them. They've all been in Sunday

school since the day they were born."

"What do those FBI yo-yos know, huh? They cleared me, rights

I was the holiest saint in town, right?"

"And both the House and the, Senate confirmed you

1 2 1 ROBERT LUDLUM

with rather decent majorities, Vincent. That says something about

our constitutional checks and balances, doesn't itT'

"More about checks made out to 'cash' than balances, Prez, but

we'll let it slide, okay? ... Owl Eyes here says that five or six of the

big robes may be leaning the wrong way, right?"

"It could simply be minor speculation," added Washburn. "And

completely in camera."

"So who's takin' pictures?"

"You misunderstand, sir. I mean the debates remain secret, not

a word of them leaked to the press or the public. The blackout was

actually self-imposed on the grounds of national security, in

extremism"

"In who?"

"Good heavens!" cried Washburn. "This wonderful country, the

nation we love, could be placed in the most vulnerable military

position in our history if five of those damn fools vote their

consciences. We could be obliterated!"

"Okay, okay, cool it," said Mangecavallo, staring at the others

around the table, quickly passing by the eyes of the President and

his heir apparent. "So we got us some room by this top-secret

status. And we also got five or six judicial fruitcakes to work on,

right? ... So, as the intelligence expert at this table, I say we should

make sure two or three of those zucchinis stay in the vegetable

patch, right? And since this sort of thing is in my personal realm of

expertise, I'll go to work, capisce?"

"You'll have to work quickly, Mr. Director," said the bespectacled

Washburn. "Our mole tells us that the Chief Justice himself told

him he was going to lift the debate blackout in forty-eight hours. In

his own words, Chief Justice Reebock said, 'They're not the only

half-assed ball game in town'-that's a direct quote, Mr. President.

I personally do not use such language."

"Very commendable, Washbloom--2'

"That's Washburn, sir."

"Him, too. Let's skull, men-and you, too, Miss ...

Miss

"Trueheart, Mr. President. Teresa Trueheart."

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 13

"What do you do?"

"I'm your Chief of Staff's personal secretary, sir."

"And then some," mumbled the DCL

"Stow it, Vinnie."

"My Chief of Staff ... ? Gosh W crackers, where is Arnold? I

mean this is a crisis, a real zing doozer!"

"He has his massage every afternoon at this hour, sir", replied

Miss Trueheart brightly.

"Well, I don't mean to criticize, but--7@'

"You have every right to criticize, Mr. President," interrupted the

wide-eyed heir apparent.

"On the other hand, Subagaloo's been under a great deal of

stress lately. The press corps call him names and- he's quite

sensitive."

"And there's nothing that relieves stress more than a massage,"

added the Vice-President. "Believe me, I know!"

"So where do we stand, gentlemen? Let's get a fix on the

compass and tighten the halyards."

"Aye, aye, sir!"

"Mr. Vice-President, give us a break, huh? ... The compass we're

locked into, Big Man, should better be fixed on a full moon, 'cause

that's where we're at-lo6ney-tune time, but nobody's laughin'."

"Speaking as your Secretary of Defense, Mr President," broke in

an extremely short man whose pinched face barely projected above

the table and whose eyes glared disapprovingly at the CIA director,

"the situation's utterly preposterous. Those idiots on the Court can't

be allowed to even consider devastating the security of the country

over an obscure, long-forgotten, so-called treaty with an Indian tribe

nobody's ever heard of!"

"Oh, I've heard of the Wopotamis," the Vice-President interrupted

again. "Of course, American history wasn't my best subject, but I

remember I thought it was a funny name, like the Choppywaws. I

thought they were slaughtered or died of starvation or some dumb

thing."

The brief silence was ended with Director Vincent

Mangecavallo's strained whisper as he stared at the young man

who was a heartbeat away from being the nation's Commander in

Chief. "You say one more word, butter

14 ROBERT LUDLUM

skull, and you're gonna be in a cemen@ bathrobe at the bottom of

the Potomac, do I make myself clearT' "Really, Vincent!",

"Listen, Prez, I'm your head honcho for the whole country's

security, right? Well, let me tell you, that kid's got the loosest mouth

in the beltway. I could have him terminated with extreme prejudice

for saying. and doing what he didn't even know he said or did. The

hit off the record, naturally."

"That's not fair!"

"It's not a fair world, son," observed the perspiring Attorney

General, turning his attention to the White House lawyer, at the

blackboard. "All right, Blackburn-2' "Washburn-2'

"If you say so.... Let's zero in on this fiasco, and I mean zero to

the max! For starters, just who the hell is the bastard, the traitor,

who's behind this totally unpatriotic, un-American appeal to the

Court?"

@'He calls himself Chief Thunder Head, Native American,"

answered Washburn. "And the brief his attorney submitted is

considered one of the most brilliant ever received by the judiciary,

our informer tells us. They sayconfidentially-that it will go down in

the annals of jurisprudence as a model of legal analysis."

"Annals, my ass!" exploded the Attorney General, once more

working his soiled handkerchief across his brow. "I'll have that

legal banana peeled to his bare bones! He's finished, eliminated.

By the time the departmnt's through with him, he won't get a job

selling insurance in Beirut, -forget the law! No firin'll touch him and

he won't find a client in the meat box at Leavenworth. What's the

son of a bitch's name?"

"Well, " began Washburn hesitantly, hisvoice squeaking briefly

into a falsetto, there we have a temporary glitch, as it were." ,

"Glitch-what glitchT' The nasal-toned Warren-Pease, whose left

eye had the unfortunate affliction of straying to the side when he

was excited, pecked his head forward like a violated chicken. "Just

give us the name, you idiot!"

"Mere isn't any to give," choked Washburn.

"Thank God this moron doesn't work for the Pentagon,"

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 1 5

snarled the diminutive Secretary of Defense. "We'd never find half

our missiles."

"I think they're in Teheran, Oliver," offered the President. "Aren't

they?"

"My suggestion was rhetorical, sir." The pinch-faced head of the

Pentagon, seen barely above the surface of the table, shook back

and forth in short lateral jabs. "Besides, that was a long time ago

and you weren't there and I wasn't there. Remember, sir?"

"Yes, yes, of course I don't."

"Goddamn it, Blackboard, why isn't there a name?"

"Legal precedent, sir, and my name is ... never mind--2'

"What do you mean, 'never mind,' you wart? I want the name!"

"That's not what I meant-"

"What the hell do you mean?"

"Non nomen amicus curiae, " mumbled the bes tacled White

House attorney barely above a whisper. pec

"What are you doin', a Hail Mary?" asked the DCI ,softly, his dark

Mediterranean eyes bulging in disbelief.

"It goes back to 1826, when the Court permitted a brief to be

filed anonymously by a 'friend of the Court' on behalf of a plaintiff."

"I'll kill him," mumbled the obese Attorney General, an audible

flatus emerging from the seat of his chair.

"Hold it!" yelled the Secretary of State, his left eye swinging back

and forth unchecked. "Are you telling us that this brief for the

WopotwW tribe was filed by an unnamed attorney or attorneysT'

"Yes, sir. Chief Thunder Head sent his representative, a young

brave who recently passed the state's bar, to appear before the

justices in camera and act as temporary counsel anticipating the

necessity of the original anonymous counsel should the brief be

held inadequate.... It wasn't. The majority of the Court deemed it

sufficient under the guidelines of non nomen amicus curiae."

"So, We don't know who the hell prepared the goddamned

thing?" shouted the Attorney General, his attacks of duodenal gas

unrelenting.

16 ROBERT LUDLUM

"My wife and I call those 'bottom burps,' " snickered the Vice-

President quietly to his single superior.

"We used to call them 'caboose whistles,' " replied the President,

grinning conspiratorially.

"For Christ's sake!" roared the Attorney General. "No, no, not

you, sir, or the kid here-I'm referring to Mr. Backwash--2'

"That's ... never mind."

"You mean to tell us we're not allowed to know who wrote this

garbage, this swill that may convince five airheaded judges on the

Court to affirm it as law and, not incidentally, destroy the

operational core of our national defense?"

"Chief Thunder Head has informed the Court that in due time,

after the decision has been rendered and made' public and his

people set free, he will make known the legal mind behind his -

tribe's appeal.

"That's nice," said the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. "Then we'll

put the son of a bitch on the reservation with his redskin buddies

and nuke the whole bunch of them off the goddamned map."

"To do that, General, you'd have to wipe out all of Omaha,

Nebraska."

The emergency meeting in the Situation Room was over; only the

President and his Secretary of State remained at the table.

"Golly, Warren," said the chief executive. "I wanted you to stay

because sometimes I don't understand those people."

"Well, they certainly never went to our school, old roonfie."

"Gosh, I guess they didn't but that's not what I mean. They. all

got so excited, shouting and cursing and everything."

"The ill-born are prone to emotional outbursts, we both know

that. They have no ingrained restraint. Do you remember when the

headmaster's wife got drunk and began singing 'One-Ball Reilly' at

the back of the chapel? Only the scholarship boys turned around."

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 17

"Not exactly," said the President sheepishly. "I did, too.11

"No, I can't believe it!"

"Well, I sort of peeked. I think I had the hots for her; it started

in dancing class-the fox trot, actually."

"She did that to all of us, the bitch. It's how she got her kick

"I suppose so, but back to this meeting. You don't think

anything could come of that Indian stuff, do you?"

"Of course not! Chief Justice Reebock is just up to his old tricks,

trying to get you mad because he thinks you blackballed him for our

Honorary Alumni Society."

"Gee, I swear I didn't!"

"I know you didn't, I did. His politics are quite acceptable, but

he's a very unattractive man and wears terrible clothes. He looks

positively ludicrous in a tuxedo. Also, I think he drools-not for us,

old roomie. You heard what that Washboard said ... he said

Reebock told our mole that we 'weren't the only half-assed ball

game in town.' What more do you need?"

"Still, everybody got so angry, especially Vincent Manja ... Manju

... Mango whatever."

"It's the Italian in him. It goes with the bloodlines."

"Maybe, Warren. Still, he bothers me. I'm sure Vincent was a

fine naval officer, but he could also be a loose cannon ... like you-

know-who."

"Please, Mr. President, don't give either of us nightmares!"

"I'm just trying to prevent 'em, old roomie. Look, Warren,

Vincent doesn't get along too well with our Attorney General or the

Joint Chiefs, and definitely not with the whole Defense Department,

so I want you to sort of cultivate him, stay in close touch with him

on this problem-be his confidential friend."

"With a Mangecavallo?"

"Your office calls for it, Warty old boy. State's got to be involved

in something like this."

"But nothing will come of it!"

"I'm sure it won't, but think of the reactions worldwide when the

Court's arguments become public. We're a nation of laws, not

whims, and the Supreme Court doesn't

is ROBERT LUDLUM

suffer nuisance suits. You have some international spincontrol in

front of you, roornie."

"But why me?"

"Golly gosh and zing dam, I just told you, Warty!"

"Why not the Vice-President? He can relay all the news to me."

"Who?"

"Me Vice-President!"

"What is his name, anyway?"

fall*

It was a bright midsummer's afternoon, and Aaron Pinkus, arguably

the finest attorney in Boston, Massachusetts, and certainly one of

the kindest and most gentle of powerful men, climbed out of his

limousine in the fashionable suburb of Weston and smiled at the

uniformed chauffeur who held the door. "I told Shirley this huge car

was ostentatious enough, Paddy, but that silly cap with the shiny

visor on your head comes perilously close to the sin of false pride."

"Not in old Southie, Mr. Pinkus, and we got more sins than they

got votive candles in a wax factory," said the large middle-aged

driver, whose partially graying hair bespoke a once full crown of

bright red. "Besides, you've been saying that for years now and it

doesn't do much good. Mrs. Pinkus is a very insistent woman."

"Mrs. Pinkus's brain has been refried too often under a beauty

shop hair dryer... I never said that, Paddy."

"Of course not, sir."

"I don't know how long I'll be, so drive down the block, perhaps

around the comer, out of sight--2'

"And stay in touch with you over the beeper," completed the

Irishman, grinning, obviously enjoying the sub-20 ROBERT LUDLUM

terfuge. "If I spot Mr. Devereaux's car, I signal you, and you can get

out through the back door."

"You know, Paddy, if our words were part of a transcript, any

transcript, we'd lose the case, whatever it was."

"Not with your office defending us, sir."

"False pride again, my old friend. Also, criminal law is but a

small part of the firm and not really outstanding."

"Hey, you ain't doing nothin' criminal!"

'llen let's lose the transcript.... Do I look presentable for the

grande dame, Paddy?"

"Let me straighten your tie, sir, it slipped a touch down."

'Hank you," said Pinkus as the driver adjusted his tie. His eyes

strayed to the imposing blue-gray Victorian house, fronted by a

white picket fence and profuse with gleaming white trim around the

windows and below the high gables. Inside was the matron of this

landmark residence, the formidable Mrs. Lansing Devereaux 111,

mother of Samuel Devereaux, potential attomey-extraordinary and

currently an enigma to his employer, one Aaron Pinkus.

'lure you are, sir-" The chauffeur stepped back and nodded

approvingly. "You're a grand and splendid sight for one of the

opposite sex."

"Please, Paddy, this is not an assignation, it's a mission of

compassionate inquiry."

"Yeah, I know, boss. Sam's been kind of off the wall every now

and again."

"You've noticed then?"

"Hell, you've had me pick him up at Logan Airport a dozen times

or more this year. As I say, every now and again he seemed a little

squirrelly, and it wasn't just the boyo booze. He's troubled, Mr.

Pinkus. The lad's got a trouble in his head."

"And that head contains a brilliant legal mind, Paddy. Let's see

if we can find out what the trouble is."

"Good luck, sir. I'll be out of sight but in sight, if you know what

I mean. And when you hear my beep, get the hell out of there."

"Why do I feel like a bony, overage Jewish Casanova who

couldn't scale a trellis if a horde of pit bulls was snapping at my

rear endT' Pinkus understood that he asked

ThE ROAD TO OMAHA 21

the question of himself, as his driver had raced around the hood,of

the limousine so as to climb inside and vanish-in sight but out of

sight.

Aaron had met Eleanor Devereaux only twice over the years

since he had known her son. The first time was the day Samuel

came to work for the firm several weeks after his graduation from

Harvard Law School, and then, Aaron suspected, it was because his

mother wanted to look over her son's workaday environs as she

might inspect the counselors and the facilities of a summer camp.

The second and only other time was at the welcome-home party the

Pinkuses gave for Sam upon his return from the army,, said

homecoming one of the strangest in the chronicles of military

separation. It took place over five months past the day that

Lieutenant Devereaux was to arrive in Boston as an honorably

discharged civilian. Five months unaccounted for.

Five months, mused Aaron, as he started toward the gate in the

white picket fence, nearly half a year that Sam would not talk about-

would not discuss except to say he was not permitted to discuss it,

implying some type of topsecret government operation. Well,

Pinkus had thought at the time, he certainly could not ask

Lieutenant Devereaux to violate a sworn oath, but he was curious,

both personally as a friend and professionally in terms of

international legal negotiations, and he did have a few connections

in Washington.

So he telephoned the President on the private White House line

that rang in the upstairs living quarters and explained his

conundrum to the chief executive.

"You think he may have been involved in a covert operation,

AaronT' the President had asked.

"Speaking frankly, I wouldn't think he's at all the type."

"Sometimes they go for that, Pinky. You know, rotten casting

turns out the best casting. Also speaking frankly, a lot of these

lousy long-haired, dirty-minded directors stink up the big screen

with that kind of thing. I hear they wanted Myrna to use the S word

a couple of years ago, can you believe it?"- "It's difficult, Mr.

President. But I know you're busy--21 "Heck no, Pinky. Mornmy

and. I are just watching

22 ROBERT LUDLUM

Wheel of Fortune. You know, she beats me a lot, but I don't

care. I'm President and she's not."

"Very understanding. Could you just possibly make a few

inquiries for me on this matter?"

"Oh, sure. I wrote it down. Devereaux-D-e-v-a-r-o, right?"

"That will do, sir."

Twenty minutes later the President had called him back. "Oh,

wow, Pinky! I think you stepped into it!"

"Into what, Mr. President?"

"My people tell me that 'outside of China'-those were the words-

whatever this Devereaux did had 'absolutely nothing to do with the

United States govemment'-those, too, were the exact words, I wrote

them down. Then when I pressed them, they told me I didn't 'want

to knoW-"

"Yes, of course, the exact words. It's called deniability, Mr.

President."

'There's a lot of that going around, isn't there?"

Aaron paused on the path and looked up at the grand old house,

thinking about Sam Devereaux and the rather odd, even touching

way he had grown up in this gracefully restored relic from a far

moral graceful era. In truth, considered the vaunted attorney, the

sparkling restoration had not always been in evidence; for years

there had been the aura of neat but shabby gentility about the place

rather than the current facade of spanking new paint and a man-

icured front law. These days, care was lavished continuously, no

expense spared-spared, that was, ever since Sam had returned to

civilian life after a five-month disappearing act. As a matter of

course, Pinkus always studied the personal and academic histories

of each potential employee of his firm so as to avoid heartbreak or

a mistake. Young Devereaux's r6sumd had caught his eye as well

as his curiosity, and he had frequently driven by the old house in

Weston, wondering what secrets were held within its Victorian walls.

The father, Lansing Devereaux III, had been a scion of the

Boston Brahmin elite on a par with the Cabots and the Lodges, but

with one glaring aberration. He was a bold risktaker in the world of

high finance, far more capable of losing money than hoarding it. He

had been a good man,

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 23

if somewhat wild and tempestuous, a hard worker who had opened

doors of opportunity for many, but for himself saw too few initiatives

come to fruition. While watching a stock market report on

television, he had died of a stroke when Sam was a boy of nine,

leaving his widow and his son a fine name, a grand residence, and

insufficient insurance to maintain the life-style to which they were

accustomed and the appearance of which Eleanor refused to

abandon.

As a result, Samuel Lansing Devereaux became that conduction

among the wealthy, a scholarship boy who waited on tables at

Phillips Andover. While his classmates attended proms, he tended

a snack bar at those proms; and when his increasingly distant

acquaintances in the social set entered regattas on the Cape, he

worked on the roads they traveled leading to Dennis and Hyannis.

He also worked on his studies, like a young man possessed, fully

understanding that academia was the only route back to the affluent

world of the ancestral Devereauxes. Besides, he was sick of being

merely an observer of the good life instead of a participants

More generous scholarships followed at Harvard and its Law

School, his expense monies supplemented quite nicely by a heavy

schedule of tutoring his brother and sister classmates,

the'preponderance-of whom were the latter as there were frequently

bonuses having nothing to do with finance. There followed an

auspicious beginning at Aaron Pinkus Associates, menacingly

interrupted by the United States Army, which, in the era of massive

Pentagon expansion, desperately needed all the lawyers it could

dredge up to forestall wholesale indictments of its procurement

personnel on bases at home and abroad. The fascist military

computers unearthed a long-forgotten deferment granted one

Samuel Lansing Devereaux, and the armed services gained a

handsome, if pathetic, soldier, but one with a superb legal brain,

which they used and obviously abused.

What had happened to him? questioned Pinkus in the silence of

his mind. What horrible events had taken place years ago that had

come back to haunt him now? To warp and, at times, to short-circuit

that extraordinary mind, a

24 ROBERT LUDLUM

mind that cut through legalistic abstractions and made common

sense out of the most abstruse constitutional interpretations, so that

judges and juries alike were in awe of his erudition and his deeply

penetrating analyses.

Something had happened, concluded Aaron, approaching the

huge front door, replete with antique beveled panes of glass in the

upper panel. Also, where did Sam ever get the money to restore

the damn house to begin with? Pinkus was, indeed, generous with

his outstanding and, in truth, his favorite employee, but not to the

extent that he could pour a minimum of a hundred thousand dollars

into the renovation of the family residence. Where had the cash

come from? Drugs? Laundering money? Insider trading? Selling

illegal armaments abroad? None made sense where Sam Devereaux

was concerned. He'd be a total bust at any of those endeavors; he

was a klutz where subterfuge was concerned. He was--God in

heaven be praised-a truly honest man in a world of worms. This

judgment, however, did riot explain the apparently inexplicable---the

money. Several years ago, when Aaron had casually mentioned the

fine improvements made on the house, which he drove by

frequently on his way home, Samuel had, with equal casualness,

offered that a well-to-do Devereaux relative had passed away and

left his mother a very decent bequest.

Pinkus had pored over the probate rolls and the taxable

inheritance records only to discover that there was no such relative

and no such bequest. And he knew deep in his religious heart that

whatever was plaguing Sam now had something to do with his

unexplained affluence.. What was it? Perhaps the answer was

hidden inside this grand old house. He rang the bell-bass-toned

chimes, naturally.

A full minute passed before the door was opened by a plumpish

middle-aged maid in a starched green and white uniform. "SirT' she

said, somewhat more coldly than was necessary, thought Aaron.

"Mrs. Devereaux," replied Pinkus. "I believe she's expecting

me."

"Oh, you're the one," responded the maid, perhaps even more

icily, thought Aaron. "Well, I hope you like the damn chamomile tea,

Buster, it sure isn't my taste. Come on any$

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 25

"Thank you." The celebrated but less than physically imposing

attorney walked into the foyer of Norwegian rose marble, his mental

computer estimating its extravagant cost. "And what variety do you

prefer, my dear?" he asked pointlessly.

"A cup laced with rye!" exclaimed the woman, laughing

raucously and jabbing her elbow into Pinkus's frail shoulder.

,,I'll remember that when we have high tea at the Ritz some

afternoon."

"That'll be the Jesus-lovin' day, won't it, little fella?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Go on through those double doors over there," continued the

maid, gesturing to her left. "The hoity-toity's waiting for you. Me,

I got work to do." With that command-cum-explanation, the woman

turned and walked without precision across the expensive floor,

disappearing beyond the elegantly balustraded winding staircase.

Aaron approached the closed double doors, opened the right

panel, and peered inside' At the far end of the ornate Victorian room

sat Eleanor Devereaux on a brocaded white couch, a glistening

silver tea service on the coffee table in front of her. She was as he

remembered her, an erect, fine-boned woman, with an aging face

that must have launched a thousand yachts in its prime, and with

large blue eyes that said far more than she would ever reveal.

"Mrs. Devereaux, how good to see you again."

"Mr. Pinkus, how good to see you. Please come and sit down."

"Thank you." Aaron walked inside, conscious of the huge,

priceless Oriental rug beneath his feet. He lowered himself into the

white brocaded armchair to the right of the sofa, the spot indicated

by a nod of Mrs. Devereaux's aristocratic head.

"From the rather frantic laughter I heard in the hallway," said the

grand lady, "I gather you've met Cousin Cora, our maid."

"Your cousin ... T'

"If she weren't, do you think she'd last five minutes in this

house? In a family sense, being more fortunate imposes certain

obligations, doesn't it?"

26 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Noblesse oblige, madam. And very nicely said."

"Yes, I suppose so, but I wish to hell nobody ever had to say it.

One day she'll choke on the whisky she steals and the obligation

will be over, won't it?"

"A logical conclusion."

"But you're not here to discuss Cora, are you? ... Chamomile tea,

Mr. Pinkus? Cream or lemon, sugar or no?"

"Forgive me, Mrs. Devereaux, but I must resist. An old man's

aversion to volatile oil."

"Good! An old wornan's, too. This fourth little dear I fill myself."

Eleanor picked up a Limoges teapot to the left of the silver service.

"A fine thirty-year-old brandy, Mr. Pinkus, and its kind of acid

couldn't hurt anybody. I also wash the damn thing myself, so Cora

doesn't get ideas."

"My very favorite, Mrs. Devereaux," said Aaron. "And I shan't tell

my doctor, so he won't get any ideas."

'Wchaim, Mr. Pinkus," toasted Eleanor Devereaux, pouring them

each a good dram and then raising her-teacup.

"A votre santi, Mrs. Devereaux," said Aaron.

"No, no, Mr. Pinkus. The Devereaux name may be French, but

my husband's ancestors migrated to England in the fifteenth

century-actually they were captured during the battle of Cr6cy but

stayed long enough to raise their own armies and be knighted by

the crown. We're High Anglican."

"So what should I say?"

,"How about 'Up your banners'?"

"That's religiousT'

"If you're convinced He's on your side, I imagine it is." They both

sipped, and replaced their cups in the delicate saucers. "That's a

good beginning, Mr. Pinkus. And now shall we plunge right into the

puzzling issue at handnamely, my son?"

"I believe it would be prudent," nodded Aaron, glancing at his

watch. "Right now he's about to go into a conference entailing an

extremely complex litigation that should take the better part of

several hours. However, as we both agreed over the telephone,

these past months he's fre-7HE ROAD TO CMAHA 27

quently displayed erratic behavior; he might very well leave the

conference in midsentence and drive home."

"Or go to a museum or a movie or, God forbid, to the airport and

take a plane to heaven knows where," interrupted Eleanor

Devereaux. "I'm all too aware of Sam's impetuous proclivities. Only

two Sundays ago I returned from church and discovered a note that

he'd left for me on the kitchen table. In it he wrote that he was out

and would call me later. He did so during dinner. From

Switzerland."

"Our experiences are too painfully similar, so I will not take up

our time recounting my and my firm's variations."

"Is my son in danger of losing his position, Mr. Pinkus?"

"Not if I can help it, Mrs. Devereaux. I've looked too long and

too hard for a successor to give up so easily. But I'd be less than

honest if I told you that the status quo was acceptable. It isn't.

It's,not fair to Sam or to the firm."

"I'm in total agreement. What can we do-what can I do?"

"At the risk of presuming on the privilege of privacy, and I do so

only out of affection and professional concern of the highest regard,

what can you tell me about your son that might shed light on his

increasingly enigmatic behaviorTI assure you that whatever is said

between us will remain in the strictest confidence-as -it were, a

lawyerclient relationship, although I would never presume to be

your attorney of choice."

"Dear Mr. Pinkus, a number of years ago I could never presume

to approach you to be my attorney of choice. Had I felt that I was

capable of paying your fee, I might have salvaged large sums of

money owed my husband's estate after his death."

"Oh ... T,

"Lansing Devereaux steered a great many of his colleagues into

immensely lucrative situations with the understanding of reasonable

participation after their venture capital was recouped. Once he

died, only a few honored those agreements, a precious few."

"Agreements? Written agreements?" "Lansing was not the most

precise person when it came

28 ROBERT LUDLUM

to specifics. However, there were minutes of meetings, synopses

of business conversations, that sort of thing."

"You have copies of these?"

"Of course. I was told they were worthless."

"Your son, Samuel, confirmed that judgment?"

"I've never shown him those papers and I never will.... He had

a rather painful adolescence in some regards, no doubt character

building, but why open healed wounds?"

"One day we may go back to those 'worthless' papers, Mrs.

Devereaux, but at the moment letis return-to the moment. What

happened to your son in the army? Have you any idea?"

"He had a 'rather good show,' as the British say. He was a legal

officer both here and overseas and, I'm told, did outstanding work

in the Far East. When he was discharged, he was an adjutant in the

office of the Inspector General with the temporary rank of major.

You don't do much better than that."

"Me Far East?" said Aaron, his antennae picking up a nuance.

"What did he do in the Far East?"

"China, of course. You probably wouldn't remember because his

contribution was 'played down,' as they say politically, but he

negotiated the release of that crazy American general in Beijing, the

one who shot the - . private parts ... off a venerated statue in the

Forbidden city.l@

"'Madman' MacKenzie Hawkins?"

"Yes, I believe that was his name."

"Me most certifiable lunatic of the lunatic fringe? The gorilla's

guerilla who almost plunged the entire planet into World War Three?

Sam represented him?"

"Yes. In China. Apparently he did a fine job."

Aaron swallowed several times before he found his voice again.

"Your son never mentioned any of this to me," he said barely

audibly.

"Well, Mr. Pinkus, you know the military. So much is hush-hush,

as I understand it."

"Hush-bush, mush-mush," mumbled Boston's celebrated

attorney, in his voice a Talmudic prayer. "Fell me, Mrs. Devereaux,

did Sammy--@'

THE ROAD TO, OMAHA 29

"Sam or Samuel, Mr. Pinkus."

"Yes, of course.... Did Sam ever mention this General Hawkins

to you after his separation from the army?"

"Not with that title or that name, and never when he was entirely

sober... I should explain that before he was discharged and came

back to Boston, somewhat later than we expected, I should add ----

2'

"Don't add to me, Mrs. Devereaux. Explain to the deli that

supplied fifty pounds of lox why he never showed up.,,

"I beg your pardon?"

"It's insignificant. What were you sayingT'

"Well, a colonel in the Inspector General's office phoned me and

told me that Sam had been put through 'pressure-point-max' in

China. When I asked him what that meant, he became rather

abusive and said that as a 'decent army wife' I should understand.

And when I explained that I wasn't Sam's wife but his mother, that

very abusive man said something to the effect that he 'figured the

clown was a little weird,' and told me that I should expect a couple

of months of mood swings and conceivably some heavy drinking."

"What did you say to that?"

"I wasn't married to Lansing Devereaux without learning a few

things, Mr. Pinkus. I know damned well that when a man gets

broiled because the pressures become too much, it's a reasonable

petcock to let off steam. Those Janie-come-lately liberated females

should give a little in that department. The man still has to keep die

lion from invading the cave; that hasn't changed, and biologically it

shouldn't. He's the poor fool who has to take the heatphysically,

morally, and legally."

"I'm beginning to see where Sam gets his acumen."

"Y'lien you'd be wrong, Aaron-may I call you Aaron?"

"With the greatest of my pleasure ... Eleanor."

"You see, 'acumen' or perception or whatever you want to call

it can only be useful if there's imagination first. That's what my

Lansing had, only the macho times restricted my supplying a

stronger balance, the supplemental caution, if you like."

"You're a remarkable woman ... Eleanor."

30 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Another brandy, Aaron?"

"Why not? I'm a student in the presence of a teacher of things

I have never really considered. I may go home to my wife and fall

on my knees."

"Don't overplay it. We like to believe we're manipulators.,,

"Back to your son," said Pinkus, sipping his brandy in two

swallows rather than one. "You say he didn't refer to General

Hawkins by name or by title, but you implied that he did allude to

him ... when not necessarily sober, which is perfectly

understandable. What did he say?"

"He'd ramble on about 'the Hawk,' that's what he called him,"

mused Eleanor softly, her head arched back in the brocaded sofa.

"Sam said he was a legitimate hero, a military genius abandoned by

the very people who once praised him as their spokesman, their

idol, but who fled from him the moment he became an

embarrassment. An embarrassment despite the fact that in his

actions he was fulfilling their fantasies,- their dreams. But he was

doing it for real, and that terrified them, because, again, they knew

that their fantasies, if acted upon, might lead to disaster. Like most

fanatics who've never been in a real fight, they find embarrassment

and death unattractive."

"And Sam?"

"He claimed he never agreed with the Hawk, never wanted to be

associated with him, but was somehow forced to-how I don't know.

Sometimes when he just wanted to talk, he'd make up incredible

stories, pure nonsense, like meeting hired killers at night on a golf

course-he actually named a country club on Long Island."

"Long Island, as in New York?"

"Yes. And how he negotiated contracts worth a great deal of

money with British traitors in London's Belgrave Square and with

former Nazis on chicken farms in Germany ... even Arab sheiks in

the desert who were actually slunilords in Tel Aviv and wouldn't

permit Egypt's army to shell their properties during the Yom Kippur

war. Insane stories, Aaron, I tell you the were--are-toially y

mad."

"Totally mad," repeated Pinkus quietly, weakly, a knot

7HE ROAD TO OMAHA 31

forcing in his stomach. "You say, 'are'? He still tells these crazy

stories?"

"Not as much as he used to, but yes, when he's terribly

distressed or has had that extra martini he didn't need, and wanders

down from his lair."

"His lair, like in cave, perhaps?"

"That's what he calls it, his 'chAteau's lair.'

" 'Chfiteau,' like in a very big house or a@ castle?"

"Yes, he even speaks now and then of a great chfiteau in

Zermatt, Switzerland, and of his 'Lady Anne' and 'Uncle Zio'-pure

unadulterated fantasies! I believe the word is 'nuts.' "

"I sincerely hope so," mumbled Pinkus.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Oh, nothing. Does Samuel spend much time in his Ur,'

Eleanor?"

"He never leaves it except for an occasional dinner with me. It's

actually the east wing of the house, shut off from the rest of us with

its own entrance and facilities-two bedrooms, office, kitchen-the

usual amenities. Even his own cleaning service--oddly enough,

they're Muslims."

"His own apartment, really."

"Yes, and he thinks he has the only keys--2' "But he doesn't?"

asked Aaron quickly.

"Good heavens, no. The insurance people insisted that Cora

and I should have access. Cora stole his key ring one morning and

had duplicates made.... Aaron Pinkus!" Eleanor Devereaux looked

into the attorney's deep-set eyes and saw the message in, them.

"Do you really think we might learn something by ... by going

through the chfiteau's lair? Isn't that illegal?"

"You're his mother, my dear lady, and you're justifiably

concerned about his current state of mind. That's a calling beyond

any law. However, before you make that decision, one or two more

questions.... This house this grand old house, has had many

splendid things Won_@ to it over the past years. From the outside

alone, I judged the expenditures to be in the neighborhood of a

hundred thousand dollars. Now, seeing the inside, I'd have to place

the figure at many times that. Where did the money come from? Did

Sam tell youT'

32 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Well, not in so many words; that is, not precisely... He said that

while he was in Europe on this very secret mission after his

discharge, he invested in some works of art, newly discovered

religious artifacts actually, and in a matter of months the market

exploded and he did enormously well."

"I see," said Pinkus, the knot in his stomach tightening, but

nothing clear, only the rumbling of distant thunder in his mind.

"Religious artifacts.... And this 'Lady Anne' you say he talked about.

What did he say?"

"It was all pure rubbish. In my son's delusions, or deliritims, if

you will, this Lady Anne, this fantasy of his that he calls the

perpetual love of his existence on earth, left him and ran away with

a Pope."

"Oh, dear God of Abraham," whispered Pinkus, reaching for his

teacup.

"We of the High Church of England can't really accept that

connection, Aaron. Henry the Eighth aside, the apostasy of any

pontiff's infallibility simply doesn't wash. He's a reasonable, if

somewhat pretentious, symbol, but not a scratch more."

"I think _W& time you made your decision, dear Eleanor," said

Pinkus, swallowing the rest of his brandy, wishing the spreading

pain in his stomach would go away. "To glance over the chfiteau's

lair, I mean."

"You really think it might help us?"

"I'm not sure what I think, but I am sure that we'd better."

"Come along, then." Lady Devereaux rose from, the couch, a

touch unsteadily, and gestured toward the double doors. "The keys

are in a flower pot in the foyer. 'Flower pot in the foyer,' that's a

hell of a mouthful, isn't it? Try it backwards, Aaron."

"Foyer, flowerflot, flowernot, floyer," attempted Pinkus, getting to

his feet, not entirely sure where they were.

They approached the thick, heavy door of Samuel Lansing

Devereaux's chAteau's lair, and Sam's mother inserted the key with

the gentle assistance of the man who was now her attorney of

choice. They entered the sanctum sanctorum, walking down a

narrow corridor that opened onto a wider hallway, the rays of the

afternoon sun stream-THE ROAD TO OMAHA 33

ing through an imposing, seemingly impenetrable glasspaneled

door on the left, which was the apartment's separate entrance.

They turned right, and the first open door they came to revealed a

darkened room; the venetian blinds were securely down and closed.

"What's in here?" asked Aaron.

"I believe it's his office," replied Eleanor, blinking. "I haven't

been up here since I can't remember whenprobably when the

construction was finished and Sam showed me through."

"Let's take a look. Do you know where the lights are?"

"The switch is usually on the wall." It was, and three floor lamps

lit up the three visible walls of a large pinepaneled office. The walls

themselves, however, could barely be seen, as they were covered

with framed photographs and, contrarily, Scotch-taped newspaper

articles, many askew as if hastily, perhaps angrily, stuck to the sur-

faces between the profusion of photographs. "This place is a

bloody mess!" exclaimed the mother of the inhabitant. "I'll insist he

clean it up!"

"I wouldn't even consider it," remarked Pinkus, approaching the

nearest newspaper clippings on the left wall. In the main, they

depicted a white-habited nun dispensing food and clothing to

indigent people-white, black, and Hispanic-in various parts of the

world. SISTER ANNE THE BENEVOLENT CARRIES HER MESSAGE

TO ALL POINTS OF TM GLOBE, cried one headline over a

photograph of a slum in Rio de Janeiro, the mountain crucifix seen

clearly in the upper distance of that jet-set city. The other clippings

were a variation of the same theme-photos of a markedly attractive

nun in Africa, Asia, Central America, and the leper islands in the

Pacific. SISTER ANNE, SISTER OF CHARITY, SISTER OF HOPE

and, finally, ANNE THE BENEVOLENT, A CANDIDATE FOR

SAUqTHOOD?

Aaron, putting on his steel-rimmed glasses, studied the.

photographs. They were all taken at some extravagant retreat

reeking of edelweiss, the Alps generally in the background, the

subjects in the photographs happy and carefree, the enjoyment of

life lighting up their faces. Several were instantly recognizable: a

somewhat younger Sam Devereaux; the tall, aggressive figure of the

maniac gen-34 ROBERT LUDLUM

eral, 'Madman' MacKenzie Hawkins; an ash-blond woman in shorts

and a halter-voluptuous, indeed, and unmistakably Anne the

Benevolent; and a fourth figure, a stout, smiling, jovial fellow in a

short chef's apron that barely concealed his lederhosen. Who was

he? The face was familiar but-no, no, NO!

"The God of Abraham has deserted us," whispered Aaron

Pinkus, trembling.

"What in the name of the Celtics are you talking aboutT' asked

Eleanor Devereaux.

"You probably wouldn't remember, because it meant nothing to

you," answered Aaron rapidly, unsteadily, a distinct quaver in his

soft voice. "But a number of years ago the Vatican was in disarray-

financial disarray. Monies were flowing out of its treasury in ... in

megabuckets, supporting causes so unlikely as third-rate opera

companies and carnivals and houses throughout Europe to reha-

bilitate prostitutes, all manner of insanities. The people thought the

Pope had gone crazy, that he was, as they say, pazzo! Then, just

before the Eternal City's complete collapse, which would have

resulted in panic throughout the investment world, everything

suddenly returned to normal.. The Pontiff was back in control, his

old self! The media everywhere said it was like he had been two

people--one pazzo, the other the fine good man they all knew and

loved."

"My dear Mr. Pinkus, you're not making the slightest bit of

sense."

"Look, look!" cried Aaron, pointing at a smiling, fleshed-out face

in one of the photographs. "Mat's him!"

"The Pope! That's where the money came from. The ransom!

The press was right, they were two people! General Hawkins and

@your son kidnapped the Pope! ... Eleanor, EleanorT' Aaron, turned

from the wall.

Lady Devereaux had collapsed to the floor unconscious.

ten

"Nobody @ that clean," said Director Mangecavallo quietly, his voice

laced with incredulity as he addressed the two dark-suited men

seated across the table in the DCPs dimly lit kitchen in McLean,

Virginia. "It's not natural, you know what I mean? Maybe you didn't

scrounge around hard enough, huh, Fingers?"

"I tell you, Vinnie, I was shocked," replied the short, obese man

who answered to the name of Fingers as he touched the knot of his

white silk tie that fell over his black shirt. "Like you say, it ain't

natural-it ain't even human. What kind of world do these high-type

judges live in? One with no germs, maybe?"

"You didn't answer my question," interrupted Vincent softly,

arching his brows and quickly shifting his penetrating gaze to his

second visitor. "What do you say, Meat? You boys aren't getting

sloppy, are you?"

"Hey, Vin," protested the large, barrel-chested guest, his heavy

hands spread out in front of him, partially obscuring the red tie

above his pink shirt. "A firstclass-world-class-job we did, what can

I tell ya? The high-types called for it, right? We even brought in

36 ROBERT LUDLUM

Hymie Goldfarb's boys in Atlanta, and who better to get the goods

on a saint, am I right or not?"

"Yeah, Hymie's boys know the tunnels, no question," agreed the

CIA director, pouring himself another glass of Chianti and removing

a Monte Cristo cigar from his shirt pocket. "A lot better than all the

feds in Hooverville. They dug us up garbage on a hundred and

thirty-seven congressmen and twenty-six senators that guaranteed

my confirmation, along with- a little largesse spread around, of

course."

"Largest what, Vinnie?" asked Fingers.

"Largesse-forget it.... I just can't figure it. Every one of these six

squftTelly judges got nuthin' we can tap into? That's

extraterrestrial!" Mangecavallo got up from the table and lit his

cigar. He paced back and forth in front of a darkened wall upon

which hung alternating prints of saints, popes, and vegetables until

he suddenly stopped, a cloud of smoke ringing his skull like a halo

from way down under. "Let's go back to the basics," he said, stand-

ing motionless. "Let's really look"

"At what, Vinnie?"

"these four or five maybe liberal clowns who can't think straight.

What's with them that Goldfarb's people couldn't find? ... What

about the big black cat? Maybe he ran numbers as a kid, did

anyone think of that? Maybe no one went back far enough. That

could be the mistake!"

"He was an acolyte and a choirboy, Vin. Right down the pike, a

real angel, plus a big, big brain."

"How about the lady judge? She's a big cannoli, right? That

means her husband has to shut up and pretend he likes her being

the big cannoli-which he can't nohow be cause he's a man. Maybe

she doesn't feed him and he's mad like hell but can't say anything.

People keep stuff like that quiet."

"It's also a wash, Vin," said Meat, shaking his head sadly. "He

sends her flowers every day at the office and tells everybody how

proud he is of her. It could be legit on accounta he's a big

avvocato himself and he ain't gonna make no enemy on that court,

even his own wife."

"Shit! ... Hey, that Irish drink of water, maybe he has a couple

too many like a lot of Micks do after their big pa-THE ROAD TO OMAHA 37

rade. How about that? We could build a little file--top secret,

national security, that sort of thing. We buy a couple a dozen

witnesses who state they've seen him fried and gurgling in his suds

after he leaves the office. It could work. Also, with his name we

could add a few girlies. It's a natural!"

"It's snake eyes, Vin," countered Meat, sighing and again

shaking his head. "Me Irish guy's so Clorox he makes the sheets

squeak. He's never been known to have more than a glass of white

wine, and girlies aren't even in his ballpark."

"Something there, maybe?"

"You're reaching, Vin. He's Boy Scout time."

"Double shit.... All right, all right. We don't touch the two WASPs

because our people are making nice inroads with the banking boys

in the better part of town. There should be no offense to the

country club set, that's the word. I don't like it, but I accept it.... So

we come to our own paisan."

"A bad person, Vinnie!" interrupted Fingers angrily. "He's been

very rough on a lot of our boys-like he didn't even know us, you

know what I meanT'

"Well, maybe we'll let him know we know who he is, how about

thatT'

'@Okay, Vin, but how about whatT'

"How the hell do I know? Goldfarb's boys should have come up

with something, anything! Like maybe he slugged a couple of nuns

in parochial school, or he skimined the collection plates at mass so

he could buy a Harley and join a motorcycle gang, whatever! I gotta

think of everything? He's got a weakness, he has to. All fat paisans

do!"

"Meat's kinda fat-"

"A lid, Fingers, a bean pole you're not."

"You can't touch that paisan, Vin," intedected the pinkshirted

Meat. "He's a real erudito, a man with so many big words he

confuses the biggest brains and he's as clean as the bleached

Mick, no action at all except maybe he irritates people by singing

opera a lot in not too good a voice. Goldfarb's boys went after him

first because, like most yarniulkes, they call themselves liberals and

the heavy

38 ROBERT LUDLUM

boy's not. They were like politically motivated, you know?"

"What the hell has politics got to do with any of this? We got a

problem, the biggest problem this country has ever faced, and we're

chewing ass over politics?"

"Hey, Vinnie," pleaded Fingers, "you were the one who wanted

the mud on these big judges, right?"

"Okay, okay!" said Mangecavallo, puffing on his cigar erratically

and returning to his chair at the kitchen table. "I know when the

barn-barns won't work, all right? So where are we? We gotta protect

the country we love, because without the country we love, we are

out of business! Do I make my case?"

"Oh,, yeah," said Fingers. "I don't wanna live nowhere else."

"I couldn't," added Meat. "What with Angelina and the seven

kids', where could I go? Palermo's too hot, and I sweat, you know?

Angie's even worse than me--boy, does she sweat! She can really

stink up a room." . "That's disgusting," said Mangecavallo softly, his

dark eyes leveled on his huge, pink-shirted associate. "I mean

really disgusting. How can you talk about the mother of your

children like that?"

"It's not her fault, Vin. It's her glands."

"You take the whole mozzarella, you know that, Meat? ... Basta,

this ain't gettin' us nowhere." The CIA director again rose from the

chair and paced angrily about the kitchen, puffing on his cigar and

pausing long enough to briefly lift the lid of a steaming pot on the

stove, only to drop it because of the scorching metal. "What the

hell is she cooking now? Looks like monkey brains." He shook his

hand in pain.

"Your maid, Vinnie?"

"Maid? What maid? You mean the contessa who sits around with

Rosa knitting and talking, talking and knitting, like two old Sicilian

broads trying to remember who humped who in Messina forty years

ago! She don't cook-she don't cook and she don't do windows or

the cans and together she and Rosa waddle around the super-

markets buying crap I wouldn't feed the cats."

"Get rid of her, Vin."

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 39

"Oh, funny scungilli, you! Rosa says she's like one of her sisters,

only nicer and not so ugly.... No, they can eat that escremento

themselves, we're goin' out. National security emergency, you get

my drift?"

"Got it, Vinnie," affirmed Fingers, nodding his large head with the

slightly irregular nose. "Like when they say the 'natives are

restless,' rightT'

"Jeez, what the hell have natives got to do with-hold it ... hold it!

Natives. 'Native American.' That's it! ... Maybe, like."

"Like maybe what, VinT'

"We can't scrounge out the judges, right?"

"Right, Vinnie."

"So the Supreme Court could maybe dump us all in the toilet,

right?"

"Right, Vin.

"Not necessarily.... Suppose, just suppose, this meatball Indian

chief who could just maybe cause our biggest national security

crisis in history is a very bad man, a screwed-up individual with no

love in his heart, only evil intentions, you see what I mean?

Suppose he don't care crapola about his Wild West Indian brothers

but just wants a motherlode for himself, with all the publicity that

goes with it? We knock his faked-up good character off, we knock

his case off. It's done all the time!"

"I dunno, Vin," countered Meat haltingly. "You yourself told me

that when you questioned that White House legal brain-the one with

the colored chalk-he said that five or six of those judges admitted

crying their eyes out when they read this Sitting Bull's case. How

there was a whole litany-you said 'litany,' Vin, I had to look it up-of

deceit and dishonesty, even killing and starving whole tribes in the

original U.S. of A. Now, you, me, and Fingers here-you bein' the

smartest, naturally, and me maybe pretty far behind and Fingers not

actually in the runningbut do any of us figure a crumb phony could

flatten out the brains of these high-type big judges with pure

bullshit? It don't make sense."

"We're not looking for sense, amico, we're looking for a way out

of a possible national emergency, get that

40 ROBERT LUDLUM

through your skull. And right now its name is this Thunder Head.

Send Goldfarb's boys out to Nebraska!"

"Nebraska ... Nebraska ... Nebraska," intoned Hyman Goldfarb into

the telephone, as if the state were incorporated into an Old

Testament psalm. Seated behind his elegant desk in his elegant

office on Atlanta's very elegant Phipp Plaza, he rolled his eyes

upward and brought them down to gaze fondly at the slender, well-

dressed, niiddle-aged couple sitting in front of him-middle-aged

being mid-forties, only several years younger than the muscular,

tanned Goldfarb, himself attired in a tight-fitting white linen suit that

framed his still awesome athlete's body. "I should once again send

my best people out to this-to say the least-this out-of-the-way

Nebraska so they can chase after a fog, a mist ... a cloud of vapor

who calls himself Thunder Head, chief of the Wopotamis? Is that

what you're saying? Because if it is, I should have been a rabbi,

which I studied for, instead of a football player, which entailed very

little knowledge." Hyman Goldfarb paused, listening, every now and

then removing the phone from his ear, sighing, and finally,

obviously, interxupting the caller.

"Please pay attention to me and let me save you some money,

will you do that? ... Thank you, just listen. If there is a Chief

Thunder Head, he's nowhere to be found. My people cannot say he

doesn't exist. Whenever they mentioned the name among what's

left of the Wopotamis on their pathetic reservation, they were met

with silence, interspersed with incomprehensible whispers in the

Wopotami language. They tell me that suddenly you think you're in

some cathedral cut out of a scrawny forest primeval where there's

far too much available alcohol, and you begin to believe that this

Thunder Head, is more of a myth than a reality. An icon, perhaps,

a tribal god sculpted on a totem pole to which his believers pay

obeisance, but not a human being. In plain words, I do not believe

such a per-son exists.... What do I think, is that your question--and

it's not necessary to shout? Quite frankly, my excitable friend, I

believe Chief Thunder Head is a symbolic

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 41

amalgam of-no that is not a reference to sexual preference-of

narrowly defined special interests, no doubt benevolent, and

centered about our government's unfortunate treatment of the

American Indian. Perhaps a small group, of legal scholars from

Berkeley or NYU who've unearthed sufficient precedents to

embarrass the lower courts. A scam, my friend, pure and simple a

scam, but a very brilliant scam."

Goldfarb pulled the telephone away from his ear and briefly

closed his eyes as the voice over the line metallically filled the

elegant office. "What kind of talk is that?" roared the caller. "This

great country could be in a big national crisis, and you got nothin'

to. offer but 'presents' that don't make no sense? Well, lemme tell

ya, Mister Big Linebacker, the man in Langley, Virginia, who you

can't talk to nohow, says you better come up with somethin' on this

77zunder Head and come up quick! I mean none of us want to live

in Palenno, you know what I mean?"

"Redundancy aside, 'Per cento anno, Ngnore, "' said Goldfarb.

"We'll be in touch." The CIA consultant replaced the telephone,

leaned back in his swivel chair, and sighed audibly as he addressed

the attractive couple in front of his desk. "Why me, oh Lord, why

rneT he asked, shaking his head. "You're positive you're right?"

;"I wouldn't put it so strongly, Hyman," replied the woman in a

clipped British accent that bespoke several generations of

expensive breeding. "No, we're not positive, I don't think anybody

could be, but if there is aMunder Head, he's simply nowhere to be

found, as you so clearly explained to the gentleman on the phone."

"I used your words, of course," added Goldfarb. "And I question

the title of 'gentleman.' "

"With good reason, I suspect," said the woman's male

companion, also obviously British. "We employed Plan C. We were

Cambridge-based anthropologists studying a great if diminished

tribe whose ancestors were brought over to the Crown by Walter

Raleigh in the early seventeenth century. If there really is a 'Munder

Head, by all logic he should have rushed forth to claim the Crown's

recognition, as well as the long-buried remittance, which at the time

was no doubt minor, but by any standard an

42 ROBERT LUDLUM

enormous sum today. He didn't; therefore, our conclusion: he

doesn't exist."

"But the brief to the Supreme Court does," insisted the

consultant. "It's crazy."

"Simply incredible," agreed the Englishman. "Where do we go

from here, Hyman? I gather you're 'under the gun,' as we used to

say in Her Majesty's Secret Service, although I always thought it

was a rather banal expression conveying more melodrama than was

necessary."

"It both is and it isn't," said Goldfarb. "We're dealing with an off-

the-wall megillah, but it's still an extremely dangerous situation....

What are those judges thinking

Of ?11

"Justice and the law, I daresay," offered the woman. "At a cost

we all recognize as beyond the extraordinary. Regardless, dear Hy,

and forgive me for saying it, but the man on the phone you say is

no gentleman is basically correct. Whoever's hiding behind the

mantle of this Tbunder Head-or whoever they #re-that's the key."

"But Daphne, by your own admission, you can't find him."

"Tben perhaps we didn't look hard enough, Hyman. Eh,

Reggie?"

"Dear girl! We trekked all over that blasted backwater bog with

horrible lodgings and no civilized facilities, I remind you, and got

absolutely nowhere. No one made any sense at all!"

"Yes, I know, dear, but there was one who didn't want to make

sense, do you recall my mentioning it?"

"Oh, him," replied the Englishman, his tone dismissing the

memory. "Nasty young fellow, quite sullen, really."

"Who?" Goldfarb instantly sat forward.

"Not sullen, Reggie, simply uncommunicative, incoherent,

actually, but he understood everything we were saying. It was in

his eyes."

"Who was he?" pressed the CIA consultant.

"An Indian brave-that's the word, I think-in his early twenties, I'd

judge. He claimed not to understand English very well and just

shrugged and shook his head when we asked him several

questions. I didn't think much about it

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 43

at the time-the young are so hostile these days, aren't theyT'

"He was indecently dressed, if I do say," interrupted Reginald.

"Hardly more than a loincloth, really. Rather disgusting. And when

he leaped up on that horse, I can tell you he betrayed a definite lack

of equestrian skill."

"What are you talking about?" asked a bewildered Goldfarb.

.'He fell off," answered Daphne. "Dressage is hardly his strong

suit."

"Wait a minute, wait a minute!" Goldfarb's broad chest was

halfway across the desk. "You say you didn't think much about this,

this young Indian at the time, but you're thinking about him now.

Why?"

"Well, in light of the circumstances, dear Hy, I'm trying to think

of everything."

"What you mean is he may know something he didn't want to tell

you?"'

"It's only a possibility-2'

"Do you think you could find him againT'

"Oh, yes. I -saw which tepee he came out of, which one

belonged to him."

"Tepee? They live in tepees?"

"Well, naturally, Hyrnan," replied Reginald. 'They're Indians,

chap. Redskins, as you say in _your cinema."

"There's also a rotten whitefish somewhere," said Goldfarb,

picking up the telephone and dialing. "Tepees! Nobody sleeps in

tepees anymore! ... Don't unpack," he added to the couple, instantly

shifting his attention back to the phone. "Manny? ... Reach 'The

Shovel' and get over to the field. You're taking the Lear out to the

state of Nebraska."

The,young Indian brave, naked but for an odd-looking short leather

skirt, stood outside the large decorated tepee and shouted. "I want

my clothes back, Mac! You can't do this. I'm sick of it-we're all sick

of it! We don't steep on dirt in these dumb tents and we don't bum

our hands trying to cook over campfires and we do use toilets, not

the goddamp woods! -And while I'm at it, you can take that

44 ROBERT LUDLU-M

miserable, distempered nag and ship him back to Geronimo! I hate

horses and I don't ride-none of us do, for God's sake. We drive

Chevys and Fords and a couple of old Cadillacs, but not horses! ...

Mac, are you listening to me? Come on, Mac, answer me! ... Look,

we appreciate the money and your good intentions-even the nutty

clothes from that costume factory in Hollywood, but it's all gone too

far, can't you see that?"

"Did you ever see the movie they made about me?" came the

bellowing roar from within the closed tepee. "The son of a bitch

playing me had the biggest lisp I ever heard! Embarrassing, real

embarrassing!"

"Mac, that's what I'm talking about! This crazy charade you're

putting us through is embarrassing to us. We're going to get shot

down and be the laughingstock of all the reservations!"

"Not yet you're not-we're not! Although the term ,shot down' is

kinda interesting."

,,No it isn't, you lotus brain! It's been over three months now and

we haven't heard a word Three months of insanity, running around

half-naked or in costumes with beads that scratch our asses like

hell, and burning our fingers and getting poison ivy in places also

embarrassing whenever we have to run into the woods--2'

"Slit trenches have always been an,acceptable part of military

life, boy. And you can't argue with the separation of the sexes-the

army wouldn't have it any other way.1f

"This isn't the army and I'm not a soldier and I want my clothes

back--2'

"Any day now, son!" interrupted the harsh, gravelly voice inside

the tepee. "You'll see!"

"No, you lunatic, not any day or any month or any year! Those

old farts on the Supreme Court are probably sitting around in

chambers laughing their heads off, and I won't be able to practice

in the loosest court- in American Samoa.... Come on, Mac! Admit it,

it's over-it was a hell of an idea and I've got to say there was maybe

a grain, a grain, maybe, of substance, but now it's become

ridiculous."

"Our good people have suffered for a hundred and

YHE ROAD TO OMAHA 45

twelve years, boy. Suffered at the hands of the brutal, avaricious

white man, and we shall be justly recompensed and set free! ...

What's a few more days?"

"Mac,, you're not remotely related!"

"In this old soldier's heart we're bonded, son, and I won't let you

down."

"Let us down, please? Let me down, and give me my clothes

back and tell those two idiots who follow me around to leave me

alone!"

"You're too impatient, young fella, and I can't let you turn on our

tribal brothers-"

"Our ... ? Mac, you're certifiable, so let me lay one on you,

brother brave. It's a little matter of a pro forma judicial statute of

which you may not be aware, but you damn well should be. Four

months ago, when this whole whacka-doo war dance started, you

asked me if I'd passed my bar exam, and I told you that I was sure

I had. Well, I'm still sure I passed the damn thing, but if you asked

me to provide you with certification, I couldn't do it. You see, I

haven't received formal notification from the Nebraska bar, and I

may not for another two months, which is perfectly normal for the

bar and perfectly impermissible where your legal powwow with the

Supreme Court is concerned."

"What ... ?" came the prolonged, disemboweling roar from

behind the closed front flap of the tepee.

"That joint's a busy place, brother, and except under ex-

traordinary circumstances, which must be spelled out and

approved, no unaccredited attorney may petition the Supreme

Court, even as temporary counsel. I told you that. You're dead by

default even if you were awarded a positive decision,,which is about

as Rely as this Indian brave leaming to ride a goddamned horse!"

The harrowing scream from within the cone of painted ersatz

animal skins was longer than before and infinitely more

heartrending. "How could you do this?"

"I didn't do it, Mac, you did! I told you to officially list your

attorney-of-record, but you said you couldn't because he was dead

and you'd figure something out later, and in the meantime we'd use

the non nomen precedent from 1826."

46 ROBERT LUDLUM

"You dug that one up!" cried the faceless roar.

"Yes, I did, and you were grateful, and now I suggest you dig up

your late attorney of research-and-record."

"I can't." The roar suddenly became the whimper of a bewildered

kitten.

"Why not?"

"He won't talk to me."

"I would hope to hell not! Christ, I don't mean his corpse, I mean

his papers, his findings, interrogatorieshis research. They're all

acceptable."

"He wouldn't like that." The kitten was now a piping mouse.

"He wouldn't know! ... Mac, listen to me. Sooner or later, one of

those judges' law clerks in D.C. will learn that I'm a kid barely out

of law school with hardly six months of clerking myself, and he'll

blow a shrill whistle. Even if you had a prayer, the lord god of the

Court, Chief Justice Reebock, would throw a lightning bolt into it for

defrauding his holy institution. Worse, for making fools of them, if

even one or two corkscrews were leaning in your favor, which, as

I say, is totally impossible. Forget it, Mac! It's over Give me my

clothes back okay, and let me get out of here-"

"Where would you go, son?" The unseen piping mouse was

getting out of the vocal cellar and climbing back up to a crescendo.

"I mean where, boy?"

"Maybe American Samoa with a forwarded certification from the

Nebraska bar, who the hell knows?"

"I never thought I'd say this, son," cried the faceless, once more

shouting voice from the tepee, "because I really thought you had the

right stuff, but I can see now that I can't bring you up to snuff!"

"Thanks for the rhyme, Mac. Now, how about my clothes?"

"You got 'em, you yellow-skinned coyote!" The fake animal skin

flap opened and an assortment of Ivy League garments was hurled

out of the dark space.

"That's redskin, Mac. Not yellow-skinned, remember?" The

young loinclothed brave lurched for the flying shorts, shirts, gray

flannel trousers, and navy blue blazer. "Thank you, Mac, I really

thank you."

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 47

"Not yet, boy, but you will. A good officer never forgets the

grunts, no matter how unworthy they might appear in the heat of

battle.... You were a help, I'll say that, in the GHQ strategy sessions.

Leave your forwarding address with that drunken flake you call

Eagle Ass!"

"Eagle Eyes," corrected the brave, discarding his loincloth and

putting on his shorts. He reached for his blue oxford shirt. "And

you gave him the booze-you gave everyone cases of booze-I never

allowed so much."

"Beware the sanctimonious Indian who turns on his tribe!" yelled

the unseen manipulator of the Wopotamis.

"Fuck off, Mac!" cried the brave, shoving his feet into his Bally

loafers and his striped tie into his pocket, and getting into his

blazer. "Where the hell's my Camaro?"

"Camouflaged beyond the east pasture, sixty running deer

strides to the right of the August owl's tall pine."

"Sixty what? What goddamned owl?"

"You never were too sharp in the field; Eagle Ass told me that

himself."

"Eagle Eyes, and he's my uncle, and he hasn't inhaled a sober

breath or seen straight since you got here! ... East pasture? Where

is it?"

"Check the sun, boy. It's the compass that never fails you, but

make damn sure you ash up your weapons, so the glares don't give

you away."

"Certifiable!" screamed the young brave of the Wopotamis as he

fled due west.

At that moment, accompanied by a primordial roar of defiance,

a tall figure strode out of the tepee, the flap whipping up and

sticking to the exterior wall of animal hides. This giant of a man,

gloriously resplendent in full, flowing Indian headdress and beaded

buckskins, all signifying his highest tribal office, squinted in the

sunlight as he shoved a mutilated cigar into his mouth and began

chewing on it furiously. His bronzed, leather-lined face and

narrowed eyes betrayed an expression of consummate frustration-

also perhaps a degree of fear.

"Goddamn!" swore MacKenzie Hawkins to himself. "I never

thought I'd ever have to do this." The Hawk

48 ROBERT LUDLUM

reached inside his painted buckskin doublet with the beaded yellow

bolts of lightning across the chest and pulled out a cellular

telephone. "Boston area information? I want the number of the

Devereaux residence, first name Sam-"

Samuel Lansing Devereaux drove cautiously on the Waltham-

Weston road at the height of the Friday evening rush hour exodus

from Boston. As usual, he drove carefully, as though he were

maneuvering a tricycle through a battlefield of opposing tanks

closing in for their thunderous kills, but tonight was worse than

usual. It was not the trafflic; that was maddeningly standard. It was

the pulsating pain in his eyes along with the pounding in his chest

and the movable vacuum in his stomach, all the result of an acute

seizure of depression. He found it almost impossible to keep his

mind on the erratic rhythms of the surrounding vehicles, but forced

himself to concentrate on those nearest him, hoping to heaven he

stopped short of a collision. He kept the window open, his hand

waving continuously until a truck swerved so close that he touched

its sideview mirror he shrieked and instinctively grabbed it, thinking

for a moment he was watching his arm disappear over his hood.

There was nothing else for it, or, as the great French playwright

phrased it-he could not actually remember the man's name or the

exact phrase in French, but he knew the words said it all. Oh,

Christ, he had to get home to his lair

50 ROBERT LUDLUM

and let the music swell and the memories revive until the crisis

passed! ... Anouilh, that was the goddamned playwright's name-and

the phrase ... On ne pouvait plus que crier-hell, it sounded better in

English than in the lousy French he had trouble recalling: There was

nothing left but to scream, that was it! Actually, it was pretty stupid,

thought Sam.'So he screamed and turned north into the Weston

exit, only minimally aware of those drivers and passengers nearest

his car who stared at him through their windows as if watching an

act of sodomy between man and beast. The prolonged scream had

to go; it was replaced by a wide grin worthy of Alfred E. Neuman as

Devereaux pressed the accelerator and three cars crashed behind

him.

It had all started within minutes after he left the office following

an afternoon conference with a gaggle of related corporate

executives whose single-family company was in deep shit if they did

not take his advice. The problem was not in their criminality, it was

in their stupidity, which could not be pried away from their

stubbornness until Sam had made it clear that if they ffid not follow

his instructions, they could all look for different representation, and

he would visit each of them in prison, but only on a social basis.

Although somewhat obscure, the law did make it clear that

grandfathers and grandmothers could not place their grandchildren-

-especially those between the ages of six months and twelve years-

on the company's board of directors at salaries exceeding seven

figures. He had weathered the onslaught of Irish indignation,

accepted the eventuality of eternal damnation for shorting the

bloodlines of the clan of Dongallen, and fled to his favorite bar two

blocks from the firm of Aaron Pinkus Associates.

"Ahh, Sammy boyo," the owner-barkeep had said as Devereaux

slumped on the stool farthest from the entrance. "It's been a rough

day, it has, I can see it. I always know when one or two liquid

remedies may lead to a couple more-you sit down at this end of the

bar."

"Do me a favor, O'Toole, and soften the brogue. I've spent damn

near three hours with your crowd."

"Oh, they're the worst, Sam, let me tell you! Especially the two-

toilet variety, who are the only ones who can af-THE ROAD TO OMAHA 5 1

ford you fellas. Here, it's early, so let me pour you the usual and

turn on the tellyvision and you take your mind off business....

There's no Sox game this afternoon, so I'll turn on the all-day news."

"Thanks, Tooley." Devereaux had accepted his drink with a

grateful nod as the solicitous owner turned on the cable news

network, which was apparently in the middle of a human-interest

segment, in this case depicting the good works of a supposedly

obscure individual.

". . . a woman, whose selfless charity and kindness keeps her

forever young, a face the angels kiss with the gift of youth and

clear-eyed perseverance, " proclaimed the sonorous voice as the

camera zoomed in on a white-habited nun dispensing gifts in a

children's hospital located in some war-torn Third World country.

"Sister Anne e Benevolent, they call her, " continued the vowel-

rolling announcer, "but that's all the world knows about her ... or will

ever know from her own lips, we are told. What her true name is or

where she camefrom remains a mystery, a mys tery wrapped in an

enigma perhaps filled with unendurable pain and sacrifice-"

"Mystery, my ass!" Samuel Lansing Devereaux had screamed,

leaping and falling off the barstool as he roared at the television

screen. "And the only unendurable pain is mine you bitch!"

,iSl@@y, Sammy!" yelled Gavin O'Toole, racing down the length

of the mahogany, waving his arms in a sincere effort to quiet his

friend and customer. "Shut the fuck up! The woman's a goddamned

saint, and my goddamned clientele ain't exactly all Protestant, do

you get my goddamned message?" O'Toole had lowered his voice

while pulling Devereaux over the bar-then he glanced around.

"Jesus, a few of my daytime regulars are takin' exception to your

words, Sammy! Don't worry, Hogan can handle them. Sit down and

shut up!"

"Tooley, you don't understand!" cried the fine Boston lawyer,

close to weeping. "She's the enduring love of my life on earth-"

"That's better, that's much better," whispered O'Toole.

"Keep it up."

"You see, she was a hooker and I saved her!"

52 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Don't keep it up."

"She tan off with Uncle Zio! Our Uncle Zio-he corrupted her!"

"Uncle who? What the.hell are you talkin' about, boyo?"

"Actually, he was the Pope, andbe messed up her head and he

took her back to Rome, to the Vatican-`

"Hogan! Get over the wood and hold back the bastards! ... Come

on, Sammy, you're leavin' through the kitchen, the front door you'd

never make!"

That innocent episode had brought on his acute depression,

thought Devereaux, as he sped north on the lesstraveled road to

Weston. Couldn't the unknowing "world" understand that the

"mystery" was not unknown to one lovesick, adoring Sam-the-lawyer

type, who had nurtured Anne-the-many-times-married-hooker from

Detroit back into self-respect, only to have her slain the gates shut

on their marriage to follow in the steps of crazy Zio? ... Well, Uncle

Zio hadn't actually been crazy, he was only misguided where the life

of Samuel-my-son-the-fineattorney was concerned. He was also

Pope Francesco I, the most beloved Pope of the twentieth century

who had permitted his own kidnapping on Rome's Via Appia Antica

because he had been told he was dying, and it was better that his

identical cousin, one Guido Frescobaldi from LaScala Minuscolo, be

put on Saint Peter's throne and take radio instructions from the true

Pontiff somewhere in the Alps. It all had worked! For a while. Mac

Hawkins and Zio for weeks on end would go up to the ramparts of

Zermatt's ChAteau Machenfeld and over the shortwave radio explain

to the less than bright, tone-deaf Frescobaldi what to do next in the

cause of the Holy See.

Then everything fell apart-with a thud that had to sonically rival

the first creation of planet Earth. The Alpine air restored Uncle Zio-

Pope Francesco, of course-to his former healthy self, and,

conversely, Guido Frescobaldi accidentally fell on the private

shortwave radio, his bulk smashing it to smithereens, and the

Vatican went into an economic tailspin. The remedy was painful but

obvious; however, far more painful to Sam Devereaux-far, far more

painful-was the loss of his one true love, Anne the

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 53

Rehabilitated, who had listened to all that crap Uncle Zio kept

spewing quietly into her ear as they played checkers every morning.

Instead of marrying one Samuel Lansing Devereaux, she opted for

"marrying" one Jesus Christ, whose credentials, Sam had to admit,

were considerably more impressive than his own, although the

more earthly perks somewhat less so-immensely less so when one

took into account the life that the glorious Anne the Rehabilitated

had chosen. My God, Boston at its worst was better than leper

colonies! Well, certainly most of the time.

Life marches on, Sam. It's combat all the way, so don't let

yourse@f be boondoggled if you lose a skirmish or two. Get your

ass up and charge ahead!

Words from the lowliest lowlife in the universe, the ultimate,

incontestable argument for sexual abstinence or stringent birth

control. General MacKenzie Hawkins, Madman Mac the Hawk,

scourge of sanity and destroyer of all things good and decent.

Those fatuous words, that clich6d military psychobabble, were all

the slugworm could offer during Sam's moments of desperate

anguish.

She's leaving me, Mac. She's actually going with him!

Zio's a damn good man, son. He's a fine commander of his

legions, and we who know the loneliness of command respect one

another

But, Mac, he @ a priest, the big enchilada of priests, the Pope!

They won't be able to dance, or cuddle, or have kids or any of those

things!

Well, you're probably right about the last two, but Zio does a hell

of a tarantella, or have you forgotten?

Nobody, touches in tarantellas. They whirl around and kick up

their legs, but they don't come near each other!

Must be the garlic. Or maybe the legs.

You're not listening to me. This is the mistake of her life-you

should know that! For God's sake, you were married to her, which

hasn't made me entirely comfortable these past weeks.

Pull back your caissons, boy. I was married to all the girls, and

none of them came out the worse for it. Annie was the toughest--

and considering her background, maybe it was to be expected-but

she caught on to what I was trying to tell her

54 ROBERT LUDLUM

What the hell was that, Mac?

That she could be better than herself, but still be herself.

Slugworm! Devereaux swung the wheel to the left so as to avoid

an intruding guardrail on the right. All the girls, God, how did he do

it? Four of the most entrancing and endowed women on earth had

married the maniacal military delinquent and after each marriage

had been-not amicably, but lovingly-terminated, the four divorc6es

had willfully, enthusiastically banded together to form their own

unique club, which they called "Hawkins's Harem." At the press of

the Hawk's button, they all rallied around to support their former

husband, whatever the time, and wherever he was in the world.

Jealousies? None whatsoever, for Mac had set them free, free of the

ugly chains that had bound them before he came into their lives.

Sam could accept all that, for throughout the events that led up to

Chfiteau Machenfeld, each former wife had succored him in his

moments of hysterical crisis. Each had been not only

compassionately-even passionately-warm in her efforts to extricate

him from the impossible situations the Hawk had placed him in, but

expert in the ways that led to his escape.

All had left their indelible marks on both his body and his mind,

all were extraordinary memories, but the most glorious of all was

the ash-blond, statuesque Anne, whose large blue eyes held an

innocence far more real than the reality of her past. Her

neverending stream of hesitant questions on just about ahy topic

imaginable was as starding as her voracious appetite for books, so

many of which she could not possibly understand, but understand

she eventually would, if it took her a month on five pages. She was

truly a lady making up for the lost years, but never with a hint of

pity for herself, and always giving, despite what had been taken

from her so brutally in the past. And, oh God, could she laugh, her

eyes lighting up with mischievous humor, yet never mean, never at

the expense of another's hurt. He loved her so!

And the crazy bitch had opted for Uncle Zio and those

goddamned leper colonies instead of a wonderful life as the wife of

Sam Devereaux, attomey-at-law, eventually, inevitably, Judge

Samuel Lansing Devereaux, who could en-THE ROAD TO OMAHA 55

ter any lousy regatta he wanted to on Cape Cod. She was bananas!

Hurry! Hurry home and get to the lair and find solace in the

memories of unrequited love. 'Tis better to have loved and lost /

Than never to have loved at all. Who was that asshole?

He sped down the street in Weston and swerved around the

comer into his block. Only minutes now, and then, with the aid of

the grape and the swelling sounds of The Alpine Yodelers' one and

only recording, he would retreat into the cave of his dreams, his lost

dreams.

Holy shit! Up ahead, in front of his house ... was that-was it ... ?

Jesus, it was! Aaron Pinkus's limousine! Had something happened

to his mother that he knew nothing about? Had an emergency

occurred while he had been screaming at O'Toole's television set?

He'd never forgive himself!

Screeching to a stop behind Aaron's outsized vehicle, Sam

leaped out of his car and ran forward as Pinkus's chauffeur

appeared from around the hood of the limousine. "Paddy, what

happened?" yelled Devereaux. "Is anything wrong with my mother?"

"Not that I could tell, Sammy, except maybe the language, some

of which I haven't heard since Omaha Beach."

"INhat?"

"I'd get in there if I were you, boyo."

Devereaux sped to the gate, leaped over it, and raced up to the

door, fumbling in his pocket for his key ring. It wasn't necessary,

as the door was opened by Cousin Cora, who wasn't necessarily

altogether there. "What's happened?" repeated Sam.

"Hoity-toity and the little fella are either stinkin' drunk or under

the curse of a full moon while the sun's still in the sky." Cora

hiccuped once, then belched.

"What the hell are you talking about? Where are they?"

"Up in your place, buster boy."

"My place? You mean ... T' "That's what I mean, big fella."

"Nobody goes into the lair! We all agreed-"

"Somebody lied, I guess."

56 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Oh, my God!" screamed Samuel Lansing Devereaux, as he ran

across the huge foyer of Norwegian rose marble and raced up the

winding staircase to the east wing of the house.

"Reduce power for final approach," said the pilot calmly, looking out

the side left window, wondering briefly if his wife had made the

roast beef hash she had promised him for dinner. "Prepare ftill

flaps, please."

"Colonel Gibson?" The radio operator sharply intruded on his

thoughts.

"Hoot's on the toot, Sergeant. What is it?"

"You're not plugged into the tower, sir!"

"Oh, sorry, I just switched them off. Anyway, it's a beautiful

sunset and we've got our instructions, and I have every confidence

in my first officer and in you, you great communicator."

"Switch over, Hoot! ... I mean, Colonel."

The pilot snapped his head over at his co-pilot, astonished to

see his subordinate's open mouth and bulging eyes.

"They can't do this!" cried the first officer under his breath.

"Do what, for Christ's sake?" Gibson instantly flipped on the

tower frequency. "Repeat the information, please. The flight deck

was in the middle of a crap game."

"Funny man, Colonel, and you can tell that gentleman sky-jock

on your right that we can do it, because it's a direct order from Rec-

Wing command, sir."

"I repeat, please repeat. The gentleman-jock's in shock."

"So are we, Hoot!" came a second familiar voice from the tower,

a fellow officer of Gibson's rank. "We'll fill you in when we can, but

right now follow the sergeant's instructions to your refueling

coordinates."

"Refueling ... ? What the hell are you talking about? We've done

our eight hours! We scanned up the Aleuts and into the Bering so

close to the Mother we could smell her borscht. It's time for dinner,

for roast beef hash, to be exact!"

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 57

"Sorry, I can't say any more. We'll bring you back as soon as we

can."

"An alert?"

"Not Mother Borscht, I can tell you that much."

"That much isn't enough, especially that much. Are the little

lucite people on their way from Quasar Tinkerbell?"

"We're operating direct on CINCSAC with SCD controls, is that

enough for you, Hoot?"

"It's enough to louse up my roast beef hash," replied a subdued

Gibson. "Call my wife, will you?"

"Sure. All spouses and/or live-in relations will be apprised of the

change in orders."

"Hey, Colonel!" interrupted the first flight officer. "There's a little

place in downtown Omaha, on Farnarn Street, called Doogies.

Around eight o'clock there'll be a redhead at the bar-dimensions

roughly thirty-eight, twenty-eight, thirty-four, and she answers to the

name of Scarlet 0. Would you mind sending-2'

"That'll be enough, Captain, you're out of order! ... Did you say

Doogies?"

The mammoth EC-135 jet, known as "Looking Glass" for the

Strategic Air Command's neverending search of the skies, angled

upward, accelerating airspeed to an initial altitude of eighteen

thousand feet, where it banked northeast across the Missouri River,

leaving Nebraska and entering the state of Iowa. On the ground,

the tower at Offutt Air Force Base, the control center for worldwide

Strategic Air Command, instructed Colonel Gibson to switch to a

coded northwest heading and rendezvous in the still bright western

sky with its refueling cargo aircraft.

I There could be no argument. The 55th Strategic Recon-

naissance Wing was the host unit at Offutt and conducted global-

scale observation missions, but, host or not, it, too, like its brother

544th Strategic Intelligence Wing, was subject to the needs of the

Cray X-MP supercomputer, which was conveniently placed under

the ostensible control of AFGWC, otherwise known as the Air Force

Global Weather Control, and which few sophisticated students of

SAC believed had anything to do with meteorology.

"What's going on down there?" asked Colonel Gibson.

58 ROBERT LUDLUM

"What the hell will be going on at Doogies, that's what I'd like to

know," said the young, angry captain. "Shit!"

At the Pentagon, in the beflagged office of the omnipotent Secretary

of Defense, a tiny man with a pinched face and a slightly askew

toupee sat on three cushions behind an enormous desk and

virtually spat into his telephone.

"I'll screw 'em! By God, I'll ream those ungrateful savages until

they beg for poison, and I won't even let them have that! Nobody's

going to mess around with me.... I'm keeping those 135s in the air

in force if I have to keep refueling night and day!"

"I'm on your side, Felix," said the somewhat bewildered chairman

of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, "but then I'm not air force. Don't we

have to let them come down every now and then? You'll have four

135s inthe air by tomorrow afternoon, all out of Offutt, and that's the

cutoff time. Couldn't we share the load with the other SAC bases?"

"No way, Corky. Omaha's the control center, and we're not

giving it up! Haven't you ever seen the Duke's movies? Once you let

those bloodthirsty reds@in scum have an inch, they'll sneak up

behind you and take your scalp!"

"But what about the aircraft, the crews?"

"You don't know anything, Corky! Haven't you ever heard of

'Beam me up, Scotty,' and 'Beam me down, Scotty, T,

"Maybe I was in Nam."

"Get with it, Corky!" The Secretary of Defense slammed down the

telephone.

I

Brigadier General Owen Richards, supreme commandant of the

Strategic Air Command, stared silently at the two men from

Washington, both dressed in black trench coats and dark

sunglasses under dark brown hats, which they had not removed

even in the presence of the female air force nia . or who had

escorted them into his office. That discourtesy Richards had

ascribed to a nonsexist military, which he had never really

accepted; he usually opened a door for his secretary and she was

only a sergeant, but she

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 59

was also a woman, and some things were just natural. No, it was

not the lack of courtesy on the Washingtonians' part, it was the fact

that they were lunatics, which probably accounted for their wearing

their heavy trench coats and their dark hats on a warm summer's

day, and not removing their smoked sunglasses in the decidedly

dim light of the general's office; all the venetian blinds were closed

to block out the blinding rays of the setting sun. No, thought Owen,

they were just crazy. Nuts!

"Gentlemen," he began calmly, in spite of his apprehensions,

which had caused him to quietly open a lower drawer, where there

was a weapon. "Your credentials got you in here, but perhaps you'd

better give them to me for personal verification.... Don't reach under

your coats or I'll blow you both away!" roared Richards suddenly,

yanking his GI-issue .45 out of the drawer.

"You asked for our 113s," said the man on the left.

"How do you expect us to show them to you?" asked the man on

the right.

"Two fingers!" ordered the general. "If I see a full hand, you're

both splattered into the wall."

"Your combat background makes you inordinately suspicious."

"You'v6 got that right, I spent two years in Washington.... Put 'em

on the desk." Both did so. "Goddamn it, these aren't IDs. They're

handwritten notes!"

"With a signature you must certainly recognize," said the agent

on the left. "And a telephone number-which you certainly know-

should you care to embarrass yourself with verification."

"With what you just ordered me to do, I'd check the President's

stool before I complied." Richards picked up his private Red Line,

punched four buttons, and moments later winced as he heard the

voice of the Secretary of Defense. "Yes, sir, yes, sir. Orders

received, sir." The general hung up the phone, his eyes glazed, and

looked at the two intruders. "All Washington's gone crazy," he

whispered.

"No, Richards, not all Washington, only a very few people in

Washington," said the agent on the right, keeping his voice low.

"And everything must be kept maxclassified-to the ultimate max.

Your orders are to pretend

60 ROBERT LUDLUM

to stand down as of eighteen hundred hours tomorrowSAC's

command center is for all intents and purposes shut down.

"For Christ's sake, why?"

"In real phony deference to a debate over a decision that could

make a new law we can't permit," replied the agent on the left, his

eyes invisible behind the sunglasses.

"What law?" shouted the general.

"Probably Commie-oriented," answered the other emissary from

the nation's capital. "They've got moles in the Supreme Court."

"Commie ... ? What the hell are you talking about? There's no

more Soviet Union and the goddamned Court is as far right as the

communicator and his understudy could make it!"

"Wishful thinking, soldier boy. Just get one thing through your

GI brain. We're not giving up this base! It's our nerve center!"

"Give it up to whom?"

"I'll tell you this much. Code name WOPITACK, that's all you

have to know. Keep it under your sombrero."

"Wop ... attack? The Italian army is invading Omaha?"

"I didn't say that. We don't indulge in ethnic slurs."

"Then what the hell did you say?"

"Maximum-classified, General. You can understand that."

"Maybe I can and maybe I can't, but what about my four air-craft

that'll be upstairs?"

" 'Beam 'em down, Scotty,' then 'Beam 'em up.' "What?"

screamed Owen Richards, lunging up from his chair.

"We listen to, our superiors, General, and so should YOU."

Eleanor Devereaux and Aaron Pinkus, their faces devoid of color,

their mouths agape, and their eyes four stationary glass orbs, sat

next to each other on Sam Devereaux's twoseater leather couch in

the private off-limits office he had built for himself in the restored

Victorian house in Weston, Massachusetts. Neither spoke, for

neither was capable of

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 61

speech; the babbling, moaning, incoherent gurgles that had

emanated from Sam's throat had, in.essence, formed contiguous

affirmatives to the initial questions both had posed. It did not help

matters that Samuel Lansing Devereaux, paralyzed by the assault

on his chAteau's lair, had pinned himself against the wall, both

arms outstretched, palms spread, covering as many of the

incriminating photographs and newspaper articles as he could

manage.

"Samuel, my son," began the elderly Pinkus, finding his voice,

but only to the extent of a hoarse whisper.

"Please don't say that!" protested Devereaux. "He used to say

that."

"Who said, who?" mumbled the barely cognizant Eleanor.

"Uncle Zio-2'

"You don't have an uncle named See Oh, unless you mean

Seymour Devereaux, who married a Cuban and had to move to

Miami."

"I don't believe that's who he means, dear Eleanor. If an old

man's memory doesn't fail him, especially during certain

negotiations in Milan, zio is 'uncle,' and there were more uncles

than this attorney could handle in Milan. Your son is saying,

literally, 'Uncle Uncle,' do you comprehend?"

"Not for a minute---2'

"He is referring to-2'

"Don't say it!" shrieked Lady Devereaux, covering her slim,

aristocratic ears.

"Pope Francesco the First," trailed off the foremost attorney of

Boston, Massachusetts, his face now the pallor of a six-week-old

corpse without refrigeration. "Sammy ... Samuel ... Sam. How could

you?"

"It's difficult, Aaron--2'

"It's incredible!" thundered Pinkus, now in full if uncontrollable

volume. "You exist in another world!"

"You might say that," agreed Devereaux, pulling his arms down

from the wall and falling to his knees, then knee by knee inching his

way to the small oval table in front of the miniature couch. "But you

see, I had no choice. I had to do whatever that slugworm told me

to do--2'

62 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Including the kidnapping of the Pope!" squeaked Aaron Pinkus,

unable once again to find his voice.

"Stop it!" roared Eleanor Devereaux. "I'll hear no more!"

"I think we'd better, dear Eleanor, and if you'll pardon my

untenable language, please be quiet. Go on, Sammy. I don't wish

to hear it, either, but, by the god of Abraham, who controls the

universe and who may now have some explaining to do, how did it

happen? And it's all so obvious that it did happen! The press was

right, the media everywhere were right! There were two people-it's

there on your walls! There were two popes and you kidnapped the

original!"

"Not exactly," pleaded Devereaux, each inhaled breath more

difficult than the last. "You see, Zio figured it was okay--2'

"Okay?" Aaron's chin came perilously close to the top of the

coffee table.

"Well, yes. He wasn't well and . .. well, that's another part of the

story, but Zio was smarter than any of us. I mean he was really with

it."

"How did it happen, Sam? It was because of this lunatic General

MacKenzie Hawkins, wasn't it? He's in all these photographs. He

was the one who made you become the most unknown notorious

kidnapper in the history of the world! Am I even reasonably

accurate?"

"You might say that. Then again you might not."

"How, Sam? How?" pleaded the elderly attorney, as he picked up

a copy of Penthouse from the coffee table and began waving it in

front of the comatose face of Eleanor Devereaux.

"There are some excellent articles in that magazine .... very

academic."

"Sammy, I beg you, do not do this to me, or to your lovely

mother here, who bore you in pain, and at this moment may be in

need of ministrations beyond our capabilities. In the name of the

Lord God of Hosts, to whom I shall vigorously protest in temple on

tomorrow's Sabbath, what possessed you to be a part of this

monstrous act?"

"Well, actually, Aaron, 'possessed' is a fairly accurate

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 63

description of the alleged-I restate, the alleged-criminal enterprise

to which you refer."

"I don't have to 'refer,' Sam, I simply point to these very specific

articles of evidence on your walls!"

"Yes, well, actually, Aaron, they're not entirely conclusive--2'

"You want I should subpoena the Pope?"

"Vatican executive privilege wouldn't permit it."

"These photographs alone would obviate the rules of evidentiary

procedure! I've taught you nothing?"

"Pick Mother's head up, please."

"It's better she's out, Sam. What was this 'possessed'?"

"Yes, well, actually, Aaron, without any intent on my part, I

walked out of the army intelligence G-Two cornputer banks with

copies of maximum-classified files chained to my wrist twenty-four

hours before my discharge."

"So?"

"Well, you see, Aaron, as MacKenzie Hawkins's attomey-of-

record, I had to accompany him to his final Six-thirty-five resolution

of all the classified intelligence reports relative to his military

career, from World War Two through Southeast Asia."

"so?"

"Well, you see, Aaron, that's when Mac's friends in the army

intruded on the procedure. I'd made a minor mistake in the Golden

Triangle and instituted charges against a certain General Ethelred

Brokernichael for dealing in drugs, when it actually was his cousin

Heseltine Brokernichael, and Ethelred's supporters were mad as

hell, and since they were all ftiends of Mac Hawkins, they rallied

around the Hawk and played his game."

"What game? Heseltine ... Ethelred! Drugs, Golden Triangle! So

you made a mistake, you withdraw the indictment. So?"

"It was too late. The military's worse than Congress. Ethelred

didn't get his three stars, and his buddies blamed it on me and

helped Mac."

"so?"

"One of those bastards chained a briefcase on my wrist, slapped

a max-security label on it, and I signed out with

64 ROBERT LUDLUM

two thousand six-hundred forty-one copies of top-secret files on my

person, the majority of which had nothing to do with Mac Hawkins,

who stood innocently at my side."

Aaron Pinkus closed his eyes and sank back on the small

settee, his shoulder touching the totally dazed Eleanor

Devereaux. "So you were his for the immediate future-roughly

five months." Aaron cautiously opened his eyes.

"Either that or have my discharge postponed indefinitely ... or I'd

spend twenty years in Leavenworth."

"Then the money came from the ransom-2' "What money?"

interrupted Sam.

"The money you spent so lavishly on this house ... hundreds of

thousands of dollars! It was your share of the ransom, wasn't it?"

"What ransom?"

"For Pope Francesco, naturally. When you released him."

"We didn't get any ransom. Cardinal Ignatio Quartz refused to

pay."

"Cardinal who?"

"It's another story. Quartz was happy with Guido."

"Guido?"

"You're shouting, Aaron," murmured Eleanor.

"Guido Frescobaldi," answered Devereaux. "Zio's lookalike

cousin; he was an extra in La Scala's third opera company and

sometimes got to play small parts."

"Enough!" The celebrated attorney took several deep breaths,

doing his best to find some self-control. Lowering his voice, he

spoke as calmly as possible. "Sam, you returned home with a great

deal of money that did not come from a deceased wealthy

Devereaux. Where did it come from, Sam?"

"Well, actually, Aaron, as a general partner, it was my pro rata

share of the remaining capitalization initially raised for the

corporation."

"What corporation?" asked Pinkus, his quiet voice floating and

barely audible.

"I'lie Shepherd Company."

"Me Shepherd .. T'

"Like in the Good Shepherd."

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 65

"Like in the Good Shepherd," repeated Aaron, as if in a trance.

"Money was raised for this corporation-"

"Actually, in increments of ten million dollars per investor, said

investors restricted to four and forming a limited partnership with

the general partners, their individual risks naturally limited to the

capital ventured and based on projections anticipating a ten-to-one

return on their investments.... Actually, none of the four investors

cared to be legally acknowledged and preferred to consider their in-

vestments as charitable contributions in exchange for anonymity."

"Anonymity ... ? Forty million dollars' worth of anonymity?"

"Actually, that was pretty much guaranteed. I mean, where could

I possibly file the papers of incorporation, Aaron?"

"You? You were counsel for this travesty of a business

enterprise?"

"Not by choice," protested Devereaux. "Never by choice."

"Oh, yes, those two-thousand-plus intelligence files you walked

out with. No discharge. Leavenworth."

"Or worse, Aaron. Mac said there were ways less public than a

firing squad if Pentagon public relations ruled out an execution."

"Yes,@ yes, I understand.... Sam, your dear mother here, who

mercifully is in a state of shock, mentioned that you told her your

money came from religious artifacts--2' "Actually, as was clearly

stated in the bylaws of the limited partnership, the primary function

of the corporation was the 'brokering of acquired religious artifacts.'

I covered it rather nicely, I thought."

"Dear God," exclaimed Pinkus, swallowing. "And naturally the

'acquired' religious artifact in question was the person of Pope

Francesco the First, whom you kidnapped.,,

"Well, actually, Aaron, that's not really legally sound, much less

conclusive. The allegation itself might even be considered

libelous."

"What are you saying? Look at your walls, the photographs!"

66 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Actually, I might suggest that you-you, Aaron-look at them

again. Legally speaking, kidnapping is defined as abduction by

force or coercion and holding a person or personages against their

will, their being freed subject to the payment of funds. Although, as

I've acknowledged, a preliminary strategy had been meticulously

financed and was in place to implement such an objective, the

strategy failed and would have been aborted but for the voluntary-I

might say enthusiastic-cooperation of the subject. And those

photographs hardly depict the subject in question to be under any

constraints whatsoever. In fact, he appears to be content and in

excellent spirits."

"Sam, you belong in a room made of thick sponge rubber! Hasn't

the enormity of what you did made even a dent in your moral

armor?"

"The crosses I bear are heavy, indeed, Aaron."

"Fhat's not the most appropriate allusion you could employ.... I

don't really want to know, but how did you ever get-him-back to

Rome?"

"Mac and Zio worked it out. The Hawk called it a 'very back-

channel' mission, and Zio began singing opera."

"I'm exhausted," whispered Pinkus. "I could only wish this day

never happened, that I had not heard a word uttered in this room

and that my sight had deserted me."

"How do you think I feel every day of my life? The eternal love

of my life is gone, but I've learned something, Aaron. Life must go

on!"

"How uniquely phrased."

"I mean it, it's over It's all in the past, and in a way, I'm glad

today did happen. Somehow, it's freed me. Now I have to get off

my ass and charge ahead, knowing that slugworrn son of a bitch

can never touch me again!"

And, of course, the telephone rang.,

"If that's the office, I'm in temple," said Pinkus. "I'm not

prepared for the outside world."

"I'll get it," said Sam, rising and heading for the desk as the

phone rang again. "Mother's up here-sort of-and it's better Cora

doesn't answer. You know, Aaron, now that it's all out in the open,

I really feel better. With your support, I know I can charge ahead

and face new challenges, find new horizons--2'

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 67

"Answer the damn thing, Sammy. My head is splitting."

"Oh, yes, of course, sorry." Devereaux picked up the phone, greeted

whoever was on the line, paused for a reply, and then proceeded to

scream hysterically, with such uncontrollable frenzy that his mother

bolted up from the settee, shot over the oval coffee table, and

ended up splayed out on the floor.

"Sammy! " shouted Aaron Pinkus, dashing back and forth between

the unconscious Eleanor and her son, who was now, in an outburst

of panic, ripping down every framed photograph he could reach on

the walls and smashing them down on the floor. "Sam, get hold of

yourself!"

"Slugworm!" screamed Devereaux. "Maggot of the universe, the

most despicable human being on the face of the earth! He has no

right--2'

"Your mother, Sammy. She may be dead!"

"Forget it, she wouldn't know how," replied Devereaux, racing to

the wall behind the desk and continuing his assault on the myriad

photos and newspaper clippings. "He's sick, sick, sick!"

"I didn't say sick, Sam, I said dead," continued Aaron, kneeling

painfully and holding the mother's quivering head firmly, hoping his

ruse might have an effect on the son. "You really should show

some concern."

"Concern? Has he ever shown me any concern? He tears my life

apart then steps on the pieces, grinding them into the dirt! He rips

my heart out and blows it up into a balloon--2'

I didn't say he, Sam, I said she! Your mother."

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 69

"Hello, Mother, I'm busy."

Pinkus withdrew the beeper from his pocket and held his finger

down on the signal button; then he kept pressing it in bursts. His

driver, Paddy Lafferty, would somehow get the message of

emergency. He had to.

He did. In moments, Paddy could be heard crashing through the

east wing entrance, ordering Cousin Cora in his most commanding

sergeant's roar to get out of his way or he'd throw her to a bunch

of war-weary drunken infantrymen looking for a little feminine

amusement.

"It's no threat, Mick!"

Sam Devereaux was tied to the chair behind his desk, his arms and

legs bound with sheets torn from his bed and ripped with abandon

by the once and former Sergeant Patrick Lafferty of Omaha Beach,

World War II. Ripped, that was, after he had cold-cocked Sam and

found the bedroom. Devereaux shook his head while blinking and

attempted'a semblance of his voice. "Five drug addicts attacked

me," he offered.

"Not exactly, Sam boyo," said Paddy, holding a glass of water to

the lawyer's lips. "Unless you consider a touch of Bushmills in that

category, which I don't advise you to do in old Southie, or even in

O'Toole's saloon."

" You did this to me?"

"I had no choice, Sam. When a man goes over the edge of

combat fatigue, you bring him back however you can. It's no

disgrace, boyo."

"You were in the army? In combat ... ? You were with MacKenzie

Hawkins?"

"You know that name, Sam?" 11 Were you?"

"I never had the privilege of meetin' the great general personally,

but I seen him! For ten days in France he took over our division,

and I tell you this, laddie, Mac the Hawk was the finest commanding

officer the army ever had. He made Patton look like a ballet dancer,

and frankly I kinda liked old George, but he just wasn't in the

Hawk's league."

"I'm screwed!" screamed Devereaux, straining at the

70 ROBERT LUDLUM

binding sheet strips. "Where's my mother ... where's Aaron?" he

asked suddenly, glancing around the empty room.

"With your mother, boyo. I carried her to her bedroom. Mr.

Pinkus is administering a little brandy to help her sleep."

"Aaron and -my mother?"

"Be a touch flexible, lad. You've met Shirley with the concrete

hairdo.... Here, now, drink a little water-I'd give you some whisky,

but I don't believe you could handle it. Your eyes don't convey

much human, more like a cat's that's heard a loud noise."

"Stop it! My whole world is coming apart!"

"Don't unravel, Sam, Mr. Pinkus'll stitch it back together. A

grander man in that department there never was.... There, he's

cornin' back now. I hear what's left of the door."

The exhausted, frail figure of Aaron Pinkus trudged into the off-

limits office as if he had just returned from an assault on the

Matterhorn. "We have to talk, Samuel," he said, sinking breathlessly

into a chair in front of the desk. "Would you please leave us,

Paddy? Cousin Cora suggested that you might enjoy a char-grilled

porterhouse in the kitchen."

"A porter?"

"With Irish ale, Paddy."

"Well ... you understand that first impressions are not always

written in stone, am I correct, Mr. Pinkus?"

-Fhat, too, is written in stone, my old friend."

"What about me?" yelled Devereaux. "Will somebody cut me

loose?"

"You will remain exactly where you are and how you are until our

conversation's over, Samuel."

"You always call me 'Samuel' when you're mad at me."

"Mad? Why should I be mad? You've only involved me and the

firm in the most heinously insidious crime in the history of

civilization since the Middle Empire of Egypt four thousand years

ago. Mad? No, Sammy, I'm merely hysterical."

"I think I'd better leave, boss."

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 71

"I'll beep you later, Paddy. And enjoy your porterhouse as if you

were having-my last meal in this life."

"Oh, you carry on so, Mr. Pinkus."

"Then carry me out to the temple if I do not signal you within the

hour." Lafferty made a rapid exit, signified by the screeching sound

of the shattered outside door being pulled shut. Hands folded in

front of him, Aaron spoke. "I must assume," he began calmly, "that

the person who contacted you on the telephone was none other

than General MacKenzie Hawkins, am I correct?"

"You know damn well you're correct, and that sewer rat can't do

this to me!"

"What precisely has he done?"

"He talked to me."

"There's a law prohibiting communication?"

"Between the two of us, there certainly is. He swore on the

Manual of Army Regulations never to speak to me again for the rest

of his miserable, misbegotten life!"

"Yet he saw fit to violate this solemn oath, which means he felt

he had something of great import to tell you. What was it?"

"Who listened?" yelled Devereaux, again straining against the

constricting white strips pinning him to the chair. "All I heard him

say was that he was flying into Boston to see me and everything

went crazy."

"You went crazy, Sam.... When is he to make this joumeyT'

"How do I know?"

"That's right. You turned off your ears and turned on your

precordial anxiety.... However, based on the assumption that he had

something vital to tell you, or he would not have broken his

agreement never to contact you, we can assume that his flight to

Boston is imminent."

"So's my departure for Tasmania," said Devereaux emphatically.

"That is the one thing you must not do," interjected Pinkus with

equal firmness. "You cannot run away nor can you avoid him-"

"One reason!" broke in Sam, shouting. "Give me one reason

short of murdering the son of a bitch why I

72 ROBERT LUDLUM

shouldn't avoid him? He's a walking distress signal from the

Titanic!"

"Because he will continue to hold over your head-and, by

extension, mine, as your only employer since law school-your

participation in this crime of the ages."

"You didn't walk out of the data banks with over two thousand

top-secret intelligence files, I did."

"That seemingly ominous act sinks to the level of complete

insignificance compared to the evidence you've been trying to tear

off your walls.... But since you mention it, was there any point to the

theft of those files?"

"Forty million points," answered Devereaux. "How do you think

that diabolical general from the River Styx raised his capital?"

"Blackmail ... T'

"From the Cosa Nostra to some Brits who weren't exactly in line

for the Victoria Cross; from former Nazis whose respectability was

up to their thighs in chickenshit, to Arab sheiks who made money

by protecting their Israeli investments. He refined the whole sticky

ball of wax and

made me go after them." I

"Good God, your mother said those were all your delusions!

Killers on a golf course, Germans in chicken farms ... Arabs in the

desert. They were real."

"Sometimes, not often, I have a martini I shouldn't have."

"She also mentioned that.... And Hawkins unearthed these

scoundrels from the intelligence files and forced them to capitulate

to his demands?"

"How low can you get--2'

"How ingenious can a man be?"

"Where's your moral armor, Aaron?"

"Certainly not for the benefit of scoundrels, Sam."

"Then in support of the evidence you've seen on my walls?"

"Deflnitely not!"

"So where do you stand?"

"One has nothing to do with the other. There's no linkage.

"Not if you were me, Counselor." Aaron Pinkus took several deep

breaths in silence while

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 73

placing his ten fingers across his forehead, his head bowed. "For

every impossible problem there must be an eventual solution, either

in this life or in the hereafter."

"I prefer the former, if you don't mind, Aaron."

"I tend to agree," said the elderly attorney. "Therefore, we will, as

you expressed in your own singular vernacular, get off our asses

and charge ahead."

"To what?"

"To our mutual confrontation with General MacKenzie Hawkins."

"You'd do that?"

"I have a vested interest, Sammy. You might even say a potentially

disastrous one. Furthermore, I should like to bring to your attention

a truism of our profession, true because of its validity... A lawyer

who represents himself has a fool for a client. Your General

Hawkins may possess an ex ' traordinary military mind, with all its

brilliant eccentricities, but, I modestly submit, he has not matched

his skills against those of Aaron Pinkus."

The befeathered Chief Thunder Head of the Wopotamis spat out his

mutilated cigar and returned to the interior of his huge tepee,

where, in addition to the expected American Indian artifacts, such

as ersatz scalps lining the walls, he had installed a waterbed and

various electronic equipment that would make the Pentagon proud-

had made the Pentagon proud, before it was stolen. Sighing

audibly, in both sadness and anger, Thunder Head carefully

removed his awesome tribal headdress, dropping it on the dirt floor.

He reached into a buckskin satchel and pulled out a fresh cigar of

indeterminate make and limited quality; he shoved it into his mouth

and proceeded to mangle a good two inches of the end until his

teeth were stained. He crossed to the waterbed, lowered himself

down on its instantly rolling swells, and immediately lost his

balance, falling backward, as the cellular telephone inside his

beaded tribal tunic erupted. The ringing persisted as he thrashed

about, trying to calm the rough waters beneath him, finally suc-

ceeding by pushing himself forward and planting his boots

74 ROBERT LUDLUM

firmly on the dirt. Angrily he yanked out the phone and spoke

harshly. "What is it? I'm in powwow!"

"Come on, Chief, the only powwows around here are when the

kids hear their dogs bark."

"You never know who's calling, son."

"I didn't know anyone else had the number."

"Always operate on the assumption that the enemy can scan and

lock into a frequency."

"What ... T'

"Just stay alert, boy. Now, what is it?"

"You know that English couple who were here yesterday asking

for you, the ones we played dumb Injun for?"

"What about 'em?"

"They're back, but with a couple of associates. One looks like

his keeper doesn't know he's missing from his cage, the other sniffs

a lot-he's got either a bad cold or a couple of very inflamed

nostrils."

"They must have smelled something."

"Not with his honker-"

"I don't mean the support troops, I mean the English types. That

legal idiot of yours, Charlie Redwing, must have tipped them off to

something."

"Hey, come on, T.H., except for falling off that lousy horse, he

was terrific. They didn't learn bean one about you, and that fancy

lady kept looking at his jockstrap-2' "Loincloth, son, loincloth.

Maybe it was the horse."

"Maybe it was the loincloth," suggested the caller, as Thunder

Head, caught in a rolling vinyl wave, was thrown back on the

waterbed.

"Augh! 11

"Hey, our legal eagle may really have something, huh? I guess

you agree."

"I agreed to nothing! My 130Q accoutrements here are loused

up-"

"You designed them, T.H."

"And I'd advise you to cut the familiarity, boy! You're a low-life

enlisted man and you will address me as Chief!"

"Fine, Chiefy-baby, then you can drive into town and get your

own rotten cigars-"

"I didn't redress you that severely, son, I just want to maintain

a logical order of command. All -I'm saying is

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 75

that support troops are not called up for such R and R as

'loincloths,' do I make myself clear?"

"Maybe.... So What do you figure? What they smelled, I mean."

"Not what they smelled, young man, but what someone else

smelled that called for auxiliary support. Those Brits didn't

reassault by themselves, they were ordered back by a combat

officer who wanted a reassessment. It's as clear as Porkchop Hill."

"Porkchops ... T'

"Where are they now, boy?"

"At the souvenir lean-to. They're buying up a load of stuff and

being very friendly, even the ox. Incidentally, the girls---excuse me,

the squaws-are happy as hell. We just got in a new supply from

Taiwan."

Thunder Head frowned, lit his cigar, and spoke. "Stay on the

line, I've got to think." Several quarts of smoke fogged the tepee

when, finally, the Hawk resumed speaking. "Pretty soon the Brits

will bring up my name."

"I guess they will."

"So, have one of our downtrodden brethren tell them my tepee

is roughly two hundred running antelope strides above the north

pasture, past the buffalo mating ground, by the great oaks, where

the eagles lay their precious eggs. It's an isolated place, so I can

commune with the gods of the forest and contemplate. Got it?"

"I can't understand a word you just said. We've got a few cows

but no buffalo,'and I've never seen an eagle except in the Omaha

zoo."

"You'll admit there's a forest."

"Well, woods, maybe, but I don't remember any great big trees."

"Damn it, son, just get 'em up into those woods, okay?"

"Which of the paths? They're all clear, but some are better

than others. It's been a lousy tourist season--2' "Good thinking,

boy!" exclaimed Thunder Head. "Fine tactics. Tell 'em they'll find

me quicker if they separate. The one who reaches me can call

the others; they're not that far away from one another."

"Considering the fact that you're not anywhere near

76 ROBERT LUDLUM

those woods, it's not 'fine tactics,' it's dumb. They'll get lost."

"Hopefully, son, hopefully."

46'ftat?"

"In light of the nature of this engagement, the enemy's using

unorthodox strategy. Nothing wrong with unorthodoxy-hell, I've

employed it most of my career-but it doesn't make any sense if it

retards your progress. In this situation, a frontal assault is our

adversary's most productive course-his only course, really-but

instead he's going around our flanks firing mortars filled with

horseshit."

"Lost me again, Chief," said the caller.

"Anthropologists looking for the remnants of a great tribe?"

scoffed Thunder Head. "A tribe from the Shenandoahs, savages

brought over to the English court by Walter Raleigh, you believed

all that crap?"

"Well, I suppose it's possible. The Wopotamis came from

someplace in the East."

"From the Hudson Valley, not the Shenandoahs. For a fact, they

were run off by the Mohawks 'cause they couldn't farm and they

couldn't raise cattle and wouldn't get out of their tepees if it

snowed. They weren't a great tribe, they were losers from day one

until they reached the Missouri River, in the middle eighteen

hundreds, where they found their true calling. They first

hornswoggled, then corrupted the white settlers!"

"You know all thatT'

"Mere's very little about your tribe's history I don't know.... No,

son, someone's behind this covert operation, and I'm going to find

out who it is. Get to work now. Send lem up to the woods!"

Twenty-three minutes passed, and one by one the members of

Hyman Goldfarb's scouting patrol entered the four paths in the

dense forest. They had decided to separate insofar as the precise

instructions they had received at the souvenir lean-to were totally

imprecise and contradictory, the crowd of yelling squaws in a

raucous debate over which path actually led to the great Thunder

Head's tepee, a residence obviously equated with some holy shrine.

Forty-six minutes later, one by one, each member had

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 77

been ambushed and bound-arms and legs-to a sizable tree.trunk,

their mouths gagged with ersatz beaver pelts, all assured that

rescue was imminent as long as they did not somehow find a way

to remove the gags and scream. Should that happen, the wrath of

a downtrodden, exploited people would descend on their heads,

specifically their scalps, which would be no longer attached to their

heads. And each, of course, was accorded treatment commensu-

rate with his or her station and sex. The English lady was much

tougher than her like-talking male associate, who attempted some

complicated Oriental defense, only to wrench his left arm out of its

elbow socket. The shorter, sniffing American tried to make a deal

while slowly removing a short-barreled Charter Arms automatic from

his belt and therefore had to be visited with several cracked ribs.

The most strenuously difficult, however, Chief Thunder Head-n6

MacKenzie Lochinvar Hawkins (his middle name having been

stricken from all records)-saved for the last. The Hawk always felt

it was proper to permit his harshest challenge to have the honor of

being the final barrier. You didn't take out a Rommel with the first

wave against the Afrika Korps-it just wasn't, well, proper.

The challenge in question was outsized in bulk but not too

sizable in the brain department. Following a damn good workout

with a man no more than half his age, the Hawk prevailed by

ducking twice in rapid succession and sending rigid, pointed fingers

into the middle of the enemy scout's stomach; he knew it would

work by smelling the hostile's breath. Up came an excess of Indian

food from the scout's throat; a hammerlock forcing the huge enemy

head down toward his embarrassing accident did the rest.

"Your name, rank, and serial number, soldier!"

"Wadda ya talkin'T' belched the hostile, referred to as the ox by

Thunder Head's security.

"I'll settle for your name and who you work for. Now!"

"I got no name and I don't work for nobody."

"Down you go."

"Holy shit, have a heart!"

"Why? You tried to rip it out of my chest. Into the mess you go,

soldier."

"It smells so bad!"

78 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Not as bad as what I smell around all four of you clowns. Give

me what I want, prisoner!"

"It's wet ... Okay, okay! They call me the Shovel."

"I'll accept a nom de guerre. Who's your commander?"

"Wadda ya talkin'T'

"Who do you work for?"

"Wadda ya now, nuts?"

"All right, soldier, lose the rest of your stomach! You

like our grub? Have it again, you old redskin lover!"

"Jeez, you got it yourseUl I didn't have to say nothin'.

Redskins!"

"Come again, grunt?"

"He played for 'em! The Redskins ... Lernme up, for Christ's

sake!"

"Played for ... ? I need more, you latrine-cleaner! What kind of

hot air are you trying to peddle?"

"You're closer, real close! They couldn't put nuthin' in the air

while he was around. He didn't need no defense hulks, he just

broke right through and nailed the quarters from Namath on down!

The Hebrew Hercules, maybe ... T'

"Quarters-? Namath? Redskins? ... Christ on a surfboard,

football! And Hercules? ... There was only one linebacker like that

in NFL history. Hymie the Hurricane!"

"I didn't say nuthin'! You said it."

"You haven't the vaguest idea what I said, soldier." The Hawk

spoke softly, rapidly, as he released the bull of a man while swiftly

manipulating the ropes that secured him to the tree. "The Golden

Goldfarb," he continued hoarsely under his breath. "I recruited the

son of a bitch when I was posted at the Pentagon!"

"You what?"

"You never heard that, Shovel-believe me, you never heard it! ...

I've got to get out of here, pronto. I'll send someone back for you

idiots, but you, you never told me anything, you understand?"

"I didn't! But I'm also happy to oblige, Mr. Big Indian Chief."

"That's a small accomplishment, son, we're on to bigger things.

We just struck the gusher by rattling the biggest exposed nerve in

Dizzy City! ... The Golden Goldfarb,

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 79

wadda ya know? Right now, I need a goddamned attorneyof-record

fast, and I'know exactly where that ungrateful asshole is!"

Vincent Mangecavallo, director of the Central Intelligence Agency,

stared at the secure telephone in his outstretched hand as though

the instrument were the inanimate embodiment of a communicable

disease. When the hysterical voice on the line paused for breath,

the DCI yanked the phone to his ear and mouth and spoke quietly

but grimly. "You listen to me, you pinstriped baked apple. I'm

doing the best I can with talent your crowd only pays for but

wouldn't know how to talk to, much less let into your ladi-da country

clubs. You wanna take over? Be my guest, and I'll laugh like a

goosed fruit when you get drowned in a vat of minestrone.... You

wanna know something else, you lockjawed cannoli?" Mangecavallo

suddenly, briefly stopped, then resumed speaking in a much softer,

friendlier voice. "Who's kidding who? We all may be drowning in

that barrel of soup. So far, all we got is zilch. That Court's as clean

as my mother's thoughts-and no cracks from the Whiffenpoof group,

thank you very much."

"Sorry I blew up, old fellow," said the Secretary of State, on the

other end of the line. "But surely you can understand the

extraordinary disadvantages we face in the upcoming summit. My

God, think of the embarrassment! How can the President negotiate

from a position of strength, with the full authority of his office, if the

Court even thinks of pen-nitting a totally unknown, tiny tribe of

Indians to cripple our first line of defense? The sky's where it's at,

you know, old boy!"

"Yeah, I figured, bambino vecchio."

"I beg your pardon?"

"It's Guinea-speak for something I never could understand with

your types. How can a little kid be old?"

"Well, the tie, you see. The old schools, old bonds, the symbols,

I suppose. Therefore, the 'old boys.' Quite simple, really."

"Maybe like vecchia maledizione difamiglia, huh?" "Well, I got the

'familiar' part, and I imagine in a broad

80 ROBERT LUDLUM

sense there's a correlation. It's a'rather lovely foreign phrase."

"We don't think so. You get killed for it." "I beg your

pardon-"

"No matter, I just wanted a couple of moments to think."

"I do that all the time. Tangential intrusions."

"Yeah, sure, so let's intrude on this summit problem. Number

one, can the Big Man call it off because he's got the flu-or maybe

shingles-hey, they're rough, how about it?"

"Terrible image, Vincent. No way."

"His wife has a stroke? I can arrange it."

"Again, no, old sport. He'd have to rise above personal tragedy

and perform heroically-that's bible."

"I'lien we're in the minestrone.... Whoa, whoa, I think I got it! If

the Court's debate goes public, suppose the Big Fella says he

supports the right of what do you call itpetition?"

"You're bonkers!"

"Who?"

"Insane! On what possible basis could he endorse such a

position? This isn't merely pro choice or against it, it's real. You

can't tab votes on this, you have to take a stand-and the only stand

he can take pits him against the constitutional balances of power.

He's embroiled in a battle between the Executive and -the Judicial.

Everybody loses!"

"Boy, you got a lot of big words, baked apple. I don't mean he

'endorses,' I mean he 'supports' the public debate, in the sense that

he looks after the little people-like the Commies used to do but

never did-and, anyway, he knows he's got twenty-two other SAC

bases in the country, and eleven or twelve outside. So what's his

problem?"

"Roughly seventy billion dollars' worth of equipment in Omaha

he can't move out!"

"So who knows that?"

"The General Accounting Office."

"Now we're getting down to the marbles. We can shut those

guys up. I can arrange it."

"You're relatively new in this town, Vincent. By the

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 81

time your enforcers are in place, the leaks will have begun, the

seventy billion instantly escalated to well over a hundred, and any

attempt to suppress even the rumors, those figures will reach nine

hundred billion, making the Savings and Loan fiasco petty cash. By

that time, since there's obviously a healthy grain of validity in that

malodorous brief, we'd all be prosecuted under the laws of

Congress for covering up something we had absolutely nothing to

do with over a hundred years ago for the sake of political

advantage. Furthermore, despite, the fact that this is the most

intelligent course of action we professionals could take, we'd not

only be facing fines and imprisonment, but they'd also take away

our limousines."

"Basta!" yelled Mangecavallo, switching the phone to his other,

less-abused ear. "This is nuthouse time!"

"Welcome to the real world of Washington, Vincent.... Are you

absolutely certain there's nothing, shall we say, 'convincing,' on any

of those six idiots on the Court? What about the black fellow? He's

always struck me as quite uppity."

"He would and you would, but he's probably the cleanest and

the brightest."

"You don't say?"

"And the paisan's right behind him, if he's your next in line for

heavy objective thinking."

"Actually, he was-nothing personal, you understand, I love

opera."

"Nothing personal, and opera loves you, especially Signor

Pagliacci."

"Ali, yes, all those Vikings."

"Yeah, Vikings.... And speaking of thunder--2' "Were we?"

"You were.... We're still waiting for word on that Chief Crazy Ass

who calls himself Thunder Head. Once we got him, he could be our

way out of this whole mess."

"Really? How?"

"Because as the principal, what do you call it, the plaintiff, he

has to show up in the big Court with his attorneys for all arguments.

That's mandatory."

"Well, of course he does, but how would that change anything?"

82 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Suppose-just suppose-this big scungilli shows up like a total

psychiatric outpatient screaming that the whole scam is a joke?

That he doctored all those historical records to make some kind of

radical statement. How about that, huh?"

"It's absolutely brilliant, Vincent! ... But how can you possibly do

that?"

"I can arrange it. I got a few medical types on a special payroll.

Like with chemicals not exactly approved by the FDA, okay?"

"Magnificent! Why are you holding back?"

1.1 got to find the son of a bitch! ... Hold it, baked apple, I'll

call you back. My other subterranean line is blinking."

"Please do so, old boy."

"Basta with the old bambino crap!" The honorable director of the

Central Intelligence Agency broke off one line and admitted the

second call with a touch of two buttons. "Yeah, what is it?"

"I realize that I should not call you directly, but I felt that -in light

of the information, you would not accept it from anyone but myself."

"Who is this?"

"Goldfarb."

"Hymie the Hurricane? Lemme tell you, pal, you were the

greatest-2'

"Stop it, silly boy, I'm in a different business."

"Sure, sure, but do you remember the Super Bowl of '73, when

you--2'

"I was there, pal, so naturally I remember. However, right now

we have a situation that you should be apprised of before you make

any moves.... Thunder Head got out of our net."

")What?"

"I've spoken to each member of my very expensive unit, for

which you will be billed via the sleazy motel in Virginia Beach, and

their unanimous conclusion may appear difficult to accept, but from

everything I've heard, it's as good as any."

"What are you talkin'T' "This Thunder Head is, in actuality,

the living person of

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 83

Bigfoot, the supposedly mythical creature that roams the Canadian

forests, but who is very much a human being."

"What?"

"The only other explanation is that he's the yeti, the Abominable

Snowman of the Himalayas, who has crossed continents to put a

curse on the government of the United States.... Have a nice day."

General MacKenzie Hawkins, his shoulders stooped, and dressed

in a rumpled, nondescript gray gabardine suit, walked through

Boston's Logan Airport looking for a men's room. Finding one, he

rushed inside with his oversized flight bag, placed it on the floor,

and checked his appearance in the long miffor running the length

of the sinks, where two uniformed airline personnel washed their

hands at each end. Not bad, he thought, except for the color of the

wig; it was a mite too red and a touch too long in the back. The thin

steel-rimmed glasses, however, were splendid; sloping downward

over his aquiline,nose, they gave him the appearance of a distracted

academic, a pointyheaded thinker who could never find a latrine in

a crowded airport with the cool efficiency of a trained military man.

And "military," or specifically the lack of same, was the linchpin of

the Hawk's current strategy. All traces of his background had to be

buried; the city of Boston was pointy-head territory, everyone knew

that, and he had to meld in for the next twelve hours or so, enough

time to reconnoiter and study Sam Devereaux in his own environ-

ment.

Sam seemed to have some minor objections to their get-THE ROAD TO OMAHA 85

ting together, and as much as it pained Mac, it was entirely possible

that he might have to take Devereaux by force. Time was of the

essence now, and the Hawk needed Sam's legal credentials just as

soon as possible; no hour could be, wasted, although several might

be used up convincing the attorney to join forces in a holy cause....

Strike the word "holy," thought the general; it could revive memories

best left forgotten.

Mac washed his hands, then proceeded to remove his glasses

and dab water on his face, careful not to disturb the reddish wig,

which was also a touch loose. He had a tube of scalp adhesive in

his flight bag, and when he checked into a hotel ...

All thoughts of the inadequate wig instantly vanished as the

Hawk felt the presence of a nearby body. He rose from the sink to

find a uniformed man standing beside him, his ugly grin revealing

that several of his teeth were missing. A short glance to his right

revealed a second man in uniform shoving a couple of rubber

doorstoppers under the door of the men's room. Further swift

appraisal of both men disclosed the obvious: the only airline they

could possibly be associated with had neither aircraft nor passen-

gers, only getaway cars and mugging marks.

"You got yourself a liddle agua refreshment, hey manT' said the

first grinning hostile, in a pronounced Hispanic accent, confidently

smoothing his dark hair, which flared from the sides of the visor of

his officer's hat. "You know, is good for you to splash a liddle agua

on the face after a long flight, Wain't it?"

"Oh, yeah, man!" cried the second hostile, approaching, his

officer's hat improperly askew. "Is better than shoving your head

into a toilet, right, man?"

"Is there a point to these remarksT' asked the former general of

the army, alternately staring at both men, appalled at the sloppy

open collars of their shirts beneath their tunics of authority.

"Well, is not such a good idea to put your head in a toilet,

Wokay?"

"I must agree with you there," replied the Hawk, suddenly

considering that which he actually considered im-86 ROBERT LUDLUM

possible. "You're not by any chance advance combat intelligence,

are you?"

"We got enough brains-and kindness-not to let you put your

head in a toilet, which would not be so intelligent, right?"

"I didn't think so. The man who's expecting me wouldn't

consider recruiting battle scouts like you. I taught him better than

that."

"Hey, man!" said the second improperly dressed impersonator

of an officer, as he edged himself to the Hawk's opposite flank.

"You trying to insult us? Maybe you don't like the way we talk-we're

not good enough for you?"

"Get this straight, soldados esuipidos! Never in all my years

have I ever let a man's race, religion, or the color of his flesh have

a goddamned thing to do with my appraisal of his qualifications.

I've promoted more Coloreds and Chinks and Spanish-speaking

personnel to the officer corps than most anyone in my position-not

because they were Coloreds or Chinks or Spics, but because they

were better than their competition! Is that clear? ... You're just not

in their ranks. You're pissants."

"I think that's enough conversation, man," interrupted the first

hostile, his grin disappearing as he withdrew a long-bladed knife

from under his jacket. "Popguns make too much noise-just hand

over your wallet, your watch, and anything else us Spanish-

speaking Spics might consider valuable."

"You've got balls, I'll say that for you," said MacKenzie Hawkins.

"But tell me, why should IT'

"This!" yelled the grinless man, snapping the knife up in front of

the Hawk's face.

"You've got to be kidding!" With that expression of bewilderment,

the Hawk spun in place, gripping the wrist holding the knife and

wrenching it counterclockwise with such force the weapon was

instantly dropped while he crashed his left elbow up into the throat

of the man behind him, rendering him sufficiently dazed to

administer a chi sai chop to his forehead. He then immediately

returned to the thug with missing teeth who was on the floor

holding his painfully injured hand. "All right, you jackasses, that's

a short lesson in counterinsurgency."

. I

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 87

"What ... manT' mumbled the conscious hostile on the floor,

trying to reach for the hunting knife, which Hawkins pinned to the

tiles with a stomping foot. "Wokay, I got no leverage," admitted the

perpetrator. "So I go back to a cell, what else is new, huh, man?"

"Just hold it, amigo zonzo," said the Hawk, squinting and

thinking rapidly, "maybe you can be better than that. For a fact,

your tactics weren't bad, just poorly executed. I liked the uniforms

and the doorstoppers, that showed imagination under these flexible

rules of engagement. What you didn't have was your follow-up

strategy-the what-ifs in the event the enemy counters with a

sidewinder you hadn't considered. You simply didn't project your

analysis properly, son! ... And for another fact, I'm going to need

support adjutants who've faced fire. Maybe with a little discipline

I can use you. You got a vehicle?"

"A what?"

"A car, an automobile, a means of conveyance that isn't

necessarily registered to a person living or dead who could be

traced by a license plate."

"Well, we got a chopped-up h'Oldsmobile from the Midwest

that's still registered to a big shot who don't know he's got a

duplicado with a very old Mazda engine."

"Perfect. We ride, caballeros! And with thirty minutes' worth of

training and a couple of haircuts, you've got yourselves temporary,

respectable employment that pays handsomely.... I do like the

uniforms-very imaginative and extremely useful."

"You're one loco, mister."

"Not at all, son, not at all. I've always believed in doing my best

for the disenfranchised-which is at the heart of my current

pursuits.... Come along now, fall to, and stand up straight, boy, I

want perfect posture from both of you! Help me get your comrade

off the floor, and let's roll!"

Devereaux's head slowly emerged from the right panel of the heavy

glistening double doors that led to the exclusive penthouse offices

of Aaron Pinkus Associates. Furtively, he peered first to his right,

then to his left, repeated the ex-88 ROBERT LUDLUM

ercise, and nodded. Instantly, two heavyset men in brown suits

walked out into the corridor and faced the elevators at the end of

the hallway, sufficiently apart to allow Sam to walk between them.

"I promised Cora I'd pick up some scrod on my way home," said

the attorney without expression to his guards as they proceeded

down the corridor.

"We get scrod," said the man on Sam's left, looking straight

ahead, in his voice a mild complaint.

"She feeds Paddy Lafferty porterhouses," added the guard on

the right, more than a mild complaint in his voice. "Char-grilled."

"All right, all right, we'll also stop and get a couple of steaks,

okay?"

"Better get four," suggested the left guard in a quiet monotone.

"We're relieved at eight o'clock, and those gorillas will smell the

porters."

"It's the rim of fat," opined the right guard, his focus rigidly

forward. "it lingers so good for a long tmle."

"So be it," agreed Devereaux. "Four steaks and the scrod."

"What about potatoes?" asked the left guard. "Cora's not too big

with potatoes, and everybody likes potatoes."

"After six o'clock Cora don't cook potatoes so good," said the

RG, permitting himself a slit of a smile on his impassive face.

"Sometimes it's a little rough finding the oven."

"I'll bake 'em," said LG.

"My Polish associate can't live without his Icartoffables.' "

"That's kartofla, you dupa. My Swedish associate shoulda

stayed in Norway, right Mr. DT'

"Whatever."

The elevator doors parted and the threesome walked inside,

where they were startled to find two uniformed men who had

obviously ridden to the penthouse by mistake, since they made no

attempt to get off. Sam nodded politely, turned to face the closing

panels, and then blanched, his eyes widening in astonishment.

Unless his practiced lawyer's vision had deceived him, both

uniformed officers at the rear of the elevator had small swastikas

attached to

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 89

their shirt collars! Pretending to have an itch at the back of his

neck, Devereaux turned casually to scratch, his eyes taking in their

necks. The small black emblems were swastikas! He briefly locked

eyes with the man in the comer who smiled, the friendly grin

somewhat diminished by the absence of several teeth. Sam quickly

turned his head back to the front, his confusion mounting-then

suddenly the explanation was clear. In New York's Broadway

parlance, Boston was a "tryout town." Obviously, there was a World

War II play, probably at the Shubert or the Wilbur, presenting its

wares in Bean Town before assaulting the Big Apple. Still, these

actors should know better than to appear off the stage and on the

streets in such costumes. On the other hand, he had always heard

that actors were a breed apart; some lived their roles twenty-four

hours a day. Wasn't there an English Othello who actually tried to

kill his Desdemona in a Jewish delicatessen one night on Forty-

seventh Street over a pastrami sandwich?

The doors opened onto the crowded lobby and Devereaux

stepped out; he stood in place, glancing around, as his guards

flanked him. The threesome proceeded rapidly toward the

building's entrance, dodging bodies and a plethora of attach6

cases, finally emerging on the wide pavement, where Aaron

Pinkus's limousine awaited them at the curb.

"You'd think we were in Belfast, coverin' our asses from all those

bomb-throwin' lunatics," said Paddy Lafferty behind the wheel, as

the three passengers plummeted into the rear seat, Devereaux vised

between his two barrel-chested protectors. "Straight home, Sam?"

continued the chauffeur, as he swung the huge car into the flow of

traffic.

"Two stops, Paddy," replied Devereaux. "Scrod and steaks."

"Cora's doin' her thing, eh, boyo? She cooks a mean porter as

long as you remind her to get it off the fire quick enough.

Otherwise you've got nuked gristle, and floatin' in bourbon, it is.

But you better make it three porters, Sam. My orders are to stay

and bring you back into town by eight-thirty."

"Mat's five porters," said the Polish praetorian.

90 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Thanks, Stosh, but I'm not so hungry--2' "Not you, the relief."

"Oh, yeah, they'll smell 'em. You know why, don't you? It's the

border of fat that sizzles and hangs around-2' "All right," cried

Devereaux, trying to find a pause in the rapid conversation so as to

ask what he felt was a fairly vital question. "Scrod, five porters,

rims of sizzling fat, and the goddamned relief's olfactory senses-it's

all settled. Now why is Aaron bringing me back into town at eight-

thirty?"

"Hey, boyo, it was your idea, Sammy, and I tell you, Mrs. Pinkus

thinks you're the darlin' of the day."

"What for?"

"You got that fancy invite to the art gallery soiree-how do you

like that? I heard her say soiree, which means you get pickled at

night after work and nobody cares."

"Art gallery ... T'

"Remember, lad, you told me it was that fancy-dan client who

thinks his wife has the hots for you, which is fine by him, and then

you told Mr. Pinkus that you didn't want to go, and he told Mrs.

Pinkus, who read that the senator was going to be there, so now

you're all going."

"That crowd's a bunch of leeching fund-raisers and political

vultures."

"They're top society, Sammy."

"Same thing."

"Then we go back with you, Paddy?" asked the guard on

Devereaux's right.

"No, Knute, there won't be time. You take Mr. D.'s car here.

Your relief can follow us in their own."

"What's with the time?" Stosh objected. "Just drop us off

downtown. Mr. D.'s car is very shaky in the turns." "You didn't get

it fixed, Sam?"

"I forgot."

"You' ' 11 have to live with it, Stosh. Nothing suits the boss

better than driving his little Buick like he's doing now from the

office, but not Mrs. Boss. This is her chariot, especially with the

license plate he happens to hate, and especially for a wingding Re

tonight."

"]Leeches and politicians," muttered Sam.

"Same thing, huhT' said Knute.

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 91

MacKenzie Hawkins squinted through the windshield of the stolen

Oldsmobile at the limousine's license plate directly infront of him.

The raised white letters across the green background spelled out

the name PINKus as though the announcement should strike fear

in the hearts of observers. It would help if the name were

somewhat more threatening, thought Mac, nevertheless glad that he

had spotted it in front of Devereaux's place of employment, the

name itself one the Hawk would never forget. For weeks during the

young lawyer's initial work on behalf of their former corporation,

Sam had kept yelling, What would Aaron Pinkus think? until Mac

could not stand it any longer and confined the hysterical attorney

to quarters just to get some peace. This afternoon, however, a brief

telephone call to the law office confirmed the fact that Sam had

come home and somehow-God knew howmade peace with one

Aaron Pinkus, whose name was anathema to the Hawk.

From there it was a simple matter to show his newly trained and

newly sheared aides-de-camp a six-year-old photograph of

Devereaux and order them to stay riding on the single elevator that

went up to the penthouse floor until the subject appeared and

subsequently to follow him at a discreet distance wherever he

walked, keeping in touch with their commanding officer over the

walkie-taMes he supplied them from his flight bag. Don't get any

ideas, caballeros, because stealing government property is a thirty-

year offense, and I've got your stolen car with your fingerprints all

over it.

Frankly, Mac thought that Sam would head to a friendly bar after

work. Not that his former legal liaison was a heavy drinker-he was

barely a decent one-but he did like a nip or two after a hard day in

the field. Well, goddamn, the Hawk had thought when he saw Sam

emerge from the building under protective escort. How suspicious

and how ungrateful could a man be? Of all the unmitigated,

detestable strategies to employ-convoys! And to bring in his

employer, the obviously equally detestable Aaron Pinkus, was

downright treasonous, definitely unAmerican! The Hawk was not

sure his newly acquired

92 ROBERT LUDLUM

aides-de-camp were up to a new strategy. On the other hand, a

good combat officer always brought out the best in his troops, no

matter how raw they were. So he glanced at them, scrunched

beside him in the front seat-he certainly could not permit a potential

adversary to sit behind him in a foxhole.

They definitely looked better with regulation haircuts and clean-

shaven faces, even though both were bobbing their heads up and

down to the Latin beat emanating from the radio. "Okay, men,

'tenhut!" cried the Hawk, snapping off the radio while holding the

wheel.

"Wot, loco man?" asked the astonished aide with less than all his

teeth, sitting next to the window.

"That means 'attention.' You're to pay attention to what I say.,,

"Maybe better, man, you pay us some cash, huh?" said the aide

sitting next to Mac.

"All in good time, Corporal-I've decided to make you each a

corporal because I'm forced to place additional responsibilities on

your basic assignments. Naturally, that calls for an upgrade in

pay... Incidentally, for identification purposes, what're your names?"

"I'm Desi Arnaz," replied the aide by the window.

"So am I," said his associate.

"Fair enough. D-One and D-Two, in that order. Now, listen up."

"Up where?"

"Just listen. We've encountered complications from the enemy

that will require,some aggressive initiative on both your parts. You

may have to separate so as to draw hostile personnel away from

their posts, thus allowing the objective to be taken--2'

"So far," interrupted D-One, "I got the 'required' 'cause it's used

a lot in courtrooms, like 'remanded.' The rest, I'm not so sure."

So the Hawk shifted to fluent Spanish, which he had learned as

a young guerrilla leader in the Philippines fighting the Japanese.

"iComprende?" he asked when he had finished.

"iAbsolutamente!" cried D-Two. "We cut up the

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 93

chicken and spread around the pieces so we catch the big lousy

fox!"

"Very good, Corporal. You learn that from one of your Latino

revolutions?"

"No, seftor. My mama used to read the noosurTy stories when

I was a liddle kid."

"Wherever it comes from, grunt, use it.... Now, this is what we're

going to do-Christ on a pogo stick! What the hell are you wearing

on your collar?"

"What, man?" asked D-One, shaken by the Hawk's sudden vocal

explosion.

"You, too!" cried Hawkins. "Your shirts-the collars on your shirts

... I didn't see them before!"

"We didn't have no ties on before, neither," explained D-Two.

"Chu give us dinero and to' us to buy two black ties before we go

into the big building with d'fancy elevator... Also, loco man, these

Wain't our own shirts. A couple of bad gringos on motorcycles

were very unfriendly to us outside a restaurant on the highway... We

sold the motorcycles but we kept the shirts. Nice, hub?"

"You idiots! Those insignias are swastikas!"

"Waz that?"

"Pretty liddle things," observed D-Two, fingering the black

emblem of the Third Reich. "We got big fancy ones on the back--2'

"Rip 'em off your collars, Corporals, and keep your goddamn

tunics on."

"Toon hocks?" D-One asked, bewildered.

"The jackets, your coats, your unifonns-keep them." The Hawk

stopped in midstatement as up ahead the Pinkus limousine slowed

down and turned right into a side street; Mac did the same. "If Sam

lives in this neighborhood, the boy's sweeping floors, not filing

briefs." The neighborhood referred to was a short, dark block lined

with small shops sandwiched between entrances to time-worn apart-

ments above, bringing to mind those tum-of-the-century sections of

large cities teeming with immigrants. All that was missing were

pushcarts and peddlers and the sound of foreign tongues in

abrasive counterpoint. The limousine glided into the curb fronting

a fish market; Mac could not do the same, as there was no available

parking space until

94 ROBERT LUDLUM

the end of the block, at least a hundred feet away and barely seen.

"I don't like it," said the Hawk.

"You no like what?" asked D-One.

"It could be an evasion maneuver."

"Invasion?" cried D-Two, his eyes wide. "Hey, loco man, we no

fight in no war, no revoluci6n! We are peaceful malefactors, dat's

all."

"Malefactors ... T'

"They also use that lots a' times in court," clarified the uniform

by the window. "Like 'required' and 'remanded,' you know?"

"No war and no revolution, son, just a cowardly, ungrateful

malefactor whose escorts may have spotted us.... You, D-One, I'm

going to stop for a moment; you get out and look around that fish

store-pretend you're shopping for dinner-and stay in touch. There

may be a back door, but it isn't likely; they may even change

clothes, but our target would swim in his convoy's duds. Still, we

can't take chances. He's in the hands of pros now, men, and we've

got to show our calibers!"

"Does all dat tonterfa mean I should watch the tall guy in the

picture?"

"That's it, Corporal, and it's not proper to question your

superior's direct orders with improper invective."

"Dat's beautifool!"

"Move!" yelled the Hawk, braking the car as D-One opened the

door and got out, slamming it shut behind him. "You, D-Two,"

continued Mac, shooting forward, "as soon as I park, I want you to

cross the street and walk halfway back to that big vehicle and keep

your eyes on it and the store. If anybody comes out in a hurry and

gets into the limo or any car near it, let me know."

"Isn't dat what Desi-One is doin', man?" asked D-Two, taking the

walkie-talkie out of his pocket.

"He could be ambushed if the Eye-Corps is sharp enough, but

I sort of doubt it. I generally stayed two vehicles behind the target-

movable, so I don't think they reconnoitered positive."

"You talk funny, you know dat?"

"Into position!" ordered the Hawk, swerving into the parking

space near the comer and instantly switching off

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 95

the ignition. D-Two leaped out of the car, rounded the hood, and

raced across the street with the alacrity of a seasoned point. "Not

bad, caballero," said Mac to himself, reaching into his shirt pocket

for a cigar. "You've both got definite possibilities. Real noncom

stature."

And then there was a gentle tapping on the windshield. A

policeman stood on the curbside, gesturing with his club.

Momentarily confused, the Hawk looked across the street at the

opposing empty space. Just before it was a sign: NO PARKING

HERE TO CORNER.

Sam selected the slabs of scrod, thanked the Greek owner with his

customary, if mispronounced, "Epharist6, " and was welcomed by a

courteous "Parikala, Mr Deveroo, " as he paid the bill. The two

guards, their interest in fish minimal, were bored, and so they

looked at the enlarged, faded, framed photographs of various

Aegean islands on the wall, but with no interest whatsoever.

Several other customers, seated at two white Formica tables and all

speaking Greek, seemed more intent on conversing with one

another than buying anything. They greeted two newcomers to the

store, but not a third, a man in an oddly unidentifiable uniform who

proceeded to walk to the rear counter, which was empty except for

chopped ice, and kept peering over the top. Under the scrutiny of

his observers, he then pulled a hand-held radio out of his pocket,

raised it to his lips, and began to speak.

"Fascistas!" screamed an elderly bearded Zorba from the table

nearest the rear counter. "Look! He signals the Gennans!"

As one, the former overage partisans from Salonika stumbled

forward to attack and, capture the hated enemy of fifty years ago

even as Sam's two guards rushed to his side, their weapons drawn.

The object of the aged Greek warriors' assault slashed his arms and

kicked his feet out at his attackers, parting them with a certain

professional expertise, and raced to the door, stopping just briefly

enough to reach into a fishtank by the entrance.

I know that man!" yelled Devereaux, breaking away

96 ROBERT LUDLUM

from the grips of his protectors. "He wore a swastika on his

collar! I saw it when we were in the elevator!' "What

elevator?" asked the Scandinavian cohort. "The one we rode

down on from the office!" "I didn't see no colored swastikas

in the elevator," proclaimed the Polish contingent.

"I didn't say color, I said on his collar!"

"You talk funny, you know?"

"You hear funny, have you ever considered that? ... He's closing

in, I can feel it!"

"Feel what?" asked Knute.

"The Titanic. He's on his disaster course-for me-I know it! He's

the most devious son of a bitch that hell ever created. Let's get out

of here!"

"Sure, Mr. D. We'll pick up the porterhouses at that meat market

in Boylston and head right to your place."

"Hold it!" cried Devereaux. "No, we won't.... Give your coats to

a couple of those fellows over at the tables and pass out a few

hundred dollars to convince them to get into Aaron's limo, and be

driven around the harbor... You go out first, Knute, and tell Paddy

to drop them off at some gin mill on the way to the Pinkus house

and I'll meet him there. Stosh, you call for a cab, and we'll coor-

dinate the whole thing."

"This all sounds crazy, Mr. DX' said Stosh, taken aback at Sam's

sudden tone of authority. "I mean, sir, it doesn't sound like yourself

... sir."

"I' in going back in time, Stanley, and I was taught by a master.

He is closing in. I really do know it. But he made a mistake."

"What was that ... sir?" asked Knute.

"He used a real U.S. Army man to do his dirty work. The uniform

was plucked like a chicken, but did you notice the posture, the

clipped hair on the back of his neckthat bastard was government

issue!"

"Loco man, where are you?"

"Around the block, stuck in the goddamned traffic!

Which one are you?"

"Desi-Dos. Desi- Uno is wid me."

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 97

"Hello, loco man. You are crazier than a bunch of coocoo

parrots. "

"What's the on-scene evaluation?"

"Cut the crap, man, I got almost killed!"

"A firefight? "

"Wid fish? Don't be dumb ... wid crazy old men wid beards

who don't speak no h'English.

"You're not making sense, D-One. "

"There h'ain't a lot of that goin' around. Specially wid the tall

skinny gringo you got a bad thing for "Be clearer, Corporal!"

"He sent some old men away in the big black car wearing silly

clothes-he thinks we don't catch on. He's one dumb gringo!"

"Catch on to what?"

"He @ waidin' for annuder car One of his amigos is standing

in front, lookin' around. "

"Goddamn, I'll never get back there in time. We're going to

lose him! "

"Not to worry, loco man-"

"Not worry? Every hour counts!"

"Hey, man, how far do these liddle radios go for talkin'?

"They're military-cellular megahertz frequencied. Up to a

hundred and ftfiy miles over land, twice that over water "

"We h'ain't goin' swimmin' in no cars, so everything@ Wokay.

"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"We're gonna follow the gringo and his amigos.

"Follow ... ? For the love of Caesar's legions, in what? "

"Desi-Dos already hotwired a nice Cheffy. Not to worry, we'll

stay in touch wid chu.

"You're stealing a car?"

"Hey, we don' steal nudding. It's like you say-good estrategia.

Right, loco man?"

Paddy Lafferty was definitely not amused by the three bearded,

elderly Greeks in the back of the Pinkus limou-98 ROBERT LUDLUM

sine. One, they smelled like a combination of dead fish and

baklava; two, they kept turning on every switch they could find, like

mental cases in a Video World; three, they looked ridiculous in the

ill-fitting jackets belonging to Sam, Stosh, and Knute--especially

with their beards halfcovering the lapels; four, there was a distinct

possibility that one of them had blown his nose-twice--on the velour

window drapes; five--oh, hell, what was the point? He'd have to do

a complete detail job on the car before Mrs. Pinkus stepped into it.

It wasn't that Paddy objected to what Sam was doing; actually,

it was kind of exciting and surely broke up the monotony of his

daily driving schedule, but nothing was really clear to Lafferty. In

truth, the whole truth was known only to the Devereaux boyo and

Mr. Pinkus. Apparently, Sammy had been mixed up in some terrible

shenanigans a few years ago and now someone was coming after

him to, settle a score or two. That, of course, was enough for

Paddy; he was very fond of Devereaux, even though the hotshot

lawyer could be a little squirrelly at times, and anybody who knew

the name of one of the army's great men, General MacKenzie

Hawkins, was someone sort of special in Lafferty's eyes. Too few

people these days, especially the yuppie types, paid the respect

due the great old soldiers, so it was nice to know that among Sam's

qualities was a regard for the country's true heroes.

All this was on the plus side for Mr. Pinkus and his favored

employee, but what wasn't so plug was the information Paddy felt

they all should be given. For instance, who was after Sam, and

why, and what did they look like? Surely the answers to these

simple questions were vital to Devereaux's protection. Well, not

necessarily the why, because that could be a legal thing, but the

who and what the hell they looked like were pretty damned

important. Instead, all they were told was that Sam would know,

Sam would raise an alarm the instant he recognized the bastard or

bastards coming after him. Well, Lafferty had never been an officer,

but even a combat sergeant knew a short, proper response to that

kind of reasoning. As that great

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 99

soldier Mac the Hawk might have said: "You don't make a primary

target one of your forward scouts."

Suddenly, the limo's telephone rang, abruptly shattering the

chauffeur's hero-oriented thoughts about a man he surely

worshiped from ten glorious days in France when that great soldier

led their battalion. "Lafferty here," he said, the phone out of its

recess and next to his ear.

"Paddy, it's Sam Devereaux!" yelled the voice over the line.

"Somehow I can tell that, boyo. What is it, Sammy?"

"Are you being followed?"

"I was hopin' to be, but I'm afraid not, and I've kept one eye on

the miffors-"

"We are!"

"That don't make sense, lad. Are you sure?"

"Definitely! I'm calling from a pay phone on the

Waltham road-at a place called Nanny's Naughty Follies

Et Cetera."

"Hey, boyo, get out of there@ You shouldn't be seen on those

premises. Mr. Pinkus wouldn't like it."

"What? Why?"

"Are you callin' from the phone about ten feet from the jukebox?"

"Yes, I guess so, I see a jukebox."

"Look over to your left, at that big circular bar below a long,

raised platform."

"Yes, yes, I will.... There's just a bunch of dancers-oh, my God,

they're all naked! Women and men!"

I "That's the et cetera, boyo. Now, if I were you, I'd take fleet feet

and beat it."

"I can't! Knute and Stosh went out after the Chevy that was

following our cab and stopped when we stopped. I mean, they're

really professionals, Paddy. They spotted the 'tag'-they called it a

'tag'-and got rid of the taxi, and now they're closing in."

"I'll be there in less than ten minutes, Sammy! I'm droppin' these

Greek archbishops off at the next gas station and swingin' north.

I know a shortcut. Ten minutes, boyo!"

100 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Loco man, are you wid us?"

"If your trail markers are accurate, no more than five minutes, D-

One. I just passed the Chicken Shot Cafg, the one with the red

neon rooster sign. "

"Maybe you gringos don't know dee difference. Maybe you eat

chicken McRooster, no? ... It don't take you even. five minutes from

that place. "

"What's the status-what's happening?"

"We good corporates. We got a liddle surprise for you, loco

man. "

"Ten-four!"

"Ees not six o'clock-"

"Rolling! "

The stolen Oldsmobile from somewhere in the Midwest careened

into Nanny's parking lot in less than three minutes, MacKenzie

Hawkins chewing the stub of his cigar 'and peering out the

windshield for his aides-de-camp. Instantly, he saw D-Two at the far

end of the asphalt, waving what looked like a large, torn dark

blanket. As he raced toward his mechanically talented adjutant, he

saw that the signal flag was not a blanket but, instead, a pair of

trousers. The Hawk leaped out of the car and approached D-Two,

taking a moment to straighten his too-long, toored, and, definitely

still too-loose wig.

"What's your report, Corporal?" asked Mac anxiously. "And what

the hell are those?" he added, nodding at the trousers.

"Dere pants, loco man, what you think?"

"I can see they're pants, but what are you doing with them?"

"Ees better I got 'em than the bad amigo who usually wears

dem, no? As long as I have deze and Desi-Uno has the odders, the

two dumb amigos stay where dey are."

"The two-the escorts, the convoys? Where are they ... and

where's the target?"

"Come wid me." D-Two led the Hawk down the deserted far side

of the building, which was obviously used for deliveries and

garbage pickups. Parked next to a large trash dumpster, parked so

close that the door could not possibly be opened, was a Chevrolet

coupe, its opposite door equally secured by a long, discarded

tablecloth knot- THE ROAD TO OMAHA 101

ted to the handle and tied to the rear bumper. Inside, one in front,

the other in the narrow rear seat, were Devereaux's two guards,

their apoplectic faces pressed against the glass of the windows.

Closer inspection disclosed the fact that both wore only

undershorts, and further surveillance revealed two pairs of shoes

and socks placed neatly by the exposed rear tire. "Dee odder win-

dows we open a liddle bit so they got h'air, you know?" explained

D-Two.

"Good thinking," said Mac. 'The Geneva Convention calls for

humane treatment for prisoners of war... Where the hell's D-One?"

"Right here, loco man," answered Desi the First, coming around

the trunk of the Chevrolet while counting a roll of bills. "Deze

amigos should find better yobs or better women. If it wasn't for

your man in dee photograph, they h'ain't worth the trouble."

"We don't strip prisoners of nonhostile personal posses sions,"

said the Hawk firinly. "Put it back in their wallets."

"Hey, man," protested D-One, "what's personal about dinero? I

buy somet'ing from you, I pay. You buy somet'ing from me, you

pay. A personal possession is somet'ing you keep, right? No one

keeps dinero, so it's not personal."

"They didn't buy anything from you."

"What about deze?" said D-One, holding up a pair of trousers.

"And doze," he continued quickly, pointing at the shoes.

"You stole 'em all!"

"Dat's life, loco man. Or, as you say, dat's 'strategy,' right?"

"We're wasting time, but I'll say this now. You've both shown

exemplary initiative, one might even say extraordinary inventiveness

under fire. You're a credit to this outfit and I'll recommend you for

commendation."

"Dat's beautifool!"

"Is dat more dinem hulf?"

"We'll get to that later; the objective comes first. Where's the

target?"

"Dee skinny man in d'photograph?"

"Right on, soldier."

102 ROBERT LUDLUM

"He's inside, and dat is a joint my mama and my priest would

spit on me for ever goin' into!" exclaimed D-Two, blessing himself

"Woh boy!"

"Bad whisky, eh, son?"

"Bad entretenimiento. Like you say here, repugnante!"

"I don't think we say that, boy. You mean disgusting?"

"Well ... one half, not the other half."

I don't follow you, Corporal."

"Everything jiggles. Top and bottom."

"Top and ... ? Holy hordes of Genghis Khan! You mean--2'

"Daz wot I mean, loco man! I sneaked in to find the gringo you

don' like.... He was hangin' up the telifono and went to dee big

round bar where all these crazy people were dancin'-desnudo,

sefior!"

"And? "

"He's Wokay. He watched the mujeres, not the hombres."

"Christ spinning a yo-yo! We don't just have to take the son of

a bitch, we have to rescue him. Roll, troops!"

Suddenly, without warning, a small green Buick sped out of the

line of cars in the Nanny's Et Cetera parking lot, screeching to a

stop only yards in front of the Hawk and his advancing aides-de-

camp. A frail figure emerged, his gaunt face impassive, but his dark

eyes alive with electricity. I think this is as far as you should go,"

he said.

"Who the hell are you, little man?" cried MacKenzie Hawkins.

"Little in stature, but not necessarily in stature, if you can follow

a dual application of terms."

I break the liddle old gringo in half, but I don' hurt him too bad,

Wokay, loco man," said D-One, walking forward.

I come to you in peace, not violence," said the driver of the

Buick rapidly. "Simply to confer on a civilized basis."

"Hold it!" ordered the Hawk, stopping D-One. I repeat, who are

you and what's the nature of this conference?" "My name is Aaron

Pinkus-"

"You're Pinkus?"

"One and the same, sir, and I assume that under that

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 103

rather foolish-looking wig, you're the celebrated General MacKenzie

Hawkins?"

"One and the same, sir," replied Mac, dramatically ripping the

inadequate toupee away from his bristling, gray military brushcut

and standing erect, the very breadth of his shoulders threatening.

"What have we to say to each other, sir?"

"I'd estimate a great deal, General. I'd like to think of myself,

with your permission, General, as your counterpart, the commander

of the opposition for this small skirmish we find ourselves in. Is

that acceptable?"

"I'll say this for you, Commander Pinkus. I thought I had superb

support adjutants, but you outflanked 'em, I'll not deny it."

"Then you must reevaluate that judgment, General. I didn't

outflank them, I outflanked you. You see, you remamed on that

busy street for over an hour, so I had my Buick brought down and

stayed behind you when you followed Shirley's limousine."

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

"Your two men were brilliant, positively brilliant. In fact, I would

happily employ either of them. The business in the fish market, the

reconvening in the shadows of the doorways across the street-and,

wondrously, without a car key, but by simply raising the hood of

this car in front of us, turning on the engine! All my purported

wisdom deserts me. How did they do it?"

'Te's simple, Comandante," said a bfight-eyed D-Two. "You see,

there are three wires that have to be pried loose and den you cross-

"

"Halt!" yelled the Hawk, staring at Aaron Pinkus. "You said you

outflanked me, you old bastard--2'

"I suspect we're the same age," interrupted the renowned Boston

attorney.

"Not where I come from!"

"Nor perhaps myself, except for the shrapnel in my spine from

Normandy," said Pinkus quietly.

" You were--2'

'Third Army, General. But let's not get off the track. I did

outflank you, because I've recently become familiar

104 ROBERT LUDLUM

with your military record, your unorthodox but marvelously

successful tactics. I had to be, for Sam's sake."

"Sam? Sam's the man I've got to see!"

"You will do that, General. And I 5hall be in attendance for every

word you say."

Without warning or even a hint of sound until it swung off the

highway and into the parking lot, the thunderous engine of the

Pinkus limousine announced the vehicle's Wagnerian presence to

the area. Obviously spotting his employer's Buick, Paddy Lafferty

swerved to the left and sped across the pavement, tires howling as

he skidded to a stop ten feet in front of the small gathering at the

side of the building. The chauffeur leaped out of the car, his sixty-

three-year-old bulk prepared for all manner of brutal assaults.

"Stand aside, Mr. Pinkus!" he roared. "I don't know what you're

doin' here, sir, but these scum won't touch you!"

"Your concern is very gratifying, Paddy, but no show of force is

required. Our conference proceeds peacefully."

"Conference ... T'

"A council of commanders, you could say.... Mr. Lafferty, may I

introduce you to the great General MacKenzie Hawkins, of whom

you may have heard."

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," whispered the chauffeur,

dumbstruck.

"Dee loco man is really a heneral grande?" said DesiOne, equally

impressed.

"El soldado magn(fico!" added Desi-Two softly, staring in wonder

at the Hawk.

"You won't believe this," choked Paddy, finding a small part of

his voice. "I was thinkin' about you only moments ago, sir, your

great name having passed the lips of a reverent former young

soldier." Suddenly the chauffeur stood at attention, whipping his

right arm up in a snapping salute. "Gunnery Sergeant Patrick

Lafferty at your service and your command, sir! ... This is a privilege

beyond me, wildest dreams-"

Then the screaming began, muted at first by the distant highway

traffic, but growing louder by the moment as the racing feet

approached them. "Paddy, Paddy! I saw the

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 105

limo! Where are you, Paddy? ... For Christ's sake, Lafferty, answer

me!"

"Over here, Sam. Quick march, soldier!"

"What?" Devereaux raced around the corner of the building

gasping for breath. Before he could adjust his eyes to the

shadows, Patrick Lafferty barked his authoritative sergeant's bark.

"'Tenhut, boyo! I present you to one of the great _men of our time,

General MacKenzie Hawkins!"

"Hi, Sam."

Devereaux was momentarily paralyzed, capable only of deep-

throated moans that emerged from his gaping mouth, his eyes wild

in panic. Abruptly, with the speed of a terrified egret, he whipped

around and started racing across the parking lot, waving his arms

helter-skelter and raging at the descending sun.

"After him, adjutants!"

"For God's sake, stop him, Paddy!"

The Hawk's aides-de-camp were swifter than Aaron Pinkus's

older chauffeur. Desi the First tackled Sam perilously close to the

lowered tailgate of A pickup truck, while Desi the Second held

Devereaux's head and, ripping off his tie, stuffed it into his mouth.

"Boyo, " shouted the revisited Gunnery Sergeant Patrick Lafferty,

"it's a disgrace, you are! is that any way to show respect to one of

the finest men who ever wore the uniformT'

"Mmmff " protested Samuel Lansing Devereaux, pinching his

eyes shut in defeat.

tall

,,Nice quarters, Commander Pinkus, very nice, indeed," announced

MacKenzie Hawkins, striding out of a bedroom in the hotel suite to

which the conference had repaired. The former general's gray

gabardine suit had been replaced by his Indian buckskins and his

beaded Wopotami jacket-without, however, his tribal headdress.

"It's obvious you're high-strategy staff."

"I keep the place for business purposes and also because

Shirley likes the address," said Aaron absently, his concentration on

the voluminous pages scattered over the desk in front of him, his

eyes behind his thick glasses wide with anticipation. "This is

incredible!" he added quietly.

"Well, sir, having been with Winston at Chequers," intetjected the

Hawk, "I wouldn't go that far. I simply said it was very nice. The

ceilings aren't nearly so high, and the historical prints on the walls

are definitely third-rate and actually clash with the decor, as well as

with accuracy.,,

"We in Boston do our best to introduce the tourists to our past,

General," mumbled Pinkus, his concentration on the papers

uninterrupted. "Accuracy has little to do with environmental

authenticity."

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 107

"Dante crossing the river--2'

"Try Boston Harbor," broke in Aaron, turning over a page.

"Where did you get this?" he suddenly cried, taking off his glasses

and staring at MacKenzie. "What extraordinary scholar of both law

and history put it all together? Who's responsible?"

"Him, " replied the Hawk, pointing at the shell-shocked

Devereaux, sitting on the couch ten feet away. He was squashed

between his two guards, Stosh and Knute, his arms and legs free

to move but not his mouth, which was bound with three-inch-wide

adhesive tape. Of course, General Hawkins had insisted that Sam's

lips be layered with Vaseline so as not to violate the Geneva

accords for prisoners of war. In truth, no one could stand listening

to Devereaux's diatribes any longer, including the general's aides-

de-camp, Desi-One and Desi-Two, who stood behind the couch,

their postures erect and their arms militarily akimbo.

"Samuel did this?" asked Aaron Pinkus in disbelief "Well, not

actually himself, but he certainly was the spirit behind it, so you

could say that in a very real sense he's responsible."

"Mmmffl" came the muted but still howling protest from the

couch as Devereaux lunged forward, tripping over his feet and

landing facedown on the floor. Grimacing in fury at the Hawk, he

scrambled up as the general gave his command.

"Adjutants, assault positions!" As a trained commando unit,

Desis One and Two leaped over the couch, the former using the rim

of the sofa, the latter the head of Knute to vault over the couch and

instantly close the distance between themselves and Sam, Pinning

him back on the floor, they looked up at the Hawk for instructions.

"Well done, gentlemen.,,

"No wonder you recruited from your own personnel, General,"

said Pinkus admiringly, standing up behind the desk. "Are they

Rangers?"

"In a manner of speaking," replied MacKenzie. "They're

specialists in airport security.... Let him up, men. Put him in the

chair in front of the desk and flank him.

108 ROBERT LUDLUM

"You two," said Aaron, looking over at Sam's bewildered Boston

guards and speaking gently but not without a mild rebuke. "I don't

mean to criticize, yet it appears to me that you might benefit from

some of this military instruction, as it obviously pertains to your

work. These soldiers are inordinately quick to perceive the

necessity 'for action, and their nonviolent tactics-such as stripping

you of your trousers-is most impressive."

"Hey, Comandante!" offered D-Two, grinning widely. "You rip off

a gringo and take his pants, he Wain't goin' run into d'street yellin'

his head off, h'okay?"

"That'll do, Corporal. Barracks humor doesn't carry well with

passive combatants."

"Beautifool!" cried D-One.

"General," said Pinkus, "if you think it's feasible, I believe it's

time we now restrict this conference to you, Samuel, and me."

"I quite agree,, sir," agreed the Hawk. "Fhe sequestered

discussions between us should be opened up to include the young

fellow." '

"Perhaps you might consider tying him-loosely, to be sure-to the

chair, as Mr. Lafferty---excuse me, Sergeant Lafferty did previously."

"I'lien you must have dismissed the gunny when you talked to

Sam."

"The gunny? ... Oh, yes, the gunnery sergeant-yes, I did."

"No need for that, now. I'm here.... Adjutants, stand to! You're

dismissed for mess call."

"Hey, loco man, we're real pretty."

"Grub, Corporal. Get some food in your bellies and report back

here in one hour." MacKenzie reached into his buckskin pocket and

withdrew his money clip, peeling off several bills and handing them

to D-One. "I'm adding this to your per them due to your outstanding

efficiency."

"Ee's our dinero?" said D-Two, scowling at the money.

"Supplemental pay, Corporal. It's in addition to your dinero,

which will come later. Take the word of a general officer." '

"Wokay, grande Heneral," responded D-One. "We take a lot, but

when do you giveT'

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 109

"Let's have no hint of insubordination, young fella. Despite the

fact that our close association on this mission permits a degree of

camaraderie, others might not understand."

"Beautifool! I don't understand, neither."

"Get something to eat and come back in an hour. Dismissed!"

Desis One and Two shrugged and went to the door, the former

checking the time on the three watches strapped to his left wrist as

they let themselves out. The Hawk then nodded to Aaron Pinkus.

"As my captive and, somewhat contrary to tradition, also my host,

you may address your troops, Commander."

"You're what and I'm who? ... Oh, yes, I understand." Pinkus

turned to the perplexed Stosh and Kmite on the couch.

"Gentlemen," he began hesitantly, searching for the appropriate

words, "you are relieved of your current duties, and if you would be

so kind as to come to our office tomorrow-at your convenience, of

course-you will be reimbursed by our accounts department,

naturally including the rest of the evening."

"I'd put 'ern in the stockade!" shouted the Hawk, shoving his

cigar into his mouth. '@'They're assholes! Dereliction,

incompetence, and freezing under fire--damn near court-martial

material."

"We do things differently in civilian life, General. Dereliction and

incompetence are necessary components in the lower ranks of the

work force. Otherwise, their superiors, who are frequently less

competent but speak better, could never justify their salaries.... Off

you go, gentlemen, and I'm quite sincere in my suggestion that you

seek the training so well inculcated in your counterparts on the

general's staff." Stosh and Knute, their sad expressions conveying

their genuinely hurt feelings, left quickly. "There, General," said

Aaron. "We're alone."

"Mmmff " cried Devereaux.

"I included you, Samuel. As much as I might prefer to overlook

you, it's not very easy to do so."

"Mmm .Ifp 11

"Cut you r whining, son," ordered the Hawk. "As long as you

don't shout your goddamned head off, your hands are ftee and you

can remove the security strip.... No

110 ROBERT LUDLUM

sweat, your mouth will still be there, I'm sincerely sorry to say."

Slowly at first, then in a burst of machismo, Sam yanked'the tape

off, yelped, then proceeded to purse his lips about in various

contortions as if to make sure they were functional. "You look like

a skinny piglet in heat," added MacKenzie.

"You look like a cigar-store Indian who just escaped from a

quarantined wigwam!" yelled Devereaux, leaping up from the chair.

"What the hell are you supposed to be, Tonto with a lobotomy? ...

And what the hell do you mean-I'm responsible for whatever that

crap is on Aaron's desk? I haven't seen you or heard from you in

years, you low-life worm of worms!"

"You still have a tendency to get a mite excitable under pressure,

don't you, boy?"

"In his defense, General," interrupted Pinkus, "in the courtroom

he's ice-cold, a veritable laid-back James Stewart, the stutter itself

pure calculation."

"In a courtroom," exploded Sam, "I know what the hell I'm doing!

When I'm around this subterranean son of a bitch, I never knew,

because he either didn't tell me, or the gung-ho maggot lied to me!"

"Wrong terminology, young fella. It's called disinformation for

your own protection--2'

"It's called bullshit, ensuring my own self-destruction! Now

answer my question: Why am I responsible-no, wait a minute-%%t

am I responsible for? How can I be responsible for whatever dumb

thing you've done when we haven't spoken to each other,in years?"

"Again, in fairness," Pinkus broke in, gently but firmly. "General

Hawkins stated that you were responsible only in the sense that you

were the spirit behind the project, said spiritual influence subject to

the widest possible interpretation or misinterpretation thus limiting

or conceivably eliminating any liability or even -association with the

endeavor."

"Stop playing lawyer with this overgrown mutant, Aaron. The

only law he knows makes jungle justice look like high tea in an

English rose garden. He's pure savage without one iota of

redeeming morality!"

"You ought to have your blood pressure checked, son."

IHE ROAD TO OMAHA ill

"You ought to have your head checked into a taxidermy shop!

Now what the hell have you done, and why me?"

"Please," Pinkus intruded once again, shrugging apologetically

at the Hawk, his brows now arched. "Permit me to attempt an

explanation, General. As one attorney might to another, is that

acceptable?"

"We of command know best how to handle our own personnel,

sir," replied MacKenzie. "Truthfully speaking, I cousined the hope

that you might clear your flanks and march to my drummer in that

direction. Frankly, it's why I showed you the core of the operation-

not the tactics or my rules of engagement, naturally, but the down-

range objective, as it were. Such basic intelligence is rarely a

secret between such men as ourselves."

"Excellent initial strategy, General. I commend you."

"Commend him?" shouted Devereaux. "What the hell is he

doing, marching on Rome?"

"We did that, Sam," said the Hawk quietly. "Remember, son?"

"That is one topic you will never refer to in my presence, General

Hawkins," insisted Aaron coldly.

"I figured you knew-2'

"You think Samuel would tell me?"

"Hell, no. You could order him to a kamikaze squadron and he'd

short out the spark plugs. No stomach."

"Then how?"

'The hish gunny described your covert surgical strike into Sam's

quarter - s. Gunnies usually try to impress command with their

contributions."

"So?"

"Well, you mentioned that the sergeant had tied the boy up and

that told me you had dismissed the gunny before talking to Sam,

which you admitted."

"And? "

"Why tie him up unless he was hysterical like he is now? And

why would such a cool officer of the court-a side of Sam I haven't

seen a whole hell of a lot of-be hysterical unless this incursion of

yours produced something about him that he never wanted anyone,-

especially you, to know about?"

112 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Based on certain obvious premises, your deductive reasoning

is acute."

"Mat and the fact that when Sam slammed the phone down on

me, he missed. I heard another voice over the line-one that didn't

have much more control than Sambo's-and when we met in the

parking lot, I knew it was you, Commander Pinkus. You yelled a fair

amount yourself that afternoon. Especially about a certain opera-

tion of ours that concerned the Vatican."

"So much for a priori deduction," said Aaron, now shrugging in

defeat.

"So much for lizardshit!" roared Devereaux. "I'm here!

I exist! If you prick me, do I not bleed--2'

"Hardly appropriate, Samuel."

"What's inappropriate? I'm listening to a couple of refugees from

a Prussian time warp! My future, my career, my life itself-all are

about to shatter into a thousand pieces of broken mirrors--2'

"Very nice, son," broke in the Hawk. "Like the imagery.,,

"He stole it from a French playwright named Anouilh," added the

venerated Boston lawyer. "Samuel's full of surprises, General."

"Stop it!" screamed Devereaux. "I demand to be heard!"

"Hell, boy, they can hear you down in Washington, right to the

Army G-Two data banks, where they keep all those intelligence

files." '

"I have the right to remain silent," mumbled Sam, barely audible

and collapsing back into,the chair, pouting.

"'Then perhaps I may be 'allowed to break the silence, since

you've restricted it to yourself?" asked Pinkus.

"Mmmff, " came the tight-lipped reply.

"Thank you.... The point of your question, Samuel, focused on

the material provided me by General Hawkins. Granted, there

hasn't been time to read it thoroughly, but from what I can glean

with a fairly practiced eye that's been perusing such documents for

nearly fifty years, it's incredible. Rarely have I ever read a more

convincing brief. The legal historian who compiled this had the pa-

tience and imagination to perceive suspended or broken

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 113

lines of legislative debate knowing that somewhere there had to be

buried additional records that formed contiguous data spelling out

the missing pieces. If this all stands up, the conclusions would

appear to be indisputable, supported by copies of the original,

authentic papers! Where did your source ever find them, General?"

"It's only rumor, of course," answered the Hawk, frowning

quizzically, "but I've heard that they could only have been unearthed

from the sealed historical archives at the Bureau of Indian Affairs."

"The sealed archives ... T' Aaron Pinkus looked harshly at the

general, then sat down quickly in the chair and picked up several

pages, bringing each close to his eyes, studying them not for

content but for something else. "Dear Abraham," he whispered, "I

know these watermarks ... they were picked up by an extremely

sensitive copier, a state-of-the-art machine."

"Only the best, Commander." 'Hawkins abruptly stopped; it was

instantly apparent that he regretted the statement. He glanced over

at Sam, who was staring at him, then cleared his throat. "I guess

those pointy-heads-those scholarly types-get the best equipment."

"Almost never," uttered Devereaux in a low, accusing monotone.

"Regardless, General," Pinkus continued, "a number of these

papers-I refer to the ones concerning the historical documents-are

actually reproductions of the original' photostats-photographs of

photographs!"

"I beg your pardon?" The Hawk began mutilating the cigar in his

mouth.

"In the days before copiers, when you couldn't simply flatten out

aged or rotted parchment, or piece fragments together, and run a

beam of light over the whole for an accurate facsimile, photographs,

then later photostats, were made to be entered into the archives

replacing the disintegrating originals."

"Commander, I'm not really interested in that technical crap--2'

"You should be, General," interrupted Aaron. "Your unnamed

legal source may well have come upon a decadesold conspiracy,

but his discovery may conceivably be

114 ROBERT LUDLUM

based on stolen evidence long since consigned to the sealed vaults

of the government's archives for reasons of the gravest national

concern."

"What?" mumbled Hawkins numbly, aware that Sam Devereaux

was now glaring at him.

"The watermarks on these archival photostats indicate a rare,

steel filamentous paper designed to withstand the ravages of time

and the environmental conditions of the vaults. Actually, I believe

Thomas Edison invented it around the turn of the century, and it

was ordered into limited archival use in 1910 or 1911."

"Limited use ... T' asked Devereaux hesitantly, his teeth clenched

as he continued to stare at the Hawk.

"Everything's relative, Samuel. In those days deficit spending,

when it existed, was restricted to no more than several hundred

thousand dollars, and even those figures could freeze the Potomac.

The steel-threaded pages in these photographs were enormously

expensive, and to convert thousands upon thousands of historical

documents into them would have broken the treasury. Therefore,

only a limited number were chosen."

"Limited to what, Aaron?"

Pinkus turned to General MacKenzie Hawkins, his demeanor

perilously close to that of a judge pronouncing sentence. "To those

documents determined by the government to remain beyond

scrutiny for a minimum of a hundred and fifty years."

"Well, goddamn!" The Hawk whistled softly, slapping his beaded

buckskins. "Pay dirt!" he added, looking benevolently at Sam.

"Aren't you proud, son, to have been the 'spiritual influence,' as the

fine commander here put it, behind this grand project?"

"What fucking project?" choked Devereaux. "And what

goddamned spiritual influence?"

"Well, Sam, you know how you always used to talk about the

downtrodden people on this earth and how so little was done to

help them? Some might have called all that spewing and mewing

horseshit left-wing garbage, but I never did. I mean, I really

respected your point of view, son, I really did."

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 115

"You never respected anything or anybody that couldn't blow

you away into a grave!"

"Now that's not true, boy, and you know it," MacKenzie

admonished, shaking his index finger at Devereaux. "Remember all

those discussions you had with the girls? Each one.of those dear

ladies would call me and express her genuine respect and affection

for you and your philosophical expressions of compassion.

Especially Annie, wha-2'

"Don't ever mention that name to me!" roared Sam, clapping his

hands over his ears.

"I don't know why not, son. I talk with her frequently, especially

when she gets herself in some of those hairy situations she's prone

to, and let me tell you, Sam, she really cares for you."

"How could she?" yelled Devereaux, trembling with rage. "She

married Jesus, not me!"

"Dear Abraham," intoned Pinkus. "I'm not a party to this

colloquy."

"That's a different caliber of weapon, son, if you'll forgive the

comparison.... But hear me out, boy. I searched for the

downtrodden, a people who got screwed by the system, and put.all

my efforts in setting things right. Somehow I thought you'd be

proud of me--God knows, I tried." The Hawk lowered his chin down

into the open collar of his beaded Wopotami jacket, his gaze

forlornly on the carpeted floor of the hotel suite. ,

"Cut that crap out, Mac! I don't know what the hell you did or

tried to do, I only know I don't want to know!"

"Maybe you should, Sam."

"Just ... one minute," Pinkus interrupted, his eyes on the contrite

Hawk. "I think it's time I should reach into my exaggerated bag of

legal expertise and pull out a specific, if rarely used, statute. The

penalty for unauthorized invasion of sealed government archives

carries a sentence of thirty years' imprisonment."

"You don't say?" said the general, his gaze roaming the carpet

as if trying to find a pattern on the all-blue covering.

"Yes, I do say, General. And since this information has no

discernible effect on you, I must happily presume that

116 ROBERT LUDLUM

your counsel had full authorization to study the documents referred

to in this brief"

"Wrongo!" shouted Sam. "He stole them-it's the G-Two mess all

over again! This lousy excuse for a human being, this unmitigated

military mistake, this legend of larceny did it again! I know it

because I know him-I know that dirty little boy look, the rotten kid

who wets his bed and tells you it was raining under the covers.

He's the one who did it!"

"Judgments made in the white heat of emotional reactions are

rarely sound, Samuel," said Pinkus, shaking his head critically.

"Judgments made in the cold light of objective observation over

a long and agonizing period of time are generally irrefutable,"

rejoined Devereaux. "If the cookies are made of molasses and the

son of a bitch has his hand in the jar with his fingers stuck together,

you can be goddamned sure you found the perpetrator! Recidivism

is a term the criminal courts have lived with for years."

- "Well, General," continued Aaron, peering at the Hawk over the

rim of his glasses. "The prosecution seems to have raised a valid

point, since he relates the current circumstances to a previous act

you yourself have confirmed regarding the stolen intelligence files.

Behavioral patterns are limited but acceptable evidence."

"Now, Commander Pinkus," began MacKenzie, squinting and

pursing his lips in bewilderment, "all this legal verbiage has my

head spinning. To tell you the truth, I can't follow half of what you

say."

"Liar!" crie'd Sam, suddenly breaking into a loud singsong chant,

like a child taunting another. "It's raining under the cov-verrs, it's

raining under the cov-verrs ... !"

"Samuel, be quiet," admonished the elderly lawyer, his voice

ringing with authority as he turned back to the Hawk. "I believe we

can settle this expeditiously, General. Professional courtesy has

restrained me from insisting on the name of your incredibly gifted

counsel, but now I'm afraid that I must. As an officer of the court,

he can refute my young associate's allegation and clear up the

matter."

"It's hardly proper, sir," said Hawkins, his expression stoic, "for

one commanding officer to ask another to be-THE ROAD TO OMAHA 117

tray a confidence. That sort of thing is for the lower echelon, where

honor's not so prevalent and spines are less than steel."

"Now come, really, General, where is the harm? Surely this brief,

as brilliantly persuasive as it appears to be from what I've read, still

has not been tested. Heaven knows, without attorney attribution

and in the absence of government challenge, it certainly hasn't been

submitted to any court." Aaron paused, laughing softly. "If it had

been, we'd all know about it, as our entire judicial system, as well

as the Department of Defense, would come to a stop, all the

participants screaniing in frenzy. So you see, General Hawkins,

there's nothing to be lost or gained. . .." Pinkus's genial

countenance suddenly froze on his face. Slowly, involuntarily, it

faded as his eyes grew wide and his face ashen. "Dear Abraham,

please don't desert me," he whispered, staring at MacKenzie

Hawkins's totally blank expression. "My God, it was submitted!"

"In a manner of speaking, it found its way to the place where it

was intended."

"It surely couldn't have been a legitimate court of law."

"Again, Commander, you might find allies in that assessment."

" Wis it?"

"Some say it is."

"But there's been nothing in the media, and, believe me, they'd

all be colliding with one another to get such extraordinary news out.

It's catastrophic!"

"There could be a reason for that."

"What reasonT'

"Hyman Goldfarb."

"Hyman whoT',

"Goldfarb."

"It strikes a bell, but I really haven't the vaguest--2' "He used

to be a football player."

In the flash of several seconds, Aaron Pinkus's face lost twenty

years. "You mean Hymie the Hurricane? The Hebrew Hercules . ..

? Do you really know him, Mac-I mean ... General, of course?"

"Know him? I recruited that yarmulke yo-yo."

"You did? ... Not only was he the greatest linebacker

118 ROBERT LUDLUM

in the NFL, but he broke the stereotype of-shall we say, the overly

cautious Jewish male. He was a lion of Judea, the terror of the

defense--on a par with Moshe Dayan on the American football field!"

"He was also a crook-"

"Spare me! He was my hero of the hour, a symbol for all of us-

the highly intelligent muscular giant who made us proud.... What do

you mean, he was a crook?"

"Well, he's never actually been indicted--close, but no

arraignments-but then there are reasons for that, too."

"Indictments, reasons? What are you talking about?"

"He does a lot of work-not exactly officially-for the government.

For a fact, I kinda started him off in that department, for the army,

actually."

"Will you please make sense, General?"

"In a short-shell casing, we had some fat, loose lips regarding

certain weapons specifications that we couldn't uncover,, even

though we knew where the leaks were coming from. I ran across

Goldfarb, who was setting up a consulting business on security

measures-hell, a picture of him in an undershirt would scare the shit

out of Godzilla-and told-him to get to work on the problem. You

might say that he and his troops go where the Inspector General's

office wouldn't get near."

"General, what has Hyman Goldfarb got to do with the silence

that has followed your incredible brief when there should be

pandemonium?"

"Well,as these things happen in Dizzy City, one thing led to

another for the Hurricane. I mean, his reputation spread like a

brushfire started with flamethrowers, and before you could sit shiva,

everybody in town wanted his services --- especially against one

another. His list of government agency clients reads like the who's

who and what's what around the Potomac. He's got a lot of power-

ful hiends who wouldn't admit they ever heard of him if you plucked

their short hairs with a pair of pliers. Squashing indictments are his

for raising an eyebrow... You see, @ that's when I really knew we

might be close to pay dirt.,,

"Pay dirt ... T' Aaron shook his head back and forth as

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 119

though trying to stop the clanging cymbals inside his skull. "May

I ask for clarification?" he pleaded.

"His people came after me, Commander Pinkus. It was an

ambush, the objective capture and silencer read 'ern like a book."

"Capture ... silence, a book? They came after you ... T "After the

Wopotami brief was filed-long after! Which has to mean the brief's

being taken seriously but the news is being kept under the ponchos

because the beltway's about to spiral up to the moon. So what do

they do in the meantime? They hire Hymie the Hurricane to solve

their problem. Search, capture, and destroy! Read 'em like a book."

"But, General, the lower judiciary, with its caseloads and

backlogs and. . ." Once again, Aaron Pinkus's expression froze as

his words tradEd off into audible vapor. "Oh, dear God, it wasn't ...

? It wasn't."

"You know the rules, Commander. A plaintiff suing the state has

direct access, dependent only on the validity of argument."

"No ... no, you couldn't have!"

"I'm afraid I did. A little outside persuasion on a couple of

sensitive law clerks and we went right up to the big legal bathtub."

"What bathtub?" shouted! a totally confounded Devereaux.

"What kind of crap is this moral degenerate trying to sell?"

"I fear he may have sold it to someone else," said Aaron, his

voice faint. "He's taken this brilliantly evolved brief-based on

materials stolen from the sealed archives-Airectly to the Supreme

Court."

"You've got to be kidding!"

"For everyone's sake, I wish I were." Pinkus abruptly found his

voice and his posture. "Now, however, we can plumb the depths of

this insanity. Who's the attorney-ofrecord for the plaintiffs,

General? A simple phone call will reveal the name."

"I'm not sure it will, Commander."

"What?"

"It just got there this morning."

"This morning ... T'

120 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Well, you see, there was this Indian brave who fed me

misinformation, which is different from disinformation, regarding

a little matter of a bar exam--2'

"Just answer my question, General! The attomey-ofrecord, if

you please!"

"Him," replied the Hawk, pointing at Sam Devereaux.

ta

Vincent Francis Assisi Mangecavallo, known in certain select circles

as Vinnie the BamBam, and also as code Ragu, director of the

Central Intelligence Agency, paced his office in Langley, Virginia, a

perplexed, frustrated man. He had heard nothing! What could have

gone wrong? The plan was so simple, so flawless, so airtight. A

equals B equals C, therefore A equals C, but somewhere within that

simple equation, Hyman Goldfarb and his people had lost their

marbles and Vincent's own man, the best and most innocuous

shadow in the business, had only managed to get lost! Big Foot!

The Abominable Snowman! What the hell was wrong with the

Hurricane? Who had chewed up his well-advertised brains? And

where was that miserable slime Vincent had rescued from a not-so-

small debt in Vegas and put on a respectable government payroll,

telling the casino boys to lose the slime's markers in the interests

of national security? Gone, that's where he was! But why?

Little Joey the Shroud had been ovedoyed to hear from his big-

shot friend from the old days, when they all used Little Joey to tail

the deadbeats from the Brooklyn docks to the fancy clubs in

Manhattan-and Joey was good! He could stand alone by himself in

the middle of Yankee Sta-122 ROBERT LUDLUM

diurn and no one would notice him even if every seat in the place

was sold out. Nobody ever noticed Little Joey the Shroud; he just

faded into the wallpaper as fast as he did in a crowd on the subway.

It was a talent he had, like total insignificance-even his face was

sort of gray and nondescript.... So where the hell was he? He had

to know he was better off with his old friend Vincent than without

his big Washington connection-after all, the markers could be

reinstated and the casino tuxedos would come after him again. It

didn't make sense-nothing made sense!

The telephone rang, the telephone hidden in the lower right-

hand drawer of the director's desk. Mangecavallo ran to it; he had

installed that line himself, at night, and with professionals far more

experienced than the so-called experts in the Agency's department

of clandestine communications. In fact, no one in the government

had the number; it was limited to really important people who got

things done. "Yes?" barked the DCI.

"It's Little Joey, Bam-Bam," said the piping voice on the

telephone.

"Where the hell have you been? Thirty-six hours, maybe a day

and a half,, I don't hear from you!"

"Because for every minute of that time I been spinning my head

and racing my ass from one fuckin' place to another keeping up

with a zuccone!"

"What are you talkin'T'

"Also you told me not to call you at home, which number I ain't

got, and definitely not through the big spy joint's switchboard,

right?"

"Yeah, right. So?"

"So between airplanes and hustling airline clerks and paying off

taxi drivers ready to spit in my face, and bribing a retired cop who

once put a collar on me to do a little checking with his old buddies

in the black-and-whites to find a certain stretch limo with a funny

license plate-, I ain't had a hell of a lot of free time!"

"Okay, okay. Tell me what happened. Did you get anything I

can use?"

"If you can't, I can. This jigsaw's got more crazy pieces

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 123

than a pasta salad, definitely worth more than those markers in

Vegas."

"Hey, Joey, those markers were over twelve thousand!" "What I got's

worth double, Bam-Bam."

"Don't use that name, huh?" said Mangecavallo defensively. "It

don't fit with this high-class office."

"Hoo-hay, Vinnie. Maybe the dons shouldn't have sent you to

school. You lose your humility, you don't get no respect."

"Knock it off, Joey. I'll take care of you, on my father's grave."

"Your poppa's alive, Vinnie, I saw him the other week at

Caesar's. He's rolling high in Vegas, only not with your momma."

"Basta.... He's not in LauderdaleT'

"You want a room number? If a bimbo answers, don't hang up."

"That's enough, Joey. Stick to business or those markers will

reach fifty big ones with the vigorish and I cut you loose, capisce?

Now, what happened?"

"Awright, awright, just testing the water, okay, Vinnie? ... What

happened-jeez, what didn't happen?" Little Joey the Shroud took a

deep breath and began. "Like you figured, Goldfarb sent a crew out

to that Indian reservation-I knew right away when I recognized the

Shovel walking through the big fake stockade gate past the nut

Welcome Wigwam and heading straight to the food counter. Boy,

can that huge fazool eat! Right behind him is this scrawny gibrone

who blows his nose a lot, but the bulge in his hip pocket ain't

Kleenex.- Then I mingled and heard two other friends of the Shovel

who talked funny English asking about this Thunder Head you're

interested in, and let me tell you they were hot for his warm body....

So I wait from a big distance and the four cannolis---one of which

is a broad-run out of the souvenir joint and race like hell up a dirt

road where each of them goes into a different path---2'

"A path?" Mangecavallo interrupted. "Like more dirt?"

"S'help me, Bam-Bam-excuse me, Vincenzo---dirt and bushes

and trees, a regular forest, you know what I meanT'

124 ROBERT LUDLUM

"What the hell, it's a reservation, I guess--2'

"So I waited and I waited and I waited," continued Little Joey

rapidly.

"So am 1, Joey!" broke in the director.

"Okay, okay. Finally, this big-shot Indian comes running out of

the woods-I mean, he's got to be your big shot, Thunder Head,

'cause he's got a clothesline full of feathers from his head to his

ass-and barrels down the dirt road, then hangs a right till he

reaches a big, funny-looking tent and goes inside. Then I saw what

I tell ya, Vinnie, I couldn't believe with my own eyes! This big-shot

Indian comes out a few minutes later, only he's not the same guy.

11

"'What are you smokin', Little Joey?"

"No, I mean it, Vin. He's the same gumbar, but he don't look like

the same gumbar! Instead, he looks like a foureyed accountant in

a regular suit, wearing glasses and some dumb fuckin' wig that

don't fit, and carrying a big cloth suitcase.... Well, naturally, the

suitcase tells me he's breaking out of the reservation, and the way

he looks tells me he don't wanna be an Indian no more."

"Is this gonna be a long story, Little Joey?" aske Mangecavallo

plaintively. "Get to the goddamned point."

"You want your markers' worth and I wanna prove what I got's

worth more, okay? ... But I'll cut to the airport in Omaha where I

followed him and where he got a ticket on the next plane to Boston,

which I also did the same. However-and this is important, Bam-

Bam-while I'm at the counter I show the little girlie one of my phony

federal badges and tell her the government's interested in the big

fella with the stupid-lookin' wig. I think the wig did it,

ù cause the broad was so helpful I had to explain to her that

everything was on the quiet and she shouldn't call nobody.

Anyway, I got the name from the big gumbar's credit card--2'

"Give it to me, Joey!" exclaimed the DCI, picking up a

pencil.

"Sure, Vin. It's M-small a-small c, capital K period,

Hawkins, G-e-n with a period, then USA followed by a big R,

then e and a t. I wrote it down but I don't know what it all

means."

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 125

"It means his name is somebody Hawkins and he's a retired

army general.... Holy shit, a general!"

"There's more, Vinnie, and you better hear it--2'

"I've got to hear it! Go on."

"So I resume the tail in Boston and everything goes crazy, I

mean pazzo. At the airport he runs into a men's room where he

meets a couple of Spics wearing uniforms I never seen before, and

they go out to the parking area and get into an Oldsmobile with an

Ohio or Indiana license plate and drive away. Quick, I lay a fast fifty

on an off-duty taxi and tell him to stay with the Olds when things go

even more crazy! ... This now-accountant-type Indian chief takes his

two refried beans to a fuckin' barber shop, then s'help me God,

Bam-Bam, they drive to some park by the river where the big

lasagna makes his two enchiladas march around the grass like a

couple of marionetti while he keeps yellin' at 'em. I tell ya, it was

weird!"

"Maybe this retired general is a Section Eight; it could happen,

you know."

"Like he got bounced for mixing up tanks for dirigibles and

saluted the trucksT'

"You read about it all the time. Like some of our dons,

sometimes the bigger the guns, the flakier they get. Remember Fat

Salerno in Brooklyn?"

"Hoo-hay, do I remember! He wanted to make oregano the flower

of New York State. He walked right into the Albany legislature

yellin' his head off about discrirmination."

"That's just what I was thinking about, Little Joey. Because if

this M-small a-small c Hawkins, retired General Fruit-of-the-Loom,

is Chief Thunder Head like I agree with you, we got ourselves

another Fat Salerno yelling his head off in Washington also about

discrimination."

"He's Italian, Vinnie?"

"No Joey, he's not. even an Indian. So then what happened?"

"So then the big lasagna and his two enchiladas got back in the

Olds--that's when I had to slip my off-duty creep another fifty-they

drove to a busy downtown street and just stayed there. Not the two

reffieds; they get out,

126 ROBERT LUDLUM

and after they stop at a men's store, they go into a big building, but

the nut-Indian-chief-now-four-eyedaccountant just keeps sitting in

the car. That's when I had to hand over two fifties to the lousy off-

duty thief 'cause he says his wife's gonna hit him with a hot frying

pan if he don't come home, and he had a point.... It was over an

hour before a big stretch linio pulls up in front of the big building

and three gumbars get in, followed by the two enchiladas who go

right to the Olds, which follows the linio. Then I lost both of them."

"You lost ... ? What are you telling me, Joey?" "Not to worry,

Bain-Bam-"

"Please! "

"Sorry. Vincent Francis Assisi-2' "Forget that, too!"

"Awright, awright, I apologize with all my heart--2' "Your heart's

gonna stop unless you tell me why I shouldn't worry!"

..I lost the zuccones in the traffic, but not before I got the license of

the big dark-blue stretch, and at the same time, would you believe,

I remembered the name of the Boston police-prick who collared me

twenty years ago and who, I figured, had to be in his late sixties,

and who, Christ willing, might still be alive like I was, since we were

both pretty much the same age."

"I hate long stories, Little Joey!"

"Okay, okay. So I went to his house, which wasn't much after his

long years of public service, and we raised a glass or two of good

cheer to the old days."

"Joey, you're driving me nuts!"

"Awright, awright. I implored him to maybe put his downtown

connections to work, along with five C-notes for ' himself, to find

out who owned the linio with the funny license plate, and maybe

also where it went when it was followed by the Olds and maybe

even where it was at the present time.... Would you believe he

answered the first question without so much as a break between

whiskies?"

"Joey, I can't stand you!"

"Calma, calma, Bain-Bam. Right away he tells me the linio

belongs to one of the biggest lawyers in Boston,

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 127

Massachusetts. He's a yarmulke named Pinkus, Aaron Pinkus, who

is considered a very upright guy and very respected by the lowest

and the highest of the fish, both legit and not so legit. He's

immaculate-God forgive me-but it's true, Vinnie."

"He's a fuckin' slime, that's what he is! What else did the

shamus tell you?"- "That as of twenty minutes ago the stretch is

parked outside the Four Seasons Hotel on Boylston Street."

"What about the Olds and the big phony Indian chief.? Where the

fuck is he?"

"We don't know where the Olds is, Vinnie, but my shamus got

the word on the Midwest license plate and you ain't gonna believe

it-I mean it's unreal!"

"So try me."

"It belongs to the Vice-President!"

"Magdalene?" yelled the Vice-President of the United States,

slamming down the telephone in his study. "Where's that dam

Oldsmobile of ours?"

"Back home, honeybunch," replied the lilting voice of the Second

Lady from the living room.

"Are you sure, lovey-dove?"

"Of course, lamb chop. Just the other day the maid called to say

the gardener's Wistant had-trouble driving it on the highway. It

simply stopped and wouldn't start again."

"My God, did he leave it there?"

"Heavens, no, dimplekins. The cook called the garage and they

towed it in. Why?"

"Mat awful man from the CIA, the one with the name I can't

pronounce, just phoned to tell me it was seen in Boston being

driven by vicious criminals and when did I lend it to them. We may

have image problems---2'

"You've got to be shifting me!" screamed the Second Lady,

bursting into the room, her hair rolled up in pink curlers.

"Some son-of-a-bitch bastard must have stolen the fucking

thing!" yelled the Vice-President.

128 ROBERT LUDLUM

"You sure you didn't lend it to one of your crumb-bum buddies,

you asshole?"

"Christ no! Only your scumball friends would ask to borrow it,

you bitch!"

"Hysterical recriminations will get us nowhere," stated an emphatic

but shaken Aaron Pinkus, as MacKenzie Hawkins straddled Sam

Devereaux, the general's knees pinning the lawyer's shoulders to

the floor while an occasional cigar ash fell on Sam's contorted face.

"I suggest we all cool it, as the young people say, and try to under-

stand the position each of us finds himself in."

"How about a firing squad right after my disbarment

proceedings?" choked Devereaux.

"Come on, Sam," said the Hawk reassuringly. "They don't do

that anymore. The goddamned television loused it UP.

"Oh, I forgot! You explained it once before-public relations, I

remember now. You made it clear that there were other ways, such

as shark-fishing trips for three and only two come back, or duck

hunting in a blind where suddenly a dozen water moccasins show

up when nobody knew there were any snakes around. Thanks a

bunch, you psychotic maggot!"

"I was only trying to keep you in line for your own benefit, son,

because I cared for you. Like Annie still does to this day."

"I told you! Never mention that name to me!"

"You really lack understanding, boy."

"If I may, General," interrupted Pinkus from behind the desk,

"what he lacks at the moment is a clarification of the circumstances,

and he's entitled to that."

"Do you think he can handle it, Commander?"

"I believe he'd better try. Will you try, Samuel, or shall I call

Shirley and explain that we are not at that art show because you

appropriated her limousine, packed it with exuberant elderly Greeks,

and forced me, as your employer, to attend to your personal

difficulties-which, by extension, are not legally inseparable from my

own?"

"I'd rather face a firing squad, Aaron."

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 129

"A wise decision. So would,l. I understand that Paddy has to

send the velour curtains to the cleaners.... Let him up, General, and

allow him to take my chair here."

"Behave now, Sam," said Hawkins, cautiously getting to his feet.

"There's nothing to be gained by violence."

"Mat's a fundamental contradiction to your entire existence, Mr.

Exterminator." Devereaux rose from the floor and procee4ed to

hobble around the desk as Pinkus gestured at his chair. Sam sat

down with a resounding thump, his eyes on his employer. "What

am I looking at and for, Aaron?" he asked.

"I'll give you an overview," answered Pinkus, walking across the

room to the mirrored bar recessed in the hotel suite's wall. "I will

also bring you a decent thirty-year-old brandy, a luxury your lovely

mother and I have in common, for you will need the effects of a mild

depressant as, indeed, we did prior to our examination of your

'chfiteau's lair.' I may even give you a very generous portion, be-

cause it could not possibly alter the sobriety your attorney's mind

will be shocked into by what you read." Aaron filled a crystal goblet

with a richly dark-brown cognac, brought it to the desk, and placed

it in front of his employee. "You are about to read the incredible,

and after doing so, you're going to have to make the most important

decision of your life. And may the God of Abraharn-said Abraham

who I sincerely believe has royally screwed up-forgive me, but I,

too, shall have to make a momentous decision."

"Cut the metaphysical stuff, Aaron. What am I looking for?

What's your overview?"

"In a matzo ball, my young friend, the United States government

stole the lands of the Wopotamis through a series of conspiracies

in which promises were spelled out in treaties, said treaties

subsequently determined never to have existed, yet actually buried

in the sealed archives of the Bureau of Man Affairs in Washington."

"Who the hell are the Wopotamis?"

"An Indian tribe whose territories extended north along the

Missouri River, including all lands within the flights of a thousand

arrows to what is now Fort Calhoun, then west

130 ROBERT LUDLUM

following the Platte to Cedar Bluffs, south to Weeping Water, and

east to Red Oak City in Iowa."

"So what's the big deal? Historical real estate was compensated

by the coin-of-the-era as spelled out by the Supreme Court in-I think

in 1912 or 1913."

"Your photographic memory is, as usual, extraordinary, Sam, but

you're permitting a gap, a lapse, as it were."

"I never do that! I'm perfect-legally, that is."

"You're referring to treaties that were part of the record."

"What other kind were there?"

"Those that were buried, Sam.... That's what's in front of you

now. Read them, my young friend, and render me your astute legal

opinion in an hour or so. In the meantime, drink the brandy

sparingly-your instinct may be to swill, but don't, just sip.... There

are pads and pencils in the upper-right drawer and the brief starts

with the stack on your left, marked alphabetically in succeeding

sheaves across the desk. You'll want to make notes, I'm certain of

that." Aaron turned to the Hawk. "General, I think it would be a

good idea if we left Sam alone. Every time he looks at you I sense

that his concentration goes astray."

"Must be the tribal outfit."

"I'm sure there's a connection. And regarding your appearance,

what do you say we have Paddy-Sergeant Lafferty-:-drive us to a

small restaurant I often frequent when I don't care to run into

inquisitive acquaintances."

"Hold it, Commander Pinkus. What about Sam here? He's had

a rough day in the field and an an-ny travels on its stomach, you

know."

"Our young friend is extremely adept where room service is

concerned, General. His expense vouchers confirm his expertise....

However, at the moment he appears impervious to hunger."

Mouth gaping and- eyes wide, Devereaux leaned forward over

the initial pages of the brief, a pencil gripped in his hand, poised

over a yellow legal pad. He dropped the pencil, and as it clattered

on the desk, he whispered, "None of us will survive. They can't

afford to let us live."

THE ROAD TO OMA14A 131

Over three thousand miles due west and slightly north of Boston,

Massachusetts, is the venerable city of San Francisco, California,

and it is no surprise to learn that statistics indicate that the majority

of East Coast migrants to the Bay City are former residents of

Boston. Some demographers claim it is the glorious harbor, so

reminiscent of the home of the Tall Ships, that has drawn these

refugees from New England; others say it is the highly charged

academic atmosphere represented by the numerous university cam-

puses and the proliferation of debate-prone caf6s indigenous to the

Massachusetts capital; still others insist the magnet lies in the

progressive and often obsessive tolerance of differing life-styles

that appeals to the contrariness of the,Boston mentality, for with

what delightful frequency have the voters of Boston gone against

the national tide? Regardless--or perhaps, via the dicta of numerous

television and radio talk-show hosts, one should say irregardless--

this statistic has little to do with our story except that the individual

we are about to meet, as one Samuel Lansing Devereaux, was a

graduate of the Harvard Law School.

Actually, she might have met Devereaux, a number of years ago,

as the firm of Aaron Pinkus Associates was intensely interested in

her and actively sought her interest in them. Fortunately or

unfortunately, she sought other environs, as she was thoroughly fed

up with her status as a member of a minority that basically

bewildered the Boston professionals and academic poseurs alike.

She was neither black nor Jewish, neither Oriental nor Hispanic,

had neither roots in the Mediterranean nor forebears in lands of the

Bengal or the Arabian Sea-and these presumably comprised the

legitimate minorities within Boston's American melting pot. There

were no clubs, no societies, no panels founded to espouse the

cause of her particular minority because ... well, nobody actually

thought about them as a group concerned with upward mobility,

which was, of course, the key to public expression. They were just

there, doing their thing, whatever it was.

She was an American Indian.

Her name was Jennifer Redwing, the "Jennifer" having

supplanted "Sunrise," which, according to her uncle, Chief Eagle

Eyes, was given to her as she emerged from her

132 ROBERT LUDLUM

mother's womb with the first rays of the morning sun at Omaha's

Midlands Community Hospital. During her formative years, it

became apparent that she, and then later her younger brother, were

among the Wopotarni tribe's more gifted offspring, so the Council

of Elders raised the necessary funds to ensure educational

opportunities. And once she had taken advantage of those gifts to

the fullest extent of her talents, she could not wait to head back

west-as far west as possible-to where people did not expect Indians

to wear saris and have little red dots on their foreheads.

However, her migration to San Francisco was more of an

accident than a plan. She had returned to Omaha, passed the

Nebraska bar, and was employed by a prestigious law firm when the

accident happened. A client of the firm who was a noted wildlife

photographer had been commissioned by National Geographic to

roam a modem Indian reservation and do a photographic essay on

its contemporary fauna. His pictures would be juxtaposed with

prints of the past, the obvious point being to show the decimation

of the life-sustaining animal kingdom once known by the country's

original inhabitants. The photographer was a seasoned if somewhat

libidinous professional, and he knew a downer assignment when it

was presented to him; who the hell wanted to look at a dying world

of wildlife next to romanticized etchings of fertile plains and forests,

a hunter's paradise? On the other hand, perhaps with a little

imagination, things could be turned around-say with an authentic

Indian guide in all the pictures ... say with a zaftig female guide in

various casual shots, bending this way and that.... say with "Red"

Redwing, that stunner of a lawyer who had the office next to his

own attorney, and for whom the photographer had a definite letch.

"Say, Red," began the lensman one morning, poking his head

into the lady-lawyer's office and using the nickname her coworkers

used, derived naturally from her surname and not her shining dark

hair. "How'd you like to pick up a couple of hundred bucks?"

"If you're suggesting what I think, I suggest you go down to

Doogies," was the ice-cold reply.

"Hey, momma, you've got me wrong."

1HE ROAD TO OMAHA 133

"Not from the circumstantial hearsay that abounds around this

office."

"On my honor----"

"Strike one."

"No, honest, it's a legit assignment from the Geographic."

"They show naked Africans but I don't recall seeing any naked

white women, and I've had regular medical and dental checkups, so

I'm familiar with the publication."

"You're off-base, lady. I'm merely looking for a pictorial guide

in an essay that zeros in on some pretty rough circumstances about

reservations. A Harvard-trained lawyer who just happens to be a

member of an Indian tribe could make the difference between

attention being paid and flipping over the pages."

"Oh?"

So the shoot was done, and despite the fact that Red Redwing

was an extremely promising young attorney, she was also extremely

naYve in the world of professional photography. In her fervent

desire to help her people, she acceded to the photographer's

selection of clothes, refusing only to pose in a bikini while holding

up a dwarfed river trout, and not thinking to get initialed approval

of the photographs aimed for publication. There was one -other

"only": she caught the lensman snapping pictures of her bending

over the carcass of an electrocuted squirrel, a photograph that

surely would show more of her generous breasts beneath the loose

peasant's blouse than a proper attorney should permit, and threw

a hefty punch into the man's mouth. What followed unnerved her

to the point that she declared the session over. Lips bleeding, the

photographer fell to his knees screaming. "It's over, babe, but

please, please do that again!"

The article appeared, and the subscription department of

National Geographic was swamped with a burst of new activity. It

also came under the scrutiny of one Daniel Springtree, a part-

Navajo senior partner of Springtree, Basl and Karpas, a law firm to

be reckoned with in San Francisco. He placed a call to Jennifer

"Red" Redwing in Omaha and pleaded his case, a case based on his

guilt at not having done enough for his father's side of the family.

134 ROBERT LUDLUM

The firm's Rockwell jet was sent to Omaha to bring Redwing to San

Francisco for an interview, and the moment Red saw that

SpringfTee was seventy-four years old and still in love with his wife

of fifty years, she knew it was time to leave Nebraska. The firm in

Omaha was distraught but powerless; since the appearance of the

National Geographic article, its client list had tripled.

On this particular morning, junior partner Redwing of Springtree,

Basl and Karpas, soon many believed to become Basl, Karpas and

Redwing, had legal matters on her mind light-years away from tribal

concerns. That was until her intercom buzzed and her secretary

announced, "Your brother's on the line."

"Charlie?"

"That's who. He says it's urgent, and I believe him. He didn't

even take the time to tell me that he knew I was beautiful by the

sound of my voice."

"Good Lord, I haven't heard from him in weeks---@' "Months,

Miss Red. I like hi s calls. Level with me, boss. Is he as

handsome as you are gorgeous? I mean, is it a fancily thing?"

"Take an extra, half-hour for lunch and let me talk to my brother."

Redwing touched the lighted button on the telephone line. "Charlie,

darling, how are you? I haven't heard from you in ... in months."

"I've been busy."

"The clerking? How's it going?"

"It's over. Finished."

"Mat's good."

"Actually, I've been spending some time in Washington."

"That's even better," exclaimed the sister.

"No, it's not. It's worse-the worst."

"Why, Charlie? A good D.C. firm would be terrific for you.... I

know I shouldn't tell you this, but you'll find out in a day or so. I

had a call from an old friend on the Nebraska bar and you not only

passed the exam, little Brother, you were in the highest percentile!

How about that, you genius you?"

"It doesn't matter, Sis, nothing matters anymore. When

@ THE ROAD TO OMAHA 135

1 said it was over and finished, I meant me and all thoughts I

ever had of a legal career. I'm destroyed."

"What are you talking about? ... Oh, is it money?" "No."

"A girl?"

"No, a guy. A man."

"Charlie, I never even suspected!"

"Oh, for God's sake, not that."

"I'lien what?"

"We'd better have lunch, Sis." "In Washington?"

"No, here. I'm downstairs in the lobby. I didn't want to come

up-the less you have to do with me in public, the better it is for

you.... I'll get to Hawaii first, then work on the ships and maybe

reach American Samoa, where, with any, luck, they don't get much

news- "

"You stay right where you are, feather head! Big Sister's on her

way down and I might just beat the crap out of you!"

A stunned Jennifer Red wing stared at her brother across the table;

she was speechless, so Charlie struggled to break the silence.

"Nice weather you have in San Francisco."

"It's pouring, you idiot.... Charlie, why didn't you call nic before

you got mixed up with this lunatic?"

"I thought about it, Jenny, honest, but I know how busy you are,

and in the beginning it seemed like one big joke and we were all

having a lot of fun and the joker was spending money and no one

was getting hurt-a little broiled now and then but not hurt-then all of

a sudden it wasn't a joke any more and I was in Washington."

"A litigant before the Supreme Court under false representation,

that@ all!" interrupted the older sister.

"It was only for show, Jenny, I didn't actually do anything ...

except meet two of the justices-on a very informal basis."

"You met with-2'

"Very casually, Sis, they'd never remember me."

"How and why not?"

"Hawkins told me to hang around the lobby every once

136 ROBERT LUDLUM

in a while in a tribal jacket and buckskins-I tell you, I felt like a

goddamned fool-and one day the big black judge came out and

shook my hand and said, 'I know where you're coming from, young

man,' and a week later the Italian fellow met me in a hallway and put

his arm around my shoulder and said kind of sadly, 'Those of us

who came from across the sea were frequently treated no better

than you.'

"Oh my God ... !" mumbled Red Redwing.

"It was very crowded, Sis," added the brother quickly. "Lots of

tourists and lawyers-whole crowds."

"Charlie, I'm an experienced attorney; I've argued before the

Court, you know that! Why didn't you pick up a phone and call me?"

"I guess part of the reason was that I knew you'd get all upset

and ream me out, but the real reason was that I figured I could talk

Mac the Clown out of the whole mess. I explained to him that it was

a lost cause because of my situation, which would annihilate any

conceivable leanings in the brief's favor, a prospect as improbable

as my entering a rodeo. My idea was to immediately file a writ,of

default based on subsequent discoveries, wiping the slate clean....

I learned this much while wandering those hallowed halls like

Minnie Ha Ha's brain-damaged kid. They'll drop a cue quicker than

Uncle Fagle Eyes can belt down a shot on the slightest pretext."

"What did this Hawkins say to your suggestion?"

`Iha - t's the problem, I never got a chance to spell it out in full.

He wouldn't listen; he only shouted, and when he finally gave me

my clothes back, the clothes you sent me the money for while

clerking--2'

"Your clothes?"

"It's another story. Anyway, I was so grateful to get 'em and so

pissed off, I just ran. Again, I figured I'd call him later, like in the

morning and try to reason with him.,,

"Did you?"

"He was gone. Split. Johnny Calfhose-you remember Johnny

... T'

"He still owes me bail money."

"Well, Johnny was sort of Mac's special adjutant for security

matters, and he told me that Hawkins left for Boston

THE ROAD TO CMAHA 137

but made it clear that if there were any calls or mail from

Washington, Johnny was to reach him immediately at a number in

Weston, Massachusetts-that's outside of Boston."

"I know where it is. I spent a few years in Cambridge,

remember? So did you call him?"

"I tried to. Four times, in fact, and each time all I got were minor

variations of the same woman's hysterical scream along with

incoherent accusations that I think somehow concerned the Pope

or a Pope."

"That's not unusual. Boston's predominantly Catholic, and in

times of stress its communicants seek solace from their Church.

Wasn't there anything else?"

"No. After the last call, whenever I tried again, all I got was a

busy signal, which I took to mean that crazy lady took the phone off

the hook."

"It also means that Hawkins is in Boston.... Do you have the

number?"

"I know it by heart." He recited it and sighed. "I'm sunk."

"Not yet, Charlie," said Jennifer, glaring at her sibling. "I have a

not-so-minor vested interest in your predicament. I am your sister

and I am an attorney, and regardless of what the law states, there's

a hell of a lot of guilt by association in this business. Also, you're

a pretty nice kid and, God help me, I love you." She signaled a

waiter, who came over immediately. "Bring me a phone, will you

please, MarioT'

"Certainly, Miss Redwing. I'll get the one from the next booth."

"You won't see me again for years," her brother began. "Once

I get to Honolulu or Fiji, I'll find work on the ships and-"

"Oh, shut up, Charlie," Jennifer,said as Mario plugged in the

telephone and handed it to her. She dialed, and seconds later

spoke. "Peggy, it's me, and you can have two hours for lunch if

you'll take care of a couple of things for me. First, find out the name

and address of the person who has this phone; it's in Weston,

Massachusetts." She recited the number as Charlie wrote it out on

a napkin. 'Then book me on a late afternoon flight to Boston-yes,11

said

138 ROBERT LUDLUM

Boston, and no, I won't be in tomorrow, and to anticipate your next

question, I will not send my brother in to take my place, because

you'd corrupt him.... Oh, and Peg, get me a hotel reservation. Try

the Four Seasons, I think it's on Boylston Street-we had our Law

Review party there."

"Jenny, what are you doingT' cried Charlie Redwing as his sister

hung up the phone.

"I think it's pretty obvious. I'm flying to Boston and you're not

going anywhere but to my apartment, where you will behave and

stay by the telephone. Your only other option is for me to have you

arrested for fraud and nonpayment of outstanding debts--or

possibly I could call up a close friend and client to watch over you.

Frankly, I think jail's preferable; my friend plays offensive guard for

the Forty-niners."

"I refuse to dignify terrorist threats, and I repeat: What the hell

do you think you're doing?"

"I'm going to find this lunatic Hawkins and stop him. Oh, not

just for you, Charlie, and parenthetically for me, but for our people."

"I know. We'd be the laughingstock of the reservations. I told

Mac that."

"Far worse, little Brother, far worse. Everything you've told me

boils down to one in-educible catastrophe. Offutt Air Force Base,

the global headquarters of the Strategic Air Command, which is

smack-dab in the center of this lunatic general's grand design. No

matter how insane it sounds and unquestionably is, do you think

those goliaths in Washington will sit still for a minute at even the

hint of any interference with SACT'

"What can they do except laugh it out of court or pay no

attention at all and fry me on the side for false representation? I

mean, what can they do?"

"Make new laws, Charlie, laws effectively destroying the tribe.

They could start by condemning the land we do have and

dispersing the inhabitants thereon. Hell, it's been done for

highways --- even country roads and backwater bridges by

politicians owing a few debts. What are they compared with SAC's

limitless payrolls?"

"Disperse ... T' Charlie asked softly. "Sending our people hither

and yon to ratty houses and

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 139

dinky apartments as far away from one another as possible," replied

Jennifer, nodding. "What we---or diey-have now is no Garden of

Eden, but it's theirs. Many of them ha - ve lived there all their lives

and most of those lives span seventy and eighty years. `17hey're

the human stories behind the cold government statistics that

supposedly justify national interests."

"Could Washington do that?"

"At the blink of an eye on a campaign contribution; it's legend.

Country roads and backwater bridges are only a spit in the

taxpayers' ocean, but the government's largesse where SAC's

concerned is Lake Superior."

"Again, Sis, what can you really do in Boston?"

"Break a retired general's ass, little Brother, and everyone else's

around him."

"How?"

"I'll know better when I find them, but I suspect it'll be something

as outrageous as the lunacy in their own ballpark.... Say a

conspiracy mounted by the enemies of democracy to bring the

honorable giant to its knees and destroy our beloved America's

first-strike capabilities worldwide. T ' hen tie in legal terrorism with

racist undercurrents by trumped-up depositions tracing the cabal to

fanatical Arabs and resentful Israelis in concert with the hard-liners

in Beijing along with the Reverends Moon, Farrakhan, and Falwell,

joined by the Hare Krishnas, Fidel Castro, the peaceniks on Sesame

Street-and God knows what else. This planet abounds with rotten

fish and perceived rotten fish that provoke instantaneous and

passionate reactions. We'll guarantee in pretrial examinations to

throw the whole spectrum at them."

"Pretrial ... ?"

"You heard me."

"Tbis is all positively nuts, Jenny!"

"I know that, Charlie, but so are they. Anyone can sue anybody

in a free society, that's both the insanity and the glory. It's not the

litigation that's important, it's the threat of public exposure.... Good

Lord, I can't wait to get to Boston!"

10

Desi the First knocked sharply on the hotel door for the third time,

shrugging as he did so at his comrade-in-arms, Desi the Second,

who shrugged back in reply. "Maybe our loco man, the great

heneral, has taken a poof-powder, no?"

"Wa' for?"

"He owes us dinero, yes?"

"I don' think he'd do dat-I don' wanna think he'd do it."

"Neither do I, man, but he tol' us to come back in an hour, no?"

"Maybe he dead. Maybe that even more loco gringo who yells

all the time put him and the liddle old man away.,,

"Then maybe we break the door down."

"And make so much noise the gringo police come after us and

we eat the lousy gringo food again for a long time? You make good

plans, amigo, but chu got no mechanical abilities, y'know wad I

mean to say?"

"What mecdnico?"

,Hey, man, we promise each odder, we speak h'English, no?"

replied Desi-Two, removing a small, many-bladed contraption from

his pocket, a penknife-type instrument

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 141

that defied description. "So better we can Wassimilate,' waddever

that means." The jump-starter of Chevrolet automobiles approached

the door, briefly glancing up and down the deserted corridor. "We

don't gotta break down no door. Dese liddle pIdstico locks no

problem---dey got a liddle white pldstico release."

"How chu know so much about hotel doors, man?"

"I work lotsa times as a waiter in Miami, man. The gringos call

for room service and.by d' time you got the tray there, they too

drunk to find d' door an' if you bring the tray back, you get yelled

at in the kitchen. Ees better to know how to open doors, no?"

"Ees good school you go to."

"Before that I worked in d' parking lots. Madre Maria, they are

universidades!" Desi the Second, ebullient, twisted a white plastic

blade in the vertical lock space and slowly opened the door.

"Sefior! " he exclaimed at the figure inside. "You h'okay, man?"

Sam Devereaux sat trancelike behind the desk, his glazed eyes

fixed on the pages in front of him. "Nice to see you again," he said

quietly, the words in no way connected to his concentration.

"We almos' knock the door down, man!" cried Desi the First.

"What's wrong wid chu?"

"Please don't knock me down again," came the all but monotonic

reply. "I possess the weight of the legal world on my person-I don't

need you."

"Hey, come on, gringo," continued D-One, approaching the desk.

"What we done was-nudding like personal, man. We jus' follow

orders from the grande heneral, y'know?"

"The grande general has hemorrhoids in his mouth."

"That h'ain't nice to say," D-Two rebutted, joining his companion

as he closed the door and put his indescribable break-and-entry

tool back into his pocket. "Where's the heneral and the liddle fella?"

"What ... who? Oh, they went to dinner. Why don't you join

them?"

... Cause he tol' us to be back here in one hour and we are good

soldados!"

"Oh ... yes, well, I can't comment on that because my office was

not the instrument of instruction."

142 ROBERT LUDLUM'

"Wad chu saying?" asked D-One, squinting, looking at the

attorney as one might a deformed paramecium under a microscope.

"What? .. . Hey, look, guys, I'm kind of involved here, and you're

right, I don't take anything that's happened personally. Believe me,

I've been where you're at."

"Wad does dat mean?" D-One said.

"Well, Mac's a pretty strong person; he can be very convincing."

"Wad's a 'mac'? A piece of meat can talk?"

"No, that's his name. MacKenzie-I call him Mac, for short."

"He not short, man," said Desi-Two. "He one big gringo.,,

"I'hat's part of it, I guess." Sam blinked several times and leaned

back in the swivel chair, arching his neck as if to briefly relieve the

pressure he felt. "Big, tough, rough, and all-powerful-and he makes

men like you and me march to his cymbals when we should know

better... You two, you're street smart, and me, I'm law smart, and

still he beats us down."

"He don' beat nobody!" said D-One emphatically.

"I didn't mean literally---2'

"I don' give a sbit how you mean it, man, he makes me and my

amigo here feel better, so wadda you say about thatT'

"I can't think of a thing."

"We talked while we ate the rotten tacos made by some blond-

haired gringo down the street," added D-T\vo, "and we both say the

same thing,. The loco man's h'okay!"

"Yes, I know," said Devereaux wearily, focusing his eyes back on

the pages in front of him. "You really like him, that's fine."

"Where does he come from, man?" asked Desi the First.

"Come from? ... How the hell do I know? The army, where else?"

Pesis One and Two exchanged glances. The former spoke,

addressing his companion. "Like we saw in the window with the

pretty pictures, right, man?"

"Get the name spelled out good," said D-Two.

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 143

"Wokay." Desi the First turned back to the preoccupied attorney.

"You, Seflor Sam, do like my fren' says."

"Do what?"

"Write out the grande heneral's name." ,"at for?"

... Cause if you don', man, your fingers h'ain't gonna work so

good."

"Delighted to oblige," said Devereaux quickly, picking up a pencil

and tearing off a page from his legal pad. "There you are," he

added, writing down Hawkins's name and rank. "I'm afraid I don't

have an address or a telephone number, but later on you might

check the penal institutions."

"You talkin' dirty about the grande heneral?" asked Desi the

Second suspiciously. "Why you don' like him? Why you run h'away

and yell at him and try to fight him, huhT'

"Because I was a bad person, a terrible person," cried Sam

plaintively, his hands outstretched in supplication. "He was so good

to me-you saw how nice he talks to me-and I was so selfish! I'll

never forgive myself, but I've seen the error of my ways and I'm

trying to make it up to him by doing this work he wants me to do--

needs me to do.... I'm going to church tomorrow morning to ask

God to forgive me for being so awful to a great man."

"Hey, Sefior Sam," said Desi-T\vo, God's forgiveness in his

voice, "nobody's all a time perfect, you know? Jesus, He unnerstand

dat, right?"

"You can bet your beads on it," replied Devereaux under his

breath. "There's a nun I know who's got to stretch even His

compassion."

"Wad chu say, man?"

"I said the well-known compassion of nuns beads in on what you

say-that's an American expression meaning you're right."

"Dat's cool," interrupted Desi the First, "but me and Desi-T\vo got

some heavy t'inkin' to do, so we gonna vamos an' accept the word

of a religious man that the grande heneral is h'okay like we say."

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

"The grande heneral owes us dinerv--2'

144 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Money, you mean?"

I'Dat's wad I mean, gringo, an' we wanna trust him, but we gotta

be positivo, you know? SG you tell the grande heneral dat we'll be

back here tomorrow for our dinero, Wokay?"

"Okay, but why don't you wait for him--outside, of course?"

... Cause, like I say, we gotta t'ink and talk ... an' also we gotta

know we can trust him."

"To be perfectly frank, I don't understand you."

"YOU don' have to. Jus' tell him what I say, Wokay?"

"Sure.

"Come on, amigo," said Desi-One, extending his left wrist

beyond his sleeve, revealing the three wristwatches. I tell ya, ya

can' trust nobody no more! Dis lousy Rolex is a phony!"

7 With these cryptic words, Desi the First and Desi the Second left

the suite, both waving cordially to Sam as they closed the door.

Devereaux shook his head, sipped his brandy, and returned to the

sheaves of papers on the desk.

Dawn broke over the eastern skyline of Boston, Massachusetts, to

the extreme annoyance of Jennifer Redwing, who had forgotten to

pull the window drapes. The harsh rays of the early sun penetrated

her eyelids and woke,her up.... Forgotten, hell, she had, been too

damned tired to think of them when she staggered in from the

airport at two in the morning. Four hours of sleep was not enough

even. with her energy, but circumstances precluded staying in bed.

She got up, partially closed the drapes, turned on the bedside lamp

and scanned the room-service menu, finding what she hoped she

would find: twenty-four-hour availability. She picked up the phone,

ordered a Continental breakfast and thought about the day ahead.

Everything came down to short-circuiting a son-of-abitch former

general, MacKenzie Hawkins, and whoever the scum were behind

him. And she would short-circuit them, blast them into the

electrified legal grids, no matter what it took, no matter the avenues

of legal deceit she had always abhorred. Today was different.

Although forever

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 145

grateful to her tribe and her people-that gratitude acknowledged by

her overseeing their investments and contributing a third of her

income to their accounts-she was furious that outsiders would

attempt to take advantage of the tribe's admittedly checkered

history and ndvet6 solely for profit. Her little brother, Charlie, was

right, although he misinterpreted her anger. She wouldn't merely

"ream" him out, she was going to ream all of them out-right out of

their unconscionably corrupt ballpark!

Breakfast arrived, and with it a degree of calm. She had to

concentrate. All she had was a telephone number and an address

in Weston. It wasn't much, but it was a beginning. Why didn't the

hours pass faster? Damn, she wanted to get started!

It was five-thirty in the morning and Sam Devereaux, his eyes close

to bleeding, had finished the Wopotami brief and made thirty-seven

pages of notes on his legal pad.

Oh, God, he had to rest, if only to find some sense of

perspective, if there was any in the whole insane mess! His head

was bursting with hundreds of relevant and irrelevant facts,

definitions, conclusions, and contradictions. Only a period of calm

would restore his oft-praised faculties of reason and analysis, which

at the moment were so diminished he doubted he could handle

kindergarten recess, much less talk Sanford somebody-or-other out

of beating him up when they were both six years old during one. of

those periods on the playground. He wondered whatever happened

to that outsized bully; he undoubtedly ended up a general in the

army, or a terrorist. Not unlike "Madman" Mac Hawkins, who was

currently asleep in the hotel suite's guest bedroom, and who was

responsible for bringing two-hundred-odd pages of unmitigated

disaster to the attention of Aaron Pinkus and Samuel Lansing

Devereaux, who now conceded that he would never wear the

judicial robes--except perhaps as a last wish before being shot in

the cellars of the Pentagon by the combined orders of the

President, the Department of Defense, the CIA, the DIA, and the

Daughters of the American Revolution. And Aaron-poor Aaron! He

not only had to face

146 ROBERT LUDLUM

Shirley-with-the-freeze-dried-bouffant over a little matter of a missed

art show, but he, too, had read Mac's brief, in itself a veritable

invitation to oblivion.

Christ Almighty, the Strategic Air Command! If the goons on the

Court gave even partial credence to the appeal-and it was an appeal

to conscience as well as legality-whole segments, if not all of SAC,

would be the property of some minuscule, indigent Indian tribe with

the half-assed. name of Wopotami! The law was specific: All

subsequent structures and materials found on usurped or stolen

real estate belonged to the injured party or parties. Holy shit!

Rest-maybe even sleep, if he could manage it. Aaron had been

right when he and Mac had returned around midnight and Sam had

bombarded Hawkins with what he had to admit were relatively

hysterical questions and accusations.

"Finish it, my boy, then get some sleep and we'll talk tomorrow.

Nothing's accomplished when the strings are too taut to find the

proper notes; and to be perfectly honest with you, gentlemen, I face

a discordant coda for the evening when I see my darling Shirley....

Why, oh why, Sam, did you ever mention that infernal art show to

me?"

"I figured you'd be mad at me when you found out I didn't,go to

it with one of our richest clients because his wife keeps trying to

feel me up. Also, I didn't tell Shirley.,,

"I know, I know," Aaron had said in defeat. .,"Would you believe

I told her because I thought it was amusing, and pointed up an

honorable aspect of your character? A minimum of five hundred

attorneys I know would be in intimate contact with the lady at the

slightest provocation."

"Sam's better than that, Commander Pinkus," MacKenzie

Hawkins had insisted. "The lad's got principles, although they're

not always so apparent."

"General, may I suggest once again that you remove yourself

from Samuel's presence for the reasons we discussed at dinner?

You'll find the guest bedroom most accommodating,"

"Has it got television? I like to find those war movies, that's what

it's all about, you know."

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 147

"You don't even have to get out of bed. Just aim the remote and

shoot from a comfortable foxhole."

Jesus, he was exhausted! thought Devereaux, as he got out of

the chair and ambled his way into the master bedroom, only vaguely

aware that Aaron had had the courtesy to turn on the bedside lamp.

He closed the door-firmlyand concentrated on his shoes-which

should he take off first, and how? The conundrum was solved when

he reached the bed and fell down on it, his shoes intact, his eyes

closed. Sleep was immediate.

Then, from distant halls of complete vacuum, a jarring, incessant

alarm reached him, growing in volume until his personal galaxy was

shocked into successive explosions. He reached for the telephone,

noting that the crystal bedside clock read eight-forty. "Yes?" he

mumbled.

"This is Scratch Your Assets, you lucky, lucky person you!"

shrieked the voice over the line. "This morning we're calling hotels

picked at random from our revolving bowl by a member of our great

audience, and then a room number from the second bowl picked by

the most recent grandmother from our great, great audience, and

you're it, you lucky person! All you have to do is tell me what tall,

bearded President gave the Gettysburg Address and you win a

Watashitti clothes dryer from the Mitashovitzu Company, who just

happens to own this great station! What's your answer, you terrific

person?"

"Fuck off," replied Sam, blinking at the sunlight that streaked

through the windows.

"Cut the tape! Somebody get the juggling dwarfs and go out to

the audience--2'

Devereaux replaced the phone and groaned; he had to get up

and read his notes, and the prospect was not appealing. Nothing

at all was appealing in his foreseeable future, which was filled with

black holes that would swallow him up and endlessly deep crevices

through which he would fall, spinning in agony for an eternity.

Goddamn Hawkins! Why did the maniac military son of a bitch have

to come back in his life? ... Where was Hawkins? It was not like the

drill-happy war-horse to greet the morning with less than a full-

throated battle cry. Maybe he had died in his sleep-no, some things

were too good to be hoped for re-148 ROBERT LUDLUM

alistically. Mac would go onforever, terrifying succeeding

generations of peaceful innocents. Still, silence and MacKenzie

Hawkins were a dangerous combination; nothing good ever came

from a quiet predator. Sam rose from the bed, surprised but hardly

astonished that his shoes were still on his feet, and walked

unsteadily to the door. Cautiously he opened it, only to see Von

Maniac seated behind Aaron's desk in a bathrobe, looking for all the

world like a kindly old grandfather, peering through metalframed

glasses at that ill-begotten, nefarious brief.

"Your morning reading material, Mac?" asked Devereaux

sarcastically, walking into the suite's sitting room.

"Well, hello there, Sam," said the Hawk warmly, removing his

glasses as though he were a retired elderly academic of gentle

disposition. "Have a good sleep? I didn't hear you get up."

"Don't give me that little old winemaker routine, you conniving

python. Outside of the telephone, you probably heard every breath

I took, and if there were trees in here and it was dark, I'd have a

garrote around my throat."

"Now, son, you really do misjudge me, and let me tell you it

pains me sorely."

"Only a megalomaniac, could make such an appeal referring to

himself three times in one sentence."

"We all change, boy."

"The leopard has spots when he's born and he has spots when

he dies. You are a leopard."

"I guess it's better than a python, eh? ... There's juice and

coffee- over on the table, also a couple of Danish. Have some; it

keeps the morning blood sugar up-damned important, you know."

"Are you into geriatric medicine now?" asked Devereaux, going

to the room-service table and pouring himself black coffee. "Selling

tonic to natives?"

"I'm not getting any younger, Sam," answered Hawkins, a note

of sadness in his voice.

"I was just thinking about that in a roundabout way, and you

know what I decided? I decided that you were going to live forever,

an eternal threat to the planet."

"That's an impressive evaluation, son. There are good

7HE ROAD TO OMAHA 149

threats and bad threats, and I thank you for the status you afford

me."

"Christ, you're impossible!" mumbled Devereaux, carrying his

coffee to the chair in front of the desk and sitting down. "Mac,

where did you get all that stuff?. How did you get it? Who put it

together?"

"Oh, didn't I mention that?"

"If you did, my state of shock precluded my hearing it.... Let's

start with the sealed archive materials. How?"

"Well, Sam, you've got to understand the psychological

manifestations of those of us who toil in the vineyards of our

government, both civilian and military. Try to comprehend the

paradox in which we generally find ourselves after long years of

service-2'

"Cut the preamble horseshit, Mac," Devereaux broke in harshly.

"Spell it out."

"We're screwed."

"That spells it out."

"We make half, if that, of what we could make in the private

sector, most of us believing that we're making something else as

important as@ financial gain. It's called .contribution,' Sam, real,

honest-to-God contributions to a system we believe in-2'

"Stop it, Mac. I've heard all of this before. You also have damn

good pensions and retirement perks, like buying at PXs at half

price, and generous insurance, and it's damned hard to fire you if

you're no good at your jobs."

"That's a particularly narrow point of view, Sam, and applicable

to the few, not the overwhelming many."

"All right," said Devereaux, sipping his coffee and looking hard

at the Hawk. "I'll concede that. I just got up from three hours'

sleep, I feel rotten, and you're an easy target. Now,.how did you get

the archival stuff?"

"Remember 'Brokey' Brokemichael, not Ethelred but Heseltine,

the one you hung that bum drug rap on?"

"If I live to be four hundred and ten, I'll carry those preposterous

names to my grave.... If you remember, they, or he started me on

my road to hell with General Lucifer by having me walk out of the

data banks with a couple of thousand top-secret files."

"Yeah, well, there's sort of a connection in a way. You

ISO ROBERT LUDLUM

see, when the army wouldn't give Brokey his third starbecause of

you, young fella, and the confusion over the names-he mounted his

high horse and said 'I quit!' . .. Well, even the army has a

conscience, as well as connections. You can't cut loose a

goddamned military legend and just let him fade away like that rich

fruitcake MacArthur opined to Congress. I mean, Brokey didn't sell

his expertise to a foreign government like Manila and have a bundle

in reserve. So the boys over at Defense scouted around for a job

for old Brokey, something not too tough in the brain-scan

department, but the kind of title that warrants a fair sum, so Brokey

could augment his retirement pay, both of which he so richly

deserves."

"Don't tell me," interrupted Sam. "The Bureau of Indian Affairs.

The big office."

"I always said you were the brightest lieutenant I ever met, boy."

"I was a major!"

"Temporary, and reduced in rank by Heseltine's friends. Didn't

you read your discharger'

"Only my name and the date of separation.... So we have d6jA

vu; you and the insidious Brokernichael are really back in my life....

Obviously, Brokey-honor-bound by comrades bonded in battle-saw

fit to let some air into a few musty archive depositories and

rummage through a number of sealed files."

"Oh, nothing so random as that, Sam," protested the Hawk. "A

lot of research went into this investigation before that action was

deemed necessary. Of course, the fact that Brokey was where he

was had a kind of stimulating effect at the beginning, and I can't

deny that having access to all that centralized Indian history wasn't

a help, but months of research were required to uncover some

mighty peculiar shenanigans that called for aggressive decisions."

"Decisions like illegally breaking into the sealed archives without

judicial appeals or warrants, which are available to any legitimate

party with probable cause?"

"Now, son, certain operations are best carried out away from the

floodlights, if you know what I mean."

"Such as holding up a bank or breaking out of prison."

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 151

"That's harsh, Sam. Those are criminal activities; this is

rectifying a great crime."

"Who put it all together?"

"What do you mean?"

"Who wrote it? The structure, the verbiage, the arguments and

appraisals ... the concrete refutations of the status quo?"

"Oh, that wasn't hard, just time-consuming."

"WIM011

"Hell, there are all kinds of forms to follow in the law books, and

fancy language that complicates simple meanings to the point

where you can go nuts trying to follow the nonsense, but it reads

very 6fficial-like."

"You did this?"

"Sure.- I just worked backward, from the simple to'the obscure,

with a little heartfelt indignation thrown in."

"Jesus Christ!"

"You're spilling your coffee, Sam."

"It's a casebook brief!"

"Well, I don't know about that, but thanks, son. I just took it one

sentence at a time, cross-checking with all those law-school

textbooks. Hell, anybody could do it if they've got twenty-one free

months to write it in and their brains don't blow out with all that

murnbo-jumbo horseshit. You know, soinetimes it took me a whole

week just to get down half a page so it sounded right.... Now you

went and spilled the rest of your coffee, boy." - "I may also

throw up," said Devereaux with a quiver in his voice as he rose from

the chair, his trousers stained throughout the pelvic area. "I am

vapor, I don't exist. I am merely an aspect of some undiscovered

dimension where eyes and ears float indiscriminately in spirals,

seeing and hearing but with no knowledge of form or matterreality

itself an abstraction."

"Sounds'fine, Sam. Now if you'll throw in 'whereas' a couple of

times, and a few 'parties of the first and second parts,' you could

take it into court.... You all right, boy?"

"No, I am not all right," replied Devereaux in what could only be

described as words spoken in a soft ethereal cadence. "However,

I must heal myself and find my karma

152 ROBERT LUDLUM

so as to struggle through another day and find the shadows in the

light."

"The shadows where ... ? You got funny cigarettes stashed away

in that bedroom?"

"Speak not of things beyond your understanding, Sir

Neanderthal. I am a wounded eagle soaring up into the sky for my

final release from earth."

"Hey, Sam, that's good. I mean it's real Indian talk!"

"Oh, shit."

"Now you broke the spell, son. The tribal elders don't

countenance that kind of language."

"Well, hear this, you Anglo-Saxon savage!" yelled Sam suddenly,

close to losing control but abruptly pulling back to the vocal strains

of his previous search for karma. "I remember Aaron's words

precisely: 'We'll talk tomorrow,' that's what he said, and 'tomorrow'

in itself does not define a specific time. Therefore, as party of the

second part whose opinions were solicited, I prefer to construe

'tomorrow' as having a wide. latitude of hours, since the word

fundamentally implies 'toward morning' but without prior restrictions

regarding the rest of the day until darkness de- ti

scends.

"Sam, can I get you an ice bag, an aspirin-may I be a drink of

that fine brandy?"

"No, you may not, you diseased plaguer-of-the-planet. You will

listen to my determination."

"Termination ... ? That's my lingo, boy!"

"Be quiet," continued Devereaux, walking to the hotel door and

turning, the unfortunate coffee stain on his lightcolored trousers

having spread maliciously. "I hereby determine that the hour of our

conference will take place post meridiem, the specific time to be

mutually agreed upon with later communication by telephone."

"Where are you going, son?"

"To where I can find solitude in isolation and collect my

thoughts. I have a great deal to think about, Mr. Monster. I'm going

home to my lair, shower in steam for an hour or so, and then sit in

my favorite chair and ponder. Au revoir, mon ennemi du coeur for

so it must be."

"What?"

"See -you later, General Asshole." Devereaux went out

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 153

into the hotel corridor, closed the door, and walked to the nearby

bank of elevators on the right. Having used his limited French on

the Hawk, his thoughts briefly returned to Anouilh, and the

conclusion the playwright reached when he wrote that there were

times when there was nothing left but to scream. This was one of

those times, but Sam refused to give in to the temptation. He

pressed the descending button, his entire being on hold.

The elevator door opened and Devereaux walked inside,

nodding briefly, unconsciously, at the only other passenger, a

woman. And then he looked at her. Suddenly lightning flashed

before his eyes and thunder crashed into his ears, as life and blood

instantly returned to the walking corpse he had been only seconds

before. She was glorious! A bronzed Aphrodite with glowing dark

hair and incandescent eyes of a light, bewildering color, with a face

and body sculpted by Bernini! She responded to his stare with a

modest glance until her gaze obviously strayed to the large wet

circle of cloth that saturated the crotch of his trousers. Oblivious

to anything but her beauty, yet conscious of the weakness in his

knees, Devereaux spoke.

"Will you marry me?" Sam said.

1 1 felt

"You take one step toward me and you won't see for a month!" With

the speed of a vice-squad decoy, the striking, bronze-skinned

woman ripped open her purse and whipped out a small metal

cylinder. Arm outstretched, she held it in front of her, the can of

Mace upright and aimed at Devereaux's face barely three feet away.

"Hold it!" cried Sam, his hands above his head in abject

surrender. "I'm sorry-please-I apologize! I don't know what made

me say that ... it was an involuntary slip, a result of stress and

exhaustion-a mental accident."

"It seems you've had a physical one as well," said the woman,

her tone ice-cold as her eyes dropped briefly down to Devereaux's

trousers.

"What?" Sam saw exactly what she meant. "Oh, my God, the

coffee-it was coffee ... is coffee! You see, I've been working all night

and there's this crazy client-you probably won't believe this, but I'm

an attorney-and he drives me up the wall, and I was having coffee

when I just couldn't stand it any longer, him any longer, and I

spilled the coffee. I just wanted to get out of there-see, I was in

such a hurry I forgot my jacket!" Devereaux suddenly stopped,

remembering that he didn't have his jacket;

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 155

some bearded Greek had it. "Actually ... never mind, it's all too

grotesque."

"That thought occurred to me," said the woman, studying Sam,

and, satisfied, putting the cylinder of Mace back in her purse. "If

you're really an attorney, I suggest you get some help before the

court insists on it."

"I'm considered a rather superior attorney," offered Devereaux

defensively, drawing himself up to his full height, the image

somewhat vitiated by roaming hands trying to cover his soiled

trousers. "I really am."

"Where? In American Samoa?"

"I beg your pardonT'

"Forget it. You remind me of someone."

"Well," began Sam, a touch relaxed and genuinely embarrassed.

"I'm sure he was never the idiot I look like."

"I wouldn't cover that bet with a great deal of money." The

descending elevator slowed to a stop. "I wouldn't cover it with a

dime," the woman added quietly as the door opened.

"I am sorry," repeated Devereaux as they walked out into the

hotel lobby.

"It's okay. To tell you the truth, it was a real mallet. I've never

been hit with that one before."

"Then the men of Boston have lost their eyesight," said Sam

brightly, but innocently, no leer in his statement.

"You do remind me of him."

"I hope the resemblance isn't too unpleasant."

"At the moment, mezzo-metz.... If you're going into an early

conference, change your trousers."

"Oh, no. This stressed-out legal beagle is taking a taxi home to

get unwound before the next dog race."

"I'm getting a taxi, too."

"At least let me tip the doorman, my apology thus backed up

with a couple of bucks."- "Very lawyerlike. Maybe you are

good."

"Not bad. I wish you needed legal advice."

"Sony, Clarence Darrow, it's in oversupply."

Out on the pavement and the doorman attended to, Devereaux

held the door of the taxi as she climbed inside. "In light of my

asinine behavior, I don't suppose you'd care to meet me again."

156 ROBERT LUDLUM

"It's not your behavior, Counselor," answered the siren of his

morning dreams as she once again opened her purse, this time

removing a piece of paper-to Sam's relief, "but I'm only here for a

day or two and my court calendar is jammed."

"Sorry about that," said Devereaux, perplexed. And then his lady

of the morning sunlight turned to the driver and gave him the

address of her destination. "Christ Almighty!" whispered Sam in

shock as he involuntarily closed the door.

Conference ... Clarence Darrow ... Counselor--court calendar!

The address the bitch gave was his own house!

Sitting anxiously forward in his chair in the Oval Office, the

President of the United States was annoyed, really annoyed, as he

gripped the telephone in his hand. "Now, come on, Reebock, give

a little, you ca-ca-faced son of a doggie girl! The Court has to take

some responsibility if there's even an outside possibility that we all

get our tailgates blown away by those aggressor islands in the

Caribbean, to say nothing of the superpowers in Central America!"

"Mr. President," intoned the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court,

his somber vocal presence marred by a nasal twang. "Our system

of the rule of law in an open society requires expeditious

adjudication of legal redress, the relief from injury swift and

adequately compensatory. Therefore the Wopotarni hearings must

be made public. To coin a phrase, 'Justice delayed is justice

denied.' "

"I've heard that before, Reebock, you didn't make it up.,,

"Really? No doubt I was the inspiration. I'm known for that sort

of thing, I'm told."

"Yes, well, along those lines, Mr Chief Justice--2' "Inspiring

people, you mean?" interrupted the leader of the Supreme Court.

"Do tell."

"No, regarding things you're known for," corrected the President.

"I've just had a call from Vincent Mangee .. Mangaa-that fellow over

at the CIA."

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 157

"In my early days as a young prosecutor, Mr. President, he was

known as Vinnie the Bam-Bam."

"No kidding?"

"One does not kid about such sobriquets, sir."

"I guess not. Gosh, it sounds like it could sort of deflate his

degree from Oxford."

"From where?"

"It's not important, Reebock, but it's a real coincidence that you

should mention your early days as a prosecutor--2'

"A very young prosecutor, Mr. President," broke in the Chief

Justice apprehensively.

"Yes, Vincent understands that. He even said there's probably

no relevance now-today, so many years laterbut still we've all got

to cover our backsides, because this Wopotami thing is going to set

off a national debate, I mean a real zing doozer!"

"I'm afraid that's your problem, Mr. President, or should I say the

combined responsibilities of the Executive and the Legislative

branches." The Chief Justice paused, then added, stifling a giggle.

"It's in your lap, baby-tee hee."

"Reebock, I heard that!"

"Terribly sorry, sir, an insect in my nose.... I'm merely trying to

explain that we are not an activist Court. We do not make,the laws,

we uphold them in the grand tradition of strict constructionists. And

as you know, several members of the Court feel strongly that the

Wopotami case may be built on a firm foundation of constitutional

law, although they certainly haven't rendered any final decisions,

and they better not. However, to keep the hearings closed would

be construed as interpreting that great document like those dirty

liberals do, not reflecting its true intent."

"Golly, I know that," said the President, drawing out his words

plaintively, "and that's what's got Vincent upset. All your individual

opinions will be studied by scholars, and newspaper editors and

columnists and, well, dam it to doodoo-ville, everybody! And you

could be in trouble, Reebock."

- "Me? ... I don't support the goddamn thing! My correctthinking

colleagues and I will argue until we bury those

158 ROBERT LUDLUM

sanctimonious idiots who keep throwing that garbage of 'collective

conscience' at us. We'll run them out of the Court before we give

in, and they know it. Good Christ, you think I'd give those arrow-

happy aborigines a nickel's worth of muleshit? They're no better

than the Negroes!"

"I"hat's what Vincent figured-" "Figured what?"

"It seems that when you were a young assistant prosecutor there

was a definite pattern in your indictments and the cases you tried-"

"With a record of convictions that was the envy of the office!"

"Almost exclusively black and Hispanic," completed the

President.

"Hell, yes, and I got those mothers! They were the ones

committing all the crimes, you know."

"All of them?"

"Let's put it this way, . . . the ones I wanted to go after for the

good of the country. With felonies on their records, they couldn't

vote!"

"Vincent figured that, too."

"What are you driving at, Mr. President?"

"Frankly, Vincent's trying to protect you, protect your place in

history."

"What? "

"Although you're the strictest of the strict constructionists, you're

against the Wopotainis, yet I'm told you even refuse to read the

brief. Is that because they're 'no better than the Negroes'? Do you

really want to go down in the books as the racist Chief Justice

who's going to vote against the purported evidence because of the

color of the plaintiff's skin in a landmark decision?"

"Who could think that?" asked the flustered champion of

constitutional law. "My interrogations will be filled with compassion

ultimately overridden by the practical realities, which I'm firmly

convinced will be the Court's finding by at least three votes. The

country will understand. The hearings must be open."

"Would that mule ca-ca stand up against the published record of

your excessive convictions of darker-skinned minorities as an

assistant prosecutor--especially if that rec-THE ROAD TO OMAHA 159

ord revealed that you frequently chose the public defenders,

most of whom had rarely tried a case?"

"Oh, my God ... ! Those records could surface?" "Not if you give

Vincent time to expunge them. National security concerns, of

course."

"He could do that?"

"He says he can manage it."

"The time? ... I don't know what my colleagues would say if I

delay the public hearings. I can't appear to be recalcitrant, it

might look ... heaven forbid ... suspicious."

"Vincent understands that, too. He knows that there are

several members of the Court who can't stand your 'apricots'-I

believe it's a pejorative term, Reebock."

"Christ, I'm being compromised for doing the right thing!"

"For the wrong reasons, Mr. Chief Justice. Vincent counted

on it. What shall I tell him?"

"How long does he think it would take to ... shall we say,

remove the misunderstood materials that could lead to erroneous

conclusions?"

"To do a thorough job, he says a year-"

"The Court would revolt!"

"He'll settle for a week."

"It's yours."

"He'll manage it."

Mangecavallo leaned back in his chair and relit his Monte Cristo

cigar, a temporarily satisfied man. He had seen the light when

everyone else, including Hymie the Hurricane, saw only the dark

clouds of confusion. So the gumballs on the Supreme Court who

were maybe leaning toward the vicious Wopotami savages were

whistle-clean, there had to be another way to buy some time to

catch this Thunder Head phony and either blow him full of holes or

mess his head up so bad he'd be happy to call the whole thing off,

labeling it for what it was: a very major scam. The suspicious five

or six frutti got them nowhere, so why not look in the other

direction, say with the big banana himself ? That,fasciNta couldn't

possibly vote for the Wopotamis; it just wasn't in his heart. And

since it wasn't, what kind of

160 ROBERT LUDLUM

rotten heart was in his bigoted chest that made him immediately

turn off his big brain? Maybe someone should in-quire.

Now they had an extra week, which was about all they could

hope for, what with the big banana's popularity rating among his

colleagues at zip-minus. And a week should be enough, since Little

Joey the Shroud had cornered the Section-Eight General Lasagna

with the Wopotami feathers hanging down to his ass in Boston,

where, as everyone knew, accidents happened with alarming

frequency. Maybe not in the New York-L.A.-Miami league, but it

wasn't small-time, either. Mangecavallo blew three perfect smoke

rings and looked at his diamond-rimmed watch. The Shroud had

two minutes left in the prescribed morning's timespan to call; the

unseen telephone buzzed in the lower right-hand section of the

director's desk. He reached down, opened the drawer, and picked

it up. "Yes?"

"It's Little Joey, Vin."

"You always gotta wait until the last second,to call? I told you,

I got a high-level conference at ten o'clock - and you.,make me

nervous. Suppose this phone rang when the guys in suits were

here in the officeT'

"So you tell 'ern it's a wrong number."

"Pazzo-head, they don't see the phone!"

"You hire blind spies, Vinnie?"

"Basta. What've you got? Quick!"

"Hoo-hay, a bundle, Bam-Bam-2'

"I told you--2'

"Sorry, Vincenzo.... Anyway, quick, I gotta room at this fancy

hotel like I mentioned before."

"No long stories, Joey. I know you got a room last night down

the hall from the yarmulke, so?"

"So much activity, Vin! The big General Indian Chief is here with

the yarmulke, only they left for a couple of hours last night. Then

the chief's soldiers came back and they left after talkin' to

somebody else inside before the chief and the yarmulke came back.

Then the old Jewish guy left, leavin' the chief with whoever it was

inside, but before that there was a lot of yellin'-l mean real stridore-

and then the yarmulke left and everything was silenzio."

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 161

"You're tellin' me, Little Joey, that the nest of this terrible

cospirazione is right down the hall from you, right?"

"Right, Bam-Bam! ... Sorry, Vin, it comes natural, you know what

I mean, from the old days?"

"Basta. What else, although I think we got all we need? Can you

find out who the crumb was inside-maybe just a broad, huh?"

"Hoo-hay, Vinnie, it was no broad and I saw him. He's a mental

case, a real vegetate."

"What are you talkin'T'

"Like always, I keep the door open an inch, maybe an inch and

a half, maybe two inches-"

"Joey! 11

"Okay, okay. I see the gumbar come out and he goes to the

elevators, right?"

"That makes him a mental case ... T' "No, Vin, his pants do."

"Huh?"

"He's pissed all over 'em! Big wet circles down to his knees--on

both sides. I mean, he's walkin' out in public with his pants filled

with pee! If that don't make him a mental case, you tell me what

does, huh, Bam-BamT'

"He's all shook up, that's what he is," concluded the astute

director of the Central Intelligence Agency. "Around this place they

call it 'operational bum-out,' or sometimes 'deep-cover bends,'

depending on the mission." Mangecavallo's console hummed; it was

his secretary's line. "I only got a couple of seconds, Little Joey.

Try to find out who this creep with the pissed-up trousers is, okayT'

"I know, Vinnie! I went to the front desk and made like a friend

of a priest who was lookin' for him on account of some personal

tragedy and described him, although I didn't make a big thing about

the pants.... I thought maybe I should get a religious collar, you

know what I mean, but I figured it would take too long--2'

"Joey!" roared Mangecavallo. "Stop already! Who is he?"

"His name is Devereaux, and I'd better spell it out for you. He's

a sharp attorney in the big yarmulke's firm."

"He's a ferocious un-American traitor, that's what he

162 ROBERT LUDLUM

is," pronounced the DCI, writing out the name as the Shroud spelled

it. The director's visible phone rang again; his visitors were

impatient. "Stay put with your eyes open, Little Joey. I'll be in

touch." Mangecavallo hung up and placed his private telephone

back into the drawer. He then buzzed his secretary twice, the signal

to admit subordinates. As he did so, he picked up a pencil and

wrote out in block letters another name below that of Devereaux.

BROOKLYN! Enough was enough; it was time for solid

professionals.

Colonel Bradley "Hoot" Gibson, pilot of the still-airborne EC-135, the

"Looking Glass" for the Strategic Air Command's global operations,

shouted into his radio. "Have you idiots gone to lunch on the last

quasar beyond Jupiter? We've been up here for fifty-two hours,

refueled three times, and apologized in six languages, two of which

weren't even in the fucking computers! Now, what the hell's going

on?"

"We read you loud and clear, Colonel," came the reply from

Offutt's control tower, using its UTF radio band, otherwise known as

Ultra Tropopausic Frequency, which, unfortunately, had a tendency

to pick up cartoons from Mongolian television but otherwise had a

clear range throughout the Pacific. "We've handled the complaints

on this end very effectively. It's a pretty good bet you won't be

missiled down, how about that?"

"You get our maximum leader on the horn or I'm heading off

your screens to Pago Pago and sending for my wife and kids! I've

had it-we've had it!"

I "Easy, Colonel, there are five other aircraft in roughly your

same predicament. Think about them."

"I'll tell you what I think about them. I think we'll rendezvous,

head to the Australian Outback, auction off these electronic tubes

of spaghetti to the highest bidders, and have enough cash to start

our own country! ... Now get that clown of a commander on the

phone!"

"I've been on it, Colonel Gibson," said a distinctly different voice

over the radio. "I've got a patch here to all airborne equipment."

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 163

"Eavesdropping, General? Isn't that against the law?"

"Not in this outfit, fly-boy.... Come on, Hoot, how do you think I

feel?"

"I think you feel your ass in a cushioned chair inside a building

on dry ground, that's what I think you feel, Owen."

"I suppose you also think I issued those orders myself, don't

you? Well, I'll let you in on a little national security secret: I'm not

permitted to. They were issued to me code Red Plus."

"Fo -repeat myself, what the hell is going on?"

"You wouldn't believe it if I told you, but then I couldn't, because

I didn't understand a word the trench coats said-well, I understood

most of the specific words, but not what they meant when put

together."

"What trench coats?"

"Again, you wouldn't believe me. It's hot as hell down here, and

they kept their coats and hats on, and they don't open doors for

women."

"Owen ... General Richards," said the pilot, with firm gentleness.

"Have you been to the base hospital lately?"

In his office, the commandant of SAC sighed as he replied to the

pilot 800 miles west and 40,000 feet above. "Every goddamn time

the red phone rings I want to turn myself in." So, of course, the red

telephone hummed as its red light flashed on and off. "Holy shit,

there it goes! ... Hang on, Hoot, don't go anyw

"I'm not canceling the Australian Outback, Owen."

"Oh, shut up," ordered the commandant of SAC as he picked up

the red telephone. "Rec-Wing Headquarters, General Richards," he

said with ill-felt authority.

"Beam lem down, Scotty!" cried the half-whining, halfwheezing

voice of the Secretary of Defense. "Beam 'em all down!"

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Secretary?"

"I said bring 'em back, soldier! We've got ourselves a little

breathing room, so stand down till I call you again and then be

prepared to send up the whole flotilla!"

'Flotilla, sir?"

164 ROBERT LUDLUM

"You heard me, whatever your name is!"

"No, Mr. Secretary," said Richards, a calm suddenly spreading

through him. "You hear me, sir. You've just given your last order

to whatever-my-name-is."

"What did you say, mister?"

"You heard me, sir, and my title is 'general' in contradistinction

to the civilian 'mister,' not that either term would mean anything to

you."

"You being insubordinate?"

"To the fullest extent of my vocabulary, mister... Why we put up

with you Washington sewer pipes is something I'll never

understand, but I'm told it's spelled out somewhere by somebody

who never ran into anyone like you, and I'm not about to introduce

you because all the rules would be changed-like opening doors for

ladies-and I'm not sure that's such a good idea."

"Are you sick, soldier boyT'

"Yes, I'm sick, you sniveling, tiny rat with a rug on your tiny

head, sick of you dumb politicians who think you know more about

my business than I do after thirty years in this uniform! And you can

bet your butt I'm beaming them all down, Scotty, and I would have

done so whether you called or not!"

"You're fired, soldier!"

"Stick your head in a toilet, toupee and all, civilian. YOU

I f

can ire me. You can relieve me, and I hope to Christ you do, but

you can't fire me. It's in my contract. Good-bye and have a rotten

fucking day!" The general slammed down the red telephone and

returned to the UTF radio connection. "You still there, Hooff

"I'm here and I heard you, Private Richards. You ready for

latrine duty?"

"Is that son of a bitch ready for Ty press conference?"

"Good point, Corporal.... I gather we're coming back."

"Everybody. We resume normal operations as of now."

"Call my wife, will you?"

"No, I'll call your daughter; her head's on tighter. Your wife

thinks you were shot down over Mongolia and she's enshrined a

plate of roast beef hash."

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 165

"You're right, talk to the kid. And tell her to wear longer skirts."

"Over and out, Colonel." General Owen Richards hung up the

UTF receiver and pushed his chair back, pleased with himself

Career be damned, he should have done what he did a long time

ago. Retirement wouldn't be so awful, although he had to admit it

would not be all that easy to put his uniform in a cedar chest. He

and his wife could live wherever they wanted-one of his pilots told

him that American Samoa was a terrific place. Still, it was going to

be rough sledding leaving the one thing he loved best outside of

the wife and children. The air force was his life-to hell with it!

And, naturally, the red telephone erupted. Richards picked it up,

his temper in flames. "What is it, you fucking skinhead?"

"Golly, gosh, and gee whillikers, General, is that any way to

answer a friendly telephone call?"

"What?" The voice was familiar but Richards couldn't place it.

"Who the hell is this?"

"I think I'm called your Commander in Chief, General."

"The President?" - "You can bet your socks on it, sky

jock."

"S4jock?"

"Different uniform but pretty much the same equipment, General,

except for the high-tech jet stuff."

"Equipment? "

"Ease off, pilot. I was there when you were in diapers."

"My God, you are him!"

'He' is better grammar, Owen. I only know that because

secretary tells me."

MY

"I'm sorry, sir!"

"Don't be, General. I'm the one who's apologizing. I just got off

the horn with our Secretary of Defense--2' "I understand, sir. I'm

relieved of my command."

"No, Owen, he is. Well, not actually, but he's not making any

more decisions where you're concerned without checking with me.

He told me what you said, and I couldn't have put it better with my

best speechwriters. You have any more problems, you call me

direct, got it?"

"Got it, Mr. President.... Hey, you're okay!"

166 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Let's just say I kicked a little ass-but for God's sake, don't quote

me."

Sam Devereaux paid ten dollars for the doorman to shriek his

whistle at all points of the compass so as to find him a taxi. For

three minutes none were to be had, although two swiftly passed a

frustrated Sam in the middle of the street, the drivers' eyes focused

on his trousers. He rejoined the doorman as a couple arrived at the

Four Seasons' curb, said couple somewhat flustered as Sam threw

their luggage out of the trunk and ignored their objections, opting

only to leap into the cab and scream the address of his own

residence in Weston.

"What the hell are you stopping for?" yelled Devereaux after

several blocks.

"Because if I don't, I'll hit the jerk in front of me," replied the

driver.

It was an early-morning traffic jam in Boston, as always,

extended by the insane one-way streets that forced unfamiliar

drivers to travel eleven miles to reach an address fifty feet away.

"I know a shortcut to the Weston road," said Sam, leaning far

forward and embracing the rim of the front seat.

"So does everybody else in Massachusetts, buddy, and unless

you got a gun, get the hell away from me."

"No gun, no threat. I'm just a nice person in a terrible hurry.,,

"I figured you took care of that 'hurry' by what I seen of your

pants. If you got another 'hurry,' get outta here!"

"No-no, that's coffee! I spilled a cup of coffee!"

"Who am I to argue? Would you mind sitting back in the seat-it's

in our insurance?"

"Sure," said Sam, moving back but still on the edge of the rear

seat. "Look, I'm just trying to impress upon you that this is an

emergency, a real one! A lady whose name I don't know is heading

out to my house and I've got to get there before she does. She left

a few minutes ago from the hotel in another cab."

"Naturally," said the driver with philosophical resignation. "She

got your address from your wallet during the

THE WAD TO OMAHA 167

night and now she figures she can pick up a little extra mattress

money by dropping in on the missus. When will you fishtails learn?

... Hey, we got a break up ahead. I'll swing down Church Street and

up to the Weston road."

"That's the shortcut I was talking about."

"With any luck, not too many of the summer crowds know about

it."

"Just get me home as fast as you can."

"Listen, mister, the law says that without indications of harmful

intent or abusive language or unsanitary appearance, I gotta take

you where you tell me. Now, you are close to the line on all three

counts--over it on one, in my opinion-so don't push, okay? Nobody

wants you home and out of this cab faster than me."

"Of course it's the law," rejoined a slightly bewildered

Devereaux. "You think I don't know that? I'm an attorney."

"Yeah, and me, I'm a ballet dancer."

Finally, at last, the cab swung into Devereaux's street. Checking

the meter, Sam dropped the amount of the fare over the front seat

along with a generous tip. He opened the door, leaped out on the

pavement, and saw that there was no.other taxi in,sight@

He had done it and, boy, was that woman in for the surprise of

her life! Just because a female using minimal language of the law

was outrageously gorgeous, with a face and body created by a

straight Botticelli, she had no right to give his address to a

cabdriver and imply some vague legal threat without being properly

introduced! No, sir, Samuel Lansing Devereaux, attorney of high

regard, was made of sterner stuff.... Maybe he should change his

trousers. He started toward the path that led to his private entrance

when the front door opened, revealing Cousin Cora beckoning him

rather wildly, even for her.

"What is it?" he asked, instantly vaulting over the white picket

fence and rushing up to the steps, with a slight inkling of impending

doom.

"What is it?" repeated Cora in high dudgeon. "Maybe you'd

better tell me what it is you've done, other than the obvious," she

added, glancing at his trousers.

"Oh, oh.' It was all Sam could think to say.

168 ROBERT LUDLUM

I guess that's a start--2'

"What happened?" interrupted Devereaux.

"A little while ago, this long-legged sunburned dish who musta

stepped out of one of them California beach commercials came to

the door inquiring about a certain unmentionable person. Well,

Sammy, I thought your mother was goin' to have a stroke, but the

leggy lady with a face you could kill for calmed her down and now

they're both inside the living room with the doors closed."

"What the hell is all this?"

"I can only tell ya that the hoity-toity went into the pantry for her

teapot but she didn't order no tea."

"Son of a bitch!" cried Devereaux, racing across the marble hall

and flinging open both French doors of the living room as he burst

inside.

"You!" shouted Jennifer Redwing, lurching out of the brocaded

chair.

"You!" yelled the furious son and attorney. "How did you get

here so quickly?"

I used to live in Boston. I know several shortcuts."

"Several ... ?"

"You!" shrieked Eleanor Devereaux, rising from the@ brocaded

couch, her mouth agape as she stared at Sam. "Your trousers, you

terrible, incontinent boy!"

"It's coffee, Mother!"

"It's coffee," said the bronzed Aphrodite. "He says."

12

"Now you've got the broad outlines of the Mac-and-Sam

international blackmail carnival as it pertains to the general's ability

to dig way down deep and come up with indictable dirt," said

Devereaux. They had moved to his chiteau's lair, into his office now

stripped of all photographs and newspaper articles, without his

mother, who found it imperative to take to her bed with "the vapors."

Sam sat at his desk, Jennifer Redwing in the chair in front of him,

which still had strips of torn sheets tied to the arms.

"It's only incredible, but you have to know that." She slowly

opened her purse,' a bright lady in shock. "Good God, forty million

dollars!"

"No Mace!" cried Devereaux, pushing his swivel chair back into

the wall.

"No Mace," confirmed Redwing, withdrawing a pack of

cigarettes. "It's only a vice I give up every other week until

something like this happens, but then nothing like this has ever

happened.... At least, I cut down."

"It's a crutch, you know. You should have stronger discipline."

"All things considered, Counselor, I don't think you're

170 ROBERT LUDLUM

in a position to be holier-than-me. Do you have an ashtray, or shall

I set this expensive rug on fire?"

"Since you're adamant," said Sam, opening a desk drawer and

pulling out two ashtrays, along with a pack of cigarettes. "I guess

I'll concede.... I see we both use lowtar.,,

"Let's get back to the low blows, Mr. Devereaux." Both lawyers

lighted their crutches and Miss Redwing continued. "This brief to

the Court is all nonsense, you also have to know that, too."

"Redundancy, Counselor. 'Also' and 'too' are redundant."

"Not when used for emphasis in front of a jury by a competent

attorney, Counselor."

"Agreed. Who's which?"

"We're both both," said Redwing. "Speaking as the lat7 ter on

behalf of the Wopotamis, the tribe's interests are not served by this

frivolous litigation, which has gone entirely too far."

"Speaking as an equal once disastrously associated with

General Hawkins," countered Sam, "the litigation is not at all

frivolous. Realistically, it doesn't have a chance, but the tribe's

case against the government is pretty damn convincing."

"What?" Redwing locked eyes with Devereaux, her cigarette

poised in front of her, the smoke suspended as if caught in a still

photograph. "You've got to be kidding."

"I wish I were. Life would be a lot easier."

"Come again?"

"Me evidence unearthed in the sealed archives appears to be

authentic. Territorial treaties executed in good faith were replaced

by legislated relocations without regard to prior agreements---

existing rights of land ownership."

" 'Legislated relocations'? Made to move?"

"That's it, and the government had no authority to abrogate the

legally arrived-at doctrine of ownership and force the Wopotarnis off

their lands. Certainly not without a federal court hearing, with full

tribal representation."

"They did that? No court, no hearing for the tribe? How

could they?"

"The government lied-specifically with regard to the

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 171

Treaty of 1878, finalized between the Wopotamis and the Forty-ninth

Congress."

"But how?"

"The Department of the Interior, obviously with a little help from

the Bureau of Indian Affairs, claimed that such a treaty never

existed, that it was a fantasy dreamed up by swacked-out medicine

men pouring zombie-water down their throats while prancing around

campfires.... The brief goes so far as to speculate on the origins of

the fire that destroyed the First Bank of Omaha in 1912."

"That rings a bell," said Redwing, frowning and crushing out her

cigarette.

"It should. It's where the Wopotamis kept alf their tribal records,

none of which survived, of course."

"What was the speculation?"

"That it was torched by federal agents acting on orders from

Washington."

"That's pretty heavy, Counselor, even eighty years later. On

what basis was the speculation?"

"The bank was supposedly broken into in the middle of the

night, all the cash and valuables cleaned out, and the robbers

escaped without a trace. Yet before they ran for it, they apparently

decided to set fire to the bank, which was pretty stupid, since they

were making a clean getaway and a fire like that might just wake up

a few citizens."

"Stupid but not unheard of, Mr. Devereaux. Pathological

personalities aren't a recent phenomenon, and the hatred of banks

has a long history."

"Granted, but when the initial source of th6 conflagration was

determined to- be the bank's basement, where the document files

were located, said files overturned, scattered, and the rooms

soaked with lamp oil, it makes you kind of wonder, doesn't it? If the

whole structure didn't go up, those rooms certainly would.... Also,

it was the shortest abandoned manhunt in the annals of crime, as

the perpetrators were reported to be seen in South America. Of

course, Cassidy and Sundance said they'd never been to Omaha,

and they were the only American bank robbers ever known to have

surfaced down there in those days.... Naturally, I've just given you

a quick overview, as my sainted employer would say-Aid say."

172 ROBERT LUDLUM

"It's disastrously convincing." The lovely Indian attorney

suddenly shook her head back and forth in rapid stabs. "It can't go

forward, you must understand that."

"I'm not sure it can be stopped," said Sam.

"Of course it can! This general, this catastrophic troublemaker

Hawkins, can simply withdraw-take my word for it, the Court adores

withdrawals, even my brother learned that while he was down

there."

"He @ the oneT'

"The one who?"

"Ibe young brave of the tribe who worked with Mac but didn't

pass the bar."

"Didn't pass? I'll have you know my little bro-my brother-passed

in the highest percentile!"

"So did L"

"It figures," said Redwing, no enthusiasm whatsoever in her

concession. "It seems you're cut from the same crazy quilt."

"He @ the one I remind you of? Is that what you meant before?"

"It means, Counselor, that your goddamned General Hawkins

found another Samuel Devereaux for his latest cataclysmic frolic."

"Your brother was in the army?"

"No, he was on a reservation-the wrong one.... Back to the mad

general."

"Actually, the 'mad' was part of his military nickname."

"Why do I find that not totally surprising?" Jennifer fumbled in

her purse for another cigarette.

"Hey, Counselor," interrupted Devereaux as Redwing withdrew

her pack. "You were doing so well; you only had a couple of puffs

and you put it out. I did, too, sort of to help you."

"Get off my case, Counselor! I don't want to talk about your

brain surgery or my frailties, I want to talk about Hawkins and his

appeal to the Supreme Court and how we can squash it!"

"Actually, in legal terms, it's not an appeal-no decision was made

in a court of law that requires overturning, like in appellate

procedures-"

"Don't you dare quote law to me, pee-pants!"

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 173

"It was coffee, and I changed my trousers and you agreed it was

coffee."

"It was also an appeal in the broader legal sense, an appeal to

right a wrong," said Redwing, a touch defensively.

"My trousers?"

"No, you idiot, the lousy brief!"

"Then you agree with Mac. If everything I've told you stands up

to scrutiny, your scrutiny, a crime was committed against your

people. Don't you think it should be 'righted'T'

"Whose side are you on?" protested the Native American beauty.

"At the moment, I'm a devil's advocate suppressing my natural

inclinations. I want to know what you think."

"Don't you understand? What I think doesn't matter! I care for my

people and I don't want them hurt.... Come on, Devereaux, be

realistic. A small Indian tribe against the majestic national power

of SAC-how long would we survive? Even the specter of such a

possibility, whether it had a chance or not, could result in new laws

passed, land condemned by eminent domain, our people scattered-

all resulting in economic and racial genocide, and it wouldn't be the

first time we've experienced it."

"Isn't that worth fighting against?" asked Sam, his expression

passive. "Anywhere?"

"Theoretically, of, course, and in the vast majority of instances,

actively. But not here. Our people are not unhappy. They have the

land they live on, with decent goveminent subsidies-which I'm

parlaying into investments with damn good returns-and to suddenly

plunge them into a morass of legal violence-and that's what it would

be, violence-I simply can't permit it."

"Mac won't go along with you. He's an original, and violence of

any kind isn't a threat, it's a come-on.... Also, Miss Redwing, and

now I've got to speak for my admittedly terrified self, and I suspect

for the greatest attorney I've ever known, namely my employer, one

Aaron Pinkus, I don't think we can go along with you, either. You

see, when you come right down to it, we're officers of the court, and

a great crime was committed, and to turn our faces away wouldn't

be terribly appropriate. Not if we re-174 ROBERT LUDLUM

ally believe what we think we are. That's what Aaron meant when

he said to me that we both had to make the individual decisions of

our lives. Do we turn away or do we uphold a truth that may

destroy us professionally, but knowing in our souls that we're

right?"

Jennifer Redwing, her eyes wide and staring at Sam, swallowed

several times, then spoke haltingly. "Will you marry me, Mr.

Devereaux? ... No! I didn't mean that! It's like what you said to me

in the elevator! A slip, a mental slip!"

"Hey, it's okay, Miss ... Miss--do you have a first name? After all,

I said it first-the dumb slip, I mean."

"People call me Red."

"Not for your hair-Christ, it's the most gorgeous, lustrous ebony

I've ever seen in my life."

"It's the genes," said Redwing, getting slowly out of the chair.

"My people ate a great deal of red buffalo meat. I'm told it gives a

sheen genetically."

"I don't give, a wigwam damn what does it," said Devereaux, also

rising slowly and walking around the desk. "You're the most

beautiful woman I've ever met in my life."

"Looks are only surface, Sam-may I call you Sam?"

"It's a good substitute for 'idiot,' " said Devereaux, his arms

encircling her. "You are glorious!"

"Please, Sam, that's so irrelevant. If I'm attracted to you-and I

obviously am-it's not because of your handsome face and your tall

lean body-which can't be discounted-but it's because of your basic

integrity and great love of the law."

"Oh, yeah, I got it! I really got that!"

"Don't be frivolous, Sam. Please, don't be."

"Never, never!" And naturally the goddamned telephone rang.

Devereaux's hand crashed down on the desk, only glancing off the

base of the instrument but causing the receiver to flip over onto the

blotter; he picked it up angrily. "This is a recording," said Sam in a

loud, flat monotone. "You've reached the Lugosi Funeral Home, but

there's no one here who can get up and answer the phone--2'

"Cut it out, boy," interrupted the harsh, growling voice of

MacKenzie Hawkins, "just you listen up sharp. We're

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 175

under attack and you're a target, so I want you to take rapid cover."

"Listen, fossil brain, I left you barely two hours ago and my

instructions were that I was not to be disturbed until post meridiem!

For your edification, that's after twelve noon--2'

"No, Sam, you listen to me," the Hawk broke in, his very calm

sending the message of genuine concern. "Get out of your house.

Now."

"Why the hell should IT'

"Because you don't have an unlisted number and that means

your address is in the telephone book."

"So are several million others-"

"But only two of them ever heard of the Wopotamis."

11 What? 11

"I'll say this only once, son, because neither of us can waste

time. I don't know how it happened-it isn't Hymie the Hurricane's

modus operandi. Oh, hell, he'll send a goon or two but not an

enforcer-and that's exactly what we got on our rear flank, a hit man."

"It's a little early for you to get juiced, isn't it, Mac?"

"Hear this, Lieutenant," said Hawkins, his voice now both calm

and cold. "My adjutant, Desi-One, who, unbeknownst to me, was

temporarily employed in the New York area-specifically the Brooklyn

barrio-spotted a man in the hotel lobby he'd seen before from a

distance during his previous temporary employment. A very bad

man, Lieutenant, and because the corporal is conscientious and

dressed properly, he stood beside this hombre vicioso, as he called

him, at the front desk and heard him distinctly ask about two

gentlemen. The names were Pinkus and Devereaux."

"Holy ...

"Precisely, boy. This bad individual made a phone call, then

returned to the desk, where he got himself a room two floors below

us.... I don't like that phone call, Sam."

"Neither do L"

"I just spoke to Commander Pinkus, and we agree. Take your

mother and that wacko maid he said was a relative and get out of

there. We can't allow hostages."

"Hostages?" cried Devereaux, glancing at the glorious

176 ROBERT LUDLUM

Red Redwing, who watched him, her expression one of complete

bewilderment. "My God, you're right."

"I'm rarely wrong under these conditions, son. Commander

Pinkus orders you to head for that crummy joint where the two of

us met in the parking lot, and he'll send the gunny sergeant for you

as,soon as he can locate him.... Seems the missus took over the

limo for shopping and isn't talking to the commander, except to yell

about some dirty curtains and an odor in the backseat that smells

like a combination of fish and Danish pastry."

"We're on our way, but I'll have to use Mother's Jaguar. Stosh

hasn't returned my car, so have Aaron tell Paddy to look for the

yellow Jag.... What about you, Mac-not that I frankly give a damn-

but that bad person is only two floors below?"

"I'm really touched by your concern, son, but I've got a little time

to pick up the bivouac and remove all the papers.

"How do you know that? I hate to tell you, but you're not actually

invincible. That son of a bitch could be coming up after you right

now!"

"No, not for a while, Sam. Desi-Two did a job on that son of a

bitch's lock that jams it from both the outside and the inside. The

only way he can get out is through the fifth-floor window or when

the hotel takes the whole door down, which, being steel-plated

under the fancy paneling, means a blowtorch. Goddamn, can I pick

personnel or can I pick personnel?"

"I'll reserve judgment on that, but I will tell you I had a very

strange conversation with them last night."

"Heard all about it, boy. Guess what? They're joining the ariny!

I told 'em, to hold off for a day or two and I'll have 'ern sent directly

to postbasic G-Two training. Christ Almighty, they're already light-

years ahead of the assholes who've finished the course! Naturally,

Desi-One's got to get his teeth fixed; it simply isn't proper for him

to have that gap in his mouth, but I've still got my connections. The

army'll take care of that--2'

"We're getting out of here, Mac," interrupted Devereaux sharply.

"As you said, we can't waste time." With those words, Sam slammed

down the phone and turned to Red

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 177

Redwing. "We've got a serious problem," he said, his hands

clasping her shoulders. "Recalling the essence of our prior

communication, will you trust me, pleaseT'

"Emotionally or intellectually?" asked the suddenly doubting

legal adversary.

"They're inseparable. We could get our asses blown away,

maybe our heads. I'll explain later."

"You mentioned something about getting out of here, so what

are we waiting for?"

"We have to get Mother and Cousin Cora."

"In the parlance of Indian legend, let's run like the northern

winds before the palefaces close in on us with their thunder sticks!"

"God, that's magnificent!"

"V*%at is?"

"Me 'northern winds,' the 'thunder sticks'!"

"Not if you're born into a tribe, buster. Come on! You get Cousin

Cora and I'll get your mother."

"Shouldn't it be the other way around?"

"Are you kidding? Your mother doesn't trust you for a second."

"She has to, I'm her son."

"She'll deny that, take my word for it."

"But I love you-you love me. We agreed!"

"We were both carried away-you superficially; me, I was

intellectually moved. We'll discuss it later."

"Mat's the most hurtful thing I think I could ever hear you say."

"Try me with a thunder stick pointed at my head in a calm

northern wind, Counselor. Let's go. The last time I saw Cora she

was in the pantry checking out the teapots. You find her, and I'll

bundle up your mother. We'll meet in the garage. Bring the keys

to the Jag."

"The garage ... T'

"You forget I'm an Indian. We circle an encampment before we

strike. White man never-learns."

"Magnificent!"

"Oh, shut up. Let's go!"

Cora, however, refused to budge, and when Sam implied that

there was the possibility of a real physical threat to her life, his

distant uncle's cousin opened a concealed,

178 ROBERT LUDLUM

magnetically released drawer below the oven and pulled out not

one, but two .357 magnums, both loaded, proclaiming that she was

the true protector of the house. "You think I'd count on those lousy

alarms no one can figure out that go off whenever the technical

bullcrap meets their fancy, Nephew? No way, Sammy! I come from

another branch of the family, one the hoity-toity and her smooth-

talkin' husband didn't care too much about@but my God, I'll earn

my keep!"

"I don't believe in guns, Cora!"

"So believe what you like, Sammy. This place is what yer hard-

drinkin', faraway cousin is paid for lookin' after, and you ain't goin'

to take that away from me, you got that, buster?"

"Buster ... ? I can't handle two 'busters' within the space of five

minutes."

"YOU always talk funny, Sam-boy."

"Did I ever tell you that I love you, Cora?"

"A couple of times, Sammy, when you were oiled up to your last

cylinders. Now, you and the leggy unbelievable take the hoity-toity

and get out of here.... And may the good Protestant Lord have

mercy on any bastards who try to get in. Just in case, however, I

may give the police a ring; let 'ern earn their keep for a change."

The yellow Jaguar, with Redwing holding a semicognizant

Eleanor in the backseat, sped out of the driveway and headed for

the streets that led to the Boston road. At the second comer they

passed a long black limousine that had all the earmarks of a vintage

1930s Black Maria, including a face pressed against a window

whose features were best descrbed as having been caught in the

lens of a zoological photographer. Despite disinclinations,

Devereaux pressedforward, confident in the knowledge that Cora

was more than a match for two gunsels who were stupid enough to

look for an unfamiliar house in a huge black automobile in broad

daylight. Police aside, his ersatz cousin from the other branch of

the family would blow them away with her magnums. Where did

she ever get them?

"Sam, your mother has to go to the bathroom!" said

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 179

Redwing twelve minutes later, cradling Eleanor Devereaux in her

arms.

"My mother doesn't do that. That sort of thing's for other

people. She never goes to the bathroom."

"She says it runs in the family-witness your trousers."

"Coffee!"

"You say."

"We'll be at Nanny's in a couple of minutes. Tell her to hold on."

"Nanny's Naughty Follies?" cried the lawyer-daughter of the

Wopotamis. "We're going there?"

"You know itT'

"Well, when I was at school we had a couple of legally oriented

... orientations. A course in constitutional censorship, that sort of

thing.... You can't take her there! It's open twenty-four hours a day."

"No choice, Counselor. It's only two or three minutes from

here."

"She'll be mortified!"

"I"hen she can blame it on the family trait of incontinence."

"You are a male child carrying the demon seed of the evil spirits

below the earth."

"What the f-f ... what does that mean?"

"It means your birth was not acceptable to the benevolent gods,

and your carcass will be devoured by carrion after a painftil death."

"That's not very sociable, Red. I mean it doesn't sound in tune

with our little talk in my office."

"I told you, I was carried away. I heard words I haven't heard in

a very long time-too long. The practice of law is frequently in

conflict with a love for the law. I momentarily lost control of my

perspective, and I do not enjoy losing control."

"Wow, thanks a lot. A little soul-searching turns you on no

matter who the 'idiot' is who brings it up, is that itT' "I think we

could all do with a little soul-searching now and then in our

profession."

"Then you really are a lawyer."

"I am.,,

"What firm?"

180 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Springtree, Basl and Karpas, San Francisco."

"Christ, they're sharks!"

"I'm glad you understand.... How far away are we? Your mother

can barely whisper, but she's terribly uncomfortable."

"Less than a minute.... Hey, maybe we should take her to the

hospital! I mean, if she's really-"

"Forget it, Counselor. That would mortify her more than

Nanny's. The teapot was empty."

"Is that another twig from the tribal tree of wisdom? ... No, it

couldn't be. Cora mentioned teapots-so did you."

"Some things, Mr. Devereaux, like childbirth, are distinctly

feminine experiences."

"Thanks again-for the mister," said Sam, swinging into the

parking lot of Nanny's Naughty Follies Et Cetera. "Nobody has to

make my day, or last night. Madman Mac and his two absurd

'adjutants' who keep tackling me, bearded Greeks who've got my

clothes, Aaron Pinkus calling me 'Sarnuel,' a brief that should be

consigned to some legal hell, a bombed-out mother, the most

beautiful woman I've ever met in my life falling in and out of love

with me in the space of twenty minutes-and now a fucking hit man

from Brooklyn after my ass! Maybe I should take myself to the

hospital."

"Maybe you should stop the car!" shouted Red Redwing, as

Devereaux passed by the canopied entrance ofNanny's emporium.

"Now, back up about thirty yards!"

"You people bury your captives up to their heads in killer

anthills," mumbled Sam.

"It's an option I'll take under consideration," said Redwing,

opening the door and gently urging Eleanor Devereaux out of the

car. "Will you get your ass outside and help me, or a hit man from

Brooklyn will be the least of your worries!"

"All right, all right." Sam did as he was told, finally holding his

mother's right arm as the three of them walked to the imposing

building, where photographs of naked men and women were

plastered all over the place, on the stucco walls and above the

doorframe. "Perhaps I shouldn't leave Mother's car," Sam offered

softly.

"Good thinking, Counselor," agreed Redwing, not with-THE ROAD TO OMAHA 181

out a note of sarcasm. "It might not be here two minutes later....

I've got Eleanor, you just wait for that man Paddy or whatever his

name is."

"Eleanor?"

"We women more readily recognize kindred souls than men do.

We're brighter... Come along, Ellie, you'll be fine."

"Ellie?" said the astonished Devereaux as the stunning Indian

woman took his mother inside. "Nobody calls her 'Ellie'--2'

"Hey, Fancy Dan!" intoned the coarse voice of a huge, heavyset

middle-aged man, more apelike than human, who stood by the

Jaguar and was obviously a guard-cumbouncer. "We ain't exactly

got valley parking here. Move the fag Jag!"

"Right away, officer." Sam trotted back to the car under the

disapproving eye of Nanny's Special Force veteran.

"I ain't no cop," said the older carnivore of a man, as Devereaux

got behind the wheel. "Read that as no police restraints, mister."

"Understood, sir." Sam started the engine. "You're obviously

with the diplomatic corps," he added, spinning the wheel and

shooting across the lot in a circle before stopping. The moment he

saw Redwing and his mother come outside, he would rush back to

the canopy, counting on the fact that even Nanny's elderly King

Kong would reflect on Red's beauty and have a gentler disposition.

Then the three of them could wait in the Jaguar for Paddy Lafferty

to arrive with further instructions.... Jesus, an "enforcer!" And a

black limousine right out of a funeral procession racing down the

street to his house! What was happening? He could certainly

understand Washington's desperation if there was any sympathy

whatsoever for the Wopotami brief, but a hit man and a Black Maria

with a passenger who bore no resemblance to "Penrod" was not the

way for a civilized government to proceed. Negotiators were sent,

not exterminators. Quiet meetings were held to seek civilized

solutions, not death squads to impose them.... Whoa, thought

Devereaux. On the other hand, if Washington had learned that

former General MacKenzie Hawkins-Madman Mac the Hawk-was-

behind this po-182 ROBERT LUDLUM

tential if remote fiasco of national security proportions, ex-

terminators and death squads were the only solutions. The Hawk

gave no quarter where the lace-pants of Dizzy City were concerned.

Those pricky-shits, as he termed them, had taken the army out of

his life and nothing, absolutely nothing, was too putrid to shove

down their throats, the higher placed the better.

Whoa ... no, double whoa! Sam considered with a sudden mental

jolt. If Washington was responding in kind to Mac's assault, it

would include any and all persons around the Hawk. And the

enforcer had used the names of Pinkus and Devereaux at the front

desk! How the hell did that happen? Hawkins had arrived in Boston

barely eighteen horrible hours ago, and by his own admission

nobody in Washington had yet heard of one Sam D6vereaux, much

less Aaron Pinkus! How then? Even with today's instantaneous

global communications, one source had to have a fact or a name to

transmit to a second source, or the specific information could not

be received-and the name of an innocent, insinuated Devereaux was

not known, and therefore neither was that of Pinkus. How? ... Good

God, there was only one answer-the Hawk was being followed!

Right now, at this moment!

Where was Paddy? Christ, he had to get word to Mac!

Somewhere close by, unseen by the Hawk, was a second person

watching every move the old soldier made, and it took no criminal

imagination to know that second unknown person was in touch with

the enforcer two stories below Mac.... Paddy, where are you?

Sam glanced over at the canopy; there was no sign of Redwing

or his mother-also Nanny's aging King Kong had left. Perhaps, if he

was quick about it, he could get inside to the pay phone against the

wall that he had used last night and reach Hawkins at the hotel. He

was about to start the engine when, to his surprise, the huge

bouncer came walking out of the door, rushed to the curb, and

looked around, immediately centering his gaze on Devereaux and

the yellow Jaguar. He gestured at Sam, instructing him to drive

instantly to the entrance. Oh, my God, somethings happened to

Mother! Devereaux gunned the engine and screeched to a stop

under the canopy in 2.4

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 183

seconds. "What is it?" he cried to the now smiling simian with the

straight gray hair.

"Boyo, why didn't y'tell me you were with Miss Redwing? She's

a grand little girl, y'know, and I surely wouldn't have been so

impolite if I knew you were an acquaintance. Me apologies, bucko!"

"You know her?"

"Well, now, truth be told, I been at this lousy joint for more years

than I care to count, since I got the pink slip from the force. Y'see,

this rotten, establishment is owned by m'widowed daughter-in-law-

which had somethin' to do with my gettin' the pink slip, 'cause

m'stupid son took the wrong bread to buy the place and got totaled

in the crossfire-and Miss Redwing and her pals from Haavadd

actually sued City Hall and got me a bigger pension. What d'ya

think of that?"

"I have no thoughts, no comprehension of the events that swirl

around me--@'

"Yeah, the lovely Injun miss said you might sound a touch

confused-and I wasn't to pay no attention to your trousers."

"I changed them! She knows that!"

"And I don't care to know no details, boyo, but I tell ya this. You

do dirt to that girl and you'll answer to me, bucko. Now, get out and

join the ladies. I'll watch this fruit car of yours."

"Inside?"

"They ain't in a yacht in Boston Harbor, lad."

A completely bewildered Devereaux got out of the car, barely

finding his balance on the pavement' when Aaron Pinkus's

limousine came thundering down the entrance ramp into the parking

lot and sped toward the yellow Jaguar by the canopy, coming to a

crushing stop behind it. "Sammy!" yelled Paddy Lafferty from the

open window. "Oh, hello there, Billy Gilligan, how are ya?"

"Survivin', Paddy," replied Nanny's sernibenevolent

King Kong. "And you, kiddo?"

"Better now that I see you got my boyo in tow."

"He's yours?"

"Me and my fine employer's as it were."

184 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Then take him, Paddy. He's a bit off in the head, y'know. I'll

watch both the cars."

"I thank you, Billy," said Lafferty, leaping from the oversized

automobile and running toward Sam and Tarzan's enlarged cheetah

of later years; he totally ignored Devereaux. "Billy-boy, you won't

believe what I've got to tell you, but I swear it on all the graves of

County Kilgallen!"

"So, what is it, Paddy?"

"I not only met the man, but he drove beside me in the front seat

and we had a very meaningful conversation between us! Between

just the two of us, Billy!"

"The Pope, Paddy? Your Jewish fella brought the Pope overT'

"Go one better, Billy!"

"Well, I couldn't now, really--except one, of course, but that's out

of the question."

"No, Billy, you got it, lad! Himself, it was! General MacKenzie

Hawkins!"

"Don't say that, Paddy, m'heart will stop dead--@'

"I mean it, Billy Gilligan! It was himself in the Godgiven flesh,

and a grander, greater man there never was. Remember how we

used to talk in France, crossin' through the woods in the Marne?

'Give us Mad Mac and we'll break through the shit-kicking Krauts!'

And then for ten days he was there and we busted through, singin'

and shoodn' our hearts out with himself ahead of us, ahead of us,

Billy, shoutin' his head off, tellin' us we could do it because we

were better than the bastards who'd put us in chains! Remember,

Billy?"

"Ibe most glorious days of m'life, Paddy," answered Gilligan,

tears welling in his eyes. "Outside of our Lord Jesus, he's maybe

the greatest man God ever put on earth."

"I think he's in trouble, Billy. Right here in Boston!"

"Not while we're about, Paddy. Not while the Pat O'Brien

Commemorative Legion Post has a breathin' soldier in its

membership.... Hey, Paddy? What happened to your boyo? He's flat

out on the cement."

"He's fainted, Billy. Must run in the family."

"Mmmff... !" came the unconscious protest from Sam

Devereaux's throat.

13 *0

"Samuel Lansing Devereaux, get up at once and behave yourself!"

cried Lady Eleanor with estimable authority, considering the fact

that she clutched Jennifer Redwing's arm under Nanny's canopy for

stability.

"Come on, Sam boyo," said Paddy. "Grab my hand, lad."

"He's lighter than me daughter-in-law, Lafferty," added Billy

Gilligan. "We can just heave him into the Hebrew canoe."

"Yer daughter-in-law should play for the Patriots, Billy, and I'll

ask you not to refer to Mr. Pinkus's fine stretcheroo in derogatory

terms."

"Guess where I got that derogatory term, Paddy?" asked Gilligan,

chuckling as the two men carried Devereaux to the limousine and

angled him into the backseat. -"Don't bother, I'll tell you. From old

Pinkus himself, boyo. Remember when you and he come over and

we--2'

"That'll be enough, Billy, and I thank you for your assistance.

The keys are in the Jaguar, and I'll thank you again if you'll stash it

and lock it where you can keep your eye on it."

"Oh, no, Lafferty!" objected Gilligan. "I'm callin' my

186 ROBERT LUDLUM

relief and headin' directly over to the Pat O'Brien Commemorative

Post and rounding up the members. If the greatest general who

ever kissed the sword of battle has troubles, he can count on us, by

the graves of Donegal!"

"We can't do nothin', Billy, until the general and Mr. Pinkus give

us our orders. I'll stay in touch, my word as a gunny."

"Oh, the glory of it! To meet the magnificent man himself-general

of the United States Army, MacKenzie Hawkins!"

"Oh, that dread .ful name!" exploded Eleanor Devereaux.

"You're seconded, Ellie," agreed Redwing.

"Mminff, " came the muffled cry from the backseat of the

limousine.

"Pay no attention, Gilligan, the girls aren't well.... But, Billy, I

didn't promise that you'd meet the great man himself, I only said I'd

try."

"And I didn't promise I wouldn't sell the Jaguar, neither, Paddy.

I only said I'd try not to."

"Come along, ladies," Lafferty interrupted, with a scowl at

Gilligan. "I'm to take you to the Ritz-Carlton, where Mr. Pinkus has

made private arrangements--2'

"Paddy!" yelled a partially revived Sam Devereaux from the

backseat. "I've got to reach Mac ... he doesn't know what's

happening!" The attorney lurched unsteadily out of the limousine on

the far side, slammed the door, and crawled to the automobile's

cellular telephone.

"Ladies, please?" cajoled Lafferty, helping Jennifer to .gently

insert Eleanor into the backseat and closing the door after them.

Paddy then'climbed behind the wheel, concerned that Sam was

having such difficulties with the switchboard at the Four Seasons

Hotel.

"What do you mean all calls to the Pinkus suite are being

transferred to another room?" shouted Devereaux.

"Calm down, boyo," said Lafferty, climbing behind the wheel and

starting the engine. "You'll get more with honey than vinegar."

Sam glowered at the chauffeur. " 'MacKenzie Hawkins,

Superstar,' " he muttered. "Why don't you clowns write a new

musical? ... It's what, Operator? Busy? Never mind,

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 187

I'll call back.... I've got to. reach Aaron," said Devereaux,

manipulating the buttons on the phone.

"That won't be easy right now," offered Lafferty, speeding up the

ramp and onto the highway. "When he called me, he said he was

leaving the office for an hour or so and he'd see you all at the Ritz."

"You don't understand, Paddy! Mac could have been taken by

now ... or worse."

"The general?"

"He's been followed ever since he got to Boston!"

"By God!" shouted Lafferty. "Give me that phone and I'll call the

Pat O'Brien boys at the Legion Post myself! I'll leave word for Billy

Gilligan-"

"Let me try the hotel one more time." Frantically, Sam dialed and

glanced over his shoulder into the rear section of the limousine.

The hard look in Redwing's luminous eyes told him that she

understood the state of emergency; his mother blinked rapidly at

nothing. `fbe Pinkus suite, please, Operator, and I realize that all

calls are transferred to another room." Devereaux held his breath

until a strange, half-whining, high-pitched voice answered.

'This is Little Joey," said the man, woman, hermaphrodite, or

dwarf. "Whaddya want?"

"I believe I may have the wrong room," replied Sam, doing his

best to control his panic. "I'm trying to locate General MacKenzie

Hawkins, twice winner of the Congressional Medal of Honor, hero

of the United States Army and close friend of the whole Joint Chiefs

of Staff, as well as the President, who will immediately.order an in-

vasion of the hotel if the general's life is threatened in any way,

shape, or manner!"

"I gotcha. You want the big pasta fazool... Hey, Mickey Ha Ha,

it's for you."

"You'll never rise in the ranks with that sort of insubordination,

Little Joseph!" came the growling, approaching voice of the Hawk.

"Commander Pinkus, is that you?"

". . . Little Joseph? Mac, what die, hell are you doing? ... Never

mind, we don't have time-you're being followed! Someone's been

following you ever since you got to Boston!"

"Why, Lieutenant Devereaux, you're shaping up. I mean

188 ROBERT LUDLUM

you're really counting off the numbers like a master sergeant, no

offense to your bars."

"You know?"

"Well, it was pretty obvious after my adjutant reported what he

overheard at the front desk."

"But you said you didn't know how it happened, that it wasn't

Hymie somebody-or-other's modus operandi!"

"I didn't know then, and it wasn't the Hurricane's M.O. I do know

now and it still isn't Hymie. This fella wasn't hard to find; his door

was open exactly an inch and a half."

"For Christ's sake, make sense!"

"I just did, and you've got to get off thi& line. We're expecting

another call."

"From whom?"

"I thought you would have figured that out by now."

"How?"

"You heard me ask if you were him-,,

11 'He'--2'

"'What?"

"Never mind.... Who?"

"Commander Pinkus, of course."

"He's on his way to the Ritz."

"Not for a while, son. He and my adjutants are on a supply run."

"Who the fuck is Little Joseph? ... Sorry, Mother."

"He's kind of a sweet old guy," answered the Hawk lowerng his

voice to a near-whisper, "with the size and shape of a good night-

patrol point, especially in hill country, but I'm afraid his age and his

temperament don't go with the job any longer... I wouldn't care to

tell him that, naturally. It could destroy his confidence, you can un-

derstand that, Lieutenant."

"I don't understand a goddamned thing! What job?"

"Those pricky-shit lace-pants in Dizzy City must really be

crippled by the deficit," continued the general rapidly, and so quietly

Devereaux could barely hear him. "Son of a bitch, boy, that sort of

thing never bothered any of us!"

"He's from Washington?"

"I know, I know," said the Hawk, with weary, if impa-THE ROAD TO OMAHA 189

tient, finality. "Commander Pinkus explained that it was vital we

leave him room for deniability."

"Deniability? "

"Bye, Sam." The line went dead.

"What is it?" asked Redwing intensely, leaning forward in the

backseat, her right hand firmly gripping Eleanor's shoulder.

"Is the grand and great general all right, boyo?" cried Lafferty,

accelerating the limousine and weaving in and out of the traffic

toward Boston. "Shall I call Gilligan and the troops?"

"I don't know, Paddy, I really don't know. I don't think so.

"Don't give me no crap, lad!"

"What do you know, Sam?" Jennifer asked, her question posed

calmly, warmly, the consummate attorney. "Take your time and

collect your thoughts."

"Cut the friendly interrogation, please, because that's exactly

what I'm doing. I'm trying to figure it out and it's not easy, it's just

crazy."

"Then get your act together, Counselor."

"That's better, Red.... Mac's obviously in control, and my guess

is that he's found the man who's been following him-guess, hell, it's

a given; he's too condescending for it to be anything else-and he's

learned that the surveillance is from Washington."

"Oh, good Lord ... !"

"Exactly my sentiments, Miss Indian On-and-Off Love Call.

Certain segments of Dizzy City are climbing the wall, and that's the

worst news we could hear."

"What segments, Counselor?"

"From what I can gather, Counselor, they're very unhealthy.

Their emissaries to Boston carry guns."

"They wouldn't dare!" cried Redwing.

"Shall we revisit Watergate or Iran-contra, or, to balance the

agenda, half the elections in Chicago since 1920? There's no

'wouldn't dare' in those events. And even if there were, compare

the bucks spread out to all of those historical connivances

combined with one month of the Strategic Air Command. They're

infinitesimal,. Indian lady, we're talking megabillions! You think our

benevolent bat-190 ROBERT LUDLUM

talions of defense contractors, along with their representatives from

all over the country-suppliers from Long Island to Seattle-won't

push their panic buttons at even the prospect of denting all those

profit sheets? Jesus, if one tenth of one percent of the defense

budget is cut, they're all howling for blood. This kind of thing could

open up their vampire factories."

"You're assuming that the Wopotami brief has been put on the

Supreme Court's schedule for argument."

"It doesn't have to be put on any schedule, just word leaked that

it's even being considered, or worse, being held over for future

possible argument."

"That's always the bellwether for later serious consideration,"

broke in Redwing.

"You've got it. Either way, the money boys and their political

hacks will mount a counterattack."

"Wait a minute, Sam," pleaded Redwing, one hand on Eleanor's

head, the other on Devereaux's shoulder. "A counterattack in

congressional terms would mean spokesmen, or advocates, making

their case in the House and the Senate, not hit men!"

"Granted, but Congress isn't in session, and I submit our current

situation as Article A for evidence,"

"I see what you mean. The hit men are here. So one way or the

other, word has been leaked.... Oh, my God, they've got to silence

all of us!" - Paddy Lafferty snapped out the cellular phone from

its cradle, and with practiced fingers punched the numbers with his

thumb. "The O'Brien Post, you are?" he shouted, and after less than

a second, he spoke firmly. "Is Billy Gilligan there? ... All right, all

right, I'm glad for the fact that our telephone relays are workin', now

listen to me. When Billy G. gets there, have him lead a column of

armed vehicles to the Four Asses Hotel on Boylston and pipe up

every entrance! You got it, lad? It's the great man we're talkin'

about, and I'll brook no mistakes. G'bye to ya, and get hoppin'!"

"Paddy, what have you done?"

"There are times, Sam boyo, when you charge ahead and look

back afterwards. It's a lesson we learned during ten glorious days

in France."

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 191

"We're not in France and this isn't World War Two, and if there's

any suggestion of immediate danger down at the hotel, Aaron will

call in the police. Everything's too murky, too unclear, but Mac and

our very quick-thinking employer are in touch with each other... I

repeat, Aar-on is not a gung-ho mutant, nor is he indecisive. If he

feels the police are necessary, they'll be there."

"I duhno, boyo. The police have certain restraints placed upon

them-ask Billy Gilligan, he'll tell you."

"He's already told me, Paddy, but we don't know what Mac and

Aaron are doing, and not knowing, we could be lousing them up.

Now call off the hounds of Killarney!"

"He's right, Mr. Lafferty," interjected Jennifer from the backseat.

"Mind you, I'm not opposed to protection in any form, and I'd be

grateful if your friends were, shall we say, available. However, Sam

has a point; we're in the dark and perhaps we shouldn't do anything

until we reach the Ritz-Carlton and talk to Mr. Pinkus.... I believe

you said pretty much the same thing to Mr. Gilligan back at Nanny

S.

"Well, you put it better than the lad here-"

"I simply used your own words, your own wisdom, Mr. Lafferty."

"Cheap tactics," mumbled Devereaux.

"All right," said Paddy. "I'll call 'ern off," he added, touching the

car-phone buttons. "For a moment I guess I got too excited.... Hello,

Post O'Brien? ... Who's this now?... Rafferty, it's Lafferty, boyo.

Is Gilligan there yet?... He what? Holy Mary ... how bad was it? ...

Small favors are still a blessing, Rafferty. Now, listen to me, lad-

about the members headin' off to the Four Seasons on Boylston, I

want you to tell 'em-2' Suddenly, the limousine swerved

dangerously-involuntarily---close to a huge truck on the highway.

"They what, Rafferty? What the hell are you sayin', boyo? ... Jesus,

Mary and Joseph!" Aaron Pinkus's chauffeur swallowed; in silence

he replaced the phone.

"What's the matter, Paddy?" asked Sam, looking at Lafferty as

though he did not care to hear the answer.

"The lads have just taken off for the hotel, Mr. Devereaux.

However, it's not a full column, which is usu-192 ROBERT LUDLUM

ally four automobiles-only three-and maybe a couple of the boys are

pissed to the eyeballs."

"Oh, my God!"

"But the good news is that Billy Gilligan wasn't hurt too bad."

"Hurt?"

"He got piled up on the highway, his car pretty much totaled.

One of the police on the scene is a member of the Post and called

to let the members know what hospital."

"Hospital ... T'

"He's , okay. He's yellin' and screamin' to get out of there and

join the others."

"For Christ's sake, let him! Maybe he can stop them!"

"Well, there's a formality or two-@'

"If he can yell and he can scream, he can get out of there!"

Furiously, Sam yanked at the phone. "What hospital?" he demanded

angrily.

"Won't do any good, boyo. There's a mite bit of confusion over

the accident report. Y'see, it wasn't exactly his car on the highway.

It was your mother's yellow Jaguar."

"Yellooow birrd . . . , " came the lilting, high-pitched words and

music from the tremulous throat of Eleanor Devereaux in the

backseat.

"Hey, Comandante, wad chu tink?" asked Desi the Second, standing

resplendently in cutaway tails and admiring himself in the mirror of

a successful formal-wear store Aaron Pinkus Associates had

virtually put in business.

"Positively striking," replied Aaron, sitting in a velvet padded

chair he could not move due to the heavy tuft of the shiny black

carpet. "Where is your associate, the other Corporal Arnaz?"

"We are sergeants now, Comandante!"

"My deepest apologies, but where is he? We must move quickly."

"Well, you see, the lady who measured his pantalones ees from

Puerrtoo Reekoh an' I t'ink they got a-"

"We have no time-"

"Desi Uno!" yelled Sergeant D-Two. "iVengal Vdmanos! Ahorita!

Right away like, man!"

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 193

Somewhat sheepishly, Desi the First emerged from a slatted

dressing room door, followed by a generously endowed dark-haired

girl who made it a point to stretch and check her measuring tape

while adjusting her blouse. "Comandante, " said D-One, smiling

broadly, his absent teeth all too apparent. "The pants we had to

stitch closer. My hips are like a toreador @! What can I say?" He,

too, was in tails and there was no question about it, Desi the First

also cut a striking figure.

"You look splendid, Sergeant Arnaz," observed Pinkus. "Now to

my orthodontist, who says he has forty or fifty plastic devices, one

or two of which he claims he can glue into your mouth for an hour

or so."

"Dad's nice. Wad does he do for a living?"

"Joseph, I'm tired of your evasions, little fella," said the Hawk,

sitting in the hotel's desk chair as Joey the Shroud reclined on the

bed, his arms above his head on the pillow. "I could break your

wrists one by one and force you to tell me who you are and where

you come from, but I've always figured that sort of thing was

barbaric, as well as against the Geneva conventions. But if push

comes to shove, Joseph, you'll leave me no option, will you?"

"I seen you fazools all my life, Mickey Ha Ha," answered Little

Joey, unimpressed. "I can tell who will and who won't.... Oh, you

tough soldatos will smash heads like they were pizza pans in a

Brooklyn riot, but one on one, if there ain't no big advantage, you

don't want it on your soul."

"Goddamn!" roared Hawkins, getting up from the chair

menacingly. "I don't have any soul like that!"

"If you didn't, I'd be scared shitless, and I'm not scared

shitless.... You're like the fascisti from Salerno up the boot into

Rome itself. I was a punk kid then, but I always knew the

difference.... If they found me out, they'd scream esecuzione! Then

we'd talk and they'd say non me ne importa un bel niente-who

cares, the war's over-and let me go. And some of those guys were

the best donkeys in the Italian army."

"The ... army? Soldiers? Salerno? You were-2'

194 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Fifth Army, Mark Clark, jazool. I guess we're about the -same

age, except maybe you look better. As I say, I was punk private

until they found out I could speak Italian better than the interpreters,

so they put me in civilian clothes, raised me to a temporary first

lieutenant 'cause they figured I'd last a day and a half, and sent me

north to radio back info on installations. No big deal. I had lotsa.

lire, all the broads and vino I wanted, and only got caught three

times-the like of which I already explained."

"Joseph!" shouted the Hawk. "We're comrades!" "If you're

a fuckin' homo, get away from me, Mickey!" "No, Joseph, I'm

a general!"

"I know that, fazool."

"And you're a first,lieutenant!"

"That don't count no more. When the brass found me in Rome,

livin' a pretty good life a few miles north in the Villa d'Este, they

busted me back to a private. I got no use for you shitheads." .

The hotel telephone rang. MacKenzie glared at it between

repeated glances at Private Little Joseph, and then picked it up.

"Temporary headquarters!" he roared.

"I'd suggest a different, less strident announcement," said Aaron

Pinkus on the line. "Your adjutants are prepared. Have you learned

what we have to know?"

"I'm afraid not, Commander. He's one fine old soldier."

"I will not presume to understand that statement. Shall we

proceed, then?"

"Proceed, sir!"

The three automobiles from the Pat O'Brien Commemorative Legion

Post raced down Clarendon Street, careening around the comer into

Boylston, and, as prearranged, sped to within a block of the Four

Seasons Hotel, each vehicle parking in an available space. Swiftly,

they rendezvoused at the car nearest the hotel's entrance, their

d'avant-guerre conference somewhat held up by the Duffy brothers,

who had not been reached by the phone relay insofar as they had

been at the Legion Hall's bar since early morning due to a medium-

sized dispute with their wives, who happened to be sisters.

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 195

"I'm damn sure -there's somethin' in @ the Church that says we

shouldn't have done what we did, Petey!" cried a gray-haired Duffy

brother as he was led to the rendezvous.

"But we did it thirty years ago, Bobby!"

"But they're sisters, Petey. And we're brothers-2'

"They're not our sisters, Bobby--2'

"Still, brothers and sisters-I'm sure there's somethin', boyo!"

"Will you two shut yer faces!" ordered a leather-lined Harry

Milligan, put in charge of the small brigade by the injured Billy

Gilligan. "Yer too pissed for combat, so I'm orderin' you to stand

watch."

"What are we watchin'T' asked a weaving Bobby Duffy, running

his hand through the imagined hair on his bald head. "Where are

the Krauts comin' fromT'

"Not Krauts, Bobbo! The dirty bastards who want to shoot the

heart out of the great general!"

"What do they look like, Harry boy?" inquired a wide, red-eyed

Peter Duffy, gripping the side-view mirror and, quite by the accident

of his bulk, bending it out of shapedownward.

.'How the hell do I know, Petey?" replied the CO of the Milligan-

Gilligan brigade. "My guess is that they'll be runnin' like a Donegal

wind out of there once we find em.

"How will we do that, Harry boy?" asked Bobby Duffy, his words

interspersed with one hiccup and two belches.

"Come to think of it, I'm not sure." Milligan squinted, the

leathered lines in his face like crevices on a rhino skin. "Gilligan

never actually told me."

"You got it wrong, Harry," protested the erratically unstable Peter

Duffy. "You yourself are Gilligan."

"I'm not himself at all, you slotted asshole! I'm Milligan!"

"Very nice to make your acquaintance," said Bobby Duffy,

sinking down to the curb like an overripe, overdone baked potato

punctured by a fork.

"M' brother has been afflicted by the evil anti-Christ demons!"

cried Peter, falling down against the car door, his leg over his

brother's face. "It's the curse of the witchsisters!"

196 R OBERT LUDLUM

"Good lad," agreed Harry Milligan, kneeling and patting Petey's

head. "You stay here and ward off those terrible demons." Harry

rose to his feet and addressed the seven remaining troops of the

Milligan-Gilligan brigade. "Come on now,, boyos, we know what we

have to do!"

"What exactly is that, lad?" asked a gaunt sep'tuagenarian,

wearing an ill-fitting World War 11 field jacket replete with a dozen

patches representing duty in the European theater of operations.

"Billy Gilligan gave me the two names-the first, of course, the

great General Hawkins and, the second, his employer, a gentleman

of the law of which we've all heard of not unkindly. The Jewish fella

who's a big shillelagh in Boston and who has a number of fine

Catholic lawyers in his firm."

"Smart, they're always so smart," intoned an elderly unidentified

voice in the magnificent seven. "They hire Micks, but how many of

us hire the skullcaps? Smart."

"So this is what we do, boyos, I myself will go to the front desk

and make the inquiry. I'll be tellin 'ern I have to reach either the

great general or his friend, the grand lawyer named Pinkus,

because I got an urgent confidential message that concerns both of

'em, and the dear Lord knows I'm not lyin' about that! Now, with

such highfalutin fellas, they got no choice but to put me in touch

with one or the other, right?"

A chorus of affirmatives followed, mar-red by the dissenting

voice of the oldest combatant in the field jacket. "I dunno, Gilligan -

-- 2'

"I'm Milligan!"

"Wish you were Gilligan, he was on the force, y'know."

"I'm not ... so what don't you know, ya old fart?"

"Suppose you get a secretary on the telephone, what are you

goin' to say? . .. 'My apologies, lass, but somebody or other is

about to blow away the great general and his friend, the Jewish

shillelagh.' .. . Somehow, lad, I think they'd call for the boys who

drive those little white trucks with thick rubber walls and bars in the

windows." - "I don't hafta talk to nobody, you walkin' object

of a wake! Paddy Lafferty has told us all about the grand suit his

employer keeps at the Four Asses, only we don't know

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 197

where it is. Now the clerks got to tell me on account of the urgent

confidential message I'm carryin', right?"

There was a chorus of affirmatives, again mar-red by the

septuagenarian legionnaire. "Suppose they don't believe you? I

wouldn't. You got shifty eyes, when a person can see 'em."

There was now a brace of nodding heads as the combatants

studied the flesh-encased eyes of Harry Milligan. "Oh, shut up!"

cried Harry, shocking his troops back to the issue at hand. "They

can believe me or not believe me, it don't make no difference. They

still got to give me a room number to call-then we'll know where it

is!"

"Then what?" asked the cautious disbeliever.

"Then we split up, and you, ya shriveled-up cadaver, you stay by

the front entrance and if we flush the bastards out and they run into

getaway automobiles, you damn well get the license plate

numbers.... Thank Christ you weren't in my outfit, you'd be arguing

with Ike himself!" Milligan pointed to three of the remaining

unassigned six legionnaires. "You lads cover whatever other exits

there are to the street-Lafferty was clear about that-2'

"Where are they, Harry?" said a short, middle-aged man in a

leather air corps jacket. "I was a tail gunner, so I'm not too familiar

with ground tactics."

"You gotta find 'em, boyo! Paddy said to pipe 'em, up."

"What does that mean, Harry?"

"Well ... well, Paddy wasn't too clear about that, but I figure he

meant not to let anybody out who shouldn't."

"Like who?" asked a tall, slender man in his late sixties, his

dress code in conflict with the mission, as he wore a loud Hawaiian

shirt profuse with orange passion flowers, but nevertheless topped

by a blue legionnaire's cap.

"Harry awready told us!" cried an overweight member of medium

height, a metal combat helmet framing his bubbled-out face. "Any

bastards who are runnin' outside to getaway cars."

"Then we shoot 'em!" confirmed the slender gentleman in the

Hawaiian shirt.

"In the legs, boyo!" clarified Harry Milligan. "Like we used to do

with the Kraut scouts. We gotta save 'em for interrogation!"

198 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Right on, Harry," the helmeted infantryman agreed. "Boy, do I

remember! We'd capture 'em and all they did was cover their balls!

'Course I never had to shoot, but they got the message."

"Lads, I suggest you take off your headgear. Kinda obvious, you

know what I mean?" Harry then addressed the last three combatants

from Post O'Brien. "You boys, you stay with me, properly behind

and mixin' with the people in the lobby, but keep your eyes on me.

When I move, you move with me, got it, boyos?"

Once more, and now louder with determination, the chorus of

consenting adults was heard. "We'll go in first," said the beefy

ground soldier, clipping his helmet on to his combat belt beneath

his bowling shirt, which proclaimed the virtues of O'Boyle's meats.

"Give us two minutes and we'll find the exits and get stationed."

"Good thought, boyo. Off with you now---there's no time to

waste!" Milligan checked his watch as the threeman advance unit

dodged the Boylston traffic and ran as fast as their elderly legs

could manage into the hotel. The sight of them did not exactly

overwhelm the uniformed doorman with inspirational thoughts.

Harry turned to the remaining three and issued his orders. "When

we get inside I'll go to the front desk, very casually, mind you, like

I walk through the lobby every day of me life, and sort of lean over

the counter like a very important man, maybe winkin' a couple of

times to convey the fact that I got a confidential message for other

important persons. Then I'll hit 'em with the one-two punch, namely

the two illustrious names of Hawkins and Pinkass."

"I think that's Pinkoos, Harry," offered a florid-faced, balding man

in his late sixties, who was obviously a bowling colleague of the

infantryman; unfortunately, the O'Boyle's Meat Market T-shirt was

inside out.

"He's right, Milligan," confirmed a short man sporting a large,

bushy mustache usually associated with English sergeant-majors at

the turn of the century. Contrarily, his present uniform consisted of

soiled Levi's held up by red suspenders over a yellow and black

plaid shirt. "I heard Paddy say Pinkoos lotsa times."

"Pinkuss is closer," corrected the third member of Har-THE ROAD TO OMAHA 199

ry's unit, an inordinately tall reed of a man wearing a dark green

tank top that afforded a generous view of the tattoos on both his

arms, especially an elongated hissing blue snake with the legend

below it reading Don't Thread on Me.

"I'll just say 'Pinkiss' real quicklike, that'll cover it.... All right,

boyos of Post O'Brien, we charge and win this one for the general!"

Inside Aaron Pinkus's Buick coupe, the sartorially stunning Desis

One and Two, the former's mouth somewhat enlarged by a plastic

front denture, sat in the cramped backseat, each admiring himself

and both constantly running their hands over the smooth dark fabric

of their cutaways, especially the satin lapels.

"Rememb@r now, Sergeants, pretend you don't understand a

word of English," said Aaron behind the wheel as they turned into

Boylston Street. "You're ambassadors to the United Nations from

Spain and very important men."

"Dad'sss nice," interrupted Desi-One, lisping heavily due to the

intrusion behind his lips, "but we still don't know how we get the

vicioso to be so mad at us."

"You mistake him for someone else, Sergeant, we've gone over

that. When you see him in the lobby, you rush over and point at

him, yelling that he's a hunted criminal from Madrid."

"Yeah, we gone over dat," said Desi-Two. "An' we don' like dat.

The vicioso, like all viciosos, gotta gun, man, an' he gonna let us

know dat!"

"He won't have a chance to do you any harm at all," replied

Aaron to the implied protest. "The general will be right behind him

and will immediately interfere'immobilize,' I believe was the word he

used. You trust the general, don't you?"

"Oh, yeah, we like him," answered Desi-One. "We really like that

crazy hombre. He gonna get us into da army!"

"He also beat d'shit out of us at d'airport, amigo. Dad's why I

trust him." Desi-Two kept nodding his head as he

200 ROBERT LUDLUM

fingered the crease on his cutaway trousers. "Dad ole man got big

testlculos."

"So what den, Comandante?" asked a bewildered Desi the First.

"T'he general, in his uniquely peculiar way, is quite astute,"

replied Pinkus, hugging the curb behind several taxis to the Four

Seasons' entrance. "No government dares offend an allied

government over lapsed security, especially countries that are

strategically important. They might shut down their embassies and

sever relations!"

"Dad'ses wad we don' like," broke in Desi-One. "We don' want

no embassy espafiol shut down, even tho' we never been to

Espafia, especially if we gotta get shot. Our relations won' like dat."

"The general has given you his word."

"Ees better be fooking good! ... But den what?"

"Well, the best way to explain it to you is that whoever sent ' this

terrible person to Boston after the general will be forced to

reconsider his methods."

"Don' understand."

"He'll be frightened to the point of calling off such assaults,

warning everyone in Washington who had anything to do with

sending such a vicious criminal after the general to cease and

desist or disappear. Hawkins is geopolitically accurate. Our bases

in Spain-mainly those with planes-must be sustained."

'V0104, Comandante!"

MacKenzie Hawkins gave his command. "Blowtorch the door open

now! I want it down in five minutes, got that, Captain?"

"You got it, General," replied the voice of the hotel's engineer

over the telephone. "But you promised, sir. I get a picture of you

and me together, right?"

"My pleasure, son, and I'll put my arm around your shoulders

like we crossed the Rhine by ourselves."

"Holy Christ, I'm in heaven before I lay down to die!"

"Now, Captain. It's imperative to the assault."

"Four minutes and eight seconds, General!"

Hawkins punched the bar of the telephone and dialed

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 201

the number of the cellular phone in Aaron Pinkus's Buick.

"Commander?"

"Yes, General?"

"I'll be down in five minutes. Where are you positioned?"

"Three cars from the entrance."

"Good. Establish yourselves at the front desk and synchronize

your watch. Zero option is between thirteen and seventeen minutes.

Read me?"

"You're not entirely illegible, General. I understand."

The Post O'Brien brigade was in place-tank top, tattoos, flight

jacket, a bulging combat helmet, red suspenders, Hawaiian shirt,

soiled Levi's, and a squinty-eyed, winking leader at the front desk.

"Yes, sir?" said the clerk, pulling a handkerchief from his breast

pocket as if the sight of the man might produce an accompanying

odor.

"I'll tell ya what I got, boyo, and you better move quick. Does

the names Pinkiss and Hawkins strike a bell, lad?"

"Mr. Pinkus maintains a suite here, if that's what you mean.

"I'm not referrin' to his inner private life, boyo, and I don't give

a damn how many sweeties he's got. I gotta get a message to him

and the general. It's urgent and confidential. Now, how do you

propose I do that, eh?"

"I suggest you telephone Mr. Pinkus's ... rooms. Extension five

thousand five."

"Five-zero-zero-five, right, lad?"

"That's correct."

"That's his room number?"

"We do not have fifty floors, sir. No hotel in Boston has fifty

floors. That is the telephone extension number."

"It don't make no sense. In any decent hotel the room number

is the phone number!"

"Not necessarily."

"Why not? How can a person know where it is?"

"Good point," agreed the clerk. "You yourself might illustrate it."

20 .2 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Illustrate what, boyo?"

"The point, sir... The house phones are over on that

ledge."

Bewildered, Harry Milligan turned and hurried toward the bank

of telephones on a marble counter attached to the wall. He picked

one up and dialed rapidly. The line was busy.

"This is your Washington surveillance," said MacKenzie Hawkins

into the phone, lowering his voice and speaking softly, urgently.

"My what?" asked the man in a hotel room two stories below, his

voice equally low but hardly soft.

"Just listen to me. The target's checking out-my informant tells

me he called the bell captain to have his luggage taken downstairs."

"Who the fuck are you?"

"Your liaison to D.C., and you should thank me, not curse me.

Hurry up. Follow him."

"I'm locked in!" shouted the would-be assassin furiously. "The

fuckin' door jammed; they're working on it now!"

"Out. We can't be involved any longer."

"Holy shit! ... Wait a minute, the door's being pulled out!"

"Hurry." The Hawk hung up the phone and looked down at Little

Joey the Shroud sitting on the edge of the bed. "Are you going to

tell me you didn't know that man was in the hotel?"

"What man?" protested Joey. "Yoii are the fazool of Jazools,

Mickey Ha Ha. You need help, big fella, like maybe a nice place

with green grass lawns and iron gates and lots of doctors."

"You know, Little Joseph, I believe you," said the general."'It

wouldn't be the first time command has kept certain aspects of an

operation from the scouts." With these words the Hawk walked

rapidly to the door and let himself out; he could be heard

accelerating his pace down the corridor... And the telephone rang.

Joey reached over and picked it up.

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 203

"Yeah?"

"Is this the grand and great general himself, sir?"

"So?" replied a squinting, curious Little Joey.

"'Tis the privilege of me life, General! 'Tis Private First Class

Harry Milligan and I'm here to tell ya that we got the place not only

surrounded but infilterated, sir! No harm'11 come to ya, sir on the

word of the patriotic boyos of the Pat O'Brien Commemorative

Legion Post!"

Quietly, slowly, Joey replaced the telephone and leaned back on

the pillow. Fazools, he mused. The whole world was peopled with

flakereenos, especially in Boston, Massachusetts, where the friggin'

pilgrims were probably inbred to begin with. After all, what did they

have to do but have a little fun on the long journey in that boat, the

Maypot? ... Well, thought Joey, he was going to order a nice, early

room-service dinner and then call code Ragu in Washington. Vinnie

the Bam-Barn was going to hear a long, very screwed-up story

whether he liked it or not. Fazools!

I

Aaron Pinkus escorted his two diplomats in their cutaw ays to the

front desk and proudly announced that his guests, the ambassadors

from Spain, would be occupying his suite and whatever courtesies

were extended would be greatly appreciated, not only by their host,

but by the government of the United States of America.

The entire front desk converged to pay homage to the

distinguished visitors, and when it was learned that neither spoke

English, a Puerto Rican bellboy was summoned to act as

interpreter. The bellboy, whose name was Raul, was overjoyed as

his first communication with Desi the First consisted of the

following-freely translated.

"Hey, Man, where'd you get thatfancy uniform with the shiny

buttons? You in the army?"

"No, man, I carry suitcases. I'm assigned to you so I can make

the gringos understand what you say.

"Hey, that's cool! Where are you from?"

"PR. "

"So are we!"

"No, you're not, you're big-shot diplomats from Madrid! That's

what the cat said. "

204 ROBERT LUDLUM

"That'sfor the gringos, man! Hey, maybe later we have a nice

party, what do you say?"

"Hey, man, where you're staying, they got everything!"

"They got maybe girls? Nice girls, of course, because my

associate is very religious. "

"I'll get him what he wants, and I'll get us what we want. Leave

it to me, man. "

"What did they say, Pedro?" asked the head clerk.

"Raul, sir."

"Ferribly sorry. What did they say?"

"They are very appreciative of the fine manners and exemplary

kindness displayed by all of you. They are especially gratified by

the fact that you have assigned this modest Raul to be with them

throughout their stay."

"My word!" said an assistant manager. "You speak extremely

well for a Sp ... for a newly arrived person to our shores."

"Night school, sir. Boston University Extension Course for

Immigrants."

"Keep your eyes on this young man, gentlemen. He's different!"

"He's the biggest asshole of them all. This is a good place; he

won't last a month. "

"Tell us something we don't know, Pedro!"

"Perhaps, " said Aaron Pinkus, interrupting, "you'd like to look

around this magnificent lobby. It's really very unique. -. . . Would

you translate, please, Raul.

"With great pleasure, sir "

Harry Milligan approached the tank top-cum-tattoos and whispered

into his ear, only vaguely aware that a number of people in the

lobby stared at them. "The great general moves in wondrous and

mysterious ways, lad. I explained our mission and he was kinda

quietlike, but as the Lord is my witness, I could hear the wheels

spinning in that fine brain of his.... Y'know, that grand man could be

scalin' down the outside walls at this minute. I'm told he taught all

the Rangers everythin' they ever learned!"

Suddenly, the intrusion startling, the septuagenarian in the

patch-laden field jacket, his bowed legs a set of churn-THE ROAD TO OMAHA 205

ing parentheses, rushed up to Milligan and Tank Top. "I've got

it, boyos! They're terrorists!"

"Who, for Christ's sake?"

"Them fancy dans in the fish W chips!"

"What're ya talkin' about?"

"Those two dark-skinned, black-haired creeps leavin' the front

desk! They're supposed to be big shots, right?"

"Well, I guess they are, boyo. Look at 'em." ,

"Since when do big shots in big-shot threads get out of a lousy,

small three-year-old Buick instead of a big limousine-type

automobile? I ask ya, Harry Milligan, does it make sense?"

"No, it don't, 'cause it ain't natural, not with highfalutin duds like

that in a place like this. A three-year-old Buick just ain't fittin'

transportation, yer right about that." Harry squinted at the splendidly

dressed visitors who looked for all the world like preening

peacocks, foreigners from some sun-drenched country in the

Mediterranean by the dark complexion of their faces.... Arabs! Arab

terrorists who surely were not comfortable in the clothes they wore

or they wouldn't be hitching up their shoulders and wiggling their

asses in their tight-fitting trousers. No, sir, those boyos were used

to desert robes like in the movies and long-curved knives under

their belts, not fancy-dan sashes around their waists. "Holy Mary,

Mother of God," whispered Gilligan to Tank Top. "This could be it,

boyo! Get word to each of our lads-tell 'em to move in slowly,

keepin' their eyes on those two Sahara rats. If they get into an

elevator, we get in, too!"

"Harry, I didn't go to confession this week--2'

"Oh, shut up, there are seven of us, for Christ's sake!"

"That's more than three on one, ain't it?"

"Now you're an accountant, lad? Hurry along now, and lastly, tell

the boyos that if I give the lodge war cry, we rush 'em!"

Like a gracefully choreographed pavane with somewhat less

than graceful dancers, the Milligan-Gilligan brigade began threading

through the well-dressed guests in the hotel lobby. Bare arms with

tattoos and T-shirts from O'Boyle's Meats mingled with tropical

worsteds and Christian Dior prints, while a swinging combat helmet

,206 ROBERT LUDLUM

kept crashing into the stomachs of Brooks Brothers blazers and

Adolfo cocktail dresses, all to the growing concern of the entire

front desk and the appalled victims in the lobby being assaulted by

the offending intruders in their very strange costumes.

Suddenly, a heavyset man with fire in his eyes emerged from an

elevator. He looked around and moved quickly to a vantage point

near the front entrance where he could obviously survey the lobby.

Unseen by him, a tall, grayhaired figure in a buckskin Indian jacket

came out of the shadows and sidestepped his way to within several

feet of the agitated man.

11iCaramba!"

11iMadre de Dios!"

The screaming duet filled the lobby as the two men in cutaways

roared at the top of their voices while pointing accusingly at the

heavyset man near the entrance.

11iHomicidio!"

"iAsesino! "

"iCriminal!"

"iDernandari el policia!

The stunned, unfriendly-looking gentleman who was the object-

of the cutaways' shrieking accusations began to run but was

instantly stopped by the tall man in the Indian costume, who

hammerlocked the man's neck and head while jamming his knee up

into the base of the accused's spine.

"That's him, boyos!" came another roar that echoed off the walls

and over the pandemonium of the crowds in the lobby. "It's the

great man himself! Erin go bragh, boyos! Charge in the memory of

Saint William Patrick O'Brien!"

And, naturally, the Milligan-Gilligan brigade pummeled through

hysterical bodies and fell upon the two Arab terrorists in cutaways.

"Wa chu doing, ole man?" yelled Desi the First, fending off an

assault by a fat stranger now wearing a combat helmet.

"Hey, loco jerk!" cried Desi the Second, his foot sending an

O'Boyle Meats advocate into a lovely Queen Anne chair that

collapsed under his bulk; he gripped the bare arm of Tank Top.

"Das a nice lookin' snake, ole gringo,

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 207

an' I don' wanna hurt it, but chu gotta leave me alone! I got no

disputa wid chu!"

"Sergeants!" roared the Hawk, crashing through the collapsing

figures around his two extremely adept adjutants. "Commander

Pinkus has ordered an evacuation!"

"As quickly as possible," added Aaron by the door. "The hotel

security was filling out stolen property forms in the office, but

they're out of there now and the police have been summoned.

Quickly!"

"Wad about the vicioso, Heneral?"

"When he wakes up he'll have a bad back for a month or two.

I wonder if the Mafia has Medicare."

"Will you three please hurry!"

"H'okay, Comandante," said Desi-One" looking around at the

melee in the lobby. "Hey, Raul!"

iSi, Sefior Embajador? You freak!"

"We'll call you later, man! Maybe you wanna join the army wid

us, no?"

"Maybe, amigo. It could be safer than this place. iAdi6s!"

Aaron Pinkus's Buick coupe raced down Boylston Street and

turned around the first comer that would lead them to Arlington and

eventually the Ritz-Carlton hotel. "I simply don't understand!"

protested the attorney. "Who were they?"

'They were lunatics--old lunatics, senile lunatics!" replied an

angry MacKenzie Hawkins, glancing into the backseat. "Did you two

suffer any wounds?" he asked.

"You crazy, Heneral? Dose ole men couldn't steal chickens."

")What's that?" yelled the Hawk abruptly as he watched Desi the

First place four wallets on the seat between himself and Desi-Two.

"Wad's wad?" asked D-One, innocently looking up at the general.

"Those are billfolds-wallets-four of them!"

"Ees a big crowd back there," offered D-Two. "My fren' don'

work so hard today 'cause he can do lots better."

"Good Lord," said Pinkus behind the wheel, a sense of

RO'BERT LUDLUM

defeat again overwhelming him. "The hotel security ... those stolen

property reports."

"You can't do that, Sergeant!"

"I'm not so lousy, Heneral. Ees only a sideline, as you gringos

say."

"Oh, dear Abraham," pleaded Aaron softly. "I really must calm

myself, my blood pressure is stratospheric."

"What's the matter, Commander Pinkus?"

"Let's just say this hasn't been a normal working day for me,

General."

"Do you want me to drive?"

"Oh, no, thank you. Driving actually takes my mind off things."

Aaron reached over to the radio and turned it on.

The strains of Vivaldi's Concerto in D for flute filled the small

car, causing Desis One and Two to look at each other in

disapproval and Pinkus to breathe steadily, deeply, for a few

moments of peace. However, it was only a few moments.

Suddenly, the music stopped and the excited voice of an announcer

replaced the soothing Vivaldi with a nerve-shattering news flash.

"We interrupt this program to bring you an exclusive bulletin.

The Four Seasons Hotel on Boylston-Street was only minutes ago

the scene of an extraordinary incident. The circumstances have not

been clarified, but apparently there was a riot in the hotel@ lobby

causing numerous guests to be jostled and thrown to the ground-

fortunately with only minor injuries so far reported We switch you

now by telephone to our correspondent at the scene, Chris Nichols,

who was having a late lunch at the hotel-" the announcer paused,,

involuntarily adding, "Lunch at the Four Seasons? On our salaries

... ?"

"Not lunch, you idiot!" broke in a second voice, deep and

resonant. "My wife thinks I'm in Marblehead-"

"You're ON, Chris!"

"Just kidding, f

olks . but there was no humor in what took place here

barely five minutes ago. The police are trying to unravel the facts

and it @ not an easy job. All we know at this moment is that the

cast of characters might have come out of a Hitchcock film.... A

famous Boston lawyer, two Spanish ambassadors, Arab terrorists,

a large elderly American Indian with the strength of a buffalo, an

THE ROAD TO OOWAHA 209

odd assortment of World War Two veterans in strange attire and

even stranger hallucinations, and finally, a reputed Mafia

executioner Only the first and the last have been identified. They

are the renowned attorney Mr Aaron Pinkus, and one Caesar

Boccegallupo, allegedly a capo primitivo in the Borgia family of

Brooklyn, New York. The first-named, Mr Aaron Pinkus, presumably

escaped with the two Spanish ambassadors or was taken hostage

by the Arab terrorists, depending on whose version one cares to

accept. Mr Boccegallupo is in custody, and according to reports

keeps shouting that he insists on speaking to his lawyer, who he

claims is the President of the United States. Well, regardless of

political parties, we all know the President is not an attorney. "

"Thank you, Chris, thank you for this exclusive report, and good

luck in Marblehead with that exciting yacht club regatta- "It's

over, you stupid son of a-" The Vivaldi returned but did nothing to

lower Aaron Pinkus's blood pressure.

"Abraham has truly deserted me," whispered the foremost lawyer

of Boston, Massachusetts.

"I heard that, Commander!" shouted MacKenzie Hawkins. "He.

may have, but as sure as leopards have spots, I haven't! We'll face

the fire together, turn it on lem, and blow 'em away, old buddy!"

"Is it possible," asked Aaron Pinkus softly, glancing at the Hawk,

"that I have been presented with the human form of my own

personal dybbuk?"

14

Sunrise Jennifer Redwing quietly shut the bedroom door and

walked to the writing desk in the sitting room of the Ritz-Carlton

suite arranged by Aaron Pinkus. "Your mother's asleep," she said

as she pulled the chair away and sat down facing Devereaux on the

couch. "At last," she added, firmly crossing her legs and glaring at

Sam.

"I don't suppose it would do any good to tell you that my mother

isn't always tanked."

"If I were a mother, Samuel Devereaux, and I had learned about

my son what she's learned about you during the last several days,

I wouldn't draw a sober breath for the next five years!"

"Isn't that a little severe, Counselor?"

"Only if you chose to immolate yourself on the stage of the San

Francisco Cow Palace, all proceeds going for the benefit of mothers

driven to cuckooville by their offspring."

"She told you quite a bit then," said Sam, unsuccessfully trying

to avoid the lovely lady's positively unfriendly gaze.

"Only bits and pieces at the house, but for the past half hour,

I've listened to a compendium of horrors-that's

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 211

when you may have heard me locking the door as she instructed

me to do.... Underworld killers on a golf course, English traitors,

Nazis on chicken farms, Arabs roasting goats' testicles in the

desert-and my God, kidnapping the Pope! You made allusions to

this mad general scouring intelligence files to raise forty million

dollars-but nothing like this! Jesus Christ, the Pope! I can't believe

it ... she must have got that wrong."

"They're not actually one and the same, you know. Christ and

the Pope, I mean. Remember, I'm Anglican, although I can't

specifically recall when I last went to church. Early teens, I think-2'

"I don't give a damn whether you're Anglican or a moon drop

from a Tibetan zodiac, you are certifiable, Counselor! You have no

right walking the streets, much less-much, much less-being an

officer of the court!"

"You're hostile," observed Devereaux.

"I've gone completely out of my mind! You make my maximum-

nut brother Charlie look like Oliver Wendell Holmes!"

"I'll bet we'd get along."

"Oh, sure, I can see it now. Redwing and Devereaux--2' "Devereaux

and Redwing," interrupted Sam. "I'm older and more experienced"

"--the law firm that set all manner of jurisprudence back to the

Stone Age!"

"Probably a lot clearer then," said Sam, nodding. "They couldn't

chip out all those codicillary phrases on the rocks."

"Be serious, you idiot!"

"An idiot I'm not, Red. A playwright once said that there comes

a time when there's nothing left to do but scream. I'm simply

substituting an ironic chuckle for a shriek."

"You're referring. to Anouilh, and he also said 'bearer of life, give

light,' and I substitute 'law' for 'life'-which for a few moments in your

house I thought you believed, too. We must give light, Sam."

"You know about Anouilh? I thought I was the only person I

knew who--2'

"He was never a practicing attorney in Paris," inter-212 ROBERT LUDLUM

rupted Jennifer, "but he loved the law--especially the language of

the law-and he turned a great deal of it into poetry.,,

"You scare me, Indian lady."

"I hope so. We've got a very scary problem on the docket,

Counselor."

"I don't mean Mac's megainess, although you're right, it's scary

as hell. But somehow-don't ask me how-I think we'll muddle

through, at least with our lives if not our sanity intact."

"I'm glad you're so confident," observed Redwing. "I'm not, on

either point."

" 'Confident' is the wrong word, Red. Let's say I'm fatalistic

because the fates will probably be on our side if for no other reason

than the combine of Aaron Pinkus and MacKenzie Hawkins, two of

the most resourceful men I've ever known, are running interference

for us. And if I'm called off the bench, I'm not exactly inadequate

myself."

"nen you've lost me. What were you talking about?"

'@You, lady.... In the space of a few hours, from a crazy moment

in an elevator to this hotel suite, we've gone through quite a bit."

-Fhat may be the understatement of your professional career,"

Redwing broke in quickly, quietly, her eyes still glaring.

"I know, I know, but something happened--2' "Has it really?"

"To me," completed Sam. "I've watched you in what the

psychology boys would probably call moments of extreme stress,

and I like what I saw, respect what I saw. You can learn an awful

lot about a person under those kinds of circumstances.... You can

discover wonderful things, beautiful things."

"Mis is getting a little-saccharine, Mr. Devereaux," said Jennifer,

"and I'm very sure it's not the time for it."

"But it is the time, don't you see? If I don't say it now when I feel

it so strongly, I might not say it later. It may just slip away and I

don't want that to happen."

"Why? Because the memory of-what was it your mother said?--

oh, yes, the 'eternal love of his life,' some

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 213

benevolent nun who ran away with the Pope, has come back to

you? That's only another crooked house on a crooked mile in

cuckooville!"

"That's part of what I'm saying," insisted Sam. "Because that

memory's fading, I can feel it, sense it. Only last night I wanted to

kill Mac for even mentioning her name, but now it doesn't matter, at

least I don't think it does. I look at you and I can't see her face any

more, and that tells me something pretty goddamned important."

"Are you telling me there actually was such a person?"

'Yes.

"Counselor, I've got to be in the middle of a horror movie that

has exhausted my popcorn, half of it sticking to a gum-laden floor."

"Welcome to the world of MacKenzie Hawkins, Counselor. And

don't get up from your seat, because if the greasy popcorn doesn't

make you slip down on your ass, you'll lose your shoes to the

gum.... Why do you think your brother beat feet? Why do you think

I did everything within the power of the very powerful Aaron Pinkus

to avoid getting mixed up with the mad Hawk again?"

"Because it is total madness," answered the bronzeskinned

Aphrodite@, her eyes softening. "Yet your brilliant Mr. Pinkus-and

I concede that brilliance, because I know something about him-has

not cut off the mad general. He's apparently in constant touch with

him, working with him, when we both know he could sever the

relationship with one call to Washington, exonerating himself from

any association whatsoever by simply stating that he never

soughtit.... And you, I watched you on the phone in the car; you

were beside yourself with anxiety, no matter your feeble

disclaimers. Why, Counselor? What hold does this creature have

on you, on both of you?"

Sam lowered his head, his eyes roaming within an imaginary

circle of his shoes. "The truth, I guess," he said simply.

"What truth? It's chaos!"

"Yeah, there's that, too, but underneath there's truth. Like with

Pope Francesco. It started off as the biggest scam in the history of

the world, as Aaron called it, but down below there was something

else. That beautiful man

214 RO&ERT LUDLUM

was being hamstrung by self-righteous people around him, men

more interested in power than in progress. Uncle Zio wanted to

widen the doors opened by John the Twentythird, and they wanted

to shut them. That's why Zio and the Hawk became such friends in

the Alps. Why they did what they did."

"The Alps? What they &dT'

"Easy, Counselor. You asked and I'm answering with a limited

response. The Alps aren't important, it could have been an

apartment in Jersey City. What is important is the truth, and that's

Mac's insidious trap. Through whatever circuitous routes his mind

travels, he arrives somehow at a fundamental truth, always, I grant

you, with a terrific scam.... Your people were raped, lady, and he's

produced what appears to be irrefutable evidence of that assault.

Sure, there's millions to be made by bringing even that appearance

to judicial light, and more millions spread around by those refuting

the evidence, but there's no way we can deny his basic premise if

his sources are authentic.... I can't, Aaron can't, and finally, you

can't."

"But I want to deny it! I don't want my people put through this

wringer! Many are quite old and many, many more are ill-equipped

by lack of education to deal with these complexities. They'd only

get confused, undoubtedly corrupted by special interests, and in the

end, hurt. It's wrong!"

"Oh, I see," said Sam, sitting back on the couch. "Let's keep the

happy darkies down on the plantation, singing their spirituals and

driving the mules."

"What are you saying? How dare you say that to me!"

"You just said it, Indian lady. You got out of there, and from

your exalted professional perch in San Francisco you decree that

the underlings are not fit to break the chains

that keep them under." I

"I never said they weren't fit, I said they weren't ready! We're

building another school, hiring the best teachers we can afford,

appealing to the Peace Corps, and sending more and more children

off the reservation for better educations. But it's not all done

overnight. You can't change a disenfranchised people into a

politically aware society in a month or two, it takes years."

7HE ROAD TO OMAHA 215

"You don't have years, Counselor, you've got right now. If you

let this chance, as slim as it is, to right a vindictive wrong slip away,

it's not going to come around the bend again. Mac was right about

that; it's why he'& handled it the way he has--every weapon in place

and concealed, the high command out of reach but still very much

in control."

"What does that gobbledygook mean?"

"I suppose the Hawk would call it something like Delta Strike

Force, Zero Hour Shock."

"Oh, of course. Now I understand completely!"

"Surprise attack, Red. No prior notice, no newspaper or media

coverage of any kind, no attorneys proclaiming their march to the

Court--everything stiletto-quick and quiet."

"Catching everyone off guard . concluded Jennifer, now

beginning to understand.

"Exactly," said Devereaux. "Forget the odds, say they just get a

single swing vote, there's no appeal to a Supreme Court decision,

only a legislative correction by changing the rules, the laws."

"And Congress, even galvanized, has the speed of a turtle,"

completed the lady lawyer. "Thus leaving your crazy Hawk in the

catbird seat."

"Thus leaving the Wopotamis in the same chair," amended

Devereaux. "It's called write-your-ticket time."

"It could also be called an express elevator to hell," said

Redwing, getting up and walking to the hotel window overlooking

Boston's Public Garden. "It can't happen, Sam," she continued,

shaking her head slowly. "They couldn't handle it. The

carpetbaggers in their limousines and Lear jets would descend on

them like an army of pterodactyls, parading Bacchus and his

Bacchae in numbers they couldn't walk away from.... And I couldn't

stop them, none of us could stop them."

"us?",

"There's about a dozen of us, kids the Council of Elders decided

were ogotiowa-smarter than the others, is the easiest translation,

although it goes deeper-who were given opportunities not available

to the other children. We're all doing pretty well, and except for

three or four who couldn't wait to assimilate and buy their BMWs,

we get together and look after the tribe's interests. We do our

216 ROWERT LUDLUM

best, but even we couldn't protect them from this kind of Olympian

spoils of law."

"We're very Greek today, aren't we?"

"I wasn't aware of it. )"y?"

"I don't know. Some Greek is walking around in my best J.

Press blazer. Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt."

"Yes you did. You're trying to figure out how to answer me.,,

"Quick, very quick, Counselor... Yes, I am, and I think I can. Am

I correct in assuming that you're the top gun of this specially

chosen dozen?"

"I suppose so. I'm very committed and I'm in a position to

advise legally."

"Men use that expertise before the fact, if the fact ever becomes

a reality."

"In what way?"

"How many others of the tribal whiz kids can you trust?"

answered Sam with another question.

"My brother Charlie, of course, when he's got his head straight

... perhaps six or seven others who I don't think could be bought

into Alice in penthouse-land."

"Men form an irrevocable corporate trust, signed by each

member of your Council of Elders, stating that no tribal business of

an economic nature may be transacted or committed through any

persons other than those constituting the executors of the aforesaid

trust."

"That opens us up to collusion prior to an anticipated legal

action," objected Redwing.

"What action? Have you been formally apprised of any legal

action?"

"You're damned right I have. By my brother Charlie the nut, and

my new acquaintance, Sam of the sotted trousers."

"So lie a little. It's either that or an express elevator to hell."

Redwing walked back toward the desk; she paused, her hands on

her hips, her head arched to the ceiling in thought. It was a

provocative stance instantly provoking Devereaux. "Do you have to

do that?" he asked.

"Do what?" replied the Aphrodite of the Wopotamis, her eyes

leveled at Sam.

"Stand like that."

THE ROAD TO MAW 217

"Like what?"

"You may be a daunting lady, but you don't have an excess of

testosterone."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"You're not a man."

"You're damned right I'm not." Redwing briefly surveyed her

upright frontage. "Oh, come on, Counselor, get off it. Concentrate

on your nun."

"Do I detect a note of jealousy? It'd be the best sign I could

hope for." Sam instantly began an impoverished rendition of the

song. "Jell-loos-see, I hear you my jell-loossee......

"For God's sake, shut up! ... It's something Charlie could do."

"I hope not."

"What?"

"Never mind. What could Charlie do?"

"Form the corporate trust," said Redwing, going to the desk and

picking up the phone. "He can use my secretary and fax everything

out, have it all wrapped up in a day."

"Hey, " shouted Devereaux, jumping up from the couch, "you

dial, but can I act like your secretary at this end?"

"WhyT'

"I want to hear the voice of the poor son of a bitch who got

suckered into the Hawk's larceny like I did. CO it perverse, but I

did overlook your proposal of marriage. How about it?"

"Be my guest," said Jennifer, dialing.

"What's his full name?" asked Sam, standing beside the stunning

Indian attorney. "So he knows I'm authentic." "Charles ... Sunset ...

Redwing."

"You're kidding!"

"He was born during the last rays of the descending sun, and I

don't care to listen to any fatuous comment from you."

"I wouldn't dare." Jennifer completed dialing and handed the

phone to Devereaux. After several moments, Sam replied to the

quiet "hello" at the other end of the line. "Is this Charles Sunset

Redwing?"

"You calling for Eagle Eyes?" said the brother. "Is anything

wrong back thereT'

218 R06ERT LUDLUM

"Eagle Eyes?" Devereaux covered the phone with his hand and

turned to Jennifer. "He said 'Eagle Eyes.' What does that mean? Is

it an Indian code?"

"He's our uncle. You used Charlie's middle name, which he

doesn't exactly advertise. Let me talk to him." "He scares the hell

out of me."

"Charlie? Why? He's a nice kid."

"He sounds like mell,

"Two points for the white man," said Redwing, taking the

telephone. "Hello, you jackass, it's your big sister and you're going

to do precisely what I tell you to do, and don't you dare make any

moves on my secretary or I'll rediaper you like I used to do but with

a couple of missing parts. Got that, Charlie?"

Sam returned to the couch, then decided against sitting down,

opting instead for the suite's mirrored bar built into the wall and

stocked with all manner of spirits. As Red Redwing harangued her

brother with instructions, he began producing a large glass pitcher

of dry martinis. If there was nothing left to do but scream, he might

as well yell half-plastered.

"There!" said Jennifer, replacing the phone and turning,

expecting to find Devereaux on the couch, instead shifting her eyes

to the bar and the mixologist performing his ritual. "What are you

doing?"

"Making pain less painful, I guess," answered Sam, poking a tiny

fork into a jar of olives. "Aaron should be here shortly, and sooner

or later Mac also-if he ever gets out of the Four Seasons.... It's not

a conference I look forward to. Care for a belt?"

"No, thanks, because that's what it would be. A heavy belt

landing me on the floor. I'm afraid that, too, is part of the genes, so

I stay away."

"Really? I thought that was just a dumb myth-Indians and

firewater."

"Do you think Pocahontas would have looked twice at that

scrawny WASP John Smith if she wasn't tanked? Not with all those

cute braves around."

"I consider that a racist remark."

"You bet your ass. Leave us something."

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 219

The elegant manager of the exclusive Fawning Hill Country Club on

the Eastern Shore of Maryland turned to his assistant as the

heavyset man walked through the imposing front entrance and then

past them, nodding his acceptance at having been greeted silently,

no name mentioned. "Roger, my boy," said the tuxedoed manager,

"you have just witnessed at least twelve percent of the entire wealth

of this country walk through those doors."

"You're kidding," said the younger, equally clean-cut

subordinate, also in a tuxedo but without the white rose in his lapel.

"Not for an instant," continued the manager. "It's a private

meeting in the Gold Room with the Secretary of State. No lunch, no

drinks other than bottled water, nothing. Very serious. Two men

from the State Department arrived an hour ago and swept the room

with electronic devices to make sure there were no taps anywhere."

"What do you figure it is, Maurice?"

'The movers and the shakers, Roger. Inside that room are the

heads of Monarch-McDowell Aircraft, Petrotoxic Amalgamated,

Zenith Ball Bearings Worldwide, and the Smythington-Fontini

Industries, which stretch from Milan, Italy, to California."

"Wow! Who's the fifth guy?"

"The king of international bankers. He's from Boston and holds

more purse strings than the Treasury Department."

"What do you think they're doing?" "If I knew, I could

probably get rich."

"Moose!" cried Warren Pease, greeting the owner of Monarch-

McDowell Aircraft at the door with a hearty handshake.

"Your left eye's in orbit, Warty," said the bull of a man. "Do we

have problems?"

"Nothing we can't handle, sport," replied the Secretary of State

nervously. "Say hello to the crowd."

"Hi there, old buddies," said Moose, walking around the table in

his honorary green Fawning Hill golf jacket and shaking hands.

220 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Good to see you, chum," said Doozie from Petrotoxic

Amalgamated, his blue blazer encrested, not with the emblem of a

club but with the escutcheon of his family.

"You're late, Moose," said, the blond-haired Froggie, owner and

CEO of Zenith Ball Bearings Worldwide. "And I'm in a hurry.

They've developed a new alloy in Paris and it could make millions

in our defense contracts."

"Hell, I'm sorry, Frog-face, but I couldn't change the weather

over St. Louis. My pilot insisted on a detour... Hello, Smythie, how

are the ladies in Milan?"

"They still pine for you, Moose!" replied SmythingtonFontini. The

half-British, half-Italian yachtsman wore his white flannels and his

billowing yachtsman's blouse replete with the ribbons of his

yachting triumphs.

"So, Bricky," said Moose, grasping the extended hand of the

Boston banker. "How's the money pot? You made a bundle out of

me last year."

"Most of it tax-deductible, old chum," countered the New England

banker, smiling. "Would you have it any other way?"

"Hell, no, Brick! You sweeten my coffee every moming.... I sit

here, right?"

"Ibght."

"Right!" insisted Froggie.- "I'm in a hurry. Those new alloys in

Paris could fall into the hands of German industry. Get with it,

Warren."

"All right, I shall," said the Secretary of State, sitting down and

furiously tapping his left temple to keep his wavering eye in place.

"I've informed you all by security phones that our good buddy and

my old roomie, the President, has put me on top of the Italian

problem at the CIA."

"I suppose somebody has to be," observed Doozie of Petrotoxic.

"The man's become something of a menace, I understand. The

stories of his so-called abusive tactics are, practically legend."

"Yet, since taking office," said Moose, "he's been effective. From

the day he walked into Langley, our companies haven't had a

serious union problem. Whenever there's a threat, former

colleagues of his show up in limousines and the threats go away."

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 221

"Nice touch, the limousines," said Doozie, dusting a speck of lint

off the family crest on his jacket. "And I must say, he's been an

inspiration, the way he throws around his national security

prohibitions at those scruffy environmentalists. Mummy and Daddy

would have thought the world of him."

"And although he's thoroughly unacceptable socially," added the

aristocrat of Boston merchant bankers, "through his connections

with certain offshore institutions, he's made possible extraordinary

extensions of your corporate finances. We've all made millions by

not paying millions in taxes."

"Damn decent fellow," admitted Moose of MonarchMcDowell

Aircraft, his jowls jiggling as he nodded his head.

"No question," concurred Doozie. "He truly understands that the

success of his betters can mean the betterment of himself. The real

trickle-down theory. indisputably proven."

"Also," said the inheritor of the Smythington-Fontini multinational

companies, "where else could so many of us turn? He's an

extremely patriotic American. He realizes every defense project on

every drawing board in the country must be approved, no matter

how questionable it may appear, for in the attempts, there's always

valuable ... research, yes, researrh."

"Here, here!"

"Here, here-2'

"Well," broke in Secretary of State Pease, holding up a trembling

right hand that he instantly grabbed with his left and pulled back on

the table. "The splendid qualities that have made him such an asset

may well be the very reasons why he could become an enormous

liability."

"What?"

" Why? "

"Because every one of you has had extensive dealings with him."

"Buried, Warren," said Froggie icily. "Deep down."

"Not for him."

"What happened?" asked Boston Bricky, his face, al-222 ROBERT LUDLUM

ready bleached from the absence of sunlight in his vaults, growing

paler.

"It's directly related to the other difficulty we face, which I'll bring

up later."

"Oh, my God," whispered Doozie. "The savages ... that Court

with three left-wing senilities and one nerdy enigma still on it!"

"Yes," confirmed Warren Pease, barely audible. "In trying to

short-circuit the whole stupid fiasco, Mangecavallo traced the crazy

litigants to Boston, then called in his criminal hoods from New York.

Real honest to P-and-L sheet killers. One was captured."

"Oh, great green gobs of greasy, grimy gopher guts!" cried

Bricky. "Boston?"

"I read about that," said Moose. "There was a riot at some hotel

and the hood who was arrested said the President was his lawyer."

"I didn't know your old roomie was a lawyer, Warty," said Doozie.

"He's not. -But if my old roomie's name can even be mentioned,

how long before Mangecavallo surfaces, and as sure as there's plea

bargaining, you'll all be next."

"What did you expect, Mr. Secretary?" remarked the blond

Froggie, his voice in a deep freeze as he looked around the table at

each member. "You give a thug responsibility, you're responsible

for thugs."

The silence was the silence of the damned. Finally, Moose of

Monarch-McDowell spoke.

"Good Lord, we'll miss him."

"Then we're in agreement?" asked Warren Pease.

"Well, of course, old chum," replied Doozie, his eyebrows arched

in innocence. "What other avenue can we possibly take?"

"All roads lead to my beautiful bank on Beacon Hill!" shouted

Bricky. "He's dead monkey meat!"

"He's too much for any of us!" cried SmythingtonFontini. "A

criminal warlord at the core of the intelligence service--especially

one who knows us-could name us!"

"Who's going to say it9' demanded Moose. "Goddamn it,

somebody's got to say it!"

"I shall," answered Froggie in a monotone. "Vincent

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 223

Mangecavallo must as soon as possible become the late Vincent

Mangecavallo.... A terrible accident, of course, nothing remotely

suspicious."

"But how?" asked the Secretary of State.

1, perhaps, can answer you," said Smythington-Fontini, casually

inhaling on his long cigarette holder. "I am the sole owner of the

Milano-Fontini Industries, and where but in Milan, Italy, are there

always cadres of malcontents that my untraceable subordinates

might appeal to with a few hundred million lire? Let's say ... I can

arrange it."

"Stout fellow!"

"Good man!"

"Damn fine show!"

"When it's all over," exclaimed Warren Pease, his left eye

reasonably in place, "the President himself will award you a

commendation medal! ... A quiet ceremony, of course."

"How did he ever get through the hearings?" asked the pale-

faced New Englander. "I never expected it."

1, for one, have absolutely no desire to know," replied the

President's prep-school roommate. "However, as to the nomination

of the silently accommodating Mr. Mangecavallo, may I remind all

of you that it was the result of the President-elect's search

committee, the majority of whom are around this table. I'm sure you

felt that he'd never survive the Senate, but he did, and there you

have it.... Gentlemen, you yourselves are responsible for placing a

Mafia godfather as director of the Central Intelligence Agency."

"That's rather crudely put, old man," observed the escutcheoned

Doozie, jutting forth his chin as he fidgeted. "After all, you and 1,

we did go to the same college together."

"God knows it pains me, Bricky, old chum, but surely you

understand. I've got to protect our boy; it's my job, honor-bound

and duty and all those other things."

"He didn't go to college with us. He wasn't even pledged to our

frat at the other place, the one for the grinds."

"Life isn't fair to most of our crowd, Bricky," said Froggie, his

eyes, however, gazing coldly at the Secretary

'224 ROBERT LUDLUM

of State. "But just how could you possibly protect our boy in the

Oval Office by alluding to any responsibility on our parts regarding

Mangecavallo, which we would promptly and vociferously deny?"

"Well," fairly choked the Secretary, his left eye again a steel

pinball shooting between two magnets, "as it happens, we have the

complete minutes of the search committee's meetings."

"How?" exploded Bricky, the pallid New England banker. "There

were no secretaries and no minutes were taken!"

"You were taped, fellas," answered the leader of the State

Department, whispering.

"VMat?"

I heard our'loyal, fine-familied son of a bitch!" cried the Moose.

"He said we were taped!"

@'With what, for God's sake?" demanded Doozie. "I never saw

any machines!"

"Voice-activated microphones," said the Secretary, hardly louder

than previously. "Underneath the tableswherever you met."

"What was that? ... Wherever we met?"

The faces around the table were frozen in angry astonishment;

then one by one, a's the realization hit them, the voices followed.

"My house?"

"My lodge on the lake?"

"My estate in Palm Springs?"

"T'he offices here in Washington?"

"Everywhere," whispered Warren Pease, his face white.

"How could you possibly do such a thing?" roared the angular

Smythington-Fontini, his ascot askew and his cigarette holder a

veritable saber.

"Honor-bound and duty," replied the blond Froggie. "You

unmitigated bastard, don't you ever expect to play at my club

again."

"And I suggest you cancel any plans you had for attending our

class reunion, you despicable tumcoat!" cried Doozie.

"As of this moment I accept your resignation from the

Metropolitan Society!" stated Moose emphatically.

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 225

"I'm honorary chairman!"

"Not any longer, you're not. By this evening we'll have reports

of your shocking behavior at State. Say, sexual harassment, female

and male. We can't tolerate that sort of thing! Not in our crowd!"

"And any thought you entertained about berthing your

insignificant cabin cruiser at our yacht club is out of the question,"

pronounced Smythie. "Dirty pot sailor."

"Moose, Froggie, Doozie-you, too, Smythie! How can you do this

to me? You're talking about my life, all those things I hold dear!"

"You should have thought of that before--2' "But I had nothing to

do with it. For God's sake, don't destroy the messenger because

of the message he brings!"

"That has a familiar ring to it," said Bricky. "Commiepinko

propaganda, I think."

"No, I think it's Japanese," explained the green-jacketed Moose,

"and that's worse! They say our refrigerators are too big to sell and

our cars too large for their streets. Why can't they build bigger

houses and wider streets, the goddamned protectionist bigots?"

"It's none of those things, old fellows," cried the Secretary of

State. "It's the truth!"

"What's the truth?" demanded Froggie.

"The message and the messenger. He bribed waiters and

gardeners to install the equipment!"

"What the hell are you talking about, you Benedict Arnold?" shouted

Petrotoxic's Doozie.

"That's it-that's him! Arnold!"

"Arnold who?"

"Arnold Subagaloo, the President's Chief of Staff!"

"Never could get his name straight. Certainly not one of

us. What about him?"

"He's the one who sent the message-through me!

What would I know about voice-activated tapes? Good

heavens, I can't even work my damn VCR."

"What did this Subaru do?" repeated the pale-faced

New England banker.

"No, that's the automobile," clarified the Secretary. "It's

Subagaloo."

"Is that the refrigerator?" asked Moose of Monarch-226 ROBERT LUDLUM

McDowell. "Sub-Igloo's a damn fine machine and should be in

every lousy little Japanese household."

"No, you're thinking of Subzero. This is Subagaloo, the Chief of

Staff."

"Oh, that bright fellow from Wall Street?" broke in Smythington-

Fontini. "He was very amusing on television a few years back. I

thought they might give him his own show."

"Sorry, Smythie, he's gone. That was before, with the other

President."

"Oh, yes," agreed the yachtsman. 'The nice fellow from the

cinema with the smile my wife went bonkers over---or was it my

mistress, or the little chippie in Milan? Frankly, I never understood

a word he said when he wasn't reading something."

"I'm talking about Arnold Subagaloo, this President's Chief of

Staff--@'

"Certainly not one of us, not with that name."

"He told me to tell you about the tapings of your meetings. He

had them made!"

"Why would he do that?"

"Because he's against anyone or anything that could be a

potential threat to the White House," observed Froggie. "T'herefore,

during the transition, he projected all manner of conceivable future

problems and took appropriate protective measures-"

"In aAamned ungentlemanly way!"' interrupted Bricky.

"Forcing us to do exactly what we're doing," completed the blond

cynic, checking his gold Girard-Perregaux wristwatch. "Eliminate

Mangecavallo ourselves, thus removing the problem we, ourselves,

created without touching the President.... That Subagaloo is one

devious son of a bitch!"

"Must be a whale of an executive," concluded the crested Doozie

of Petrotoxic. "Probably sits on a dozen boards."

"When his term's over," added the green-jacketed Moose, "I'd

like his r6sumd. Anyone that devious is heaven-sent."

"All right, Mr. Secretary," said the blond Froggie. "My time is

limited, and since Smythie's solved one vital prob-THE ROAD TO OMAHA 227

lem, I suggest you address that other difficulty you mentioned

before. I refer, naturally, to that insane and obscene brief to the

Supreme Court that would turn Omaha over to the Tacobunnies,

whoever the hell they are."

"Wopotarnis," corrected the Secretary. "I'm told they're a branch

of the Hudson Mohawks, who disowned them because they

wouldn't get out of their tepees when it snowed."

"We don't give an Indian's fart who they are or what y did

in their filthy igloos--2'

"Tepees."

"Are we back to the refrigerators ... T'

"No, he's the Chief of Staff---2'

"I thought he played for Chicago--2'

"The Japs are buying Chicago . . . T'

"Where will they stop? They've already got New York and Los

Angeles ... I"

"They bought the Dodgers ... T'

"No, I heard it was the Raiders ...

"I thought I owned the Raiders. . . ."

"No, Smythie, you own the Rams...."

"Will you all shut up?" shouted Froggie. "I have a meeting in

Paris in exactly seven hours.... Now, Mr. Secretary, what steps have

you taken to kill this ridiculous brief and any public exposure of it?

Any public airing would lead to a congressional inquiry and that

could take months, every minority-prone freak spewing his

intestines across the floors of the Senate and the House of Repre-

sentatives. The prospect is intolerable! It could cost us billions!"

"Let me give you the bad news first," replied the Secretary of

State, now crashing the palm of his left hand against his head to

control his swinging left eye. "Believing we might buy ourselves

guaranteed insurance, we employed the finest patriotic sleazeballs

in the business to get something on those fruitcake judges who

found some merit in that putrid brief. It all came to nothing. We

even began to wonder how they managed to get through law

school; no group of lawyers is that clean."

"Did you try GoldfarbT' asked Doozie.

"The -first, the first! He gave up."

228 ROBERT LUDLUM

"He never gave up in the Superbowl. Of course, he's Jewish, so

I couldn't ask him to dinner at the Onion Club, but he was a damn

fine linebacker... He couldn't find any dirt?"

"Nothing. Mangecavallo himself told me that Hymie the

Hurricane had lost-and I quote-'most of his marbles.' He even told

Vincent that this Chief Thunder Head was either the Canadian

'Bigfoot' or the Himalayan yeti, the Abominable Snowman!"

"The Golden Goldfarb is history," said the crested CEO of

Petrotoxic sadly. "I'm going to sell my 'Hurricane' bubble gum

cards as soon as possible, Mummy and Daddy always told me to

anticipate the market."

"Please!" roared the blond-haired owner of Zenith Worldwide,

once more studying his gold wristwatch and glaring at the Secretary

of State. "What, if any, is the goodnews?"

"Put simply," answered Pease, his left eye now somewhat in

place. "Our soon-to-be deceased director of the CIA has shown us

the way. The appellants of the Wopotami brief-namely one Chief

Thunder Head and his attorneys-must appear before the Supreme

Court for oral interrogation prior to any Court decision."

"so?"

"He'll never get there-they'll never get there."

,"at?"

"Who?"

"How?"

"Vinnie the Barn-Barn used his Mafia connections. We'll go one

better."

-ftaff'

"Who?"

"How?"

"We're going to unleash certain segments of our Special Forces-

a number of whom are still in cages-and program them to terminate

this Thundef Head and his associates.... You see, Mangecavallo-the

soon-to-be-the-late Mangecavallo-was right. Eliminate the cause,

you eliminate the result."

"Hear, hear!"

"Good show!"

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 229

"Damn fine scenario!"

"And we know that son-of-a-bitch Thunder Head and his Commie

associates are in Boston. We just have to find him and his rotten,

unpatriotic colleagues."

"But can you do that?" asked the ice-cold, Paris-bound Froggie.

"You haven't done much else right."

"It's practically done," replied the Secretary, his left eye

completely stable for once. "That dreadful man they arrested in

Boston, Caesar the Unpronounceable, is currently in a State

Department sterile house clinic in Virginia, being-as they say@'shot

to the moon' with a truth serum. Before the day is over, we'll know

everything he knows. And Smythie, I think you should go to work

immediately."

"It ... can be arranged."

Algernon Smythington-Fontini got out of his limousine at a most

unlikely place. It was a run-down gas station on the outskirts of

Grasonville, Maryland, a relic of the days when local farmers would

fill up their trucks in the early mornings and spend several hours

grousing with one another about the weather, the falling market

prices, and most of all, the invading agro industries that were their

death knell. Smythie nodded at the owner-attendant, who sat in a

dilapidated wicker chair by the front door. "Good afternoon,"

he'said.

"Hi ya, fancy fella. Go right inside and use the phone.... Leave

your money on the counter as usual, and, as usual, I never- saw you

before in my life."

"Diplomatic security, you understand, old man."

"Tell your wife, not me, pal."

"Impudence doesn't become your position."

"Hey, I got no problem with that-any broad, any position--2'

"Really! " Smythington-Fontini proceeded to go inside the small

gas station. He walked to his left, where there was a cracked

Formica counter smudged with grease; there was also a decades-

old black telephone. He picked it up and dialed. "I trust the time is

convenient,", he said.

"Ah, Signor Fontini!" replied the voice on'the other end

230 ROBERT LUDLUM

of the line. "To what do I owe the honor? I trust everything

goes well in Milano."

"Exceedingly, as in California."

"I'm happy we can be of service."

"You won't be happy to learn what has been decreed.

Among other ugliness, it's irrevocable"

"Come now, what could be so serious for such words?"

"Esecuzione. "

"Che cosa? Chi?"

11TU. 11

"Me?... Sons of bitches!" roared Vincent Mangecavallo.

"Slimeball tutti-frutti bastards!"

"We must discuss arrangements. I suggest a boat or a plane,

leaving open a return."

An apoplectic Vinnie the Bam-Barn furiously punched the buttons

on his concealed telephone in the lower right-hand drawer of his

desk. Twice he drew blood on his knuckles, as he misjudged the

sharp wooden edges of the side panels. He barked the number of

the hotel room he had to reach.

"Yeah?" said Little Joey the Shroud sleepily.

"Get off your fuckin' butt, Joey, the whole scenario got changed!"

"What are you talkin'? ... Is this you, Bam-BamT' "You can bet

the fuckin' graves of your ancestors in Palermo and Ragusa! The

fuckin' fairies in their silk underwear just ordered my esecuzione!

After all we done for tern!"

"You gotta be kiddin'! Maybe it's a mistake. They talk in such

polite language you can never tell when they want a shiv in your

back or a pair of lips on your--2'

"Basta!" yelled the director of the Central Intelligence Agency.

"I heard what I heard alld it's gold!"

"Holy shit! Wadda we do?"

"Stay cool, Little Joey. I'm gonna disappear for a while, maybe

a week, maybe two-we're working out the particulars-but right now,

you got a new assignment. And you gotta do it right, Joey!"

"On my mother's grave--2'

YHE ROAD TO OMAHA 231

"Try someone else. Your momma did too much time."

"I got a niece. A nun-"

"She got thrown out of the convent, remember? She and the

fuckin' plumber!"

"Awright, awright! My aunt Angelina ... she died after eating

clams at Urnberto's, and never was there a holier person. On her

grave!"

"She was so fat she took up six plots--2' "But she was holy, Bam-

Bam, really holy! The Rosary every hour of the day."

"She didn't have nothin' else to do or do it with, but I accept

your Aunt Angelina. You ready to swear on that holy grave?"

"I swear on the threat of demonic possession, which is a big

fuckin' thing with these gibrones in New York.... Sometimes I think

those Irish clowns don't have both oars in the water."

"It's good enough," pronounced Vincent Francis Assisi

Mangecavallo. "I accept your silence on what I am about to tell

you."

"And I will thank God for your guidance, Bam-Bam. Who do I

cause to have his life cut short?"

"The opposite, Little Joey. You keep them alive! ... I want you

should set up a conference with this Thunder Head and his

associates. I am suddenly very much a champion of their cause.

Such minorities have been trampled upon too much and too often.

It's intolerable."

"You gotta be outta. your fuckin, mind!"

"No, Little Joey, they are."

15-

The door of the Ritz-Carlton suite crashed open as Desis One and

Two in their white ties and tails lurched into the room, prepared to

do battle. Devereaux dropped his martini and Jennifer Redwing

spun out of her chair, plummeting to the floor, genetically, perhaps,

anticipating the worst from the white man.

"Well done, adjutants!" roared the buckskinned MacKenzie

Hawkins, striding into the suite, followed by a perplexed Aaron

Pinkus. "There's no hostile action in evidence so you may stand to.

At ease---casual positions are acceptable." The Desis First and

Second slouched. "Not that casual, Sergeants!" Instantly, D-One

and D-Two stood erect. "That's better," admonished the Hawk.

"Eyes alert! Assault tactics at the ready!"

"Wad chu mean now?" asked Desi the First.

"Instant submission is the first sign of counterattack. Forget the

tall skinny one; he's useless, but watch the female! They frequently

carry grenades under their skirts."

"You antediluvian son of a bitch!" yelled Redwing, getting to her

feet and angrily smoothing her hair and her dress. "You barbarian!

You bellowing relic from a fifthrate war movie, who the hell do you

think you are?"

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 233

"Guerrilla tactics," said Mac under his breath to his adjutants.

"The second phase after submission is loud verbal abuse-that's

when they distract your concentration and pull the pins."

"I'll pull your pin right out of its hairy recess, you walking junk

bond! And how dare you wear those clothes? You look like a

refugee from a Shriner's convention, you horse's ass!"

"You see, y'see?" muttered the Hawk, mangling the cigar in his

mouth. "She's trying to distract me now-watch her hands, men.

Those knockers she's got are probably plastic explosives."

"I'll find out, Heneral!" cried Desi the First, his eyes focused

properly on the targets as his starched shirt whipped up out of

place. "Wad chu think?"

"You take one step toward me," said Redwing, lowering her

shoulders and grabbing the strap of her purse from the chair, then

suddenly, snapping it open with her left hand and removing the

cylinder of Mace with her right. "... you'll be blinded for a month,"

she completed, waving her weapon back and forth between the two

formally clothed subordinates and their Wopotami-dressed superior.

"Try me and you won't merely make my day, you'll make my week."

"This is where I came in," interrupted Sam Devereaux, walking

to the mirrored bar and the pitcher of martinis; he hop-skipped and

soccer-kicked the fallen glass on the hotel rug.

"Wait a rninute!" exclaimed Aaron, adjusting his -steelrimmed

spectacles and studying the lovely bronze-skinned woman. "I know

you.... Seven or eight years agoHarvard, the Law Review, among the

top o your class ... an outstanding analysis of censorship within the

framework of constitutional law."

"Nanny's Naughty Follies, by God!" said Devereaux, laughing as

he poured himself a drink.

"Be quiet, Samuel."

"We're back to Samuel?"

"Shut up, Counselor... Yes, Mr. Pinkus, you interviewed me, and

I was very flattered by your interest."

"But you turned us down, my dear. Why was that? ...

234 ROBERT LUDLUM

You certainly don't have to answer me, because it's none of my

business, but I'm curious. I distinctly remember asking my

associates what firm in Washington or New York you were heading

for-frankly, I intended to call whomever it was and tell them how

fortunate they were. Washington and New York are usually the

goals of the best and the brightest, although I obviously disagree.

However, I seem to recall that you went with a small, albeit fine firm

in Omaha."

"It's where I came from, sir. As you may have gathered, I'm a

member of the Wopotami tribe."

"I ha4f gathered that, although my other half sincerely hoped you

might refute the conclusion. Life would be less chaotic, if that were

in the realm of possibility."

"It's not, Mr. Pinkus. My name is Jennifer Redwing and I'm a

daughter of the Wopotamis. I'm also extremely proud of the fact."

"But where in heaven's name did you ever meet Samuel?"

"In an elevator-this morning-at the Four Seasons Hotel. He was

very tired; he claimed he was exhausted and made several foolish

remarks."

-Fhat was sufficient to cause you to be here with him now, Miss

Redwing?"'

"She went to my house," interjected Devereaux. "I apologized-I

even tipped the doorman for her-and then I heard this crazy lady

give my own address to the taxi driver! What would you have done,

Aaron?"

"Obviously, followed her to your house."

"I did."

"I went to his house, Mr. Pinkus, because it was the last address

I traced down for that demented creature standing next to you!"

"Angry little filly, isn't she?" observed the Hawk.

"Yes, General Hawkins-you couldn't possibly be anyone else-I

am angry, and no, General, I am not a 'little filly,' as you will learn

when I get through with you. In court or out of court, I'll chew your

ass off!"

"Verbal abuse, Sergeants. Stay alert."

"Oh, shut up, you lowest face on the dumbest totem. In-

cidentally, that beaded jacket you're wearing tells the story

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 235

of an idiot buffalo who hadn't the brains to get out of a storm. Very

appropriate."

"Hey, Red," broke in Sam, a martini at his lips. "Cool it.

Remember the corporate trust."

"Cool it? Just looking at him-makes me want to scream!"

"He has that effect on people," mumbled Devereaux, drinking.

"A moment, please," said Pinkus, gently holding up his hand. "I

believe I heard something that should be clarified." The venerated

attorney turned to Sam. "What 'corporate trust'? What have you

done now?"

"Just a little pro bono advice, Aaron. You'd approve."

"You and any approval on my part may well be mutually

exclusive at this juncture.... Perhaps you will explain, Miss

Redwing?"

"I'd be delighted to, Mr. Pinkus. Especially for the benefit of

your other guest, General Neanderthal. You may have to translate

for him, but I suspect he'll eventually understand the bottom line, if

only because he won't get anywheres near it."

"That's succinct," said Aaron, his expression not unlike that of

Eisenhower's upon learning of MacArthur's dismissal.

"It's brilliant, and despite a profusion of faults too numerous to

mention, the concept did originate with your employee, Mr. Pinkus.

I must grant him that."

"The work of a fine attorney starts with a. gracious attorney, Miss

Redwing."

"Really? I never thought of it that way.... Why? I'm merely asking,

of course."

"Because he-or she-has the confidence of his or her own

abilities. There's no need to feed a, tenuous ego by withholding

praise from another. Hire that girl or that fellow; neither will distract

themselves with real or imagined hostilities."

"I think I just learned something-"

"It's. hardly original, my dear. Without offense, I should point

out that our general here said very much the same thing in military

terms. Distraction through hostility-the

236 ROBERT LUDLUM

weaker must pretend, the stronger merely watches, prepared to act."

"Are you comparing that ape to me ... T' "Now, see here, you

little Injun filly. . .."

"Please, General! ... I said only in military terms, Miss Redwing-

troop strength, if you like. Say that handsome chest of yours

actually did conceal plastic explosiveswhich I devoutly trust it does

not--our general was only trying to instruct his associates to stay on

the alert, and not to be distracted by your hostility. The equation is

really quite simple."

"Wad chu think about bein' distracted by wad is there, huh,

man?"

"That's enough, Sergeant-2' "I agree wid chu, Desi-Uno-"

"Mairzy doats and dosie doats and little lambs eat

iVy ' - - "

"Oh, shut up!"

"Samuel, stop it!"

"Son, you're spilling your drink-2'

4 -'What, my dear Miss Redwing, were you about to explain

about this concept that was conceived in the brain of my presently

not-altogether employee?"

"Quite simply, Mr. Pinkus, as the Wopotami tribe is a registered

incorporated entity, a trust at this moment is being set up and

signed by the legally empowered Council of Elders, stating that all

legal and fiduciary matters be negotiated solely through the offices

of the executors of the trust, all parties referred to in prior

documents having no authority whatsoever. In short words, the

specifically named executors of the trust shall, in concert, hold sole

collective power of attorney."

"Mat sounds like mighty fine legalese, little lady," said Hawkins.

"What's it mean?"

"It means, General," replied Redwing, her eyes ice cold on the

Hawk, "that no one, repeat no one, other than the executors of the

Wopotami trust, can make any decisions, or enter into any

agreements, involving the tribe's interests--or receive any benefits

thereof."

"Well, I must say that appears to be damn smart protection," said

Hawkins, removing the mutilated cigar, then

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 237

suddenly cocking his head as if disturbed. "But I suppose the next

question is-are these here executors trustworthy, no pun intended,

miss?"

"Beyond reproach, General. Among them are two attorneys,

several doctors, a president of an international foundation, three

vice@presidents of leading banks, a stockbroker or two, and a

renowned psychiatrist whom you should definitely make an

appointment to see. In addition, they are all true offspring of the

Wopotamis, and, lastly, I am the chairperson of, as well as the

spokesperson for, the trust's executors. Any other questions?"

"Yes, just one. Is this what the Council of Elders wants?"

"It certainly is. They're guided by our advice and we are

unwavering. So as you can plainly see, General Hawkins, even if

your insane, utterly destructive scheme progresses an inch further,

we, not you, will be in complete control so as to minimize the

deleterious effects on an innocent people, of whom you've taken

outrageous advantage. In brief, you're out, you maniac."

'Me expression on the Hawk's face conveyed not only pain but

deep personal hurt. It was as though a world he had nurtured with

care and profound love had cast him aside, leaving a bereft, lonely

old man, an abandoned champion who refused in dignity to give in

to bitterness. I forgive you your unwarranted suspicions and your

intemperate language " he said softly, "for you truly do not know

what you're 40ing."

"Oh, my God!"

"The reputed Son of God fits better," suggested Devereaux,

going back to the bar.

"Chu gettin' the shaft, Heneral?" asked Desi the Second.

"Then maybe deze gringos go out for some air, huh, man?" said

D-One. 'Through the windows, Wokay?"

"No, gentlemen," protested Hawkins, quietly, heroically, the

sepulchral tones of a saint in his voice. "This grand female has

assumed the mantle of command, and the least I can do is to lessen

that awesome responsibility--2'

"Here it comes," interrupted Sam, fingeringhis martini to catch

an olive. "Shovel time, fellas."

238 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Son, you really do misjudge me--2'

"You threw me that one before, Mac. Somehow I couldn't catch

it."

"Why not give me a chance, boy?"

"It's your bunny pulpit, Br'er Rabbit. Go ahead."

"Miss Redwing." The Hawk nodded his head once, a senior

officer acknowledging another. "I respect and understand your

skepticism regarding my participation in the cause of the

Wopotamis. So now let me put it to rest. As an adopted son of the

tribe, I accept all decisions of the wise Council of Elders. Benefits

to my person are irrelevant, I only want to seq justice done."

Jennifer Redwing was stunned. The anticipated, vicious battle

with a megalomaniacal giant had been reduced to her straightening

out a sweet,.injured puppy dog with a lot of legal claptrap. "Well ...

General ... I honestly don't know what to say." Jennifer brushed her

dark hair back defensively, for a moment ashamed to lock eyes with

her wounded previous adversary. "Please understand, sit," she

began, forcing her gaze on the old soldier who had given so much

for his country-their country. "I'm extremely protective, perhaps

overly protective, of my people because our history is rife with

injustices, as are the histories of American Indians everywhere. In

your case, I was wrong. I apologize. Please accept that apology,

it's meant."

"He's gotcha!" cried Devereaux, swallowing theremainder of his

martini. "Me raging lion is a wet pussycat and you buy it."

"Samuel, that will be enough! Didn't you hear what the man

said?"

"I've heard a hundred variations--2'

"Shut up, Counselor! He's a great man and he's just agreed to

everything I wanted. Try to recall, if that gindrenched brain will let

you, your 'own words. An essential truth, rememberT'

"You forgot the circuitous routes, Counselor," said Sam, heading

back to the bar. "There are bumpy roads ahead, fellas."

And, naturally, the hotel telephone rang. Aaron Pinkus, shaking

his head in equal parts irritation and anger, walked

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 239

rapidly to the desk and picked up the intruding instrument. "Yes?"

"To who is this am I presently speaking to?" asked the high-

pitched voice on the line. "The big Hebe lawyer or the big nuthouse

general in the Geronimo beads?"

'This is Aaron Pinkus, and I'm an attorney, if that answers your

question."

"It's good enough, yarmulke. It's by your limo I found YOU."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Well, it's a long story and I'd like to tell you, but the Barn-Bam

don't like long stories, and to tell you the truth, you ain't got much

time."

"I don't understand a word you're saying."

"Well, you see, years ago there was this half-assed shamus who

put the collar on me, but now we got a truce, and on account of the

fact that he's still got friends downtown, a lot of black-and-whites

have been lookin' for your limo, capisce?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Maybe I should then talk to the wild man, right? Tell the asshole

to take the fuckin' cigar out of his mouth and get on the Ameche."

"I believe this is for you, General," said Pinkus, turning and

speaking slowly, hesitantly. "A rather strange fellow who speaks

like a chicken might speak --- mas I imagine a chicken might speak."

. "Breakthrough!" cried the Hawk, taking rapid strides to the desk

and grabbing the phone, then instantly covering the mouthpiece and

addressing the others. "Old soldiers, even grunts, don't fade away.

They remember the days, my friends, because they never end! ... Is

this you, Little Joseph?"

"We gotta talk, fazool. Everything's changed. By my side,

you're, not the bad guys anymore, but the other bad guys are

comin' after you."

"Be a little clearer, Joseph."

'There ain't time, jazool! The big man wants to set up a meet

with you in a day or so, but he's got to play dead for a while, so I'm

your connection."

"Play dead, Joseph . . . .

240 ROBERT LUDLUM

"On my Aunt Angelina's grave. It's D ' C. turf warfare and the

big man temporarily lost.... He told me to tell you that the gumbar

whose back you spiked but whose neck you didn't sufficiently break

in the hotel lobby has spewed his guts out in some chemical factory

in Virginia. By now they know you and your crowd are here in

Boston and the silk underwear boys are unleashing-here, I wrote

this down-the SFIs to go after you."

"The SFIs? Hannibal in elephant shit! He said SFIs?"

"I couldn't make a mistake 'cause he repeated it maybe three

times and I didn't know what it meant."

"Me animals of the world, Little Joseph. I taught 'em, so I

should know. Special Forces-Incorrigibles. They're still in

stockades, still trying to kill everyone but the cooks and the nurses."

"Now it's you and your little group, fazool. It took me exactly

thirty-one minutes to find you-how long will it take the fuckin'

commandos once they've arrived in Boston, which they may have

already? Get out of there and call me here at the room-service

palazzo when you're out of the freak-heads' fire.... And don't use

that fuckin' limo! It's a fuckin' landmark!" Joey the Shroud hung up

and the Hawk turned to his troops.

"Evacuate!" he roared. "Explanations will come later; there's no

time for them now. A4jutants, hotwire two vehicleSin the hotel's

parking lot and meet us at the Southeast comer. iVamos!" Mac

looked harshly at Aaron Pinkus as Desis One and Two ran out the

door, then forced his eyes on Sam Devereaux and finally Jennifer

Redwing. "You ask me why I fight the mendacities of those in

power, why I take up the sword against the corruptors and the

manipulators, whether a century ago or now. Let me make it clear,

goddamn it! An unseen, unelected govemment behind our

government has let loose a pack of psychopaths with only one

mission, the success of which will set them free to roam the

streets.... That mission is to kill us, all of us. Why? Because we

raised the specter of a crime against an innocent, manipulated

people over a hundred years ago that will cost the manipulators

billions to rectify!"

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 241

"Goddamn your essential truth!" said Devereaux, throwing his

martini into the sink. "Let's get out of here!"

"The police, General! I'm a respected man here in Boston.

Surely they will protect us."

"Commander Pinkus, in this out-of-sanction combat, civilian

authorities are useless. How the hell do you think I blew up depots

from Normandy to Kai Song?"

"I simply can't believe it," said Redwing, trying to remain calm.

"I won't believe it!"

"You won't believe it, little Injun filly? Perhaps I should remind

you of the Eastern companies who promised your people

throughout the Midwest plains that they were being moved to far

better lands where all you found was and soil and your cattle froze.

It's no different, young lady!"

"Oh, Jesus!" cried Jennifer, racing to the bedroom door.

"What are you doing?" yelled Devereaux.

"Your mother, you idiot!"

"Oh, yes, of course," said Sam, blinking. "Is there any coffee

around?"

"No time, son!"

"Help Miss Redwing, Sammy."

"At least we're out of Samuel--2' "I don't think there's a choice,"

said Aaron Pinkus.

The five fugitives from the Ritz-Carlton stood side by side at the

southeast comer of the hotel waiting for the arrival of Desi One and

Two. They smiled inanely at several passersby, doing their best not

to appear like a quintet of adult delinquents. The grand Eleanor

was held up by Redwing as the former kept struggling with the

words of the "Indian Love Call."

"Shut up, Mother!" whispered Sam.

"This is the daughter I've always wanted--2'

"Put it on hold, Mom. She may be a better lawyer than me, and

you wouldn't want that."

"I don't think you're so hot. Half the time I can't understand you-

-2'

"You're not supposed to, Mother. That's the law-2' "Quiet!"

ordered the Hawk, nearest the edge of the building, Pinkus at his

side. A Lincoln town car had

242 ROBERT LUDLUM

swung in front of the canopied entrance of the hotel as, si-

multaneously, Desis One and Two plunged into the curb with their

two hotwired cars from the parking lot. "Everybody hold it!"

continued Hawkins as he and Aaron watched four men in black

raincoats climb out of the Lincoln, one from the front and three from

the rear seat. The car instantly sped away and parked by the gates

of the Public Garden as the four black raincoats walked rapidly into

the hotel. "D-One, front and center!'@ said the Hawk in a loud

whisper. "Repeat down the line!" he added.

"D-One, front and center-"

"Desi! You with the crazy teeth and the curled-up shirt, get out

here!" cried Devereaux. "Go to Mac!"

"Mizerloo, my Arab love who is my deseerloo-"

"Shut up, Mother! You've got the wrong words and the wrong

country anyway."

"Don't talk to my friend, Eleanor, that way-"

"She's my mother! Suppose I refused to have her Jaguar fixed?"

"I'm sure I make a hell of a lot more money than you do,

Counselor. I'll take care of it!"

"Wad chu want, Heneral?"

"See that car over -there? The one in front of those gates."

"Sure, I see. A gringo's sitting in the front."

"I want him immobilized, the car incapacitated, do you

understand what I'm saying?'

"Ees not so hard. He goes to sleep and I rip out the plugs--ees

done every night in Brooklyn. Unless you want him dead, which,

frankly, Heneral, I do not do."

"Hell, no! I want to send back a message. They want our asses

blown up, boy, and I want 'em to know they can't do it!"

"Ees done, Heneral. Den what?"

"Come back to the hotel, to Mr. Pinkus's floor, but cover your

flanks. Four men in dumb black raincoats went up to waste all of

us.... By the time you get there, I'll probably have removed at least

three of the bastards, but you make sure of the fourth."

"Hey! Why chu have all the fun? I'll take Vree, chu take one!"

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 243

"I like your spirit, son."

"Wad about Desi-T\vo?"

"I'm about to explain," said Hawkins, turning to Aaron Pinkus.

"Tell me, Commander, have you got some place nobody knows

about, like a hideaway where you take, say, underprivileged women

who might enjoy your company?"

"Are you crazy? You don't know Shirley!"

"All right, I understand.... But there must be someplace off the

beaten track where we can stay for a day or two."

"Well, the firm bought a ski lodge across the New Hampshire

border because a very reliable client ran into terribly difficult times-

the snow has been very irregular--"

"That's fine! We'll join you there."

"But how will you know where it is?"

"Das simple, Comandante," intruded Desi the First. "D-T\vo

wired only automobiles dat had telifonos inside. We wrote down

the minteros for both." D-One pulled out a torn sheet of paper with

two sets of numbers written across it. "See? My amigo, he has the

same as dis."

"You two are really remarkable. I would very much like it if you'd

call me---"

"No time for medals, Commander!" interrupted the Hawk firmly.

"Our mission's not finished. Take Sam, his mother, and the Indian

girl up to your place in New Hampshire. Now, get out of here! My

sergeant and I have work to do!"

The first two black raincoats never knew what happened. Each, to

secure escape routes, stood by the exit doors and each in turn was

taken from the staircase by the Hawk, rendered unconscious and

stripped of all clothing, including his shorts. The third would-be

assassin inched his way toward the Pinkus suite, only to be

interrupted by a wavering, swiveling drunk, who, once past the

killer's body, swung around and delivered an immobilizing chi sai

chop to the back of his neck. The fourth and last assassin Hawkins

left to his adjutant, Desi the First. It was, after all, the responsibility

of command to instill confidence in

244 ROBERT LUDLUM

his immediate support troops. Actually, it turned out to be a lesson

in patience, the mark of a truly superior deepcover intelligence field

man thought Mac. He waited in the'shadows of the exit door,

behind which lay the unconscious, naked first killer from SFI. D-

One silently emerged from the elevator in his white tie and tails and

walked, again silently, halfway down the hallway, then pressed his

back against the wall across from the Pinkus suite. For what

seemed like the better part of an hour, but in reality was barely

eight minutes, Desi the First remame immobile barely breathing, and

then a door opened two doors to @is left and a man in a black

raincoat came out, an automatic in his hand.

IVIguana, Josg!" roared D-One, taking the would-be killer by

such surprise that he never knew how the weapon was kicked out

of his hand; nor would he ever know how he was rendered

unconscious by a swift, hard fist in the middle of his forehead.

"Outstanding!" said the general, walking out of the shadows. I

knew it was in you, son."

"Why didn't chu do it, for Christ's sake?"

"On-scene evaluation, boy! It's how we all get ahead."

"I coulda been killed!"

"I had every confidence in you, Sergeant. You're prime meat for

Advance G-TWo."

"Ees dat good?"

"We'll talk about it later. Right now we've got to strip this clown

to his skin and get out of here. We're all between a rock and a hard

place, adjutant. We've got to concentrate on out next moves, and

for you and me it's joining the others somewhere up north."

"No problem, Heneral. Before I come back up here, I talked to

my amigo on the car teliffiono. Wherever dey go, DesiJ`wo will stay

in the automobile so he can tell me where dey are."

"Fine tactics, son--2' The Hawk stopped at the sound of a door

opening and then voices. A couple, obviously middle-aged guests

of the hotel, walked out of their room. "Quickly!" whispered Mac,

reaching down for the unconscious body on the floor. "Stand him

up as if he just puked.

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 245

"He came out dat door over there, Heneral. Ees still open!"

"Let's go!" Together, Hawkins and his adjutant dragged the limp

figure to the open door under the astonished stares of the hotel

guests.

"Ees a crazy wedding downstairs, amigos!" shouted Desi the

First, glancing behind him. "You wanna join de party?"

"No ... no, thank you," said the middle-aged man, hurrying his

wife toward the elevators.

The ski lodge in the hills of Hooksett, New Hampshire, was rustic

and sturdy, deserted and dank, and in the best of times would never

be awarded more than two stars in the least impressive travel guide.

Still, it was sanctuary, and operational in terms of electricity, heat,

and telephone service. Also, as it was barely over an hour from

Boston, Aaron Pinkus Associates found it to be a convenient outof-

the-city refuge for attorneys and teams of attorneys deliberating

difficult cases. In fact, it had become so popular that Aaron had

decided not to sell the property, opting instead for gradual and

utilitarian remodeling.

I "We really must return those two cars," said Pinkus anxiously to

the Hawk, as they sat beside each other in deep leather chairs in

the lodge's former lobby. "There'll be police bulletins out

everywhere."

"Nothing to-fear, Commander. My adjutants have 'em

camouflaged in the back forty." . "That's not the point, General. It's

grand theft and Sam and I-officers of the court, I remind you-were

willing accomplices. I really must insist."

"Oh, hell, details! All right, I'll have the sergeants drive lem back

and park 'em down the street from the hotel. It's dark out now and

even if they're picked up, those cops won't know how they landed

up in the backseats of their patrol cars without their trousers. Hah!"

"Thank you very much, General."

"Then they can wire up a couple of other vehicles-"

"Please, that won't be necessary! The firm has a standing

arrangement with a car rental agency and my chauf-246 ROBERT LUDLUM

feur, Paddy, can drive one automobile out here and a friend of

his can bring another."

"They'll have to pick up my adjutants. I'm not ready to dismiss

them yet."

"Of course. Under the circumstances you've described, I'd feel

much better if those two young men were around. Here, I'll write

out the address of the rental agency; they can all meet there."

Pinkus reached into his pocket and withdrew a memo pad.

"Aaron, everything's taken care of!" said Devereaux,

somewhat'louder than necessary as he walked into the ersatz

Alpine lobby, Jennifer Redwing at his side. "The market in Hooksett

is sending out a whole bunch of stuff and Red here said she can

cook."

"How do you want the split case of gin and bourbon?" asked

Jennifer. "Fried?"

"Industrial lubricant, young lady."

"Also, quite possibly on your own expense sheet," added Pinkus.

"How did you explain our presence?"

"I said our whole first team was up here busting our asses over

a mess of probate problems."

"Why probate?"

"They think it sounds sexy. Credibility, Aaron."

"Mr. Pinkus?" interrupted Redwing, for the sixtieth time in twelve

hours, glaring at Sam. "I'd like to use your phone to call San

Francisco. I'll reverse the charges, of course."

"My dear, -you may turn down a lucrative career with my firm,

but you may not embarrass me with such a ploy as reversing

charges. You'll have quiet in what was the manager's office behind

the counter over there-he wasn't much of a manager and it isn't

much of an ' office, but you'll be alone and your privacy assured."

"Thank you very much." Jennifer turned and walked toward it as

Hawkins got out of his chair.

"Have you seen my sergeants, Sam?" he asked.

"Would you believe they're out back at the base of the hill about

a hundred yards to the right trying to get that old rusted ski lift to

work?"

"Very enterprising," said Aaron. "Very dumb," said Devereaux.

"That damn cable never

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 247

worked properly from the beginning. I once got stuck thirty feet in

the air for almost an hour, my lady of the day twenty feet in front of

me screaming her head off. We drove back to Boston the moment

we were down and I never got to see the bedroom."

"I suspect you've seen more than one since we assumed the

mortgages"

"Hey, come on, Aaron. You yourself once told me to get out of

the office and come up here to cool off."

"You were furious over losing a case you should have won," said

Pinkus, writing on-his notepad, tearing off the page and handing it

to the general. "Because the judge was an ignorant political hack

who couldn't follow your reasoning.... Also, if that was your method

of cooling off, there was an inversion of temperatures."

"T'his legal stuff is way beyond me," announced the Hawk. "I'll

go find my adjutants myself. I've decided to go into Boston with

them. Little Joseph said he wanted a meeting, so I believe I should

surprise him prior to our formal conference.... This is the car rental

place?" Aaron nodded, and the Hawk walked to the door. "I'll get,

back on my own. I want you to have two vehicles here." ,

"Fine, General. And when Miss Redwing is finished, I'll reach

Paddy Lafferty and set everything in motion."

"Good thinking, Commander."

"I'd get up and salute, General Hawkins, but I don't think I can

manage it."

Redwing closed the door of the minuscule office behind the

counter, sat down at the desk, and picked up the telephone. She

dialed her apartment number in San Francisco, startled by the fact

that before the first ring was over the excited voice of her brother

was on the line.

"Yes?"

"Charlie, it's me---2'

"Where the hell have you been? I've been trying to reach you for

hours!"

"It's all too absurd, too incredible, and too insane to go into-2'

"Try every one of those adjectives to what I've

248 ROBERT LUDLUM

learned!" interrupted the younger brother. "That nut son of a bitch

outmaneuvered me--all of us-we're screwed!"

"Charlie, calm do ' wn," said Jennifer, -contrarily feeling her

blood pressure rise to uncontrollable limits. "Calm down and speak

slowly."

"Both are impossible, Sis!"

"Try, Charlie."

"All right, all right." In San Francisco, the brother took several

audible deep breaths and did his best to be lucid. "Without my

knowing it, without anyone telling me, a number of weeks ago our

Chief Thunder Head convened the Council of Elders with some

scumhead sleaze of a lawyer from Chicago calling the,legal shots,

and had himself legally proclaimed temporary sole and absolute

arbiter of the Wopotarni tribe for a period of six months."

"He can't do that!"

"He did, Sis. Notarized, authorized, and recognized by the

court."

"He had to give something in return!"

"He did that, too. A million dollars to be divided by the five

members of the Council, millions more to be given to the whole

tribe within the six-month period."

"CorriVtion! "

"Tell me something I don't know."

"We'll fight it in the courts!"

"And, besides losing, make fools and heavy debtors out of our

brothers and sisters?"

"What do you mean?"

"For starters, how about Uncle Eagle Eyes, who bought a

communal estate for the tribe's oldest in some desert in Arizona

that won't have plumbing for a hundred years, if ever? And Aunt

Doe Nose, who invested in the name of our women in an oil rig on

Forty-first Street and Lexington Avenue in New York City, or Cousin

Antelope Feet, who took over controlling interest in a distillery in

Saudi Arabia, where they not only don't make booze, they don't

drink it!"

"They're all over eighty years of age!"

"Certified as mentally competent, so covered by the scurnhead

attorney from Chicago and approved by the Omaha

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 249

"I can't believe this, Charlie. I've been with Hawkins most of the

afternoon, and after a bumpy start he came around. Only a couple

of hours ago he was so contrite, so genuine. He told me that our

corporate trust was the right thing to do, that he'd go along with

whatever the Council of Elders approved."

"Why not? He is the Council of Elders."

16 ta

Jennifer did not walk out of the small office into the Alpine lobby,

she burst into it, exploding the space in front of her. "Where is he?"

she said, in her voice the anger of nearby thunder, her eyes

shooting out bolts of lightning. "Where is that son of a bitch?"

"Obviously, you mean Sam," answered Aaron Pinkus, leaning

forward in the leather chair and pointing at the door leading to the

kitchen. "He said he remembered where he had concealed a bottle

of gin, a place where his shorter colleagues couldn't reach it."

"No, I'm not talking about that son of a bitch, I mean the other

one! The veIvet-tongued idiot buffalo who's about to face the

combined wrath of the Sioux and the Comanche, delivered by a

furious daughter of the Wopotamis."

"Our General?"

"You can bet your tuchis on it!"

"You speak Yiddish?"

"I'm a lawyer; it goes with the territory. Where is that bastard?"

"Well, I'm both apologetic, yet somewhat relieved, to tell you that

he left for Boston with his two adjutants. He

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 251

said something about meeting with a man named 'Little Joseph,'

who apparently is the person who called him at the Ritz-Carlton.

Our two stolen cars just raced down the drive only moments ago,

thanks be to Abraham. With the blessings of God they will be

returned without incident."

"Mister Pinkus! Do you know what that horrible, horrible man

has done?"

"Too many horrors to put into a medium-sized encyclopedia, I

suspect. However, not the latest, which I gather you're about to tell

me."

"He bought our tribe!"

"How extraordinary! How could he possibly do that?" Redwing

told the Boston attorney everything she had learned from her

brother Charlie. "May I ask you a question or two, perhaps three?"

"Of course," said Jennifer, throwing herself into the leather

armchair , next to Pinkus. "We're screwed," she added quietly,

discouragingly. "We're really screwed!"

"Not necessarily, my dear. First, this Council of Elders. They

may be wise and grand people, but have they,been legally

appointed as guardian ad litent for the Wopotami tribe?"

"Yes," mumbled Red.

"I beg your pardonT'

"It was my idea," said Jennifer, only slightly louder, her

embarrassment showing. "It gave them pride, which they sorely

needed, and I never-never---thought that they'd ever convene in any

major decision without consulting me or, in the event of my demise,

the others of our group."

"I see. Were there any codicils to the ad litem guardianships,

say in the nature of the death or deaths of any or all of the

appointees? Replacements, perhapsT'

"Voted upon by the remaining members of the Council."

"Have there been any such replacements ... who might have

been, shall we say, 'reached' by General Hawkins?"

"None. They're all still alive. It's the history of rare buffalo meat

in their diets, I think."

"I see. And is there anywhere in the ad litem designation that

makes mention of the selected children of the

252 ROBERT LUDLUM

tribe who actually execute the fiduciary decisions of your people?"

"No, that would have been demeaning. As with the Orientals,

'face' is terribly important to the Indians. We just knew-we assumed

we knew-that should any problem arise, one of us would be

called.... Frankly, myself."

"You're speaking realistically, of course."

"Of course."

"But legally there's no proviso in the papers of incorporation that

illuminates and clarifies the function of your groupT'

"No.... Again pride, genuine pride. To include such a condition

would mean,there's a council above the elders, and tribal tradition,

could not accept that. Now do you see what I mean? That horrible

man controls my-people. He can say and do whatever he wants in

their name."

"I suppose you could always challenge him in the courts under

the articles of conspiracy and possible fraud. However, in doing so,

you'd have to tell your whole story, and that could be extremely

disadvantageous for obvious reasons. Also, your brother does

have a point-you could lose."

"Mr. Pinkus, of the Council's five elders, three men and a

woman are in 'their eighties, and the fifth is seventyeight. None are

equipped to deal with these legal complexities any more now than

they were thirty years ago, which was zilch!"

"They don't have to be 'equipped,' Miss Redwing, they merely

have to be sufficiently competent to understand the transaction and

its benefits and liabilities. I submit they did, perhaps

enthusiastically, even to the exclusion of yourself."

"And'I submit that's impossible!"

"Come now, my dear, a million dollars in solid cash with the

promise of millions more to come within a short period of time? In

exchange for what? The temporary holding of what they had to

know was at best a ceremonial title? It must have been irresistible.

. . . 'Let the crazy white man have his few months of fun, where's

the harmT "

"Mere wasn't full disclosure," insisted Jennifer.

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 253

"There doesn't have to be. If all business negotiations required

full disclosure from all the parties involved, our economic system

would collapse, you know that."

"Not when it comes to fraud, Mr, Pinkus."

"Indeed not, but how can you prove fraud? As I understand it, he

promised millions on the basis of turning the tribe's fortunes

around, making them wealthy beyond their wildest dreams, then

proceeded to back up his offer with an initial compensation of one

million dollars, no strings attached, as they say."

"They didn't understand! They didn't realize that he intended to

make them litigants in the most inflammatory lawsuit against the

federal government in the nation's history-my God, the Strategic Air

Command!"

"Apparently, neither did they pursue with any degree of intense

curiosity how he intended to make them extraordinarily wealthy.

Instead, they joyfully took the million and spent it-rather

injudiciously, I gather... And forgive me, Miss Redwing, but I believe

your brother was very much aware of the general's intentions. In

fact, he was very much an accessory--2'

"He thought it was all a big joke!" cried Redwing, lurching

forward. "A harmless joke that gave the tribe a lot of money, an

influx of tourists, and a great deal of fun!"

"The Supreme Court is fun ... T'

"He didn't think it would get to first base," said Jennifer

defensively. "Besides, he had no idea about the million dollars or

the deal Hawkins cut with the Council. He was appalled!"

"Lack of communication between friendly parties is not grounds,

for fraud or conspiracy, except perhaps between the parties

themselves, which would then put them on an adversarial basis."

"You're saying the Council deliberately withheld information from

my brother."

"J'm afraid I am. As he did from them to a large extent."

"And if we, our group, suddenly insert ourselves-"

"Which you have no legal right to do," interrupted

Aaron gently.

254 ROBERT LUDLUM

... and tell the whole story," continued Redwing, her eyes

growing wide in astonishment, "it will be interpreted as a self-

serving action on our part to move into the money, stealing it from

them if there ever is any! ... My God, it's all been turned around! It's

crazy!"

"Yes, my dear, crazy-like a hawk. The general would have made

a superb corporate attorney."

Suddenly, from the open balcony of the Alpine lobby's second

floor, a figure emerged from a door and walked to the railing. It

was Eleanor Devereaux, her hair groomed and her posture regal,

very much the grand dame. "I just had a horrible dream," she

announced, in full control of her voice and words. "I dreamt that

mad General Custer and all those savage Indians at the battle of

Little Big Hom joined together and attacked a packed convention of

the American Bar Association. The lawyers were all scalped-11

The tall stooped, elderly gentleman in the long brown gabardine

topcoat and black beret might have come from any of the various

campuses in the Boston area, a professor, stem-faced yet

somewhat bewildered by the opulence of the Four Seasons Hotel

lobby. He kept squinting behind his large tortoiseshell glasses,

eventually gravitating to the bank of elevators after a brief, aimless

stroll around the premises.

Of course, there was nothing ain-dess about the Hawk's

surveillance, and everything about his appearance was contrived.

Previous reconnoitering had established every shadowed comer

and each less obvious, seating place, and he bore no resemblance

whatsoever to the buckskinned giant who had severely disabled one

Caesar Boccegallupo of Brooklyn, New York, five hours ago. An

experienced soldier did not walk into enemy territory without

checking the terrain. There were no surprises, so the general

walked into an elevator and pressed the number of Little Joseph's

floor.

"Room soivice," said Hawkins, knocking at the door.

"I got already!" cried the voice inside. ".. . Oh, the apple and

pears soaked in booze and set on fire? I thought

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 255

they was comin' later!" The door opened and a stunned Joey the

Shroud could only exclaim, "You! What the bell are you doin' here?"

"All conferences between commanders are prefaced by

preliminary meetings between their subordinates so the agendas

are clear," replied the Hawk, brushing Joey aside as he walked into

the room. "Since I consider my current adjutants unequal to the

task-purely for linguistic reasons-I'm taking their place."

"Fazool, you're the ass end of the trolley car!" cried the Shroud,

slamming the door shut. "I got enough on my mind, you I don't

need."

"But you need your apples and pears flambe?"

"Yeah, very tasty, a nice combination of 'burnt fruits, and the

aroma is extremely full-bodied, like an old factory experience."

"What?"

"It smells good. I read that on a menu in Vegas. Hoohay, my

momma would shoot out of her grave if she thought I torched a

pear, and my poppa would chase me right into Bed Sty! But what

did they know, may they rest in eternal peace." Joey blessed

himself, then looked at the general and spoke harshly. "Now, the

fancy-shmancy talk aside, what are, you doin' here?"

"I just explained. Before I formally confer with your superior

officer, I'd like the landscape a great deal clearer. My rank requires

it and I demand it."'

.,You can require and demand all you like, General Fazool, but

the big man ain't no fuckin' soldier boy. I mean, he's up there with

the archangels of the government, y'know what I mean?"

"I've met a few in my day, Joseph, and for that very reason I

want a G-TWo, One Thousand One, or there'll be no conference."

"What's that, a license plate?"

"It's a full rundown of whom I'm temporarily scheduled to confer

with."

"Hoo-hay, on the grave of my Aunt Angelina, it's for your own

good!"

"I'll be the judge of that."

256 ROBERT LUDLUM

44I can't tell you nothin' without permission, you gotta

understand that."

"Suppose I pluck your fingernails out, one by one, Little

Joseph?"

"Hey, come on, Fazool, we been through this. Underneath your

bullshit you may be a tough gibrone, but you ain't no screeching

Nazi.... Here, here are my hands. You want I should call room

service for a pair of pliersT'

"Stop it, Joseph.... This minor perspicacity on your part must

never-leave this room!"

"If what you mean is that you don't want no pliers, forget it. I

tole that to a dozen capitanos in Mussolini's army-that fat lasagna!"

The telephone rang. "That has to be your connection, Joseph.

Sometimes the truth is the best avenue. Tell your superior, I'm

here-right here with you!"

"The time's right," said the Shroud, looking at his watch. "He's

gotta be alone now."

"Do as I say."

"I got a choice? I can take the no-fingernails bit, but your

outsized claw around my throat while you grab the Ameche is

somethin' else." Little Joey crossed to the bedside telephone and

picked it up. "It's me," he said, "and the big General Fazool is ten

feet away as we speak, BarnBain. He wants words with you, only

he don't know who he's talkin' to but I value my fingers, if y'know

what I mean in Vegas terms, huhT'

"Put him on, Joey," said the calm voice of Vincent Mangecavallo.

"Here, " cried the Shroud, holding out the phone for Hawkins,

who walked rapidly over and grabbed it.

"Commander X, here," said the Hawk into the mouthpiece. "I

assume I'm talking to Conunander Y."

"You are General MacKenzie Hawkins, serial number two-zero-

one-five-seven, United States Army, twice recipient of the

Congressional Medal of Honor, and the biggest pain in the ass the

Pentagon has ever had to put up with. Am I correct?"

"Well, certain judgments are not necessarily absolutes.... )Who

the hell are you?"

"I am a man who barely a day ago wanted you in your

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 257

grave-with full military honors, of course-but who now wants you to

stay very much alive and above ground, do I make myself clear?"

"No, you don't, you D.C. pricky-shit. Why change sides?"

"Because the zabagliones who wanted your exit papers now

want mine, and I find that determination not to my liking.

"Zabagliones? ... Little Joseph here ... ? You were the clown who

sent that asshole Caesar somebody-or-other to the Four Seasons?"

"To my disgrace and lack of respect, I did that. What can I say?"

"Easy, son, it wasn't your fault, it was his. He just wasn't very

bright and I had two very street-smart adjutants."

" What?

"I don't want you to be too hard on yourself.. Command has to

expect the unexpected sidewinder, it's part of the options course in

the War College."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"I guess you're just not officer material. What else can I sayT'

"You can just listen to me, that's what.... I'm very pissed off that

certain people who I thought had great respect for me now want to

see me in that grave we agreed was for you--only now they want me

there with you, which I find to my distaste, capisce?"

"So what did you have in mind, Mr. No Name?"

"I want you to stay alive and well so I can do unto those elegant,

respectable types exactly that which they would do unto me.

Namely, bury the bastards."

"Back up, Commander Y. If you're talking about temiination-with-

extreme-prejudice among civilian personnel, I'll need a direct order

from the President, cosigned by the chairman of the Joint Chiefs

and the DO-that's the director of Central Intelligence."

"No kidding?"

"I don't expect you to know how these things are done--2'

"And I don't want done what you just said!" broke in

258 ROBERT LUDLUM

Mangecavallo harshly. "A few simple hits I don't need you for. A

man buys the dirt, he's got peace; what I got in mind for these

pearly-white zucchinis is pure torment. I want them ruined, busted,

broke-part of the homeless with a credit line of Hobo Pete!"

11 'Hobo' who?"

"He used to clean urinals in the Brooklyn subwaysthat's what I

want for those bastards! For the rest of their miserable lives, I want

those scungilli to clean urinals in Cairo!"

"As a fact, Commander Y, as a young captain in the desert war

against Rommel, I became quite friendly with the Egyptian officer

corps-"

"Basta!" yelled Mangecavallo, instantly lowering his voice and

oozing what charm there was in him. "Forgive me, great, great

General. I'm stressed out, if you know what I mean."

"You can't let that happen," admonished the Hawk. "We've all

been there, Commander,- but y6u can't give in to it. Remember,

your men look to you for the strength they may not have. Stand tall

and deliver it!"

I will treasure those words," said a humbled Vinnie,the Bam-

Barn. "But right now I must warn you-"

"You mean the - SFIs?" interrupted Hawkins. "Little Joseph

relayed your previous message and the current situation is under

control. The hostile troops are immobilized."

"What? They found you already?"

"More precisely, Commander, we spotted 'ern first and took

appropriate action. My forces are presently in safe shelter and will-

remain there out of combat range."

"What happened? Where are the SFs?"

"SFIs," corrected the Hawk. "The Incorrigibles. Not those other

brave nonnal men I trained and who gave so much. These are the

psychopaths we never had a chance to weed out."

"But where are they?"

"Well, by this time they're probably in jail, all on a morals rap,

and if not, there are four stark-naked men running up and down the

staircases of the Ritz-Carlton hotel doing their goddamnedest not

to be seen.... Oh, the fifth member is no doubt still in a Lincoln that

won't start, also

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 259

naked, with a mobile cellular phone that's been ripped out and

smashed in the gutter."

"Holy shit!"

"I believe that message will ultimately be sent back to

Washington.... Now, let's get down to tactics, Commander. You

obviously know what my agenda is. What's yours?"

"The same as yours, General. A rotten, terrible thing was done

to a small, naive tribe of innocent original inhabitants of this great

U.S. of A., and a magnanimous wealthy nation must make

restitution.... How does that grab you so far?"

"Right in the gun sight, soldier!"

"Now what you don't know, General, is that several members of

the Supreme Court found your attorney's brief kinda convincing.

Not a firm majority by any means, but they're talking, like in private."

"I knew it!" broke in the Hawk triumphantly. "Otherwise they

never would have reached the Golden Goldfarb-who I also kinda

trained, goddamn it!"

"You know Hymie the Hurricane?"

"Damn good man, strong as an elephant and with the brains of

a Rhodes scholar."

"He was a Rhodes scholar."

"What did I just tell you?"

"All right, all right," smoothed Mangecavallo. "But because of

the SAC situation and for reasons of national security@ the Court

won't allow the brief to be made public for another eight days, and

the day before, it does, you and your attomey-of-record must appear

in closed session to answer oral interrogation. That's for you to

make your final case."

"I'm prepared for that, Commander Y. I've been prepared for it

for damn near a year! I welcome the invitation. My case is pure."

"Yeah, but the Pentagon, the air force, and, most especially, the

defense contractors aren't. They want your ass, General, a dead

ass."

"If the contingent they sent up to Boston this afternoon is an

indication of their combat evaluation, I'll walk into that Court in full

Wopotami regalia."

260 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Jesus! I'm told they were like the most violent, the craziest,

except for a unit they keep in the walled-up funny farm, where they

like to play volleyball by throwing the guards over the net. They're

called the Filthy Fourthey'll come after you next!"

"In that case," said the Hawk, squinting, "and assuming you've

got support personnel at your command, perhaps you might

allocate a platoon for our assistance. To tell you the truth,

Commander Y, I've only got two operative subordinates to defend

our position, as it were."

"That's the problem, General. Under normal circumstances, I

could send up a whole crew of experienced hitters to protect you,

but there's no time now-such secret protection takes a little time to

put together, because it's got to be totally secret or we all lose."

"That sounds to me like lace-pants pricky-shit talk, Mr. No

Name."

"It's not ... on my Aunt Angelina's grave--@' "That's Little

Joseph's aunt."

"It's a big family... Listen, I can collect two, maybe three very

close associates who can be counted on to keep the silence like

holy monks, but any more than that could be a problem. They'd be

missed, questions asked, bad rumors started like, 'Who's he

working forT or 'He looked fine yesterday, what do you mean he's

in the hospitalT or maybe even 'I hear he spilled all our beans to the

family in Hartford who wants our action-tha6 who he's working for!'

. . . See what I mean, great General? Too many of those kind of

questions would come up with large numbers protecting you, and

with them my name might just surface, and that can't happen!"

"You in some kind of lizardshit, Commander YT'

"I told you. I'm facing my own personal demise. I'm finite,

schiacciata, my bones rock salt!"

"Feeling poorly, soldier ... ? Hang in there, Commander, doctors

don't know everything, fella."

"My doctors do, 'cause they don't know a fucking thing about

medicine!"

"I'd get a second, maybe a third, opinion-2' "General, please! It's

what I explained before. Certain parties expect me to be cold

chopped liver within a day -or

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 261

two, and that's the way it's got to be-maybe I should say that's the

way it's got to look-because while I'm dead I can operate on your-

behalf as well as my own."

"I'm not much of a religious man," concluded the Hawk

pensively. "Frankly, I've seen too much blood spilled by all those

fanatics who say they'll kill everybody who doesn't believe the way

they do. History's full of that shit, and I don't go along with it. We

all came from the same slime that crawled out of the water, or the

same lightning bolt that put a primitive brain in our heads. So

nobody's got a right to claim exclusivity."

"Is this a long story, General? Because if it is, we don't have

time."

"Hell, no, it's short. If you're dead, Commander, you're sure as

snow isn't pea-green going to operate from that grave of yours.

Somehow I can't figure you to be a candidate for resurrection"

"Jesus Christ!"

"Even if He was, you're not, soldier."

"I won't be dead, General-I'm simply gonna disappear like I was

dead, capisce?"

"Not entirely."

"Like I said, we're working on it. It's vital that my enemies-your

enemies-think I'm out of the scenario."

"What scenario?"

"Me one that's got your dead ass, and the dead asses of

everybody that's involved in your Wopotami bullshit!"

"I take exception to that remark, sir."

"Wrong word, I swear it on--oh, forget it! I mean- your crusade

for a wronged people, how does that grab you?"

"Clearer in the. gun sight, Commander."

"You see, while I'm supposedly dead and out of the scenario, I

got my capos supremos working or! Wall Street. They're gonna

inflate those SAC stocks to the multibillion fuckin' zenith on the

basis of sudden Pentagon reversals where Omaha's concerned, and

then you walk into that Supreme Court and they all crash-like a

nuclear bomb on all their loans, which are based on projections,

and the country club boys, who can't pay their bills, are cleaning

urinals in Cairo! You dig, General? We both get what we want!"

262 ROBERT LUDLUM

"I sense a certain hostility toward those people."

"So should you, Thunder Head! They want us in dirtall of us! ...

We'll coordinate through Little Joey. Stay in touch with him."

161 should tell you, Commander, and I say this in front of

Joseph. I really believe he's been abusing the per them allocations.

The only way you can reach him is when he's not calli ng room

service, which is most of the time."

"Shithead!" roared Joey the Shroud.

THE WASHINGTON POST

DIRECTOR OF CIA FEARED LOST AT SEA

Coast Guard Reveals Futile 18-Hour Search in Waters

Off Florida Keys. Private Yacht Caught in Storm

Key West, Aug. 24-Vincent F.A. Mangecavallo, director of the

Central Intelligence Agency and guest aboard the yacht Gotcha

Baby, is believed to have perished at sea along with the captain and

crew of the 34-foot craft that left its Key West mooring at 6:00 A.M.

yesterday on an ill-fated fishing trip. According to meteorologists,

a sudden subtropical storm whipped out of the Muertos Cays at

approximately 10:30 A.m. Eastern Daylight Time, veering almost

instantly north, away from the coastline, but directly in the path of

the yacht, which had been heading due east toward the coral reef

fishing grounds for nearly five hours. The search by Coast Guard

aircraft and patrol boats will resume at daybreak, but there is little

hope of survivors, as the yacht is presumed to have crashed into

the reefs and been destroyed.

Upon hearing the news, the President issued the following

statement. "Good old Vincent, a great patriot and a superb naval

officer. If he had to go, I'm sure he'd welcome the briny deep as

his final resting place. He's at one with the fishes."

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 263

The, Department of the Navy, however, has no record of Mr.

Mangecavallo having been a naval officer or even having served in

the navy. When apprised of this, the President had a curt remark.

"My old buddies should get their files in order. Vinnie served in the

Caribbean theater of operations with Greek partisans aboard patrol

boats. Golly, gosh, and zing darn, what's wrong with those new

sailors?" The Navy Department had no response.

THE BOSTON GLOBE

FIVE NUDE CULTISTS ARRESTED

AT RITZ-CARLTON

Four Found Naked on Ro0i

Fifth Assaulted Jogger in Public Garden.

All Claim Govt. Immunity. Washington Shocked.

Boston, Aug. 24-In a bizarre series of incidents during which

numerous guests of the Ritz-Carlton Hotel claimed to have seen

naked figures racing through the corridors at various times, the

Boston police cornered four nude unarmed men who had made

their way to the roof of the building. Unaccountably, they pleaded

for clothing without explaining their nakedness, but nevertheless

claiming national security immunity for their efforts in rooting out

enemies of the U.S. A fifth naked man was subdued by a Boston

jogger, the professional wrestler known as "Jaws" Hanimerlocker,

who told the police that the assailant tried to rip his sweat suit off

him. Inquiries to Washington intelligence circles brought only con-

sternation and swift denials of any involvement whatsoever.

A.highly placed unidentified source at the State Department,

however, did suggest the similarity between the Boston five and a

Southern California cult who commits crimes solely in the nude

while singing "Over the Rainbow" and

264 ROBERT LUDLUM

brandishing small American flags. "They're perverts," said the

unidentified spokesman, "otherwise they wouldn't carry those flags.

It's them all right and we don't even know who they are. So there!"

17

It was night, and the heavyset man of medium height, wearing dark

glasses below an outsized red wig that fell over his ears, made his

way down a narrow, dark, gaslit street several blocks from the

fishing piers in Key West, Florida. It was a street lined with small

Victorian houses crowded close to one another, miniaturized

versions of their sister mansions on the shore road. The man

studied the numbers on the right side, peering in the semidarkness

until he found the address he wanted. Although similar in

appearance to those flanking and opposing it ' the house was

decidedly different in one respect. Whereas the others had lights

in the various first-floor and second-floor windows, quaintly

subdued by fringed shades and venetian blinds, this home had only

a single dim lamp glowing from a downstairs room obviously near

the rear of the, small structure. It was part of the visual code; this

was the clandestine rendezvous.

The red-wigged stranger to the street walked up the narrow

three steps to the porch and approached the door. He rapped on

the wooden strips between the stained-glass panels, a prearranged

signal that avoided the doorbells single knock, pause, four rapid

ones, folio-wed by another

266 ROBERT LUDLUM

pause and two more quick taps. Shave ... and a haircut ... two bits,

considered the man, wondering what covert operations genius had

thought it up. The door opened, and Vincent Mangecavallo instantly

had the answer. The huge rinoceronte standing in the tiny hallway

was his sometime courier, aptly nicknamed Meat, as usual wearing

a white silk tie, a white shirt, and a black suitcoat.

I "You the best we can do in this big fuckin' national emergency?"

"Hey, Vinnie-it is you, ain't it, Vinnie? ... Sure, it's you, I can smell

the garlic and the bay rum."

"Basta!" said the veteran of the Caribbean theater of operations,

walking inside. "Where's the consigliere? Him I want to see right

away."

"No consigliere," interrupted a tall, slender man emerging from

a side door into the darkened vestibule. "No dons, no Mafia

lawyers, no Cosa Nostra guns, is that clear?"

"Who the hell are you?"

"I'm surprised you don't recognize my voice--2' "Oh'. . . you?"

"Yes," said the white-jacketed, yellow-ascoted Smythington-

Fontini. "We've talked several hundred times on the telephone,"

continued the elegant Anglo-Italian, "but we've never met, Vincenzo.

My hand, sir-have you washed yours recently?"

"You got balls for a fruitcake, Fontini, I'll say that for you "

replied Mangecavallo exercisi the shortest handsh,le since

George Pattoni;et his fnngst Russian general. "How'd you find

Meat?"

"Let' s say he was the dimmest star in your constellation, and

I'm an expert in celestial navigation."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"Then let's say the dons from Palermo to Brooklyn, New York,

want nothing to do with this enterprise. They give us their

blessings and will gratefully accept whatever largesse may come

their way, but, basically, we're on our own. They selected your

associate here."

There are some things I gotta do on the Big Sireet, a point of

personal honor and self-respect considering what

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 267

has been decided against my physical well-being. I trust that's

understood-from Palermo to Brooklyn."

-"Most definitely, Vincenzo, a -point of honor that must be

answered, but not in like.terms. I repeat, no guns, no graves, no

consigliere leaning on the Boeskys in Wall Street. There can't be

any involvement by your familial associates-which are not my

associates, although I certainly expect to be apprised of your

moves. After all, old boy, I paid for the damn yacht we blew up on

the reefs, as well as the unknown, non-English-speaking Venezuelan

crew we flew back to Caracas."

"Meat, " said Mangecavallo, turning to his sometime lower-level

colleague. "Go make yourself a sandwich."

"With what, Vinnie? All this guy's got in the kitchen is swelled-up

crackers that break if you touch 'em and cheese that, smells like

stinky feet!"

"Just leave us, Meat."

"Maybe I should call for a pizza-"

"No phones," interrupted the cosmopolitan industrialist. "Why

not keep your eyes on the back courtyard? We wouldn't want any

intruders, and I'm told you're an expert at preventing such

intrusions."

"Hey, I guess you're right about that:' said Meat, mollified. "And

about the cheese, hell, I don't even like Parmesan, you know what

I mean?"

"Certainly.,,

"And don't you worry about no intertrusions," added the capo

subordinate, heading for the kitchen. "I got eyes like a bat; they

never close."

"Bat's eyes don't see so good, Meat."

"No kiddin'T'

"No foolin'."

"Where did you ever find him?" asked SmythingtonFontini as

Meat walked into the kitchen. "And why?"

"He gets certain things done for me, and most of the time he's

not sure what he did. That's the best kind of street gorilla you can

have.... But I'm not here to talk about Meat. How's everything

going?"

"Efficiently and on schedule. By early daybreak tomorrow the

Coast Guard patrols will find debris, as well as several life jackets

and various personal articles, including

268 ROBERT LUDLUM

your floating waterproof cigar case with your initials on it. Naturally,

the search will be called off, and you'll have the unique privilege of

reading all those marvelous things people who despise you say

after you're dead."

"Hey, you know some of those things could be very sincere, did

you ever think of that? I mean, I gotta lot of respect in certain

areas."

"Not in our crowd, old boy."

"Here we go with the 'old boy' crap, huh? Well, lernme tell you,

chum-chum, you're lucky you had an aristocratica mama who had

more smarts than that dizzy tide she picked up in Tea Town ever

dreamed of. If it wasn't for her, the only football team you'd own

would be a gang of scrawny hoods kicking a round ball in the

streets of Liverlake or Liverpool, or whatever the fuck it is."

"Without the Smythington banking connections, the Fontinis

could never have gone international."

"Oh, so that's why she kept the Fontini name permanently

attached, so people would know who was picking up the markers,

'cause the fox-trot horsey boy couldn't."

"Mis isn't getting us anywhere--2'

"I just want you to know where you sit, Smythie-not stand, but

sit! The rest of your silk-underwear crowd are going down the tube!"

"So I've been given to understand. Socially, it's a dreadful loss,

of course.

' "Naturalmente, pagliaccio.... So after this big Coast Guard

search is over and I'm memorialized, what hap-pens?" I

"When the time is right, I foresee that you'll be found on one of

the farthest-out islands of the Dry Tortugas. T\vo of the

Venezuelans will join you and swear, while continually blessing

God, themselves, and you, that it was your courage and

perseverance that saved all your lives. Tbey'll be immediately flown

back to Caracas and disappear."

"Not bad, not bad at all. Maybe you're your mama's boy after

all."

"Conceptually and artistically, I believe you're right," agreed the

industrialist, smiling."Mother always said, 'The blood of the Caesars

will always be there, if only more of

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 269

our southern cousins had blue eyes and blond hair like me., 11

"A real queen, so filled with tolleranza.... Now, what about

Thunder Ass? How do we keep him and his crazy Indian lovers

above ground? They're no good to me in dirt."

"That's where you come in. Apparently only you can make

contact-2'

"Correct," broke in Mangecavallo. "They're all in place and

nobody knows where they are but me, and that's the way it's gonna

stay."

"If it stays completely that way, there'll be no protection. One

cannot protect a quarry one cannot find."

"I've got that worked out. You tell me what you've got in mind,

and if I like it I reach the go-between and we set up the meet. What

have you got in mind?"

"On the telephone before you flew down here, you said the

general and his associates were in what you called ,safe shelter,'

which, as a yachtsman, I assume is equivalent to 'safe harbor,'

which basically means the ship is sheltered from a storm, usually

in a deep leeward cove, ergo 'safe shelter'---2'

"You always torture yourself like this? ... Yeah, I hope to hell

that's what it means, because the big soldier boy said it, and if it

means something else we've got a really screwed-up army. What's

your point?"

"Why not keep the status quo?"

"What status quo?"

"The safe shelter," said Smythington-Fontini slowly, as if

clarifying the obvious. "Unless, as you suggest, we have a

screwed-up military, which in the upper purchasing ranks of the

Pentagon is entirely plausible. However, considering the general's

recent accomplishments, we should take his word that the shelter

is safe and well out of the weather."

"The weather?"

"The term, as I employ it, connotes the negative. They're all in

a deep leeward cove and protected from the elements. Why not

have them stay where they are?"

"I don't know where the hell it is!"

"All the better... Does your go-between know?"

270 ROBERT LUDLUM

"He can find out if the reason's good enough to convince

Thunder Ass."

"You said on the telephone that he wanted-what was 0-oh, yes,

'support troops.' Would that be good enough?"

"I would hope to kiss a pig it would. That's what be needs....

Who did you figure on?"

"Your associate with the unique name of Meat, to-begin with--2'

"Pass," negated Mangecavallo. "I got other work for him to do.

Who else?"

"Well, we may have a problem then. As I mentioned, our

padrones near and far are adamant that there be no traceable

connection.to any of the families suqh as might be construed by Mr.

Caesar Boccegallupo. I assume Meat is an exception because, as

your batman of sorts, he's not enormously large in the brain

department. I ieve you said he's the penultimate 'street gorilla.'

"Penultimate?"

"Well, the ultimate would be a real gorilla who understood

English, wouldn't it?"

")"at the hell does Batman have to do with my street soldier

Meat?"

"No, not Batman, Vincenzo, but batm'n, someone who carries out

various minor tasks for you."

"You know, you frost my apricots, I mean, you are weird!"

"I'm doing my best," said the industrialist, close to verbal

exhaustion. "I'm afraid we're on different wavelengths."

"Well, get on mine, Smythie! You sound like that baked apple

who runs the State Department, chum-chum!"

"That's why I'm valuable, don't you see? I understand him; he's

marginally socially acceptable, but your solutions, as degrading as

they may be, are infinitely more productive than his where my own

interests are concerned. 1 may prefer his lemon daiquiris to your

boilermakers, but I certainly know when to order a shot and a beer.

Why do you think the industrial democracies are so blessedly toler-

ant? I may not care to break bread with you, but I'm more than

happy to help you bake the loaf."

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 271

"You know, Candy Balls, I think I hear your mama talking.

Underneath your bullshit, you're up front. So where do we go from

here?"

"Since the normal avenues are closed to you, I suggest you

recruit several men from an available pool of talent. Namely,

mercenaries."

"Who?"

"Professional soldiers for hire. They're generally the scum of

the earth, but they fight solely for money and care not one whit for

causes other than money. In the old days, they were ex-Wehrmacht

hoodlums, or murderers on the run, or former disgraced military

personnel no army would have in its ranks, and I suppose the last

two categories remain the same, since most of the fascists are

either dead or too old to carry a drum or blow their damn bugles.

Regardless, I believe it's the wisest course of action."

"Where do I find these goody two-shoes Boy Scout types? I want

protection up there as soon as possible."

"I took the liberty of bringing you a dozen r6surn6s from a

Washington agency named Manpower Plus Plus. The messenger

I sent over there, an executive of mine from Milan, actually, informs

me that all the candidates are available within twenty-four hours

with the possible exception of two who are expected to successfully

break out of prison by tomoffoiv morning."

"I like your style, Fontini," said the temporarily deceased director

of the Central Intelligence Agency. "Where are these r6sum&?"

"In the kitchen. Come with me. You can tell Meat to watch the

front porch."

Ten minutes later, seated at a thick pine table, the file folders

spread across the surface, Mangecavallo made his decision.

"These three," he ordered.

"Vincenzo, you are indeed remarkable," said Smythington-

Fontini. "I would have chosen two out of the three, except that I

must tell you that those two are at this moment about to execute

their escape from the Attica prison, so they'll be the most grateful

for immediate employment. The third, however, is actually a

certified lunatic, an American Nazi who keeps burning swastikas on

the grounds of the United Nations."

272 ROBERT LUDLUM

"He threw himself in front of a bus--2'

"It wasn't a bus, Vincenzo, it was a patrol wagon carrying his

friend, another lunatic who was arrested walking down Broadway

wearing a Gestapo uniform."

"Still, he went the whole nine yards to stop something from

happening, and that's what I'm looking for."

"Agreed, but it's debatable whether he really meant to take that

action or was punched out by a rabbi on Fortyseventh Street."

'I'll gamble.... When can I get 'em to Boston?"

"Well, the first two we'll know about in the morning, after the

prison roll call, and our Nazi is champing at the bit since he's

drawing welfare on a stolen Social Security card of some loan shark

he put in the Fast River."

"I like him already-not his politics 'cause I don't go along with

that lousy shit, but he can be useful. All those whacko nuts can be

useftil-like you say, all you gotta do is bang a drum and blow a

bugle. And if the other two break out, they're the Holy Mary's gift

to our cause to right a terrible wrong to a tribe of real losers who

would drop fuckin' dead except for my benevolent intervention. The

main thing is that we get this act together as fast as we can and

shoot 'em up to Boston and that safe shelter place, wherever the

hell it is.... You know, it's just possible that those zucchinis in

Washington are zeroing in on the general at this moment."

"I doubt that, old boy. If you don't know where he is, and your

go-between doesn't know, how could Washington find him?"

"I just don't trust the silk underwears. They'll stop at nothing,

those lowlifes."

In a dimly lit booth at the rear of O'Toole's Bar and Grill barely two

blocks west of Aaron Pinkus Associates, the young, elegantly

dressed banker pressed his gentle assault against the middle-aged

secretary by way of a third martini.

"Oh, I really shouldn't, Binky," protested the woman, giggling

and running her hand nervously down the left side of her long,

graying hair. "It really isn't right."

7HE ROAD TO OMAHA 273

"What isn't right?" asked the walking advertisement for Brooks

Brothers apparel, his mid-Atlantic accent somewhere between Park

Avenue and Belgrave Square. "I told you how Ifeel."

"So many of our attorneys drop in here after work ... and after

all, I've only known you for an hour or so. People will talk."

"Let them, dear heart! Who cares? I stated my case quite clearly

and with abiding integrity. Thos& infantile idiots a man like me is

expected to go out with simply don't interest me. I much prefer a

mature woman, a- woman-of experience and insight.... Here,

cheers." Both raised their glasses to their lips; however, only one

sw lowed, and it was not the Ivy League banker. "Oh, slight

business, my love.... When do you think our executive committee

can meet with Mr. Pinkus? We're talking several millions, of course,

as his legal advice is very much sought after."

"Binky, I told you. .. ." At this point, the suddenly perplexed

secretary involuntarily crossed her eyes and hiccuped four times in

succession. Mr. Plinkus hasn't been in touch with me all

day."

"Don't you know where he is, dear heart?"

"Not saxually-actually-but his chauffeur, Paddy Lafferty, called

to have me clear the car rental agency for two automobiles."

"Really? Two?"

"Something about the ski lodge in Hooksett. That's in Hew

Nampshire, across the state border."

"Oh, well, it's all irrelevant, just boring business.... Will you

excuse me for a mo', sweet thing? As they say, nature doth call."

"You want me to go with youT'

"I'm not sure it's acceptable, you full-blown, very exciting lady,

you."

"Eeyoo!" squealed the secretary, attacking her martini.

Binky the banker got up from the table and walked rap@ idly to

O'Toole's pay telephone by the entrance. He inserted a coin and

dialed; his call was instantly answered. "Uncle Bricky?"

"Who else?" replied. the owner of New England's largest lending

institution.

274 ROBERT LUDLUM

"It's your nephew, Binky."

"Trust you earned your keep, young fella. You're not good for

much else."

"Uncle Bricky. I was really good!"

"I'm not interested in your sexual exploits, Binky. What have you

learned?"

"It's a ski lodge in Hooksett. That's across the border in New

Hampshire."

Binky the banker never returned to the table, and the

understanding O'Toole put the inebriated secretary into a taxi,

paying the fare to her residence, and waving goodbye to the

confused face in the window with a single word. "Lowlifes," he said

to himself

"This is Bricky, old boy. It's a ski lodge in Hooksett, New

Hampshire, roughly thirty miles north of the border on Route Ninety-

three. I'm told there are only a couple of such places in the area,

so it shouldn't be too difficult to find. There'll be two automobiles

with the following license plate numbers." The ashen-faced New

England banker gave the numbers and accepted the accolade ac-

corded him by the Secretary of State.

"Well done, Bricky, it's like old times, isn't it, old chum?"

"I hope so, old boy, because if you mess this up, don't you dare

show up for our reunion!"

"Don't you worry, old sport. They're called the Filthy Four and

they're positively animals! They're flying into Logan Airport within

the hour... Do you think Smythie might reconsider mooring my yacht

at his club?"

"I suspect that will depend on the results of your efforts, don't

you think?"

"I have every faith in our foursome, old chum. They're really a

despicable quartet. No mercy given, none taken, as it were. You

honestly wouldn't care to get within a mile of them!"

"Good show, old boy. Keep me posted."

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 275

It was past midnight on the outskirts of Hooksett, New Hampshire,

when a black van without headlights coasted silently down the

country road and came to a stop in front of the graveled entrance

to the former ski lodge. Inside, the driver, the blue outlines of an

erupting volcano tattooed on his forehead and seen clearly in the

summer moonlight, turned to his three associates in the rear of the

vehicle. "Hoods," he said simply as the three reached into black

knapsacks and pulled out black stocking masks, which they

promptly squeezed down over their heads. The driver-leader did

the same in the front seat, all four adjusting the dark nylon fabric so

their eyes peered menacingly out of the lined cut-out holes.

"Maximum weapons," added the tattooed unit superior officer, his

lips forming a grim smile beneath the cloth. "I want dead, all dead!

I want to see horror, I want to see pain; I want to see blood and

grotesque faces, all those good things we were trained to do so

well!"

"Like always, Major!" whispered a bulk of a man, his hands, as

the others, robotically plunging into,his knapsack and retrieving a

MAC-10 automatic weapon along with five magazines of ammunition

each containing eighty rounds, a total of sixteen hundred rapidly

spewed-out bullets.

"Subordinate firepower!" continued the major, glancing around

and satisfied that his second command had already been obeyed.

Again, hands surged into knapsacks, and looped grenades were

affixed to combat belts. "Radios!" came the final order, and it was

instantly executed. Miniaturized walkie-talkies were retrieved and

shoved into pockets. "Let's go! North, South, East, and West,

according to your numbers, have you got it?"

A unison of affinnatives followed as the four Maximum

Incorrigibles slipped out of the van, lay on their stomachs, and then

crawled off in their individual directions. Death was their mission

and death was their salvation in all things. Death before dishonor!

"Do chu see what I see, amigo?" asked Desi-Two of DesiOne, both

standing beneath a full maple tree and studying

276 ROBERT LUDLUM

the descending landscape in the erratic moonlight. -Ees crazy, no?"

"You shouldn't be so hard on dem, as the gringos say," replied

Desi the First. "They never had to watch the chickens or the goats

at night from bad neighbors."

"I know dat, but why they so stupid? Black cabezas moving up

the hill with the moon like big cucarachas ees plain dumb-like also

the gringos say."

"As the Heneral says, we could teach dern better but not right

now. Right now, we godda do what he wants us to do.... An' also,

it's been a dificultoso day for all our nice new friends, so we don'

want to wake dem up. Dey need their sleep, no?"

"Dey ain't got no chickens or no goats, but only right now bad

neighbors, is dat what you mean?"

"Dat's right. We do dis ourselves, Wokay?"

"Ees easy. I take the two over dere, chu get the two on the other

side."

'Wokay," said Desi the First as both men crouched in the

shadows. "But chu remember, amigo, don' hurt nobody too bad.

The heneral says we godda be civilized to prisoners of war."

"Hey, man, we Wain't no animals! Like the heneral also says, we

go bide with the Genevil intentions. Maybe dese bad neighbors had

lousy times when dey were liddle kids, like Heneral Mac said we

did. Dey probably need lotsa kindness and help."

"Hey, man," admonished D-One, whispering, "don' let all those

priests you like make you t'ink you're a saint! Chu give all dat

kindness when dese black-headed cucarachas are laid out in de

kitchen sink, Wokay?"

"Hey, man, my favorite padre used to tell me when I went into

Old San Juan, 'An eye for an eye, Who, but make sure you kick first-

right in the West.' "Truly a man of God, amigo. Le's go!"

"Major Vulcan speaking," said the black-hooded figure quietly into

his radio as he crawled up the southernmost route leading to the

former ski lodge. "Come in by the numbers."

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 277

"Two East reporting, Major. No activity, hostile or otherwise."

"Number Three?"

"Three North, sir. A light's on in what appears to be a bedroom

on the second floor. Can I blow it out?"

"Not yet, soldier, but when I tell you, take out everyone inside.

Probably goddamned perverts watching as they exchange bodily

fluids. They're all perverts, savage perverts. Keep your weapon

and your grenades at the ready."

"Yes, sir! I want to blow 'em. away first! Can I do that, Major?"

"Good attitude, soldier, but only when I give the word. Keep

closing in."

"What about me, sir?" interrupted Two East. "Three North's a

fucking idiot! Remember when the guards found him chewing the

fence with his teeth? ... I should have the first kill!"

"And you'll be mine!" broke in Three North. "Don't forget Major,

Two East took all those strawberries that were ;ne@ant for you at

last Thursday's mess!"

"You've got a point, Number Three. I really wanted those

strawberries."

"I didn't do it, Major. It was Four West! ... Own up, you son of a

bitch!"

"Well, Four West?" said Vulcan. "Did you steal my strawberries?"

Silence.

"Come in, Four West!" continued the major.. "Is your lack of

response an admission of guilt? Answer me, you prick. Did you

steal my strawberries?"

Silence.

"Four West, Four West! Reply!"

Silence.

"His radio's out," concluded Vulcan. "Goddamned fairy Pentagon

purchasing agents! These fucking 'talkies' cost the high brass

fourteen thousand apiece when you can buy the same goddamned

things at Radio Shack for twentyseven bucks! ... Four West, can you

read me?" Silence. "Okay, Three North, how close are you?"

Silence.

"Three North, come in!" A long silence. "Goddamn it,

278 ROBERT LUDLUM

Three North, respond!" Nothing. "Son of a bitch, did any of you

clowns check your batteries?" Again there was nothing. "Two East!

Give me your report now."

Silence.

"What the fuck is going on?" fairly shouted Major Vulcan,

momentarily forgetting the need for quiet communication. "Will one

of you bastards answer me?"

Silence, broken several seconds later by a friendly voice. "Nice to

meet chu," said Desi the First, walking out of the shadows and into

the moonlight above the blackhooded intruder. "You are a prisoner

of war, anzigo sir, and you will be treated fairly."

"What?" The major slapped his hand down for his weapon, but his

movement was far too slow. The heel of D-One's boot crashed into

Vulcan's forehead, right in the center of the tattooed volcano.

I didn't wan' to do dat, Mr. Prisoner, but chu could'a hurt me an'

dat h'ain't nice."

Jennifer Redwing awoke with a start-something had happened; she

could feel it, hear it! Of course, she could hear it, she considered,

There were muted moans and throated cries from somewhere

outside. Wounded dogs? Trapped animals? She lurched out of bed

and ran to the window, totally disbelieving what she saw.

Sam Devereaux heard distant noises and pulled the second pillow

over his damaged head. For roughly the five hundredth time he

swore he would never have a drink after leaving O'Toole's Bar and

Grill. However, the noises continued unabated, and after opening

his less-than-whiteclear eyes, he understood that they had nothing

to do with his physical condition. Unsteadily, he got out of bed and

went to the window. Holy shit!

Aaron Pinkus was dreaming of Shirley, albeit an angry Shirley,

whose head was coiled in eleven thousand pink curlers, all

shrieking at him, each curler possessing its own

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 279

mouth, incessantly opening and closing with the rapidity of machine

gun fire'. Was he back on Omaha Beach? ... No, he was in his

favorite bedroom at the old ski lodge. What was the racket? Slowly

he rose from the comfortable bed and limped, as old legs do, to the

window. God of Abraham, what have You done?

Eleanor Devereaux's sleep was maddeningly interrupted by the

ruckus, and she instinctively reached for her bedside telephone to

instruct Cora to have the neighbors arrested, or whatever one did

for such outrageous behavior in Weston, Massachusetts.

Unfortunately, there was no telephone. In high dudgeon she swung

her feet from under the sheet, planted them on the floor, rose to her

full height, and walked to the window. Good heavens, how

absolutely unique!

MacKenzie Hawkins flashed open his eyes, still mangling the cigar

he had had in his mouth since the early hours of the morning. What

the hell was it? Nam? Korea? Pigs squealing on some peasant's

farm protected by Search and Destroy? Jesus! Where were his

aides-de-camp? Why hadn't they alerted him to the enemy's

assault? ... No, he realized, as he felt the soft innards of the pillow

surrounding his head-there were no pillows in combat bivouacs! So

where was he? ... Hannibal's legions, he was in Commander

Pinkus's ski lodge! He sprang out of the comfortable civilian bed,

hating himself for its lack of military rigidity, and ran in his skivvies

to the window. Genghis Khan forgive me, but even you wouldn't

think of that, Big Fella!

Like pedestrians intent on witnessing the horrible results of a major

accident, the temporary residents of the former ski lodge

descended from various staircases into the Alpine lobby. They

were greeted by Desis One and Two, whoflanked a long coffee table

on which there were four MAC-10 machine pistols, twenty magazine

clips, sixteen

280 ROBERT LUDLUM

grenades, four miniaturized radios, two flamethrowers, four infrared

binoculars, and a dismantled egg-shaped bomb that could blow up

at least a quarter of the state of New Hampshire-the lesser

southeastern part.

"We din' want to wake chu all up," said Desi the First, "but the

heneral said we should protect the rights of prisoners of war... We

tried to do dat, but I Cink they were very bad characters. Dese

guns 'n Vings will explain what I mean.... Now, great Heneral, can

Sergeant Desi-TWo and me get some sleep?"

"Goddamn, boys, you're lieutenants! But what the hell is out

there?"

"Please, sehores y sehoras, see for yourselves," said Desi the

Second, opening the front door. "We did not Cink it was too bad for

de Genevil intentions, when we saw all dose guns W everything"

Outside, on the repaired ski lift, halfway up the intermediate

slope and at least fifteen feet in the air, were four jiggling bodies

hanging upside down, their mouths taped, their feet wrapped in

ropes.

"We bring dem back every hour and give dern water," said Desi

the First, smiling. "Dat way we treat our prisoners of war real good."

18

"What?" shrieked the Secretary of State, his bellow causing his

security pool stenographer to lurch out of her chair, propelling her

shorthand pad directly into the head of her employer, who absently

caught it in his left hand, which was in the process of pounding his

skull to stop his maniacally pivoting left eye. "They did what? ...

How? I won't have it!" The Secretary began slamming the shorthand

pad alternately against his temple and the edge of the desk until its

pages flew hither and yon off their spiral.

"Please!" pleaded the stenographer, racing around and picking

up the' flying papers. "These are top-secret notes, sir!"

"Well, there's no secret about your tops, is there?" cried the

wide-eyed, swinging-eyed leader of State crazily. "We live in a

walnut world, miss! You've got coconuts, but we're all walnuts!"

Suddenly, the stenographer, standing rigid and staring down at

her employer, said calmly but with great strength, "Stop it, Warren.

Calm down."

"Warren? Who's Warren? I'm Mr. Secretary-always Mr Secretary!"

"YOU are Warren Pease, and please cover the telephone,

282 ROBERT LUDLUM

or I'll tell my sister and she'll tell Arnold Subagaloo that you've gone

squirrelly."

"Oh, God-Arnold!" Warren Pease, Secretary of State, instantly

covered the mouthpiece. "I forgot, Teresa, honestly, I just forgot for

a moment!"

"I'm Regina Trueheart, my younger sister's Teresa, Subagaloo's

assistant."

"I'm terrible with names, but I never forget coconuts-I mean

faces! Don't tell your sister."

"You just tell whoever's on the line that you'll call back after

you've had a chance to collect your thoughts."

"I can't! He's on a pay telephone at the prisoners' compound in

Quantico!"

"Order him to give you the number and to stay there until you

call him back."

"All right, Coconuts-Teresa-Regina-Madame Secretary!"

"Stop it, Warren. Do what I say!"

The Secretary of State did exactly as Regina Trueheart

commanded, then fell forward on his desk, his head in his arms,

and, as they say, cried his eyes out. 'Somebody leaked and I got

pissed on!" he gurgled. "They got sent back to the compound in

body bags!"

"Who?"

"Me Filthy Four. It's horrible!"

"They're dead-whoever they are?"

"No, there were air holes in the canvas. It's worse than dead-

they're embarrassed! We're all embarrassed!" Pease raised his tear-

streaked face as if pleading for a swift execution.

"Warren, sweetie, knock it off. You have a job to do and people

like me are here to see that you do it. Remember Fem of the North

Mall, our patron saint and inspiration. She wouldn't permit any of

her bosses to fall apart and neither will L"

"She was a secretary, you're a security pool stenographer--:'

"Far more, Warren, oh, far more," interrupted Regina. "I'm a

roving butterfly with the sting of a bee. I flutter from one top-secret

assignment to another, keeping my

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 283

eyes on all of you, helping you through your days. That's the

God-given assignment for all the Truehearts." "Can't you be my

secretary?"

"And take that job from our dear, dedicated anti-Commie mother,

Tyrania? Surely you jest."

"The Tyrant's your mother ... T'

"Careful, Warren. Subagaloo, remember?"

"Oh, Christ, Arnold. I'm sorry, truly sorry-a great woman, awe-

inspiring."

"To the business at hand, Mr. Secretary," said the ste-

nographer, sitting down, the notebook and the gathered pages

securely held, her posture once again rigid. "I have maximum

clearance, as you know, so how can I helpT' "Well, maximum

clearance isn't exactly the issue---2' "I see," broke in Regina

Trueheart. "Body bags with air holes, corpses that weren't dead--

2'

"I tell you, the entire honor guard almost had mass cardiac

arrest! Two are in the base hospital, three have demanded

immediate discharges on psychiatric grounds, and four went AWOL

by racing through the gates screaming -their heads off about

soldiers rising from the dead to curse the officers they never

fragged.... Oh, my God, if this ever gets out--oh, Jesus!"

"I know, Mr. Secretary." Security Stenographer First Class

Trueheart stood up. "Embarrassment, sir, we've all been there.... All

right, Warren, we're in'this together. What do we start shredding?"

"Shredding?" Pease's left eye was now streaking back and forth

with the speed of a4aser.

"I understand," said Regina, who promptly, without the slightest

hint of sensuality, pulled her dress up to her waist. "Documents to

be removed, of course. As you can see, I'm fully prepared to carry

out the mission."

"Hub?" His left eye fixed, the Secretary of State was astonished

at what he saw. Sewn into Ms. Trueheart's panty hose, from knees

to thigh, were light brown nylon pockets. "How ... how incredible,"

mumbled Pease.

"Naturally, we must remove all metal clips, and should we need

more space, my brassiere has a zippered lining, and the back of my

slip has an attached overlay of sheer silk that can accommodate the

wider documents."

284 ROBERT LUDLUM

"You don't understand," said the Secretary, his chin impacting on

the edge of the desk as the stenographer released her dress to its

normal position. "Ouch!"

"Keep your mind on business, Warren. Now, what don't I

understand? The Trucheart girls are prepared for all emergencies."

"Nothing was written down!" explained the panicked head of

State.

"I see.... Unlogged, max-class, unsanctioned communications, is

that it?"

"What? Were you with the CIA ... T'

"No, that's my older sister, Clytemnestra. She's a very quiet

girl.... So our problem goes back to leaks in the unsanctioned

infrastructure; the unlogged word of mouth made a devious detour

into forbidden ears."

"It must have, but it couldn't! No one who knew could possibly

have benefited from betraying the secret of our flying those lunatics

up to Boston."

"Without specific facts, Mr. Secretary-which, of course, could be

revealed by Pentothal but never, never in a confrontation with any

subhuman congressional committee-please give me an abstract of

the operation. Can you do that, Warren? ... If it would help you, I'll

show you my pockets again."

"It wouldn't hurt." She did so, and Pease's left eye came slowly

to a riveting stop. "Well, you see," he began, spittles of saliva

emerging from his lips. "Certain unpatriotic slimes, led by a maniac,

want to cripple our first line of defense, namely our contractors and

then a section of our air force that has international watchdog

responsibilities."

"How, sweetie?" Trucheart shifted her weight from one leg to the

other, then back again.

"Auugh. "

"What, Warren? I asked how."

"Oh, yes, of course.... Well, they claim that the land on which is

located a huge and very vital air force base may just possibly

belong to a group of people-savages, actually-because of some

stupid treaty made over a hundred years ago, which never

happened, of course! It's all insane!"

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 285

"I'm sure it is, but is it true, Mr. Secretary?" Once more Regina's

bared legs required a succession of shifting balances, five to be

exact.

"Oh, boy ... !11

"Sit down! Is it true?"

"The Supreme Court is thinking about it. The Chief Justice is

keeping the Court arguments quiet for another five days, on national

security grounds, until the slimes show up for oral interrogation the

day before. We've got four days to find the bastards and send them

to their happy hunting grounds, which has nothing to do with

national security grounds. Goddarnn savages!"

Regina Trueheart instantly released her dress. 'That will be

enough of that!"

"Ouch! ... What?"

"We Trueheart girls do not countenance obscene language, Mr.

Secretary. It simply reveals a lack of acceptable vocabulary and is

offensive in the extreme to church-going people.

"Aw, come on, Vergyna---"

"Regina! 11

"I'm on your side ... but don't you see, sometimes a little

profanity says it. When you're stressed, it just comes out."

"You sound like that horrible French writer, Anouilh, who would

excuse everything."

"Annie who?"

"Never mind.... Was this secure circle of knowledgeable people

restricted to only a few of our highest government officials and even

fewer outside civilians?"

"The fewest of each!"

"And these all too alive and kicking body bags, were they

covertly recruited to carry out their mission-which they obviously

failed to do?"

"So covert they didn't even understand it! But then, they didn't

have to-they're maniacs."

"Stay here, Warren," said Trueheart, placing the shorthand pad

on the desk and straightening her dress. "I'll be right back."

"Where are you going?"

286 ROBERT LUDLUM

"To speak to your secretary, my mother. I'll be right back, and

don't you dare get on the telephone!"

"Of course not, Pockets ... I mean--2'

"Oh, shut up! You appointees are very, very strange." With these

words the security pool stenographer walked out into the outer

office and closed the door.

Warren Pease, Secretary of State and owner of a fishing yacht

he longed dearly to berth at an acceptable club, was torn between

slashing his wrists and calling his former brokerage firm and

offering all manner of government insider information so as to

reclaim his former partnership. Good Lord, why had he ever

succumbed to his old rooniie, the President's call to join the

administration? Socially, of course, there were advantages, but

there were disadvantages, too. One had to be polite to so many

people one simply could not abide, and those dreadful dinner

parties where he not only had to sit next to but have his picture

taken with Negroes. Oh, no, it wasn't all peaches and cream! 'Me

sacrifices one had to make would test the patience of a saint ... and

now this! Body bags with living maniacs, and his own crowd

wanting his scalp! How grotesque life had become! Of course, he

had no razor blade and he dared not use the telephone, so he

simply had to wait, perspiring profusely. In agonizing minutes, the

wait was over. However, instead of Regina Trueheart, her mother,

Tyrania, marched into the office, closing the door firmly behind her.

The matriarch of the Truebeart clan was the stuff of which

legends are born. A striking woman with sharp Teutonic features

and blazing light-blue eyes, she was just over six feet in height, with

an imposing body that stood tall and challenging, belying her fifty-

eight years. As her mother before her, who had arrived with the

legions of female government secretaries and clerks during World

War II, Tyrania was a veteran of the Washington bureaucracy, with

awesome knowledge of its byways and back alleys, its follies and

flagrant abuses. Again, like her mother, she had brought up her

own daughters to serve the byzantine infrastructures of the

government's myriad bureaus, departments, and agencies. Tyrania

believed it was the destiny of the family's women to guide the

leaders and

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 287

would-be leaders through Washington's minefields so they could

exercise what generally feeble abilities they'possessed. In her

heart, the Trueheart maximum leader understood that it was women

such as herself and her daughters who really ran the nation's

government. Men truly were the weaker sex, so vulnerable to

temptation and tomfoolery. This judgment no doubt accounted for

the fact that no male child had been born into the family for three

generations. It simply was not acceptable.

T@yrania studied the obviously distraught Secretary of State, in

her long, silent gaze a mixture of pity and resignation. "My

daughter has relayed everything you told her, as well as describing

your apparently overstimulated libido," she said firmly but quietly,

as if admonishing a small, confused boy in the principal's office.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Trueheard Honestly. It's been just a terrible day,

and I didn't mean to do anything wrong."

"It's all right, Warren, don't cry. I'm here to help you, not to

make you feel naughty."

"Thank you, Mrs. Trueheart!" ,sut for me to help you, I must

first ask you a very important question. Will you answer me

honestly, Warren?" "Oh, yes, yes, I will!"

"Good.... Now tell me, among the very small circle of civilians-

nongovernment people-who are aware of this counterstrike

operation, do any of them profit from this conceivably threatened air

base?"

"All of them, for God's sake!"

"Then look to one of them, Warren. He's selling out the others."

"What ... ?Why?"

"Long-range, I can't answer you until I have more facts-such as

stock options and buy-outs-but shortrange the answer is obvious."

"It is?"

"No one in the administration, with the exception of yourself,

would enter into such a devious solution that employed

incarcerated men, in military prison because of their violence-prone

dispositions. The lessons of Watergate and Iran-scam have left

their indelible marks, as repulsive

288 ROBERT LUDLUM

and unpatriotic as they may be. Put simply, there were too many

indictments."

"But why am I the exception?"

"You're too new and too inexperienced in this town. You

wouldn't know how to unite the President's advisers for this sort of

clandestine operation. They'd all run to the hills at the suggestion-

except, perhaps, the VicePresident, who probably wouldn't know

what you're talking about."

"You think it's one of the... civilians?"

"I'm rarely wrong, Warren.... Well, I was once, but that was my

husband. After we girls threw him out of the house, he ran down to

the Caribbean, and now he charters his run-down sailboat out of the

Virgin Islands. A totally despicable human being."

"Really? Why is that?"

"Because he claims to be a completely happy person, which we

all know is unacceptable in our complex society.,,

"No kidding ... T'

"Mr Secretary, may we concentrate on the immediate problem?

I strongly suggest that you place the 'body bags' in total isolation,

squash whatever stories come out of Quantico as the result of

drunkenness, and go underground and reach the Zero Zero Zero-

dash-Zero Zero Six at Fort Benning."

"What the hell is that?'

"Not what, but who," replied T@rania. "They're called the

Suicidal Six--2'

"Like in the Filthy Four?" interrupted Pease, scowling.

"Light-years beyond. They're actors."

"Actors? What do I want with actors?"

"These are unique," said Trueheart, leaning forward and lowering

her voice. "They'd kill for good reviews, which none has ever had

in abundance."

"How did they ever get to Fort Benning?"

"Nonpayment of rent."

" What? "

"They haven't worked steadily in years, just went to classes and

waited on tables."

"I don't understand a word you're saying!"

7HE ROAD TO OMAHA 289

"It's really quite simple, Warren. They joined the army together

to start a repertory theater and eat on a more regular basis.

Naturally, a creative-thinking officer in G-T\vo saw the possibilities

and inaugurated a new program for covert operations."

"Because they were actors?"

"Well, according to the general in charge, they wereare-also in

great physical shape. You know, all those Rambo movies where

they got extra parts. Actors can be very vain where their

appearances are concerned."

"Mrs. Trueheart!" exclaimed the Secretary of State. "Will you

please tell me where this conversation is leading us?"

"To a solution, Warren. I will only talk in abstract terms, so

there's complete deniability, but I'm sure that your well-honed and

well-brought-up intellect will understand."

"Those are the first words that make sense to me."

"The Suicidal Six can and will impersonate anybody and

anything. They are masters of disguises and dialects, and can

penetrate the impossible penetration."

"'Mat's crazy. They'd be penetrating ourselves!"

"Good point. That gives you an enviable overview."

"Wait a minute." Pease spun around in his swivel chair and

stared at the crisscrossed flags of the U.S. and the State

Department, in his imagination seeing a portrait of Geronimo

dressed in a general's uniform between them. "That's it!" he cried.

"No indictments, no congressional hearings-it's perfect!"

"What is, WarrenT'

"Actors. "

"Of course."

"Actors can be anybody they want to be-convince other people

they're not who they really are, right?"

"That's true. It's what they're trained to do."

"No killers, no indictments, no goddamned hearings on the Hill."

"Well, I wouldn't go that far without buying off a few senators,

which our contingency funds allow for-"

"I can see it now," interrupted Pease, spinning front, his left eye

in place, both eyes wide with excitement. "They

290 ROBERT LUDLUM

arrive at Kennedy Airport-red sashes, maybe beards and

homburgs-a delegation."

"A what?"

"From Sweden! A delegation from the Nobel committee. They've

studied the military history of the twentieth cenjury and have come

over to find General MacKenzie Hawkins to award him the Nobel

peace prize for being the greatest soldier of our time!"

"Perhaps I should call a doctor, Warren."

"Not at all, Mrs. Truebeart, you gave it to me! Can't you

understand? This banana's got an ego bigger than Mount Everest!"

"Who has?"

"Thunder Head." 11W/W. 2"

"MacKenzie Hawkins, that's who! He won the Congres-

sional'Medal of Honor-twice."

"I think we should say a silent prayer to almighty God for having

made him an American and not a Commie--2' "Bullshit!" exploded

the Secretary of State. "He's the asshole of the millennium. He'll

come running out from wherever he is to get that award.... Then it's

Sweden and points north, way north! A lost plane-Lapland, Siberia,

the tundra, who cares?"

"Despite your inane profanity, Warren, when you say north, it has

the ring of brilliant truth, our truth. What can I do, Mr. Secretary?"

"To begin with, find out how we reach the officer running these

actors, and then have my plane prepared to fly me down to Fort

Benning.... Per

fiect!"

The two rental cars raced south on Route 93 toward Boston, Paddy

Lafferty commandeering the first, his wife, driving the second,

approximately a mile behind. Aaron Pinkus sat in front with his

chauffeur, while Sam Devereaux, his mother, and Jennifer Redwing

were in the rear seat, the Indian attorney between mother and son.

The second vehicle carried.General MacKenzie Hawkins in the front

with Mrs. Lafferty, as Desis One and Two

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 291

were in the back, playing blackjack with a deck of cards

appropriated from the former ski lodge.

"Now, you hear me good, little girl!" said the plumpish Erin

Lafferty of fine Celtic features into the car telephone. "I want the

buster boy to have a full bowl of oatmeal with real milk-not that

watered-down crap Grandpa drinksand the tiny lass should have

two slices of bread soaked in eggs and fried-two eggs, got that? ...

All right, girl, I'll get back to you later."

"Your children?" asked the Hawk somewhat awkwardly as Mrs.

Lafferty replaced the phone.

"Have you got your brains anywheres near your head, man? Do

I look like a woman who's got wee tots?"

"I merely overheard your conversation, rnadam---2' "That was

my youngest, Bridget, who's lookin' after my older lad's-my

second oldest lad's-kids, while them two-toilet suppositories are

on a cruise ... would you believe-a cruise?"

"Did your husband object?"

"How the hell could he? Dennis-boyo is a big accountant with all

those letters after his name. He does our taxes."

"I see."

"May the devil fart perfume, you do! Never have kids who are

brainier than you. There's hell to pay." The car telephone buzzed

and Mrs. Lafferty picked it up. "What is it, Bridgey? You can't find

the refrigerator, girl? ... Oh, it's you, Paddy, darlin', who I may just

push your head into a barrel of used crank case oil." Erin Lafferty

held the phone out for Hawkins. "Paddy says Mr. Pinkus wants to

talk to you."

"Thank you, madam.... Commander?"

"No, it's still Paddy, great General. I'll put the boss on in a

second or two. I just wanted to tell you not to pay no attention to

my woman. She's a good girl, sir, but she's not been in true

combat, if you know what I'm drivin' at."

"I understand, Gunny. But if I were you, I'd make damn sure

'Buster boy' gets his oatmeal with real milk and the 'tiny lass' has

her fried bread with two eggs."

"Oh, she's been on the breakfast bit again, has she?

292 ROBERT LUDLUM

Grandmothers can be the end of the good life, General.... Here's Mr.

Pinkus."

"General?"

"Commander? What're the map coordinates, sir?"

"The what? ... Oh, where we're going. Yes, well, I've just made

arrangements for us all to stay at my brother-inlaw's summer house

in Swampscott. It's on the beach and rather delightful, and as he

and Shirley's sister are in Europe, it's completely available."

"Well done, Commander Pinkus. A comfortable bivouac under

combat conditions is good for the troops' morale. Do you have an

address? I have to relay it to Little Joseph in Boston because our

support personnel will be arriving shortly."

"It's known as the old Worthington estate on the Beach Road,

now owned by Sidney Birnbaum. I'm not sure there are numbers,

but the entire front wall is painted in royal blue, which very much

appealed to Shirley's sister."

'That's good enough, Commander Pinkus. Our support will

undoubtedly be chosen from an elite corps and they'll find it.

Anything else?"

"Simply tell Paddy's wife where we're going. If we get separated

in the traffic, she knows the way."

The Hawk relayed the information, only to be greeted by Erin

Lafferty's succinct reply. "Oh, Jesus Himself be praised! I'll be

dealin' with the kosher boys, and let me tell you, General, they

really know where to get the best meat and the freshest

vegetables!"

"You've been there before, I presume?"

"Been there! Don't ever tell my parish priest, but the grand

Sidney and his dear wife, Sarah, made me the godmother of their

boy, Joshua-Jewish style, you understand. Josh is like one of my

own, and Paddy and I keep prayin' that he and Bridgey can get it

together, if you know what I mean."

"Would your parish priest-"

"What the hell does he know? He drinks all them French wines

and bores us to death about their bookays. A loser."

"The true, fine melting pot," said the Hawk quietly.

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 293

"Have you ever thought of running for Pope?" he added, chuckling.

"I once knew one who thought like you."

"Awe, gowann! A dumb Irish broad like me even thinkin' like

that?"

" 'The meek shall inherit the earth,' for on their shoulders lies the

morality of all mankind."

"Hey, you! You tryin' to come on with me? Because if you are,

my Paddy could break you in half!"

"I wouldn't dream of it, madam," replied the Hawk, looking at

Erin Lafferty's profile. "And I'm sure he could," added the soldier

who was arguably the most proficient hand-to-hand combat officer

ever to have served in the military. "He would, of course, demolish

me."

"Well, he's gettin' on, but my boy still has it."

"He has you, and that's far more important."

"Where're you at, Buster? I'm an old lady, for Christ's sake!"

"And I'm an older man, and one thing has nothing to do with the

other. I'm merely saying that it's a privilege to know you."

"You con

.fuse me, soldier man!"

"I don't mean to."

Erin Lafferty pressed the accelerator to the floor and sped

ahead.

Wolfgang Hiduh, born Billy-Bob Bayou, walked through the gate and

followed the signs in the wide corridor to Logan Airport's baggage

claim area. As one third of the highly, if mysteriously, paid security

unit recruited by Manpower Plus Plus, he was to meet his two

Kameraden in the enclosed parking lot across from the taxi stand.

As identification, he was to carry a folded Wall Street Journal, with

various articles clearly circled in red ink, although he had

stubbornly argued for a copy of Mein Kampf.

If -he hadn't needed the employment so badly, he would have

turned down the job on principle. The Journal was a well-known

symbol of the decadent, money-grasping democracies and should

be burned along with ninety-nine percent of all of the country's

newspapers and magazines, starting with the despicable

Amsterdam News and Ebony,

294 ROBERT LUDLUM

which were published in and for Harlem, a steaming hotbed of

inferior black troublemakers, just as Wall Street was a treacherous

armed camp of Jewish money! Unfortunately, however, Wolfgang

did need the job, as his welfare checks had been cut off-by a

suspicious black clerk at the unemployment office!-and so he had

put his principles on a back burner and accepted the advance of

two hundred dollars and an airline ticket.

All he knew was that he and his two Kameraden were to protect

a group of seven people who were in hiding, and three of those

were military themselves. That meant that there were six mercs

watching over four civvies-a piece of strudel, which he had come to

love from his two glorious months training in the Bavarian

mountains with his Fourth Reich Meister. Wolfgang Hit1uh, the

Journal in one hand, his carryon in the other, dodged the traffic and

crossed the unroofed two lanes that led to the parking lot. He must

not be conspicuous! he considered as he walked through the late

afternoon sunlight toward the huge garage. Everything was so

secret, according to Manpower Plus Plus, that he could not breathe

a word of the job even to the 170hrer, if he was alive-always a

possibility, nadirlich! The assignment obviously entailed the protec-

tion of such high officials that the government could not trust the

weak, non-Aryan types that had infiltrated the Secret Service....

Where were his Kameraden? he wondered.

"You Wolfie?" asked an enormous black man, emerging from the

shadows of a circular concrete pillar and approaching Hitluh.

"What? ... Who? What did you say?"

"You heard me, little fella. You've got the newspaper and we

saw the red ink when you crossed those two streets out in the

open." The dark giant extended his hand and smiled. "Nice to know

you, Wolf-that's one hell of a name, by the way."

"Yes, well ... I guess it is." The Nazi accepted the hand as though

having touched the flesh would infect him for life.

"It seems like a good gig, brother."

"Brother?

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 295

"Here," continued the huge man, gesturing behind him, "let me

introduce you to our partner, and don't be put off by his ap

,pearance. Once we broke out, he couldn't wait to get back into his

usual threads. I tell you, Wolfie, you wouldn't believe the way those

old fortune-tellers and their crazy mustachioed husbands talk!"

"Fortune-tellers ... T'

"Come on, Roman, get out here and meet Wolfie!"

A second figure came out from the shadows of the pillar, a

muscular man in a billowing orange blouse with a blue sash around

his waist above skin-tight black trousers and circlets of dark hair on

his forehead; he also wore a single gold earring. A Gypsy! thought

Wolfgang. The scourge of the Moldavians, worse than the Jews

and the Negroes! Deutschland Uber Alles, a Gypsy!

"Hallo, Misstair Wolfowitz!" cried the ear-ringed man, holding out

his hand, his blinding white teeth below a dark mustache, the

antithesis of Wolfgang's vision of a Kamerad. "I can tell by the

shape of your eyes that you will have a long, long life with great

financial assets! No money is required for this precious infonnation-

we work together, no?"

"Oh, great Fiffirer, where the hell are yaT' whispered Hitluh to

himself, absently shaking hands.

"What's that, Wolfie?" as the large black, clamping his huge,

strong hand on Wolfgang's shoulder.

"Nothing, nothing! .. . You're sure there's no mistake? You're

from Manpower Plus Plus?"

,.,Nowhere else, brother, and from what Roman and I can figure

out, this is going to be like picking up bread in the street. By the

way, my name's Cyrus-Cyrus M. My buddy's name is Roman Z, and

you're Wolfie H. Naturally, we never ask what the letters of our last

names stand for-which wouldn't make a hell of a lot of difference

anyway because we got so many different ones, right, brother?"

"Jawohl. " Wolfgang nodded, then blanched. I mean you're

absolutely correct ... Bruder."

"What?"

"Brother," added Hitluh instantly, apologetically. "Brother, I

mean brother!"

296 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Hell, don't get upset, Wolfie, I understood you. I speak German,

too."

"You do?"

"Hell, yes. Why do you think I've been in prison?"

"Because you speak German ... ?"

"Sort of, little fella," said the dark-skinned giant. "You see, I'm

a government chemist, and I was loaned out to Bonn to work for a

plant in Stuttgart to help out in a fertilizer project, only it wasn't."

"Wasn't what?"

"Fertilizer... Oh, it was shit, but it wasn't fertilizer, just gas, very

unhealthy gas. On its way to the Middle East."

"Mein Gott! But perhaps there were reasons ... T' "Sure, there

were. Cash and the wasting of a lot of people the bosses didn't

think were too important. Three of them found me one night

analyzing the final compounds. They called me a Schwarzer and

rushed me, two pulling guns on me.... That was that."

"Tbat was what?"

"I threw all three of those honky Krauts into the vatswhich sort

of meant they couldn't show up in court to answer my plea of self-

defense.... So, in the interests of diplomatic relations, I drew five

years in the can over here rather than fifty over there. I figured I

owed three months, so Roman and I broke out last night."

"But we're supposed to be mercs, not chemists!"

"A man can be different things, little fella. To put myself through

two universities in seven years, I took a few months off now and

then. Angola-both sides, incidentally--Oman, Karachi, Kuala

Lumpur. I won't be a disappointment to you, Wolfie."

"Misstair Wolfowitz," interrupted Roman Z, expanding his orange-

clothed chest, and planting his feet as though he were about to do

a Gypsy dervish. "You see before you the greatest man with a

blade, a silent blade, that you could ever hope to meet! ... Slash,

slash, parry, thrust!" The words were accompanied by wild gestures

and rapid pivots as the blue sash whipped through the air and the

orange blouse billowed. "Ask anyone in the mountains of Serbo-

Croatia!"

IHE ROAD TO OMAHA 297

"But you were in prison over here-"

"I passed several hundred bad checks, what can I tell you?"

added Roman Z in a disconsolate voice, his hands extended in a

plea. "One immigrates, however the methods, he comes to nothing

in a foreign land that does not understand him."

"There, Wolfie," said Cyrus M, in his voice a certain finality. "You

know about us now, what about you?"

"Well, fellas, you see, Ah'm what some people call a roguelike

underground investigatah-2'

"You're also a southern boy-a southern boy who speaks

German," interrupted Cyrus. "Now, that's a strange combination,

isn't it?"

"You can telIT'

"I think it comes out when you're kind of excited, Wolfie. Why

are you excited, little fella?"

"You're not readin' me, Cyrus. Ah'm just anxious to git started

on this heah gig!"

"Oh, we'll get started on it right away, you can bet your uptight

ass on that. It's just that we'd kinda like to know a little more about

our partner. You see, we could be putting our lives in your hands,

you can understand that, Wolfie, can't you? ... Now, how did a good

ole boy like you learn German? Was it part of that underground

investigating you did?"

"You're right on!" answered Wolfgang, a flat, petrified grin

plastered on his lips. "Y'see, Ali was trained to interfilterate all them

German cities lak Berlin and Muniken lookin' for them dirty

Commies, but y'know what Ali found out?"

"What did you find out, mein Kleiner?"

"Ali found out that our mewly-mouthed gov'mint looks the other

way an' don't give a shit!"

"You mean like all those communist bastards around the

Brandenburg Gate and walking on Unter den Linden?"

"They sure was under rocks, I tell ya that!"

"Sie sprechen nicht sehr gut Deutsch. "

"Well, Ali never learned so much to catch it so quick,

Cyrus, but I got yer drift."

"Sure, I understand. Just certain key words and

298 ROBERT LUDLUM

phrases...." Without warning, the huge black suddenly shot out his

right arm in an angled salute. "Heil Hitler!"

"Sieg Heil!" screamed Wolfgang with such a roar that a number

of Logan Airport's arrivals spun their heads around, stared, and

immediately fled from the scene.

"Wrong part of town, Wolfie, the Brandenburg's on the other side

of the Wall before it came down. They were all Commies." Cyrus M

suddenly hauled the stunned Hiduh into the shadows of the pillar,

and with one punch rendered the neo-Nazi unconscious.

"What zee hell did you do that for?" cried the bewildered blue-

sashed Gypsy, following his prison mate into the darkened area.

I can smell these mothers a mile away," replied the large black

chemist, holding the immobilized figure of Wolfgang against the

stone and yanking the Nazi's carryon out of his right hand. "Open

it up and dump the stuff on the ground."

Roman Z did so and the blood-red cover of Mein Kampf stood

out like a rubied diadem. `Zeese is not a nice fellow," said the

Gypsy, bending down and picking up the book. "What do we do

now, Cyrus?"

I heard something on my cell radio yesterday and it kind of

grabbed me. And would youlbelieve, it happened right here in

Boston?"

THE BOSTON GLOBE

NUDE AMERICAN NAZI FOUND

ON STEPS OF POLICE STATION

Copy of Mein Kampf Strapped to Chest

Boston, Aug. 26-In what appears to be a grotesque pattern of

nude criminal activities, the writhing body of a naked man with

wide-ribbed packaging tape around his mouth and over his

chest, under which was a copy of Adolf Hitler's Afein Kampf,

was dumped by two men on the steps of the Cambridge Street

Police Headquarters at 8:10 last evening. Seven witnesses,

who were in the vicinity at the time

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 299

and who refused to give their names, said that a taxi swung into the

curb and two men, one flamboyantly dressed, the other a large

black man, carried the body to the steps, returned to the taxi, and

raced away. The victim has been identified as Wolfgang A. Hitluh,

a wanted American Nazi, born with the legal name of Billy-Bob

Bayou in Serendipity Parish, Louisiana, and presumed to be violent.

The authorities are both stunned and bewildered, for Mr. Hitluh, as

the four nude men found on the roof of the RitzCarlton hotel two

days ago, is claiming government immunity from -prosecution, as

he was performing his duty as part of a deep-cover, top-secret

operation. The information officer at the Federal Bureau of In-

vestigation, while denying any involvement, had the following

comment: "We do not permit our agents to remove their clothing

tinder any circumstances, preferably not even their neckties." A

spokesman for the Central Intelligence Agency, also denying any

knowledge of Mr. Hitlub's activities, issued the following statement:

"As is well known, the Charter of 1947 prohibits the Agency from

operating domestically. In the few instances where our expertise is

sought by national authorities, it can only be given at the sole

discretion of the director in consultation with congressional

oversight. If the late and patriotic Vincent Mangecavallo made any

such arrangements, they have not surfaced in our files. Therefore,

any inquiries should be directed at those (expletives [two] deleted)

in Congress."

THE BOSTON GLOBE

(Page 72, Advertisements)

Aug. 26-At taxi belonging to Abul Shirak of 3024 Center Avenue was

briefly stolen early yesterday evening while he was having coffee at

the Liberation Diner. He reported the theft to the police; then at

8:35 Pm. called back saying the vehicle had been returned. When

initially questioned by the police, he

300 ROBERT LUDLUM

could only recall having sat next to a man in an orange silk shirt

and wearing a gold earring who engaged him in lively conversation,

after which he discovered that his car keys were missing. No fur-

ther investigation is anticipated as Mr. Shirak said he

was compensated.

"You gimme an answer, you fancy-talking English cannoli!"

yelled the red-wigged Vinnie the Bam-Bam into a pay telephone on

Collins Avenue in Miami Beach, Florida.- "What the fuck happened?"

"Vincenzo, I did not pick the lunatic, you did," said the voice of

Smythington-Fontini from his suite at New York's Carlyle Hotel. "If

you recall, I warned you against him."

"He never got a chance to do anything! Those whackos can be

programmed to put their bare asses in a muskrat hole, but he got

short-circuited before he could find his ass!"

"What did you expect with a black man and a Gypsy in concert

with a fanatical Hitlerite? I believe I mentioned that."

"You also mentioned that those clowns didn't give doodly-squat

about anything but cash, right?"

"On that point, I must refine my thinking. On the other hand, I

should give you the good news. Our two first choices have made

contact with the general and are at this moment in the new

compound and have taken up their posts."

"How the hell do you know that?"

"Because Manpower Plus Plus called and so informed me.

Operative Cyrus M reached them from a telephone in some place

called Swampscott and said everything was under control. He also

mentioned that he did not care to be made a field colonel by the

general. Are you now satisfied, Vincenzo?"

"Goddamn it, no! Did you read what those fuckers at the Agency

said about me? They said I could have made all these arrangements

by myself without telling anybody! What kind of crap is that?"

@"Nodiing new, Vincenzo. Who better than a dead man to put

the blame on-if there is any blame down the road?

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 301

And even if you rise from the dead in the out islands of the Dry

Tortugas, some things haven't changed. You did do it."

"Only through you!"

"I'm invisible ... Bam-Bam. From here on, if you care to leave the

Dry Tortugas, you work only for me, capisce? You sit, Vincenzo, you

do not stand."

"I don't believe this!"

"Why not? You said it yourself. I am my mother's son.... Carry out

your endeavors on Wall Street, my friend. I'll make a megakilling,

and you'll make-well, we'll decide that later."

"Manuna mia!"

"Well put, old sport."

19

The immense living room of the Birnbaum summer house looked

out over the beach through a series of sliding glass doors that led

to a large redwood deck running the length of the building. It was

daybreak and the skies were overcast, the ocean below disturbed,

churning in watery rebellion, the short, intense waves lurching onto

the sand with an anger of their own, reluctantly receding but with

promise of return.

"It's going to be a rotten day, isn't it?" said Sam Devereaux,

walking out of the door to the kitchen, carrying a mug of coffee.

"It doesn't look too promising," replied the huge black man,

introduced to all of them last evening as Cyrus M.

"Have you been up all night?"

"Habit, Counselor. I know Roman Z, but I don't know the two

Hispanic guys. Desis One and T\vo--come on, what kind of aliases

are those?"

"What kind of name is Cyrus MT'

"Actually, it's Cyril and the M stands for my mom, who told me

how I could get out of a backwater patch in the Mississippi Delta.

Books were part of it, but I assure you the emphasis was on tough."

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 303

"You could have played in the NFL, I'd think."

"Or swung a bat, or boxed, or been the Black Behemoth of

wrestling? ... Get with it, Mr. Lawyer, that's meat, and unless yours

the best you end up with bruises and half a brain and nowhere to

go. I can also assure you that I couldn't have been the best. My

soul wasn't in it."

"You sound like an educated man."

"I'm schooled."

"T'hat's all you'll say?"

"Please get this straight, Counselor. I'm hired to protect you,

not to give you my life story," said Cyrus pleasantly.

"Okay. Sorry... What's your analysis of the current situation-

since that's what we're paying you for?"

"I've checked out the grounds, from all points on the beach and

up through the dunes on the bourn to the road. We're vulnerable,

but by noon we won't be."

"What do you mean?"

"I called my firm, the firm that hires me, and told them to shoot

up six lithium battery-operated, trip-wire machines with waist-high

antennae-they'll blend in with the high grass and cover the

waterfront."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It means that any moving object over a density weight of fifty

pounds crossing through those beams will set off alarms heard at

least five miles away."

"You know your business, Cyrus M."

"I hope you know yours," mumbled the guard, bringing a pair of

binoculars to his eyes and scanning the grounds outside.

"Mat's an odd remark."

"I think you mean impertinent." Cyrus's grin could be seen below

the field glasses.

"Yeah, I suppose. you could say that, but it's still an odd remark.

Would you mind explaining it?"

"I'm probably older than you think, Mr. D., and I've got a pretty

good memory." Cyrus adjusted the focus in his binoculars and

continued quietly, casually. "When we were introduced last night-by

our noms de guerre, of courseand given our instructions by the

general, my mind went back a few years.... Having spent some time

over there, newspaper stories about the Far East usually catch my

at-304 ROBERT LUDLUM

tention.... Your general's the same one who got thrown out of China

for desecrating some kind of national monument in Beijing, isn't he?

As a matter of fact, I even remember the name--General MacKenzie

Hawkins-which fits neatly with 'Commander H,' except that all of you

kept calling him 'General,' so his rank was fairly obvious.... He's the

man all right, the same general who had Washington spinning yo-

yos into their toilet bowls over his Chinese trial."

"Without acknowledging a word of truth in your ludicrous

conjecture, what's your point?"

"Well, it's related to the method of my recruitment for this

particular job." Cyrus swung the binoculars slowly back and forth,

his large head and shoulders moving like the animated upper torso

of an impressive statue, no less menacing for its sculpted lines.

"You see, I've worked for this outfit off and on for a number of

years, a lot more in the early days, frankly, but I know them and the

rules don't change. On any normal job we're given a brief but in-

depth rundown on the assignment--2'

"What exactly does that meanT' asked Sam.

"Names, backgrounds, quick verbal brush strokes describing the

nature of the job-@'

"Why?" interrupted Devereaux.

"Hey, Counselor," said Cyrus softly, lowering the field glasses

and looking at Sam. "You're really playing lawyer now, aren't you?"

"Since you obviously know that I am one, what do you expect?

... How did you know, by the way?"

"You cats are all alike," replied the guard, chuckling. "You

couldn't hide it if you were mute-your hands would fly off your

wrists arguing in sign language."

"You heard me?"

"I heard the three of you-the old guy, the tan-skinned lady who

doesn't need the sun to get that way, and you. If you remember, I

was ordered by the general to walk around this place for a couple

of hours last night checking every point of entry. The three of you

stayed up after your mother--at least I think she' ' s your mother-and

'Commander H,' who might actually be Preparation H, went to

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 305,

bed. Let's say I've been in and around the law a few times in my

adult life so I know when I hear lawyers talking."

"All right," conceded Devereaux. "To my first question: Why are

you merely hired guards given rundowns on your jobs?"

"Because we're not merely guards, we're mercenaries--2'

"You're what?" screamed Sam.

"Combat soldiers for hire, and keep your voice down."

"Oh, my God!" Unfortunately, with that misdirected prayer,

Devereaux spilled the mug of coffee all over the front of his slacks.

"Jesus, it's hot!"

"Good coffee usually is."

"Shut your face!" cried Sam, bending over and billowing his

trousers in futility. "Mercenaries?"

"You heard me, and that should lead to the answer to your first

question, namely, why are we given rundowns on our assignments.

I'll tell you.... The conventional wisdom is that mercenaries will

accept any assignment for the almighty dollar, but it isn't true. I've

swung on both sides when it didn't matter, but I won't when it does.

I just won't take the job.... I also won't take it if I don't feel

comfortable with those who do-which is why you're lacking a third

'guard.' '

"There was supposed to be someone else?" "He's not here, so

there's no point going into it." "Okay, okay!" Devereaux

straightened up and continued with what dignity he could

summon. "Which leads, me to my second question, which was-

what the bell was it?" "You didn't pose it, Counselor, I left it

open." "Clarify, if you please."

"Why weren't we given a more complete rundown on this

assignment? ... And from long experience, I'll try to give you a

reasonable answer."

"Please do."

"All we were told was that there were seven of you, three

military, and that second fact was to sweeten the job. No

circumstances, no description of potential enemies, not a shred of

politics-politics in the broader sense, like in the legality or illegality

of a cause-in essence, nothing

306 ROBERT LUDLUM

except numbers which could be meaningless. Does that tell you

anything?"

"The obvious," replied Sam. "The circumstances surrounding

this assignment, as you call it, must remain secret."

"fbat's acceptable government-speak, not merc-speak."

"Merc?"

"Mercenary language. We accept high risk for high dollars, but

we're not duty bound to operate in the dark on a, let's say, need-to-

know basis. That's for career intelligence junkies who go deep

cover into Cambodia or Tanganyika and are lucky if their families

get their full pensions when they don't come home. Do you begin

to see the difference?"

"So far it's not very difficult to grasp, but I don't know what

you're driving at."

"I'll spell it out for you. The absent pages of this scenario have

one of two possibilities. The first is unsanctioned government

intervention, which means nobody can know anything because

anybody who does, official and otherwise, could end up in

Leavenworth or in a lye pit ... and the second possibility is even

less promising."

"Do tell?" said Devereaux, his anxious eyes studying the

impassive face of Cyrus M.

"A sting operation, Counselor."

"A sting ... T'

"Yes, but not the lovable sort that trips up a crook who's

mounting a con, or even one that catches nasty people taking

bribes when they shouldn't, but a far more lethal one.... There's a

term for it; it's called a 'permanent sting'.

"Permanent?"

"As in no recovery."

"You mean-T'

"Dum-dum-tee-dum, dunt-tee-dum-tee-dunt-tee-dum, hummed the

huge mercenary.

"What?" yelled Sam.

"Keep your voice down! ... I'm trying to explain the second

possibility. A wall of protectionlis built to disguise the real intent.

Execution."

"Jesus Christ! ... Why are you telling me thisT'

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 307

"Because I may pull Roman Z and me out."

"Why? "

"I didn't like the third merc they sent, and beyond that, now

knowing who Commander H is, somebody's really after your

general's ass, probably all of your asses since you're all in his

sandbox. You may be lunatics, but from what I can see, you don't

deserve this, especially the girl, and I don't want to be a part of it....

I'll set up the lithium trips-if they ever get here-and then we'll think

about it."

"My God, Cyrus ...

"I thought I heard voices, also a few shrieks " said Jennifer

Redwing, walking through the kitchen door carrying a cup of tea.

"Sam DevereatLx!" she roared, staring at the attorney's trousers.

"You did it again!"

The six men ranged in age from twenty-six to thirty-five, some with

more hair rather than less and several taller or shorter than the

others, but there were three constants that applied to all. Each face

had a distinctive "look," whether sharp- or broad-featured, with

piercing or neutral eyes, the face itself had a quality of immediacy,

of ... let's face it, theatricality. And each body was a trained body:

the years studying acrobatics, swordsmanship, dance (modem and

chorus), martial arts (stunt pay, according to the Screen Actors

Guild), double takes and pratfalls (indigenous to low comedy and

farce), costume movement (very big in Shakespeare and those

Greek playwrights)-these were necessary. Lastly, each pair of vocal

cords was capable of the widest range of octaval pitch, along with

an even wider range of dialects (mandatory for voice-over com-

mercials). All of the above were essential to their craftnay, their

art!-and naturally to their r6sunids, which had fallen with staccato

regularity on the desks of unappreciative agents and producers.

They were actors, the most bled and most misunderstood human

beings on the face of the earth--especially when unemployed. In a

word, they were unique.

Their unit, too, -W as unique in the annals of covert operations.

It was initially formed by an elderly G-T1wo colonel

308 ROBERT LUDLUM

in Fort Benning who was an addict where films, television, and the

stage were concerned. He was known to call off whole night

training sessions if they interfered with a movie he wanted to see in

Pittsfield, Phoenix, or-Columbus; he also reputedly cadged air force

transportation to see certain plays in New York and Atlanta. But

becaue of its accessibility, television was his personal narcotic. It

was confirmed by his fourth wife in their divorce proceedings that

he incessantly stayed up all night in front of the TV set watching, at

times, two or three late films by switching the channels on his

remote control. So, naturally, when six actors, real, honest-to-

Equity actors, showed up at Fort Berming, his imagination went into

high gear-some fellow officers claimed the old boy let it fly right out

of the gearbox.

He monitored each man throughout basic training, marveling at

their individual physical capabilities as well as their collective

proclivity for calling attention to themselves in a crowd, but- always

in a positive way. He stood in awe at the way each instinctively

mixed so naturally with his immediate and changing surroundings,

one minute using the vernacular of the streets with urban recruits,

the next employing the down-home language of the country boys.

Colonel Ethelred Brokernichael-former Brigadier General

Brokemichael, until that lousy Harvard lawyer in the Inspector

General's office had wrongfully accused him of drug dealing in

Southeast Asia! Drugs? He didn't know a coke from a cola! He had

facilitated the transport of medical supplies, and when offered

money, gave most of it to the orphanages, saving a minor amount

for future theater tickets. But with these actors, he knew he had

found his way back to the rank he so richly deserved. (He often

wondered why his cousin Heseltine had opted for resignation when

he was the one who had been severely reprimanded and reduced

in rank, not Heseltine, that whining debutant who always wanted the

fanciest uniforms this side of some goddamned operetta.)

Nevertheless, he had found it! A totally original concept for

clandestine operations: a unit of trained, professional actors, like

chameleons capable of altering appearances and attitu s

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 309

commensurate with whatever targets they were to penetrate. A

living, breathing, repertory acting company of agents provocateurs!

A winner!

So the demoted Colonel Ethelred Brokemichael, using a few

well-placed Pentagon connections, had his small group of

performers assigned solely to him, to upgrade as he wished, and to

send into the field as covert projects required ' He had thought of

calling them "The Z Team," but the actors, in concert, rejected the

name. They refused to accept the last letter of the alphabet, and

since the first letter was undoubtedly copyrighted, they insisted on

some other appellation, because if there was ever a television se-

ries, they wanted control of casting, scripts, residuals, and

subsidiary rights, in that order.

The name came with their third infiltration within a nine-month

period, when they -penetrated a notorious band of the Brigate

Rosse in Colonna, Italy, and freed an American diplomat who was

being held hostage. They had done so by taking an ad out in the

newspapers claiming they were, the finest communist caterers in

the city, which no one had ever done, and were subsequently hired

by the Brigate to cater a birthday party for its vicious terrorist chief

at their hidden headquarters. The rest, as the bromide says, was

zuppa dianitra, duck soup. However, within covert operations, the

legend was born. The Suicidal Six was a force to be reckoned with.

Subsequent operations in Beirut, the Gaza, Osaka, Singapore,

and Basking Ridge, New Jersey, only added to the unit's reputation.

They had managed to infiltrate and draw out many of the world's

most savage criminals, from drug runners and arms merchants to

contract killers and real estate developers, and throughout these

hazardous missions they had suffered no casualties whatsoever.

They had also never fired a gun, or unleashed a kn - ife, or

thrown a grenade. However, only one man knew thatthe reinstated

Brigadier General Ethelred Brokemichael. It was such a disgrace!

The famed Suicidal Six, that assumed paragon of those lethal death

squads, had never wasted anybody-had talked their way into and

out of every potentially fatal assignment they were given. It was ut-

terly humiliating!

310 ROBERT LUDLUM

When Secretary of State Warren Pease arrived at Fort Benning

and drove in a two-man Jeep to the farthest point of the ninety-eight

thousand acres that was the army -preserve to deliver his top-secret

instructions to Brokemichael, did Ethelred see the light at the end

of his own personal tunnel, his own very private revenge! The

conversation went as follows.

"I've cleared it with our people in Sweden," said Pease. "They'll

tell the Nobel committee that it's a national crisis, and how much

herring do we have to import anyhow? Then your boys fly up from

Washington, not Stockholm, presumably having talked to the

President, and the mayor of Boston greets them at the airport with

a press conference and limousines and motorcycle escorts, the

whole enchilada."

"Why BostonT'

"Because it's the Athens of America, the seat of learning, the

place where such a delegation should speak from."

"Also maybe where Hawkins happens to be?"

"We think it's possible," interrupted the Secretary of State.

"What's certain, however, is that he can't walk away from that

award."

"For God's sake, the Hawk would bust out of a compound in

Hanoi and swim across the Pacific to get it! Jesus, the Soldier of

the Century! Old Georgie Patton will be sending down lightning

bolts."

"And once he shows up, your boys take him and we're off

across the Atlantic heading north, far north. Along with every one

of the unpatriotic bastards who works for him."

"Who might they be?" asked General Brokemichael, only mildly

interested.

"Well, the first is a Boston attorney who defended Hawkins in

Beijing, a lawyer named Devereaux--@'

"Aurragh!" screamed the brigadier, his roar only to be compared

to a nuclear blast on a desert. "The Harvard prick?" he shrieked,

the veins in his elderly throat so pronounced that the Secretary of

State thought he might expire on the adjacent patch of wildflowers.

"Yes, I believe he went to Harvard."

"He's dead, dead, dead!" yelled the general, suddenly punching

the Georgia air with his fists and kicking up the

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 1 311

dirt with his quite unnecessary paratrooper boots. "He's history, I-

promise you! ... Brian Donlevy said that at Zindelneuf in Beau

Geste."

Marlon, Dustin, Telly, and The Duke sat facing one another in the

four front swivel chairs of Air Force II while Sylvester and Sir Larry

were at the small conference table in the center of the plane. All

kept going over their written lines as well as the improv lead-ins

that would result in spontaneous rambling conversations. As the

official aircraft began its initial descent into the Boston area, the

babIble of six different voices was heard, all heavily laced with

individual interpretations of a Swedish dialect as applied to the

English language. Eight-inch by ten-inch mirrors were also held in

front of each face as the warriors of -the Suicidal Six checked their

makeup--three chin beards, two mustaches, and a toupee for Sir

Larry.

"Hi, there!" yelled a youngish blond-haired man emerging from

a closed cabin door at the rear of the plane. 'The pilot said I could

come out now."

The cacophony of voices subsided as the Vice-President of the

United States walked, grinning, into the wide body of the aircraft.

"Isn't this fun?" he said brightly.

"Who's him?" asked Sylvester.

"He," corrected Sir Larry, adjusting his toupee. "Who's he, Sly."

"Yeah, sure, but what is it?"

"This is my plane," replied the heir apparent to the Oval Office.

"Isn't it great?"

"Take a seat, pilgrim," said The - Duke. "If you want some grub

or a bottle of rot gut, just press one of the buttons over there."

"I know, I know. All these swell guys are my crew!"

"He-he-he-he's the-the-Vice-Vice-Vice ... you know," cried Dustin,

shaking his head not back and forth but in circles. "He was born at

preciselyprecisely-precisely eleven twenty-two in the morning in

1951 --- exactly six-six-six years, twelve days, seven hours-hours-

hours and twenty-two-two-4wo minutes

312 ROBERT LUDLUM

after the Japanese-Japanese-Japanese surrendered on the

battleship-ship-ship Missouri."

"G'wan, Dusty!" shouted Marion, scratching his left armpit with

his right hand. "I'm sick of that bit-bit-bit, you got an understanding

of wherefrom I'm coming from, huh, Dusty?"

"You and your streetcar-streetcar-streetcar!"

"Hey, come on, baby face, you wanna lollipop?" asked Telly,

grinning at the Veep, but with eyes that were not smiling at all.

"You're okay, kid, but sit down and close the choppers, all right? We

got work to do, you dig?"

"I was told you're actors!" said the Vice-President, lurching into

an aisle seat across from the foursome, his expression alive with

excitement. "I've often thought I'd like to be an actor. You know, a

lot of people think I look like that movie star-"

"He can't act!" pronounced Sir Larry in high British dudgeon

from the table behind. "It was all luck and pull and that stupid,

implausible face of his, totally devoid of character."

"A passable director-director-director," offered Dustin.

"Wadda you, crazyT' belched Marlon. "Mat was casting. The

actors carried him!"

"Maybe he cast 'em," suggested Sylvester. "Y'know, it's

possible-like, man."

"You listen to me, pilgrims," said The Duke, squinting, his eyes

roving around the chairs. "It's all that dirty business in those offices

of them land-grabbin', cattle-rustlin' agents. It's what they call

'pyramid deals.' You get the star, you take all the crap beneath."

"Boy, this is real actor talk!" exploded the VicePresident.

"It's shit, baby, and don't get your pretty face near it."

"Telly!" cried Sir Larry angrily. "How many times have I told you

that some people can get away with obscenity, but you can't, dear

heart! From you, it's offensive."

"Hey, man," intruded Marlon, making facial contortions into his

miffor. "What the hell is he supposed to say? 'Fie on you, great

Caesar?' I tried that a couple of times and it din't work."

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 313

"You don't speak so good, Marley," said Sylvester, gluing on his

chin beard. "You gotta speak real good to make them stupid words

make sense."

"You should talk, you gutter person!"

I also don't try too much of that Jake's beer, which for me is a

dollar a pitcher!"

"Hey, very good, Sly!" shouted Marlon in his perfectly normal

Midwest voice, devoid of slurs and shishes. "Really terrific!"

"Fine retort, mi'boy," said Telly, as if he were a cultured

university professor of English.

"We can do anything," added Dustin, smoothing his mustache.

"Well, we'd better be damn good down there at Logan Airport,

gentlemen," said The Duke, checking his slightly rouged nose and

speaking in a voice properly belonging to a high-ranking corporate

executive.

"Hog damn, we're great!" yelled Sir Larry, in tones reminiscent

of the Okefenokee Swamp.

"Good Lord," exclaimed Sylvester, the mid-Atlantic vowels of a

Yale Drama School graduate coming through as he stared at the

Vice-President. "You really are him!"

.'He, Sly!" Larry corrected again, briefly slipping back into

aristocratic British. "At least, I think so."

"A naturally evolved vernacular legitimatizes its usage," retaliated

Sylvester, still looking at the Vice-President. "We appreciate the use

of your aircraft, sir, but how comeT'

"Secretary of State Pease thought it would make a nice

impression on Boston, and since I wasn't doing anything-I mean, I

do a lot, but I wasn't doing anything this week-so I said, 'Sure, why

notT " The heir apparent leaned forward conspiratorially. "I even

signed the 'finding.' 11

"The what?" asked Telly, taking his eyes off his face in the

mirror.

"The intelligence finding for your operation."

"We know what it is, young man," said The Duke, his well-spoken

voice reflecting his current role as somebody's chief executive

officer. "But I believe only the-President can sign such a

document."

314 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Well, he was in the bathroom, and I was there, so I said, 'Sure,

why not?' "

"Fellow thespians," pronounced Telly, returning to his mirror, his

vibrato right out of that famed theatrical institution, The Players, in

New York's Gramercy Park. "If we don't pull it off, Congress will

give this young man a testimonial dinner he'll never forget."

"Actually, I've made some new friends over there-"

"With him on the spit-spit-spit," completed Dustin" jerkily

revolving his head. "For exactly--exactly--exactly four-four hours,

twenty-twenty-twenty minutes and thirty-two-two-two seconds. His

ass will be extremely well done."

"Oh, a roast! I'd like that. It shows they really like Yoe,

"Are you going to introduce us at the airport press conference?"

asked Marlon skeptically, his quiet, warm Midwest accent

pronounced.

"Me? No, the mayor will meet you. Actually I'm not supposed to

get off the plane for an hour or so, and then without any press

whatsoever."

"Then why get off the plane at all?" said the erudite Yalie who

called himself Sylvester. "We're using air force equipment to take

us to---7'

"Don't tell me," shrieked the Vice-President, cupping his ears

with his hands. "I'm not supposed to know anything!"

"Not supposed to know anything?" questioned The Duke. "You

signed the finding, sir."

"Well, sure, why not? But who the heck ever reads those dumb

things?"

"Pore Jud is daid, a candle lightshis haid, " sang Telly softly

from his swivel chair, his bass-baritone perfectly acceptable for the

touching Rodgers and Hammerstein song.

"I repeat," repeated Sylvester. "Wh leave the planeT'

I y

"I have to. You see, some son of a butterball stole my wife's car

from back home-her car, not mine-and I have to identify it."

"You're kidding!" said Dustin, no eccentricities in his delivery.

"It's here in Boston?"

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 315

"I'm told it was driven by some very unsavory characters."

"What are you going to do?" asked Marlon.

"Kick some fucker's ass to the eighteenth hole and back, that's

what I'm going lo do!"

. Once more there was a brief silence as The Duke rose to his

full height, surveying his comrades' quiet attention on the Vice-

President, then spoke in the lingo of his namesake. "You may be

rancho correcto after all, pilgrim. Maybe we could even help."

"Well, of course, I never curse, at least hardly ever-2' "Curse,

baby," broke in Telly, reaching into his vest pocket and withdrawing

a stringed piece of candy. "Have a lollipop and don't back off. You

just may have made a couple of friends here. I figure you can use

'ern."

"Prepare for our final descent into Boston @ Logan Airport, "

came the words over the loudspeaker from Air Force II's flight deck.

"Estimated arrival in eighteen minutes. "

"There's still time for us to have a drink, sirl" said the soft-

spoken Marlon, studying the young, blond-haired politician. "All you

have to do is summon your steward."

"Why the hell not?" The Vice-President of the United States

rebelliously pressed the button, and within moments-perhaps too

many moments-the air force steward appeared-perhaps not too

enthusiastically.

"Wadd'ya want?" asked the corporal, insistently cowing the

young Veep.

"What did you say, pilgrim?" shouted The Duke, still standing.

"I beg your pardon

"Do you know who this man is?"

"Yes, sir, of course, sir!"

"Then sit straight in yer saddle and canter, don't trot!"

In far fewer minutes than his arrival might have indicated, the

corporal and a second crewman returned with drinks for everyone.

And everyone smiled as they raised their glasses.

"To you, sir," toasted Dustin in his clear, precise voice.

"I'll second that," said Telly.. "And forget the lollipop, my friend."

316 ROBERT LUDLUM

'qbird... !"

"Fourth...

"Fifth... !"

"Sixth!" finalized The Duke, nodding his head in the best tradition

of corporate acknowledgment,

"Gosh; you guys are really great fellows!"

"It's our convenient and ubiquitous privilege to befriend the Vice-

President of the United States," said the gentle Marlon, glancing at

the others as he drank.

"Gee, I don't know what to say. I feel like I'm one of you!"

"You are, pilgrim, you are," said The Duke, raising his glass for

a second time. "You've been crapped upon, too."

Jennifer Redwing, with the enthusiastic assistance of Erin Lafferty,

as well as the sous-chef labors of Desis One and Two, created a

multinational barbecue on the redwood porch. Since the steel-

constructed pit contained four broiling areas, each regulated by a

separate dial, the tastes of everyone could be served. Paddy

Lafferty's wife called the kosher boys in Marblehead and had them

deliver the finest salmon and the freshest chickens, then she

reached the boyos in Lynn to send up the best porterhouses they

had

in stock. I

"I don't know what I can do about you, you outrageously

beautiful lass," cried Erin, looking wide-eyed at Jennifer in the

kitchen. "Should I try to get some buffalo meat?"

"No, dear Erin," replied Jenn laughing as she peeled

I Y,

the large Idaho potatoes they had found in the subcellar. "I'll broil

a few slices of the salmon."

"Oh, like yet Indian fishes in them rushin'-like-hell riversT'

"No again, Erin. Like those less-in-cholesterol meals we're all

supposed to eat."

"I tried some of those on Paddy, and y'know what he told me?

... He told me he'd tell the Lord God himselfface to face, mind you-

that if He didn't want his redblooded boyos to eat porters, why the

hell did He put them creatures on the earth for us to eat?"

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 317

"Did your husband ever get an answer?"

"By his lights, he did. Two years ago, thanks to Mr.

Pinkus, we visited our roots'in Ireland, and Paddy got on

his ass and kissed the Stone of Blarney. When he got up

he said to me, he said: 'I got the message, wifey. Where

porters are concerned, I'm the exception, and that's the

holy truth!' "

"You accepted that?"

"Come now, lass," replied Erin Lafferty, smiling sweetly, not

necessarily innocently. "He's my boyo, the only boyo I've ever

wanted in ni'life. After thirty-five years I'm going to question his

visions?"

"T'hen give him his porters."

"Oh, I do, Jenny, but I cut out all the fat and he screams like hell

that the butcher's cheatin' us or I'm cookin' 'ern wrong.

"What do you do then?"

"An extra glass of whisky, lass, and maybe a few strokes where

it takes his mind off his mouth."

"You're a remarkable woman, Erin."

"Oh, cut the bullshit, girt!" said Paddy Lafferty's wife, laughing

as she chopped the lettuce for a saw. "When you get a man of your

own, you'll learn a few things. The first is to keep him alive; the

second is to keep his batteries from goin' dead, and that's all there

is to it!"

"I envy you, Erin." Redwing studied the fine-featured yet fleshed-

out face of Mrs. Lafferty. "You have something I don't think I'll ever

have."

"Why not, girl?" Erin stopped chopping.

"I don't know.... Perhaps I have to be stronger than any man that

wants me in that way-the marriage bit, I mean. I won't be

subjugated."

"You mean like being below the guy what marries you, no dirty

language intended7"

"Yes, I guess that's what I mean. I can't be subservient."

"I'm not sure what sub-subservant means, but I figure it's like

bein' low class, or no class, is that what you're sayin'T'

"I'liat's exactly what I'm saying." "Well, ain't there a better

way? Like what I do with

318 ROBERT LUDLUM

Paddy-who I would care to spend the rest of my life with-by tellin'

him , that he can still have his porters, but he don't know I cut off

the fat. He gets his steaks-so he stops complaining-but that fat

crap goes away until he gets his teeth into the last quarter inch of

the bone. Y'see what I mean? Give the gorilla the last small taste

on the bone and he forgets the rest. He's happy."

"Are you suggesting that we women manipulate our male

counterparts?"

"What have we been doing for years? ... Until you screechers

came along we had it right. Tell 'em anything, but give 'ern yer own

perfume."

"Remarkable," said the daughter of the Wopotamis pensively.

Suddenly, from the huge living room beyond the kitchen door,

there were screams of anguish or exultation, or both-it, was

impossible to differentiate. Jennifer dropped a potato on the floor

as Erin involuntarily threw a head of lettuce up into a light fixture,

smashing a long neon tube, the glass particles descending into her

salad bowl. Desi the First appeared, crashing the door open with

such force it slammed back from the wall into his face, dislodging

the temporary dentistry in his mouth.

"Chu!" he yelled. "Come out here and look at the teledifusi6n!

Ees loco-ees crazy like vacas with testiculos!"

Both women raced to the door, ran out into the living room, and

stared in total bewilderment at the television screen. There were six

obviously important visitors to Boston, all in formal clothes, some

with short, clipped beards, others clean-shaven or with waxed

mustaches, and each wearing a black homburg. They were being

greeted by the mayor of Bean Town, who was equally obvious in his

inability to express the city's greetings.

"So we welcome you to Bahsten, gentlemen of the Noble

committee from Swedeland, and extend to you our heartfelt thanks

for choosin' the great university of Haavadd for your seminal on

international relatives and your search for the Soldier of the

Century, namely a certain General MacKenzie Hawkins, who you

presume to be

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 319

in our far west frontiers and will hear or watch this broadcast-who

wrote this shit?"

"We break away to bring you up to date!" intruded the voice of

the announcer as the screen went mute. "The illustrious Nobelll

committee has arrived in Boston to participate in Harvard's

symposium on international relations, yet the spokesman, Sir Lars

Olafer, stated upon arrival a few minutes ago that a secondary

purpose was to determine the whereabouts of General MacKenzie

Hawkins, twice recipient of the Congressional Medal of Honor and

selected by the Nobel committee as the Soldier of the Century....

The mayor's motorcade will soon be off to the Four Seasons Hotel,

where the Swedish committee will reside during the Harvard

symposium.... One minute, please. We have a call from the

President of Harvard University... What symposium? How the hell do

I know, you run the place, not me! . . .,Sorry, folks, a minor com-

munications glitch in Cambridge.... Now, back to our regular

program, a rerun of our most popular program, Watch Your Assets."

"Somebody send in the dwar

fs ...

MacKenzie Hawkins got out of his -chair and roared. "Goddamn,

Soldier of the Century! Did you all hear that? ... Of course,-it had to

happen sooner or later, but the fact that it actually did makes me

the proudest combat officer that ever lived! And let me tell you,

boys and girls, I intend to share this great honor with every grunt

who ever served under my command, because they're the real

heroes and I want the world to know it!"

"General," said the giant black mercenary calmly, even gently.

"You and I have to talk."

"About what, Colonel?"

"I'm not a Colonel and you're not the Soldier of the Century.

This is the setup."

20

The silence was both electric and affecting. It was as if all gathered

were witnessing the pain of a large, faithful animal being betrayed

by some unseen master who had cast it aside, leaving it to the

murderous whims of a wolf pack. Jennifer Redwing walked quietly

to the television set and turned it off as MacKenzie Hawkins stared

at Cyrus.

"I think you should explain yourself, Colonel," said the general,

his eyes conveying astonishment and hurt. "You and I just saw a

network news program and heard the words spoken by a

distinguished foreign visitor, a spokesman for the Swedish Nobel

committee; and unless my hearing is beyond repair, he announced

that I was to be the recipient of the Soldier of the Century award.

Since this broadcast, and the reporting of it, will undoubtedly be

seen by millions of people throughout the civilized world, I submit

that a fabrication is unthinkable."

"The ultimate permanent sting," said Cyrus M softly.

"I tried to explain that to your colleagues, Miss R. and

Mr. D."

"Try again with me, Colonel."

"To repeat myself, I'm not a colonel, General--2'

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 321

"And I'm not the Soldier of the Century," broke in Hawkins. "I

assume you care to repeat that, too."

"You may be entitled to that honor, sir, but it would never come

from anyone associated with the Nobel committee."

" What?

"Let me spell it out for you so there's no misunderstanding." -

"Are ou, by chance, an attorney?" interrupted Aaron y

Pinkus.

"No, but among other pursuits, I am alchemist."

"A chemist?" asked the further-stunned Hawkins. "Then what the

hell do you know about anything?"

"Well, I'm certainly not in @ a class with Alfred Nobel, who was

also a chernist,and who also invented dynamite, and who-many

believe-to assuage his guilt over that invention, created the Nobel

awards, not one of which would ever be associated with, war. The

concept of a Soldier of the Century would be anathema to the Nobel

committee."

"So what precisely are you saying, Cyrus?" interjected Jennifer.

"An extension of what I told you this morning. This is the trap

to pull in General Hawkins--.2'

"You know my name?" cried MacKenzie.

"'He knows your name, Mac, let it go," said Devereaux.

"How?"

"Forget it, General," replied Redwing. "For the moment, he's my

witness.... Okay, Cyrus, it's a trap. What else? And from the tone of

your voice, I'd say there was something else."

"This isn't minor-league lunatics with Alexander the Great

complexes any longer. This operation is solo and comes from

some son-of-a-bitch top gun in the government."

"Washington?" asked an incredulous Aaron Pinkus.

"Someone in Washington," refined the mercenary. "Not

ù collective effort, too much danger of leaks for that, but

ù highly placed authority who can mount this. on his own."

"Why do you say that?" persisted Aaron.

"Because the Nobel committee in Sweden is pure, and to make

it even temporarily impure would take the office of a very important

person. After all, any respectable jour-322 ROBERT LUDLUM

nalist could reach Stockholm and get a confirmation. I suspect that

confirmation has already been given."

"Oh, boy!" exclaimed Sam Devereaux. "This is hardball."

"I believe I said as much this morning."

"You also told me that you were thinking of pulling yourself and

Roman Z out of here once those trip things with the lithium things

were in place.... They're in place, Cyrus. What now? Are you going

to leave us?"

"No, Counselor, I've changed my mind. We're staying."

"Why?" asked Jennifer Redwing.

"I suppose you expect some profound racial statement, like how

we niggers had to survive the Klan by developing a sixth sense and

get damned upset when the government behaves in like fashion.

That's voodoo."

"Hey, don't the big guy talk good?" interrupted Mrs. Lafferty.

"Later, dear Erin," said Redwing, her attention on Cyrus. "All

right, Mr. Mercenary, no racial voodoo, which I know something

about. Why are you staying?"

"Is it important?"

"It is to me."

"I can understand that," said Cyrus, smiling.

"I don't understand a goddamned thing!" exploded MacKenzie

Hawkins, crushing a cigar in his fingers as he put it into his mouth.

"Then let the gentleman answer," rejoined Aaron Pinkus. "If

you'll forgive me, General, please shut the hell up.,, @

"One commander does not give such an order to another!"

"Oh, blow it out your ass," said Aaron, suddenly shaking his

head, as if wondering where the words had come from. "Good

heavens, I'm terribly sorry!"

"Don't be," broke in Sam. "You were saying, Cyrus?"

"Okay, Counselor," said the mercenary, looking at Devereaux.

"How much have you and the lady told the others?"

"Everything you told us, except it wasn't the others, just Aaron.

We didn't include Mac or his 'adjutants' or my mother here-_2'

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 323

"Why the hell not tell me?" shouted the general. . . whatever

the hell it is you're not talking about!"

"We needed more to go on before you began issuing orders,"

replied Sam curtly, turning back to Cyrus. "Also, we included your

difficulties in Stuttgart and the aftereffects. Your 'release' from

prison, as it were."

"It doesn't matter. If this is the mess I think it is and Roman Z

and I can help you, I have an idea you won't use it against us."

"You have my word on that," insisted Redwing.

"I didn't hear a thing," added Devereaux.

"You wouldn't have," said the mercenary pointedly. "Your

questions were clumsy, while Miss R.'s were direct and made

sense. She made it plain that in order to believe me, she needed

some background credibility. I simply gave it to her."

"It's all hearsay and inadmissible, as far as I'm concerned," said

Pinkus.

"My interrogations are never clumsy," mumbled Sam.

"Well, you had a lot on your mind ... as well as your trousers,"

said Jennifer quietly. "You say your decision to stay isn't racial,

Cyrus, but no one brought up that point but you. Are you protesting

too much? You were a black man wrongfully convicted; if it

happened to me, an Indian, I'd be mad as hell and stay mad for a

long time. I'd want to strike back at any symbol of authority and I'm

not sure the cause would matter. Is that why you're staying?"

"Your psychology's sound but it's not applicable. Basically,

my plea of self-defense notwithstanding, I was put in jail, not

because I was black, but because I was one hell of a chemical

engineer. Now, maybe a few idiots in Stuttgart figured that a

Schwarzer wasn't capable of analyzing their final stage of

synthesizing compounds--2' "Boy, he's somethin'!" cried Mrs.

Lafferty.

"Please, dear Erin."

"Nevertheless," continued Cyrus. "The order for that end-user

contract was approved by the head honcho of the Arms Control

Commission, whom I had personally alerted in writing through a

diplomatic relay I never met. One big lousy government appointee

with his hand in the till never let my initial suspicions reach the rest

of the commission.

324 ROBERT LUDLUM

I was-forgive the term-blacked out, and it had nothing to do with my

color, because analytical reports do not in- clude such information."

"How is your experience in Stuttgart related to this evening's

press conference at Logan Airport?" asked Pinkus.

"Coupled with everything I told your associates about the

strange circumstances of this assignment, I have to go back to that

sixth sense I denied, because this isn't raceoriented-it's corruption-

oriented, government corruption. One powerful man in arms control

was capable of getting my black butt out of a German prison, where

it would have stayed for fifty years if it lasted a month, by pressur-

ing the Bonn courts and cutting a deal with me. Suddenly, there

was silence, the voice of the turtle was the only sound heard about

that! chemical plant, and n3y bargain was to draw five and serve

maybe one if I kept my mouth shut-all for appearances. And don't

tell me Palms weren't greased."

"But you did cut the deal," said Jennifer, not kindly. "A

convenient plea bargain."

"I wasn't too tickled over being the only black in a German

prison where a lot of the inmates are skinhead maniacs waiting for

Adolf to rise from the dead."

"I'm sorry, I understand. We, too, have developed a sixth

sense."

"No, please, don't apologize," protested the mercenary soffly.

"When I saw those films on the prison television, all those people

put down by the chemicals I knew about, I was ashamed of myself."

"Hey, come on, Colonel--2'

"For God's sake, stop that, Counselor. I'm no colonel."

"No, I mean it!" continued Devereaux rapidly. "What could you

have done being incarcerated for fifty years, if you'd lasted fifty

minutes with the skinheads?"

"That was my rationalization, and it's also why I broke out with

Roman Z. This kind of crap has got to stop, man!"

"And you believe a variation - of what you experienced is

happening now to General Hawkins?" asked Aaron, leaning forward

in his chair. 'The evidence being the newscast we just witnessed."

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 325

"I'll tell you what I won't and can't believe is that there'd ever be

a Nobel prize for the Soldier of the Century. Secondly, why did this

so-called committee fly into Boston, the only airport in the vicinity,

where you've already been attacked, which means you've been

tracked by superior high-tech government intelligence? Thirdly, that

quartet of confused psychopathic crazies who tried to take you in

Hooksett were strictly out-of-sanction moronic lowlifes-someone

you'll never find bribed a stockade warden, is my guess. You

figured that out by a stenciled prison laundry mark inside a pair of

trousers and sent them back in body bags."

"Goddamned slugs!" roared MacKenzie Hawkins. "What we sent

back was a message! ... Will somebody tell me what we're talking

about?"

"We'll fill you in later, Mac," answered Sam, his hand on Cyrus's

shoulder. "If I read you right," said Devereaux, "we have to find out

who's now running this operation, am I correct?"

"You've got it," said the mercenary. "Because the assault on you

in New Hampshire may have the same origins, but they've gone

upscale-maybe too upscale, and that means they could be

vulnerable."

"Why do you say that?" asked Pinkus.

"These came in on Air Force Two," replied Cyrus. "They're

foreign civilians accorded the second highest aircraft in the country,

which means it has to be cleared b , y one of three sources: the

White House, which we can dismiss because they've got enough

trouble with that kid; the CIA, which we should reject out of hand,

'cause half the country rightfully thinks the initials mean Caught in

the Act, and they probably wouldn@t risk another embarrassment;

and lastly the State Department, which nobody knows what the hell

they're doing but they do it anyway. My guess is one of the last

two; and if we can find out which it is, we'll narrow down the

possible people who could order out that plane. Among them is the

big bad cannon."

"Perhaps both the Department of State and the CIAT' suggested

Pinkus.

"No way. The Agency doesn't trust State and vice

326 ROBERT LUDLUM

versa. Also, there's too much risk of leaks by combining forces."

"Suppose we find out it's one or the other?" asked Sam. "What

then?"

"We shake the bones of every conceivable Washington big shot

until they rattle. We have to find out who's behind this operation-I

mean really nail him or her down: name, rank, and serial number-

because it's the only way to insure your safety."

"How?"

"Exposure, Sam," said Jennifer. "We're still a nation of laws, not

maniacs in Washington."

"Who says?"

"Moot point," agreed Redwing. "What should we do, Cyrus?"

"The optimum would be to send someone impersonating the

general to that hotel they mentioned, with me and Roman Z as his

civilian aides. It's standard that a retired general with two

Congressionals would have aides."

"What about Desis One and Two?" asked Aaron. "They'll be

hurt."

"Why? They'd be with the real Hawkins."

"Oh, of course. This feeble mind is aging. Everything's

happening so fast."

"Also, they're good boys, and you people should be covered

here." Cyrus stopped, suddenly aware of Eleanor Devereaux's

withering stare from the couch. "Man, that lady doesn't like me," he

whispered.

"She doesn't know you," said Sam in a low voice. "Once she

does, she']] make a large donation to the United Negro College

Fund, I promise."

"Sure, a black mercenary is a terrible thing to waste.... Damn,

there's no one here who could pass for the general. We've got to

think of something else."

"Wait a minute!" broke in Pinkus. "Shirley and I support the local

theater groups-she likes to have her picture taken at the opening

nights. There's a particular favorite, an elderly performer who's

been in a great many Broadway plays; he's in what you might call

semiretirement. I'm sure I could convince him to help us out, for a

fee, of course.... But only, of course, if he was completely safe."

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 327

"You have my word on that, sir," said Cyrus. "No possible harm

could come to him, because Roman Z and I will be on either side of

him."

"An actor?" exclaimed Devereaux. "That's crazy!"

"In truth, he frequently appears a touch that way." The telephone

rang on the table beside Aaron's chair; instantly he picked it up.

"Yes? ... It's for you, Sam. I believe it's your maid, Cousin Cora."

"Oh, my God, I forgot all about her!" said Devereaux, walking

around the table to the phone.

"I didn't," interrupted Eleanor. "I spoke to her last night, but I

didn't tell her where we were or give her this number."

"Cora, " cried Sam. "How are ... you talked to her, Mother? Why

didn't you tell me?"

"You didn't ask. However, everything's fine at the house. The

police have been around constantly and I think she's been feeding

the entire force."

"Cora? Mother says everything's all right over there."

"The hoity-toity's fulla tea, Sammy. The damn phone's been

ringing off the hook all day and nobody could or, would tell me

where the hell you were."

"How did you find out?"

"Paddy Lafferty's daughter Bridget. She said Erin gave her this

number in case there was any trouble with the grandkids."

"That makes sense. What is it? Who's been calling me?"

"Not you, Sambo-everyone but you!"

"Who?"

"First that nut general you're always talking about, then that

long-legged Indian girl who shouldn't be let out in the streets. And

I tell ya, there's been at least twenty calls for each of 'em, all from

the same two fellas, like every half hour or so."

"What are their names?"

"One wouldn't tell me and the other you wouldn't believe. The

first sounded panicky as all blazes, kinda like you get sometimes,

Sammy. He keeps screaming that his sister should call her brother

right away."

328 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Okay, I'll tell her. What about the other guy, the one for the

general?"

"Well, yer gonna think I've been nippin' again when you hear it,

but I ain't 'cause there's been too many cops around.... Boy, what

a butcher's bill yer gonna get--2' "The name, Cora?"

"Johnny Calfhose, can you swallow that, Sammy?"

"Johnny Calfhose?" said Devereaux softly.

"Calfhose ... T' gasped Jennifer.

"Cal

, fhose! " shouted the Hawk. "My security's been trying to reach

me? Get off the phone, Lieutenant!"

"My former client's trying to reach me!" cried Redwing, colliding

with the general as each ran to Sam.

"No!" yelled Devereaux, turning and holding the phone out of

reach. "Calfhose is for Mac. Your brother wants you to call him."

"Give me that phone, boy!"

"No, me first!"

"If you'll all calm down," said Pinkus, raising his voice. "My

brother-in-law has at least three, possibly four, lines on his phones,

two at least for Shirley's sister, and there are telephones all over the

place. Just find one, each of you, and push an unlit button."

It was like the brief pandemonium of a kindergarten recess as

the Hawk and Jennifer raced around looking for separate phones.

Mac spotted one on the redwood porch, ran to a glass door, and

whipped it open with a vibrating crash; Redwing saw another on an

antique white desk against the rear wall and pounced on it. The

subsequent cacophony of voices shattered the stillness of the

Swampscott evening.

"Bye, Cora."

"Charlie, it's me!"

"Calfhose, it's Thunder Head!"

"You're kidding, little Brother, tell me you're kidding!"

"Goddamn, zero hour minus four days!"

"You're not kidding ... T'

"Send back my acceptance and sign it T. C. Chief of

This Nation's Most Oppressed People!"

"Send me an airline ticket to American Samoa, Charlie.

I'll meet you there."

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 329

One in triumph, the other in defeat, the Hawk and Jennifer hung

up their respective phones. The general strode through the porch

door like a commander of a Roman legion entering the gates of

Carthage, while Redwing turned away,from the elegant white desk

as might a lost, delicate bird buffeted by unfriendly winds.

"What is it, my dearT' asked Aaron gently, obviously touched by

Jennifer's demeanor.

"The worst," she replied, barely audible. "The elevator to hell."

"Come now, Jennifer-2'

"Lear jets and limousines, oil wells on Lexington Avenup, and

distilleries in Saudi Arabia."

"Oh, my God. whispered Sam. "The Supreme Court."

"Bull @-eye! " roared the Hawk. "All rounds blowing out the

center of the target! The Supreme Court."

"Chu sendin' us back to jail?" cried Desi-One.

"Heneral, why chu do dat?" said the stunned Desi-Two.

"You've got it wrong, Captains. You're on your way up the

Ranger ropes to fine military careers."

"Everybody be quiet!" yelled Devereaux, somewhat startled to

see that he was obeyed. "All right, Red, you first. What did your

brother say?"

"What the Cro-Magnon just confirmed. Charlie called Johnny

Calfhose to see if everything was okay back there, and Johnny was

crawling up the walls trying to find you over-the-hill mutant. A

telegram arrived yesterday morning requiring an immediate reply,

by phone or fax. .: , General Bomb Balls, alias Thunder Nuts, is to -

appear in the Court's chambers to certify his tribal authority in five

days from yesterday at three o'clock in the afternoon and present

his case. It's all over but the long agonizing process of watching

a people being destroyed. The Court's arguments are going public."

"We did it, Sam! The old team hasn't lost its touch." "Nothing!"

screamed Devereaux. "I did absolutely nothing! I haven't anything

to do with you." "Well, I hate to contradict you, son-2'

"I'm not your son!"

"No, he's mine," said Eleanor. "Anybody want him?"

330 ROBERT LUDLUM

". . . you are the legal attomey-of-record," completed Hawkins,

somewhat less loudly than before.

"Oh no, that invitation was for you, not me!"

"Wrong again, Counselor," said Jennifer disconsolately. "You've

replaced not only my unauthorized brother but me at the whim of

your Ape Man. Charlie was very clear, as well as personally

relieved. The invitation included one Samuel L. Devereaux, Esquire,

attorney for the Wopotami tribe."

"They can't do that!"

"They did, and Charlie wants to thank whoever S. L. Devereaux

is with all his heart. As he put it, 'I'd love to buy that asshole a

drink, but I don't think he's going to live long enough.' "

"General," said the quiet voice of Cyrus M, his following words

like cracks of muted thunder. "Do we forget the Soldier of the

Century?"

The Hawk's face went white; his eyes roamed in short spastic

movements seeing nothing, bespeaking only the furies of his inner

conflict. "Oh, Jesus and Caesar!" he murmured gutturally as he

sank into the chair across from Pinkus. "My God, what do I do?"

"It's a trap, sir, I sincerely believe that," added the huge black

mercenary.

"Suppose you're wrvng?"

"There's nothing in the Nobel committee's history to support that

kind of effor."

"History? For Christ's sake, man, there's nothing in the last forty

years of history to support the tearing down of the Berlin Wall or the

breaking up of the whole Soviet Union! Things are changing

everywhere."

"Some things don't change. Stockholm doesn't change."

"Goddamn, Colonel, I've given my life, devoted my life to the

army and got screwed by the panty-laced, prickyshit politicians! Do

you know what that award would mean to me-to every man who

served under me in three wars!"

"Just a minute, General." Cyrus looked over at Devereaux. "May

I ask you a question-Sam ... and may I call you Sam, since I think

we're beyond the hired-guard situations'

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 331

'Massa' doesn't fit, from either side. Sure, what is it?"

"Does this trap, as I know damn well it is, have anything to do

with this Supreme Court thing you're all yelling about? I understand

your security, but you need my help, and in all conscience, I can't

professionally give it without knowing more than I do. As a

chemist, I demanded accurate component equations from my

subordinates; as a merc, I have to know the fundamental

components, period, in order to act accordingly."

Devereaux turned first to Aaron, who nodded without hesitation,

then looked at Jennifer, who paused, then nodded reluctantly.

Finally, Sam walked over to Eleanor on the couch. "Mother, it would

please me greatly if you and Mrs. Lafferty could find something to

do in the kitchen."

"Call Cora," said the grand dame of Weston, Massachusetts,

without moving.

"Hey, come on, fancy-dan girl!" cried Erin Lafferty. "I gotta get

rid of the salad bowl and you can make us some tea! Guess what

I found, Mrs. Great One? Hennessy, VSOP!11

"She's been talking to our shameless cousin," said Eleanor,

instantly rising. "It is quite past time for tea, isn't it? Come along,

Aaron, we'll do tea."

"That's Erin, Missy-2'

"Yes, of course, you don't look at all Jewish. Do you like

chamomile?"

-"No, I like Hennessy."

"Definitely, Cora. Have you known her long?"

"Well, she's from the Roman side and I'm the other, but we get

together on this committee we formed to try to get those idiots

together-2'

"We'll discuss it all over tea, Errol, and perhaps I'll join your

committee. Of course, I'm High Anglican."

"Cora couldn't spell it." The two ladies, arm in arm, walked

through the kitchen door.

"Desis One and Two," said Sam. "Will you stop looking like that!

Everything General Mac promised you will happen-believe me I

know, both the good, and the bad, and yours is only good."

"Privado, explained the Hawk. "iConfidencial, comprenden?

332 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Sure, man, we go out with the romano gitano. He's crazy,

y'know, man? He spins around a lot and always he's smiling. But,

he's gotta be good in the streets, y'know what I mean? We could do

good together."

"Bear in mind, my captains!" shouted MacKenzie. "You are now

under my command! No more streets, no more muggings, no more

thievery, and no rhore hostility to civilians! Haven't you learned a

goddamned thing?"

"Chu right, Heneral," answered Desi the First contritely.

"Sometimes we just slip back widdout Vinking. We're gentlemen an'

h'officers now, so we godda Vink different. Chu right.... We go

outside wid the loco gitano." Desis One and T1wo walked into the

tiled foyer and out the front door.

.What was that all about?" asked Cyrus, looking at the deserted

foyer. "I understood the Spanish, but not your. 'command' and the

fact that they were captains. In what army?fl

"In the Anny of the United States, Colonel--oh, sorTy, you don't

like that.... Let's say I'm training 'em up, because we could do a lot

worse."

"Never mind, General," said the mercenary, shaking his head.

"It's beyond me, and at this moment, I'd rather concentrate on-this

moment, on where we are. Will someone explainT'

Glances were exchanged, but it was Jennifer Redwing, daughter

of the Wopotamis, who held up her hand and insisted on speaking.

She described everything they knew about the Wopotami brief to

the Supreme Court, then persuasively outlined what she believed

was the forthcoming destruction of the Wopotamis as a result of the

Court's action, whichever way it went.

"With merely the specter of the suit, the entire federal

government will react furiously, making our people out to be traitors

and pariahs, and setting in motion the condemnation of our land,

shutting down the reservation and dispersing all those living there.

Washington has to, for the absolute preservation of the Strategic Air

Command is uppermost, and not exactly secondmost is the army of

defense contractors-hell, the Pentagon itself-who will be calling for

our blood.... On the other side, there'll be

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 333

hordes of carpetbaggers of every persuasion descending on the

tribe and corrupting,everyone in sight, hoping for a hunk of the

improbable but potential legal pie, or publicity, but all with their

eyes on the bottom line. My God, there'll be more Rainbow

Coalitions after a dollar than there'are colors in a Jackson Pollock,

and every bit as wild.... Finally, there'll be nothing left of us but

censure and decadence, a people surfeited with slander, greed, and

rot, ultimately losing the no-win fight and discarded. That's not

what I want for my brothers and sisters, whom I dearly love....

There, I've said it, and I hope you were listening, General Genghis

Gun-in-the-Cookie-Jar."

"Except for your final comment," said Aaron Pinkus, riveted in

his chair, "that was a lovely surnmation.... I make no judgment about

that comment, my dear, merely its effect on a jury, which, I suspect,

would be negative."

"I don't know about that, Commander." MacKenzie Hawkins sat

motionless, his eyes locked with those of the Wopotami daughter.

"I figure I'm part of the jury here, and it had a pretty positive effect

on me."

"What do you mean, Mac?" asked Devereaux, from his

expression obviously anticipating the unexpected.

"May I present my side, little lady?" said the Hawk, rising to his

feet. ". . . Excuse me, you're not 'little' in any sense, but you are a

lady, and I mean no disrespect by the term."

"Go ahead," said Jennifer icily.

"I started this enterprise nearly three years ago with a few

thoughts in my head, none of them too damned clear because I'm

a soldier, not a thinker, except where military strategy's concerned.

What I mean by that is I'm no intellectual, and I don't waste a lot of

time trying to analyze things like motive or morality or justification

and all the rest of that stuff. If I did, I would have lost a hell of a lot

more fine young men in combat than my record shows.... Surely I

was looking for a magnificent score-I can't think small-because that

kind of challenge appeals to this discarded old soldier. Also, it had

to be fun, and somebody who did or was doing something wrong

should pick up the tab. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I never

intended to hurt the means to the payoff, only those who found it

334 ROBERT LUDLUM

necessary to pay, namely those who did something wrong.

"But you are hurting the 'means,' " interrupted Jennifer angrily.

"Namely, my people, and you damn well know it!"

"May I finish, please? ... When I learned what had happened to

the Wopotamis over a hundred years ago, it kinda reminded me of

what had happened to ine-and, with what I can piece together about

Colonel Cyrus here-what happened to him.... We were all sacrificed

by government big shots, who either had their hands in the real

cookie jar or were furthering their own political ambitions, or who

were just plain liars abusing the trust that had been placed in 'em!

It doesn't matter whether it was a century ago, a decade ago, three

months ago, or yesterday. In the words of our mercenary friend

here, it's got to stop! We've got the best system of living together

the world has ever known, but there's, always somebody trying to

louse it up."

"None of us is running in the'angelic sweepstakes, Mac," said

Devereaux softly.

"Hell, no, Sam, but nobody elected us,or appointed us and had

us swear under oath to behave ourselves for the benefit of a couple

of hundred million people we don't know. Now if the colonel here

is right, there's somebody else way high up trying to stop a citizen-

not just me, but a citizen-from carrying out his constitutional right

to appear before the Court. There we go again! ... And if our friend

here who doesn't like to be called 'colonel' is wrong, and I really am

the Soldier of the Century-well, I couldn't accept that grand award

if I knew I walked away from finding out whether there is or there

isn't some big government cannon trying to stop that citizen who

happens to be me."

"Rather well done, General," said Aaron, leaning back in the

chair. "Actually, for a man unschooled in the law, quit&

remarkable."

"What do you mean 'unschooled,' Mr. Pinkus?" objected

Jennifer, in her tone perhaps a touch of jealousy. "He wrote the

damned brief."

"I submit he constructed it, my dear. Painstakingly adapting text

book terms and phrases to suit his points. That's translation, not

creation."

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 335

"And I submit," said Sam, "a certain ego aside, this is irrelevant."

He turned to the Hawk. "But I'm puzzled by a few items you didn't

bring up, and if they don't prove to you that somebody pretty

damned important is trying to stop all of us, I don't know what the

hell will. May I remind you--@'

"Son, I'm way 'ahead of you," interrupted Hawkins quickly, firmly.

"You're referring to the previous assaults."

"Right on, Mac. The two hotels, a Black Maria racing out to my

house, and four armed-to-the-teeth military gorillas at the ski lodge.

Who sent them? The tooth fairy?"

"We never would have found out, boy, take my word for it. You

don't know how these things are put togetherwith miffors and

smoke and so many blind relays it'd take longer than the Iran-contra

thing to find out who's where and what's his function. Hell, Sam, I

invented those procedures behind a half a hundred enemy lines.

That's why I did what I did and in each case sent back the message

that they couldn't do it!"

"I'm afraid I don't understand," said a bewildered Aaron.

"Neither do I," added a perplexed Jennifer.

"Are you people lawyers or shoe clerks?" cried MacKenzie in

exasperation. "If you're in the middle of a life-or-death trial and you

need information you know is there but nobody wants to give it to

you, how do you get it?"

'.Vigorous cross-examination," replied Pinkus.

"With heavy emphasis on perjury," added Redwing.

"Well, I suppose you've got your points, but we're not operating

in a courtroom. There's another way--2'

"You provoke it,"- said Devereaux, interrupting, his eyes briefly,

amusingly in contact with the Hawk's. "You make an outrageous

statement or a series of statements that elicit a hostile response

that confirms the information."

"Goddamn, Sam, I always said you were the best! Remember

London, in Belgrave Square, where I told you how to handle that

scumbag traitor--2'

"We will not refer to your previous relationship, Gen-336 ROBERT LUDLUM

eral!" ordered Aaron. "We don't care to hear a thing about it."

"It's also irrelevant," said a defensive Jennifer.

"Oh, I see!" exclaimed Sam, grinning falsely at his Indian

Aphrodite. "You can't stand it when I come up with something you

haven't thought of!"

"Irrelevant! "

"When these two children stop squabbling," said Pinkus, "will

you please explain your strategy, General?"

"If the colonel here-my colonel-is right, the explanation's sitting

on a runway at ]Logan Airport. Air Force Two, Commander! Who

sent it? ... Unless, of course, I really am the Soldier of the Century,

in which case we're back in an invasion landing craft without a

motor, drifting into - a heavily fortified beach without maneuverable

protection."

"I won't try to follow that, but-" Suddenly Aaron stopped, turning

his head in several directions until he saw what was missing. It was

the mercenary, Cyrus M, his bulk filling an antique chair by the

elegant antique white desk, his mouth gaping, his wide dark eyes

staring at them. "Oh, there you are, Colonel."

"What? "

"Have you been listening?"

Cyrus nodded his large head and answered slowly, precisely.

"Yes, I've been listening, Mr. Pinkus," he began quietly, "and I've just

heard the most extraordinary story since a f6w clowns claimed

nuclear fusion could be accomplished in ice water for twelve cents

a gallon.... You people are nuts! You're crazy, insane, certifiable!...

Is any of this true?"

"It's all true, Cyrus," said Devereaux.

"What the hell have I gotten into?" roared the giant black

chemist. "Excuse my language, Miss Redwing. I'm trying to put it

all into an equation and it's not easy."

"No apologies are necessary, Cyrus, and why don't you call me

Jenny? I'm a little put off by the 'Miss'."

"Voodoo," said the mercenary, getting out of the chair, but

conscience-stricken enough to look down and see if he had broken

it. "If it's true," he continued, walking toward

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 337

the trio of attorneys and the manic 'Soldier of the Century,' whose

intense expression obviously caused Cyrus extreme discomfort, ".

. . if it is true, I don't think there's any alternative but to test out this

Nobel committee. Hire your actor, Mr. Pinkus. We're going

onstage."

21

Truce had descended on the beach house in Swampscott,

Massachusetts, a fitting prelude to the battles ahead. Under the

neutral guidance of Aaron Pinkus, a document was drawn up

between General MacKenzie Hawkins, a.k.a. Thunder Head, current

Chief of the Wopotamis, and Sunrise Jennifer Redwing, ad hoc

spokeswoman for said American Indian tribe, wherein all powers of

attorney were transferred to Ms. Redwing upon signatures and no-

tarization. Samuel Lansing Devereaux, temporary attorneyof-record,

consented to relinquish all duties following a joint appearance with

the tribe's permanent attorney, the aforementioned Ms. Redwing,

before the Supreme Court of the United States, should such a joint

appearance be required.

"I'm not sure I like the last part," Jennifer declared.

"I don't like it at all!" said Sam.

"Then I don't sign." The Hawk was adamant. "To change attorneys

at the last minute could mean a glitch, a delay, and I've put too

much blood, sweat, money, and tolerance into this enterprise to

accept that. Besides, Miss Red, I've given you full control over.all

negotiations, so what more do you want?"

7W ROAD TO OMAHA 339

"What more? ... No appearance at all, no brief, no Supreme

Court."

"Come nowj my dear," said Aaron. "It's too late for that. Not

only is the hearing on the Court's calendar, but you could be

losing a genuine opportunity for your people. Surely, with

yourself in charge, that elevator to hell can be short-circuited."

"Yes, of course," agreed Jennifer. "If there really is serious

consideration, a quick settlement with the Bureau of Indian

Affairs, perhaps two or three million dollars, and life goes on, no

waves. We could build four or five schools on the reservation

and hire some fine teachers--2' "I definitely do not sign!" roared

the Hawk.

"Why, General? Isn't it enough to pay you off?"

"Pay me off? Who the hell said anything about paying me

anything? I don't need money-Sam and I have more than we can

ever spend in Switzerland!"

"Mac, shut up!"

". . . all legally obtained from the scum of the earth, who I can

assure you will never sue us for it!"

"Enough, General!" Aaron Pinkus sprang-as best he could---to

his feet. "There'll be no further references, audible or written, to

previous events of which we know nothing."

"Fine by me, Commander, but I'll still make my position clear.

I haven't spent three years of my life to settle for a few,dollars any

SAC supplier would give us out of petty cash."

I "Us?" exclaimed Jennifer. "I thought, you didn't want anything."

"I'm not talking about me, I'm talking about the principle

involved."

"How do you spell that," asked Redwing sarcastically. "As in the

interest on your principal?"

"You know what I mean, little lady. You're selling out the tribe--

iny tribe, incidentally."

"What did you have in mind, MacT' said Devereaux, knowing the

futility of trying to change the Hawk's mind-in principle.

"We'll start at five hundred million, a nice round

340 ROBERT LUDLUM

figure-nothing but spit to the Pentagon-and a hell of a cheap buy-

out."

"Five hundred-" Jennifer's bronzed face had grown

darker as the blood rushed to her head. "You're a madmanill

,,,You can always scale back your artillery, but you can't bring

it up if there's none in reserve.... Yup, five hundred mega-big ones

or I don't sign. Maybe we should put that in there, Commander, like

an addendum or whatever you call it."

"That would be unwise, General," said Pinkus, glancing at Sam.

"If ever examined, it could be construed as a precondition bordering

on collusion."

"Then I want a separate paper," said MacKenzie, frowning.

"She's not going to sell my people down the dark river of the evil

spirits."

"Your ... Oh, my God!" Jennifer sank down on the couch. "The

dark river of the ... oh, shit."

"We elders strongly disapprove of such language from our

squaws."

"I'm not a ... oh, forget it! ... Five hundred-I can't even think

about it! We'll be ruined, devastated, our land condemned and

bought from us for nothing, taxpayers outraged, editorials in all the

mediaAenouncing us as ignorant savages and thieves --- 2'

"Miss Redwing," Aaron interrupted, his use of the title, her last

name, and his stem voice causing Jenny to look questioningly at

the renowned attorney who had become so friendly to her.

"Yes ... Mr. Pinkus?"

"I shall prepare a memorandum of intent, stating quite clearly

that you will, on a supreme best-efforts basis, initiate the

negotiations-if and when such negotiations take place-according to

the wishes of Chief Thunder Head, also known as General

MacKenzie Hawkins. Do you accept this heavy responsibility?"

"Hell-" Jennifer was about to say Hell, yes! but the glint in

Aaron's eyes stopped her. "Very well, sir, no more off-color

language. I know when I've been beaten by superior litigiousness.

I'll sign both documents."

"That's better, little lady," said the Hawk, lighting a

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 341

frayed cigar by lifting his leg and pulling a safety match against the

right thigh of his buckskins. "You'll see, Miss Tied, the

responsibility of command doesn't stop with a single victory. We

go on and on and on, always looking after the fine troops who

follow us!"

"That's very encouraging, General," said Jennifer, smiling

sweetly.

"You're both all hearts and smarts," said Sam. "Especially you,

Pocahontas."

Aaron Pinkus went into his brother-in-law's office at the beach

house and called his personal secretary, telling her to have Paddy

Lafferty drive her out to Swampscott and to bring her notary seal.

The gray-haired lady arrived, her eyes red and heavy-lidded, no

doubt the results of some rampant flu, and proceeded to type out

the two documents. They were ceremoniously signed, and as Aaron

courteousl)Cled his obviously ill secretary to the front door,

thanking her for her acceding to his needs despite her condition,

the slightly unfocused woman asked, "Do you know someone

named Bricky, Mr. Pinkus? He's been asking for you."

"Bricky? ... Is there a last name?"

"I'm not sure I got it-it seemed to change."

"You're not well, my dear. I want you to take several days off,

and I'll have my doctor look in on you. Abraham forgive me, I do

overwork you."

"He was a very handsome young man. Shining dark hair,

impeccably dressed-2'

"Be careful now, watch your step."

"He kept wanting to know where you were--- "Easy now,

there are two steps down to the flagstones.... Paddy, are you

there?"

"Right here, boss!" came Lafferty's reply from the circular drive

as the chauffeur emerged from the shadows and ran up the path to

the porch. "Y'know, I think she's a bit under the weather, Mr.

Pinkus."

"It's the flu, Paddy."

"If you say so, sir." Lafferty took the secretary, pulling her left

arm around his shoulders as he helped her down toward the car.

"Bricky is my darling, my darling, my darling ...

342 ROBERT LUDLUM

The words floated up in song, fading into the tall pines that

bordered the circular drive. he @ the only boy for me-only boy

for me!"

Relieved, Aaron turned back to the front door, prepared to go

inside, when he stopped, his head cocked in bewilderment....

Bricky? ... Binky? ... Binghamton Aldershot, otherwise known as

Binky on the Cape, the nearest thing Boston had to an international

financier, hiding behind the iron gates of his Beacon Hill bank? ...

Wasn't there a nephew somewhere? A youngish womanizer with a

similar nickname, whom the Aldershots kept on a tenuous financial

tether, if only to keep the idiot from embarrassing the family.... No,

it was impossible. His personal secretary of fifteen years was a

mature woman, previously a novitiate who had turned away from her

vows, opting for a more worldly world, but withal a woman deeply

committed to her faith. Ridiculous. A coincidence. Pinkus opened

the door and stepped into the foyer only to hear the telephone ring.

"Okay, Cyrus!" Sam Devereaux yelled into the phone.

"Remember, he's an actor, so don't lose your temper, okay? Just

bring him out here.... What? He wants a contract stipulating that he

has star billing? ... With whowhat? His name in print ... above and

in equal size in type to that of the title? Holy shit!... What about

money, has he made any demands there?... Nothing, just his

billing? Christ, write out whatever he wants and get him here! ... A

'run-of-the-play,' no dismissal during rehearsals without full

compensation? What the fuck does that mean? . .,. I don't know,

either, but put it into his contract."

An hour and twenty-two minutes later, the front door opened and

the orange-shirted Gypsy with the long blue sash around his waist

lunged into the foyer, balletically spinning until he reached the

entrance to the huge living room, where the three attorneys and

General MacKenzie Hawkins sat in a semicircle. All heads turned

as Roman Z made his announcement.

"Beautiful, beauti ./ul lady, and you gentlemen of-Well,

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 343

adequate appearance. I now present to you Colonel Cypress, a

man with the strength of a Mediterranean tree, who has an

announcement."

"Enough about him!" came the whisper, hissed from the dark

foyer. "It's me, you bounder!"

The enormous and embarrassed figure of the black mercenary

appeared. "Hi, there, folks," said Cyrus, as tonguetied as a normally

confident man could be. "I would like to introduce an artist who has

appeared in many of the great Broadway shows of our time, whose

brilliant reviews have been abash in our land-2'

'Tha6 'awash,' you idiot!"

"An actor of supreme depth and widespread perversity--2'

"Di-dye-versity, you ass!"

"Hell, man, I'm doing the best I can-_2'

"Long introductions, inadequately presented, kill an entrance.

Get out of my way!"

The tall, lean man swept down the short steps into the living

room with a flair and an energy that belied his age. With gray,

flowing hair, sharp features, and glaring eyes that bespoke a

thousand such electric entrances on stage, he stunned the small

group in front of him, as he had done with countless full houses in

the past. His gaze settled upon Aaron Pinkus; he approached the

attorney with a courtly bow.

"You have summoned me, sire, and I have obeyed. Your servant

and boldest knight-errant, rn'lord!"

"Why, Henry," said Aaron, getting out of his chair and shaking

hands with the actor. 'That was just wonderful! It reminded me of

when you did your one-man show for Shirley's Hadassah, the

excerpt from The Student Prince, I believe."

"I don't remember too many of the smaller-forgive me-my out-of-

town performances, dear boy.... However, I think it must have been

six and a half years ago roughly--on March twelfth, if I'm not

mistaken, at two o'clock in the afternoon. I vaguely recall it, for I

don't believe I was in my best voice that day."

"You certainly were, you were splendid.... Here, let me introduce

you to my friends-2'

344 ROBERT LUDLUM

"My C-sharp wasn't ftill," continued the actor, "but then the piano

player was dreadful.... You were saying, Aaron?"

"My friends, I'd like you to meet them."

"I certainly wish to, especially this adorable creature." Sir Henry

reached for Jennifer's left hand and brought it to his lips, his eyes

looking into hers as he gently kissed the back of her palm. "You

make me immortal by your touch, sweet Helena.... Have you ever

thought of a theatrical careerT'

"No but I once did a- little modeling," replied Redwing, not only

caught off guard but modestly enjoying the moment.

"A step, dear child, merely a step, but in the right direction.

Perhaps we should lunch one day. I give private lessons, the fees

in certain cases, shall we say, dismissible."

"She's a lawyer, for God's sake!" said Sam, not entirely sure why

be was so adamant.

"That's a terrible waste," said the actor, slowly releasing the

hand in his grip. "As the Bard put it in Henry Six, Two, 'The first

thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers.' . . . Not you, of course, Aaron,

for you have the soul of an artist."

"Yes, well, let me introduce you, Henry. The actressthe attorney-

is Miss Redwing."

"Enchanti, mademoiselle- "

- "Before you maul her hand again, I'm Sam Devereaux, and I'm

also an attorney."

"Shakespeare had his insights--2'

"And this gentleman in Indian attire is General MacKenzie

Hawkins---2'

"Oh, you're the one!" exclaimed the performer, grabbing the

Hawk's hand and shaking it firmly. "I saw that film about you-how

could you stand it? Didn't you have any control over the casting, the

script? My God, man, that jackass playing you should have worn

lipstick!"

"I think he did," said the general warily, but not unimpressed.

"Everyone," interrupted Pinkus, "I want you to meet Henry Irving

Sutton, as in England's Sutton Place-his ancestral home-and

frequently referred to in the newspa-THE ROAD TO OMAHA 345

pers as Sir Henry Irving S., after the great Victorian actor to whom

he's often compared. An outstanding artist of the stage-2'

"Who says?" said Sam petulantly.

"Small minds make for large doubters," answered Henry Irving

Sutton, looking with bemusement at Devereaux.

"Who said that, Felix the (fatT'

"No, it was a French playwright named Anouilh. I doubt you've

heard of him."

"Oh yeah? How about 'There's nothing left to do but scream!' ...

Huh? How about that?"

"Antigone, but your translation's inaccurate." Sutton turned to

Hawkins. "General, do me a favor-I ask it as a former second

lieutenant in the African T 0, where I heard you speak many times,

as often as not railing against Montgomery."

"You were there?"

'Vombat Intelligence, attached to OSS-Tobruk."

"You boys were the best! You had those Krauts buffaloed in the

big Sahara. They didn't know where our tanks were!"

"Most of us were actors who could speak a little German.

Really, we were overrated-it was so easy to portray soldiers dying

of thirst and sputtering wrong information while going into comas.

Actually, very simple."

"You were in the enemy's uniforms. You could have been shot!"

"Perhaps, but where do you get a chance to play such parts?"

"Well, I'll be goddamned! Whatever you want, soldier, I'll do it."

"Screwed again," mumbled Devereaux. "He does this to me all

the time."

"I want you to speak, General, preferably reciting something we

both might know, say a piece of doggerel or a poem, or perhaps the

words of a song, repeating whatever you like. Also, talk normally

or shout, whatever's natural."

"Let's see, now," said the Hawk, squinting. "I've always been

kinda partial to the old army standby, you know

346 ROBERT LUDLUM

the one. 'Over hill, over dale, we will hit the dustee trail-'

"Don't sing, General, just talk it through," ordered the actor, his

facial expressions instantly parroting those of MacKenzie, sounds

softly emerging as the old war-horse martially peeled off the words

of "The Caissons Go Rolling Along." Then, suddenly, as though the

two voices of a roundelay were merged, one fading, the other

surviving, Henry Irving Sutton was speaking alone, his vocal tone

and cadences, his body gestures and facial contortions, nearly

indistinguishable from the Hawk's.

"Goddamn!" exclaimed the general, as bewildered as he was

astonished.

"Remarkable, Henry!"

"Not bad, if I do say so."

"You're a terrific actor, Mr. Sutton!"

"Oh, no, dear child of Elysium," protested Sir Henry Irving S.

modestly. "That's not acting, it's merely mimicry, which any second-

rate comic can do. You're fooled by the gestures and the

expressions as much as you are by the vocal intonations. .'. . I

explain this thoroughly in my private lessons. LunchT'

"Why the hell didn't they get you to play my part in that goddamn

movie?"

"A dreadful agent, mon gi6niral, you have no idea what it's like....

Picture an outstanding stafrofficer who is not permitted to show his

mettle in battle because his so-called superior is afraid his

organization will fall apart-in my case it was a steady salary from a

soap."

"I'd have the bastard shot!"

"I tried that. Fortunately, I missed.... Lunch, Miss Redwing?"

"I think we should get down to the business at hand," said

Pinkus firmly, gesturing at the chairs and the sofa for everyone to

use. They did so, Sam rushing to sit between Jennifer and Sutton.

"Of course, Aaron," agreed the actor, glaring at the interloper.

"I merely wanted to assuage a small mind that apparently belongs

in the Lesser Antilles", if you catch the mixed metaphor."

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 347

"It's singularly apparent, Kermit the Frog," said Devereaux.

"Sam!"

"Okay, Jenny, I'm overreacting. I never do that in court."

"Business?" Pinkus signaled Cyrus, who was purposely staying

as far away from Henry Irving S. as possible, the ride out from

Boston with the actor having tried his patience, if not his sanity.

"Should your colleague join us?" asked Aaron.

"I'll tell him everything he should know," said Cyrus quietly,

sitting down. "I'd like to keep this as simple as possible. Frankly,

the combo of Roman Z and your new recruit doesn't appear to be

the most stable. I'll handle it."

"You have a fine deep voice, young man," interrupted Sir Henry,

obviously annoyed that he could not overhear Cyrus and the elderly

attorney. "Have you ever sung '01' Man River'?"

"Get off my case, man," said the mercenary.

"No, I'm quite serious. A revival of Showboat__2' "Henry, my friend,

all that can come later," Aaron broke in, holding up both hands in

dissuasion. "We haven't much time."

"Of course, dear boy, the curtain must go up."

"As soon as possible," concurred Cyrus. "Even tonight,

preferably tonight, if we can."

"How do you think we should proceed?" asked Jennifer.

"I can make contact with this so-called Nobel committee at that

hotel as the General's civilian aide," answered the mercenary. "I've

got decent clothes in my suitcase, but we've got to get something

for Roman to wear."

"My brother-in-law has a closet full of clothes and he's

roughly your colleague's size-he lifts weights, even at his age.

Also, Mrs. Lafferty's an excellent seamstress-2' "Men that's

settled," interrupted the impatient Cyrus. "We just have to try and

find out who those clowns from Air Force Two really are and how

to handle diem."

"I've already done that," said MacKenzie Hawkins, relighting his

mangled cigar.

"What? "

"How?"

,348 ROBERT LUDLUM

"When?"

The tumult of stunned voices assaulted the Hawk, who merely

raised his bushy eyebrows and blew a circle of smoke above his,

face.

"Please, General!" pressed Cyrus. "This is important. What did

you do?"

"You lawyers and chemists think you're so smart, but you've got

damn short memories."

"Mac, for Christ's sake-"

"Especially you, Sam. You're the one who figured it out; of

course, I was ahead of you, but I was proud of your off-scene

analysis."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Little Joseph, boy! He's still there--2'

"Who? ... Where?"

"Tbat hotel, the Four Seasons. I talked to him a half hour ago

and he's on top of things."

"On top of what? You can't trust that little bastard, Mac, you said

so yourself!"

"I can now," said the Hawk emphatically. "He flagrantly abuses

his per them privileges, a sure sign of an independent subordinate,

and he tnes repeatedly to provoke me-that's a man you can have

some faith in."

"T'he logic escapes me," said Pinkus.

"He's crazy," said Jennifer softly, her wide, disbelieving eyes on

the general.

"I'm-not so sure about that," said Cyrus. "A hostile underling

tells you where you stand. You're not likely to get fragged by him

because he's done just that."

"You're crazy, too," observed Devereaux.

"Not really." The mercenary shook his head. "There's a maxini

that goes back to the Cossack wars. 'You kiss the boot before you

hack it off with your saber.' "

"I like it, I like it," cited the actor. "A perfect secondact curtain!"

"Maybe I'm crazy, too," added the daughter of the Wopotamis,

'Ut I think I understand you."

"I would hope so," said Sam sardonically. "To clarify, Counselor,

one does not throw suspicion on oneself before committing a

crime."

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 349

"Smart ass," muttered Redwing. "I see your point, Cyrus, so

what do we do?"

"The question is, what has the general done."

"It's quite acceptable," said the Hawk. "And considering your

background, I think you'll approve.... I've instructed Little Joseph,

who, although advanced in years, is a born infantry scout, to survey

the situation from all points of the battleground. He'll check out

their bivouacs, the whereabouts of support troops and their

firepower, if there are any, your escape routes, if necessary, and the

best camouflage you can employ reaching zero target."

"Zero what?" exclaimed Sir Henry.

"No, no, Henry, I'm sure the general's exaggerating!" interrupted

Pinkus, staring at MacKenzie, then shifting his intense gaze to

Cyrus. "You guaranteed there'd be no violence, no lack of safety

procedures!"

"There won't be, on either count, Mr. Pinkus. The general's

merely using military terms to describe this so-called committee's

hotel rooms and the proper attire--2'

"You misunderstood me, Aaron, dear boy!'"I"he actor rose to his

feet, his profile (that's "profeel") to the right, his jaw firm, his eyes

glowing. "I welcome the assignment, a glorious pursuit-whatever it

is. Remember, General, when we joined the Brits and slogged our

way toward El Alamein!"

"Sure do, Major Sutton! ... I just field-cominissioned you up a

couple of grades-command prerogative, of course."

"I accept the rank, sir." Sir Henry turned and saluted as the Hawk

got out of his chair and did the same. "Bring on the bastards! Once

more unto the breach and close the walls up with our Equity dead-

Screen Actors Guild and AFI'RA, too, of course. We fear no one-

gets the blood boiling, doesn't it, General?"

"You boys really were the best in the big Sahara. You had all

the guts in the world, soldier."

"Guts, be damned, it was the proper synthesis of classical

technique and the best of Stanislavski, not that Method nonsense

prescribed'by fifth-rate gurus who teach that picking your nose is

more acceptable than blowing it."

350 AORERT LUDLUM

"Whatever it was, Major, you survived. Do you recall outside

Benghazi when the brigade-2'

"They're nuts!" whispered Sam to Jennifer. "They're in a

typhoon paddling a canoe that's leaking."

"Get hold of yourself, Sam! They're both ... well, larger than

life, and it's rather refteshing."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Well, in a world of pin-striped legalizing wimps, it's nice to

know there are men who can still hunt the killer tigers.,,

"That's sophomoric, antediluvian bullshit!"

"Yes, I know," said Redwing, smiling. "Isn't it nice to see it's

still around?"

"And you call yourself a liberated woman--2' "'Although I am, I

don't think I ever said it-that@ antediluvian. These old men

aren't, they're simply reliving a world as they knew it. I

acknowledge that world and what they did to make it better. Who

wouldn'tT'

"You're just brimming with Sunnybrook kindness, Rebecca!"

"Why not? The Court itself aside, I've won every point I raised.

In fact, I won too damned much, which means I'm

acknowledged."

"With a little 'mirrors and smoke,' as our general called it.

'Best efforts' is still euphemism for 'Okay, I'll'try, but if I don't get

anywhere, I'll retreat. Fast.'

"You mention that and you'll find out how liberated I am,

Counselor," said Jennifer quietly, again smiling. "You won't have

anything left to soil your trousers with.... Let's break up the war

stories, shall weT'

"Mac!" shouted Devereaux, causing both veterans of the North

African campaign to look at him as though he were an ugly black

worm emerging from a plate of red spaghetti. "How do you really

know this Little Joseph will do as you say? You've described a

slime-maybe one who won't frag you-but still a slime. Suppose

he tells you anything he figures you want to hear?"

"He couldn't do that, Sam. You see, I talked with his superior

officer, who I can tell you is very superior, on a par with

Commander Pinkus and myself-with maybe a mite more influence

where it counts."

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 351

"So what?"

"So this very important person has strong personal reasons for

wanting us to complete our mission, which we can't do if we don't

get to the Supreme Court in one piece eight-seven hours from now

and counting."

"Eighty-seven what and what?" asked a confused Aaron.

"We're in the countdown, Commander. Ground zero in roughly

eighty-seven hours minus."

"Is that anything like 'zero target'?" the elderly lawyer persisted.

"Can you imagine, Major Sutton, this fella was on Omaha

Beach?"

"Probably an enlisted man, General-2'

"Yes, I was, and I carried a rifle, not a code book."

"Zero target, dear Aaron, is the immediate objective," explained

the actor. "Ground zero, the zero not preceding, is the final

objective. For instance, in the march to El Alamein we first had to

take Tobruk, thus it was the zero target, Alamein ground zero.

Actually, in the chronicles of Froissart-upon which Shakespeare

based his Histories, along with Holinshed-niention is made of the

terms-_2' "Okay, okay!" cried an exasperated Devereaux. "What the

hell has all this crap got to do with some slime called Little Joseph

at the Four Seasons? To repeat, Mac, what makes you think he'll do

what you tell him to do? He's lied to you before."

"Obviously different circumstances," said Jennifer before the

Hawk could reply. "I gather he's beholden to his very important

superior officer."

"Bull's-eye, Miss Red. Like in whether Joseph goes on

breathing or not."

"Well, if that's the case- "It's the case, Sam," confirmed Hawkins.

"As you well know, I don't make mistakes in that area. Outside of

Belgrave Square in% London, do I have to remind you of that

country club on Long Island, or the chicken farm in Berlin, or that

crazy sheik in Tizi Ouzou who wanted to buy my third. wife for two

camels and a small palace?"

"That will do, General!" said Pinkus firmly. "I remind you that

there'll be no reminiscing on such past events.

352 ROBERT LUDLUM

Now, you and Henry sit down and let's continue with the business

at hand."

"Certainly, Commander." The two veterans of El Alamein sat

down and the Hawk continued. "But we can't do a hell of a lot until

Little Joseph makes his report."

"How's he going to do that?" asked Devereaux. "Sending a

coded message by a carrier pigeon that flies from his hotel window

directly to the sheikdom of Tizi Ouzou?"

"No, son, by telephone." And, as Sir Henry might say, on cue the

telephone rang. "I'll get it," said the Hawk, rising and walking

rapidly to the white antique desk against the wall. "Base Camp

Steaming Tepee," he went on, the phone to his ear.

"Hey, fazool,"' came the excited voice of Little Joey the Shroud

over the line. "You ain't gonna believe the fuckin' pig shit you

walked into! I swear on the grave of my Aunt Angelina, no shoe

repair clown, including my uncle Guido, could scrape it off!" @

"Calm down, Joseph, and speak clearly. Just give me the

reconn ob-tech, on-scene factors."

"What crazy language is that?"

"I'm surprised you don't remember it from the Italian campaigns'

"I was lower than sediment. What the hell you talkin' aboutT'

"Me technical statistics as you observed them at the hotel-"

"No wonder you fazools are bleeding the taxpayers out of their

corpuscals! No son of a bitch can understand you-you just scare

the shit out of us!"

"'Y"at aid you find out, Joseph?"

"For starters, if those jokers ar@ Swedish, I never had a Norway

meatball, which on occasion I have, 'cause this blond bomberinna

I used to go with a couple of centuries ago made 'em so to prove

the Guinea variety wasn't so hotsy-totsy--2'

"Joseph, is this going to be a long story? What did you leam?"

"Awright, awright.... They got three suites, each with two

bedrooms, and by spreading a little bread around with the maids

and the waiters I found out they speak regular

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 353

American, y'know, English. Also, they're nuts, y'know real

fruitcakes. They walk around lookin' in mirrors and talkin' funny to

themselves, like they didn't know who they were lookin' at."

"What about support troops, firepower?"

"They ain't got nuthin'! I checked out every staircase, even the

nearby rooms with some enchilada named Raul who cost me two

hundred little ones to check out the register-nobody nowhere

around 'em could even be related by coincidence. The only

possibility was some fruitcakereno asshole named Brickford

Aldershotty, who it turned out was on a one-night stand."

"Escape routes?"

"The exit signs to the staircases, what can I tell you?"

"So you're saying the beach is clear-2'

"What beach?"

"Zero target, the hotel, Joseph!"

"Whoever you got can walk in like it was a church in Palermo on

Easter Sunday."

"Anything else?"

"Yeah, here are the room numbers." The Shroud gave them, then

added. "Also, whoever you got should have muscle, y'know what

I mean?"

"Explain that, Joseph."

"Well, like a sharp-eyed maid named Beulah told me, these

jokers break bottles with icicle points of glass stickin' up and do

pusbups over 'em, sometimes like two hundred. I mean they

arefruitcakes!"

22

"Meat" D'Arnbrosia walked through the swinging glass doors of the

Axel-Burlap building on Wall Street, Manhattan, took the elevator up

to the ninety7eighth floor, trudged his way through another pair of

glass doors, and presented his card to a statuesque British

receptionist.

Salvatore DAmbrosia, Consultint. The card was printed by his

cousin on a press at Rikers Island.

"I should like to have a meet with a certain Ivan Salamander,"

said Salvatore.

"Is he expecting you, sir?"

"It don't make no never mind, call it in, pussycat."

"I'm sorry, Mr. D'Ambrosia, but one doesn't call the president of

Axel-Burlap without prior notification, and certainly not in person

without a previously scheduled appointment."

"Try me, sweetheart, or maybe I have to break your desk."

"What?

"Just call, capisce?"

Mt D'Ambrosia was instantly admitted into the walnutpaneled

sanctum sanctorum. of one Ivan Salamander, president of Wall

Street's third largest brokerage house.

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 355

"What ... whaat?" shrieked the gaunt, bespectacled Salamander,

wiping the perpetual sweat that oozed from his hairline. "You gotta

scare the shit out of some lousy, receptionist who's got a ton of

class for which I paid airfare, a Blackglama mink, and a salary my

wife can no way find out?"

"We gotta talk, Mr. Salamander, and more important, you gotta

listen. Also, your private secaterry wasn't too perturbed.11

"Certainly, certainly, I told her to stay ice cold!" yelled Ivan the

Terrible, as he was known on the Street. "You think I'm dumb? ...

Dumb I'm not, Mr. Musclebound, and I would much prefer that

whatever you have to say to me should be said in some rotten

spaghetti dump in Brooklyn!"

"My associates and me ain't too partial to your smelly salami and

your give-into-fish, either. Your delicatessens stink up the

neighborhoods."

"So our culinary differences are settled, what've you got that I

should waste my valuable time on a street soldier? Hahn, hahn?"

"Because what I've got for you comes from the big, man himself,

and if you've got a tape job in here, he'll rip your throat out.

Capisce?"

"On my word, on my word, no such thing! You think I'm crazy?

... What does the big man sayT'

"Buy defense, especially aircraft and related-wait a minute, I

gotta read this." D'Ambrosia reached into his pocket and pulled out

a slip of paper. "Yeah, here it is. Aircraft and every related supply

component-that's it, component, that's the word I

couldn'tremember."

"And that's crazy! Defense is going into the toilet, the budget's

cut everywhere!"

"Here's the rest of it, and I repeat, if you gotta tape rollin', you're

on a meat hook."

"Never, are you meshugaT'

"Things have changed one whole hell of a lot." Meat again

looked at his instructions, for several moments reading silently with

his lips. "Okay, here it is.... Alarming events have tooken place,"

continued D'Ambrosia, his voice as flat as his eyes, a man recalling

from quasi-rote,

356 ROBERT LUDLUM

"which the country can't know too much about because of which the

panic that might sue--2'

"Maybe you mean ensue?"

"I'm on your side. Whatever."

"Go ahead."

"There has been a lot of interference with the sub ...

substratisforic military sattelactic transmissions which concludes

high altitudenal aircraft are ... fuckin' up the works."

"High altitude-U-2 types? The Russkies are going back on their

nice words?"

" 'The specific hostile equipment has not been firmly identified,'

" replied Meat, now unfolding the paper and reading-as best he

could. ". . . 'however, as the incidents have increased in numbers

and ferocosity, and the ... Russian Kremlins ... have secretly

confirmed like events-' " Here, Salvatore D'Ambrosia, a.k.a. "Meat,"

refolded the paper and continued on his own. "The whole fuckin'

Earth planet, especially the U.S. of A., is on secret emergency alert.

It could be the Chinks or the Arabs or the Hebes launching all that

bullshit--2'

"That's cockamantie!"

"Or. . . Salvatore D'Ambrosia lowered his voice and blessed

himself, almost getting the sign of the cross correctly on his large

chest, "things we know nothin' aboutfrom up there." Meat raised his

eyes to the ceiling, in his gaze a prayer, if not a plea for mercy.

"Whaaat?" shrieked Salamander. "That's the biggest tube of

Guinea cheese I ever heard of! It's full of ... hoohoo, wait a minute

... it's positively', absolutely brilliant. Like no junk bonder could

ever come up with! ... We got a whole new enemy we gotta arm the

whole fuckin' world for. UFOs!"

"You got the big man's drift then?"

"Got it? I love it! ... Hey, a sudden big thought. What big man?

He's with the fishes!"

It was the moment Meat had been primed for, rehearsed until he

could handle it with his head soaked in Chianti. He reached into

another pocket and withdrew a small, black-bordered envelope, in

size and appearance similar to a funeral request. He handed it to

the mesmerized Sala-THE ROAD TO OMAHA 357

mander with nine simple words, so ingrained by repetition Salvatore

would no doubt say them on his deathbed. "You breathe a word of

this ... no more breath."

His eyes shifting warily between Meat's face and the ominous-

looking envelope, Ivan the Terrible picked up his glistening brass

letter-opener, inserted it beneath a sealed edge, slit the paper, and

extracted the message. The broker's gaze instantly dropped t o the

bottom of the page, to the scrawled familiar initials he knew so well.

He gasped, his head snapping up, his -wide eyes riveted on

Salvatore D'Ambrosia. "This is beyond impossible!" he whispered.

"Be careful," said Meat, no louder than Salamander, as he drew

his index finger slowly across his throat. "Remember, no more

breath. Read it."

Fear paramount, a tremble developing in his hands, Ivan began

at the top of the page. Follow the instructions as delivered verbally

to you by the courier Don't even think about disobeying any aspect

of them. We are in the midst of a maximum-classified, eyes-only,

top-secret, blackdrape, need-to-know basis operation. Everything

will be explained to you within a reasonable period of time. Now,

in firont of the courier, burn this message as well as the envelope,

or, with love in his heart, he'll be formed to bum you. I shall return.

VM

"Gotta match?" asked the petrified Salamander quietly. "I gave

up cigarettes for my health. It'd be kinda dumb if I got burned

because I don't smoke."

"Sure," said Meat, throwing a pack of matches'on the desk.

"After you finish torching the paper, you got one other thing to do

before I go."

"Name it. When I get messages from beyond the grave, I don't

quibble."

"Pick up the phone and place an order for fifty thousand shares

of Petrotoxic: Amalgamated."

"Whaaat?" shrieked Ivan the Terrible, his forehead drenched with

beads of sweat. Then he watched in terror as D'Ambrosia's huge

right hand reached under his jacket. "So certainly, of course! So

why. not? Let's make it seventy-five, I mean, why not?"

358 ROBERT LUDLUM

Five other such courtesy calls were made by Meat the Courier, all

with similar results-give or take a shriek or two-resulting in a buy,

buy, buy! binge not seen since the Dow creased three thousand and

was still climbing. As a natural consequence, in executive suites

across the nation, the carrors led the asses (horses may not be

bright, but they're smarter than mules). Wild diversification and

consummate oversupply were the orders of the day, and the orders

went out by the billions. Something really big was going down, and

the smart money boys and the conglomerate fraternity were going

to go up on that fantastical seesaw of economic balances.

Buy out those computer firms, screw the price!

Get control of all the subcontracting parts divisions in Georgia

and don't bore me with figures!

We're dealing from strength, you idiot! I want the majority interest

in McDonnell Douglas, Boeing, and RollsRoyce Aeroengines, and

for Christ's sake, don't stop bidding until you get them aW

Buy California!

On the basis of an inflated fiction, shrouded in a mystery that would

impress Little Joey, to say nothing of Houdini and Rasputin, billions

in debt were accrued by the enemies of Vincent Francis Assisi

Mangecavallo, who sat under an umbrella in Miami Beach, Florida,,

a Monte Cristo cigar in his mouth, a cellular telephone at his side,

as well as a portable radio, a Margarita on the plastic tray in front

of him, and a wide grin on his face. '@Go with the big wave, you

fancy country club cannolis," he said to himself, reaching for his

glass, his free hand adjusting his red toupee. "Wait'll the ocean

dries up like that Moses made it do, may he rest in peace. You'll be

sucked down into the sand, you bastards! Put out a contract on me,

better you should read the small print. Cleaning urinals in Cairo,

that's where all of you belong!"

Sir Henry Irving Sutton sat rigidly, angrily, in the kitchen chair while

Erin Lafferty snipped away at his flowing crown of gray glory. "Trim,

wench, merely a trim, -or

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 359

you'll spend the rest of your miserable life in the scullery!"

"T don't scare me, y' old fart," said Erin. "I seen ya in that

afternoon program Forever AU Our Forevers ferwhat was it? Ten

years?-so I know all about you, boyo."

"I beg your-pardon?"

"You was always yellin' and caterwaulin' on those young kids

until you was drivin' 'em nuts. Then you'd go into that big liberTy

and cry, sayin' to yerself that they had life too easy, and had to be

brought up to snuff so they could face the terrible misfortunes. that

faced 'em-and by Jesus, Mary and Joseph, yer words were gospel!

Such lousy times they had! I mean you was actually cryin', sorry for

all the bad things you had to say to them, wishin' you didn't have

to.... Nah, underneath you're a softie, Grandfather Weatherall!"

"I was merely playing a roll, Mrs. Lafferty."

"Call it whatever you like, Mr. Sutton, but for me and all the girls

in Old Southy, you were the only reason we watched that stupid

show. We was all in love with you, boyo.

"I knew that son of a bitch never got me a decent contract!" spat

out the actor under his breath.

"What was that, sir?"

"Nothing, dear lady, nothing. Cut away, cut away! You're

obviously a woman of great taste."

The kitchen door burst open, the hulk of Cyrus following, his

dark face alive with anticipation. "We're on, 'General'!"

,"Fine, young man! Where's my uniform? I was always a splendid

figure in military plumage."

"No plumes, no uniform, that's out of the question."

"For God's sake, why?"

'To begin with, the general is no longer a general by request of

the Pentagon and just about every other major influence in

Washington, including the White House. Secondly, you'd call

attention to us, which isn't practical."

"It's rather difficult to get into a role without proper ac-

coutrements, which naturally presumes accurate clothing-as in a

uniform.... Actually, as a general I outrank you, Colonel."

360 ROBERT LUDLUM

"If you're going to play that game, Mr. Actor, you're playing a

general; you were field-commissioned a major and I was given the

rank of colonel. You lose, Sir Henry."

"Damned impertinent civilians--2'

"Where the hell are you, still in World War Two?"

"No, I'm an artist! The rest of you are civilians ... and chemists."

"Man, you and Hawkins got more in common than El Alamein.

Then, most of the generals I've known were actors, too.... Come on,

let's go. They expect us at twentytwo hundred."

"rWenty-two hundred what?"

"Hours, Major, or General, if you prefer. It's military for ten

o'clock at night."

"Never could figure those damned numbers-"

The "Nobel" committee's three hotel suites were adjacent to one

another, the middle rooms designated as the meeting ground for the

august General MacKenzie Hawkins, Soldier of the Century, and the

distinguished "visitors from Stockholm." As negotiated by the

general's aide-de-camp, one Colonel Cyrus Marshall, U.S. Army,

Retired, the, conference was to be private, without press coverage

or news releases. As the colonel explained, although the

celebrated warrior was immensely honored by the award, he was

currently in seclusion writing his memoirs, Peace Through Blood,

and wished to know the extent of his travel and media commitments

before rendering his decision to accept. The committee

spokesman, Lars 01afer, reacted to the secret meeting with such

enthusiasm that Colonel Cyrus added gas-spraying weapons to the

already complete arsenal on his and Roman Z's persons. A trap

was to be reversed in the best tradition of subterranean rats and

Cyrus knew exactly how to do it. Pull in the rodents immobilize

them, bring them to with bound hands Q feet, then subject them to

interrogation usually described as psychologically macabre but

without physical harm. Like ice picks poised in front of their eyes.

I "I'd be far more impressive in a uniform!" said Sutton angrily,

walking down the hotel corridor in a pinstriped

IHE ROAD TO OMAHA 361

suit recruited from his Boston apartment. "These damn clothes

were appropriate for Shaw's The Millionairess, but not for the

mission at hand."

"Hey, you look terrific," said Roman Z, pinching Sutton's cheek

to the astonishment of the actor. "You should only have perhaps

a.flower in your lapel, it would have a certain somzing."

"Cut it out, Roman," said Cyrus quietly. "He looks fine.... Are you

ready, General?"

"You're talking to a professional, dear boy. The adrenaline flows

as we approach the moment. Now, the magic begins! ... Knock on

the door, precede me, as is proper, and I shall make my entrance."

"Remember, Pops," admonished the mercenary in front of the

door. "You're one hell of an actor, I'll give you that, but please don't

get carried away and scare the hell out of them. We want to learn

everything we can before we make our move."

"Now you're a director, Colonel? ... May I explain for your

untutored frame of reference that there are three descending ts in

the theater: talent, taste, and tenacity, and within the second

category is contained Hamlet's entire advice to the players. I

remember one time in Poughkeepsie-"

"Futor me some other time, Mr. Sutton. Right now, let's just

have the magic begin, okay?" Cyrus rapped on the door of the hotel

suite, drawing himself up to his full military height and ramrod

posture. The door was opened by a white-haired man with a salt

and pepper chin beard, a pince-nez looped over his nose. "Colonel

Marshall, sir," continued Cyrus, introducing himself. "Chief aide-de-

camp to General MacKenzie Hawkins."

"VdIkommen, Colonel," said the ersatz elderly delegate

supposedly from Sweden; he spoke in an extremely thick

Scandinavian accent that made the traveled Cyrus wince. "Vee are

vid extreme pleasure to meet zee grand gheneral." The delegate,

bowing obsequiously, stepped backward so as to admit the

celebrated Soldier of the Century, who strode through the door like

an animated Colossus of Rhodes with an agitated Roman Z

shuffling rapidly behind him.

362 ROBERT LUDLUM

"I am deeply honored, gentlemen!" exclaimed the actor, his

guttural bark extraordinarily close to that of MacKenzie Hawkins.

"Not only honored but supremely humbled by your selection of this

minor player in the major conflicts of our times. I have merely done

my best, and as an old soldier tempered by battle, I can only say

that we fill the wall up with our heroic dead, those brave souls sur-

viving, pressing ahead to victory!"

Suddenly, a rush of voices, the accents diverse and having

nothing to do with Sweden, burst forth.

"Christ, it's him!"

"You forget your grammar, but by God, it is!" "I don't believe it!

I thought he died years ago!" "Never on stage, he didn't! He

never died on stage-he was always magnificent!"

"Ibe finest character actor of our time! The Walter Abel of,the -

seventies and eighties. Brilliance personified!"

"What the hell is going on?" shouted Colonel Cyrus, his naturally

endowed but untrained voice no match for Ethelred Brokemichael's

clandestine unit of actors. "Will somebody tell me?" he yelled,

trying to be heard above the din as the men of Suicidal Six crowded

around "General MacKenzie Hawkins," shaking his hand, patting him

on the shoulders, one overwrought man kissing, his Players Club

ring. "Goddamn it! Will someone explain what this is all about?"

"Let me try!" said Dustin, breaking away from the others,

his eyes dazzled. "You obviously were recruited late in this

operation so you would have no way of knowing, but this isn't

that clown Hawkins, but one of the theater's most outstandin

artists! We all saw him when we were .9

younger, studied his performances, followed him into Joe Allen's-

that's an actors' bar-and bombarded him with questions, trying to

absorb whatever he could impart."

"Impart what? What are you talking about?"

"This man is Henry Irving Sutton! The Sutton, Sir Henry-"

"Yes, I know," interrupted Cyrus softly, in his voice the essence

of abject defeat. "After a long-gone English actor named Irving, who

had nothing to do with the bank or a

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 363

tailor on First Avenue.... Wait a minute!" yelled the mercenary

suddenly. "Who the hell are you people?"

"Each of us gives only his name, rank, and serial number,"

replied Marlon, overhearing Cyrus's question and reluctantly turning

away from the adulated Sutton, who was accepting the accolades

of his peers with brilliant humility. "I say this in sadness, Colonel,

for I once had a small role in a Sidney Poitier film, and he, too, was

and is a marvelous artist."

"Name, rank, and-what the hell are you talking about?"

"Just what I said, Colonel. Name, rank, and serial number,

according to the laws of the Geneva Convention. Nothing more."

"You're soldiers?"

"Very accomplished ones," answered Dustin, glancing over at his

hero, namely Henry Irving Sutton, ' who was now holding his

worshipers spellbound recounting past triumphs. "We accept the

risks of combat without uniforms, but to date it's never been a

factor."

"Combat? 11

"Select covert activities, gray to black operations--4he reference

to 'black' having nothing to do with race, of course's

"I know what 'black' operations are, I just don't know what the

hell you are!"

"I just told you, we're a military unit specializing in clandestine

activities, missions involving maximum security.,,

"And this Nobel committee crap is one of those operations?"

"Between the two of us," said Dustin confidentially, leaning

toward Cyrus, "you're lucky we are who we are, or your pension

might go down the tube. That man-isn't General Hawkins! You were

taken in, Colonel, flimflammed, if you know what I mean.,,

"I was ... T' said Cyrus, staring, as if in a catatonic state.

"You certainly were, sir, as was obviously Mr. SuttonSir Henry.

He'd never tarnish his magnificent reputation

364 ROBERT LUDLUM

by being involved in a global conspiracy to cripple this country's

first line of defense. Never!"

"First line of defense-a global conspiracy ... T' "That's as far as

our briefing went, Colonel."

'This is too fucking much!" said Cyrus, as if coming out of a

trance. "Just who are you and where do you come fromT'

"Fort Benning, under the command of Brigadier General Ethelred

Brokemichael. Our specific names are neither relevant nor called

for at this juncture, but suffice it to say we're called the Suicidal

Six."

"Ibe Suicidal-! My God, the Delta Force to the max? The most

effective antiterrorist unit ever put into the field!"

"Yes, that's what we've heard."

"But you're ... you're--2'

"Mat's right, we're actors."

"Ac tors?" yelled Cyrus sofortissimo that Henry Irving Sutton and

the adoring crowd around him fell silent, staring at the mercenary

in astonishment. "You're-you're all actors?"

"And as splendid a group of confreres as I've met in years,

Colonel. They play their parts to perfection. Notice the care they've

taken with their clothing, the proper European cuts, the subdued

colors as befits distinguished academics. You might also drink in

the consummate attention they've given their tonsorial effects-flicks

of gray, not overdone, to add a few years to their ages. And their

postures, Colonel, the ever so slightly stooped shoulders and the

minor concavities of their chests, as we observed entering the

room; and the pince-nez and the tortoiseshell glasses, all are marks

of men in sedentary professions with sh-ained eyes.... Yes, Colonel,

these are, Andeed, actors-fine actors."

"He notices everything!"

"Such observation!"

"Every minute detail---2'

"Details, gentlemen," proclaimed Sutton, "are our secret

weapons, never forget that." A chorus of "Never!" "Certainly not!"

and "How could we?" followed the proclamation until the elderly

actor held up his hands. "But, of

7NF ROAD TO OMAHA 365

course, I don't really have to tell you that. I understand you

convincingly deceived several million people with your performance

at the airport.... Well done, shepherds of Thespis! Now, I want to

know each of you. Your names, please."

"Well," began the spokesman, Lars Olafer, none too subtly,

nodding at the mercenaries, "without certain people present we'd

enthusiastically introduce ourselves by our real names, but our

orders are to stay with our sobriquets, which is most embarrassing

to me personally."

"Why is that?"

"To be frank, an undeserved title, one you've earned but I

haven't.... I'm called 'Sir Larry,' for my first name is really Laurence."

"With a u?"

"Oh, of course."

"Then I say you have earned it. When Larry and Viv were

together, we quaffed many an ale together, and in truth there's a

certain similarity in your appearance to that skinny but terribly

likable fellow. I played the First Knight in his and Tony Quinn's

Becket, of course."

"I may die right here on the spot-_2' "You were great!"

"Magnificent! 11

"Extraordinary!

"Passable, if I do say so."

"Can we cut the bullshit, if I say so!" shouted Cyrus, the veins in

his thick neck pronounced.

,..I'm called The Duke."

"I'm Sylvester--2'

"Marlon's the name."

"Dustin-y'know, y'know ... am 1, am I right, right, rightT'

"Telly's the moniker, General, baby. Wanna lollipops'

"You're all superb!"

"And this is all preposterous!" screamed Cyrus, clutching the

lapels of Dustin and Sylvester. "You bastards listen to me!"

"Hey, my black good buddy," said Roman Z, softly patting the

broad back of his recent cell mate. "Don't shoot up your blood

pressure, man!"

366 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Blood pressure, hell, I should shoot every one of these sons of

bitches!"

"Now, pilgrim, that's downright primitive,",,said The Duke.

"Y'see, mister, we don't believe in violence. It's actually just a state

of mind."

"State of what?" roared the dark-skinned mercenary.

"Of the mind," explained The Duke. "Freud called it the frenzied

extension of the imagination-we use it a lot in acting classes,

usually with improve naturally."

"Naturally!" Cyrus released his helpless hostages. - "I give up,"

he mumbled, sitting down in the nearest chair as Roman Z

massaged his shoulders. "I give up!" he repeated, shouting, his

wide eyes appraising the crowd of lunatics in front of him-and

below him. "You're the Suicidal Six? The antiterrorist Delta Force

unit songs have been written about? Nothing makes sense!"

"In some ways, you're right, Colonel," said Sylvester in his

normal Yale Drama School voice, "for we've never had to fire a gun

or basically injure anyone beyond a sprained wrist or, at worst, a

cracked rib.... We just don't work that way. You see, it's easier on

everybody. We impersonate our way into and out of missions,

frequently intimidating the targets, but every now and then making

a friend or two."

"You're breakouts from a funny farm," said Cyrus. "or maybe

you're not really from this planet," he added numbly.

"You're too hard on us, Colonel," protested Telly in his normally

cultured voice. "If all the armies of the world were made up of

actors, wars could be mounted as civilized productions, not

uncivilized slaughters. Merits would be given for individual and

collective performances-the best orations, the most convincing

snarls, the finest crowd reactions--2'

"Then, of course," interrupted Marlon, "there'd be points for

costuming and set decoration, for the most creative props, as in

weapons and mise en scMe locations--2' "As well as plot and story

development," broke in The Duke. "I suppose you could term them

military tactics."

"Let's not forget direction, for God's sake," cried Sir Larry.

'THE ROAD TO OMAHA 367

"And choreography," added Sylvester. "A choreographer would

have to be an organic extension of any director, under the

circumstances."

"Wonderful, simply wonderful!" exclaimed Henry Irving Sutton.

"An international academy of the theatrical arts could be set up to

judge the forces in the field, in the air, and on the water. Naturally,

military consultants would be included for semblances to

authenticity, but their consultancy would be secondary, the primary

judgments made on the basis of creativity-of conviction,

characterization, passion! ... Art!"

"Right on, pilgrim!"

"Hey, Stella, he got it right!"

"You ... you ... you are with ... with ... with it!"

"Speak the speech, I pray you--2'

"Beautiful, sweetheart. Have a lollipop!"

"Yeah, yeah, we don' need no howitzers t' blow the gooks away!"

"What?"

"Well, he's gotta be right, y'know what I mean? Nobody gets

shot. Nobody gets his face in a bucket!"

"Eeeowweeah!" bellowed Cyrus, his scream worthy of Anouilh's

dictum. "I've had it! I've really had it! ... You, Sir Henry Horseshit!

You weremilitary-I heard that certifiable Hawkins say you were a

goddamned hero in North Africa! What happened to that man?"

"In a primitive sense, Colonel, all soldiers are actors. We're

terrified, but we try to pretend we're. not; we know that at any

moment our precious lives may be taken from us, but we abandon

that knowledge for the irrational reason that the immediate objective

is paramount, although in the core of our minds, we understand that

it's merely a statistic on a map. The problem with soldiers in

combat is that they must become actors without proper training,

proper professional training.... If all the drenched, mudsunk foot

soldiers understood the rules, they'd do as Telly says, and snarl

viciously while firing above the heads of other young men they don't

know but might have a drink with in some bar in another time and

place."

"Bullshit! What about values and beliefs? I've fought on different

sides, but never against what I believed in!"

368 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Well, then, you're a moral man, Colonel, and I commend you.

However, you also fight for the most questionable motive of all.

Money."

"What are these clowns fighting for?"

"I haven't the vaguest idea,. but I doubt it's financial

remuneration. As I understand it, they're fulfilling their lifelong

theatrical ambitions-in a rather unorthodox way, but obviously with

considerable success."

"I'll sure as hell give them that," said Cyrus, turning to Roman Z.

"Have you got everything?" he asked.

"Everyzing and everyone, my enduring friend."

"Good." The huge chemist turned back to the actors, singled out

Dustin, and spoke. "You, shorty, come over here." The diminutive

performer looked questioningly at his comrades. "For God's sake,

man, I just want to talk to you privately. Do you think my friend and

I would take on the entire Suicidal Six?"

"I wouldn't even think of 'taking on' him, pilgrim. He may not be

your size, but he's black belt karate to the tenth order, and they

don't come no higher."

"Oh, come on, Duke, I'd never use that stuff unless we were all,

in real trouble. And certainly riot against a nice guy like the colonel.

He's just upset, I can understand that...,. Don't worry, Colonel, I

wouldn't harm you. What is itT' Dustin walked with the stunned

Cyrus to a far corner of the suite as the mercenary kept staring

down-way down-at the actor. They stood next to a window, the

night lights of Boston throwing a glow over the city, and Cyrus

spoke quietly.

"You were probably right a few minutes ago when you said I

could lose my pension. You see, I did come on late, actually only

a few days ago, and I had no reason to think this man wasn't

Hawkins. Hell, from what I've seen of him on television, he looks

like the general and sounds just like him-why wouldn't it be him?

I'm really grateful, Dustin."

"That's okay, Colonel. I'm sure you'd do the same for me if our

positions were reversed-say somebody was impersonating Harry

Belafonte and you being black knew he wasn't but I didn't."

"What ... ? Oh, yes, I certainly would, Dustin, I cer-THE ROAD TO OMAHA , 369

tainly would. But just so I can get a clearer picture of this whole

dirty business-officially, you understand, and since we're both on

the same side-just what was your mission?"

"Well, as we're on a restricted, need-to-know basis and you are

a colonel, I'll tell you what I can, which is all we know. We're to

make contact with General Hawkins, abduct him and everyone else

around him, and drive to the SAC air base in Westover-that's here

in Massachusetts."

"Not back to-Air Force Two on the Logan runway?"

"'Oh, no, that was for the press conference.... You know, the

Vice-President isn't really a bad guy. Of course, I don't think he can

act-"

"He was on the plane?"

"Sure, but he wasn't allowed to get off until later."

"Then why was he there?"

"Some gangsters stole one of his cars and it was somehow

found here in Boston-"

"Forget it ... I mean it's not germane. So you kidnap the general

and anyone accompanying him, drive to the SAC base in Westover,

and then what?"

"TBDL, Colonel."

"I beg your pardon?"

" 'To be determined later,' but we were told to carry sweaters

and long johns in our duffels, which presumes the climate will be

colder."

"Sweden," said the mercenary.

"That's what we figured, but then Sylvester, who was in an

overseas tour of Annie in Scandinavia-we hear he was terrific,

especially from him-said the summer weather wasn't that much

different from ours."

"It isn't."

"So then we figured far more north--2'

"Like in the ice fjords," completed Cyrus.

"Wherever ... we'd receive further orders at that time."

"Like depositing frozen bodies to be discovered in the year 3000

for medical research."

"I wouldn't know anything about that, sir."

"I would hope not.... And outside of this Brigadier General Broke

... Brokehethel-"

370 ROBERT LUDLUM

"That's Brokernichael, Colonel. Brigadier General Ethelred

Brokemichael."

"It's okay, I've got it. But outside of him, you have no idea

who's responsible for this iiiission?"

"That's not in our purview, sir."

"You can bet your ass it isn't."

"Colonel ... T'

"We split, Roman," said Cyrus abruptly, walking rapidly to the

hotel door, the Gypsy swiftly at his side, as a loud metallic slap

was heard from behind his back. "Don't try to follow us, it would

be useless; we're as expert in our profession as you are on

stage, believe me. And you, Mr. Sutton, I don't know a hell of a

lot about acting, but I suspect you're one of the best, so you can

stay here and jaw with your buddies as long as you like.... I'm

afraid we used an old merc trick with you tonight. You may have

wondered why my friend kept jumping around, studying each of

you, so now I'll tell you. That red carnation in his lapel contains

a miniaturized, high-speed camera;, we have a minimum of a

dozen photographs of each of your faces. And under my jacket

I'm wired to the max and still rolling; every word here this

evening is recorded.7 "A moment, please!" exclaimed Sir Henry.

"What?" Cyrus reached between the folds of his coat and yanked

out a large, ugly .357 Magnum as Roman Z whipped his hand from

behind his back, displaying a footlong switchblade knife.

"My fee," said Sutton. "Have Aaron send it around by messenger

to my flat. And tack on several hundred more, for I intend to take

my newfound friends and associates to the finest restaurant in@

Boston."

"Sir Henry!" said Sylvester, touching the great man's sleeve.

"Have you really retired?"

"Semiretirement, dear boy. I d6 occasional stints for the locals,

y'know, keeps the juices flowing. As it happens, I have a rather

well-off son here in Boston from one of my marriages-can't

remember which-who simply insisted I take one of the hundreds of

condominiums he's built. He damn well should, of course; in the

halcyon days I sent him through several universities for all those

letters after

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 371

his name. Sweet child, I must say, but never an actor! Damn

disappointment, really."

"How about the army? You could be our director! They'd

probably make you a general right off!"

"Ah, but remember, my young cohort, what Napoleon said: 'Give

me enough medals and I'll win you any war.' But for actors to get

ahead, it's the billing, your name! Progressively larger until it equals

the size of the play's title. Now, as you perform in secrecy, how

could the army do that?"

"Oh, -shit," whispered Cyrus to Roman Z. "Let's get the hell out

of here!"

They left, and no one in the suite noticed.

23

"It's all here!" cried Jennifer, listening to the tape and looking at the

enlarged photographs on the coffee table in the summer house on

the beach in Swampscott. "It is a conspiracy, a screwed-up

conspiracy, but obviously involving the highest levels of the

government!"

"Mere's no question about it," agreed Aaron Pinkus from his

chair, "but whom do we go after? The need-toknow basis cuts off

the trail."

"What about' this Brokemichael?" said Devereaux. "He's the son

of a bitch I caught in the Golden Triangle--2'

"And got his first name mixed up with his cousin," intedected

Jennifer. "Ass."

"Hey, look, how many times do you run into first names like

Ethelred and Heseltine? They're both so weird it's hard not to get

confused."

"Not for an observant attomey--2'

"Come on, Pocahontas, you couldn't differentiate between harsh

cross-examination and extreme provocation!" "Will you two stop it,"

said an exasperated Pinkus.

"I only meant he could be after me," explained Sam.

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 373

"Jesus, if he saw my name in the Hawk's file, his nostrils would

outshoot two flamethrowers."

"Since you're formally listed as the Wopotami attorneyof-record,

I suppose that's entirely possible." Aaron paused, frowning, his

head tilted. "On the other hand, Brokernichael couldn't order his

rather unique unit into action by himself, and he certainly wouldn't

have access to Air Force Two-"

"Which means he was ordered by someone who had both the

authority and the access," completed Redwing.

"Exactly, my dear, and therein lies our conundrum. This

Brokernichael wouldn't reveal his superior, even if he could, and to

paraphrase General Hawkins, the chain of command will be so

convoluted as to be untraceable. At least -within the time frame

available to us--eighty-some hours and counting, as I understand it,

but not actually."

"We've got the evidence," said Devereaux. "The photographs,

the tape in which the entire operation is outlined by two

participants--perpetrators, if you like. We could go public-why not?"

"The stress has addled your normal perceptions, Sam,"

answered Pinkus gently. "Deniability is built into this whole

operation. Just as our friend Cyrus, who is now on the beach with

Roman Z, no doubt consuming several quarts of vodka, put it-

'they're all lunatics.' . . . That's the deniability. Lunacy, iffationality-

crazy people. 'Actors.,,

"Hold it, Aaron. They can't deny Air Force Two, that's too

damned heavy."

"He's got a point, Mr. Pinkus. Clearance for the use of that

plane has to come from on high."

"Thank you, Princess."

"I give when it's deserved."

"Wow, what a prelude!"

"Oh, shut up."

"My word, I called you addled, but I'm far worse. You have a

glaringly obvious point-"

"No, he doesn't," came the guttural voice of MacKenzie Hawkins

from the darkened, partially opened door to the kitchen. It was

pulled back and the figure of the Hawk emerged, clothed only in

green and black camouflage skiv-374 *ROBERT LUDLUM

vies and T-shirt. "Pardon my appearance, little ... Miss Redbird-2'

"That's Redwing."

"Sorry again, but when I hear voices on bivouac at three o'clock

in the morning, my natural instinct is to prowl fast, not dress for the

occasion of a dance at the officers' club."

"You dance, Mac?"

"Check my fillies, son. I taught all of 'em everything from the

mazurka to the true Viennese. Soldiers were always the best

dancers; they have to make their moves on the ladies in quick

fashion-leaves are short."

"Please, Sam, the general's observation, if you will," said Aaron,

looking at the Hawk. "Why is my learned employee wrong about the

Vice-President's plane? It's the second-ranking aircraft in the

country."

Because Air Force Two can be manipulated by a dozen agencies

and departments for cosmetic reasons. Regardless of who it is, a

Veep's staff jumps at every opportunity to bring its unnoticed

merchandise out of the shadows, whether it's him or his

benevolently provided equipment... Hell, boy, remember when I

landed at Travis from Beijing by way of the Philippines after the

Chink trial, and gave that puke-inducing speech about 'old, tired

sokfiers'?,I had to include that I was eternally grateful to the Vice-

President for sending his personal plane."

"I remember, Mac."

"You know where that Vice-President was, Sam?"

"No, I don't," said Devereaux.

"He was holed up with one of my wives who wouldn't let him get

to second base in L.A., drunk as a flea in a botde of bourbon and

just about as equal to the task of his desires."

"How do you know that?"

" 'Cause I smelled the whole China trial scam and wanted to

know how high up it went in D.C. I sent my girl to work to see if she

could find out."

"Did she?" asked an incredulous Pinkus.

"Sure as hell did, Commander. That tongue-twisting orator fell

flat on his face with his trousers around his arikles, asking good old

Ginny, who I was! Then I knew just

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 375

how tall the dirty dog was in Washington who had me by the tail,

doing nasty things to this old soldier... That's when I really made up

my mind to pursue a different life and recruited you, Sam."

"I'd rather you didn't remind me.... Ginny seduced the Vice-

President?"

"You weren't listening, son. That girl's got taste, and his

neutered, fat face wasn't up to it."

"Reminiscences aside," broke in Aaron, shaking his head as if

to erase forbidden images. "What exactly are you saying, General?"

"I'm saying we've now got a direct counter for this counterthrust

strategy, Commander It'll be a little tricky but we can manage it."

"Speak English, Mac."

"Hell, boy, it's worked from the Normandy coast to Saipan! From

Pinchon to the Mekong-when the goddamned back-boiler brass

didn't blow it with their big mouths."

"I repeat, English."

"Disinformation, Sam, within the holier-than-thou chain of

command."

"I mentioned that a moment ago," interrupted Pinkus. "The chain

of command, I mean."

"I know," acknowledged the Hawk. "I heard everything you all

said for the past twenty minutes, taking a few moments off to bring

Colonel Cyrus another bottle of vodka on the beach.... Those actor

types really blew him into space, didn't they?"

"Your disinformation, General?" pressed Aaron.

"Well, I haven't actually worked it out yet, but the route's as clear

as an oil slick in new-fallen snow.... Brokey the Deuce."

"WhoT'

"N"at?"

"I think I know," said Jennifer. "Brokemichael-not the Indian

Affairs Heseltine, but the one who runs those faces on the table

from Fort Berming. Ethelred."

"The lady's right. Ethelred Brokernichael was about the poorest

excuse for a West Pointer that ever was. He never should have

been in the army, but it was on both sides of

376 ROBERT LUDLUM

their families, you know, sons of army brothers. The crazy thing is

that Ethelred was actually a more imaginative officer than Heseltine,

but he had a weakness. He saw too many movies where generals

lived like kings and he tried it on a general's salary, which doesn't

allow for castles."

"Then I was right," said Devereaux. "He was making bucks out

of the Triangle." - "Sure, you were, Sam, but he was no

mastermind criminal; he was more of an unconscious middleman

than anything else. It was like he was in a movie, being paid

personal homage by a lot of people he couldn't understand but did

minor favors for."

"He pocketed the loot, Mac."

"Some, not a hell of a bundle and nowheres near what you

claimed. If the army could have proved that, he'd have been out on

his duff. He gave a lot of it to the orphanages and the refugee

camps. That's on the record and it's what saved his tail. There

were others who did much worse."

"That's hardly exculpatory," said Pinkus.

"I guess not, but, like Sam says, who's running in the angel

sweepstakes?" The Hawk paused and walked to a beach front

window in his camouflage skivvies. "Besides, it's history, and I

know Brokey the Deuce. He doesn't think too much of me, because

I knew Heseltine better and they didn't get along, but we talk.... And

we will talk and I'll goddamned well find out who's behind this

whole fandango or the Deuce will be hung out to dry in public, and

he can kiss his gold braid good-bye."

.,you're forgetting a negative or two, General," interrupted Aaron.

"To begin with, when word gets back that this 'Suicidal Six' has

failed, I'm sure Brokemichael will be placed beyond your reach,

beyond anyone's, for the simple reason that through him the name

of the highranking official who commandeered Air Force Two might

surface."

"The word won't get back, Commander," said Hawkins, turning

away from the window. "At least not for the next twenty-four hours,

and I'm sure you can arrange for a private jet to fly me to Fort -

Benning first thing in the morning!1

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 377

"Twenty-four hours?" exclaimed Jennifer. "You can't possibly

guarantee that. Those actors may be lunatics, but they are covert

operations professionals."

"Let me explain, Miss Redwing. My adjutants, Desis One and

Two, are in radio contact with me.... Sir Henry Sutton and the so-

called Suicidal Six are currently closing up Joseph's Restaurant on

Dartmouth Street, well oiled and in great spirits. My adjutants will

drive them-not to the hotel-but up to the ski lodge, where they'll

reniain for the day recovering. And when they've just about got

their heads in place, Desi Two, who's not only a fine mechanic but

also, I'm informed by Desi the First, an accomplished cook, will lace

their chow with a sauce comprised of tomatoes, tequila, gin, brandy,

pharmaceutical grain alcohol, and a liquid sedative of indeterminate

potency that will provide us with Miss Redwing's guarantee. We

may possibly have more than twenty-four hours, perhaps nearer a

@ week, if it'd do us any good."

"Really, General," countered the daughter of the Wopotamis,

"even men crippled by drugs and alcoholespecially trained military

personnel-find enough lucid moments to use the telephone."

"The telephone won't be working-wires down, struck by'lightning

during the storm."

"What storm?" asked Aaron.

"The storm that whipped up after they all fell into their sacks for

some heavy snoring."

"When they wake up they'll climb into the limo and get the hell

out of there," offered Devereaux.

"Rack and pinion steering will have been broken as a result of

the rough country terrain."

"They'll think they've been kidnapped and take appropriate

measures, physical measures!" said Pinkus.

"There's some chance of that but not much. D-One will explain

to them that you, Commander, in your wisdom, thought it might be

wiser if the group slept off tonight's festivities at your vacation

home rather than risking any embarrassment at the hotel."

"What about the hotel, Mac?" said Sam anxiously. "Brokeinichael

and his crowd will be checking in with the unit for progress reports,

if nothing else."

378 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Little Joseph's covering the phones in the middle suite as we

speak."

"What the hell's he going to say?" persisted Devereaux. ""Hi, I'm

the Suicidal Seventh and the rest of the boys are bombed out of

their skulls at Joe's Bar'?"

"No, Sam, he's going to make it clear that he's been hired only

to take messages and that his temporary employers were called out

on business. Nothing more.

"You seem to,have thought everything through," conceded

Aaron, nodding. "Quite remarkable."

"Second nature, Commander. These kinds of counterinsurgency

tactics are kindergarten stuff."

"Oh, no, Mac, you forgot something." Devereaux smiled a

lawyer's smile of sardonic triumph. "These days all the limousines

have telephones."

"Good thinking, son, but Desi the First thought of that a couple

of hours ago-@'

"Don't tell me he's going to snap off the antenna. That would be

a little obvious, wouldn't it?"

"No need to. Hooksett, New Hampshire's out of the cellular

range; the tower up there isn't completed. Desi-T1wo found out the

hard way; he told us he had to drive twenty minutes down the

highway to make contact with D-One in Boston the night before last-

to tell him exactly where the lodge was."

"Any other objections, CounselorT, asked Redwing.

"Something terrible is going-to happen," squeaked Sam in a

strained, piping voice. "It always does when he thinks things

through!"

The Rockwell jet soared over the Appalachian mountains preparing

for its descent into the Fort Benning area, specifically a private

airfield twelve miles north of the army base. The single passenger

on board was the Hawk, once again dressed in his nondescript gray

suit, wearing his steel-rimmed glasses, and with his gray, bristled

brush-cut hair covered by his dull red wig now trimmed to perfec-

tion by Erin Lafferty. The former general had been on the telephone

in Swampscott from roughly four o'clock in the morning until five-

thirty making his arrangements. The

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 379

first call he placed was to Heseltine Brokemichael, who was only

ecstatic in any attempt whatsoever to "screw the bejesus" out of his

loathsome cousin, Ethelred. Seventeen calls later, all placed and

received on the beach house lines, paved the Way for a certain

magazine writer whose current research involved post-Soviet

breakup military adjustment to be admitted onto the base. At 0800

Brigadier General Ethelred Brokemichael, whose cover was Base

Public Relations, had been alerted by Pentagon Public Relations to

expect this very influential journalist and to act as-his escort

throughout the army complex. For Brokey the Deuce it was a

relatively routine assignment that made good use of his minor

theatrical talents, which, naturally, he did not consider minor at all.

At ten hundred hours, Ethelred Brokernichael hung up his office

phone, having instructed his WAC aide to show in the writer. The

brigadier was fully prepared to repeat a PR performance he had

done so successfully for a number of years.

What he was not prepared for was the sight of the large,

somewhat stooped, bespectacled, red-haired elderly man, who

walked shyly through his office door, profusely thanking the female

sergeant who held it open for him. There was something vaguely

familiar,about the man, an aura, perhaps, that belied the image of

solicitous courtesy; there was even an abstract sound of distant

thunder-heard only by Brokey the Deuce, but it was distinctly there.

What was it about this oddball character who might have walked

right out of the movie Great Expectations, a large, awkward,

downtrodden accounts clerk trying to assuage the old lady ... or

was he mixing therole up with that tall fellow on stage in Nicholas

Nickleby?

"It's very kind of you to spare your valuable time for my modest

research, Generale" said the journalist in a quiet if somewhat hoarse

voice.

"It's my job," said Brokemichael, flashing a sudden grin he felt

would do justice to Kirk Douglas. "We are the armed servants of

the people and want them to fully understand our contributions to

the defense of our country and the peace of the world.... Please, sit

down."

"That's a wonderful and moving statement." The redheaded

writer sat down in front of the desk, pulled.out a

380 ROBERT LUPLUM

notepad and a ballpoint pen and proceeded to scribble a few words.

"Do you mind if I quote you? I'll ascribe it to an 'authoritative

source' if you prefer."

"Certainly not-I mean, you may certainly ascribe it to me." 77zis

was the very influential journalist who had Pentagon PR running

around in circles to accommodate him. Why? This aging, gravel-

voiced oddball was a certified civilian in awe of a uniform. The

morning would be a snap. "We in the army don't hide behind

secondary, unnamed sources, Mr... Mr.-"

"Harrison, General. Lex Harrison."

"Rex Harrison ... ?"

"No, Alexander Harrison. My parents nicknamed me Tex' many

years ago, and my by-lines have always been under that name."

"Oh, yes, of course-it's just kind of a jolt, if you know what I

mean ... I mean, Rex Harrison."

"Yes, Mr. Harrison used to get quite a kick out of the similarity.

He once asked me if we could change placeshe'd write an article

and I'd go- on for him as Henry Higgins. An untimely death; he was

a lovely man."

"You knew Rex Harrison?"

"Through mutual friends--2'

"Mutual ftiends?"

"New York and L.A. are actually small towns if you're a writer or

an actor ... but my publishers aren't interested in me and my Polo

Lounge drinking companions, General."

"Polo Lounge ... T'

"It's a watering hole favored by the rich and famous and

everyone else in L.A. who wants to be.... Now back to my

publishers, they're interested in the military and how it's reacting to

the economies being imposed. May we start the interview?"

"Sure, yes ... of course. I'll tell you anything you like, it's just

that I've always had a tremendous interest in the theater and movies

... and even television."

"My writing and performing friends would put television first,

General. It's what they call 'survival money.' You Ca n't make a

living on the stage, and films are too few and far between."

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 381

"Yes, I've heard that from-well, never mind-but this is real inside

stuff from someone who really knows!"

"I haven't betrayed any secrets, take my word for it," said the

journalist. "Even Greg, Mitch, and Michael admit it."

"Oh, my God ... naturally!" No wonder Pentagon PR considered,

this old hoarse-voiced reporter very influential. He had obviously

been around for years, and hobnobbed with famous people whom

the Pentagon were always trying to cultivate for their TV

commercials. Christ! Rex Harrison, Greg, Mitch, and Michael-he

knew everybody! "I frequently fly to ... L.A.... Mr. Harrison. Perhaps

we might get together sometime ... at the Polo Lounge."

"Why not? I'm out there half the time, the other half in New York,

but to tell you the truth, the action's on the Coast. When you're out

there, just go to the Po-Lounge and tell Gus the bartender that

you're looking for me. I always check in with him whether I'm

staying at the Beverly Hills or not. That's how people know I'm in

town-like Paul ... Newman, that is, and Joanne, and the Pecks,

Mitchum, Caine, and even a few newcomers like the Toms-Selleck

and Cruise-and Meryl and Brucethe good people."

"The good people ... T'

"Well, you know, the real ones, the guys and girls I get along

with-"

"I'd love to meet them!" interrupted Brokernichael, his eyes two

large white saucers with flashing brown cup rings. "I can arrange

my schedule any time!"

"Hey, whoa, General, whoa," said the old reporter huskily.

"These people are pros in the business. They've been around the

block, and don't necessarily like side streets to amateurville."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, an interest in the movies or television or whatever isn't

exactly being a member of the fraternity, if you see what I mean.

Hell, everybody wants to meet these faces-sometimes they call

themselves 'faces,' as though it's an insult to, themselves-but

underneath they're real people who know what goes with the

territory, but put limits on the1and grabs."

382 ROBERT LUDLUM

"What does that mean?"

"In short words, you're not a pro, General, you're a fan-and that

they can get on any street comer, more than they can handle. Pros

don't socialize with fans, they tolerate 'em.... May we get back to the

interview, please?"

"Well, yes, of course," cried the frustrated Brokemichael, "but I

think-I know damned well-that you're underestimating my

commitment to the performing arts!"

"Oh, was your mother an actress in a community theater, or did

your father act in a high school play?"

"Neither one, although my mother always wanted to be an

actress but her parents told her it would send her to hell, so she

mimicked a lot.... My father was a colonelgoddamn, I've outranked

that son of a bitch! ... But I've got the theatrical bloodline from my

mo really love the theater and good films and TV--especially

the old movies. I feel electricity when I watch a show that moves

me, really moves me. I cry, I laugh, I'm every one of those

characters on the stage or on the screen. It's my alter life!"

"I'm afraid that's a fantasizing amateur's reactions" said the

gruff-voiced journalist, returning to his notebook.

"Oh, you think so?" protested Brokemichael, his own voice

strained, cracked with emotion. "Then let me tell you something---

can we go off the record, no pen, no notebook--everything

confidential?"

"Why not? I'm only here to get the overall military piCtUre--2'

"Be quiet!" whispered Brokey the Deuce, rising behind his desk,

then crouching, slithering toward the door, listening as if playing a

role in Bertolt Brecht's Threepenny Opera. "I command the most

elite acting repertory company in the annals of military history! I've

trained them, guided them, brought them to the zenith of their

talents, so that now they're considered a world-class, antiterrorist

unit that succeeds where everyone else fails! I ask you, is that

amateurville?"

"Now, General, they're soldiers, trained for that sort of thing--2'

"No, they're not!" exploded Brokemichael, his whisper growing

into aPear-hiss. "They're actors, real professional

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 383

actors! When they enlisted as a group, I saw the opportunities right

away. Who better to infiltrate and pull the plugs behind enemy lines

than men trained to impersonate other people? And what better

than, a unit of actors familiar with one another's work, a repertory

company capable of playing off one another to give the illusion of

spontaneity, of naturalism-reality? ... clandestine operations, Mr.

Harrison. They were born to it and I made it possible!"

The journalist's reaction was that of a curmudgeon grudgingly

acknowledging a vali ' d point where he had thought none existed.

"Well, I'll be damned ... ! That's one hell of a concept, General-I

might even go so far as to say it's brilliant."

"Not exactly amateurville, is it? These days everyone wants their

services. Even now, at this moment, they're on assignment for one

of the most powerful men in the country-"

"Oh?" The man called Harrison frowned questioningly, a slight

cynical smile shaping his lips. "Then they're not on the premises,

so I can't meet them ... and we are off the record so I can't write

about them?"

"My God, way off the record, not a word!"

"Then, frankly, General, sWaking as a reporter, I have only one

source-you. No editor alive would accept a single source, and my

friends in the Polo Lounge would laugh through their oat bran eggs

Benedict, saying it would make a hell of a screenplay if it were true-

which it would if it was."

411t is!91

"Who says besides you?"

"Well, I ... I can't!"

"Too bad. If there was a shred of truth to the concept, you could

probably sell an outline for a few hundred thousand. And with what

they call a 'screen treatment'-that's a half-assed summary like we all

used to do in high school book reports-for maybe a half a million.

You'd be the toast of Tinseltown."

"Oh, my God, it is true! Believe me!"

"I may believe you, but my confidence wouldn't be worth a

Pellegrino and lime in the Po-Lounge. For this

384 ROBERT LUDLUM

kind of thing to fly, you need credibility.. i Now, General, I really

think we should return to the interview."

"No! I'm too close to my dreams.... Paul and Joanne, Greg and

Mitch and Michael-all the good people!"

"That they are-"

"You must believe me!"

"How can IT' growled the old journalist. "I can't even write down

a word-we're off the record."

"Well, try this," cried Brokey the Deuce, his eyes on fire as the

sweat rolled down his face. "Within the next twenty-four hours, my

antiterrorist repertory company of actors will capture one of the

most dangerous enemies our country has ever known."

"That's a hell of a statement, General. Anything to back it up

with that I can document?"

I "Is there anything between off-the-record and on-therecord?"

"Well, I suppose there's confidential postoccurrence disclosure-

that's to say nothing may be printed until the event takes place,

and-even then, only 'on background.' "What's that?"

"No specific names are used or revealed as sources."

"I'll take it!"

"You'll get it," muttered the journalist.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Nothing. Go ahead, General."

"They're-in-Boston-Massachusetts," said Brokemichael

quickly in a monotone, his lips barely moving.

"That's nice."

"Have you been reading the newspapers or watching television?"

the general asked, again quickly, secretively.

"Off and on, you can't escape either one."

"Did you read or hear about the Nobel committee that flew into

Boston on the Vice-President's plane?"

"Yes, I think I did," replied the journalist, scowling in thought.

"Something about an address at Harvard and announcing some

award or other for a general ... the Soldier of the Decade, or

something like that. I saw it on the television news."

"Preet-tee impressive, wouldn't you say?" said Brokey the Deuce,

the question delivered in sing-song.

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 385

"Well, any committee representing the Nobel Foundation

wouldn't be too tacky,"

"You agree then that they were a distinguished group of scholars

and military historians, right?"

"Certainly. The Nobel boys don't mess around with bums, they

don't have to. So what's all this got to do with your ... your

repertory company of antitefforists?"

"It's them!"

"What's them?"

"That Nobel committee! @ They're my men, my actors

"General, on this point I'll stay strictly off the record, but have

you been dabbling in the sauce this morning? ... Hey, look, I'm no

young goober with newsprint stars in my eyes-like my friends at the

Po-Lounge, I've been around the block, too, sometimes with a fifth

in my pocket-2'

"I'm telling you the truth!" Broken-tichael fulminated, his harsh

sotto voce so intense the veins in his throat turned purple. "And I

never have a drop of alcohol before the Officers' Club opens at

noon. That 'Nobel committee' is actually my clandestine unit, my

actors!"

"Perhaps we should reschedule this interview---2'

"I'll prove it to you!" The leader of Suicidal Six raced to a file

cabinet, slapped open a drawer, and yanked out a number of manila

folders. He ran back to his desk and threw them indiscriminately

across the top, opening several and scattering dozens of

photographs helter-skelter. "Mere they are! We keep records of

their various disguises so as not to duplicate them on succeeding

operations in case of past photo surveillance.... Here, here! These

are the last pictures-the hair, a few short beards, the glasses, and

even the eyebrows. These are the men you saw on television in the

press conference at Logan Airport in Boston! Look, look!"

"I'll be damned," said the journalist, now standing and' studying

the eight-by-ten glossy photographs. "I believe you're right."

"I am right! These are the Suicidal Six, my creation!"

"But why are they in Boston?"

"It's top secret, max-classified to the zenith."

"Wol, General, I hate to tell you, but all you've,shown

386 ROBERT LUDLUM

me is disconnected visual possibilities. They're meaningless

without an explanation. Remember, we're on 'postoccurrence

disclosure,' so it's okay, you can tell me."

"My'name won't be mentioned-except perhaps to your 'Po-

Lounge' friends, who I'd kill to meet?"

"My word as a journalists" agreed the man who called himself

Harrison.

"Well, that general you mentioned-that disgraced former general-

is a traitor to our country. I won't go into all the details, but if he

carries out his plan, this nation stands to lose its first- and second-

strike capabilities."

"He's that-Soldier of the whatever?" interrupted Harrison.

" 'Soldier of the Century,' but it's all a hoax, a scam to pull him

in and take him! And my men, my actors are doing that right now!"

"I'm genuinely sorry to hear that, General, genuinely sorry- 11

"Why? He's demented."

"He's what?"

"He's a screwball, a mental case--2'

"Then why is he so goddamned important?"

"Because he and a criminal lawyer from Harvard, accent on

criminal-who I know something about-have worked up some big

fraud case against our perfect government that could cost us-

especially the Pentagon-more millions than we could con- from

Congress in a hundred years!"

"What case?"

"I don't have the particulars, only the essence, and let me tell

you' it's a Rocky Horror Picture Show-did you ever see that movie?"

"Sorry," growled the journalist, his blatant hostility apparent, but

apparently not to Brokey the Deuce. "Who is this general?" asked

the man called Harrison, choking out the question.

"A crazy son of a bitch named Hawkins, a real troublemaker,

always has been."

"I remember that name. Didn't he win the Congressional twice?"

"He's also a maniac. Eighty percent of the Congressionals

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 38-7

get it after they're dead. How come he wasn't killedmaybe there's

a story there?"

"Auuaagh!" coughed the joumalist, the fire now in his eyes.

"How come Air Forre Two carried these imposters to Boston?" he

asked, resuming a semblance of control.

"Window dressing for the press conference. You can't ignore

that aircraft."

"You can't rent it from a Hertz counter, either. That plane's an

untouchable."

"Not for some people--2'

"Oh, yes, you mentioned a big shot . . . 'one of the most

powerful men in the country,' I think you said."

"Very high rank, damn near the highest. Maxclassified."

"Now that sort of confidential information would really impress

my friends in Hollywood. They'd probably fly you out to the Coast

for a couple of conferences-all very hush-hush, of course."

"Conferences?"

"They look ahead, General, way down the road, they have to. A

picture starts with a high concept; the development,takes a couple

of years. Good Lord, every major star in the industry would be at

your feet-you'd have to meet lern all for precasting purposes."

"Meet them ... all?"

"Sure, but I guess it's out of the question since you can't tell me-

on a confidential postoccurrence basis-who the big shot is. Later,

any damn fool can reveal the name, and probably will; the time to

strike for you is now. After the fact you won't be anything special....

Oh, well, win some, lose some. Let's get on with the interview, Gen-

eral. The cuts in defense spending directly affect the manpower

situation, which has to in turn affect troop morale--2'

"Wait a minute!" An apoplectic Brokey the Deuce paced back and

forth, looking down at the photographs of his magnificent

creation/obsession. "As you say, when the story breaks-and it has

to some day-I won't be anyone special, and any damn fool can take

credit for what I've done. God, they. will, too! They'll make a movie

and I won't be any part of it. I'll have to pay probably fifty dol-388 ROBERT LUDLUM

Jars just to sit in a theater and watch what theyve done to my

masterpiece. Oh, Christ, it's terrible!"

"Mat's life, as Old Blue Eyes sings in that song," said the

journalist, -his pen poised above his notepad. "For a fact, though,

Francis Albert is looking for a good character role--he might even

play you."

"Francis Albert ... T'

"I mean Frank, naturally, Sinatra, of course."

"No!" roared the brigadier general. "I did all this and did it my

way!"

"What was that?"

"All right, I'll tell you," said the perspiring Brokernichael. "Later

on, down the road, he'll probably thank me, maybe find me another

star, and even if he doesn't he can damn well pay fifty dollars

himself and watch that movie, my movie."

"I can't follow you, General."

"The Secretary of State!" whispered Brokey the Deuce. "He@ the

one my Suicidal Six are on the Boston mission for. He arrived here

yesterday incognito, nobody on the base knew who he was, his ID

a processed fake!" - "Bingo!" shouted the Hawk, leaping up from the

chair to his full height and ripping the dull red wig off his head.

"Gotcha, Deucey!" he continued yelling as he tore apart his collar

and tie while yanking the steel@rimmed glasses away from his face.

"How are ya, old buddy, you miserable son of a bitch?"

Ethelred Brokernichael was beyond speech; in a word, he was

paralyzed. A series of deep-throated grunts combined with high-

pitched nasal wheezes emerged from his gaping mouth in the'lower

middle of his contorted face. "Ahhhh ... ahhhh!"

"Is that any way to greet an old buddy, even if he is a mental

case and a misfit who probably shouldn't have been given his

Congressionals?"

"Aiya ... aiya!"

"Oh, I forgot, he's also a traitor and a troublemaker, and maybe

there's a story behind those medals like directing his own fire on

himself, that might do it."

"Nyahh ... nyahh!"

"You mean you don't think that'd work, you pissantT'

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 389

"Mac, stop it!" cried Brokey the Deuce, recovering sufficiently to

protest. "You don't know what I've been going through,. . . a

divorce-the bitch is bleeding me dry-and fighting Washington for

funds, and keeping my unit happy-Jesus, I have to arrange captive

audiences for their goddamned staged readings when the recruits

don't understand a word and smoke funny cigarettes to get through

the ordeals.... Have mercy, Mac, I'm just trying to survive! What

would you have done, tell the Secretary of State to shove it?"

"I probably would have."

"Yeah, well, you never had to pay a dime in alimony."

"Of course not. I taught my fillies how to take care of

themselves, and by God, they did. If I'm short, any one of lem will

ante up."

"I'll never understand, never."

"It's simple. I cared for each and every one and helped them to

be better than they were. You didn't care and you didn't help."

"Well, damn it, Mac, that wall-eyed Pease made a hell of a case

against you! And when he told me that lousy punk lawyer

Devereaux was involved, I went bananas-dedicated bananas."

"That's kind of a shame, Deucey, because that 'punk' Devereaux

is the reason I'm here ... to help you get your ass out of the biggest

sling it could land in." ,"at?"

"It's time for @ou to have a little mercy, General. Sam

Devereaux now knows he overstated his charges against you and

wants to make up for his younger indiscretions. Do you think I'd

risk coming down here and walk right into the enemy's camp if he

hadn't insisted?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"You're being set up, Brokey. Sam found out and literally

ordered me to fly down and warn you."

"What? How?"

"There's this minor lawsuit against the governmentsomeone's

always suing the government-but this one is a major embarrassment

to WarTen Pease, and he's a very image-conscious. politician. He

wants it eliminated, so he enlists you and your team to do his dirty

work, convincing

390 ROBERT LUDLUM

you it's a big national crisis, and the minute you've done it, he

doesn't know you! The lawsuit's thrown out of court ,cause the

plaintiffs aren't there, somebody's bound to protest, and the

elimination trail leads right to your Suicidal Six--and you. A general

officer who only barely survived serious charges in the Golden

Triangle. You're dead meat, Brokey."

"Holy shit! Maybe I ought to call them back."

"If I were you, I'd also insert an official memorandum in your

files-dated yesterday-that upon reconsideration you withdrew your

troops, because you believed the mission was beyond military

constitutional authority. If there's a congressional investigation,

hang Pease, not yourself."

"Goddamn, I will! ... Mac, how did you know so much about L.A.-

the Coast, and the Polo Lounge, and all'those other things you

talked about?"

"You forget, old buddy, they rn@de a movie about me. I was the

consultant for ten crazy weeks out there, courtesy of the Pentagon

pricky-shits who thought it would do wonders for recruitment

quotas."

"They took a nose dive, everyone knows that. It was the worse

damn flick 1, ever saw and I'm something of an expert. I mean, it

was really terrible, and even though I hated your guts, I bled for

you."

"I hated it, too, but there were compensations only that place

can provide.... Call your troops back, Deucey. You're being led

down the fall-guy path."

"I will, I will. I just have to find a way."

"Pick up the phone and give the order, that's all you have to do."

"It's not as easy as that. Christ, I'm countermanding the

Secretary of State! Maybe I'll just get sick--2'

"You waffling, Deucey?"

"For God's sake, I've got to think!"

"Then while you're at it, think about this." The Hawk unbuttoned

his jacket and spread it open, revealing a tape recorder strapped to

his chest. "A colonel I recently fieldcommissioned su ested I be

'wired,' that's what he called , 99

it. Every word said in this room is recorded."

"You're scum, Mac!"

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 391

"Come on, General, we're just a couple of old-timers, and I've

got to survive, too.... What's that phrase? 'If the devil don't get

you, the big deep will'T'

"Never heard it before."

"Neither have I, but it kinda fits, doesn't it?"

24 *11-4

Vincent Mangecavallo walked across the white marble floor of the

condominium in Miami Beach on his way to the apartment's gym

room. Once again he winced at the pink furniture that was

everywhere-chairs, sofas, lamps, throw rugs, and even a living room

chandelier made up of several hundred descending pink shells that

looked as if it was going to crash down on somebody's head any

minute. Vinnie was no decorator, but the endless combination of

pink and white did nothing for him except to suggest that the big

famous decorator his cousin Ruggio had hired was also very big on

ballet.

"It ain't pink, Vin," Ruge had said the day before yesterday over

the telephone. "It's peach, only you call it

p&he." 6'Why?"

" 'Cause pink is low price, peach higher, and piche goes through

the fuckin' roof Me, I can't tell the difference, and to be frank, I don't

think Rose can either, but it makes her happy, y'know what I mean?"

"T'he way you live, Cugino, you should always make your wife

happy. However, regardless, I appreciate your letting me use the

place."

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 393

"As long as you like, Vin. We can't get down there for at least

a month, by which time you'll be back among the living. We got

pressing business with the El Paso familybut, hey, look at the gym

I built, steam bath and all."

"At the moment, that's where I'm heading when I get off the

phone-I'm even wearing a pink towel-type bathrobe, kinda short."

"That's for the girl , I got blue ones in the gym."

"What's with the El Paso boys, Ruge?" Vincent had asked.

"They want the whole fuckin' leather saddle market, which takes

into account not only the fake dude ranches in New York and PA,

but all the fancy fox hunt clubs in west Jersey and New England."

"Well, with respect, Ruge, horses are like, Western, y'know? And

saddles maybe should be like cowboys, hub? Western, right?"

"That's bullshit, Vin. Most of that saddle stuff is made in

Brooklyn and the Bronx. You give those paisan yippeeyie-yo@yos

an inch, first thing you know they'll be into the tracks, and that we

can't tolerate."

"I see your point. I wouldn't on the breath of my dead mother

interfere with you."

"Your mama's not dead, Vinnie. She's in Lauderdale."

"It's only an expression, Cousin."

"Hey, Vin, guess what? Tomorrow I'm going to your memorial

service! Ain't that somethin'T'

"You gonna speak on my behalf?"

"Hell, no, I'm lowlife. But the cardinal's gonna say a few words.

Hey, a cardinal, Vinnie!"

"I don't know him."

"Your mama called and cried a lot and made an impact on the

collection plate. He'll speak."

"She'll make a bigger impact when I'm resurrected.... Thanks

again for the pad, Cugino."

Mangecavallo paused beneath the pink-shelled chandelier,

reflecting on the telephone conversation he had had with Ruggio

two days ago. As then, he was on his way to the small elaborate

gym, where he intended to studiously avoid the brand-new Nautilus

equipment, as if by touching it a person could catch the clap. The

sudden memory of

394 ROBERT LUDLUM

that phone conversation, brought on by the faggy Easter egg decor,

reminded Vincent that it was time to make another call. It was not

a call he was overjoyed to make, but it was necessary, and perhaps

the information he might be given would make him the happiest

man this side of an honest amateur who broke a bank in Vegas.

But there was a catch. The news of his being alive and well and

pulling strings was restricted to a very few people, namely the

scumball Wall Streeters on Meat's agenda who would have mouths

sealed in cement or later face the rest of their lives in various

slarnmers without the money they figured to 'make, and his cousin

Ruggio. Ruge was also a necessity, as Vincent needed a private

residence where he could stay securely out of sight until the time

came for SmythingtonFontini to pick him up and fly him to the point

of his miraculou's "rescue" in the Dry Tortugas.

However, Abul Khaki was not on that exclusive list, nor should

he have been, but he, too, was now a necessity. In the world of

international finance, Abul was every bit as devious as Ivan

Salamander; what made him more dangerous, or successful,

depending on one's point of view, was the fast that he was not a,

citizen of the United States and had more offshore holding

companies, like in the Bahamas and the Caymans, than anyone

since the more successful pirates buried a couple of thousand

trunks in the Caribbean. Also, as Khaki was an Arab from one of

those sheikdoms that Washington was always trying to reach on the

sly, he had certain built-in protections that came when the

government concluded back-channel negotiations with Politically

unpopular people. People who, for instance, could broker a few

thousand missiles and a King James Bible for three convicts and a

prostitute from Damascus. Abul Khaki had a walking case of

immunity.

When Mangecavallo learned of Abul's unadvertised credentials,

he entered into a liaison with the Arab that was beneficial to both

men. Khaki had numerous shipping interests and tankers pulling

into waterfronts everywhere, sometimes carrying more than 011,

and after a few embarrassing local busts,, Vinnie let Abul know that

he and his friends had considerable influence down at the docks ...

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 395

"from New York to New Orleans and points in betweenthey're locked

up, Mr. Cocky."

"That's Khaki, Mr. Mangecuvulo." "That's Mangecavallo."

"I'm sure we'll get to know each other's name."

They did, and, as is said, one thing led to another, including

certain financial services rendered by Abul to his friend Vincent.

And at the firm suggestion of the dons in the tri-state area and

Palermo that Mangecavallo go after the directorship of the CIA,

Vinnie went to Khaki.

"I gotta problem, Abul. The dons think big and that's good, but

they're not much for details and that's bad."

"The problem, please, my dear friend who has the eyes and the

speed of the desert falcon-although, in truth, I've never been to the

desert. Extremely hot, I'm told."

"That's the problem, pal. The heat.... I've got a lot of bread

buried in accounts all over the country under different names. Once

I've got that job in Washington, and I'll get it, there's no way I can

fly around some thirty-eight states picking up my cash, a great deal

of which I'd prefer to keep private."

"An absolute, I should think."

"Definitely-"

"Do you have your bank account books?"

"All four thousand two hundred and twelve." Vinnie had

permitted himself an indictable grin.

"Ahh, the gaze of the camel holds more than'can be gathered by

the rumblings of its several stomachs." "Something like that, I

guess."

"Do you trust me, Vincent?"

"Surt, I've got to-just like you've got to trust me, capisce?"

"With certainty. The tail of the Bedouin's dog wags in the

triumph of its survival.... Have you ever met a Bedouin? No matter,

but let me tell you, they smell to high heaven in the marketplace."

"Me bank accounts? The books?"

"Sign several dozen for closure and collection and bring all of

them to me. I have on my payroll an artist, a man of extraordinary

talent, who can duplicate the signatures of living or dead, and has

done so many times for anyone,

396 ROBERT WDLUM

considerable profit. I shall handle your portfolio myself, Vincent, a

blind trust, as it were, under the aegis of one of the most

respectable law firms in Manhattan."

"All of it?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Only an amount commensurate with the

estate of a rather successful importer. The remainder you'll really

make money with, and I can assure you there'll be no paper trail."

Abul Khaki became Mangecavallo's: unofficial personal

manager, with roughly four million in the market and seven times

that amount in offshore holding companies. However, it was neither

the serviceable friendship nor the service rendered that compelled

Vincent to reach Abul. Quite simply, it was'because Khaki had a

greater in-depth knowledge of the global stock exchanges than any

other person Mangecavallo knew, most of it garnered through illegal

avenues, the rest through financial acumen. And of all men, Abul

Khaki would keep his mouth shut. It was a given-his own survival

eternally depended upon it, forget the, Bedouin's dog.

"I can't believe this!" shrieked the Arab after Vincent had used

one of the code names to get through to him-at the moment in

Monte Carlo.

"Believe it, Abul, I'll fill you in later-"

"You don't understand. I wired ten thousand dollars' worth of

floral wreaths,for your memorial service yesterday and signed it on

behalf of myself and the Israeli goveniment through my offices in

New York!"

"Why did you do thatT'

"Well, I've made a shekel or two with t4e Likud, and coupling my

name with theirs might lead to further arrangements."

"It can't hurt," said Vincent. "I always got along with the

Mossad."

"I would expect so ... but you've come back from the dead! I'm

beside myself with shock, my entire body trembling-I'll lose every

hand to the boot in baccarat, costing me hundreds of thousands!"

"Don't play.,,

"With three Greeks at the table with whom I do business? Are

you mad? ... What are you doing, Vincent?

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 397

What is happening? The swirling sands of the desert are blinding

my universe!"

"You've never been to the desert, Abul."

"I've seen photographs-appalling, just as your voice is appalling

to me as you speak now, from where I know not, but I must assume

it isn't ethereal."

"I told you, I'll explain later ... after I'm rescued."

"Rescued ... ? Thank you, dear Vincent, but I don't care to hear

another word. In fact, I insist upon it."

"Then pretend it's not me, just an interested investor. How's the

market doing in the States?"

"How is it doing? It's gone quietly insane. So much subterfuge,

so many secret negotiations-mergers, buyouts, controlling interests;

it's started all over again! It's madness!"

"What do the oracles say?"

"They're not talking, even to me. Compared to the market,

Alice's looking-glass world is a place of incontestable logic.

Nothing makes sense-again even to me."

"What about the defense-oriented companiesT'

"As you ' Italianos say, they're pazzo! When they should be

drying up, anticipating equipment conversions everywhere, they're

reaching all-time highs. Moscow called me, both furious and

frightened, asking me what I thought, and I had no answers. And

my contacts in the White House tell me the President's been on

dozens of conference calls with everyone in the Kremlin, assuring

them all that it must be the opening Eastern markets and the

conversions because the Pentagon budget continues to be

drastically cut.... I tell you, Vincent, everything is pazzo!"

"No, it's not, Abul. It's perfect.... I'll be in touch, I gotta take a

steam."

Warren Pease, Secretary of State, was beside himself, in the outer

extremes of anxiety. His left eye was at the moment uncontrollable,

racing back and forth like a laser blip trying to center in on an

elusive target. "What do you mean you can't find General Ethelred

Brokemichael?" he shouted into the telephone. "He's under.my

orders-strike that-he's under the orders of the President of -the

United

398 ROBERT LUDLUM

States, who expects him to report to this max-classified phone

number, which I have now given you at least a dozen times! How

long do you expect the President of the United States to wait for a

lousy brigadier general, huh?"

"We're doing the best we can, sir," said the frightened,

exhausted voice from Fort Benning. "We can't produce what isn't

here."

"Have you sent out search teams?"

"To every movie'theater and restaurant from Cuthbert to

Columbus to Hot Springs. We've checked his logs, his outgoing

calls-"

"Anything there?"

"Nothing productive, but certainly unusual. General

Brokernichael placed twenty-seven calls to a hotel in Boston over

a two-and-a-half-hour period. Naturally we reached the hotel and

asked whether the general had left any messages---2'

"Jesus, you didn't say who you were, did you?"

"Only that it was official government business, nothing specific."

"And?"

"Tbey just laughed at the name--on four separate occasions. We

were assured he wasn't there and that they'd never heard of him-if

such a person with that name existed."

"Keep looking!" Pease slammed the phone down on ' his

console, got up from his desk, and began pacing angrily about hi$

office in the State Department. What had that damn fool

Brokemichael done, where had he gone? How dare he vanish into

the military-intelligence woodwork, where there were more cracks

and knotholes than in the whole Sequoia National Park! What was

be thinking of that permitted him to cut himself off from the

Secretary of State? ... Maybe he died, thought Pease.... No, that

wouldn't help and might only complicate matters-still, if anything

had gone wrong, there was nothing to link him to the eccentric

general who had created the lethal machine that was the Suicidal

Six. Warren had arrived at the army base with the proper papers,

of course, but they were not in his name,. and besides, he had worn

a short red toupee that covered his thinning hair. As far as the Fort

Benning

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 399

entry and departure logs were concerned, a nondescript lower level

accountant from the Pentagon had dropped in to pay his respects

to the general.... The red toupee, considered Pease, was really a

stroke of genius, as even the political cartoonists made a point of

his receding hairline. Where was that son of a bitch?"

The telephone console interrupted his thoughts; he ran to it,

seeing that three lines were lighted, then suddenly a fourth. He

punched his secretary's blinking button and picked up the phone,

hoping to hear the words "Fort Benning calling on the relay!" His

hopes, however, were dashed when after nearly thirty agonizing

seconds, the bitch coolly informed him, "You have three, now four,

calls that I can only describe as being of a personal nature, Mr.

Secretary, as none cares to describe his business and I don't

recognize the names-such as they are."

"What are they?"

"Bricky, Froggie, Moose, and--2'

"All right, all right," broke in'Warren, not only confused but

furious. They were, to a man, his social associates-social and then

some-from the Fawning Hill Country Club! They were never to call

him at his office,. that was bible! But, of course, they were not

calling; "Bricky," "Froggie," "Moose," and undoubtedly "Doozie" had

placed the calls. What in God's name had happened now that

caused them all to reach him? "I'll take them in sequence, Mother

Tyrania," he said, slapping his head to still his stressed left eye.

"I'm not Tyrania, Mr. Secretary. I'm her youngest daughter,

Andromeda Trueheart."

"Are you new?"

"As- of yesterday, sir. The family felt that at the moment you

needed extremely efficient service, and Mother's on vacation in

Beirut."

"Really?" Visions of garter belts filled what air space was left in

Pease's imagination. "You're the youngest daughter ... T'

"Your calls, sir."

"Yes, yes, of course. I'll start with the first-'Bricky,' right?"

"Right, Mr. Secretary. I'll tell the others to hold."

400 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Bricky, what are you doing calling me here?"

"You old fox, Peasie," said Bricky, the New England banker,

oozing subterranean charm. "I'm going to make you the most

honored alumnus at our class reunion."

"I thought you said I couldn't go."

"That's all changed, naturally. I had no idea what that incredible

mind of yours was conjuring up. You're a credit to our class, old

chum.... I won't keep you, I know you're busy, but if you ever need

a loan, the amount no object, just pick up the phone. Talk soon and

let's have lunch--on me, of course."

"Froggie, what the hell is going on? I just heard from Bricky-"

"I'm sure I don't have to tell you, you Midas incarnate, old sport,

and certainly not on: this phone," replied the blond-haired cynic

from Fawning Hill. "We've all talked, and I want you to know that

Daphne and I hope you and your dear wife will be our guests at the

Debutantes' Cotillion in Fairfax next month. You'll be the guest of

honor, of course."

"I will?"

"Naturally. Can't do enough for one of our own, can we?"

"Ibat's very kind-"

"Kind? The incredible kindness is yours, sport. You-'re simply

mahvullous! Be in touch."

"Moose, will you please tell me-"

"Goddamn, Pisser, you can play at my club anytime you like!"

cried the president of Petrotoxic Amalgamated. "Forget what this

dumb jackass said before,, it'd be a privilege to swing a six iron

with you."

"I really don't understand--2'

"Sure@ in hell you do, and I sure in hell know why you can't

talk. Just let me say, my old good buddy-frat tie, you're number

one in my social register, never forget it.... Gotta go; just appointed

myself chairman of the board, but if you want the job, it's yours."

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 401

"Doozie, I've just spoken with Bricky, Froggie, and Moose, and 1

must say I'm bewildered."

"I understand, old chummy-chum-chum. There are people in

your office, right? Just say 'yes,' and I'll speak accordingly."

"I say 'no,' andyou can say whatever you like!"

"What about taps on'your phone?"

"Absolutely prohibited. The office is 'swept' every morning, and

lead shields are externally positioned to block electronic

surveillance."

"Good-o, chummy, you've really got a hold on things down

there."

"Actually, it's standard procedure.... Doozie, what the hell is

going on?"

"Are you testing me, Pisser?"

The Secretary of State paused; since nothing else seemed to

work, perhaps this was the way to go. "Maybe I am, Doozie. Maybe

I want to make sure you all understand." - "Let's put it this way,

Mr Secretary, old boy. You are the most creative thinker our crowd

has put forth since we crushed the unions in the twenties. And

you've done it through sheer imagination, not a shot fired against

a rotten socialist or a left-wing congressman!"

"I must press you, Doozie," said a stunned Warren Pease

haltingly as the perspiration formed on his receding hairline. "How

exactly have I done that?"

"The UFOs!" exclaimed Doozie. "As that socially unacceptable

Ivan Salamander put it-very confidentially, of course-we'll now have

to arm the entire world! Brilliant, Pisser, absolutely brilliant!"

"UFOs? What are you talking about?"

"Top-drawer, chum, really top-drawer."

"UFOs ... ? Oh, my God!"

The Rockwell jet carrying the Hawk landed at the airport in

Manchester, New Hampshire, roughly ten miles south of Hooksett.

The decision to bypass Boston and fly directly to Manchester had

been Sam Devereaux's, his rea-402 ROBERT LUDLUM

soning being that Mac had been picked up previously by someone's

surveillance at Logan and it could happen again, so why chance the

risk? Also, things were coming to a fast boil, and if an hour or two

of driving could be saved, do it. Mac's next move was to diffuse the

Suicidal Six, who, according to Desi the First, were in total disrepair,

thanks to Desi the Second's culinary talents; the rest was up to the

Hawk's persuasive powers.

Paddy Lafferty, his chest bursting with pride and hero worship,

picked up the general in the Pinkus limousine and, wonder of

wonders, the great man himself chose once again to sit in front with

Paddy.

"Tell me, Gunny," said the Hawk as they sped north toward

Hooksett, "what do you know about actors, I mean real ones?"

"Outside of Sir Henry, not a hell of a lot, General."

"Well, he's kinda special, I gather; he's got a track record. What

about the ones who don't?"

"From everything I've read in the papers and them magazines

that Mrs. Pinkus leaves in the car, they're all waitin' to be

discovered so they can get track records. Maybe that's not so

bright, but it's what I figure."

"It's very bright, Paddy. That's the answer."

"To what, sir?"

"To get certain people to change their minds without thinking too

much."

Eight minutes later the Hawk walked into the ski lodge. It was

a bright summer's afternoon, and Desi-Two had just served a very

late brunch; the results were all too apparent. The lethal members

of Suicidal Six were as close to zombie-land as corpses were to

coffins. They sat around the lounge staring into their own personal

horizons as upright dead fish might on a New Bedford dock. The

single exception was Sir Henry Irving Sutton, who had obviously

been around that block several times before, and was as

disgustingly alive as a cawing black crow intruding on a massive

collective hangover.

"Come, gentlemen!" cried, Sir Henry, gently slapping several

faces and prodding rib cages as he walked around the room. "Our

multidecorated general from the North African campaign has come

to speak with us!"

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 403

"Well said, Major," said the Hawk approvingly. "I won't take up

much of your time, men, just enough to bring you up to date."

"To date?"

"What date?"

"You got a date, Marlon?"

"I don't know what he means."

"Who is he?"

"Give him a lollipop, baby."

One by one, the wide eyes of six intrepid fish focused on

Hawkins, who walked to the staircase, climbed two steps, and

addressed the members of the antiterrorist unit. "Gentlemen," he

began in his best stentorian tradition, "and you are gentlemen, as

well as outstanding performers and soldiers, my name is Hawkins,

MacKenzie Hawkins the retired general who you were sent out to

find and t;@@ into custody."

"My God, it is!"

"He looks like the photographs--2'

"Somebody move

"Forget it."

"My legs won't work, pilgrim."

"Hold it, men!" exclaimed the Hawk. "Although I don't think that

order's really necessary, from what I can see before me.... I've just

returned from Benning, having conferred with my good friend and

long-time comrade in arms, General Ethelred Brokemichael, your

commander. He sends you his congratulations for another job well

done, along with new and concise instructions.... This mission-is

canceled, aborted, dropped into a shredder."

"'Whoa, pilgrim!" said The Duke, rapping his knees to no effect.

"Who says so?"

"General Brokemichael."

"Why doesn't he call us-us-us himself, himself, himself?"

"You must be that Dusty fella."

"I'm not, ya motha!" said Sly menacingly. "You stand there like

a poor excuse for Rosencrantz at Elsinore, but why and how come

and for what reason should we believe you, huh, huh? Why don't he

call us his-self?"

404 ROBERT LUDLUM

"He-we-tried repeatedly from Fort Benning. The phones aren't

working here."

"How come, baby?"

The storm?"

"What storm, dear boy? I recall no harsh winds or cracks of

thunder across the moors."

"Sir Larry ... T'

"Don't give me or Stella no crap, we got 'nuff problems!"

"Marlon ... ?"

"The point, pilgrim, is why should we believe you? Injuns play

them games all the time. The war drums stop and you figure you

got a break, then the bloodthirsty savages attack. That's when you

gotta go for the slaughter."

"You should work on that, Duke. I met the real one when they

did that movie about me, and y'know something, fie didn't have a

hostile bone in his body."

"You met The Duke ... T'

"Just listen up!" roared the Hawk, startling the men of Suicidal

Six with his harsh command-at least sufficiently so as to catch their

undivided attention, such as it was. "General Brokemichael and I

not only arrived at an honorable truce, but we reached a firm

conclusion. In short words', men, we were both duped, by corrupt

politicians who were using your unique abilities to-further their own

ambitions. As you know, nothing is ever written down concerning

your max-classified operations, your objectives delivered orally,

and, in line with that policy, I have been authorized by my good

buddy, Brokey the Deuce-that's an affectionate term, incidentally-to

tell you that this mission is canceled, and along with that order, and

in light of your superb record over the past five years, he's ar-

ranged for all of you to be transferred to suites at the Waldorf-

Astoria hotel in New York."

"What's there?" asked Marlon without the slur.

"Why?" said Dusty without repeating himself.

"That's a pleasurable wrinkle," added Sir Larry.

"It's really very simple," said the Hawk. "Your terms of

enlistment are up in six months, and considering your extraordinary

contributions to the military and the lessening of world tensions,

General Brokernichael has arranged for

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 405

all of you to interview the heads of several studios flying in from

Hollywood. They're anxious to make your story into a motion

picture."

"What about me?" shouted a distraught Sir Henry. "I suspect

you'll play General Brokemichael." "That's better."

"Goldang, I'm speechless, pilgrims," said The Duke. "It's everything

we've ever wanted," said Marion in perfect English. "Everything

we've dreamed of!"

"It's sensational ...

"Stupendous ... !"

"We'll play ourselves ...

"And be together ... !"

"Hooray for Holl-eee-wood ...

Like a pride of wounded lions delivered from torrential floods in

the African veldt, the men of Suicidal Six struggled to their feet and

unsteadily lurched toward one another, forming a less than perfect

circle. And like weaving, disjointed marionettes, they started to

dance around that imperfect circle, bodies colliding amid great if

painful laughter. In the lounge of the former ski lodge, they created

a hora born of a tarantella with generous portions of a drunken

miners' camp thrown in for good measure. Crescendos of triumph

filled the room as Desi the First walked to the staircase and spoke

to the Hawk.

"Chu are really a great man, Heneral! Look how happy they are-

chu make them feel so wunnerful!"

"Yeah, well I'll tell you something, D-One," said MacKenzie,

removing a mutilated cigar from his pocket. "I don't feel so

wonderful myself. I feel about as big as a sewer rat and ten times

dirtier."

For the first time since their initial encounter in the men's room

at Logan Airport, Desi the First looked disapprovingly at the Hawk.

Long and hard.

Warren Pease flew down the stairs of his moderately elegant house

in suburban Fairfax in his pajamas. He raced across the living room

in the wash of the hallway light, misjudged the door to his study

and crashed into the wall, recouped in panic and ran inside to his

blinking telephone.

406 ROBERT LUDLUM

He punched three buttons until he found the right one,

fumbled for his desk lamp and, turning it on, fell into the

chair screaming.

"Where the hell have you been? It's four o'clock in the morning

and no one's been able to find you all day and night! With every

hour we're closer to catastrophe and you disappear. I demand an

explanation!"

It started with a tummy ache, sir."

"What?" shrieked Pease.

"Stomach trouble. Gas, Mr. Secretary."

"I don't believe this! The country's facing disaster and you have

gas?"

"It's not something you can control--2'

"Where were you? Where's that goddamned unit of yours?

What's happening?"

"Well, the answer to your first question is directly rerated to your

second and third."

"What did you say ... ?"

"You see, my acidity--the gas-was brought on by my not being

able to raise the unit in Boston, so I went undercover to find them."

"Undercover where?"

"Boston, of course. I hitched a ride on an air force reconn out

of Macon and got there-around three o'clock this afternoon-actually

yesterday afternoon. Naturally, I went immediately to the hotel-it's

a very nice hotel---2' "I'm so happy to hear that. What then?"

"Well ' I had to be very careful, of course, because we wouldn't

want any official linkage, I think you'll agree."

"With every destroyed nerve in my body!" roared the Secretary

of State. "For God's sake, you didn't wear your uniform?"

"Please, Mr. Secretary, I went undercover. I wore a civilian suit,

and just in case I ran into any of our retired Pentagon-procurement

personnel working in the area, I had a splendid idea. I went

through my unit's paraphernalia and found a wig that fit nicely. A

touch too red for my taste, but with gray streaks--2'

"All right, all right!" broke in Pease. "What did you find?"

"A strange little man in one of the suites-I knew the

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 407

room numbers, naturally. I recognized his voice immediately, as I'd

talked with him a number of times from Benning. He's a harmless

old fellow the boys hired to take messages, which was very smart

of them. He hasn't got much upstairs and that's a plus; he merely

takes messages."

"What did he say, for heaven's sake?"

"He repeated what he said to me over the phone from my office

more times than I can count. His temporary employers had been

called away on business; he didn't know any more than that."

"That's it? They've simply vanished?"

"I have to assume they're zeroing in on the target, Mr. Secretary.

As I explained, they have broad parameters where the missions are

concerned, because so much depends on instantaneous reactions,

which they're trained to invent."

"Spook babble!" yelled Pease.

"No, sir, it's called improvisation-'improv,' for short."

"You're telling me you don't know what the hell is going on.

There's no communication, for Christ?s sake!"

"There are frequent occasions when the telephone equipment

cannot be trusted, both civilian- and government-oriented."

"Who made that up, the Pink Panther? Why didn't you return my

calls?"

"On the air force reconn which I took to Boston, Mr. Secretary?

You want the airbomes to have your relay number in their

computers?"

"Hell, no!"

"And when I reached Boston I had no way of knowing you'd

called --- 2'

"Didn't you check your office to see if that out-of-sight unit of

yours had called you?"

"We operate in black-drape deep cover. They have only two

numbers: one to a line in my Benning office, which is in my

bathroom but activates a light under my desk; and the other at my

apartment, which is in my clothes closet and starts a tape of

'There's No Business Like Show Business.' Naturally, I have a

remote for both answering machines, and there was nothing' on

either."

408 ROBERT LUDLUM

"I may just slit my wrists. All this high-tech crap means is that

nobody can talk to anybody who's got a pulse."

"Once removed, sir, is twice removed from exposure.... That's a

line from the movie Thirty-two Rue Madeleine. Did you ever see it?

Cagney and Abel, simply terrific."

"I don't want to hear about any goddamned movies, soldier. I

want to hear that your bunch of gorillas have captured Hawkins and

taken him to the SAC base in Westover! That's all I want to hear,

because if I don't hear that pretty goddamned soon, it could be the

end for all of us! All it would take is two of those squirrelly justices

on the Court sticking with those predictable left@ming radicals who

won't die!"

"All of us, Mr., Secretary, or just a few of us? Like a once-

demoted general of the army and a very successful unit he

created?"

"What? ... You don't carry your brass to play games with me,

soldier!"

"Well, Mr. Secretary, if I may ask you, from a military point of

view, why are you so concerned with Mac Hawkins's activities,

whatever they are? The world's changing, becoming less hostile

among the great powers, and as for the lesser ones we can get

togetherand blow them out of ground, like we did with Iraq.

Everywhere, on both sides, we're cutting back, our personnel and

equipment reduced every day.... Why, even yesterday morning a

famous journalist flew down to interview me in Benning; he's doing

an article on the army's reaction to the economies imposed on the

military in the post-Soviet era, the end of the cold war."

V ... p ... post-cold war?" stuttered the Secretary of State,

lurching forward over the desk, his perspiration now further

aggravating his pivoting left eye. "Get with it, soldier! What about

a far more dangerous threat, the greatest threat we can imagine?"

"China, Libya, Israel?"

"No, you idiot! The weird people-who knows how far they'll go?"

"The what?"

"The ... the ... UFOs!"

25 *011

Jennifer Redwing rushed out of the morning surf at the beach

house in Swampscott. She tugged at the straps of her bathing suit,

one of many found in the guest cabanas, and dashed across the

sand to the terrace steps, where she had draped a towel over the

rai ing. Vigorous sie (n her legs and arms, threw back her hair

and massaged her scalp, only to open her eyes and find Sam

Devereaux smiling down at her from a chair on the sun deck.

"You're a hell of a swimmer," he said.

"We learned it luring settlers into the rapids and watching them

drown as we swam across," replied Jenny, laughing. .

"You know, I can believe that."

"You know, it's probably true." Redwing climbed the steps and

walked out on the deck, wrapping the towel around her. "How nice"

she added, looking at the round table of frosted Plexiilas. "A pot of

coffee and three CUPS."

"Mugs, actually. I can't drink coffee from cups."

"That's funny, neither can I," said Jenny, sitting down. ,"I guess

that's why I call them cups; it's interchangeable. I must have a

dozen in my apartment, very few the same."

410 ROBERT LUDLUM

"I must have two dozen, and only four are the same. Naturally,

those are from Mother, and they're in some kind of green-colored

crystal, and I never use them."

"It's called Irish Glass, and it's terribly expensive and I've got

two, and 1,never use them either."

They both laughed and their eyes locked; it was a brief moment,

yet not to be dismissed. "Good Lord," said Sam, "we've talked for

almost a minute and neither of us has thrown a verbal blade. That

calls for me to pour you a cup-a mug--of coffee."

"Thanks. Just black, please."

"That's helpful. I forgot the cream or milk or that white powder

I avoid because it looks like you could end up in jafl for possessing

it."

"Who's the third cup-mug-for?" asked the Indian Aphrodite,

accepting the coffee.

I "Aaron. My mother's upstairs; she's fallen in love with Roman

Z, who said he'd make her a Gypsy breakfast and bring it to her,

and Cyrus won't admit it, but he's nursing a hangover in the

kitchen."

"Don't you think he should keep his eye on Roman?"

"You don't know Mother."

"I may know -her better than you, that's why I asked."

Again their eyes met, and their laughter was louder ... Warmer.

"You're a wicked Indian lady and I should take back your coffee."

"The hell you will. Frankly, I think this is just about the best

coffee I've ever had."

"That's right, compound your statement. Roman Z made it. Of

course, he combed the dunes and undoubtedly picked up slimy

urchins from the ocean to mix in with the grounds, but if you start

howling, I'll find a razor and shave off your beard."

"Oh, Sam," coughed Jenny, replacing her mug on the table. "You

can be amusing, even if you're one of the most aggravating men

I've ever known.",

"Aggravating? Me? Heaven forbid.... But does amusing mean in

tepee terms we've got a truce?"

"Why not? I was thinking last night before falling asleep, we

have a couple of rugged mountains to climb, and we're not going to

get over them sniping at each other.

INE ROAD TO OMAHA 411

From here on the fire will be leveled at us, legally and ,probably

otherwise, the otherwise doing nothing for my blood pressure."

"Then why don't you let me 'run point,' as the Hawk would say?

I won't cross you at the hearing."

"I know you won't, but what makes you think you're more

capable of handling the 'otherwise' than me? And if you say

because you're a man, we're back to the sniping."

"Well, sniping aside, I suppose that's a natural part of it, but it's

minor. The larger part is that I know Mac Hawkins, know the way

he reacts in tight situations. I can even anticipate him, and let me

tell you, there's no one on earth I'd rather have on my side when

the wickets get sticky than Mac."

"What you're saying is you work well in tandem, as a tem."

"I'm the lesser horse, but we have in the past. I've called him a

devious son of a bitch more times than a computer could calculate,

but when things,get nasty, really nasty, I thank the moon and the

stars for his God-given deviousness. I can even sense when he's

going to pull something out of that incredible military knapsack of

his. I sense it and go with the flow,."

"Then you'll have to teach me to do- the same, Sam."

Devereaux paused, his gaze on the mug of coffee; he looked up

at her. "Do you mind my saying that could be foolhardy----even an

impediment?"

"You mean I'd get in the way of the good ole boys?"

"To be hard-nosed, you might."

"Then we'll just have to risk my incompetence."

"Sniper fire again?"

"Oh, come on, Sam, I know what you're doing, and I appreciate

it, even your latent heroics. Truthfully, it's tempting, because I'm

not a fool, I don't see myself as a female commando, but these are

my people. I can't just fade; they have to know I'm there-was there.

For them to listen to me, they have to respect me, and like it or not

they won't if I hide while someone else does the legal work, the

tribe's legal work."

"I see your point. I don't like it, but I see it." There was the

sound of a door opening and closing, followed by foot-412 ROBERT LUDLUM

steps in the living room. Moments later Aaron Pinkus emerged from

the house, his frail body encased in white walking shorts and a blue

short-sleeved shirt, his head covered by a yellow golfing cap. He

blinked at the bright sunlight and walked to the table. "Morning,

Benevolent Employer," said Devereaux.

"Good morning, Sam, Jennifer," replied Aaron, sitting down as

Redwing poured him coffee. "Thank you, my dear... I thought I

heard voices out here, but as they were neither loud nor brimming

with invective, I had no idea it was you two."

"We negotiated a truce," said Devereaux. "I lost."

"So far, things are looking up," offered the venerated attorney,

nodding and sipping from his mug. "My, this is excellent coffee!"

"Brewed with jellyfish and filthy seaweed."

"What?"

"Pay, no attention, Mr. Pinkus. Roman Z made it and Sam's

jealous."

"Why, because of Roman and my mother? Hey, I'm not that sort."

"Roman Z and Eleanor?" Aaron's eyes widened beneath the visor

of the yellow golfing cap. "Perhaps I should go back inside and

come out again. Things are a bit disjointed."

"Never mind, it's silly small talk."

"I don't know about small talk, my dear, but it's silly in the

extreme.... It comes close to being as silly as the mental gymnastics

our friend General Hawkins is going through. I just got off the

phone with him."

"What's happening?" asked Devereaux quickly. "How are things

at the lodge?"

"Apparently the ski lodge, or at least the problem contained

therein, is moving its 'bivouac' to three suites at the Waldorf-Astoria

in New -York."

"Huh?

"I was no more specific than you, Sam."

"It means he's eliminated the problem," said Jennifer brightly.

"And assumed several new ones, I gather," added Pinkus,

looking at Devereaux. "He asked that you set up

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 413

a line of credit at the Waldorf to the amount of one hundred

thousand dollars and not to worry. Since it's his dilemma, he'll

transfer funds from Bern to Geneva-which I care to know nothing

about.... Can you do that, can he? Never mind, nothing!"

"Actually, it's a simple computer transfer, a bank draft to be

drawn against by the assigned creditor-"

"I know how it's done, that wasn't the question! ... Never mind,

nothing!"

"Mat's one problem," said Redwing. "What are the others?"

"I'm not entirely sure. He asked me if I knew any motion picture

producers."

"What for?"

"I have no idea. When I told him I once knew a young man at

temple-actually, he was thrown out of the temple-who I later learned

produced several triple X-rated films, but outside of that fellow, no

one else in the industry, he said not to woffy, he'd go in another di-

rection."

"This is one of those times when I sense a devious strategy in

the making."

"Devereaux's premonitions' asked Jenny.

"Devereaux's prophecy," rejoined Sam. "What else, Aaron?"

"Even odder. He wanted to know if we had any clients who had

eye trouble, specifically straying left eyes, and, preferably someone

in need of an immediate infusion of money."

"Odd?" questioned Redwing. "It sounds crazy!"

"Never.underestimate the devious, as the gospel according to

Oliver North says with dripping sincerity." Devereaux paused. "I

can't think of any such client, but if I could, I'd march him right into

a Chapter Eleven for whatever Mac's got in his knapsack.... Other

than that bit of useless trivia, what's our next move, Boss? Did you

and the Hawk discuss it?"

"Briefly. We've got two and a half days to go before the hearing,

at which time you, Jennifer, and the general must get out of a

vehicle, or vehicles, and mount the steps to the Supreme Court

building, be admitted beyond,the lobby by

414 ROBERT LUDLUM

the scheduling clerks, pass security, and be taken to the

chambers of the Chief Justice."

"Oh, oh, I hear Mac talking," interrupted Sam.

"Quite right," agreed Pinkus. "I believe those were his words, or

an approximation thereof, minus a vulgarity or two-or three. He told

me he had to approach the situation as if he were mounting a three-

man insurgency strike behind enemy lines."

"That's very comforting," said Redwing, swallowing. "What does

he expect, a counterinsurgency interdiction where we get our heads

blown off?."

"No, he ruled out overt violenee-for it could be coun-

terproductive, since they might be caught."

"Thank heaven for small favors," added Jenny.

"But he did not rule out interdiction, you had that part right, even

the word. He thinks the counterstrategy will be to 'interdict' either

himself or Sam or both from reaching the Chief Justice's chambers,

for without them the hearing's a legal wash. Plaintiff and the

attorney-of-record must appear together."

"And me?"

"Your appearance, my dear, is by choice-insistence, if you like,

as an interested party-and not a legal require ment. However, as

you well know, your signed and notarized agreements with the

general and Sam here are legally binding. In this situation the

interested party controls the case for the plaintiff-not an unknown

happenstance."

"Read that as in mob trials where certain spectators hover

around defendants' tables," said Devereaux, addressing Jenny, his

eyes then straying back to Pinkus. "Why not stay here until around

noon the day after tomorrow, take our own plane to Washington,

then a couple of ordinary taxis to the Court? I can't see it as a

problem. No one knows where we are, except the man who hired

Cyrus and Roman to join our guard detail, the one Mac spoke to.

Even Cyrus agrees with the Hawk now; whoever that man is, he

wants to keep us alive and well and heading directly into that

hearing."

"Cyrus also wants to know why," said Redwing. "Or didn't he

mention that?"

"Mac told him; I was there. This 'Commander Y' is set-THE ROAD TO OMAHA 415

ding a score with the people who want to stop the hearing, which

means stopping us from getting there."

"Apparently, my dear, our unknown benefactor was previously

a staunch ally of those against us until he learned that these same

people had other plans for him. Something in the order of a

political sacrifice, if not a human one, neither of which is terribly

unusual in Washington, according to the general."

"But Mr. Pinkus. . . ." Jennifer squinted, pinching the features of

her lovely face, part morning sunlight, part disturbing thought.

"Something's missing, something vital, I think. Perhaps I'm

paranoid where Chief Thunder Head is concerned, and why

shouldn't I be? But all Hawkins told us last night was that

everything was under control,under control.' What does that mean?

... Okay, he's somehow called off these actor-guerrillas from

blowing us away in ravines-it's always ravines, or cliffs, or

whorehouses-but how? What happened in Fort Benning? We were

all so relieved to hear we could sleep peacefully, we never asked

him."

"That's not quite accurate, Jennifer. Prior to this morning, he

and I agreed not to talk in specifics over the telephone, for as he

pointed out, a previous assault team was sent after us in Hooksett,

and a tap on the line would be routine!'

"I thought that line up there was cut," interrupted Devereaux.

"In the telling, not the reality. He could not say last evening

what he said this morning."

"The tap was shut down? How could he know--2' "it wouldn't matter.

This morning he was calling from a pay phone at Sophie's Diner on

Route Ninety-three. He even extolled the kielbasy and eggs."

"Please, Mr. Pinkus," said Redwing. "What did he tell you about

Fort Benning?"

"Maddeningly little, my dear, but enough to make this elderly

lawyer wonder what happened to the nile of law among those

guardians of the concept.... On second thought, I wonder why I'm

even astonished any longer."

"That's pretty heavy, Aaron." "What the general told me carries

considerable tonnage,

416 ROBERT LUDLUM

young man. To paraphrase our much-decorated soldier, the

hostile action against us---essentially against the laws of airing

public grievance--emanates from the office of one of our most

powerful public figures, who has covered his tracks to the point

of nonexistence. He cannot be confronted, for there's nothing to

confront him with--2' "Goddamn it!" exploded Devereaux.

"With everything that's happened, there must be something!"

cried Jennifer. "Wait, a minute ... that gangster from Brooklyn, the

one Hawkins knocked out at the hotel, Caesar somebody-or-other.

He was taken into custody!"

"And traced to the deceased director of the Central Intelligence

Agency," said Pinkus.

"That has a familiar ring to it," noted Sam.

"T'hose naked men at the Ritz ... T' "Disowned by all of Washington,

including the zoo. Subsequently they were bailed out by someone

claiming to be a member of a nudist cult in California and disap-

peared."

"Damn, " said Jenny, discouragement as well as anger in the

drawn-out expletive. "We should never have permitted Hawkins to

ship those four armed lunatics -up at the ski lodge back to wherever

it was. We had them for intended assault with deadly weapons,

concealed invasion of property, masks, guns, grenades---even a

tattooed forehead. We were4diots to let Thunder Cigar talk us into

it!"

"My dear, they knew absolutely nothing; we questioned them at

length-to no avail but incoherence. They themselves were

maniacally programmed psychopaths, as deniable as the nudists.

And to turn them over to the police would have revealed our

whereabouts.... Worse, I'm embarrassed to say, since the lodge is

in my firm's name, there would have been considerable media

interest."

"Also," add ed Devereaux, "and I'm not in the habit of throwing

bouquets at Mac, but he was right: By sending them back, we

created the climate that led directly to this crazy Suicidal Six flying

into Boston."

"And to General Ethelred Brokemichael," said Aaron, smiling as

wickedly as it was possible for him.

"What do you mean, Mr. Pinkus? You made it clear yesterday

that Brokernichael would be out of reach,

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 417

shipped to an unmapped outpost, if he surfaces. You said

Washington could not permit the name of the official who ordered

up the Air Force Two-I remember, because I agreed with you."

"And we were both right, Jennifer, but we lacked the general's

deviousness, as I believe Sam phrased it. That fine military

tactician had a voice-activated recorder strapped to his chest during

his entire interview with General Brokemichael. The Pentagon

couldn't send 'Brokey the Deuce' far enough away to be out of

reach.... I must tell you, however, that General Hawkins wants it

known that it was our mercenary-chemist, Colonel Cyrus, who

suggested the device."

"I assume the name o t at power -u pu ic gure is on the tape,"

said Sam, controlled but dire hope on his face.

"Most definitely. Even to the fact that he got on the base without

being recognized."

"Who the hell is he?" pressed Devereaux.

"I'm afraid our general declines to reveal the name at this time."

"He can't do that," exclaimed Redwing. "We're all in this

together, we have to know!"

"He says if Sammy knew, he'd become a loose cannon and '. .

. mount his high horse and take his personal cavalry into battle . .

.' to the detriment of Hawkins's next strategy. The 'high horse

cavalry' words were exact and accurate. I know, for I've lived

through a number of Sam's legal indignations."

"I'm never a loose. cannon," protested Devereaux.

"Should I remind you of several loud criticisms you've given the

court?"

"They were entirely justified!"

"I never said they weren't-if they were, you'd be with another

firm. To your credit, you caused the retirement of at least four

judges in the Boston district."

"There, you see?"

"So does the general. He claimed you got on that high horse of

yours-by way of bribed pilots and stolen helicopters-from

someplace in Switzerland to Rome, and he doesn't care for a repeat

performance."

"I had to!"

418 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Why, Sam?" asked Jennifer quietly. "Why did you have to?"

"Because it was wrong. Morally and ethically wrong, against all

the laws of civilized man."

"Oh God, Devereaux, cut it out! You actually can turn me-forget

it."

"What?"

"Forget it! ... So Thunder Trunk won't tell us, Mr. Pinkus. What

do we do now?"

"We wait. He's having a duplicate made of the tape, and Paddy

Lafferty will bring it to us this evening. Then if we don't hear from

the general within twenty-four hours, I'm to use whatever influence

I have to reach the President of the United States and play the tape

for him over the telephone."

,,Very heavy," said Sam soffly. "The heaviest," agreed

Jennifer.

Although the trip south to New York City from Hooksett in Aaron

Pinkus's limousine was somewhat cramped in the rear, quarters-the

Suicidal Six sat three facing three while the Hawk rode in front with

Paddy Lafferty-several things were accomplished. The first was

made possible by a brief stop at a shopping mail in Lowell,

Massachusetts, where the general purchased two additional tape

recorders and a carton of one-hour tapes, enough, he figured, for

the trip to NewYork. Along with these items, Mac bought a small

patch cord with a built-in attenuator that enabled him to transcribe

the,spoken material from one tape onto a new one in a second

machine, thus duplicating whatever recorded dialogue was stored.

"Here, let me show you how it's done. It's really very simple,"

the Radio Shack clerk said.

I "Son," replied the Hawk in haste, "I was crosspatching prehistoric

transmitters between the caves before you could turn on a radio."

Back in the limousine, the first newly purchased tape recorder

activated, Mac turned to Broken-tichael's men in rear of the vehicle.

"Gentlemen," he began, "since I'll be the liaison between you and

these motion picture people

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 419

you'll be meeting, your commander, my friend Brokey, suggested

that you give me a complete rundown of your experiences, both as

individuals and as members of your incredibly successful Suicidal

Six. It will help me in my subsequent conversations with those big

producers.... And don't be put off by the presence of Mr. Lafferty

here-Gunnery Sergeant Lafferty. We were comrades together at the

Bulge."

"I could die right here on the spot, me soul already sanctified!"

choked Paddy under his breath.

"What was that, Gunny?'

"Nothin', General. I'll drive like you taught us to up through

Roubaix. Greased lightnin', it was."

As the huge automobile raced forward, there began an

uninterrupted four hours of narrative, the complete history of the

unit called the Suicidal Six-uninterrupted, that was, except when the

members interrupted one another, which was frequently, with

explosive energy incarnate. By the time they reached Bruckner

Boulevard on their way across the bridge to Manhattan's East Side,

the Hawk held up his left hand, his right turning off the tape

recorder.. "That'll be fine, gentlemen," he had said, his ears ringing

from the crescendos of melodramatics from the backseats. "I've got

the full picture now, andboth your commander and I thank you."

"Good heavens," cried Sir Larry. "I just remembered! Our

clothes, the luggage your, young adjutants picked up for us at the

hotel last night, everything's badly in need of pressing. It would

hardly be proper for us to be seen at the Waldorf walking around in

wrinkled clothing. Or, God knows, into Sardi's!"

"Good point." It was a wrinkle Hawkins had not considered, and

it had nothing to do with clothes. The last thing they needed was

for the exuberant actor-commandos to be parading around

anywhere! Especially six high-spirited performers who believed they

were on the edge of great success. Christ! thought MacKenzie,

recalling his brief Hollywood days: All any actor-specifically any

unemployed actor-needed was the slightest hint that a coveted role

was in the offing and his or her personal- network went to work. He

never faulted the actors, for unrewarded

420 ROBERf LUDLUM

talent needed all the confidence it could corral, but this was no time

for the Suicidal Six to revert to their preclandestine lives. SardW A

theatrical institution! "Fell you what," the Hawk continued, "the

minute we get to the rooms we'll have everything sent out to the

hotel cleaners."

"How long will that take?" asked The Duke-cumchairman of the

board.

"Well, it doesn't- really matter," Mac replied, "at least not for

tonight and maybe not even tomorrow."

"What?" said Marlon.

"Hey, come on!" added Sylvester.

I haven't seen the West Forties in years!" interrupted Dustin.

"And Mr. Sardi is a close personal friend," said Telly. "He's the

owner, an ex-marine, by the way--2'

"Sorry, gentlemen," the Hawk broke in. "I'm afraid I wasn't clear

about this bivouac, I just thought you'd naturally understand."

"Understand what?" Sly spoke again, none too kindly. "You

sound like an agent."

"Your upcoming conferences demand the ... utmost secrecy.

Although your splendid commander, General Brokemichael, is going

to bat for you with these Hollywood people, you're still in the army,

and everything could fall apart if word gets out. I mean really fall

apart. Therefore, you're confined to quarters until he says other-

wise."

"We'll call him," suggested Marlon.

"That's out! ... I mean all communications are on status 'black

drape.' "

"That's for emergencies," said Dustin. "Frequency interception."

"And that's what we're talking about. Those rotten politicians

who tried to pit us against one another are out to wreck your film,

your careers. They want it all for themselves!"

"Dirty bastards," exclaimed The Duke. I won't deny a lot of them

are actors, but all their crap is shallow!"

"Not an honest spine in their motivations," added Sylvester.

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 421

"Not an ounce of truth," stated Marlon emphatically.

"You'll grant there's technique," said Sir Larry. "But it's

Pavlovian, over-rehearsed, as it were."

"As it is!" confirmed Telly. "Sound bites, programmed

expressions, and wrinkled eyebrows when they forget their lines-

when will people wake up?"

"Well, they may try to act, but they're not actors!" cried The

Duke. "And I'll be damned if they'll take work away from us! ... We'll

confine ourselves to quarters and do whatever else you like,

General!"

MacKenzie Hawkins, neat but less than impressive in his gray suit,

steel-rimmed glasses, reddish toupee, and slightly stooped

shoulders, walked across the carpeted, crowded lobby of the

Waldorf, looking for a pay phone. It was shortly past one o'clock

in the afternoon, the actorsoldiers of Suicidal Six safely ensconced

in adjoining suites on the twelfth floor. Spared Desi the Second's

more deleterious culinary fare, refreshed by large amounts of

wholesome, restorative food, exercise, and a decent night's sleep

without spiders crawling up the walls, all the members of the unit

were fully recovered and in exuberant spirits. The men had assured

him that they had their combat fatigues with them-a. vital

component-and that they would stay in their suites and make no

outside calls, no matter how tempting the urge. As they were

getting settled, the Hawk had taken out the original tape recorder

from Fort Berming, duplicated the entire conversation with Brokey

the Deuce, given the duplicate to Paddy Lafferty, and instructed him

to take it to Swampscott. Now, bouncing several balls in the air at

the same time, he had to make several untraceable calls-the first to

Little Joseph in Boston; the second to a retired la-di-da admiral who

had sold his soul to front for the State Department and who also

owed Mac a favor for saving his miscalculating ass on an offshore

battlewagon in Korea's Bay of Wonsan; and finally to one of his

dearest old buddies, the first of his four delightful wives, Ginny, in

Beverly Hills, California. He dialed the zero code, entered his credit

card number, and dialed.

422 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Little Joseph, it's the general."

"Hey, Jazool, what took you so long? The big man wants to talk

to you, but he don't want to call that swamp place 'cause he don't

know what could be on the Ameches!"

"That dovetails with my strategy, Little Joseph. I want to talk

with him." The Hawk looked down at the number of the pay phone.

"Can you reach him?"

"Yeah. Every half hour he walks by a phone on Collins Avenue

in Miami Beach. That's in about ten minutes from now."

"Should I call him direct?"

"No win, place, or show, Jazool. He calls you, not the revoice,

that's the word."

"All right, tell him to call this number in New York, but give me

twenty minutes, I'll be here." Mac gave the number of the Waldorf's

pay phone and hung up. He then reached into his coat pocket and

withdrew a small notebook; he fingered through the pages until he

found the one he wanted. Again, he went through the credit card

procedure. "Hello there, Angus, how's the bull of the North Korean

Pampas who just happened to blow up our buried beach radio

stations in Wonsan?"

"Who the hell are you?" replied the harsh voice of a three-

martinied former naval admiral. ,.One uess, Frank. You want to go

over the sixteen9

incher coordinates?"

"Hawk? Is that you?"

"Who else, sailor?"

"You know damned well I had faulty intelligence-2' "Or you misread

the figures--eyes-only figures, for you only, Frank."

"Cut it out, Hawk! How the hell could I know you were there?

Give or take a few miles or so, who knew, who cared?"

"My ass cared, Frank, along with my team. We were way behind

the lines."

"It's over! I'm retired!"

"But you're a consultant, Frank, a big respected expert to the

State Department on Far East military affairs. All

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 423

those parties, the perks, the private planes and vacations, courtesy

of the contractors."

"I'm damned well worth it!"

"Except that you can't tell one beach from the othergive or take

a few miles or so. That's an expert?"

"Hawk, give me a break! Bringing up old stuff won't do either of

us any good. Jesus, I saw on television that you were getting a big

Swedish award, so what do you want from me? I pick up a few

goodies and look after my garden-arthritis and all. So what?"

"So you talk to State."

"That I do, and I give them my best input."

"Here's additional input you're going to give them, Frank, or the

Soldier of the Century is going to blow the whistle on one of the

biggest military blunders in Korea." The Hawk then detailed his

addendum.

The call to Beverly Hills started off poorly. "Mrs. Greenberg,

pleaseT'

"There's no Mrs. Greenberg at this residence," said the cold

male British voice from California.

"I must have dialed the wrong number --- 2' "No, you simply used

the wrong name, sir. Mr. Greenberg left over a year ago. Did you,

by chance, care to speak with Lady Cavendish?"

"That's GinnyT'

"That's Lady Cavendish. May I ask who's calling?" "Hawk's

good enough."

" 'Hawk'? As in the revolting predatory bird, sirT' "Very revolting and

very predatory. Now tell Lady Caviar or whatever the hell her name

is that I'm on the line!"

"I'll tell her, but I guarantee nothing."

The abrupt silence of a telephone on hold was broken by the

loud, excited voice of Mac's first wife. "Sweetie how are you?"

"I was better before I talked to that clown who should have his

adenoids taken out. Who the hell is he?"

"Oh, he came with Chauncey; he's been the family butler for

years."

"Chauncey? ... Cavendish?"

"Lord Cavendish, sweetie. Oodles of money and everyone wants

to meet him. He's on everybody's A list."

424 ROBERT LUDLUM

"A list?"

"You know, invitations, sweetie."

"What happened to Manny?"

"He got bored with an older woman so I set him free for a large

hunk of change."

"Goddamn, Ginny, you're not old!"

"In Manny's eyes, any girl over sixteen is also over the hill.... But

enough about me, darling, you're the one. I'm so proud of you,

Hawk-the Soldier of the Century! All the girls are proud of you!"

"Yeah, well, hold up the parties, kid, it all could be a con."

"What? I won't have it-we won't have it!"

"Ginny," interrupted MacKenzie, "I don't have time. The D.C.

pricky-shits have got my ass in a sling again and I need help."

"I'll call the girls together this afternoon. What can we do and

whom can we do it to? ... Of course, I can't get hold of Annie; she's

back in one of those leper colonies, I think, and Madge is on the

East Coast-New York or Connecticut or someplace like that-but I'll

get her and Lillian on a conference call."

"I was really just calling you, Ginny, because I think you're the

one who can help me."

"Me, Hawk? Look, I appreciate your chivalry, but I really am the

oldest. It doesn't exactly thrill me to admit it, but Midgey and Lil are

probably better suited to your needs. They're both still darling to

look at. Of course, Annie remains the champ in that department,

but I think the clothes she prefers these days would scare the hell

out of anybody in a pair of vulnerable pants."

"You're a fine and generous woman, Ginny, but it's nothing like

that.... Do you still talk to Manny?"

"Only through the lawyers. He wants some of the paintings we

bought, but I'll be damned if I let the horny little bastard scrape the

paint off the cheapest frame."

"Goddamn, there goes the shot I was hoping for!" "Spell it out,

Hawk. What is it that you needT' "I need one of those screenwriters

he hires at the studio to put something together for me."

"Are they going to do another movie about you?"

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 425

"Hell, no. Never!"

"I'm relieved to hear it. So what do you need a writer for?"

"Some pretty incredible material, all true, that I want to dangle

in front of those Hollywood buddhas, only it's got to look good and

I've got to do it quickly. Like in a day, maybe.,,

"A day?"

"Hell, boiled down it wouldn't be any more than five or ten

pages, but pages of pure dynamite, Ginny. I've got it all on a few

tapes. Manny would know someone who could do it-"

"So do you, sweetie! What about Madge?"

"Who?"

"Your number three, mon gin6ral."

"Midgey? What about her?"

"Don't you read the trades?"

'The what?"

"The Hollywood Reporter and, Daily Variety, those bibles of

soaked-orange land."

"I'm not so hot on the real Bible, either. What about themT'

"Madge is one of the hottest writers in town! She's so hot she

can get out of town and write in New York or Connecticut. Her last

screenplay, Mutant Homicidal Lesbian Worms, cleaned up!"

"I'll be damned. I always knew Midgey had a literary bent, but--

2'

"Don't use that word 'literary'!" Lady Cavendish broke in. "Out

here it's death.... Here, I'll give you her telephone number, but you

give me a couple of minutes to reach her first and tell her to expect

your call. She'll be so excited!"

"Ginny, I'm in New York now."

"Isn't she the lucky one! She's in two-o-three."

"What's that?"

'The area code, a place called Greenwich, but not in England.

Call her in five minutes, sweetie. And when this is all over,

whatever it is, you must1come out and meet, Chauncey. He'd really

like that because he@s a great ad-426 ROBERT LUDLUM

mirer of yours-he was with the Fifth Grenadiers; the Fifth or

Fifteenth or Fiftieth, I've never gotten it straight."

"The Grenadiers were among the finest, Ginny! You've really

bettered yourself, and you can bet your nylons I'll be out to see

both of you!"

The sun was briefly shining on MacKenzie Hawkins as he hung

up the pay phone in the Waldorf lobby, having scratched his third

wife's telephone number on the marbelite counter with the point of

his penknife. He was so pleased with the turn of events that he

reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a cigar, masticated it until

the proper juices flowed, then lighted it with a field match, also

scratched on the counter. A matronly lady in a loud print summer

dress at the wall pay phone to his left began coughing violently.

She glared at the Hawk between seizures and managed to spew

out.

"Such a proper-looking man with such a despicable habit!"

"No worse than yours, madam. The management insists that you

stop taking those young weight lifters up to the rooms."

"Good God, who told ... T' The proper lady blanched and raced

away in panic as Mac's phone rang. "Commander YT' said Hawkins

quietly.

"General, it's time we met."

"Optimum, sir! But if you're still dead, how can we?"

"I've got such a hell of a disguise my own mother wouldn't know

me, may she rest in peace."

"Sorry for your loss, fella. Always tough to lose your mother."

"Yeah, she's in Lauderdale.... Listen, I got a lot on my mind so

we gotta talk fast, mainly how you get to,that hearing two days from

now. Have you got a planT

"One's forming up, Commander, that's why I -wanted us to

confer. I'm very impressed by the guard detail you sent

us--2'

"Detail? What details?"

"The mercs."

"Who?"

"The two men you hired for our additional protection." "Oh, yeah, I

gotta lot on my mind. Sorry about the

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 427

Nazi, I figured he'd shave with pigshit if you ordered him to.,,

"Nazi? What Nazi?"

"Oh. yeah, I forgot, he got lost. So what's this plan?" "First, I'd

like your permission to include the detail." "Include whatever

you like-like what details are you referring to?"

"The guards, Commander."

"Oh, yeah, sorry about the Kraut. Look, I gotta talk fast, and

since your plan isn't solid, I'd feel one hell of - a lot better -if you

and that nut lawyer of yours were in my immediate presence, if you

know what I mean."

"Sam? You've heard about Sam Devereaux?"

"Not pronounced that way, but I understand that when word was

leaked to the Five-Sider brass at Defense that this Deveroxx was

your lousy lawyer, they wanted blood, like with a grenade implanted

in his hemorrhoids. It seems when he was with the IG he fingered

the wrong army banana in Cambodia."

"That's all been settled, Commander, the error's been rectified."

"It may be from your mouth to God's ear, but it ain't reached the

Joint Chiefs. A couple of those West Pointys want to hang the son

of a bitch. He's up there with you on the most-wanted list."

"I hadn't counted on that complication," said the Hawk curtly.

"There's no cause for all this hostility, there really isn't."

"Hoo-hay, as Little Joey would say," yelled Vinnie the Bam-Bam.

"Maybe you forgot the end of the road with this scam of yours! SAC-

in this case, it's got nothin' to do with a bag of potatoes."

"Yes, I understand that, Commander, but a nonviolent res ution

is still possible-not likely, but possible. It's worth a try."

"Let me tell you what I got in mind," interrupted Mangecavallo.

"I want you and the legal lasagna down in D.C. by tonight. I'll fly up,

you fly down, and I'll put you in storage until we take you in an

arrribred car to the Court. What could be better?"

"You obviously have little experience in gray to black

428 ROBERT LUDLUM

operations, Commander Y Breaching the enemy's lines is simple;

it's how you infiltrate beyond that counts. Each point to target-zero

has to be calculated."

"Speak fuckin' English, huh, pal!"

"Every barrier to the Chief Justice's chambers has to be

surmounted. There's a way to do it-maybe."

"Maybe? We got no time for maybes!"

"Maybe we do. And I agree with you we meet tonight in

Washington, only I'll tell you where.... At the Lincoln Memorial, two

hundred paces from the front and two hundred paces to the right.

Eight o'clock sharp. Got it, Commander?"

"Got what? I got bullshit!"

"I have no time for hot-headed civilians," said MacKenzie. "l, too,

have many things on my mind. Be there!"

"Brokey, this is Mae," said Hawkins, retrieving his telephone credit

card as the strains of "There's No Business Like Show Business"

were cut off by Brokenfichael's voice.

'Vesus, you don't know what you've done to me, Mac! The

goddamned Secretary of State, for Christ's sake. He wants my ass!"

"Trust me, Brokey, you may have his. Now listen to me and do

exactly what I tell you to do. Catch a plane to Washington and ..."

"Frank, this is Hawk. Did you do it? Did you reach that wall-eyed

son of a bitch, the Secretary of State, or are you history on

Embassy Row?"

I did it, you bastard, and all he wants are my stripes and my

perks, you deep sixer! I'm dead in the basket!"

"Au contraire, Admiral, you may have upgraded your

consultancy. He knows the time, the place?"

"He told me to shove it and never call him again!"

"Good. He'll be there."

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 429

MacKenzie Hawkins stepped back from the pay phone, relit his

cigar, and looked over at the open-air bar across the crowded

lobby. He had a pressing urge to go over to that shadowed

sanctuary of long-ago memories when he was a young officer in

love, always temporarily but genuinely in love with someone, but he

knew there was no time for such indulgence-although he wished

there were.... Madge, his third wife, as lovely and as meaningful to

him as the others; he had loved them all, not only for what they

were, but for what they could become. Once, when he and an

overeducated lieutenant hid out in a North Vietnamese cave off the

Ho Chi Minh trail and there was nothing to fill the hours but, whis-

pered conversation, they had exchanged life stories. There was

nothing else to do but be discovered and die.

"You know what you've got, Colonel?" "What's that, boy?"

"A Galatea,complex. You want to turn every beautiful stone image

into a thing of reality and knowledge."

"Where'd you get that shit?"

"Psychology One, University of Michigan, sir."

Was there anything wrong with that, whether the image was stone

or flesh? But Madge, like the others, had a far-off dream-to be a.

writer. Mac had winced privately at her attempts, but there was

no,denying her ability to snap open one's eyes at her far-out

characters and her wild stories.... So Midgey's time had come. It

was not exactly@ Tolstoy, but Mutant Homicidal Lesbian Worms

had a place somewhere, and as barren as that place was, he was

sure his-third wife would keep it in amusing perspective.

MacKenzie turned back to the pay phone, processed his credit card,

and pushed the numbers. The ringing stopped; the phone was

lifted off the hook and all that could be heard were screams of

horror, of terror.

"Help, help!" shrieked the female voice over the, line. "The worms

are slithering up from the floors and out of the walls! Thousands of

them! They're after me! It's in their weaving heads! They're going to

assault me!"

430 ROBERT LUDLUM

Abruptly there was silence, the silence of dread.

"Hold on, Midgey, I'm on my way! What's the goddamned

address?"

"Oh, come on, Hawk," said the calm voice suddenly over the line.

"That's only a promo tape."

"What ... ?"

"The thing they play on the radio and television commercials.

The kids love it, and their parents want me deported."

"How'd you know it was me?"

"Ginny called a few minutes ago and nobody has this number

but us girls and my agent, who never calls me unless there's a

problem, and wouldn't you love it, but there never is! You did this

for me, Mac, and I'll never know how to thank you enough."

"Then Ginny didn't tell you?"

"Oh, the screen treatment thing, the ten-page proposal; sure she

did. I've got the courier service on standby, waiting for your

address. Just give the driver the tapes and you'll have something

by mornipg. Good Lord, it's the least I can do!"

"You're a swell girt, Midgey, And I really appreciate this."

" 'Swell girl'-that's so like you, Hawk. But if the truth be told,

you're the swellest guy any of us girls ever knew--except sometimes

I think you went too far with Annie."

"I didn't do it--2'

"We- know; she stays in touch and we've all promised not to say

anything. My God, who'd believe it?"

"She's happy, Madge."

"I know, Mac. That's your genius."

"I'm no genius-except maybe in certain military situations.,,

"Don't try to sell that to four girls who had nowhere to go until

you came along."

"I'm at the Waldorf," said Hawkins abruptly as he wiped the start

of a tear from his eye, revolted by its appearance. "Tell your courier

service to go directly to Suite Twelve A; it's in the name of

Devereaux, in case he's stopped or questioned."

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 431

"Devereaux? Sam Devereaux? That lovely, delicious boy!"

"You stay in two-o-three, Midgey. He's aged considerably and

has a wife and four kids now."

"Son of a bitch, that's a tragedy!" cried the third exwife of

MacKenzie Hawkins.

26

The day at Swampscott passed in ennui, the lack of activity causing

the three attorneys to make constant calls to their offices in the

hope that someone wanted their individual judgments, expertise,

decisions ... anything. -Unfortunately for each, as the games of

summer were at full revel, no one seemed to require anything

except bits of information relative to inconsequential problems. The

idleness, compounded by the frustration of not knowing what the

Hawk was doing, led to a degree of testiness, especially between

Sam and Jennifer, the latter again ruminating on the whole insane

situation.

"Why did you and your mental permutation of a general ever

come into my life, our lives?"

"Hey, just wait a minute, I didn't come into your life, you took a

taxi to my house!"

"I didn't have a choice--2'

"No, of course not, the cabdriver pulled out a gun and said that's

where you're going-"

"I had to find Hawkins."

"If I recall correctly, and I do, Charlie Sunset found him fmt; and

instead of saying 'No, you can't play in the

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 433

tribe's sandbox,' he said 'Sure you can, old man, let's make a

castle.' "

"Unfair, unfair! He was tricked."

"Then as a lawyer he'd better have the fastest feet in ambulance

row, because it's the only way he'll get clients."

"I won't listen to you ... you're a bigot."

"Where feeble-minded apologists are concerned, I certainly am."

"I'm going for a swim--2' "You shouldn't."

"Why not? Aren't there enough frenzied sharks out there for

you?"

"If there are, say adi6s to Aaron and my mother, as well as

Cyrus and Roman Z."

"They're all swimming?"

"Mother and Aaron wanted to, and our mercs said they couldn't

go alone."

"That's sweet."

"I don't think they get paid if people drown."

"Why shouldn't I join them?"

"Because the giant Aaron Pinkus of Boston law said you ought

to read and reread Mac's brief until you can quote from it. As an

amicus curiae you may be challenged by the Court."

"I've read and reread it and there's no section I can't quote

from."

"What did you think?"

"It's brilliant ... goddamned brilliant, and I hate it!"

"Precisely my first reaction. He had no right being able to do

it.... Is it true?"

"Yoq know, it could well be. The legends we all heard growing

up, passed from generation to generation and undoubtedly

exaggerated and twisted in the process, have a lot of melodramatic

correlations. Even symbolically."

"What do you mean 'symbolically'?"

"Fables of animals anthropomorphized. The cruel albino wolf

tricking the dark-furred goats into grazing in a mountain pass from

which there was no escape except through the flames of a forest

fire, a fire that spread down from the

434 ROBERT LUDLUM

pass and through the fields, taking away their food, their homes,

really."

"The bank in Omaha that was torched?" asked Devereaux.

"Maybe. Who knows?"

"Let's both take a swim," said Sam.

"Sorry I blew up--2'

"An eruption now and then cools off the volcano. It's an old

Indian proverb-Navajo, I think."

"Forked-tongue lawman has horse tails for brains," said Jennifer

Redwing, laughing softly. "The flatlands of the Navajo don't have

mountains, much less volcanoes."

"You never saw a Navajo brave pissed off because his wife gave

a turquoise armband to the flasher in the next tepee?"

"You are incorrigible. Come on, let's get suits."

"Let me take you to the cabana-it's not the Casbah, but it might

do."

"Let me give you a real Indian proverb. Wanchogagog

manchogagog-oh, hell, in English, since there are two cabanas, it

sort of means one for the girls and one for the boys. 'You fish on

your side, I'll fish on my side, and nobody fishes in the middle.' "

"How arcane, if not Victo6an. No fun at all."

The kitchen door swung open as Desis One and Two appeared,

both obviously in a hurry. "Where's d'big black Cyrus?" asked Desi

the First. "We gotta go!"

"Go where? Why?"

"Into Boston, Mr. Sam," replied D-T`wo. "We got h'orders from

the heneral!"

"You talked to the general?" said Redwing. "I didn't hear the

phone ring."

"No telifono ring here," said D-One. "We call the hotel every

hour to check with Jos6 Pocito. He tells us what to do.,,

"What are you going to Boston for?" asked Devereaux.

"To pick up dat crazy actor, Mr. Major Sooton, and drive him to

dee h'airport. The great heneral has talked to him and he expects

us quick."

"'What's happening?" asked Jennifer.

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 435

"I'm not sure you should ask," cautioned Sam the lawyer.

"We gotta huffy," said Desi the First. "Major Sooton says he

gotta stop at some big store for correcto 'attire,' which I don' t'ink

is for an automobile.... Where ees Colonel Cyrus?"

"On the beach," replied a perplexed Redwing.

"You get d'car, D-Two," ordered D-One. "I'll tell d'colonel and

meet you in the garage. Pronto!"

"St, amigo! "

The adjutants raced away, one out to the beach by way of the

sundeck, the other through the foyer to the garage off the circular

drive. Sam turned to Jenny. "Did I say something about

'Devereaux's prophecy'?"

"Why is he keeping us in the dark?"

"It's the devious part of his devious strategy."

"IlArhat?"

"He doesn't tell you what it is until he's gone so far it's

irreversible. You can't turn back."

"Oh, that's wonderful!" exclaimed Redwing. "Suppose he's all

wet, all wrong?"

"He's convinced that's not possible."

"And you?"

"If you take away his original premise, which is always wrong,

his track record's not bad."

"That's not good enough!"

"In fact, it's really terrific, goddamnit."

"Why don't I feel more reassured?"

"Because the 'goddamnit' means he drives you to the edge of

oblivion, and one day he'll take that extra step and we'll all go

tumbling down."

"He's going to have Mr. Sutton impersonate him, isn't he?"

:'Probably; he's seen him in action." 'I wonder where."

"Don't even think about it. It's easier that way."

Johnny Calfhose, resplendent in his brightly beaded buckskins

andjacket, stared forlornly at the sheets of rain beyond the

admissions window in the Wopotami Welcome

436 ROBERT LUDLUM

Wagon Wigwam, a large, garishly painted structure in the shape of

a covered wagon with the four sides of a colorful Indian tepee

surging up from the center of the layers of canvas. When Chief

Thunder Head had designed the edifice and brought in carpenters

from Omaha to build it, the inhabitants of the reservation had

looked on in bewilderment. The Council of Elders' Eagle Eyes had

asked Calfhose.

"What's that lunatic doing now? What's it supposed to be?"

"He says it represents the two images most associated with the

old West. The pioneers' covered wagon and the symbolic tepee

from which the savage tribes came out to slaughter them."

"He's all heart and mashed brains. Tell him we need to rent a

couple of Caterpillar backhoes, scything machines, a minimum of

ten mustangs, and at least a dozen laborers. 91

"What for?"

"He wants us to clear the north field and stage 'raiding parties.'

"Mustangs?"

"Not the cars, horses. If we're going to gallop around the circled

wagons, we'd better teach the younger ones how to ride, andthe few

nags we've got couldn't make it from one end of the field to the

other."

"Okay, but what's with the laborers?"

"We may be savages, Calfhose, but collectively we're the 'Noble

Savage.' We don't do that kind of menial work. Or windows, either."

That was months ago and this was now, an afternoon drenched

with rain, and no summer tourists to buy a plethora of souvenirs

shipped in from Taiwan. Johnny Calfhose got up from his stool in

front of the admissions window, walked through the narrow leather-

sheeted entrance to his comfortable living quarters, and went to the

television set. He turned it on, switched the cable channels to a ball

game, and sat down in his Barcelona sling chair to enjoy the late

afternoon watching a doubleheader. However, all was savagely

interrupted by the ringing of a telephonethe red phone,. Thunder

Head!

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 437

"Here I am, Chief," cried Johnny, grabbing the phone off an

Adolfo parquet table.

"Plan A-one. Execute."

"You're kidding-you gotta be kidding!"

"A general officer doesn't 'kid' when the assault's in progress.

It's code Bright Green! I've alerted the plane at the airport and the

bus companies in Omaha and Washington. Everything's at the

ready. You leave at dawn, so start spreading the word. All duffels

are to be packed and checked by twenty-two hundred hours and the

slop shoot's off-limits to the entire D.C. contingent. That's gospel,

soldier. There'll be no red-eyed redskins in my brigade. We

march!"

. "Are you sure you don't want to think about this for a couple of

weeks, THT'

"You've got your orders, Sergeant Calfhose. Swift execution is

paramount!"

"That's kind of what's bothering me, Big Fella."

Sundown had come and gone, the massive, awe-inspiring statue of

Lincoln bathed in floodlights as hushed, mesmerized tourists

weaved around one another for differing views of the masterpiece.

An odd exception was a strangelooking man who seemed furtively

occupied with the shadowed grass beneath his feet. He kept

walking directly away from the memorial's steps in a straight line,

under his breath verbally abusing the sightseers he collided with,

and every, now and then thrusting his hands out into the stomachs

and cameras of the offending intruders as he adjusted the red wig

that kept falling over his ears and his neck.

Vincent Mangecavallo had not been born and brought up in

Brooklyn's Mondo Italiano without learning a few things. He knew

when it was preferable to arrive at a "meet" long before the

appointed hour, because a "meet' could be spelled differently, like

in a carcass on a hook in a slaughterhouse. The problem Vinnie the

Barn-Bam had was in the plural word "paces'@-what the hell was a

pace? Was it a foot, a yard, a yard and a half, or something in

between? He had heard the stories from the old days in

438 ROBERT LUDLUM

Sicily where duels were fought with Lupo guns, the firing marked off

by paces as the enemies walked in short steps or long steps, all

counted off by a referee, or sometimes by a drum, and nobody paid

much attention because the one who cheated always won. But this

was America. "Paces" should be more specific, in the interest of

fairness and honesty.

Also, how the hell could he keep an accurate count while

walking through the crowds at night? He would reach, like, number

sixty-three, bump into some clowns, causing his wig to sideslip on

his head and blind him, resume his "pacing," and forget the number

he had reached. So it was back to the steps and start again! Shit!

On the sixth attempt, hanging, a right for the final yardage, he

reached a large tree that had a brass plate on the trunk spelling out

the date it was planted by some President in the year one and who

could care less, but there was a circular bench around the

goddamned tree that made a little more sense. He could sit down,

and his face would not necessarily be seen by the nut general he

was to meet for the purpose of exchanging information.

Naturally, Vincent decided to walk away from the tree and wait

in the shadows of another-who knew how many lousy paces away?

But he knew what to watch for: a tall old joker hanging around that

brass-plaqued tree and prob,ably wearing feathers in his head.

Watching the obese figure circling the rendezvous, the uniformed

General Ethelred Brokemichael was astonished! He had never liked

MacKenzie Hawkins; in fact, quite the opposite, since Mac was the

despised Heseltine's buddy, but he had always respected the tough

old soldier's abilities. At the moment, however, he had to question

all those years of silent admiration. What he had just witnessed

was a ridiculous exercise in covert rendezvous procedures-

ridiculous, hell, it was grotesque! Hawkins had obviously borrowed

or bought a jacket designed for a heavyset man, filled it with

stuffing, and to conceal his natural height he walked, or rather half-

prowled unnaturally like an ape, through the crowds in front of the,

Lincoln Memorial-THE ROAD TO OMAHA 439

back and forth, back andforth-a grunting gorilla foraging for

berries in the underbrush. It was a sight to sicken the creator of

the Suicidal Six!-And there could be no error in Brokey the

Deuce's recognizing him, for the Hawk still wore his stupid red

wig, only here in the warm, humid Washington night it kept falling

over his eyes. He obviously had never heard of liquid adhesive,

which anyone familiar with the theater would know about; talk of

amateurville, MacKenzie Hawkins was a novice's neophyte!

Now Brokey's wig, by sheer coincidence only slightly red-

atiburn, really-was held in place by a Max Factor flesh-toned base

tape that was indistinguishable from his hairline, especially in

soft light, a low "muted ambee, in theatrical parlance.

Professionalism would take the thought Brokemichael, deciding

to surprise the Hawk, who had retreated to a surveillance

position beneath a large spreading Japanese maple thirty-odd

feet from the rendezvous. The Deuce was exhilarated; Mac had

made an ass of him in Benning and now he would return the

favor.

He made a wide circle, skirting the edge of the crowds in the

diminishing wash of the memorial's floodlights, every once in a

while passing another uniform whose arm instantly responded with

a salute -to his rank. As he approached the maple tree from the

eastern flank, the intermittent salutes caused Brokey to wonder

again why the Hawk insisted that he wear his uniform for such a

covert rendezvous. When he had repeatedly asked why, the only

reply he got was:

"Just do it, and wear every goddamned medal you ever won or

issued yourself! Remember, everything we talked about down in

Beaning is on tape. My tape."

The Deuce reached the maple tree and slowly, his back against

the trunk, sidestepped his way around the bark until he stood

silently next to the really amateur former sbldier who had made a

fool of him and who was now staring intensely at the rendezvous

ground. The really stupid thing was that instead of standing up

straight for a better view, the idiot continued to buckle his knees

and hunch over the stuffing in his coat, maintaining the short

stature of his

440 ROBERT LUDLUM

disguise in the dark shadows of the spreading maple. Arnateurville!

"You expecting somebody?" said Brokey quietly.

"Holy shit!" exploded the disguised civilian, whipping his head

around with such force his red wig spun ninety degrees to the left,

the sideburns descending over his forehead. "It's yqu? ... Sure, it's

you, you got on the brass threads!"

"You can stand up now, Mac."

"Stand up on what?"

"Nobody can see us here, for God's sake. I can barely see my

feet, but I sure as hell can see that dumb wig of yours. I think it's

on backwards."

"Yeah, well, yours ain't,so totally perfect, G.I. Joe!" said the

civilian, adjusting his hairpiece. "A lot of the bald older dons wear

that shit with the Max Factor tape that suddenly takes the top

wrinkles away from your forehead-you can, always tell, but,

naturally, we don't say a word."

"What do you mean 'tell'? How can you tell in this

lightT'

"Because, you jerk, the light reflects off clear tape."

"Okay, okay, Mac. Now stand up so we can talk."

"So you're a couple of inches taller, what d'ya want

from me? Go downtown and buy a pair of elevator shoes

or maybe a couple of stilts? What's with youT'

"You mean you ... T' Brokey the Deuce leaned over, his neck

thrust forward. "You're not Hawkins!"

"Hold it, pal!" cried Mangecavallo. "You're not

Hawkins! I got photographs!"

"Who are you?"

"Who the fuck are you?"

"I'm here to meet the Hawk--over there!" exclaimed

Brokemichael.

"So am P'

'You re wearing a red wig-2'

"So the hell are you-"

"He wore one in Benning!"

"I got mine in Miami Beach--2'

"I got mine from my unit's extensive wardrobe."

"You like peche, too, huh?"

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 441

"What are you talking about?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Wail a minute!" Brokemichael's eyes had been drawn in

exasperation to the brass-plaqued rendezvous tree. "Look! Over

there! Do you see what I see?"

"You mean the skinny priest in the black suit and collar

sniffing around the meet like a Doberman who's gotta take a

piss?"

"That's exactly who I mean."

"So what? Maybe he wants to sit down on the benchthere's, like,

a bunch of slats that go around the tree-2' "I know that," said Brokey

the Deuce, squinting in the shadows of the maple. "Now, look," he

continued as the cleric came into the western wash of the distant

floodlights. "What do you seeT'

"The collar, the suit, and he's got red hair, so what?"

"Amateurville," determined the creator of the Suicidal Six. "It's

not hair, it's a wig; and like yours, very badly done. Too long in

the nape and too wide at the temples.... Odd, I seem to recall

seeing him before." -"What nape and whose temple? What's

religion got to

do with anything?"

"Not religion, the wig.,It's not-properly fitted."

"Oh, I forgot, p9che. I gotta find me a soldier

poofereeno at the biggest conference of my life-not that

I personally got a problem, you understand-only that'this

is no time for unholy tolerances!"

"Perhaps the wigs are the symbols ... T'

"Of what,. for Christ's sake? We gonna join a protest?"

"Don't you see? He had all of us wear red wigs!"

"He didn't have me do a goddamned thing. I told you,

I got mine in Miami Beach at a weirdo shop near the

Fontanbloo."

"And I found mine in my unit's wardrobe room--2'

"Some unit----"

"But he wore a red wig when he came to see me....

My God, it was subliminal motivation directed at improv!"

"Sub-who to what?"

"Did he ever use the word 'red' to you-use it more

than once?"

"Maybe, I don't know. The whole deal's about

442 ROBERT LUDLUM

Indians-redskins, you know what I mean? Maybe he said Iredskins,'

y'know? But I never saw him, only talked on

the phone." 1P

... fbat's it! He used his voice as the subconsciously motivating

force of conviction. Stanislavski wrote extensively about that."

"He's a Commie?"

"No, Stanislavski, a god of the theater."

"Oh, Polish, huh? Well, you gotta make allowances."

"What deal?" asked Brokey the Deuce suddenly, snapping his

head down at the red-wigged stranger. "What 'deal' are you talking

about?"

"That Wop tribe's suit that's in the Supreme Court, what else?"

"In the military, sir," said Brokemichael firmly and standing tall,

"we do not permit code words that connote ethnic slurs. This

nation's outstanding Italian-American citizenry, the sons and

daughters of Leonardo Michelangelo and Rocco Machiavelli, are to

be treated with the greatest respect for their contributions. The

Capones and the Valachis were aberrations."

"I'll go to Mass tomorrow and light a candle on your behalf for

your survival should you meet the sons and daughters of the last

two mentioned. In the meantime, what do we do right now?"

"I think we should have a conversation with our redheaded

priest."

"Good point. Let's go."

"Not yet!" came the deep, harsh voice behind them. "Glad you

could make it, gentlemen," continued the Hawk, coming around the

trunk qf the maple tree, his trimmed red wig catching the filtered

light from the leaves. "Good to see you again, Brokey ... and you,

sir, I assume, are Commander Y. It's a distinct pleasure to meet

you, whoever you are."

As much as his fear would permit, Warren Pease, Secretary of State,

was pleased with himself, even impressed. When he had seen that

priest swearing at a cabdriver over a fare outside the Hay-Adams

hotel, he was struck with an

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 443

inspiration-he would go to the rendezvous as a man of the cloth! If

he did not like what he saw or heard, he could walk away with

impunity. After all, nobody gets rough with a priest or a minister in

public, it simply was not proper, and more to the point, drew

attention.

And, of course, not to go to the rendezvous would be crazy in

spite of what he told that dreadful admiral who was forever

submitting expense vouchers for places he never went, to see

people he never saw on'State Department business that did not

exist. Pease had soundly berated him over the phone, not to rectify

the admiral's abuses, but to learn how much he really knew ... and

how he knew it. The answers to both questions were minimal,

confused, and disturbing enough to convince Warren to clear the

evening's calendar and procure a clerical collar and rabat. He had

a black suit for state funerals and the inspired reddish toupee

completed his outfit.

As he now walked among the crowds at the Lincoln Memorial,

the admiral's words rang in his ears.

"Mr. Secretary, I've been asked by an old comrade of many

years to relay a message to you, a message that could lead to the

solution of your most pressing problern-a crisis was the way he

described it."

"What are you talking about? The Department of State has

scores of crises every day, and as my time is the most valuable in

Washington, rii thank you to be specific."

"I'm4fraid I can't be specific. My old comrade made it clear that

it was- beyond my clearance, way beyond."

"That doesn't tell me anything. Be clearer, sailor."

"He said it had something to do with a group of original

Americans-whatever that means-and certain military installations,

whatever they are."

"Oh, my God! What else did he say?"

"He was very top-max, but he said there was a solution that

could weather-wax your skis."

"Could weather my who?"

"Skis.... Frankly, Mr. Secretary, I'm not into winter sports, but

militarily speaking, I must assume that the code reference means

you can reach your objective far more quickly by meeting with him

as soon as possible, which is basically his message."

444 ROBERT LUDLUM

"What's his name, Admiral?"

"To reveal that would implicate me in a situation I have nothing

to do with. I'm only a conduit, Mr. Secretary, nothing more. He

could have chosen a dozen other exmilitaries, and I wish he had."

"And I could choose to question a large percentage of your

expense vouchers and the propriety of those cozy trips you take on

diplomatic aircraft! How does that grab you, sailor?"

"I'm only delivering a message, Mr. Secretary, I'm not involved!"

"Not involved, huh? That's what you say, but why should I

believe you? Maybe you're a part of this evil, malicious conspiracy."

"What conspiracy, for Christ's sake?"

"Oh,you'd like that, wouldn't you? You'd like nothing better than

for me to spell out the whole horrible mess so you can write a book,

like all those fine, selfless public servants who were unjustly

indicted for doing nothing more than anyone else would do while

giving up their stock options by coming down here."

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about!"

"The name, sailor, the name!"

So you can write a book and put me in it? No way!"

"Well, since you've wasted my time this long, you might as well

deliver the rest of your rotten message. Where and when does this

unnamed monster think I'll meet him?" The admiral had told him.

"Good, fine! I've already forgotten whatever you said. Now, shove

it, sailor, and never call me again unless it's to tell me you're re-

signing from your consultant's contract!"

"Hey, come on, Mr. Secretary, I don't want any trouble, honest

to God! ... Look, I'll talk to the Prez's buddy, Subagaloo, and he'll

tell you--2'

"To Arnold! No, don't talk to Arnold, never talk to Arnold! He'll

put you on a list, he'll have you on a list-a list, a list, a horrible,.

intolerable list!"

"Are you all right, Mr. Secretary?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine, I really will be fine, but do not do and never do

call Arnold Subagaloo. He'll get you on his

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 445

list, his list, a fretful, dreadful, executionary list! ... Over and out,

sailor, or whatever you stupid soldiers say!"

He had told off that awful leech, all right, mused Pease, smiling

sweetly at an overly made-up little old lady who looked adoringly at

him as he approached the maple tree. The rendezvous had to be

the tree up ahead, he thought. It was hardly an inspired location,

and Warren wondered why MacKenzie Hawkins, a.k.a. Chief

Thunder Head of the nefarious Wopotarnis, had chosen it. The light

was poor, but perhaps that was. good, and there were crowds

barely a hundred feet away ... that wasn't bad either; there was

protection in numbers. Of course, the maniac Hawkins was taking

these precautions for his own safekeeping, not for the benefit of the

Secretary of State. He undoubtedly thought the government would

have troops throughout the area hoping to capture him, but that

kind of show of force was the last thing all the President's men

wanted. It would be terrible PR if the media found out they had set

a trap for a two-time winner of the Congressional Medal of Honor.

Pease squinted in the dim light under the tree and looked at his

watch; he was nearly thirty minutes early. Good, fine; he would

walk off to the side and wait-and watch. He rounded the trunk, then

stopped, annoyed to see that the little old lady with the garishly

rouged cheeks was waiting for him.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," she said in a high-pitched,

tremulous voice, standing in front of him under the overhan ging

maple blocking his way. ,

"Yes, well ... vox populi and all that sort of thing. Some of you

aren't perfect, but that's the way it goes---2' "I'd like to confess,

Father. I must confess!"

"That's probably very commendable, but I don't think this is the

place for it. Besides, I'm in a hurry."

"The Bible says that in the eyes of the Lord a desert can be the

House of God if a sinner's spirit wills it."

"Hogwash aside, I told you I'm in a hurry."

"And I'm telling you to get your ass behind the tree."

'@Oh, very well, you're forgiven whatever you're capable of

doing-what did you say?"

"You heard me, Angel Puss!" whispered the now grotesque

harridan, her voice abruptly lower, harsher, as she

446 ROBERT LUDLUM

withdrew a straight razor from the folds of her dress and whipped

it open. "Now get behind the tree, or the last thing you'll worry

about is your vow of chastity."

"Oh, my God-you're not a woman, you're a man!"

"It's debatable on both counts, but what I am is a cutter-I love to

cut. Now, move!"

"Please, please don't hurt me, don't ... oh, my God ... don't cut

me!" His whole body trembling, the Secretary of State stepped

awkwardly back into the shadows of the tree. "You really shouldn't,

you know. Cutting a priest is a very, very big sin."

"I had you marked fifteen minutes ago, Angel Puss," hissed the

man/woman, his or her wrinkled scarlet lips and swollen purple

eyelids revolting in the dim light. "You and that ugly rug on your

head, you're a disgrace to honest deviants everywhere!"

"What ... T'

"How dare you walk around like that? Looking for little boys, you

creep? And dressed like a priest? That's disgusting!"

"Now, really, madam-mister, whatever you are---2' "What was

that? You insulting me, Snake Face?" "On my word, never!" Pease's

left eye was in pivotalorbit. "I'm only telling you that you don't

understand-"

"I understand, all right! Creeps like you carry lots of bread in

case somebody blows a whistle. Up with it, you pervert!"

"Money, you mean money? For God's sake, take everything I've

got!" The Secretary dug into his pockets and pulled out a number

of folded bills. "Here, here, take it!",

"Fake what? That's chickenshit. I'll have to slash your pockets

before I start the real cutting!" The androgynous monster forced

Pease behind the tree. "You make a sound, your lips are on the

ground, you dirty, diny boy!"

"Please!" begged the Secretary of State. "You don't know who

I am---2'

"But we do!" interrupted the strange, deep voice from the

shadows beyond. "All right, Brokey ... you, too, Commander Y,

disarm the assault! Now!" As one, the elderly West Pointer and the

portly middle-aged capo supremo from Brooklyn attacked, the

former wrenching

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 447

the razor away from the hand that clutched it, the latter tackling the

legs encased in a wide, flowery skirt.

"It's a fuckin' broad!" yelled Mangecavallo.

"The hell he is!" shouted Brokemichael, yanking the gray-haired

wig off the wrinkle-faced, rough-faced mugger.

Vinnie the Barn-Bam saw his error instantly, and began

pummeling the ugly cosmeticized figure that was falling to the

ground. "You no-good piece of rotten mozzarella" he roared.

"Let him go, Commander!" ordered the Hawk.

"Why?" asked Brokey the Deuce. "The scumbag should be

behind bars!"

"With his fuckin' legs broken!" added the presumably deceased

director of the CIA.

"Are we going to press charges, gentlemen?"

"What ... T' Brokernichael stepped back as Mangecavallo

snapped his head up, his red wig once more askew, a sidebum now

partially covering his nose, his eyes barely seen. "He's got a point,

Commander whoever-you-are," said the Deuce.

"Yeah, well, maybe he does," agreed Vincent, administ@ring a

last knee into the rib cage of the mugger., "Pound sand and get

outta here, you lowlife!"

"Hey, fellas!" shrieked the perpetrator, grinning exuberantly 'as

he grabbed his wig and got to his feet. "You wanna come to my

place? We could really have a ball!"

"Get outta here."

"I'm going, I'm going." Skirt flying, the mugger ran across the

lawn and disappeared into the crowds.

"Oh, my God, oh, my God ... !" came the quivering sounds from

the prone figure on the ground beside Hawkins, his head facedown

in the grass, his hands gripped above his head. "Thank you, thank

you! I might have been killed!"

"Why don't you turn over and get up and see if you want to live?"

said the Hawk gently, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a

tape recorder.

"What? ... What are you talking about?" Slowly, Warren Pease

pushed himself off the ground, pivoted painfully on his buttocks,

and, from his sitting position, saw first the

448 ROBERT LUDLUM

resplendent uniform on his right, then the face. "Brokemichael!

What are you doing here?"

MacKenzie activated his recorder, and the sound of

Brokernichael's voice filled the enclave. "The Secretary of State.

He's the one my Suicidal Six are on the Boston mission for! ... That

wall-eyed Pease made a hell of a case against you!"

"Only it wasn't a legitimate case, was it, Mr. Secretary?" said

General Brokemichael as the Hawk turned off the machine. "It was

a sacrifice. One exonerated old soldier who could never get out

from under that cloud of suspicion and his unit of fine young men.

We were as expendable as Mac here, not my closest old buddy, but

he doesn't deserve to be dropped into an arctic ice flow, either."

"What are you talking about?"

"Perhaps I didn't introduce him. This is the former General

MacKenzie Hawkins, twice winner of the Congressional Medal of

Honor, who you first tried to have ... let's say 'neutralized' . . . and

then ordered my unit to kidnap, destination TBDL, 'to be determined

later,' but definitely north, way far north."

"Not too terribly pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr.

Secretary," said the Hawk. "You'll forgive me if I don't offer my

hand."

"This is insane, absolutely insane! Great issues are at stake, the

ultimate strength, the strike force of the nation is in the balance!"

"And the only way to put it right is to get rid of those

complaining?" asked MacKenzie. "You can't talk, you can only get

rid of the nuisances, who, incidentally, have a very legitimate case."

"You're twisting everything! There are other issues, economic

issues, gargantuan financial losses-my God, my boat, the

Metropolitan Club, my class reunion, the life I deserve, I was born

to! You don't understand!"

"I do, you smelly prichute," said Vincent Mangecavallo, walking

forward in the dull wash of light. "Like certain people can be useful

to you, but you got no use for them!"

"Who are you? I've seen you before, I know your-voice, but I

can't ... I can't--2'

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 449

"Maybe because my own mother, may she rest in peace in

Lauderdale, wouldn't know me, either, due to my one terrific

disguise." Vinnie removed his red wig and squatted in front of the

Secretary of State. "Hello, fazool, how are ya? Maybe your country

club boys blew up the wrong boat, wadd'ya think of that?"

"Mangecavallo! ... No, no! I went to your memorial service the

other day! You're gone, you're dead! This isWt happening to me!"

"Maybe it isn't, you big diplomatico, maybe it's all a bad dream

brought on by the evil in your rotten soul. Maybe I just rose from

the arms of Morphine "Morpheus, Commander Y, Morpheus."

"Yeah, him.... Like from the dead across that big river, come

back to haunt you pricks who think you're so superiors, like what

goes through your stomachs comes out vanilla ice cream. Yeah,

Jazool, I'm back from the fishes, and the sharks came with me.

They give me respect; you never did."

"Auggh!" Suddenly, with a shriek that pierced the night and

disturbed the floodlit crowds at the Lincoln Memorial, the Secretary

of State wriggled like a trapped reptile, sprang to his feet, and raced

screaming hysterically across the grounds.

"I gotta catch that son of a bitch!" yelled Mangecavallo, getting

up, but not easily, because of his weight. "He'll spill everything!"

"Forget it!" cried the Hawk, tripping the CIA director. "He's

finished, he's out."

"Wadd'ya talkin'? He's seen me!"

"It won't matter. No one will believe him."

"Mac, you're not making sense!" insisted Brokey the Deuce. "Do

you know who this man is?"

"Sure I do, and I'm making sense, too.... So you're really that

Italian fella who ran the Agency?"

"Yeah, it's a long story, and I don't like long stories. I got

carried away. Shit!"

"Melodramatic emotionalism is one of the finest gifts of your

race, signore. Think of the great operas-no one could have created

them but yourselves. Capisce Italiano?"

450 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Sure, I speak."

"Lo capirete inoltre.

"Fliat's beautiful, but that cannoli is going to blow apart the

whole fuckin' ball of wax!"

"No, he's not, Signor Mangecavallo.... Brokey, do you remember

Frank Heffelfinger?"

" 'Finger Frank,' with his digits on the wrong sixinchers? Who the

hell wouldn't? He blew up the wrong beaches in Wonsan. Naturally,

none of us ever say anything, especially now since he's the

President's clown prince in the navy stag department."

"I spoke to Frank. That's why Pease was here."

"So?"

"The Finger's waiting by his phone now. He's got one other call

to make. To his buddy, the President."

"About what?"

"About Pease's state of mind, which is the result of a very

strange telephone conversation Frank had with the Secretary this

afternoon. After thinking about that call all day, he's decided to tell

his friend in the White House about his concerns.... Come on, we've

got to find a phone booth. And damn quick, too, I've got to catch

the shuttle back to New York."

"Hey, G.I. Joe!" cried Mangecavallo. "What about you and me

getting to that hearing?"

"T'hat's under control, Commander Y. You'll be with the

Wopotamis. Naturally, I'll have to get your measurements, but we

can do that quickly. The squaws are excellent seamstresses-almost

as good as Mrs. Lafferty."

"Squaws? We got Irish-American Indians? This guy's pazzo!"

"Have faith, Mr. Director. The Hawk moves in mysterious ways."

"Come, gentlemen," ordered MacKenzie. "Triple quickmarch.

There's a phone booth at the edge of the parking lot. Let's roll!"

The three red-migged men ran across the grounds in varying

degrees of breathlessness, the only words, however, from Vinnie

the Bam-Bani, who kept repeating. "Mannaggia, mannaggia! It's all

crazy! Pdzzo, pazzo, pazzo!"

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 451

THE WASHINGTON POST

SECRETARY OF STATE HOSPITALIZED TAKEN TO

PSYCHIATRIC WARD AT WALTER REED HOSPITAL

Warren Pease, Secretary of State, wearing the garb of a Catholic

priest, was taken into custody last evening while running amok

through the crowds at the Lincoln Memorial. According to the

police, as well as witnesses, Mr. Pease kept screaming that some

"specter" he could not or would not identify had "risen from the

dead" and had "come back to haunt his rotten soul." He also

claimed that a "painted hermaphrodite from hell" had threatened to

slash his "pockets and his throat" because he/she determined he

was an (expletive deleted) which he kept screaming he was not

because "he forgave her for her sins."

The Secretary has no history of being an ordained priest or

minister, and would there ' fore have no powers of religious

absolution. (Our editors have diligently researched this fact.) .

A late report from the White House, however, may shed light on

this incredible event. Maurice Fitzpeddler, the press secretary, said

that the nation should have only great sympathy for the stressed,

overburdened Mr. Pease and his family, although when questioned,

Mr. Fitzpeddler admitted that the divorced Secretary Pease had no

family. Adding to this, the President allowed, through Mr.,

Fitzpeddler, that he had received a telephone call yesterday calling

into question the state of the Secretary's extreme stress under the

pressures of his office. He asked that the nation pray for Mr.

Pease's recuperation and "his release from a straitjacket"

It should be noted here that the President's Chief of Staff,

Arnold Subagaloo, smiled throughout the press conference' When

questioned about his expression, the Chief of Staff gave the press

an erect middle finger.

27

It was shortly past midnight when MacKenzie Hawkins walked into

the lobby of the Waldorf-Astoria and, as arranged, went to the front

desk to pick up whatever messages were left for Suite 12A-no

names, merely the room number. There were two:

Call Beverly Hills.

Reach Wonn City.

As it was three hours earlier in California, he decided to call Madge

first in Greenwich, Connecticut. He recrossed the lobby to a pay

phone.

"Midgey, I'm sorry it's so late, but I just got in."

"No sweat, Mac dear, I'm still working on the outline. I'll have it

finished in less than an hour, and the courier service will bring it

down right away; you should have it by two-thirty. Hawk, it's

terrific! Straight boffo box office across all markets!"

"Now, Midge, don't go sounding too Hollywood, it gets a mite

hard."

"Sorry, you're right, darling. It's just that everyone talks

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 453

like that to work up enthusiasm for a project. The more the hype,

the better the pitch."

"March to your own drummer, girl. You've got too much class

for that."

"With worms, Mac?"

"Well, you were fashioning a commodity."

"You can bank on it, and I have."

"But I'm pleased you think the Suicidal thing's got possibilities

... frankly, I did, too."

"Darling, it's pure gelt! ... Gold, Mac, I mean gold. Actors

traveling the world over as an antiterrorist unit, and it's real!"

I "You think I could get a couple of West Coast types

interested---2'

"Interested?" she interrupted. 'Then you haven't talked to

Ginny yet, have you?"

"No, I figured it was earlier out there, so I called you first."

"I spoke to her late this afternoon, after I listened to the tapes,

and we had a long talk. You're in for a surprise, Mac. She's

been networking since three-thirty, California time."

'Networking'? Midgey, you're picking up some very odd

language, and I'm not sure I approve. It sounds coarse."

"No, darling, that one's okay, it's really standard. It's just

taking a noun and turning it into a verb."

"T'hat sounds better --- 2'

"But, Hawk, you listen to me," broke in Madge of' Worm City.

"I know you sometimes get a little overprotective about us girls,

and we love you for it, but you've got to promise me something."

"What is it?"

"Don't beat the shit out of Manny Greenberg. Don't give him

the deal, but don't break his face."

"Now, Midgey, that's plain vulgar-"

"Gotta go, Mac. I'm getting near the finish line here and my

word processor's smoking. Call Ginny, darling. Love, as

always."

454 ROBERT LUDLUM

"The residence of Lord and Lady Cavendish," announced the

adenoidal Anglican on the line from California. "The name, please?"

"Guy Burgess calling from Moscow."

"It's all right, I've got it!" Ginny broke in quickly. "He's such an

old tease, Basil."

"Yes, madam," said the butler in a devastating monotone as he

hung up the phone.

"Mac, sweetie, I've been waiting hours for your call. I've got

wonderful news!"

"Which, I gather from Madge, includes not engaging Manny in

hand-to-hand combat."

"Oh, him-no, don't, he can be useful in an auction but not if he's

in the hospital. To tell you the truth, I started with Manny, breaking

my rule never to talk to exhusbands while my lawyers are talking to

their lawyers, and it worked."

"What worked? What's an auction?"

"Midgey says the concept is not only sensational, it's a landmark

in the worldwide gold stakes! She says it's all there, everything-and

it's got everything! Actors-hunks, six of them-flying all over freeing

hostages, capturing terrorists, and it's all true! I gave Manny just a

hint ... after he agreed to leave the paintings alone, naturally ... and

when I told him that Chauncey was reaching some ,cinema chaps'

in London, Manny screamed for his secretary to schedule the studio

plane."

"Ginny, for God's sake, slow down! You're grasshopping from

one thing -to another and not making sense.... Now what's Manny

doing, and what did this 'Chauncey' do, and who the hell is he?"

"My husband, Mac!"

"Oh, the Grenadier, yes, I remember now. Damn fine regiments,

all of 'em; first rate in combat. What did he do?"

"I told you, he's a great admirer of yours, and when Madge

called and began explaining what you had on those tapes, I asked

him to get on the line-what with his being so military and

everything."

"What did he think?"

"He said it was similar to the Fourth or Fortieth Royal

Commandos who were recruited from the Old Vic and had

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 455

what he called 'only marginal success,' because they kept 'breaking

silence.' He wants to talk to you about it and compare notes."

"Goddamn, put him on the phone, Ginny!"

"No, Mac, there isn't time. Besides, he's not here. He's over at

the armory in Santa Barbara playing polo with the British colony."

"So what did he do?"

"Hawk, you must be tired and need to have your shoulders

massaged. I told you. He thought the whole thing Midgey's putting

together for you has the earmarks of a megahit and called some

friends of his in London to let them know about it."

"So?"

"They're taking the early morning Concorde and will be here

before they took off from London."

"Be where?"

"In New York. To see you."

"Tomorrow ... toddy?"

"Where, you are, yes."

"And your ex, Greenberg?"

"Tomorrow morning-this morning for you. Also, since I had

Manny and Chauncey's friends on the record---out here everyone

checks out everything, including airline -passenger lists and the

schedules of studio planes-I called a few other hotshots who want

Chauncey at their dinner tables, and gave out a little inside

information. You're going to have a busy day, sweetie."

"By Caesar, you're on the mark, it is wonderful! But frankly, Gin-

Gin, I knew you girls would come through for me, except I sort of

figured later on, like early next week-not Friday to Monday,

of'course, because I'm kind of tied up with other endeavors---2'

"Mac, you said, and I quote! 'In a dayV

"Well, surely I did, but that was to get the writing stuff out of the

way and somehow have it in the hands of those Beverly Hills

buddhas over the weekend and get things rolling on Monday or

Tuesday."

"Look here, once-great husband of mine and dearest friend I'ye

ever had, what the hell are you trying to tell me?"

456 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Well, Gin-Gin-"

"Cut the 'Gin-Gin' crap, Hawk. When you found Lillian in that

run-down gym and decided she needed more help than me, that's

how you started with us, with the Gin-Gin. Then Lil told me that

when you ran across Midgey in that coke bust where you wondered

where the cola was, she said you began by saying 'Lilly-Lilly.' What

is it, M40 We love you, you know that. Why is tomorrow morning a

problem? If it's another wife, we'll understand and take her under

our wings when the time comes."

"It's nothing like that, Ginny. But it's goddamned important-for

a lot of people, a lot of underprivileged people."'

"You're tilting at windmills again, aren't you, my dearesf friend?"

said Lady Cavendish softly. "I'll call everything off, if you like. I can

do it-actually, you can do it by not answering the phone or the door.

The vultures have only a room number, Suite Twelve A, no name, no

identification."

"No, no, I'll handle it-we'll handle it.';

"We?"

"I've got the boys all here. I just figured on keeping them here

until my other problem is solved."

"The Suicidal Six?" cried Ginny. "They're there at the Waldorf."

"The whole half dozen, kid."

"Are they hunks?"

"They're that and more than that in varying sizes. What's more

important, they expect something from me." "T'hen deliver, Mac.

You never failed any of us."

"One, maybe."

"Annie? ... Get off it, Hawk. She got through to me last week on

some radio phone with a lot of static. She managed to fly out a

dozen really sick children from an island in the Pacific for treatment

in Brisbane. She's happy as can be. Isn't that what it's all about?

Being happy with yourself? That's what you taught us."

"Tell me, does she ever mention Sam Devereaux?"

"Sam ... T,

"You -heard me, Ginny."

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 457

"Well, yes, she does, but I don't think you want to hear it, Mac.

Leave it lie."

"I want to hear it. He's my friend."

"Still? "

"By circumstance, yes."

"All right.... She says she remembers him as the only man she

ever slept with-it was 'a communion of love,' that's the way she put

it. All the others are forgotten."

"Will she ever come back?"

"No, Mac. She's found what you wanted her to find@ what you

wanted all of us to find. Comfort in our own skins, remember telling

us that?"

"Damned psycho-bullshit!" exclaimed Hawkins, once again wipin

a tear from his eye in front of a pay teleI 9

phone. "I'm no goddanined savior of goddamned souls, I just know

who the hell I like and who the hell I don't like.. Don't put me on any

goddamned pedestal!"

"Whatever you say, Hawk, and anyway, you'd crush it." "Crush

what?"

"The pedestal. Now what about tomorrow morning?" "I'll

handle it."

"Be kind to the vultures, Mac, kind and noncommital, they can't

stand that."

"What do you mean?"

"The nicer you are, the more they sweat, the more they sweat,

the better off you are."

"Kinda like facing down enemy intelligence personnel in

Istanbul, right?"

"That's Hollywood, Mac."

Morning came, barely dawn to be precise, and the phone in Suite

12A began ringing. Hawkins, who lay supine on the floor of the

living room area, was prepared for it. He had received Madge's

"Concept Treatmenf' at 2:03 A.M., finished reading, rereading, and

absorbing the eighteen pages of high tension fashioned by his third

wife by three o'clock, had taken the telephone off the desk and

placed it on the carpet next to his head, and bivouacked for a few

hours of sleep. Rest was a weapon for impending, combat, as

necessary as superior firepower. However,'Midgey had

458 ROBERT LUDLUM

done such a superb job-the narrative explosive, each page dynamic

in terms of energy, action, and diversified character sketches-that

much-needed sleep was postponed for nearly thirty minutes while

the Hawk considered becoming a motion picture producer.

Hell, no! Omaha and the Wopotamis will take up all of my time.

Stick to priorities, soldier! Suddenly, the abrasive ringing echoed off

the walls of the room.

"Yes?" said Mac, the phone at his left ear on the floor.

"Andrew Ogilvie here, General."

"What?"

"Yes, I said 'General,' chap. I'm afraid my old Grenadier

comrade broke the rules and told me who you were. You had a

splendid war, old boy. Much impressed, much impressed."

"Much early, too," said Hawkins. "You really were with the

Grenadiers?"

"A callow youth, to be sure, as was Cavvy."

"Cavvy? "

"Lord Cavendish, of course. He, too, had a fine war. Got right

into the mud and the mortars and never 'lorded' it over anyone, if

you catch my meaning."

"Yeah, it's splendid, real fine. It's also real early and my troops

aren't ready for muster. Have some morning tea and come up in an

hour. You're first, I'll give you that."

The phone replaced, there was a rapid knocking at the corridor

door. Mac got to his feet, and in his camouflaged skivvies walked

over to it. "Yes?"

"Hey, who else?" shouted the intruder in the hallway. "I knew it

was you, I'd know that growl anywhere!"

"Greenberg?"

"Hey, baby, who else? My lovely, adorable wife, who threw me

out of the house for no reason whatsoever and took me for a

bundle-but who cares, she's a doll-gave me a rundown and I knew

it was you! Lernme in, pal, okay, okay? A deal we can make!"

"You're second in line, Manny."

"You got some phonies in there awready? Hey, listen,

sweetheart, I gotta whole studio behind me, the big megillah!

Wadd'ya want to deal with second-raters for, huh?"

"Because they own England, that's why."

T14E ROAD TO OMAHA 459

"That's crapola! They make those dumb movies where

everybody's talking and nobody knows what they're saying because

they got gefilte fish in their mouths!"

"Others think otherwise."

"What others? For every Jimmy Bond, they got fifty underwear

Gandhis which never made back their negative costs, and don't let

'em tell you they did!"

"Others say otherwise."

"Who you gonna believe? The rotten redcoats who talk funny or

the pure Paul Reveres?"

"Come back in three hours, Manny, and call first from the lobby."

"Mac, give me a break! The whole studio's got the big eye on

me!"

"I'm giving you a break, you horny toad. Maybe you'll find a

none too discriminating sixteen-year-old hooker in the lobby."

"Hey, that's slander! I'll sue the bitch!"

"Just leave now, Manny, or don't bother to come back."

"Aikiright, awright." The telephone rang again, pulling Hawkins

away from the door, although he would have preferred to wait and

make sure Greenberg had really left.

"YesT' said the Hawk, picking the ph-one up off the floor.

"Suite Twelve AT' "So?"

"This is Arthur Scrimshaw, head of development for Holly Rock

Productions, the rock of Hollywood, 'With worldwide grosses that

would stagger the imagination if I were at liberty to disclose them,

and, furthermore, the recipient of a total of sixteen Oscar

nominations over the past . .-. harrumph ... years."

"How many Oscars did you win, Mr. Scrimshaw?"

"Very close, very close. Could have gone either way each time.

And speaking of time, I've found some in my unbelievably hectic

schedule for us to have breakfastshall I say a power breakfast?"

"Come back in four hours--2'

"I beg your pardon. Perhaps I didn't make clear my position--2'

"You made everything perfectly clear, Scrimmy, and so

460 ROBERT LUMUM

did 1. You're third on the list and that means four hours, leaving an

hour for my people to prepare for muster."

"Are you quite sure you want to treat the chief of Holly Rock's

division of development in this manner?"

"Don't have a choice, Artie boy. The schedule's been set."

"Well ... harruinph ... in that case, and since you're in a suite,

would you perchance have an extra bed?"

"A bed?"

"It's the damned bookkeepers, you und ' erstand. I should fire

them all.... They seem to frown upon spontaneous reservations, and

I never sleep a wink on the redeye from L.A. I tell you,. I'm

exhausted!"

"Try the Salvation Army mission down in the Bowery. They take

all contributions over a dime.... Four hours!" The Hawk slammed

down the phone, placed it on the hotel desk, and as he turned to

head for the nearest bedroom, it rang again. "Goddamn, what is it?"

he roared.

"Emerald Cathedral Studios, heah," began the mellifluous voice,

in a thick Southern accent. "A God-fearin' patriotic, bird; flew some

information down here regardin' some great patriotic movie you

want to get made, a movie based on real facts! And let me tall ya,

boy, we ain't no part of those Hebes and Nigras that's runnin' the

filurn industry. We'ah simon-pure Christian, flag-wavin' real

Amerucuns who believe that might is fuckin' right, and we want to

tell the story of real Amerucuns doin' God's work. We also got lots

of dollars-quite a few million, fer a fact. Our Sunday telecasts and

used car lots where every salesman's a Christian minister are

weekly uranium mines."

"Be at the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C., at midnight

tonight," ordered Hawkins quietly. "And wear white hoods over your

heads so I'll know you!"

"Ain't that kinda obvious?"

"Are you gutless, antimilitary, anti-American liberal types?"

"Hell, no! We put our money where our mouths are, and we got

plenty of both. We'ah Jesse's boys!"

"If it's the right Jesse,,catch a plane and be in Washington

tonight. Four hundred feet from the front of the statue and six

hundred to the oblique right. You'll reach the

IM ROAD TO OMAHA 461

honor guard house, and the men inside will tell you where we

are."

"We got a deal then?"

"A deal you couldn't imagine. Remember the hoods. They're

vital!"

"Gotcha, boy!"

The phone replaced, MacKenzie walked to the nearest bedroom

door and knocked. "Reveille, troops! You've got an hour for spit,

polish, and mess before engagement. Don't forget, you're in

combat fatigues and side arms. Place your orders with room

service."

"We did that last night, General," shouted the voice of Sly from

inside. "It'll be here in twenty minutes."

"You mean you're upT'

"Of course, sir," replied Marlon. "We've already been out and

run forty or fifty blocks."

"You don't have doors to the hallway."

'Mat's right, sir," agreed Sylvester.

"I didn't hear you leave, and I hear everything!"

"We can be very quiet, General," added Marlon. "And you must

have been very tired. You didn't even move.... We're all meeting

here for petit d,4jeuner ... early mess, sir.11

"Goddaynn!"

To the Hawk's annoyance, the telephone rang again. Angry but

resigned, he returned to the desk and picked up the shrill

instrument. "Yes?"

"Ahh, it is most pleasurable to hear your beautiful voice," said

the obviously Oriental male on the line. "11is most unworthy soul

is most rucky to make your acquaintance.

"Nice to meet, you, too, and who the hell are youT'

"Yakataki Motoboto, but my rovery friends in-Horrywood call me

'Cruiser."'

"I can understand that. Come back in five hours and call from

the lobby first."

"Ahh, yes, you are being fliverous, no doubt, but perhaps I can

irriminate your conditions, since I believe we now own this beautiful

hotel an ' d its robby."

"What are you talking about, Motorboat?" "We also own

three of the rargest studios in Horrywood,

462 ROBERT LUDLUM

most worthy person. I suggest you see me first, or perhaps most

unfortunatry we must evict you instantry."

"No can do, ToJo. Your front desk has a line of credit on our

behalf to the tune of a hundred thousand. Until that's in jeopardy,

you can't move our asses anywhere. That's the law, Bonsai, our

law."

"Aiyee! You try the patience of this unworthy soul. I represent

the Toyhondahai Enterprises, U.S.A. Motion Pic-' ture Operations!"

"Good for you. I represent six warriors that make your samurai

look like chickenshit purveyors.... Five hours, Slope, or I'll call my

buddies in the Tokyo Diet and they'll take away your tax-exempt

company expense accounts for reasons of corruption!"

"Aiyee!"

"On the other hand, come back in five hours and all is forgiven."

The Hawk hung up the phone and went to his open duffel bag on

the couch. It was time to dress. The gray suit, not the buckskins.

Nineteen minutes and thirty-two seconds later, the men of the

Suicidal Six stood rigidly at attention, a line of superbly conditioned

stalwarts impressively filling out their camouflaged combat fatigues,

their .45 caliber side arms bolstered and strapped tightly around

their enviously slim waists. Gone were the theatrical manifestations

of their currently assumed "names"; the slouches, swaggers, and

vocal imitations had vanished. In their places were rockhard faces,

sharp, precise language, and the concrete postures of relatively

young but experienced soldiers, each with striking features and

clear, unblinking eyes that held both intensity and perception. At

the moment they were passing inspection for their surrogate

commander.

"That's it, boys, you've got it!" cried the Hawk approvingly.

"Remember, this is the image you want to give 'em when they first

take a look at you. Tough but smart, battlescarred but human,

above the crowd but with the common touch. God, I love it when

men look like you! Damn it to hell, we need heroes! We crave brave

souls who'll ride into the mouth of death, into the jaws of hell-"

"You've got it backwards, General, it's the other way around."

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 463

"Same damn thing."

"Not really."

"He wants William Holden in the last scenes of Kwai."

"Or John Ireland in OX Corral."

"How about Dick Burton and Big Clint in Eagles Dare?"

"Or Eroll Flynn in anything."

"Don't forget Connery in The Untouchables."

"Hey, fellas, what about Sir Henry Sutton as the knight in

BecketT'

"Absolutely!"

"Hey, what about Sir Henry, General? We're here, but where is

he? We consider him a part of us now, especially where our movie's

concerned."

"On another assignment, men. A very vital assignment; he'll

meet up with you later... Now, back to the engagement facing us."

"Can we relax, sir?"

"Yes, yes, of course, but don't lose that, that . .

"Collective image, General?" asked Telly gently.

"Yeah, that's what I meant think."

"And you'd be quite right, sir," added the Yale-trained Sly. "You

see, we're basically ensemble players. It's largely improv and goes

with the interacting totality, as it were.

" Totality ... ? Yeah, sure.... Now, listen up. The Hollywood types

and the London film types you're going to meet don't know what to

expect, but when they see six military hunks-as, a dear friend of

mine who understands their mentalities put it-they'll see bucketfuls

of bucks. Especially because you're the real thing, and that's where

you're different. You don't have to sell yourselves, they've got to

sell themsleves. You're the choosers, not the choosees; they may

want to buy, but you may not want to sell. You've got certain

standards."

"Isn't that a dangerous position?" asked The Duke. "Producers

hold the purse strings, not actors, especially not actors like us who

haven't exactly set Broadway on fire, to say nothing of Hollywood."

"Gentlemen, " said the Hawk. "Forget your previous lives and

whatever marks you made or didn't make. As of

464 ROBERT LUDLUM

now, who and what you are is setting the world on fire! That's what

these people will see flowing into their cash registers. You're not

only professional actors, you're soldiers, commandos in various

disguises to achieve your missions!"

"Oh, hell," said Dustin, shrugging. "Anyone with advanced acting

techniques under his belt could do it--?' "Don't ever say that!"

shouted MacKenzie.

"Sorry, General, but I think it's the truth."

"Then keep it a secret, son!" said the Hawk. "We're dealing with

'high concept' here. We keep it big, not small."

"What does that mean?" asked Sly.

"Don't bring in details; their attention spans can't handle it."

MacKenzie walked to the desk and picked up the clipped pages of

his third wife's literary labors; he turned back to the unit. "This is

what's known as an outline, or a 'treatment,' or something just as

dumb-sounding, and there's only one copy-that's to keep its

security at a maximum. It's a high-powered summary of your

activities over the past few years, and let me tell you, it's a nuclear

missile. When each of these vultures arrives, I'll give him this

single copy and tell him he's got fifteen minutes to read it and then

ask whatever questions he likes, the answers to which will be

subject to national security. I want you to sit in those chairs over

there that I've placed in a semicircle maintaining that collective-

whatever you call it."

"Collective image of silent strength with an admixture of

intelligence and perception?" suggested Telly the professor.

"Yeah, that one. And maybe it wouldn't hurt if a couple of you

slap the holsters of your forty-fives whenever I say ,national

security.'

"You, Sly; then you, Marlon," ordered The Duke.

"Got it."

"Got it."

"Now, here's the kicker," continued the Hawk quickly. "At first,

you answer the clowns' questions in your normal, regular voices,

then when I nod at each of you, you switch to the impersonations

of the people-the actorsyou imitated for me and Colonel Cyrus."

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 465

"We've got lots of others," said Dustin.

"Those will do," replied Hawkins. "They were damned

convincing."

"What's the point?" asked the skeptical Marlon.

"I'd think you'd see that right off. We prove that you're real

talented professionals, that you've done what you've done because

you are actors."

"That can't hurt us, pilgrims," said The Duke, reverting to his

histrionic persona. "What the hell, not too many other honchos in

the business ever listened to us."

"Confidence, men. You've got it all!" The telephone rang again.

"Chow down, gentlemen," MacKenzie went on, reaching for the

phone as the Suicidal Six rushed to the room-service tables. "Yes,

who's this?"

"The twelfth son of the sheik of Tizi Ouzou by his twenty-second

wife," said the soft voice over the line. "Thirty thousand camels.

may be yours if our talk bears fruit, otherwise a hundred thousand

Western dogs may die if the fruits are barren."

"Ream it! Come back in six hours or go bury your balls in the

desert sand!"

Seven hours later, the good ship, HwWs Assault, had made its

initial foray into the turbulent waters of the motion picture industry.

In its treacherous wake and struggling to keep from drowning were

a former British Grenadier named Ogilvie, who blustered about

thankless wog colonials; one Emmanuel Greenberg, whose copious

weeping touched all but one MacKenzie Hawkins; a certain

exhausted head of Holly Rock's development named Scrimshaw,

who finally said he'd temporarily settle for a bed he didn't have to

pay for; a shrieking "Cruiser" Motoboto, who made it abundantly

clear that prison camps in "Horrywood" were not entirely out of the

question; and lastly, a snarling Sheik Mustacha Hafaiyabeaka, in

flowing robes, who made constant and odious comparisons be-

tween camel droppings and the American dollar. Nevertheless, to

a man and his corporate entity, each profoundly hoped to be

chosen as the producing force behind the most spectacular motion

picture to be made in modem times, and each, stunned speechless

by the six extraordinary actor-commandos, agreed without

reservation that they

466 ROBERT LUDLUM

would portray themselves in the film of their exploits. Only

Greenberg offered the suggestion: "Maybe a little skin, fellas?

Y'know, a few girlies so there shouldn't be any questions, y'know?"

The Suicidal Six agreed enthusiastically, especially Marlon, Sly, and

Dustin. "Thirty-sixcarat gelt!" whispered Manny, even more

enthusiastically.

Business cards were proffered, but Hawkins was clear: no

decision would be made until early the following week. When the

last of the supplicants left, namely the growling twelfth son of the

sheik of Tizi Ouzou by his twentysecond wife, MacKenzie turned to

his elite Delta Force by way of the theater and rendered his

judgment. "You were great, every one of you. They were

hypnotized, blown out of their foxholes-you did it!"

"Outside of putting on a pretty good show," said the erudite

Telly, "FiXi not exactly sure what we did."

"Did you just lose your flak jacket, son?" broke in the startled

Hawkins. "Didn't you hear what they said? To a sweaty palm, they

want this project so bad they drooled!"

"Well," observed Dustin, "I heard a lot of noise, a lot of shouting

and pleading, especially Mr. Greenberg's crying-he was especially

effective, very much like a Greek chorus--but I'm not sure what it all

meant."

"We didn't see anyone pulling out a contract," said Marlon.

"We don't want any contracts. Not yet."

"When's 'Yet,' General?" asked Sir Larry. "You see, we've been

through all this before. There's always a great deal of talk but very

few pieces of paper. Paper is a commitment, sir, the rest is just ...

well, talk."

"if I remember correctly, gentlemen, negotiations are left to the

negotiators. We're the creative side; we do and they haggle."

"Who negotiates for us, if anybody really wants us ... pilgrim?"

"Good point, Duke. Maybe I'd better make a phone

call."

"I'll payfor it," said Sly.

Instead, the Waldorf-Astoria's telephone rang. The

Hawk crossed to the desk. "Yes, who the bell is thisT'

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 467

"Sweetie, I couldn't wait any longer! How's everything going?"

"Oh, hi, Ginny, everything went fine, but as the boys explained

to me, we may have a problem."

"Manny? ... You didn't kill him, did you, Mac?"

"Hell, no. As a fact, the boys were kinda taken by him."

"The crying bit, huh?"

"You got it."

"He's very good at that, the bastard... Then what's the problem?"

"Well, as the men say, it's real splendid that these vultures liked

us, or pretended to like us, but how do we get anything on paper-2'

"It's all arranged, Mac. The William Morris Agency is handling

everything-right up at the top. Robbins and Martin themselves."

"Robbins and Martin? Sounds like a classy men's shop.

"Class they are, and we should all have their brains, sweetie.

Not only brains, they speak English you can understand, not

Hollywood crapola. That's why they confuse everybody and take

home the bread. They'll go to work when I tell them."

"Make ' it early next week, okay, Ginny?"

"Sure. Where can I reach you, and who exactly besides Manny

showed up?"

"Here, I've got their cards." The Hawk picked up the business

cards on the desk and read each off to his former wife.

"Wasn't there a nut studio in Georgia or Florida? Of course, no

legitimate company in the South will deal with them, but they've got

several cathedrals full of money and can push up the bids."

"I have an idea they may run into a bit of trouble tonight in

Washington."

"What?"

"Le it pass, Ginny."

"I know that tone; it's passed. Now how about you? Where will

you be?"

"Call a Johnny Calfhose at the Wopotami reservation

468 ROBERT LUDLUM

outside of Omaha, he'll know where to find me. Here's his private

number." Hawkins gave it to her. "Got it?"

"Sure, but what's a Calfhose, and what the hell is a Wopotami?"

"He's a disenfranchised member of that downtrodden people."

"Your windmills, Mac?"

"We do what we can, little lady."

"Who to this time, sweetie?"

"Bad protectors of the republic with very bad attitudes."

"Oh, the D.C. pricky-shitsT'

"And their forebears, Ginny, going back over a hundred years.,,

"How delicious! ... But how did you ever get Sam involved?"

"He's a very principled man-far more mature than he was and

with seven children-but he knows right from wrong."

"That's what I mean! How did you get him back? That beautiful

boy thinks you're Ali Baba's forty thieves all walking around on one

pair of legs."

"Well, as I say, he's changed, mellowed over the years.

Probably goes with his haggard looks and the arthritis that kinda

makes him stoop ... I guess nine kids would do that to anybody."

"Nine? I thought you said seven?"

"I get mixed up, but then so does he. I'll say this, though, he's

become a far more tolerant man."

"Ibank heavens he got over Annie. We were all worried about -

him.... Wait a minute! Seven kids ... nine? What did his wife do, drop

two and three at a time?"

"Well, we haven't really--2' Fortunately for MacKenzie Hawkins,

there were several clicks on the line followed by the excited voice

of an interrupting operator.

"Suite Twelve'A, you have an emergency call! Please terminate

your current conversation so I can connect YOU."

"Bye, Ginny girl, we'll make contact later." MacKenzie slammed

down the phone and held it in place; it rang three seconds later and

he yanked it up. `This is Suite Twelve A. Who's thisT'

7HE ROAD TO OMAHA 469

"Redwing, you prehistoric monster!" roared Jennifer from

Swampscott, Massachusetts. "Sam heard the Brokemichael tape

last night, and it was all Cyrus, Roman, and our two Desis could do

to hold him down! Finally, Cyrus managed to get practically a whole

bottle of whisky into him-"

"When he sobers up, he'll come to his senses," interrupted the

Hawk. "He usually does."

"Nice of you to say so, but, of course, we'll never know."

"What do you mean?"

"He's gone!"

"That's impossible! With my adjutants and Roman Z and the

colonel all there?"

"He's one sneaky son of a bitch, Thunder Ass. His door was

closed and we figured he was still sleeping it off, then five minutes

ago Roman was patrolling the beach when he saw a speedboat pull

close to the shore about a quarter of a mile away and a figure run

from the dunes into the water

and get on board!"

"Sam ? 11

"Binoculars don't lie, and Roman Z's eyesight's got to be damn

sharp or he'd have a much longer record than he has."

"Goddamn, there he goes again! It's Switzerland all over again!"

"You mean when Sam tried to stop you---2' "Damn near did,"

broke in MacKenzie, furiously checking his pockets with his free

hand for his pacifiernamely, a mutilated cigar. "He must have

used a phone and called somebody."

"Obviously, but who?"

"How would I know? I haven't seen him in years ....

still, what can he do?" ,

"Last night he kept shouting about the manipulators in high

places, how the corruptors were selling out the country and should

be exposed and he was going to expose theM--2'

"Yeah, he goes on a lot about that stuff, believes it,

470 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Don't you? I think I heard you say practically the same thing at the

Ritz-Carlton, General."

"Yeah, I believe it, but there's a time and place to act on those

principles and this isn't it! ... Yet what can he really do? A hysterical

lawyer with bloodshot eyes and wet clothes running to a

newspaper, like he suggested, with a story like ours? There's no

way they could confirm it; they'd call a truck from a funny farm."

"I think I left out something," said Jennifer.

"What?"

"He's got the Brokemichael tape."

"Sherman in Atlanta, you've got to be kidding, Redskin lady!"

"With all my Redskin heart, I wish I were. We can't find it

anywhere."

"Holy pistols of Georgie Patton! He could nuke the whole

enterprise. We've got to stop him!"

"How? 11

"Call the Boston papers, the radio and television stations, and

tell 'ern all a lunatic's escaped from the biggest mental institution

in Massachusetts."

"That won't do much good when they hear the tape. The first

thing they'll do is make copies, then voice-print scans and match

them with your friend General Brokemichael, either from newsreel

tapes or just over the telephone."

"I'll call Brokernichael and tell him to stay off the phone!"

"The phone ... T' said Jennifer pensively. "That's it! All telephone

companies have computerized printouts of every number called; it's

standard billing procedure. I'm sure Mr. Pinkus can get an

immediate police order."

"For what?"

"The number Sam called from the Birnbaum phone here! Except

when you reached us early this morning, no one's used that phone."

"Someone did, and his name is Devereaux."

Thanks to Aaron Pinkus's exemplary relations with the authorities,

Redwing's suggestion was swiftly effective.

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 471

"Counselor, this is Lieutenant Cafferty, Boston P.D. We have the

information you want."

"Thank you so much, Lieutenant Cafferty. Had there not been an

emergency, I would never have prevailed upon your office or your

kindness."

"Hey, come on, no trouble, sir. After all, every year at the

department's annual dinner it's always 'Pinkus's Corned Beef and

Cabbage."'

"An insignificant contribution compared to the services you

render to our fair city."

"Well, you just call us any time.... Here's what we got from the

telephone company. During the past twelve hours there've been

only four calls made from the Swampscott number, the last being

six minutes ago to New York

City--2,

"Yes, we're aware of that one, Lieutenant. The other three,

please."

"Two were to your own house, Mr. Pinkus. The first at six-thirty-

three,last night and then this morning-_2'

"Oh, yes, I was reaching Shirley, that's my wife. I forgot."

"We've all met the missus, Counselor, and a grand lady she is.

So tall and graceful, sir."

"Tall? No, actually she's quite short; it's her hairdo. Never mind,

what's the fourth call, please?"

"It was made on the unlisted number out there at seventwelve

this morning to the residence of Geoffrey Frazier---2'

"Frazier?" interrupted Aaron involuntarily. "How extraordinary ...

!"

"He's a lot of things, if you don't mind my saying so, Mr. Pinkus,

including a royal pain in the arse, forgive my language, sir."

"I'm sure his grandfather employs far worse, Lieutenant

Cafferty.':

Oh, I ve heard him, Counselor! Whenever we pull the lad into the

tank, the old man asks if we can't keep him a few more days."

"Thank you very much, Lieutenant, you've been a great help."

"Anytime, sir."

472 ROBERT LUDLUM

Aaron replaced the phone and looked quizzically at Jennifer. "At

least we know how Sam found the tape; he used Sidney's private

line in the study. That's where we played it last night."

"But that's not what's shocked you, is it? It's someone named

Frazier, right?"

"Exactly. He's one of the most charming-I might even say

lovable-men you could ever meet. A totally nice person whose

parents died years ago in a plane crash when the inebriated Frazier,

Senior, tried to land his seaplane on the Grand Corniche in Monte

Carlo. Geoffrey was a classmate of Sam's at Andover."

"Then that's why he called him."

"I doubt it. Sam doesn't hate people, that's not in him, really,

even MacKenzie Hawkins, as you've seen. But he does disapprove,

disapprove deeply."

"Disapprove-in what way, and why this Frazier?"

"Because Geoffrey's abused and wasted his privileges. He's a

functioning alcoholic whose only,purpose in life is the pursuit of

pleasure and the avoidance of pain.... And Sam has absolutely no

use for him."

"He did today-about ten minutes ago on the beach." "Me

general's right, we have to stop him!" said Aaron suddenly, turning

back to the phone.

"HowT'

"If we knew where he went in the boat, it'd be a place to start."

"Mat could be anywhere."

"No, not really," said Aaron. "Things have changed along the

shoreline; the Coast Guard and the Power Squadrons are constantly

on the alert, not only for reckless boaters, but for people bringing

in illegal substances from other craft farther out. Those with

houses on the beach are asked to report any suspicious activity on

their water frontages."

"Someone may have called already then," interrupted Jennifer.

"That boat came up to the beach."

"Yes, but Sam went out to get on board, no one got off."

"Then we have the why-get-involved syndromes' concluded

Jennifer.

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 473

"Exactly."

"Still, why not call the Coast Guard?"

"I would in a second if I knew what kind of boat it was, even its

size or shape or color or the marina where it's berthed." Pinkus

reached for the telephone, adding as he dialed. "But I just

remembered, I do know something else, someone else."

One of the secluded crowns of Boston is an isolated patch of

ground on top of Beacon Hill called Louisburg Square. It is a

compound of elegant town houses originally built in the 1840s, its

small, manicured park guarded at the north end by a statue of

Columbus, at the south by a monument to Aristides the Just. It is

not isol ated physically, of course: Mail must be delivered, garbage

picked up, -and the daytime servants have to get there as best they

can without leaving their distressed vehicles among the Rolls-

Royces, Porsches, and whatever cute, new American pretenders

catch the fancy of the lairds of Louisburg. These lairds, however,

are demographically semi-democratic-small d, presumably-for there

is old, old money, old money, firstgeneration money, and newly

acquired cash. There are inheritors, stockbrokers, lawyers, several

CEOs, wid doctors, especially one doctor who is also a major

American novelist the medical profession would like to put into a

coma, but he's too good at both professions.

However, again, demographics notwithstanding, only one

telephone rang at this moment, and it was in the tastefully ornate

town house of the oldest old money in Boston, specifically the

residence of R. Cookson Frazier. As the phone rang, the spry

elderly gentleman in red, sweatstained gym shorts sank a

basketball accurately into the net of the small court he had built for

himself on the top floor of his home. His sneakers squeaking on

the hard wood beneath, he turned quizzically at the shrill intrusion.

The momentary indecision ended when he remembered on the third

ring that his housekeeper was down at the market. Wiping his brow

beneath his white hair, he walked over to the wall phone and picked

it up. "Yes?" he said, partially out of breath.

474 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Mr. Frazier?"

'his is he."

"It's Aaron Pinkus, Mr. Frazier. We've met several times, the

last being at the Fogg Museum charity ball, I believe."

"It was, indeed, Aaron, and why the 'Mr. Frazier'? You're

damn near as old as I am and I believe we both agreed you

wouldn't look it if you exercised more."

"Too true, too true, Cookson. There never seems to be

enough time."

"There won't be for you, although you'll probably be the

richest man in the graveyard."

"I've long since given up such ambitions."

"I know that, I'm just goading you because I'm sweating like a

pig, which is a poor metaphor-I'm told that pigs don't sweat....

What can I do for you, old fellow?"

"It concerns your grandson, I'm afraid-2' "You're afraid?"

interrupted Frazier. "I'm terrified What now?" Pinkus started to

tell his story, but within eight seconds, at the mention of the

speedboat, the old man broke in, shouting triumphantly. "That's

it! I've got him!"

"I beg your pardon, CooksonT' "I can put him away!"

"N"at ... T'

"He's not permitted by law to drive his boat-or his car or his

motorcycle or his snowmobile. He's been deemed a menace on

land, sea, and snow!"

"You'd have him sent to jail?"

"Jail? Good Lord, no. Simply to one of those places that can

straighten the boy out! My attorneys have already arranged it. If

he's caught in even one of the violations, and there've been no

injuries or legal redress from second parties, the court will permit

me to take my own custodial measures."

"You want to place him in a sanitarium?"

"I'd prefer to use another term, like a 'rehabilitation center' or

whatever the code words are."

"To go that far, he really has grieved you then."

"He certainly has, but perhaps not in the way you think.

I

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 475

1 know that boy and love him dearly-my God, he's the last of the

male Fraziers!"

"I understand, Cookson."

"I don't think you do. You see, whatever he is, we made him that

way, our family did, just as I did with my own son, and I'm far worse

because at least I was around, alive. But; as I say, I know him, and

underneath that besotted exterior oozing with charm is a brain,

Aaron! There's another man beneath the overindulged boy, I sense

it, I truly believe it!"

"He's a very likable person and I certainly couldn't contradict

you."

"You don't believe me, either, do youT'

"I don't know him that well, Cookson."

"The newspapers and the television people obviously think they

do. With every scrape he gets into, the labels are there. 'Scion of

wealth in drunk tank again,' and 'Playboy of Boston a disgrace to

the city,' et cetera, et cetera, et cetera."

"The events apparently took place---P

"Of course they did! That's why your news is the greatest gift

you could give me. I can now take control of that overage

delinquent!"

"How? His speedboat's on the water and we don't know where

he's going."

"You said he pulled up to the Swampscott beach about twenty

minutes ago--"

"Or slightly less."

"To get back to the marina will take him at least forty to forty-five

minutes-"

"Suppose he's not heading for the marina? Suppose he's going

the other way?"

"North of Swampscott, the nearest refueling dock that permits

outsiders is at Gloucester, and those cigarette boats drink fuel like

six Arabs with straws in a single pot of tea. Gloucester's about a

half hour away."

"You know a this?"

"I was commander of Boston's Power Squadron for five

consecutive terms; of course I know it. We're wasting time, Aaron!

I've got to call the squadron and our friends in the Coast Guard.

They'll find him."

476 ROBERT LUDLUM

"One thing, Cookson. On board is an employee of mine

named Devereaux, Samuel Devereaux, and it's imperative that he

be held by the authorities for me."

"Bad business, eh?"

"No, not bad at all, merely impetuous. But it's vital that he be

held. I'll explain later."

"Devereaux? Any relation to Lansing Devereaux?"

"His son, actually."

"Damn fine man, Lansing. Died much too young for a fellow

of his abilities. For a fact, he led me into several lucrative

investments."

'Tell me, Cookson. After he died, did you ever make contact

with his widow?"

"Could I do otherwise? He was the brains, I was merely some

minor money. I transferred my profits to her accounts. As I say,

who could do otherwiseT' "Apparently a number of people."

"Damned thieving bloodsuckers.... I've got to get off the

phone and make some calls, Aaron, but now that we've talked,

let's have dinner some evenin

T

"A great pleasure."

"With your lovely wife, Shelly-such a tall and graceful woman."

"It's Shirley, and, actually, she's not tall, it's her-never mind."

28

The sky grew suddenly gray and the dark clouds above swelled in

direct proportion to the angry ocean below. And off the coast of

Massachusetts, Sam Devereaux held on to the stainless steel railing

of the speedboat wondering what had possessed him to call Geoff

Frazier, a man he thoroughly disliked.... Well, perhaps "disliked" was

too strong. Nobody who knew "Crazy Frazie," as he was sometimes

affectionately called, could really dislike him, because the "Spaced

Cadet," as he was frequently referred to, had a heart as big as his

monthly inheritance stipend, which he would willingly give to

anyone he knew to be in distressful circumstances. What disturbed

Sam at the moment was Frazie's maniacal maneuvers that

intentionally sent the narrow, sleek, twin-engined cigarette boat into

the monstrous waves.

"Have to do it, old sport!" shouted the grinning skipper, his

braided captain's hat askew. "These thin things can go belly-up if

you don't take the water on head first!"

"You mean we could sink?"

"Actually, I'm not sure; never happened!" A gigantic, spray washed

over the boat's windshield, soaking both men. "Damned

exhilarating, isn't it, sport?"

478 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Geoff, are you sober?"

"Perhaps a touch, old boy, but it won't interfere!" yelled Frazier.

"The sauce always makes one better in these sudden squalls! Gives

you the edge over nature, if you know what I mean.... Can you hear

me, Devvy?"

"Unfortunately yes, Frazie."

"Not to worry. These billy-blows kick up quickly but they can go

away sometimes just as fast!"

"How long?"

"No more than an hour or so," shouted the happily grinning

Frazier. "Our only problem will be finding a basin until then."

"A basin?"

"Can't head in till we find a cozy nook, as it were."

"Speak English!"

"Just did, sport. An inlet that reduces the wind and the water,

and there's damn few along the shoreline."

"Go into the beach!"

"There are a lot of rocks and-jetties, Devvy, and these

sweeuthings aren't the easiest to control in weather."

"Whether what ... T'

"Never mind-"

"Damn it, go into the beach! There's a whole stretch up ahead

without a rock in sight and I've got important things to do!"

"Well, rocks and shoals aren't the only impediments, old fellow,"

yelled Frazier. "Boats like this one beaching on private property

aren't exactly welcome sights, and if you'll look closer, there's

nothing but dune houses as far as you can see!"

"You went in almost a half hour ago down in Swampscott!"

"Down there people like me pay for beachfront they never use

so the neighbors can't hear us or pollute our waters. Also,

everyone knows the Birnbaums' house, and anyone who reads the

society pages knows they're at the estate auctions in London. I

took a chance, Devvy, but not up here-not with this squall and not

with my past booboos!"

"Boo-boos ... ?" "Just silly little traffic violations, you might

say, old

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 479

boy. Nothing to worry about, but there are rotten apples in every

decent barrel, you know!"

"What apples? What barrels?" roared Sam as harsh, si-

multaneous sprays from both port and starboard overwhelmed him,

drenching him to the skin.

"Grandpapa's stupid Power Squadron-snitches, all of them, and

they hate me because my boat's faster than any of theirs!"

"What the hell are you talking about, Frazie?" A tremendous

midair lurch and subsequent pounding return into an onrushing

wave caused Devereaux to lose his grip; he crashed to the deck,

grabbing the handle of a stow-away cabinet and yanking it down,

the force propelling his head inside. "Help!" he screamed. "I'm

stuck somewhere!"

"Can't hear you, Devvy, but not to worry, chum! I can see the

Gloucester markers up ahead. 'Red right return,' as they say."

"Red ... mftt ... m0tt!"

"You'll have to be clearer, Devvy! Can't make you out in this

wind, but I'd be most grateful if you'd uncork a bottle of Dom Perry

for me. There's an iced case in the aft locker, that's a good fellow!

... Just spin it up on the deck the way we used to do with the girls

from Holyoke, remember? The centrifugal motion loses only half the

precious liquid. Physics One-Two at dear old Andover! Most vital

thing I ever learned!"

"Wtt ... oww ... ouch!" shrieked Sam, pulling his head out of the

deck recess, a coil of white rope around his skull. "You want a

bottle of wine when we're in the middle of a hurricane? You're

certifiable, Frazie, absolutely nuts!"

"Come now, sport, this is merely a heavy squall, that's all." The

grinning captain, the visor of his cap of authority now over his right

ear, turned and looked at his deck-prone passenger with the rope

around his bead. "Oh, come now, old boy, is that your crown of

thorns?" he roared, laughing.

"I will not get you a bottle of champagne, and I demand -that you

get me on shore or I'll personally wax your tail as an officer of the

court with regard to your incapacity on the high seas!"

480 ROBERT LUDLUM

'I'wo hundred yards offshore?"

"You know what I mean!" As Devereaux rose to his knees,

another massive wave crashed over his shoulders, spraying him

back on the deck. "Frazier!" screamed Sam, once more gripping the

stainless steel railing on the gunwale. "Don't you care about

anything but yourself?"

"Mat in itself-or myself-is a very large territory, chum, but, of

course, I do. I care about old friends who still call me a friend. I

care about you because you called me in need!"

"I can't deny that," said Devereaux, deciding to open the stem ice

cabinet, suddenly thinking that Frazie might need that "edge over

nature" after all.

"Oh, oh!" roared the captain of the Swampscott rescue mission.

"We've got a problem, Devvy!"

"NN%aff'

"One of those snitches from Grandpapa's dumb Power Squadron

must have spotted us!"

" What? "

"Mere's a C.G. cutter on our tail, old friend! Turn aft and look!"

"Holy shit!" whispered Sam to himself as he saw the sharp-

bladed bow of a white Coast Guard patrol boat with red stripes

leaping over the waves several hundred yards behind them. Then

through the erratic bursts of wind he heard the sound of a siren.

"Are they trying to stop us?" he roared.

"Let's put it this way, sport, it's not a courtesy call!"

"But I can't be stopped!" yelled Devereaux, uncorking a bottle

and spinning it across the wet deck. "I have to get to the

authorities-the police, the FBI, The Boston Globe, somebody! I have

to expose one of the most powerful men in Washington who's done

a terrible thing! I have to do it! If the Coast Guard or anyone in the

government finds my evidence, they'll stop me!"

"That sounds heavy, old boy!" shouted Frazier, his voice carrying

over the wind and through the sprays of the waves as he picked up

the bottle. "But I have to ask you a question! You're not carrying

little pills or packets of powder or anything like that, are you,

sport?"

"Christ, no!"

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 481

"I really have to be sure, Devvy, please understand that!"

"Believe me, Frazie," screamed Sam over the now thunderous

sounds of the New England squall. "We're talking about a man who

can shape the nation's policies, who next to the President is

considered the most powerful man in our government! He's a liar

and a crook and he hires killers! I've got it all in my pocket!"

"Someone's confession?"

"No, a tape that confirms the whole conspiracy!"

"Mat's really heavy, isn't it?"

"Get me on shore, Frazie!"

"Iben I'd suggest you really do hold on, chum!"

The next minutes, the approximate number a hysterical

Devereaux would never know, were like plunging, swirling,

plummeting submersions into all of Dante's circles of hell. Crazy

Frazie suddenly became a maniacal Ahab, but instead of attempting

to kill the great beast, he was doing his God-commanded

damnedest to avoid its massive jaws. Like a satanic captain from

the netherworld, a grinning Geoffrey Frazier, the bottle of Dom

Perignon sporadically at his lips, whipped and thrashed the

machine beneath him to obey his commands as he spun the wheel

repeatedly back and forth, expertly crashing into and ebbing away

from the angry swells on all sides.

The less maneuverable patrol boat behind was obviously

skippered by a furious Coast Guard officer. Joining the bursts of

the wailing siren came indignant, commanding words shouted over

a loudspeaker. "Cut back your engines and head for marker seven

due northwest! Repeat, you maniac, marker seven and knock off the

horseshit!"

"We couldn't ask for anything better," yelled Captain Crazy Frazie

to his stunned passenger. "He's a fine fellow!"

"What are you saying?" screamed Sam. "They'll board us with

cutlasses and knives and guns and capture us!"

"Capture me, no doubt, old sport, but not you if you do as I tell

you." Frazier did not reduce his twin engines, but he did wave-tack

against the squall until he was heading roughly northwest. "Now,

listen to me, Devvy! I haven't been up this way in a while, but the

'marker seven'jogged

482 ROBERT LUDLUM

my memory. It's about a hundred and fifty yards to the left of a

rather large rock formation that juts out of the water, a small land

mass that cuts down the wind-the sails frequently complain it's four

hundred feet of dead air." . "Rocks? Dead air! ... For Christ's sake,

Frazie, I'm fighting for my sanity, for my country's integrity!"

"Just a sec, old boy!" shouted Devereaux's rescuing skipper as

he bounced the bottle of champagne against the top of his

dashboard. "You broke the cork, chum, and it's choking the neck!"

The Dom Perignon back to his lips, he added. "Mere, that's better!

Now, what was it, sportT'

"Oh, my God, you're impossible!"

"Seems I've heard that before-" Frazier's words were interrupted

by a starboard lurch with its subsequent spray catching him directly

in the face. "Damn! Salt water never did mix with the bubbly!"

"Frazie ... !"

"Oh, yes, now listen up, Devvy! ... We'll reach marker seven,

where I'll throttle back in the calmer stretch-that's your signal to

prepare to abandon ship, as it were."

"You mean like in 'man overboard,' where those navy fascists

behind us can pick me up?"

"I said 'prepare,' not execute--2'

"For Christ's sake, use another word!"

"When I slow down, get to the starboard but stay below the

gunwale, then I'll suddenly hit full throttle and make a large arc to

port, bringing you within forty or fifty yards of the beach. That's

when you slip over the side-the spray will cover your

disappearance-and I'll continue to give our water commandos a

merry chase!"

"Good Lord, Frazie! You'd do this for me?"

"You asked for my help, Devvy--2'

"Sure, but that's because I knew you had a fast boat and ... and

... well, I sort of thought. . . ."

"That 'Crazy Frazie' might just be your man, being the man he

was?"

"I'm sorry, Geoff. I don't really know what to say."

"Don't bother, sport, it's all fun!"

"You could get in a great deal of trouble, Geoff, and I

never counted on that, honest I didn't!"

"Of course, you didn't. You're the most irritatingly hon-YHE ROAD TO OMAHA 483

est person I've ever known! Hang on, now, Devvy, we're -going in."

They entered the narrow channel that held the red marker seven,

the reedlike cigarette boat abruptly slowed down in the smoother

waters. The Coast Guard patrol approached within thirty yards aft.

"Hear this, and hear me well!" came the agitated voice over the

loudspeaker. "You have been identified as one Geoffrey Frazier and

your passenger is a man named Samuel Devereaux, and you are

both now under arrest. Hold to, as three of my crew board your

craft and take full control. "

'@Geoff!" cried Sam Devereaux, lying prone on the starboard

deck. "I really didn't expect anything like this to happened"

"Oh, shut up, old boy! Another few moments-as soon as they

lower their dinghy-I'll start up and swing toward the beach. I'll

signal you when I think we're as close as we can get and that's

when you slip over. Got it?"

"Got it and I'll never forget it! Not only that, I'll defend you in

court with all the legal expertise Aaron Pinkus Associates has!"

"That's terribly considerate, sport ... all right, Devvy, here we go!"

With those words the powerful speedboat lurched forward with such

force its bow sprang out of the water like an ascending egret. The

roar of the engines muted all other sounds as the craft sped out of

the briefly sheltered area back into the angry waves past marker

seven. Then, true to his word, Frazier went into a wide, steep bank

to the left, sending up a huge sheet of ocean spray to the starboard,

a continuous wall of dense foam and sea that provided complete

cover for any activity in front of or behind it-such as a prone figure

rolling over the side into the water.

Which was precisely what a determined if anxiety-prone Sam

Devereaux did, hardly buoyed by his captain's last words, shouted

as he waved his hand. "Now, old chum, and I know you can do it.

You were on the school's swimming team!"

"No, Frazie! It was tennis! I didn't make the swimming team!"

484 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Oh, sorry ... over you go!"

Buffeted by waves, Sam kept his head half-submerged as the

Coast Guard patrol boat whipped to the left in pursuit of his former

classmate, its loudspeaker blaring. "You can run but you can't hide,

you swilling son of a bitch! We've got you this time-resisting arrest,

drinking while piloting your craft, recklessly endangering the life of

your passenger, who@ also under arrest! Oh boy, I'm gonna ream

you!"

Suddenly, further stunning a bobbing Devereaux, who gasped

for air, came the sound of a much more powerful loudspeaker-from

Frazie's boat. The noise it emitted could best be described as that

of a blaring seagoing whoopee cushion.

". . . who @ also under arrest ... a man named Samuel

Devereaux, and you are both under arrest. " Under arrest? He was

under arrest? He had vaguely heard the words while clinging to the

deck, but in his own personal hysteria they had not registered.

Arrest! By name! Oh, my God, I'm a fugitive! They were searching

for him; there was probably a dragnet! It had to mean that Aaron

and Jenny and Cyrus and Roman and the two Desis had been

takentaken and broken, forced to confess everything! And Mac-he'd

probably be executed! ... And Jenny, the new love of his life-they

would hurt her, maybe do terrible things to her. The desperate men

in Washington would stop at nothing!

Well, they hadn't figured on Samuel Lansing Devereaux, attorney

of consequence, avenger of the mistreated, and the scourge of

corruptors everywhere! And he had learned from a master-a

misguided, antediluvian master, to be sure-but nevertheless a

master! Of lies and theft and trickery, all those fine attributes that

made him the Soldier of the Century! Sam would use every devious

device, every nefarious deception he had learned from the Hawk to

spread the truth and free his comrades. Not only free his comrades

but save his country from the grip of the insidious manipulators.

Not only free his comrades and save his country, but bring the

glorious Sunrise Jennifer Redwing permanently into his life! He'd do

it all with a voice tape securely locked in a finger-sealed plastic bag

he

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 485

had found in the Birnbaum kitchen that was now in his deepest

pocket. Coughing and swallowing seawater, Devereaux struggled

with all his strength against the tide and the chopping waves toward

the beach. He had to prime the inventive part of his brain and, as

Mac had frequently made clear, be prepared to instantly create

whatever fiction he could think of to support the false facts. Like:

"Wow, am I glad to be on land! My boat capsized!"

"Hey, there, mister!" cried the teenage girl who had run down from

the house to greet him at the water's edge. "I'll bet you're glad you

got here, on land, I mean. Did your boat capsize in the squalIT'

"Yes ... well, yes it did. Pretty rough out there."

"Not if you've got a decent keel. Or if you're a pot, just get to

marker seven."

"Young lady, I'm not in the habit of smoking such substances."

... VVhatT'

"Simply put, I don't use pot, as you call it."

"Pot ... ? You mean 'grass'? Nobody I go out with does, either!

I meant 'pot' like in pot-sailor. You know, engines and oil leaks that

mess up the water."

"Oh, of course! I'm just a little disoriented from the swim." Sam

rose unsteadily to his feet, his right hand checking his trouser

pocket. The sealed tape was there. "As it happens, I'm in a great

hurry--2'

"I'll bet," interrupted the girl. "You want to call your marina or

the C.G. or probably your insurance company. You can use our

phone."

"Aren't you a bit too trusting?" asked Devereaux, the attorney in

him demanding the question. ,rm a stranger washed up on your

beach."

"And my older brother is the wrestling champ of New England.

There he is!"

"Oh?" Sam raised his eyes to the house. Walking down the

beach steps was a handsome, crew-cut gorilla whose muscular

arms were inordinately long, rather near or below his knees. "Fine-

looking young man."

486 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Oh, sure, all the girls are crazy about him, but wait'll they find

out!"

"Find out?" Devereaux had the sinking feeling that some terribly

intimate family secret was about to be divulged. "Some people are

merely different, my dear, but we're all God's children, as the

prophets say. Be tolerant."

"Why? He wants to be a lawyer! I mean, is that nerdsville to the

max, or what?"

"To the max," muttered Sam as the champion wrestler of New

England approached. "Sorry to bother you," said Devereaux. "My

heel-keel-wasn't decent enough and I capsized."

"Probably winded into a forced jibe," said the young man

pleasantly, "and it's also probably your first boat."

"How did you know?"

"Pretty obvious. Long pants, oxford shirt, black socks, and one

brown leather loafer-how that stayed on, darned if I know."

Devereaux looked down at his feet. Indeed, the wrestler was

right, he had only one shoe. "I guess it was foolish of me, I s hould

have wom sneakers."

I.Topsiders, mister," corrected the girl.

"Naturally, I forgot, and it was my first boat."

"Sail?" asked the young man.

"Yes, sail-two sails', one big one and small one in front."

"Oh, wow," said the teenage sister. "It sure was his first boat,

Boomer!"

"Be tolerant, kid. Everybody has a first boat. I had to swim out

and get you in your first Comet at marker three, remember?"

"You big sludge, you promised--2'

"Cool it.... Come on in, mister. You can dry off and use the

phone."

"Actually, I'm in a terrible hurry.... Frankly, I have to reach the

authorities on a very urgent matter, and the phone won't help. I

have to be there in person."

"Are you a narc?" asked the young man sharply. "You sure as

hell aren't a sailor."

"No, I'm not a narc. I'm, simply a man with information that's

needed urgently."

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 487

"Do you have identification-2'

"Is that necessary? I'll pay you for getting me where I have to

go."

"Definitely identification. I'm pre-law at Tufts and it goes with

Initial Procedures One. Who are you?"

"All right, all right!" Sam reached into his drenched, buttoned

rear left pocket and managed to extricate his wet, swollen wallet.

It was not likely that the dragnet for him had gone public; the dirty

bastards in Washington would be too cautious for that. "Here's my

driver's license," he added, auctioning out the plastic card from its

slot and handing it to the wrestler.

"Devereaux!" cried the young man. "You're Samuel Devereaux!"

"It's been broadcast then?" said Sam, holding his breath, trying

desperately to invent a fiction according to the Hawk. "Then I must

explain to you the other side of the story and you must listen to

me."

"I don't know about any broadcasting, sir, but I'll listen to

anything you say! You're the guy who got those rotten 'judges

thrown out. You're a legend-kind of a new legend-f6r all of us going

into law. I mean, you built the malfeasance charges against those

judicial creeps like they were textbook cases! And every one held

up to the last indictment!"

"Well, I was kind of pissed off-"

I'Sis, hold the fort," broke in the future attorney, grinning

broadly. "When Mom and Dad get back, tell 'em I'm driving a man

who's going to be on the Supreme Court someday -to wherever he

wants to go."

"The FBI would probably be best," suggested Sam quickly. "Do

you know where the local office is?"

"There's one in Cape Ann. They're in the papers a lotyou know,

the narc: boats."

"How long will it take to get there?"

"No more than ten or fifteen minutes."

"Let's go!"

"Are you sure you don't want to go into the house and got into

some dry clothes? My father's kind of skinny like you.

488 ROBERT LUDLUM

"There's no time. The issues at stake are momentous, believe

me!"

"Oh, boy, let's take off! The Jeep's in front."

"Nerdsville," said the teenage girl.

"Ahchoo!

"Bless ya," said Tadeusz Mikulski, Special Agent, Federal Bureau

of Investigation, his flat voice and dour expression conveying far

less than a benediction. In truth, as he studied the strange figure

seated in front of his desk, a man with one shoe who was obviously

under severe stress and whose wet clothes were making puddles

on his floor, Agent Mikulski reminded himself that his retirement

was only eight months, four days, and six hours away, not that he

was counting. "Okay, Mr. Deverooox," he continued, looking down

at the various soaked articles of identification extracted from the

subject's wallet. "Let's start again."

"That's Devereaux," said Sam.

"Look, Mr. Devereaux, I speak English, Polish, Russian,

Lithuanian, Czech, and would you believe Finnish, due to the

Estonian influence on the language, but French has always eluded

me. Perhaps it's a natural aversion; my wife and,I spent a week in

Paris, and she spent the better part of my annual salary while we

were there.... Now, my error explained, may we start over again?"

"You mean, you don't know my name?"

"I'm sure it's my loss, but then I doubt you've heard of Casimir

the Third, also known as Charles the Great, King of Poland in the

fourteenth century."

"Are you crazy?" cried Sam. "He was one of the most brilliant

diplomat-rulers of his time! His sister was on the throne of Hungary

and he learned from her court the expertise he needed to unify

Poland. His treaties with Silesia and Pomorze were models of legal

temperance."

"All right, all right! Then maybe I've heard your name or read it

in the papers, okay?"

"That's not what I'm asking, Agent Mikulski." Devereaux leaned

forward in the chair, a small bubble of water in his shirt

unfortunately bursting through the buttons. "I'm talking about the

dragnet," he whispered.

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 489

"The old television show?"

"No, me! ... I have to assume it's been spread by those bastards

in Washington, because my associates were obviously taken-

probably tortured to find out about Frazie's boat-but there are times

when subordinates must learn the lesson of 'I was only following

orders!' . . . You can't take me in, Mikulski, you must hear what I

have to - tell you and listen to the tape recording that confirms

everything I say!"

"You haven't told me anything. All you've done is wet my floor

and ask me if my office is tapped."

"Because the arm of this conspiratorial governmentwithin-the-

government is evil incarnate! They-it-will stop at nothing! They stole

half of Nebraska!"

"Nebraska?"

"Over a hundred years ago!"

"A hundred ... no fooling?"

"Fragically, obscenely, Mikulski! We have the proof and they'll

do anything to stop us from being at the Supreme Court tomorrow

to present ourselves personae delectae!"

"Oh, yeah, that," said the FBI agent, pressing a button on his

telephone console. "Prepare psychiatric," he said quietly into the

intercom.

"No! " screamed Sam, yanking the sealed plastic bag from his

pocket. "Listen to this!" he demanded.

Agent Mikulski took the plastic bag, which dripped, profusely

soaking his clean blotter, removed the tape, and placed it into his

desk recorder. He pressed the button; there was a sudden eruption

of static followed by a spinning circle of water that splashed across

the faces of both men as the thin black tape exploded from the

machine, reeling across the room in splintered fragments.

Whatever was on the tape had been obliterated.

"I don't believe it!" shouted Devereaux. "I matched the yellow

and the blue lines to reach green on that pouch and sealed it!

Those commercials are bullshit!"

"Maybe your eyesight's not so good," said Mikulski, "although

I've got to agree with you, I can't freeze a kielbasy in one of these

mothers."

"It was all there-everything! The general, the Secretary of State,

the whole conspiracy!"

490 ROBERT LUDLUM

"To steal NebraskaT'

"No, that was a hundred and twelve years ago. Federal

agents burned the bank where the Wopotami treaties were kept."

"Not me, pal. My grandparents were still slinging cowshit

over in Poznarf... Woppa-who?"

"Another general, my general, pieced it all together from the

records in the archives-records and missing records he knew

were missing!"

"Archives ... ?"

"The Bureau of Indian Affairs, naturally."

"Oh, naturally."

"You see, he was able to do it because there's another

general with the same name as the general who was viciously

conscripted by the Secretary of State. He retired from the army

because the names got mixed up when I pressed drug-running

charges against his cousin--2'

"Speaking of such matters," interrupted Mikulski. "What brand

of cigarettes do you smoke?"

"I'm trying to give them up-you should, too.... Anyway, it was a

big mistake, and this other general was given the job at Indian

Affairs and my general, who's a friend of his, got to invade the

sealed archives and wrote the brief based on those documents. It's

all really very simple."

"Absolutely,fundamental," said Mikulski in a monotone, nodding

his head slowly, his wide eyes riveted on Sam as his hand inched

back to his console and the intercom.

"You see, the Wopotami tribe could actually own all the territory

in and around Omaha."

"Of course ... Omaha."

"SAC, Agent Mikulski! The Strategic Air Command! According to

law, illegally usurped property that's been reclaimed by its rightful

owners, the said criminally injured owners are entitled to whatever

developments have been made on said usurped property. Tbat's

basic."

"Real basic, oh, real basic."

"And because certain corrupt persons in the government refuse

to negotiate, they intend to eliminate the whole problem by

eliminating the plaintiffs to the Supreme

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 491

Court, which has recognized the Wopotaini brief for argument and

may just possibly adjudicate in its favor."

"It might do that ... T'

"It's entirely possible-remote but possible. The dirty bastards in

Washington hired someone named Goldfarb and fielded the Filthy

Four and the Suicidal Six to stop us!"

"Someone named Goldfarb ... T' muttered the mesmerized

Mikulski, his wide, sad eyes briefly closing. the Filthy Four

and the Suicide-whatever?"

"We sent the Filthy Four back to their base in body bags.

"You killed them?"

"No, Desi Arnaz the Second laced their food with sleepinducing

ingredients, and there were air holes in the body bags.

"Desi Arnaz the ... T' Special Agent Mikulski could not continue;

he was a defeated man.

"It's now obviously clear to you, or should be, that we must

move quickly and expeditiously to expose the Secretary of State

and all those around him who would deny by violence the

fundamental rights of the Wopotami tribe!"

Silence.

Finally:

"Let me tell you something, Mr. Devereaux," said the FBI man

quietly, bringing to the fore what immediate resources he had left.

"What's obvious to me is that you are a troubled man beyond my

ability to help you. Now, we have three choices. One, I can call the

hospital in Gloucester and recommend psychiatric counseling; two,

I can phone our friends at the police department and ask them to

take you into custody until whatever you've been on wears off-, or,

three, I can forget you walked into my office, dripping wet with one

shoe and flooding my floor, and let you walk out, trusting that your

imaginative powers will lead you to friends who can assist you."

"You don't believe me!" yelled Sam.

"Where do you want to start? With Desi Arnaz the Second and

someone named Goldfarb? Or body bags with air holes and three

generals who wouldn't last two minutes in the Pentagon without

being put in straitjacketsT'

492 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Everything I've told you is true!"

"I'm sure it is for you, and I wish you well. Also, if you like, I'll

call you a cab. You've got sufficient money in your wallet to get you

to Rhode Island and another FBI office out of state." .

"You're derelict in your duty, Agent Mikulski."

"My wife says the same thing where the bills are concerned.

What can I say? I'm a failure."

"You are a sniveling bureaucrat afraid to stand up to those who

would trash our country's laws and constitutional rights!"

"Hey, you've got Desi Arnaz, this guy Goldfarb, and two

squirrelly generals on your side. What do you needme for?"

"You're a disgrace."

"I'll buy that ... Now, unless you're going to mop up my floor and

wipe down my desk, please get the hell out of here, huh? I've got

work to do. The first-gra4e class at the Cape Ann grammar school

is marching on City Hall, demanding equal voting rights."

"Funny, funny!" .

"I thought it was pretty cute."

"It wasn't, and I don't need your help for transportation. My

driver happens to be the champion wrestler of New England!"

.41f you're selling tickets, I'll buy one if you'll only please just

leave," said the FBI agent, gathering up Devereaux's belongings and

handing them to him.

"I won't forget this, Mikulski," Sam rejoined, rising with all the

dripping dignity he could summon to his oneshoed feet. "As an

officer of the court, I intend to file charges at the Justice

Department. Your dereliction of duty cannot be tolerated."

"You do that, pal, only get the name right, okay? I mean, we

wouldn't want a screw-up like you did with those two generals,

would we? There are a lot of Mikulskis around here."

"You think I'm crazy, don't you?"

"That's for the doctors to say, not me, but frankly I'm leaning in

that direction."

"You'll see!" said Sam the Avenger, turning and hob-THE ROAD TO OMAHA 493

bring to the door, twice skidding on the wet floor. "You'll hear from

me!" he added, going into the outer office and slamming the door

behind him.

Unfortunately, Special Agent Mikulski did hear about Sam,

precisely three minutes and twenty-one seconds after his departure.

As the FBI man swallowed his fourth gulp of Maalox, the priority line

on his telephone console rang; he pressed the button and picked

up the phone. "Mikulski, FBI."

"Hey, Teddy, it's Gerard over at the base," said the commander

of the 10th District Massachusetts Coast Guard station.

"What can I do for you, sailor?"

"I called on a hunch that you could fill me in on the Frazier-

Devereaux alert."

"What ... T' asked the special agent, barely audible. "Devereaux,

you said?"

"Yeah, we got that cork-popping loon Frazier but no Devereaux,

and Frazier didn't tell us a thing. He just sat there with an ass-

eating grin and made his phone call." 11 'Didn'tT 'SatT . . . Past

tenseT'

"It's nuts, Teddy. We had to let him go and that's what we can't

understand. What was that stupid alert about anyway? We damn

near burned out an engine, stranded three men in a dinghy, and

crashed five marina buoys which we have to pay for, all for nothing!

Devereaux disappeared, and we don't even know what he was

wanted for. I figured you federals could fill us in."

"We never even got the alert," said Mikulski forlornly. "Tell me

what happened, Gere." Commander Gerard did so and the special

agent blanched, reaching for his Maalox. "nat son-of-a-bitch

Devereaux just left here a few minutes ago. He's a walking banana

barge! What the hell have I doneT'

"If you didn't get the alert, you didn't do anything, Teddy. We

teletypedout our report and that's all we could do.... Hold it, I just

got handed a note. A shaver named Cafferty from the Boston P.D.

is on the phone. Do you know him?"

"Never heard of him." "Wait a minute. P.D.-Boston is where that

goddaimi

494 ROBERT LUDLUM

alert originated! I'm going to give that bastard a salvo he'll never

forget! Talk to you later, Teddy."

"Eight months, four days, and five and a half hours," mumbled

Mikulski, opening his top drawer and looking at his marked-off

retirement calendar.

29

The champion wrestler of New England drove his Jeep into the

Bimbaum,driveway in Swampscott. "Here we are, Mr. Devereaux.

I've seen this place from the water but never from inland. Some

joint, huhT'

"I'd ask@you in, Boomer, but the conversation's going to be

pretty heavy and very confidential."

"I'll bet it is! You land up on our beach, then the FBI, then here-

wow. But don't mistake me, sir, I wasn't hinting, honest. I'll split

fast, and if anybody without legal authority asks me, I never saw

you."

"Well put-legally. However, I insist on paying you."

"No way, Mr. Devereaux, it's been an honor. But if you don't

mind, I took the liberty of writing out my name in case-in a couple

of years from now maybe-you might at least consider me for a

clerking position. No special privileges, I wouldn't want that."

"No, I don't think you would, Boomer," said Sam, taking the

piece of paper and looking into the clear, earnest eyes of the pre-

law student. "But if I want to grant them, there's nothing you can do

about it."

"Sorry, sir, I have to be good enough. You learn that in weight-

class wrestling."

496 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Let's put it this way. With that statement you won't have to look

for us, we'll find you.... Thanks, Boomer."

"Good luck, sir!" Devereaux climbed out of the Jeep; it spun

around the drive and disappeared through the gates. Sam looked

at the imposing brick entrance to the Birnbaum beach house, took

a deep breath, and hobbled up the flagstone path to the door.

'Things would be so much simpler if he had both shoes, he

considered as he rang the bell.

"I'll be damned!" roared the huge black mercenarychemist '

Cyrus, as he pulled back the door. "I don't know whether to hug

you or to slug you, but get the hell in here, Sam!"

Devereaux trudged sheepishly into the foyer, his blotted clothes,

matted hair, and shoeless foot apparent for all to see. The "all"

consisted of Cyrus, Aaron Pinkus ... and the love of his eternal

existence Jennifer Redwing, who stood in the far comer of the room

staring at him. What was in her alert--angry?--eyes, he could not

tell.

"Sammy, we've heard everything!" shouted Aaron, who rarely if

ever shouted, as he rose from the couch and spryly ran around it to

greet his employee by gripping Devereaux's both arms and placing

his elderly head against Sam's left cheek. "Thank Abraham, you're

alive!"

"It wasn't that hard," said Devereaux. "Frazie may be a maniac,

but he sure knows how to drive a boat, and then there was this kid

who's the champion wrestler of New England--2'

I "We know what you've been through, Sammy," exclaimed Pinkus.

"Such courage, such chutzpah. All because you acted on principle!"

"It was dumb, Devereaux," said Cyrus, "but you got guts, man,

I'll give you that."

"Where's Mother?" asked the avenger, avoiding Jenny's eyes.

"She and Erin went back to Weston," answered Aaron.

"Apparently Cousin Cora fell into some teapots."

"And Desis One and T1wo are on beach patrol with Roman Z,"

added Cyrus.

"They let in Boomer's Jeep---the car I was in," said Sam,

disapproval in his statement.

7HE ROAD TO OMAHA 497

"Not exactly," countered the mercenary. "Why do you think I was

at the door? Desi the First radioed that the tall loco was back."

"He's always had a way with words," said Devereaux, slowly

turning his head and looking over at Jenny. "Hi," he said cautiously.

It was like a pavane filmed in slow motion, as Aaron Pinkus and

Cyrus M gracefully moved away from the line of contact. Tears

flowing from her eyes, Sunrise Jennifer Redwing ran across the

carpeted floor as Sam walked gallantly, if unsteadily, down the

marble steps into the living room. Devereaux held his place as she

rushed into his arms; they embraced, their lips meeting in swollen

agony and delight. - "Sam, " she cried, holding him fiercely.

"Oh, Sam, Sam, Sam! It was Switzerland all over again, wasn't it?

Mac told me! You did what you did because you knew it was tight.

It was the legal, moral thing to do! Leaping off a boat and swimming

miles and miles in a storm to right the wrong! Oh, God, I do love

you!"

"Well, it wasn't that many miles, maybe four or five-"

"But you did it! I'm so proud!"

"It was nothing."

"It was everything!"

"I failed. The tape was drowned."

"But you weren't, my darling, you weren't!"

Suddenly, there was the eruption of static and a squawking

Hispanic voice over Cyrus's radio. "Hey, mon! A big leemoseeno

ees racing into dee house! You want me to blow it away?"

"Not yet, Desfl" ordered the mercenary. "Cover the door; and,

you, Roman, come to the front, all weapons ready!"

Moments later, the middle-European voice of Roman Z could be

heard. "It iss only one old man weez white hair walking to the door.

Iss driver inside turning on raadio. Iss lousy music."

"Stand to," ordered Cyrus, removing his gun from his shoulder

holster. "If I have to fire, converge."

"Was dat? Con-sompding?" "Iss no problem. Old man don' go

for pockets or gun."

498 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Out. Stay at the ready!"

"Reddy wad . . .

"Out!

"Wad ... ?"

T'he doorbell rang as Cyrus waved Pinkus, Jenny, and

Devereaux away from any conceivable line of gunfire. He yanked

the door open, his weapon at his side, only to be faced by a tall,

slender, elderly gentleman.

"You're the butler, I presume," said R. Cookson Frazier, his

anxiety in no way mitigating his genuine courtesy. "I must see your

employer immediately, it's of the utmost urgency.11

"Cookson!" cried Aaron Pinkus, emerging from a curtained

beach window. "What are you doing here?"

"It's unbelievable, Aaron, absolutely unbelievable!" said Frazier,

clutching a paper in his hand and rushing down the marble steps,

his arms upright in apoplectic disbelief. "Yoti and I and all of

Boston have been gulled, old fellow, positively caged!"

"What is that in English, Cookson?"

"Here, look!" Again, suddenly, the entangled figures of Jennifer

and Sam came out of the far right shadowed corner. "Who the hell

are they?" yelled Frazier.

"I'lie young man with one shoe and rather distressed clothing is

Samuel Devereaux, Cookson--2'

"Oh, you're Lansing's son. Damn fine man, your father. Damn

shame he was taken so early."

"And our lady friend is Jennifer, Jennifer Redwing.... Cookson

Frazier."

"Lovely tan, my child. Caribbean, no doubt. I've a house in

Barbados-I think. You and Lansing's son must go down and enjoy

it-haven't been there in years."

"What's so unbelievable, Cookson?"

"As I say, here ... look!" The old gentleman thrust out the paper

in his hand. 'This came to my house over the fax machine that has

a noninterceptor, nonmemory line confirmed by Washington-just a

moment, old boy, can everyone here be trusted?"

"My word on it, Cookson. What does it say?"

"You read it. I'm stiff in a state of shock."

Aaron took the thin fax paper, scanned it, and slowly, in

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 499

bewilderment, lowered himself into the nearest chair. "It's beyond

my understanding," he said.

"Mat is it?" asked Devereaux, his arm protectively around

Jennifer's shoulders.

. "It says, and I quote: 'This communique is top secret and must be

destroyed upon perusal, its contents restricted to the highest levels

of law enforcement. Geoffrey C. Frazier, code name Rumdum, is a

highly effective and covertly much-decorated undercover agent for

the federal government. Proceed accordingly with maximum regard

for Officer Frazier's cover, credibility, and safety.' . . . It's signed by

the director of the Drug Enforcement Agency. My word!"

"The boy's a damned Scarlet Pimpernel!" cried Cookson Frazier,

throwing himself into the chair next to Aaron. "What in heaven's

name am I to doT'

"To begin with, I'd say you should be enormously proud as well

as relieved. You yourself said there was another man inside your

grandson and you were right. Instead of a wastrel, he's a highly

successful, highly decorated professional."

"Yes, but good God, old boy, the only way he can continue to be

successful without being killed is to bring further disrepute on the

family!"

"I hadn't considered that," said Pinkus, frowning and nodding in

agreement. "But surely one day the truth will be revealed, and all

manner of praise will be heaped on the Boston Fraziers." ,

"If that day comes, Aaron, the last male Boston Frazier will have

to skip to Hackensack or Tierra del Fuego and assume another

name. He'll be a marked man!"

"Mat, too, I had not considered."

"Protection," said Cyrus, walking down the steps, "and extremely

thorough protection can be.puichased, Mr. Frazier."

'@Oh, forgive me, Cookson, this is ... Colonel Cyrus, an expert

in security."

"Good Lord, forgive me, Colonel! Damned stupid of me at the

door. I do apologize."

"No offense. In this neighborhood, it's a perfectly un-

derstandable mistake. However, I'm not really a colonel."

500 ROBERT LUDLUM

'I beg your pardon?"

"What he means," cried Sam, his eyes boring in on the

mercenary, "is that he's retired from the military. He's not with any

army-the army, that is."

"Oh, I see," said Frazier, turning back to a bewildered Cyrus.

"Well, obviously, your expertise in security matters serves you well.

Aaron only hires the finest. As a matter of fact, although it's

probably too minor for your time, I've an alarm system in my house

that confuses the hell out of me. I keep setting it off."

"Me pinpoints either aren't clean or they overlap in the circuitry,"

said Cyrus offhandedly, frowning at Devereaux. "Call your alarm's

service department and tell them to check the point relays."

"Really? Just like that?"

"It's common in house systems," replied the mercenary, trying

to read Sam's nodding expressions. "Even a momentary power

shortage can louse up those firefly circuits."

"I'm sure the-colonel would be happy to take a look at it,

wouldn't you, Colonel?" said Devereaux, his nods now

jackhanimering behindCookson Frazier's head.

"When my work for Mr. Pinkus's security concerns are over ...

certainly," answered the hesitant soldier of fortune-chemist,

definitely confused. "Perhaps sometime next week," he concluded

weakly.

"Good fellow!" exclaimed Frazier, slapping his hand on the arm

of the chair, then suddenly reverting to his previous state of

quandary. "I can't get over my grandson. It's positively incredible."

"Why do I conjure up the image of a winking Crazie Frazie, his

captain's hat lopsided and drinking from a champagne bottle

probably filled with seltzer?" said Sam. "But then I've never seen

anyone drive a boat like that even in the movies."

And then, as if evoked by the mention of motion pictures, the

telephone rang, answered quickly by Colonel Cyrus, who was

standing next to the antique white table. "YesT' said the mercenary

softly.

"We roll, soldier," said the voice of MacKenzie Hawkins from

New York. "We've scratched Plan A@it's

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 501

too risky now-going with Plan B as we discussed an hour ago. Any

news about Lieutenant Devereaux?"

"He's here, General," replied Cyrus quietly, cupping the phone

as the others excitedly discussed Sam's seagoing revels with

Secret Agent Geoffrey Frazier. "He just arrived a few minutes ago

and he's a mess. Do you want to talk to him?"

"Ch,rist, no! I know that phase he's in; I call it Righteous Rabbit.

What's the damage?"

"None that we can tell; no one believed him. Apparently the tape

was destroyed."

"Thank Hannibal for favors, big and small, but I knew he'd show

up; he never does that sort of thing right ... Then you haven't gone

over either of the plans with him yet?"

"I haven't gone over them with anybody; no time. Mr. Pinkus

has been on the phone with the Boston police ever since the Coast

Guard radioed that they'd spotted the boat Sam was on."

"A boat? The Coast Guard'T'

"We gather it was a hell of a chase and the sight of your

lieutenant confirms it, wet clothes, one shoe, and all."

"Switzerland again, goddamnit!"

"We'gathered that, too, at least his girlfriend did. She's all over

him like he was Johnny-come-marching-home with one leg-probably

because of his one shoe."

"Good! Work on the filly when you explain the plan, Colonel.

She'll convince him if you convince her. I know that boy when he's

got the hots, all my wives told me."

"I'm not following you, General."

"It's not important Just remember, our enemies are desperate,

and the only way they can short-circuit us is to stop us from getting

into the Supreme Court. That@ where Sam can climb up on his

pulpit and say whatever he wants to say, expose whomever he

wants to expose, yell as loud as he likes. But only there, Colonel.

He wouldn't get to first base with anyone else in Dizzy City. They

protect their turfs, and they'd blow him out of the Beltway if only be-

cause he makes too much noise."

"Since I can personally vouch for that Washington reaction, it

won't be difficult to be convincing," said Cyrus.

502 ROBERT LUDLUM

"But how come Plan B? I thought you and I agreed that A was

perfectly feasible."

I "I don't know who the inside contact is but my informant,. the one

I told you about-:'

"The government honcho everyone thinks is dead," interrupted

the mercenary.

"That's the one, and let me tell you, he's out for blood. Speaking

of which, he made it goddamned clear that we're facing termination

with extreme prejudice-and I mean real extreme, Colonel."

"My God, they'd go that far?"

"They haven't got a choice, soldier. Through mergers and

megabuyouts, that whole crowd owns seventy percent of the

defense industries and is so many bil ' lions in debt it would take

World War Three to bail 'em out, if it lasted that long, which it

wouldn't."

"How. do you read the strategy, General?"

"I don't have to read it, I know it! They've hired the scum of the

earth to stop us: head-bashing gunslingers, union busters for hire,

probably mercs like you looking for bucks:'

"It's a free economy," said Cyrus, now whispering as be glanced

over at Aaron, Jenny, and Sam, who, in turn, were glancing over at

him. "And there's a lot of economics involved.... I can't talk much

longer. Did your supposedly deceased informant tell you when and

how all those nasty people will get in place?"

"They'll be everywhere! In the crowds, among the Court guards,

even up into the outer chambers!"

"That's a rough call, General."

"Plan B creates the diversion we need, Colonel. Nobody's

happy about it, especially the Wopotamis, but it's in place.,Tbey're

all ready to do their thing."

"How's that fruitcake Sutton taking all this?" asked Cyrus. "That

son of a bitch isn't my favorite person, but I'll grant you he's a hell

of an actor."

"What can I tell you? He says he'll give the greatest performance

of his life!"

"If he lives to read the reviews.... Over and out, General, see you

in the morning."

"What about our Desis and Roman ZT' broke in

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 503

Hawkins suddenly. "What with my Suicidal Six business, I hadn't

factored them into the scenario."

"If you think I'm leaving them out, you should be cleaning

latrines, General."

"I like your response, Colonel!"

IIOUC@

A shell-shocked R. Cookson Frazier returned to Louisburg Square

in his limousine, and at the beachhouse a stunned sextet faced

Cyrus, who stood in front of the white antique table. Jennifer,

Redwing sat between Aaron Pinkus- and Sam Devereaux on the

couch, while Desis One and Two stood behind them, flanking their

new friend, Roman Z. All mouths were agape, all eyes riveted on the

fieldcommissioned colonel.

"That's the scenario, everybody," said the imposing black

mercenary, "and speaking as the liaison to the general, if any of you

wish to back out, you may. However, I should tell you as someone

who's been exposed to a great many infiltration strategies that they

don't come much better than this. General Hawkins didn't become

a legend because of press releases-he's the real thing and' he's

damn good and I don't say that lightly."

"Hey, like Miss Erin say, he talk real good for a black brother,

yeah, D-One?"

"Shaddup, D-Two."

"Thank you for the gratulatory comment, Desi."

"See wad I meanT'

"If I may," said Aaron Pinkus, inching forward on the couch, "this

highly complicated charade, as ingenious as it may be, strikes me

as being-well, too complicated, too theatrical, as it were. Is it really

necessary?"

"To answer your questions in generic terms, Mr. Pinkus,

complicated theatrics are the best diversion." - "We can understand

that, Cyrus," said Jennifer, her left hand gripping Devereaux's right.

"But, as Mr. Pinkus says, is it really necessary? I think Sam's idea

of simply getting ,off the plane and taking a taxi to the Supreme

Court-no limousine, no calling attention to ourselves-would be quite

sufficient."

504 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Under normal circumstances it would be, but these are not

normal circumstances. You have powerful and very capable

enemies. Very capable, the kind your friend Sam wants to expel,

from the government, even at the risk of his life, as we all witnessed

today."

"He was wonderful!" cried Jennifer, pressing her lips into

Devereaux's left cheek. "Swimming all those miles in a storm--@'

"It was nothing," said Sam. "Only six or seven, maybe eight....

If I understand you, Cyrus, you're saying this 'diversion,' as you call

it, is necessary because these very capable enemies of ours, intend

to physically intercept us before we can get into the building, is that

right?"

"Basically, yes."

"Basically? What else is there?"

"With ramifications," answered the mercenary curdy.

"I won't pretend to understand that, but if we have reason to

believe a threat exists, we can request police protection. Coupled

with you fellas-if you guys are with us-what else could we possibly

need ' ?"

"An item or two I haven't mentioned.

"What?"

"Look, you three are the lawyers, I'm not, and Washington isn't

Boston, where Mr. Pinkus's coined beef and cabbage have a

positive effect on the police department. In D.C., when you request

blue-coat protection, you'd better show justifiable cause. Hell,

those jackets can't handle what they've got."

"And 'justifiable cause' would naturally entail naming names in

the highest places," broke in Jenny, "and even if We got another

copy of the tape, we wouldn't dare play it for evidence."

"'Why no'tT' exclaimed Devereaui furiously. "I'm damn sick and

tired of pussyfooting around! Public trusts have been violated, laws

broken-why the hell not?"

"The paws of the cat were created for a purpose, Sam," said

Pinkus.

"Oh, that's all I need. My boss, the Punjabi prophet from the

Himalayas! Would you mind coming off the mountain and explaining

that, Aaron?"

"You're upset, my darling--2'

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 505

"Fell me something I don't know! ... Maybe it was ten miles and

that storm was really closer to a hurricane-say force ninety-nine, or

whatever they call it."

"I'm trying to tell you," said Pinkus, his voice calm, his electric

eyes on Devereaux, "that a quiet approach to catch a quarry is

usually more effective than setting off alarms."

"I'll put it another way," added Cyrus. "No precinct in

Washington-tape or no tape-is going to take on someone like the

Secretary of State."

"He's in afunny house!"

"All the more reason for State to maintain an equilibrium," said

the mercenary-chemist. "Believe me, I know.".

"It's all corruption!" roared Sam.

'@Only a few," insisted Jennifer. "The vast majority are

overworked, underpaid, dedicated bureaucratsbureaucrats in the

best sense, men and women who try their best to sort out the

problems of their myriad departments brought on by politicians

waffling for votes. It ain't easy, darling."

Devereaux unclasped his hand from Redwing's, brought it to his

forehead, and leaned back on the couch. "All right," he said wearily.

"I'm the dumbest kid on the block. People do terrible things and

everybody shuts up; accountability's out the window!"

"Not true, Sam," corrected Aaron. "You'd never build a case that

way, I know you. You'd cover every escape route before you made

either your initial presentation to a jury or whatever subsequent

counterargurnents. That's why you're the finest attorney in my firm-

when you're all together."

"All right, all right. We're clowns in a three-ring circus tomorrow!

... What were the items you hadn't mentioned, CyrusT'

"Bulletproof jackets and steel helmets under your headgear,"

replied the mercenary as if he had just enumerated the ingredients

for chocolate chip cookies.

"What? 11

"You heard me. We're talking hardball now, Counselor. There

are more billions-yes, billions-riding on your appearance tomorrow

afternoon than you can conjure in your out-of-orbit imagination."

506 ROBERT LUDLUM

'IiCaramba!" yelled Desi the Second. "Don' he talk good!"

"Shaddaup! We could be muerto!"

"H'ye don't care! Ees right!"

"So I agree wid chu, so wad? So we're loco!"

"Iss in the Romany tarot cards, my frenz!" shouted Roman Z,

twirling in place, his flowing blue sash over his orange shirt

covering the withdrawal of his Iong@bladed knife. "The blade of the

Romany will cut the throats of any who attack our holy cause-

whatever it iss."

"Hey, come on, Cyrus!" roared Devereaux. "Under these

circumstances, I will not permit Jenny or Aaron to be any part of it!"

"You don't speak for me!" cried the Aphrodite of Sam's dreams.

"Nor me, young man!" said Pinkus, getting up from the couch.

"You forget, I was on Omaha Beach. I may not have been

significant, but I've still got the shrapnel as proof of my efforts. It

was, indeed, a holy cause then, and there's a distinct parallel her '

e. When men deny by force the rights of others, the only result is

tyranny. And I will not tolerate that for this country of ours!"

"Ahchoo, ahchoo, ahchoo!"

30

5:45 A.m. As dawn broke over the Washington skyline, a russet

mantle in the making, the silent marble halls of'the Supreme Court

came quietly alive as teams of cleaning women pushed their

maintenance carts from one doorway to another. The tiers of trays

held new boxed soap, fresh towels, tissue replacements, and, in

front of each dolly, a suspended plastic trash bag for yesterday's

refuse.

One cart, however, differed from all the others in the magnificent

structure dedicated to laws of God and nation. So did the elderly

gray-haired lady pushing it; she was distinctly different from her '

counterparts throughout the building. Upon closer exarmination,

her gray locks were perfectly coiffed, her blue eye shadow subtly

apparent, and by mistake she wore a diamond and emerald bracelet

around her wrist that was in value many times the annual salary of

the other ladies. She also wore a large plastic label clipped to the

pocket of her uniform that read: Temporary. Cleared

What made her cart different was the suspended plastic bag

designed for refuse. It was full before shereached the first office on

her assigned route-an office she disdained

508 ROBERT LUDLUM

to enter as her mumbled words confirmed while she passed the

door.

"Escremento! ... Vincenzo, you pazzo. My best and most loved

child of my dearest sister should be in hospital for dementia I could

buy every statue in dissa whole building! ... So why do I do? ...

Because my beloved nephew means my no-good husband don'

have to work. Mannaggia ... Oh, here it is, the closet. Bene! I leave

everything here, go home, watch a little TV, then with the girls a

little shopping. Molto bene!"

8:15 A.m. Four nondescript brown and black automobiles pulled up

swiftly on First Street near the comer of Capitol Street. Three

dark@suited men got out of each, their brows furrowed, all eyes

robotically centered; they were the '.gunslingers" hired for a job,

and to fail meant going back to the most menial of their former

union tasks-a fate worse than death. Twelve dedicated

professionals, who had no idea what they were dedicated to, except

that the two men in the photographs they carried in their pockets

must never enter the Supreme Court across the street. No sweat.

Nobody ever found Jimmy Hoffa.

9.12 A.m. Two vehicles with government license plates parked

briefly in fi-ont of the Supreme Court. Under the instruction of the

Attorney General, the eight'men who emerged were to take into

custody two individuals wanted for outrageous crimes against the

country. Each FBI agent had a photograph of the former and

thoroughly discredited General MacKenzie Hawkins and his

accomplice, an underworld lawyer named Samuel Lansing

Devereaux still wanted for treasonous activities during'his tour of

duty in the last days of the Vietnam action. There was no statute of

limitation on his crimes. He had impugned the reputations of his

superiors while profiting from their disgrace. Federal agents hated

guys like that-how did they do it?

THE 90AD TO OMAHA 509

10:22 A.m. A dark blue van veered into the curb on Capitol at the

side of the Supreme Court. Its rear doors opened and seven

Ranger Commandos in camouflage green and black combat

fatigues leaped out, their weapons concealed in their wide pockets.

After all, they did not want to appear conspicuous. Their covert

mission had been defined by the diminutive Secretary of Defense

himself--orally, not in writing. "Gentlemen, these two scum would

cripple the first line of America's airborne forces, that's all I can tell

you. They must be stopped at all costs. In the words of that great

commander, 'Beam 'em, up, Scotty,'-way up, out of sight!"

Commandos hated scum like that! If anyone was going to dump on

the sky-jocks, it would be them. The fly-boys grabbed all the

headlines and still flew home for a steak while they were in the

mud! No! If anybody was going to blitz the "airborne," they would do

it!

12:03 Pm. MacKenzie Hawkins, arms akimbo, studied the figure of

Henry Irving Sutton in the hotel room, nodding his approval.

"Goddamn, Mr. Actor, you could be me!"

"It wasn't difficult, mon g.6ne`ral," said Sutton, removing his

gold-braided officer's cap, revealing a head of closecropped gray

hair. "Me uniform fits superbly and the ribbons are, indeed,

impressive. The rest is merely vocal intonation, which is simple.

My voice-over commercials, including one for a rotten cat, sent one

of my children arms college--4amned if I can remember which one."

'T still want you to wear a combat helmet --- 2' "Don't be

ridiculous, it would spoil the effect and defeat the purpose. My

role is to draw men out, not frighten them away. A battle helmet

telegraphs impending conflict, and that connotes defense

measures such as armed concealed, personnel for protection.

One's motivation must be clean and consistent, General, not

muddled, you lose your audience that way."

"You could also lose-well, you could be a target, too, you know."

"I really don't think so," said the actor, his eye& twinkling at the

Hawk's unfinished statement. "Not with what you've got going out

there. Compared to the sands of

510 ROBERT LUMUM

North Africa, this is practically offstage. At any rate, it's a minor

risk, for which I'm being well compensated.... Incidentally, how goes

it with our Stanislavski warriors of the Suicidal Six?"

"There's been a change of plans--2'

"Oh?" interrupted Sir Henry sharply, suspiciously.

"All to the good for everybody," said Hawkins quickly, instantly

recognizing the quasi-panic of the actor's expression, a custom of

a trade where you got it, sweetheart, you're teriffl. ftequently meant

the bum's a loser, get me someL class like Sonny Tufts. "They'll be

in Los Angeles by four o'clock this afternoon. My wife, my former

wifeone of 'em that is, the first, actually-wanted them out there so

sW@ could keep a motherly eye -on all six."

"How very sweet." The actor touched the two stars on his collar.

"However, to be blunt, nothing's changed with regard to my

appearance in the film?"

"Hell, no. The boys want you, and whatever they want they're

going to get."

"Are you certain? They have no recognition quotient, you -

realize."

"Whatever it is, they don't need it. They control the 'hottest

boffo-box-office-inega-buster'-whatever that is-anyone in Dizzy City,

West, can remember. In any event, everything's in the hands of the

William Morris Agency and--:'

"William Morris?"

"Isn't that the name?"

"It certainly is! I think one of my daughters is an attorney in their

legal department-probably got the job because she's my daughter.

What is her name; I see her every Christmas."

"The deal's being handled by two men named Robbins and

Martin, and my wife, my former-you know what I mean-says they're

the best."

"Yes, yes, of course, I've read about them in the trades. I

believe my daughter-Becky or Betty ... whateverwas engaged to that

Robbins fellow, or was it Martin? Yes, they really must be splendid,

for she's a very bright girlAntoinette, that's her name! She always

gives me a

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 511

sweater three sizes too big, but then I've always appeared extremely

large on stage-it's called presence, you know."

1, guess I do now. The boys are heading out to the Coast,

everything first class, my Ginny told me."

"Naturally. One doesn't send six quarts of diamonds on a

subway unattended. I'm surprised they didn't hire their own jet."

"My ex-wife explained that. She said all the studios and the

agents out there hire people who do nothing but monitor corporate

aircraft, and if anything looks suspicious, they bribe the pilots. She

told me a Lear was lost in the Alaskan tundra three weeks ago and

was just found yesterday, two hours after a rival studio signed some

guy named Warner Batty to a contract."

The hotel room doorbell rang, startling both men. "Who the hell

could that beT' whispered the Hawk. "Henry, did you tell anybody -

-- 2'

"Absolutely no one!" replied the actor, also whispering, but far

more emphatically. "I followed the script, dear boy, not a single

variation in the stage directions! I registered quite respectably as a

pipe salesman from Akron-proper polyester suit, weary slouch ...

damn fine performance, if I do say so."

"Who could it beT'

"Leave it to me, mon giniral." Sutton walked to the door and

assumed the weaving posture of a drunken man, loosening his tie

and partially unbuttoning his tunic. "Hide in the Closet, MacKenzie!"

he said quietly, then raising his timbre, he spoke in a loud

inebriated voice. "Yesh, wassit it? Dish is a personal party, and me'

and my broad don' want no extra guests!"

"Hey, fazool!" came the gruff reply through the door. "If you

think you're playin' one of your fuckin' games like you did when we

was in Bean Town, ferget it! Lemme in!"

Sir Henry snapped his head around; the closet door opened

simultaneously, the face of MacKenzie Hawkins pinched in shock.

"Oh, my God, it's Little Joseph! ... Let him in, goddainnit.7

"So?" said Joey, his hands clasped behind him as the door

closed and standing as high as his five feet, three

512 ROBERT LUDLUM

inches permitted. "If the head. of that fazool peekin' out of the

closet is your broad, soldier boy, you got big troubles in the

military."

"Who is this dwarf who obviously speaks dwarf-talk?" asked the

actor, his indignation scathing.

"You're an easy mark, Jazool number two. Once you made

contact with the big fazool on F Street and Tenth, what with your

right shoulder twitching and your left hand jabbing south like you

got the D7s, I knew you was the contact. You couldn't fool nobody."

"Are you questioning my technique, sir? 11 who have garnered

the approbation of a thousand critics across the land!"

I "Who's the hot fudge sundae?" asked Little Joey, as a perplexed

Hawk walked out of the clothes closet. "I think maybe Bam-Bam

and me should know, y'know what I mean?"

"Joseph, what are you doing here?" roared MacKenzie, his

astonishment receding and veering to menace.

"Cool it, fazool. Vinnie has your best interests at heart, you

gotta know that. Remember, I'm the Shroud. I can be anywhere,

move anywhere, nobody notices me. Like youdidn't notice me when

you flew into National Airport from New York this morning and I was

right on your ass."

"so?"

"A couple of things, maybe. Bam-Bam wants to know if he

should call in a squad of torpedos from Toronto."

"Absolutely not!"

"He figured; there's not time.,... Awright, then he wants you to

know that his blessed aunt Angelina has done like you wished her

to do because her husband, Rocco, is a no good son of a bitch and

she loves her nephew, Vincenzo. The stuff you wanted is in the

second closet in the hallway on the right."

"Good! "

"All is not so good. Bam-Bam is a proud man, fazool, and your

original American buddies are not so good to him. He says they

treat him like garbage and the feathers around his head don't fit!"

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 513

12:18 Pm. The manager of the Embassy Row Hotel on Mas-

sachusetts Avenue was not prepared for the cur-rent behavior of

one of his favored guests, namely Aaron Pinkus, attomeyat-law. As

usual, whenever the celebrated lawyer journeyed to Washington, it

was a given that his stay was confidential, as, indeed, was the case

with any guest who requested the same, but this afternoon Mr.

Pinkus had carried confidentiality to its extreme. He had insisted

that he and his party use the delivery entrance and ascend to their

adjoining suites--on the freight elevator. Furthermore, only the man-

ager himself was to be aware of the attorney's presence; fictitious

names were to be entered into the register and, therefore, should

any telephone calls come for him, those callers would naturally be

told that no Aaron Pinkus was registered, for indeed he was not.

However, should calls come specifying only the room numbers, they

should be put through.

It was not like Pinkus to issue such vigilant instructions,

considered the manager, but he thought he knew why. Washington

was a zoo these days, and no doubt a lawyer of his expertise had

been called to testify before Congress on some complicated points

of law about a bill fraught with ispecial interests. Obviously, Pinkus

had brought down a contingent of the brightest attorneys in his firm

to advise him duringthe hearings.

Which was why the manager was bewildered when, as he

routinely checked the front desk, a man in an orange silk shirt, a

blue silk sash, and a gold earring swinging from his left lobe came

up to the counter and'asked where the "droogy store" was.

"Are you a guest of the hotel, sir?" asked the suspicious clerk.

"Wat alse?" replied Roman Z, displaying his room key. The

manager glanced at it. It was the number of a Pinkus suite.

"Over there, sir," said the mortified clerk, pointing across the

lobby.

"Iss good! I need new cologne! I charge, no?"

Only seconds)ater, two swarthy men dressed in uniforms the

manager did not recognize, apparently from

514 ROBERT LUDLUM

some South American revolution, he thought, rushed up to the

desk.

"Where'd he go, man?" cried the taller of the two, several gaps

in his teeth.

"Who?" asked the clerk, backing away from the counter.

,'Tbe gitano wid d'gold ear-ring!" said the second Hispanic. "He

got the key to d'room but my amigo pressed d'wrong button on the

h'evelator. We wen' up, he wen' down!"

"Two elevators?"

"Ees securidad, chu know wad I mean?"

"Security?" - I'Dat's it, gringo,' answered the man with the

missing teeth, as he studied the formally dressed clerk in the

cutaway. "Chu got nice clothes like I got v1spera-dee odder

day ago. Chu bring 'ern back in d'morning, chu no pay so

much rent. I read dat on a sign."

"Yes, well, these are not rented, sir."

"Chu buy dem? Madre de Dios, you gotta good chob!"

"A lovely job, sir," said the astonished clerk, glancing over at the

even more astonished manager. "Your friend went to the 'droogy'--

the drugstore, sir. It's over there."

"Gracias, amigo. Chu keep dis nice rich chob!"

"Indeed, sir," mumbled the clerk as Desis One and Two raced

across the lobby after Roman Z. 'Who are those people?" asked the

clerk, -turning to the hotel manager. "That room key was for one of

our better suites."

"WitnessesT' said the appalled manager, a ray of hope in his

reply. "Yes, of course, they could only be witnesses. It's probably

a hearing about the mentally impaired."

"What is?"

"Never mind, they'll be gone by the day after tomorrow.,,

Upstairs in the suite Aaron Pinkus had reserved for Jennifer,

Sam, and himself, the vaunted attorney was explaining the hotel of

his choice. "One can usually repel curiosity by confronting it and

discouraging it," he said, "especially if you're dealing with an

institution that profits from your patronage. If I had made our

requests to an unfamiliar hotel, the rumors would fly."

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 515

"And you're not an unknown in this city," added Devereaux.

"Can you trust the manager?"

"I would in any event; he's a fine man. However, since all flesh

has its weaknesses and the muckrakers in this town are vultures

constantly in search of informational carrion, I made it plain that he

was the only person who knew we were here. I felt bad doing so;

it wasn't necessary."

"There's 'safe' and there's 'sorry,' Mr. Pinkus," said Redwing,

walking to a window and looking down at the street below. "We're

so close-to what I don't know, but it frightens me. Within a matter

of days my people will either be patriots or pariahs, and right now

my money's on pariahdom@"

"Jenny," began Aaron, a muted sadness in his voice, "I didn't

wish to alarm you, but upon reflection, I think you'd never forgive

me if I didn't tell you now."

'7611 me whatT' Redwing turned away from the window, staring

at Pinkus, then glancing at Sam, who shook his head conveying no

knowledge of Aaron's statement.

"I spoke with an old friend of mine this morning, a colleague

from the early days, in fact, who's now a member of the Court."

"Aaron!" cried Devereaux. "You didn't mention anything about

this afternoon, did youT'

'@Of course not. It was merely a social call. I said I had

business here and perhaps we might have dinner."

"Ibank heavens!" said Jenny.

"He was the one who brought up this afternoon," said Pinkus

quietly.

4'WhatT'

" What?

"Not in terms of specifics, mind you, only with regards to our

proposed dinner... He said that it was quite possible he wouldn't be

able to make it for he might be hiding and under guard in the

cellars of the Supreme Court."

"What? 11

"That's what I said-"

"And?

"He said today was one of the strangest in the annals of

Supreme Court history. They're holding a special session

in chambers with -plaintiffs-over a case that- has acrimoni-516 ROBERT LUDLUM

ously divided the justices, None of them knows how the others will

ultimately vote, but they're determined to dispose of their initial

responsibility, which is to make public a rather momentous suit

against the government. They'll do so immediately after the hearing

is over."

"What?" screamed Redwing. "This afternoon?"

"Originally, they kept it off the Court calendar for reasons of

national security and the possibility of reprisals against the litigants-

the Wopotamis, I presume; then, apparently, the administration

demanded that news of the suit be kept secret for an extended

period of time."

'Thank heavens for somebody!" cried Jennifer.

"For Chief Justice Reebock," explained Aaron, "who's not the

most likable fellow in the world, albeit quite bright. Unaccountably,

and contrary to his normal disposition, Reebock went along with the

White House. When the rest of the justices learned this, the

majority simply revolted, including my friend. He made it clear that

along with the others, even those ideologically opposed to him, the

Executive had no constitutional right to impose restrictions on the

Judicial.... Sometimes it all comes down to ego, doesn't it? Forget

checks and balances, ego's the great equalizer."

"Mr. Pinkus, my people will be in the streets, on the steps of the

Supreme Court! They'll be slaughtered!"

"Not if the general plays his cards right, my dear."

"If there was a wrong card to show, he'd show it!" yelled

Redwitig. "That man is instant hate! There's no one on earth he's

incapable of offending!" , "But you hold the deck," interrupted

Devereaux. "He can't legally do a damn thing without your

approval; your contract with him is binding."

"Has that ever stopped him before? From all I've learned about

your prehistoric dinosaur, he tramples over the international laws

of behavior, his own government, the Joint Chiefs, the Catholic

Church, the universal concepts of morality, and even you, Sam,

whom he professes to love like his own son! It's not you who'll

climb up on that sacrosanct bully pulpit to denounce injustice, it'll

be him, and to make his case he'll nuke the whole goddamn system

and turn the Wopotamis into the biggest threat this

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 517

nation has faced since Munich in '39! He'll be a bolt of lightning that

has to be shorted out, grounded, before a hundred,other minorities

think they see how they've been screwed by a government, and

there'll be riots in the streets everywhere.... We can correct these

things with time and prudence, but not his way, which is chaos!"

"She's got a point, Aaron."

"Again, a brilliant summary, my dear, but you overlook a

fundamental law of nature."

"What the hell is that, Mr. Pinkus?"

"Wrapped in a bagel, he can be stopped."

"For God's sake, how?"

At that moment, the door of the suite burst open, crashing

against the wall as a furious Cyrus stood in the frame. But it was

a different Cyrus; he was dressed in an extravagantly expensive

pinstriped suit, Bally shoes, and a foulard tie. "Those sons of

bitches got out!" he yelled. "Are they here?"

"You mean Roman and our two DesisT' said Sam, holding his

breath. "They've deserted?"

"Hell, no, they're like kids at Disneyland; they've got to explore.

They'll be back but they disobeyed orders."

"What do you mean, Colonel?" asked Pinkus.

"Well, I went to-I went to the can and told them to stay put, and

when I got out they were gone!"

"You just said they'd be back," offered Devereaux. "So what's

the problem?"

"You want those grinder monkeys running, around in the lobbyT'

"It might be rather refreshing, actually," said Aaron, chuckling.

"Give a little life to the army of diplomats here, who walk around so

rigidly you'd think they were containing severe cases of duodenal

gas-forgive me, my dear."

"Once again, no apologies are necessary, Mr. Pinkus," said

Jennifer, her gaze on the huge mercenary. "Cyrus," she continued,

"you look so---oh, I don't know what the word is-but so ... I guess,

distinguished."

"It's the threads, Jenny. I haven't worn a suit like this since f

,orty-six relatives in Georgia got together and bought me one at the

Peachtree Center when I got my doctorate. Couldn't afford one

before then and certainly not after-518 ROBERT LUDLUM

ward. Glad you like it; me, too. It's courtesy of Mr. Pinkus, whose

tailors jump through the eyes of needles when he sneezes."

"Not true, my friend," said Aaron. "They simply understand the

meaning of emergency... Isn't our colonel a magnificent sight?"

"Awesome," agreed Sam reluctantly.

"The Colossus of Rhodes dressed for an IBM board of directors'

meeting," added Redwing, nodding approvingly.

"Then, perhaps, -1 should introduce you to your new associate

at the hearing this afternoon.... May I present Judge Cornelius

Oldsmobile, who will accompany you into the chambers as a visiting

amicus curiae extraordinary, courtesy of my old friend who's a

member of the Court. He is not permitted to speak, only observe,

but he will be sitting next to General Hawkins, who logically thinks

he's there as military security. At the conclusion of the hearing,

should our general be determined to add inflamatory comments,

'Judge Oldsmobile' has assured me that there are a number of ways

to prevent him from doing so, including a metabolic seizure that for

one of the general's age would mandate his immediate removal."

"Aaron, you old fox!" cried Sam, leaping up from his chair.

"It pained me to, even conceive of such an action, but one must

consider the alternative, as the lovely Jennifer suggests."

"God, I wish you were thirty years younger!" cried Redwing.

"Hell, even twenty!"

"So do 1, my child, but I'd be grateful if you never mentioned

such a thought to Shirley."

"Maybe I will, if Pocahontas doesn't behave," said Devereaux.

"You know, it could have been ten, maybe fifteen miles in the storm,

but I'm too modest to talk about it."

Arnold Subagaloo wriggled his broad beam into the captain's chair,

secure in the knowledge that the tight-fitting arms would hold his

body firm as he indulged in his favorite office pastime. When he

raised his arm to throw his

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 519

darts, his pear-shaped frame was confined to the parameters

imposed, ensuring a better aim, as there was a minimum of lower

lateral movement-. After all, he was an engineer par excellence,

with an IQ of 785, and knew everything there was to know about

everything except realpolitik, courtesy, and a diet.

He had pressed the button that pulled back the flushed curtain

on the wall, revealing an enormous photographic tableau stretching

from comer to comer with the enlarged faces of one hundred six

men and women-enemies all! Liberals in both parties,

environmentalist loonies who could, never understand a profit and

loss statement, Feminazis who were forever trying to emasculate

God's order of masculine superiority, and, above all, those senators

and congressmen who had the temerity to tell him he wasn't the

President! ... Well, maybe he wasn't, actually, but who the hell did

they think thought for the President? Every hour; every minute!

As Subagaloo began to throw his first dart, his private telephone

rang, causing the sharp, pointed missile to deviate and go through

an open window on the left, resulting in a loud scream from a

landscaper in the Rose Garden.

"Mat motherfucker's at it again! I quit!"

Arnold dismissed the gratuitous remark out of hand; he should

have hit the man between the eyes--obviously a member of some

socialist-communist union expecting two weeks' severance pay for

a lousy twenty years on the job. Unfortunately, Subagaloo could

not get out of the chair; his swollen hips were unable to negotiate

the -tight,fitting arms. As there was no other choice, he waddled

across the floor, chair and rump temporarily attached, to the inces-

sandy ringing phone.

"Who are you and how did you get this number?" yelled the

Chief of Staff.

"Easy, Arnold, it's Reebock, and we're on the same side on this

one."

"Oh, Mister Chief Justice! Are you about to give me another big

problem I don't need?"

"No, I just solved the biggest one you've got-"

'The Wopotamis?"

rhey can starve to death on their stupid reservation,

520 ROBERT LUDLUM

who cares? I had a little barbecue at my house last night, the whole

Court. Naturally, as my wine cellar is the finest in Washington,

everyone got pissed to the antlers except the lady, and now she

doesn't count. We had a very American, intellectual conversation

around the pool. Very erudite, very judicial."

"so?"

"Six to three against the Wopotami savages, guaranteed. Two

of our brethren wavered, but they saw the light when our nubile lady

caterers took off their clothes and went for a swim. Our two would-

be bleeding hearts claimed they were pushed into the pool, but the

photographs don't show that. Such injudicious behavior-the

tabloids would go wild, I made that rather clear."

"Reebock, you're a genius! Not on my level, of course, but not

bad, not bad at all.... But let's keep this between ourselves, all

right?7

"We speak the same language, Subagaloo. Our job is to keep

the un-American deviates out of the mainstream. They're

dangerous, every one of them. Can you imagine where we'd all be

without the income tax and those civil rights laws?"

"In heaven, Reebock, in heaven! ... Remember, we never talked."

"Why do you think I called you on this numberT'

"How'd you get it?"

"I've got a mole in the White House."

"Who, for Christ's sake?"

"Come on, Arnold, that's not fair."

"I guess it isn't, because I've got one in the

"Stare decisis, my friend."

"What else is new?" said Arnold Subagaloo.

12:37 Pm. The huge Trailblaze bus, leased and paid for by no one

the company had ever heard of, stopped in front of the imposing

entrance to the Supreme Court. The driver fell over the large

circular steering wheel, anguished tears flowing from his eyes,

grateful that his full load of passengers was about to depart. Miles

back he had yelled,

IHE ROAD TO CMAHA 521

screamed, and finally shrieked in panic that "Firecooking-is not

permitted inside the bus!"

"We're not cooking, man," had said a firm voice behind him.

"We're mixing the colors, which means you've got to melt the wax."

-,Oftat?"

"See?" Suddenly a grotesquely painted face had been thrust in

front of his eyes, causing the driver to lurch across the Virginia

highway, slipping between the onrushing vehicles until he managed

to return to his lane.

There followed what could only be described as a series of

events that justified the screams of the owner of the Last Ditch

Motel outside of Arlington, when he had roared from behind a

mountain of duffel bags:

"I'll blow the fucking place up before I let 'em back in! Holy shit!

Fuckin' war dances around a fuckin' bonfire in the parking lot!

Everybody else in all the other rooms left-running-without a nickel

in my till!"

"You got it wrong, man! They were supplication chants. You

know, like prayers for rain and deliverance, even sometimes

broads."

"Out, out, out!"

Once the duffel bags had been loaded, by necessity a number

strapped on top of the bus, the series of intolerable events

continued amid the smoke and the stench of melted-down Crayola

crayons. "You see, man, when you mix it with paraffin and press it

into your skin, it conforms and slowly drips down your face with the

body heat. Scares the hell out of palefaces ... see?" The driver saw.

Weeping streaks of bright colors slowly crawling down the face of

someone named Calfhose. The bus hid nearly crashed into the rear

of a diplomatic limousine bearing the flags of Tanzania; instead, it

merely dented the bumper, then skirted to the left, passing it and

removing a side mirror as several wide-eyed black faces stared up

at their more colorful counterparts in the windows of the bus.

Then came the audibles, initially the slow, bass-toned boom-

booms of at least a dozen drums. Boom-boom, boom-boom, boom-

boom-boom-boom, boom-boom! "Hai-ya, hai-ya, hai-ya!" The

fanatical chorus built to a hysterical crescendo as the driver's head

shot back and

522 ROBERT LUDLUM

forth over the wheel like a rooster in heat in time with the beat.

Relief had suddenly come as the drums and the chanting abruptly

stopped, apparently by command.

I think we got that one wrong, guys and girls!" shouted the

terrorist named Calfhose. "Isn't that the wedding night celebration?"

"Beats the hell out of Ravel's Bolero!" replied a male voice at the

rear of the crowded bus.

'Who'd know the differenceT' yelled another, now a woman.

"I don't know," answered Calfhose, "but Thunder Head said

Indian Affairs might send down a couple of experts ,cause nobody

expects us or knows why we're there."

"If they're Mohawks, they'll crap on us!" shouted yet another, by

his voice an elderly member of the tribe. "Legend has it that they

threw us out of our wigwams whenever it snowed!"

"Well, just in case, let's rehearse the one that greets the sunrise;

that'd be applicable."

"Which one is that, Johnny?" Another woman.

"The one that sounds like a tarantella--2'

"Only when slung vivace, Calfy," connected a painted brave in

front. "When it's adagio, it could be a dirge out of Sibelius."

"So we go with the balachy bit. All right, girls, into the aisle and

rehearse your thing. And remember, Thunder Head wants some

legs for the TV cameras but no garter belt stuff. We gotta be

squeaky clean."

"Aw, aw, aw ... shit!" came the male voices.

"Here we go-now!"

The drums and the vocal chorus had begun again, compounded

by the beating of female feet in the aisle, as the driver tried to

concentrate on the, growing ti-affic in the District of Columbia.

Unfortunately, a Sterno can under a boiling, pot of bright red

Crayolas overturned,% setting fire to the beaded'skirt of a dancer.

Several braves were quick to extinguish the flames.

"Get your hands out of there!" screamed the offended Indian

lass.

The driver's head had whipped around as the bus skidded into

a fire hydrant, snapping off the top and sending

. THE ROAD TO OMAHA 523

a gusher of water into Independence Avenue, drenching all the cars

and pedestrians in the vicinity. Company regulations required that

the operator of any vehicle involved in such an incident stop

immediately, radio his dispatcher, and await the police. It was a

corporate policy that absolutely, positively did not apply to him!

concluded the driver of the bus filled with savage terrorists who

wore dripping waxed paint on their faces. He was five blocks from

his destination, and the moment his load of Sternoburning, foot-

stomping barbarians in their leather and their beads got off his

vehicle with their duffel bags and their cardboard signs, he would

race back to the depot, hand in a hastily scribbled resignation, drive

home, grab his wife, and together they would take the next plane to

as far away as possible. Fortunately, their only son was a lawyer;

the hotshot lawyer could take care of the aftereffects. What the

heU, he had put the snotty little bastard through law school! ...

Thirty-six years behind a wheel driving the pigs of humanity, a man

had to know when the critical sign of acceptance stopped. It was

like when he was in France in World War 11, and they were taking

a pounding froin the Krauts, and that great man, General Hawkins,

took over the division and shouted the words out: "There comes a

time, soldiers, when we either cut bait or go after the big ones! I say

we go on! I say we attack!"

And by God, they did. The great man had been right then, but

here and now there was nothing to attack, no armed enemy intent

on killing you, just armies of lunatics wanting to climb into your bus

and drive you crazy! Thirty-six years; a good life, a productive life--

outside the bus. But now, at this critical moment, there was nothing

left, nothing to attack. It was time to cut bait.... He wondCred what

the great General Hawkins would say. He thbught he knew.

"If the enemy isn't worth it, find another!"

The driver would cut bait. The enemy was not worth it.

The last terrorist off the bus was the one they called Calfhose,

the maniac with the grotesque waxed streaks of bright colors

dripping down his face. "Here, man," said the savage, handing the

driver a small metal coin of no discernable value. "Chief Thunder

Head wanted this to be

524 ROBERT LUDLUM

presented to the one who took us to our 'point of destiny.' Damned

if I know what he meant, but it's yours, buddy." Calfhose leaped

down the steps to the pavement, his cardboard placard, which was

nailed to a tree branch, balanced over his right shoulder.

". . . our point of destiny. Nothing will be the same after the

action we take. We attack! " General MacKenz , ie Hawkins in

France forty years ago. - The driver stared at the metal coin

in his hand and gasped. It was a replica of their division's insignia

of forty years ago. With the face of their great commander! A sign

from heaven? Hardly likely, as he and his wife had long ago

managed to avoid church. Sunday mornings were for all those

television programs where politicians fueled his anger and his wife

reduced it by a pitcher of Tabasco-laced Bloody Marys. Good

woman, his wife.... But this! His old division, and the words of the

finest commanding officer that ever lived! Christ, he had to get out

of there.- It was weird! ,

The driver restarted the engine, jammed his foot on the

accelerator, and sped down First Street, only to see in his rearview

mirror a crowd of painted faces racing after him. "Fuck you!" he

died out loud. "I'm out, finished! Me and my girl are heading west-

maybe so far west it's east, maybe someplace like that American

Samoa!"

What the driver had overlooked was that there were thirty-seven

duffel bags strapped to his roof.

31

1:06 Pm. The doorbell of the suite rang, and as Aaron and Sam

slipped into a bedroom to avoid any possible recognition, Jennifer

walked across the room, glanced behind her, then said: "Yes, who

is it?"

"Pliss, Miss Janey!" replied the unmistakable voice of Roman Z.

"Thiss thing iss havvy!"

Redwing opened the door, to be greeted by Roman standing in

frontof the two Desis, who held the handles of an enormous

steamer trunk, perspiration forming on their foreheads. "Good

heavens, why didn't you have the bell captain send it up?"

"My dearest fren who now happens to be a brutal and deranged

'colonel' said we had to bring it up ourselves." The Gypsy walked

into the room. "Otherwise, in case it fell open, I should slit the

throats of any who saw its contents.... Come, my second and third

dearest frens. In here!"

"I can't believe Cyrus,would give such an order," protested

Jennifer as Desis One and Two struggled with the outsized trunk,

carrying it into the suite and setting it upright. "At least you could

have used a dolly."

"Was dat?" asked Desi the Second, wiping his brow.

526 ROBERT LUDLUM

"A small platform with wheels but large enough for heavy

luggage."

"Chu said we shouldn't use one of dem!" yelled D-One at Roman.

" 'Cause the magnificent colonel was talkin' to the crazy peoples

on the truck an' all he said,was 'take it up an' hurry!' He didn't say

'take it up on thiss machine an' hurry." My dearest fren iss smart;

you never know when one of those things iss a trap. You ever try

to run out of a big supermarket pushing a cart without paying? Zee

bells go off, right, Miss Janey?"

"Well, there are codes on merchandise that are neutralized by

passing over the paycheck grids-2' "See! My dearest fren saved our

lives!"

"You will be well compensated for your labors," said Aaron

Pinkus, rushing out of the bedroom, Devereaux behind him.

"Somebody open it," he added, staring at the trunk.

"There iss no key," said Roman. "Only leetle numbers on zee

locks."

"I have the numbers," announced the impeccably, expensively

dressed Cyrus, walking through the open door and immediately

closing it. "I'm afraid I hadto sign an additional bill of delivery

with my firm, Mr. Pinkus.' "You gave them my name?"

"Hell, no, but the original contractor may go after you if this

whole thing comes out in the wash."

"I'll handle that!" exclaimed Sam. "Hiring escaped prisoners and

wanted mercenaries to do their dirty work. Hahl A piece of cake!"

"Darling, we're doing the same," said Jennifer.

"Oh?"

"For heaven's sake, open the trunk! I can feel Shirley breathing

down my spine, a not altogether pleasant sensation. I haven't

called her since yesterday morning."

'@Giff me her number," said Roman Z, twirling his blue silk sash

around his right arm in front of his silk orange shirt. "There iss

women and then there iss women, and very few can resist my

charms. Iss so, my dearest frens?"

"Shirle would have you committed," replied Pinkus. "I doubt your

Dun and Bradstreet would meet her standards."

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 527

"There!" said Cyrus, having manipulated the locks and pulling

apart the trunk.

"My God!" cried Sunrise Jennifer Redwing. "All that metal!"

"I told you, Jenny," said Cyrus, looking at the profusion of steel

breastplates and skullcaps on hangers in front of receding racks of

odd clothing. "This is hardball."

1:32 Pm. The contents of the huge steamer trunk were distributed

and the process of infiltration-camouflage began. According to the

Hawk's orders (several points added or refined by his now senior

military aide, Cyrus), the initial objective was to deceive the enemy

scouts searching for them in the crowds outside and, by deceiving

them, gain entrance to the great hall of the Supreme Court. Once

inside, the second goal was to pass through security without Sam,

Aaron, the Hawk, or Jenny revealing their identities. MacKenzie

was convinced the guards had been given ident-alerts, certainly

specifying Devereaux and himself, and, as Sam was Pinkus's

employee, probably Aaron; and, since S. J. Redwing had previously

argued before the Court, and if someone had done his homework

and learned she was a member of the Wopotami tribe, she, too,

could be on the list. Granted, Jenny's inclusion was farfetched,.but

so were the untold billions of dollars owed by the greedy enemies

of the "deceased" Vincent Mangecavallo.

The third hurdle depended solely on Sam,'Aaron, and Hawkins

finding a men's room and Jennifer locating a ladies' room prior to

being admitted into the august'chambers. According to the detailed

building plans secured somehow by "relatives" of Vinnie the Bam-

Bani and confirmed by his favorite aunt, Angelina the Go-Go, the

hallway on the second floor, where the chambers were, had two

such conveniences-at opposite ends of the marble hall. The reason

for the necessity of the restroorns takes us back to the initial

objective of deceiving the Supreme Court guards and gaining entry

into the chambers. The contents of the steamer, trunk, however,

caused Jenny to scream from her bedroom.

528 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Sam, this is impossible!"

"What is?" said Devereaux, walking awkwardly out of the

second bedroom dressed in a bulky checkered suit with puffed

trousers, altogether adding the appearance, of sev-enty pounds

to his slender frame. Wha bi-zarre was his head. His

skull was cc

brown wig, the free-flowing ringlets hat

best described as a porkpie, the favor the

raccoon-coated collegiates of the twenties. He pushed Redwing's

partially open door and stood in the frame. "Can I help?"

- WM!

"You're screaming. Is that a yes or a no?"

"Who are you supposed to be?"

"Accorc ing to the driver's license and the voter's registration

card provided with the clothes, my name is AlbyJoe Scrubb, and I

run a chicken-breeding farm somewhere.... Who the hell are you?"

"An ex-chorus girl!" replied Jenny, trying once more to clamp_

the steel breastplate. over her generous chest. "There! Never mind,

I've got it! ... Now for this stupid kelly-green peasant blouse that

wouldn't excite a sexstarved gorilla."

"It excites me," said Sam.

"You're one step below a gorilla and more easily aroused."

"Hey, conic on, we're on the same side. No kidding, who are

you supposed to beT'

"Let's say a loose woman whose bulging topside under this

bulletproof corset will hopefully take the guards' attention away

from the admission procedures."

"The Hawk thinks of everything.,,

"Right down to the libido," agreed Redwing, slipping the bright

green blouse over her head and tugging it into shape above her

yellow miniskirt. She bent partially forward, glanc in@ at the swell

of her breasts within the loose-

g

hanging b 0 e. "That's the best I can do," she said with a sigh.

"Let's work on it--2' "Down, Rover... Now comes the worst part.

The

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 529

'headgear,' as a friend of mine on the Forty-niners calls it."

"That's what's different," observed Devereaux. "Your hair looks

funny; it's all pinned back or something."

"In preparation for your Neanderthal's pluperfect revenge." Jenny

reached for a large square box on the bed and pulled out a platinum

blond wig that rested on a steel helmet. "That bulletproof skullcap

is so heavy I'll have a stiff neck for the rest of the year, if I see the

year through."

"Yeah, I've got one, too," said Sam as Redwing placed the

helmeted wig over her hair. "Shaking your head's okay, but if you

nod, you could break your nose."

"Shaking my head doesn't go with this image."

"I see what you mean. If this is Mac's pluperfect revenge, what's

perfectT'

"I should think it would be obvious. He'll set me up. with a vice

squad john' and I'll be arrested as a hooker."

"Sam!" cried Aaron Pinkus from the living room. "I need help!"

"I'm in demand." Devereaux rushed out of the bedroom, Jenny

at his heels. What they saw was as improbable a sight as either

could hope to see, with the possible exception of looking at

themselves In a Mirror. Gone was the slight but nevertheless

distinguished figure of Boston's foremost, attorney. In his place,

dressed in a long black frock coat and wearing a flat black hat

below which hung two strands of braided black hair, was a Hasidic

rabbi. "Are you soliciting confessions or don't you people do that

sort of thing?" said Sam.

"You're not remotely amusing," replied Aaron, taking several

tentative steps forward. Growing unsteady, he grabbed the fringe

of a table lamp, which naturally crashed to the floor. "My whole

body is encased in iron!" he cried angrily,

"It's for your own protection, Mr. Pinkus," said Jennifer, dashing

around Devereaux and holding the old man's arms. "Cyrus made it

clear, you have to protect yourself."

"The protection will kill me, my child. On Omaha Beach I carried

a forty-pound pack on my back that nearly

530 ROBERT LUDLUM

caused me to drown in four feet of water, and I was much younger

then. This metal underwear is much heavier and I'm much, much

older."

"Me only really difficult time for you will be the steps outside the

Court, and since we have to separate, I'll have Johnny Calfhose find

someone to help you."

"Calfhose? I seem to recall that name; it's not a name one easily

forgets."

"He's Mac's honcho at the tribe," said Sarn.

"Oh, yes, he called Sidney's house, and Jennifer and our general

had a shouting match, as I recall."

"Johnny Calfriose and MacKenzie Hawkins make a perfect team.

Slime and Sludge. Calfhose still owes me bail money, and Hawkins

owes me my soul as well as my career... Regardless, Johnny will

get someone to help you. He'd better, or I'll have him indicted for

skimming thousands from General Thunder Nuts' bribe money to

the Council."

"He did that?" asked Devereaux.

"Actually, I have no idea, but it would be perfectly natural for him

to try."

There was a rapid knocking at the door. Sam walked over and

opened it, again mildly startled by the huge elegance of Cyrus.

"Come on in, Colonel, although frankly you look more like a darker

version of Daddy Warbucks."

"That's the idea, Sam, and to broaden your horizons even

further, I'd like you to meet two friends of mine, or I should say of

'Judge Oldsmobile.' " Cyrus stepped inside and gestured for Desis

One and Two to do the same. However, they were not the Desi

Arnazes anyone in the room had seen before. D-One, his false

teeth in place, was dressed in a conservative gray suit and an

oxford blue shirt that emphasized his white clerical collar. D-Two,'

a reli-, gious kin but of a different faith, wore the black suit and

collar of a priest, along with a gold cross that fell over his rabat.

"May I present Reverend Elmer Pristin, an Episcopalian minister,

and his comrade-in-protest, Monsignor Hector Alizongo of some

Catholic diocese in the Rocky Mountains."

"Good heavens!" said Aaron, clanking down in the chair.

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 531

"My God!" added the platinum-haired hooker, who was Jenny.

"He hears chu," said D-Two, blessing himself, then correcting his

benediction and blessing all those in the room-backwards.

"Don't be a blas/emo," mumbled Desi the First.

"Chu loco. I include chu an' chu are a dumb protestante!"

"It's okay, fellas," said Devereaux. "We get the message....

Cyrus, what's this all about?"

"First, let me ask if each of you found everything. There was a

check list for your items." Jennifer, Sam, and Aaron nodded,

considerable doubt in each face. "Good," continued the mercenary.

"Is there any trouble with the camo-ex equipment?"

"What's that?" asked Pinkus from the chair.

"Short for camouflage externals-our disguises. We want you to

be as comfortable as possible under the circumstances. Any

problems?"

"To be honest, Colonel," answered Aaron, "perhaps you should

lease a derrick to move me around."

"It's not a problem, Cyrus," said Redwing. "I'll get a member of

the tribe to help Mr. Pinkus."

"Sorry, Jenny, there can't be any communication whatsoever

with the Wopotamis. Also, it's not necessary."

"Now, wait a minute," broke in Devereaux. "My revered boss can

barely walk in that medieval flak suit!"

"He'll be, flanked and assisted by our two men of the cloth every

step of the way."

"Our Desis?" said Jennifer.

"Exactly. It's Hawkins's idea and it's a beaut.... The 'Reverend

Pristin' and 'Monsignor Alizongo' have joined with 'Chief Rabbi

Rabinowitz' in a religious protest to the Supreme Court over recent

decisions they consider to be both anti-Christian and anti-Semitic.

You can't beat that rap unless you throw in antiblack, which would

naturally diminish the television coverage."

"It's certainly unique," admitted Sam. "By the way, where's

Roman ZT'

"I hate to think," replied Cyrus.

"He hasn't deserted, has he?" said Jenny.

532 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Not for a ntinute..There's an old Gypsy proverb stolen from the

Chinese that says a man who saves the life of another can live off

that person or persons for the rest of his life."

"I'm not sure he's got that right," said Aaron. "I believe it's the

other way around."

"Of course it is," agreed Cyrus, "but the Gypsies changed it, and

that's all he has to know."

"So where is he?" asked Rddwing.

"I gave him money to rent a video camera. At this moment I

suspect he's stealing one from an unsuspecting clerk by telling him

he just wants to check the lens refraction in the sunlight. I could be

wrong, but I doubt it. He hates to pay for anything-I think he really

believes it's unethical."

"He should run for Congress," said Sam.

"But why a camera?" asked Redwing.

"It's my idea. I think we should have an audiovisual record of

the Wopotami protest, as extensive as possible, including any

attempts by specific individuals to interfere, harass, or prevent

citizens from the exercise of free assembly and their rights of

petition.,,

"I knew it," exclaimed Pinkus weakly in the chair. "He may be a

professional soldier and a chemist, but he's also a lawyer."

"Not so, sir," contradicted Cyrus. "Due to the confusion of an

early turbulent youth, I-we-had to understand certain basic

constitutional rights."

"Wait a minute," said Devereaux, a note of skepticism in his quiet

voice. "Let's dispense with 'We Shall Overcome' for a moment, and

carry this where I think you're taking it. An tinedited videotape, the

date and time counted off by seconds in every frame, is generally

conceded to be irrefutable evidence, right?"

"I'd think a number of congressmen and senators and a mayor

or two would agree with you, Sam," agreed the mercenary, the hint

of a smile on his face. "Especially those who've temporarily given

up eggs Benedict for the powdered variety on less than elegant

chin& - "

"Yes, and if we have such a tape featuring , specific in-7W ROAD TO OMAHA 533

dividuals' engaged in unlawful behavior of a violent nature during

the Wopotami protest-"

"And, " interrupted Redwing, glancing at Devereaux, who

nodded, as if to say be-my-guest, "if those nasty individuals were

identified as being under the orders of one government agency or

another, we'd have considerable legal leverage."

"Not just government-oriented," said Cyrus. "There are a bunch

of goons in that crowd who've been paid to stop you. Their

employers are so much in debt that even the thought of you has

them chewing rugs while soiling their trousers."

"Violent obstruction of the legal process," added Sam. "Facing

ten years in jail, there's not one of those thugs who wouldn't break."

"Colonel, I salute you!" said Aaron, struggling forward in the

chair, the sound of metal against metal heard in the room. "Even if

everything goes wrong, we've got secondary positions of defense."

"I call it frying the asses of those who would fry yours first, Mr.

Pinkus."

"Indeed! You know, law degree or no, I wish you'd consider a

position in my firm, say as a strategist in the crim@ inal law

department."

"I'm flattered, sir, but I think you'd better talk with your friend,

Cookson Frazier. Apparently he has a home in the Caribbean, two

in France, a, flat in London, and several he can't remember in the

ski country of Utah or Colorado. They've all been broken into, and

he wants me to take over his far-flung security."

"My word, how wonderful for you! You'd be terribly well paid.

You'll accept, of course."

"Perhaps for a, few weeks, but if there's any way I can work it

out, I'd like to get back to the laboratory. I'm a chemical engineer;

that's where the real excitement is."

"Now I've heard everything," said Devereaux, shaking his head,

his porkpie hat above his checkered suit swiveling.

There was furious knocking at the door. "Stay where you are,"

said Cyrus calmly as the others reacted in shock. "It's Roman. He

thinks his entrance into any room is a

,534 ROBERT LUDLUM

command performance-especially when the police are chasing him."

The mercenary opened the door; the figure standing in the corridor

was, indeed, Roman Z, but instead of a single video camera, he

held two in each hand, as well as a large nylon case suspended

from his broad shoulder by a thick strap. Also, gone were the silk

orange shirt, the blue silk sash, the tight black trousers, and the

dangling gold earring. Instead, he was the image of a working

media stiff, the kind one sees climbing out of television news vans

at the scene of an accident or a fire. He wore neat but abused

Levis below a white T-shirt on which was printed in large letters:

WFOG-TV

PRESS

"Zee mission is accomplished, my dearest best fren

Colonel," announced Roman, walking into the 'room, his

words trailing off as his eyes absorbed the sight of Sam,

Jenny, and Aaron. "Iss zerr a dancing bear somewhere?"

"If there is, it's you," said Cyrus. "Bears forage....

Why four canicorders?".

"Maybe one get hurt," replied the Gypsy, grinning.

"Also plenty of tape," he added, gesturing at his case.

"Where's the receipt?"

"Zee what?"

"Me paper that shows the amount of the rental and the

deposit you gave the store."

'%, zey don't want it. They hoppy to cooperate."

"What are you talking about, Roman?" asked Redwing.

"I charge it, Miss Janey-if you are Miss Janey under

zat beautiful dress."

"To whom?" said Devereaux.

"Zeez people!" The Gypsy pointed with pride to his

T-shirt. "I wass in a great hurry, and they understand."

"There are no such people!" cried Cyrus.

"I write them a letter sometime. I tell them how sorry

I am.,,

"Please, Colonel," said Pinkus, struggling out of the chair with

Jenny's help. "We haven't time for an audit. What do we do now?"

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 535

"It's simple," answered Cyrus. It wasn't.

2:16 Pm. Boom-boom, boom-boom, boom-boom-boomboom, boom-

boom, boom-boom! ... Hai-ya, hai-ya,-haiya-hai-ya, hai-ya, hai-ya!

The drums went bang while the stompers sang, and the signs were

raised and the crowds were hazed, and the steps of the Supreme

Court were Wopotami madness. The tourists were famous, wives

more than husbands, as the dancing-girl protesters were to a

dancer inordinately attractive and their skirts flew high.

"Jebediah, we can't get through!" "Right."

"Where are the po T,

"Right."

"Olaf, these crazy people won't let u's by!" "Right."

"Mere should be laws!"

"Right."

"Stavros, this never happened at the temple of Athena!" "Right."

"Stop staring!"

"Wrong-oh, sorry, Olympia."

Around the corner on Capitol Street, concealed in a recessed

doorway, were two tall men. One was resplendent in the full dress

uniform of an army -general, the other in the ragged clothes of a

tramp. The tramp rushed out of their sanctuary, peered around the

edge of the building, and then ran back to the general.

"Things are progressing, Henry," said MacKenzie Hawkins.

"They're really getting hot!" .

"Have the media arrived?" asked Sutton, the actor. "I made it

perfectly clear to you, I don't make my appearance until the

cameras are there."

"A couple of radio stations have come. You can tell by the

people with microphones."

"Not good enough, dear boy. I specifically said cameras."

"All right, all right!" The Hawk raced out again, looked again and

raced back. "A TV crew just got here!"

536 ROBERT LUDLUM

"What station? Is it a network?"

"How the hell do I know?"

"Find ou ' t, mon giniral. I have my standards."

"Christ on a seesaw!"

"Blasphemy isn't called for, MacKenzie. Look again."

"You're impossible, Henry!"

"I hope so. It's the only way you get anywhere in this business.

Hurry up, now. I feel the urge to perform; it's the stimulus of a

growing audience as you hear them flocking into a theater."

"Don't you ever get stage fright?"

"My good fellow, I've never been afraid of the stage, it is afraid

of me. I tread across it like thunder."

"Shit!" The Hawk rushed out again, but instead of racing back to

the actor, held his place and saw what he hoped to see. Four taxis

pulled up on the other side of First Street, only moments apart. Out

of the one in front stepped three men of the cloth: a priest, a

minister, and an elderly rabbi helped by the two Christians. From

the sec@ond emerged the Marilyn Monroe of hookers, hips

swaying-somewhat awkwardly-but who was examining? The third

cab deposited the maximum rube of the Ozark's backcountry, with

the image I of chickenshit dripping from his porkpie hat and over

his ballooned checkered suit. The fourth taxi made up for the

banality of the three fares ahead. An immense, elegantly dressed

black man stepped out on the curb, his huge sculpted head and

giant body nearly dwarfing the vehicle.

As programmed, Jennifer, Sam, and Cyrus walked in different

directions, no acknowledgment among them, but none crossed the

street to the Court. The three religious zealots stayed on the

pavement, bickering among themselves, the rabbi's head pecking

forward as the two opposing Christians alternately nodded and

shook their heads disapprovingly. The Hawk reached into his

ragged pocket and withdrew his walkie-talkie. "Calfhose, come in.

Come in, Calfhose!" (There was no need for a code name.)

"Don't shout, T.H., this thing's in my ear!"

"Our contingent's arrived-2'

"So have half the horny population of Washington! And

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 537

I do mean just half-the other half would like to scalp our girls!"

"Tell 'em to keep it up."

"How high? Are we up to garter belts?"

"Mat's not what I mean! Just keep up the chants and make the

drums louder. I need the next ten minutes."

"You got it, T.HY'

The Hawk ran back to the recessed doorway. "Another ten

minutes, Henry, and you make your entrance!"

"That longT'

"I have a few things to do, and when I return, we'll- go out

together."

"What do you have to do?"

"Eliminate some of the enemy."

"What?"

"Nothing to be concerned about. They're young and in-

experienced." MacKenzie raced out in his disheveled tramp's

clothing.

And one by one the four of the Ranger commandos in their

camouflage green and black fatigues were tapped on the shoulder

and subsequently rendered unconscious by an old hobo. Each was

dragged to a curb, his face doused with several ounces of Southern

Comfort, and laid to rest until revived.

However, and adding to Sir Henry's anxiety, the "ten minutes"

became twelve, then twenty, and finally, nearly a half hour. The

Hawk had spotted five buttoned-down, stern-faced federal agents

and six gentlemen whose squinting frowns and large foreheads

were barely above and perhaps even below the gorillas-in-the-mist.

He dispatched them in like fashion. "Amateurs!" whispered the

Hawk to himself. "What kind of commanders do they have?" ...

Whoever they were, they sure had the PR covered! Some son of a

bitch in a T-shirt kept his video camera rolling, focused on the

counterprotestors, obviously for the benefit of those who had given

them their orders. Ha! A joke! But every time Mac tried to grab the

bastard with the camera, he pi@oted like a goddamn ballet dancer

and disappeared in the crowds.

And crowds there were en masse, as Mac ran back to the

doorway. Sir Henry Irving Sutton was not there!

538 ROBERT LUDLUM

Where the hell was he? ... The actor was ten feet away at the edge

of the building, stunned, studying the melee at the steps of the

Supreme Court. Fights had broken out in front of the forty-odd

stamping, chanting, drumming, signjerking Wopotami protesters,

but the violent altercations seemed to have nothing to do with the

Indians.

"Oh, my God!" said Hawkins, his hand on Sutton's shoulder. "I'm

not as young as I used to be!"

"Neither am I. So what?"

"A few years ago, none of those bastards would have gotten up.

Or there were a hell of a lot more of them than I saw."

"Who?"

"Those clowns who are beating the shit out of one another in the

crowd of tourists."

And, indeed, they were. The buttoned-down collars were

screaming at the camouflaged commandos, who proceeded to

throw them over their shoulders, as the goons of the world, figuring

that any fight meant they had to be the victors or it was back to the

union shop, jumped in with brass knuckles and leaded blackjacks.

A full-fledged riot was not merely in the making, it was made. Angry

tourists, pummeled and tripped by the combatants, screamed; those

in mortal combat, bewildered by the lack of uniforms or any

identification of their enemies, kept hammering away at anything

that moved near them,and the idiot with the video camera kept

yelling "Glorioso!" as he pranced around.

"Go, Buttercup!" shouted Hawkins into his radio.

"Right, Daffodil, but we've got a problem," came the voice of

Colonel Cyrus.

"What problem?"

"We're okay with the religious trio, but we've lost the hooker and

the rube!"

"'Mat hqp@ened?"

"Pocahontas got mad when some female tourist threw a bunch

of firecrackers at the feet of the dancers and screamed something

in Greek. Our girl went after the bitch and Sam went after her!"

"Get them back, for God's sake!"

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 539

"Do you really want Judge Oldsmobile to go into that mess and

bash heads?"

"Damn it, we don't have much time! It's almost quarter to three

and we've got to get inside, change our clothes, and present

ourselves to the praetors of the chambers by three o'clock!"

"We may have a few minutes of flexibility there," interrupted

Cyrus. "Even the judges have to know about the, chaos out here."

"A Wopotami chaos, Buttercup! Let's say that's not to our

benefit, even though it's necessary."

"Hold it! Our chickenshit rube is bringing back Pocahontas-in a

harnmerlock, I n-tight add."

"Every once in a while that boy comes through! ... Detail the

situation and let's move!"

"Will do. When does our general walk outT'

"As soon as I see the rube and the princess cross the street,

separately, and make sure she goes first.... Where are the three holy

joes? I can't see 'em."

"You couldn't. They're on this side, making their way through

the riot. You'd think people would have more respect for religious

types. Desis One and Two have already clobbered a dozen yahoos,

and I swear I saw D-One rip off five watches!"

"Mat's all we need, a preacher-mugger!"

"That's what we got, Daffodil.... Out, here come our two

attorneys, Punch and Judy."

"Whip 'em into shape, Colonel. That's an order!"

"Listen, mass4, you're lucky I'm smarter th#n you or I'd take

offense."

"Huh?"

"Never mind, your instincts are right. Out."

The Hawk put his walkie-talkie back in his distressed overcoat

pocket@ and turned to Sutton. '@Only a couple of minutes now,

Henry. Are you ready?"

"Ready?" said the actor, controlled fury in his voice. "You idiot!

How can I possibly command the stage with that fracas going on?"

"Come on, Hank, you told me only a couple of hours ago that

this thing was practically 4offstage.'

540 ROBERT LUDLUM

"That was an objective analysis, not a subjective inter-

pretation. There are no small parts, only small players."

"Huh?"

"You're extremely insensitive where the arts are concerned,

MacKenzie."

"Yeah?"

"The lovely Jennifer is crossing the street-God, the wardrobe

mistress should be firedforthwith! She's a harlot!"

"That's the idea.... There goes Sam-"

"Where?"

"The guy in the checkered suit--2' "Wearing that ridiculous

hatT' 1Looks different, doesn't he?"

"He looks positively stupid!"

"That's what -we want. No smart lawyer there."

"Good Lord!" exclaimed the actor. "Did you see that?"

"See whatT'

"The minister in the gray suit-over there-the one climbing the

steps with a priest and what appears to be an old rabbi between

them."

"Oh, oh.... What happened?"

"I swear to you the vicar just punched a man and stole his

watch. Ripped it right off his wrist!"

"Damnation! I told the colonel that's all we needed, a preacher

who's stealing his flock blind."

"You know . . . ? Oh, my word, of course you do. The elderly

man in the rabbinical clothes is Aaron! And the two others are

those fellows from Argentina or Mexico!"

"Puerto Rico, but that's not important. They've reached the

top, they'll get in! ... You're on, General!"

Static erupted from the Hawk's radio; he yanked it out of his

pocket as the voice of Cyrus burst forth. "I'm crossing the street.

Wish me luck!"

"All systems are go, Colonel.... Calfhose, come in!"

"I'm here, -don't shout. What is it?"

"Cut the Indian stuff and go into the national anthem."

"Ours is better, you can sing it."

"Now, Johnny! Our general's going out!"

"You got it, paleface."

"This is it, Henry! Make it good!"

INE ROAD TO OMAHA 541

"I've never made it bad, you jackass," said the actor as he took

several deep breaths, pulled himself up to his full imposing height,

and strode out toward the rioting crowd and the sudden Wopotami

rendition of 'The Star-Spangled Banner' The chorus was, in a word,

spectacular. Voices rose to the heavens and the sight of forty

painted, weeping faces of America's original inhabitants had a

striking effect on the crowd. Even the fiercely aggressive comman-

dos, in deadly combat with the union-busting thugs, held their

adversaries off with straightarms and hands around throats. The

goons dropped their brass knuckles and their blackjacks, and all

stared at the tragic figures singing their hearts out in devotion to a

land that had been stolen from them. Many tears were starting to

cloud the eyes of the onlookers.

"Now is the winter of our discontent!" roared Sir Henry Irving

Sutton in his moststentorian voice as he climbed to the fourth step

and turned to the crowd. "Dogs may bark at us, but our vision is

clear. A dreadful wrong has been done, and we are here to right it!

To be or not to be, that is the question . . ."

"That son of a bitch can go on for an hour," whispered

MacKenzie Hawkins into his radio. "Where is everybody? Answer

by your numbers!"

"We are in dee big stone hall, but chu don' unnerstand, Heneral--

2'

"F ve got the princess and the rube with me," said Cyrus, "and"

you really don't understand!"

"What the hell are you two,talking about?"

"A little number you hadn't figured on," explained the mercenary.

"They've got metal detectors in here and if Jenny or Sam or Mr.

Pinkus passes 4ough, they'll set off every alarm in the building and

probably most of Washington."

"Oh, m'God! What's this country coming to?"

"I suppose I should say something like 'look to the root causes,'

but right now we're screwed."

"Not yet, Buttercup," yelled the Hawk. "Calfhose, are you on the

line?"

"Sure am, T.H., and we've also got a problem. Our peo-542 ROBERT LUDLUM

ple have had it with your friend Vinnie. I mean he's one big pain in

the ass."

"What's he done? You've only had him since this morning-what

could he do?"

"Kvetch, kvetch, kvetch, that's all he does! Then his friend shows

up, the little guy who talks like a chicken, and before you can say

Geronimo, we've got a dozen crap games going on all over the

motel with Joey something-orother running from room to room to

catch the action. Catch it, I might add, with very funny dice. He

cleaned up, and a lot of our braves were cleaned out."

"We don't have time for this!"

"Make it, T.H., while your general, who I've got to admit looks

like you, is still yelling his head off. Our boys and girls are mad as

hell, and they're not going to take it anymore. They want those two

scumballs out and their money back!"

"They'll get their money back fifty times over, I promise!"

"Holy shit! Do you see what I see, T.H.T' "I'm at the edge of this

building and there"s too much going en----"

"A bunch of guys in funny, green and black suits are breaking

through our ranks ... wait a second! Now some others---either

linebackers or apes in business suits-are joining them. They're

going after your general!"

"Execute Plan B, Number One priority! Get him out of. there! We

can't let him be hurt.... Start the chanting and the dancing. Now!"

"What about the two scumballs, Vinnie and the chicken?"

"Sit on 'ern!"

"We did that on the bus. The little guy bit Eagle Eyes' ass.

"Execute. I'm heading over!"

Colonel Tom Deerfoot, arguably the smartest officer in the United

States Air Force and certainly in line for the chairmanship of the

Joint Chiefs, was strolling through the streets of Washington,

showing his niece and nephew the

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 543

usual sights. As the trio turned right off Constitution Avenue toward

the Supreme Court, Deerfoot's ears picked up various familiar

sounds stored somewhere in his memory banks; chants that went

back to his childhood forty-odd years ago in upper New York State

near the Canadian border. Tom Deerfoot was a full-blooded

Mohawk, and the words and rhythms he heard were a slight

variation of his own tribe's language.

"Hey, Uncle Tommy!" cried his nephew, a boy of sixteen.

"There's a riot over there!"

"Maybe we should go back to the hotel," suggested his niece, a

young lady of fourteen.

"No, you're perfectly safe," said the uncle. "Wait here, I'll be

right back. Something crazy's going on." Deerfoot, as his name

implied, was a splendid runner, and', in less than thirty seconds he

reached the outskirts of the confused, rebellious crowd at the steps

of the Supreme Court. It was crazy! Indians-their Indians-were in

full war paint, stamping and dancing, and yelling their heads off in

some fanatical protest, the nature of which was hard to determine.

Then the memories came back, the legends passed down by the

old men, of the tribe, from one generation to another. The language

he was hearing was similar but different, the pounding feet of the

dancing chants imitative, yet not authentic. Good God, they were

the Wopotamis of old! The ancient stories abounded with tales of

how they stole everything in sight, so why not most of the language,

and they never left their tepees whenever it snowed! Colonel

Deerfoot bent over in laughter, holding his stomach so as not to

collapse to the pavement in hysterics. The wild frenzy of the

protesting chant with its highly suggestive dance movement was the

"'Celebration of the Wedding Night."

The Wopotamis never got anything right!

"Calfhose, hear me and execute!" whispered Hawkins harshly into

his radio as he threaded his way up through the dancers to the

entrance of the Court.

"What now? We got your general out, who kept scream-544 ROBERT LUDLUM

ing that he 'wasn't finished!' Little Joey's right, he's a fazoot!"

"Little Joey? ... Fazool?"

"Yeah, well we made a deal. He'll give back half the money, and

I collect twenty-per off his take for arbitration."

"Johnny, we're in a crisis!"

"No we're not, the two scumbuckets are in a bar down the street.

You know, Vinnie's red wig doesn't do anything for our image. Real

tacky, y'know what I mean?"

"Oh, Christ, you're talking like him!"

"Actually, he's not a.,bad guy when you get to know him. Did

you realize that ethnic Indian types are very respected in Las

Vegas? Nevada was big redskin territory, y 1know.11

"I'm talking about right now! Plan B, priority Two-4he peaceful

storming of the Court!"

"You're out of your facking mind! We could get shot!"

"Not if you all fall on your knees and do the wailing bit once .

you're inside. It's un-American to shoot anybody on his knees."

"Who says?"

"It's right there in the Constitution. You don't shoot anyone7on

his knees because he's praying and will die in a state of grace while

you get shafted by God."

"No kidding?"

"No fooling. Go!"

The Hawk replaced the radio in the pocket of his distressed

overcoat inside the great hall of the Supreme Court as Cyrus kept

Aaron, Jenny, Sam, and the two Desis off to the side, away from the

arched metal detectors. "Now listen up, folks," said the mercenary-

chemist. "When the Wopotamis crash in here, D-One and D-Two will

raise the cordons and you-Sam, Jenny, and Mr. Pinkus-will slip

under them and head to the second floor. Use the stairs or the

elevators, whatever, and go to the second closet on the right. Your

other clothes are there in a plastic bag. Change in the ladies' and

men's rooms and meet at the chambers at the west end of the hall,

I'll be waiting for you."

"What about Mac?" asked Devereaux. "If I know him, and

by now I think I do, he'll be at that

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 545

closet before you distributing the merchandise. Man, I wish that cat

had been running a few campaigns I've been in. I'm good, but he's

the max-I mean really evil!"

'That's a recommendation, Cyrus?" asked Pinkus.

"You better believe it, Rabbi. I'd follow him to hell and back

because I'd know I'd get back."

"Well, he never swam twenty miles in a hurricane---"

"Oh, be quiet, Sam.... Oh, oh, here they come!"

"Great Abraham!" whispered Aaron Piqkus, as a horde of

Wopotamis, their painted, waxed faces grotesquely weeping, burst

through the doors and instantly fell on their knees, singing in

unison, their heads raised to the ceiling, imploring their gods for

deliverance. (If anyone knew, and they did not, it was still the

"Celebration of the Wedding Night.")

The weapons of a dozen guards were unholstered, their guns

aimed at the heads of the protesters. None was fired. Somehow,

it was in the Constitution, or at least in the minds of the Supreme

Court police, that one did not fire on people who were in the act of

prayer. Instead, alarms were heard, not from the detectors but from

within the building itself In seconds additional guards, clerks, and

maintenance personnel streamed into the great hall. Pandemonium

prevailed.

"Now!" whispered Cyrus as Desis One and TWo raised the thick

velvet cords while Aaron, Sam, and Jenny swept underneath during

the insanity that faced the Supreme Court police and staffers.

And during this new and totally unexpected chaos, MacKenzie

Hawkins walked through the inferior metal detectors, thanked

nobody in evidence, and raced to the stairway that led to the -

second floor.

A problem. Naturally. Vinnie the Bam-Bam's Aunt Angelina the Go-

Go had confused the second closet on the right with an air-

conditioning machine room and for several precious minutes the

black plastic bag holding their clothes was not found. Suddenly,

there was a muted explosion that none of them really noticed.

"I've got it!" yelled Sam, in his excitement pushing a

546 ROBERT LUDLUM

lever and shorting out the air-conditioning. "Everything stopped,"

he added, bewildered by the cessation of the huge machinery.

"Who cares?" cried Jennifer, holding up Pinkus as the Hawk

came running down the corridor, throwing off his tramp's overcoat.

"There you are!" he roared. "The goddamned staircase was

locked from the outside!"

"How'd you get in?" asked Devereaux, pulling Redwing's clothes

out of the bag.

"I always carry a little plastic explosive-you never know." -

I thought I heard a boom," said the exhausted Pinkus.

"You did," admitted Hawkins. "Let's go."

"Where's the ladies' room?" asked Redwing.

"Down at that end," answered MacKenzie, pointing east,

"Where's our room?" asked Sam.

"Much nearer, right over there on the left."

They scattered, and suddenly Jennifer turned and shouted.

"Sam! Can I dress with you? We've only got three minutes and that

door's two football fields away!"

"Boy, have I been waiting for those words!"

The platinum-helmeted hooker raced back to the chicken-

breeding "Alby-Joe Scrubb" and together they followed Pinkus and

the Hawk into the restroom, Jenny ran into a stall as the men shed

their clothes and wigs for the more dignified attire they wore under

their outlandish cam-ex equipment.

Except for the Hawk. At the bottom of the large refuse bag,

layered neatly for easy removal, were the massive ftill ceremonial

garments of Thunder Head, chief of the Wopotamis, including the

longest, most flamboyant feathered headdress since the

Okeechobees greeted a misguided cosmetician named Ponce de

Le6n on the shores of the future Miami Beach. He swiftly removed

his tramp's trousers and soiled shirt, replacing them with his

buckskins and his beaded buffalo jacket. Then, under the stunned

gazes of Aaron and Sam, he carefully placed the gargantuan trail of

feathers over his head. It reached down all six feet, three inches to

the tiled floor.

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 547

A minute later Redwing walked out of the stall in a smart dark-

tailored suit, the image of a cool successful lady lawyer totally

unafraid of facing the male-dominated Supreme Court. What

momentarily terrified her, however, was the sight of MacKenzie

Hawkins. "Ahh!" she screamed.

"My sentiments exactly," said Devereaux.

"General, " added Pinkus, in the title a soft but earnest plea.

"This is not a costume parade at Pasadena's Rose Bowl. These

proceedings are among the most serious and venerable of our legal

system, and your outfit, as splendid as it is, is hardly in keeping

with the occasion."

"What's the occasion, Commander?"

"Only the future of the Wopotami tribe and a large segment of

the nation's defense structure."

"I'll go with the first part. Case closed. Besides, it's all I've got

unless you want me to walk in like a member - of Hoboes

Anonymous-which from another point of view isn't a bad idea."

"We'll go with the feathers, General," said Jennifer quickly.

"-That filthy overcoat's probably still in the hallway," mused

Hawkins. "There's no one up here to find it; everybody's

downstairs.... Think of it, a downtrodden indigent from a

disenfranchised people-in rags and maybe holding my stomach

from hunger."

"No, Mac!" yelled Sam. "They'd drag you out to be deloused."

"I suppose that's a possibility," said the Hawk, frowning. "This

is a heartless city."

"T'hirty-five seconds," announced Redwing, glancing at her

watch., "We'd better go."

"I can't imagine that a minute or two of tardiness would matter,"

said Aaron. "I mean, that's a veritable insuffection downstairs, the

masses storming the barricades, as it were."

"Not storming, Commander, but praying. There's a difference."

"He's right, Aaron, and that's not to our benefit," said Devereaux.

"As soon as the guards realize it's basically a peaceful

demonstration, the alert will be called off and all

548 ROBERT LUDLUM

the others will return to their posts.... You've been to these

examinations before, haven't you, bossT'

"Three or four times," replied Pinkus. "Authenticity is established

of the plaintiff's identity, as well as that of the attomey-of-record,

and those of whatever ami . ci . curt . ae are in attendance. Then

the arguments are presented."

"Who's at the chambers' doors, Commander?"

"An assigned guard and a law clerk, General."

"Bingo!" roared the Hawk. "One of 'em or both of 'em will have

our names on a list. They'll get on a radio and a dozen others will

come out of the woodwork and haul us away. We'll never get in!"

"You can't be serious," said Jennifer. "This is the Supreme

Court. No one can buy guards and law clerks to do that sort of

thing."

"Try billions in debt and red faces at the Pentagon, as well as

State, Justice, and several dozen leeches in Congress who vacation

on barrels filled with pork, against a few hundred thousand dollars

spread through these hallowed halls!"

"Mac's got a point," said Sam.

"Flesh is weak," observed Aaron.

"Let's get the hell out of here!" concluded Redwing.

They did, all four hastening with as much decorum as possible

toward the huge carved doors of the chambers. To their relief, they

saw the massive figure of CyMs standing in front of them; to their

astonishment, they also saw the two Desis, kneeling on either side

of him in their clerical garb.

"Colonel, what are my adjutants doing here?"

"General, what the hell are you wearing?"

"The mande of my tribal office, of course. Now, answer my

question!"

"It was Desi the First's idea. He said they'd gone this far, and

although they're not sure what it's all about, they figured you should

have additional protection. It was no problem for them to get up

here-it's an insane asylum in revolt downstairs."

"How sweet," said Jennifer. "How dumb!" crield Devereaux.

"They'll be spotted, ar-THE ROAD TO OMAHA 549

rested, and questioned, and our whole illegal entry will be front-

page news!"

"Chu don' unnerstand," said D-One, raising his head, his palms

still matched in prayer. "Mimero uno, we never say nodding.

Ntimero dos, we are misioneros who convert the poor bdrbarvs to

dee ways of Christ. Who can arrest such padres? Also, if dey try,

dey don' walk for a couple of months, and nobody goes inside but

chu."

"I'll be damned," mumbled Hawkins, affection in his eyes as he

looked down at his two aides-de-camp. "I brought you boys up

right. In dark operations one should always have secondary egress

personnel; they're usually the first to take the fire. We hesitate to

assign them because we know the odds, but you didn't hesitate to

volunteer. Fine show, men."

"Daz nice, Heneral," said D-Two, "but chu not be damned. I can

straighten dat out myself, not my amigo. Chu see, I'm cat4lico, he

ees only a protestante-it don' count."

The thundering sound of pounding footsteps in the long hallway

caused all of them to whip their heads around in shock. It

diminished quickly as the running figure of Roroan Z, a camcorder

in each hand, his shoulder-strappednylon pouch bouncing off his

hips, came rushing toward them, his WFOG T-shirt drenched with

sweat. "My dearest, most loving frenz!" he cried, stopping

breathlessly. "You could not believe how magnificent I was! I got

pictures of efferyone, including three peoples who were convinced

by my blade to say they were sent here by a 'general-attorney,' and

by a leetle man secretary in sonizing they call 'defance,' and a beeg

soccer player who told me he was only an ignorant represantive of

sonizing

he call zee 'Fanny Hill Society'-some society, we got better in

Serbo-Croatia." - "That's terrific!" said Sam. "But how did you

get up here?"

"Iss easy! Down in zee big marble hall, everybody iss dancing

and singing and laughing and crying like zee best of my, Gypsy

ancestors. Men in crazy clothes and painted faces are passing

around bottles of fruity juice and

550 ROBERT- LUDLUM

everybody is so happy it remind me of our camps in zee Moravian

mountains. It iss all glorioso!"

"Oh, my God!" exclaimed Jennifer. "The yaw-yaw stills!"

-fbe what, my dear?"

"Stills, Mr. Pinkus. The most intoxicating drink ever devised by

civilized or uncivilized man. The Mohawks say they invented it, but

we refinedit and made it twenty times more potent. It's totally

banned on the reservation, but if anyone could find those old stills

and put them to use it would be that bastard,'Johnny Calfhose!"

"I'd say at this moment he's totally legitimate, both in birth and

in timing," said Devereaux.

"So that's how you-we-people swindled the Western settlers,"

said the Hawk. - "That's irrelevant, General."

"Yes, but interesting-"

"Let's go in," said Cyrus, his voice now commanding. "That kind

of juice has two effects--oblivion and the sudden recognition of

remembered responsibilities which brings on panic, which we don't

need. I'll open the door." He did so and added. "You first, General."

"Quite correct, Colonel."

MacKenzie Hawkins strode into the large mahoganypaneled

room, his feathers flying, his supporting contingent following in

dignity, when suddenly the blaring, deafening sounds of a frenzied

Indian war chant, drums and voices, filled the sacrosanct enclosure.

Up on the semicircular dais, the previously. stem-faced judges

reacted in panic, as to a man and a woman, they fell below the

surface, one by one emerging, wild-eyed and terrified, but relieved

that no violence had ensued. Mouths gaped at the feathered

monster below them; they did not rise, but remained, their faces in

shock.

"What the hell have you done?" whispered Sam behind the

Hawk.

"Little trick I learned in Hollywood," answered MacKenzie under

his breath. "A soundtrack heightens a climax when the words don't

do it. I've got a triplevolume, high-impedance tape recorder in my

pocket."

"Shut the fucking thing off!"

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 551

"I will just as soon as those quivering pumpkins recognize that

Thunder Head, chief. of the Wopotamis, is in their presence and his

tribal position demands respect."

And once again, one by one, the stunned justices of the

Supreme Court rose slowly off their knees-no one, however; above

the chest. The music diminished and then stopped. The justices

looked questioningly at one another and returned to their chairs.

"Hear me, you wise elders of this nation's justice!" roared

Thunder Head, his voice echoing off the walls. "Your people have

been caught in an insidious conspiracy to defraud us of our rights

of proprietorship, to take from us our fields and our mountains and

our rivers that provide us with the necessities of life and survival.

You have confined us to the ghettos of barren forests and

unwatered ground from which nothing grows butthe most unwanted

weeds. Was this not our nation? Our nation in which a

thousand.tribes existed both in peace and war as you did with us,

and as you did with the Spanish, then the French and the English,

and then finally among yourselves? Have we no more privileges

than those you conquered and then forgave, absorbing them into

your culture? The blacks of this country have gone through two

hundred years of servitude; we have endured five hundred. Will you

now in this day and age permit that to continue?"

"Not me," said one justice quickly.

"Nor me," said another, even more quickly.

"Certainly not I," protested yet another, violently shak-

ing his head, his jowls jiggling.

"Oh, Lord, I've read that brief ten times and each time

I cried;,; saidthe lady justice.

"You're not supposed to do that," said the Chief Justice,

glaring at the woman, then instantly turning off the microphones so

the Court could confer in quiet.

"I love him," whispered Jennifer in Sam's ear. "Mac said it all in

a few sentences!"

"He never swam thirty-seven miles through a hurricane at sea!"

,

"Our general is very eloquent," whispered Pinkus. "He knows his

subject well."

"I'm not too happy about his black comparison," said

552 ROBERT LUDLUM

Cyrus also whispering. "Hell, his Indian brothers and sisters

weren't put in chains and sold, but his thrust was right."

"No, Cyrus, we weren't," added Redwing. "We were merely

slaughtered or driven to places where we starved to death."

"Okay, Jenny. Checkmate."

The microphones were turned on again. "Yes, well, ahem!" said

a justice from the right end of the Court. "As the distinguished

attorney from Boston, Counselor Pinkus, is in attendance with you,

we certainly accept your credentials, but are you aware of the

magnitude of your suit?"

"We want only what is ours. Everything else is negotiable-

anything else is intolerable."

"That wasn't necessarily clear in the brief, Chief Thunder Head,"

said the black justice, in his eyes a glaring disapproval as he picked

up a single page of paper. "Your attorney-of-record is one Samuel

Lansing Devereaux, is that coffect?"

"It is and I'm he, Sir," replied Sam, stepping forward beside

Hawkins.

"A hell of a brief, young man."

"Thank you, Sir, but in all fairness-"

"You"ll probably be shot in the head for it," continued the judge,

as if Devereaux had not spoken. "However, throughout I find an

underlying streak of vitriol, as if you were not so much interested in

justice but in vengeance."

"In retrospect, I was offended, Sir, at the injustice."

"You're not paid to be offended, Counselor," said a justice on the

left side. "You're paid to present the truth of your petition. Without

the many long-since-deceased alive to defend themselves, you've

made startling insinuations."

"Based on the evidentiary materials uncovered, Sir, they were,

indeed, insinuations, or, if you like, speculations. None, however,

were without corroborative historical foundation."

"You're a professional historian, Mr. Devereaux?" asked another.

"No, Mr. Justice, I'm a professional lawyer who can read and

follow lines of evidence, as I'm sure you can,

Sir.,,

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 553

"Nice of you to grant our colleague that ability," said yet another.

"I meant no offense, sir."

"Yet, in your own words, you're capable of being offended,

Counselor," observed the lady justice. "So I must assume it follows

that you can give offense."

"Where I believe it's justified, madam."

'That's what I was getting at, Mr. Devereaux, when I mentioned

that streak of vitriol in your brief. It didn't strike me that you wanted

anything less than abject surrender on the part of the government,

a total capitulation that would place an extraordinary burden on

every taxpayer in this country. A liability far beyond the nation's

ability to absorb."

"If the Court will allow me to interrupt," broke in Thunder Head,

chief of the Wopotamis, "my brilliant young counsel here has a

reputation for righteous indignation when he feels a cause is just-2'

"What?" whispered Sam, his, elbow crashing into Hawkins's ribs.

"Don't you dare-2'

"He dares to tread where angels fear to, but who among us can

fault the truly honest man who passionately believes in justice for

the disenfranchised? You, sir, stated that he's not paid to be

offended-you're only half right, sir, for he's not @ paid at all, merely

offended on his own time, no reward in the future for his passionate

beliefs.... And what are those beliefs that drive him so on our be-

half? Let me try to explain. Or better yet, rather than any

explanation on my part, have each of youvisit a d ozen reservations

on which our people live. See for yourselves what the white man

has done to our once proud Indian nations. See our poverty, our

squalor, our-yes, our impotence. Ask yourselves if you could live

that way without being offended. This land was our land, and when

you took it from us, we somehow understood that even a greater,

single nation could evolve, and that we would be a part of it.... But

no, that wasn't to be. You cast us off, shunted us aside, consigned

us to isolated reservations without any share in your progress. That

is documented history, and no one can dispute it.... Therefore, if our

learned counsel has filled his brief with a certain anger-554 ROBERT LUDLUM

,vitriol,' if you like-he'll go down in the chronicles of twentieth-

century law as the Clarence Darrow of our day. Speaking for the

victimized Wopotamis, we worship him."

"Worship, Chief Thunder Head, is no part of this Court," said the

large black justice, scowling. "One can worship his god, or a bull

or an icon or the newest guru, but it has no influence in a court of

law, nor should it have. We here worship only the law. We

adjudicate on the basis of provable fact, not on convincing

speculation derived from unsubstantiated records of over a hundred

years ago."

"Hey, now just wait a minute!" cried Sam. "I read that brief--2'

"We thought you wrote it, Counselor," interrupted the lady

justice. "Didn't you?"

"Yes-well, that's another story, but let me tell you, I'm one hell

of a lawyer and I've scrutinized that brief, and the historical

evidentiary materials that support it are damn near irre .futable!

Furthermore, if this Court disregards that evidence for pragmatic

concerns, you're a bunch of-of . . ."

"Of what,,CounselorT' asked a justice on the left side of the

bench.

"Goddamnit, I'll say it-cowaids!"

"I love you, Sam," whispered Jennifer.

The voluble astonishment of the entire Court was broken by the

stentorian tones of Chief Thunder Head, ak.a. MacKenzie Lochinvar

Hawkins. "Please, great deliberators of justice in this stolen land of

ours, may I speak?"

"What, you feathered termite?" shrieked Chief Justice Reebock

,

"You have just witnessed the outrage of an honest man, an

outstanding attorney who's willing to throw away a brilliant career

because he found the truth within the hidden transcripts that were

never meant to see the light of day. Such uncompromising men

have made this country great, for they faced the truth and

understood its majesty. The truth, both good and bad, had to be

accepted in all its glory and all the sacrifices it demanded, a shining

light that led a new nation into its own majesty, its own glory. All

he seeks, all we seek, all the Indian nations seek, is to

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 555

be a part of that grea t land we once called ours. Is that so difficult

for you?"

"I'liere are grave national considerations, sir," said the black

justice, his-scowl receding. "Extraordinary costs, severe taxes upon

the body politic that may not be tolerated. As many have said

before us, it is all too frequently an unfair world."

"Men negotiate, sir!" cried Thunder Head. -Fhe eagle does not

stoop to destroy the wounded sparrow. Instead, as our young

counsel phrased it, that mighty eagle soars through the skies, a

marvel of flight but far more important, a constant symbol of the

power of freedom."

"I said that--P

"Shut up! ... Oh, ye judges, let that wounded sparrow find a

measure of hope in the shadow of the great eagle. Do not cast us

out again for there is no place left for us to wander. Give us the

respect that is long overdue-give us the hope we need to survive.

Without it we die, our slaughter complete. Do yod wish this on your

hands-are they not bloody enough?"

Silence. Everywhere. Except:

"Hey, Mac, not bad," whispered Sam, from the left side of his

mouth. And:

"Magnificent!" whispered Jennifer from behind.

"Hold it, little filly,". replied the Hawk, in hushed tones, turning

his head. "Now comes the crunch, like when my buddy, General

McAuliffe, said 'Nuts' to the Krauts in the Battle, of the Bulge."

"What do you mean?" asked Aarop Pinkus.

"Listen up," whispered Cyrus. "I know-where the general's

coming from. Now he's got to sting 'em where it really hurts. Right

in their own bladders. That'll put the bullshit in concrete."

"It wasn't bullshit," protested Redwing. "It's the truth!"

"For them it's inescapable truthful bullshit, Jenny, because

they're between a rock and a very hard 'nother rock."

The microphones were turned off once again while the justices

conferred. At last, the seemingly emaciated judge from New

England spoke. "That was a moving peroration, Chief .Munder

Head," he said quietly, "but such accusa-556 ROBERT LUDLUM

tions could be made on behalf of numerous minorities everywhere.

History isn't kind to these people, much to my personal regret. As

one of our Presidents said, 'Life isn't fair,' but it must go on for the

betterment of the majority, not the unfortunate minorities who suffer.

We all wish with all our hearts that we could change that scenario,

but it's beyond our providence. The 'brutality of history' was the

way Schopenhauer described it. I loathe his conclusion but I

recognize its reality. You could open floodgates that might drown

whole communities across the country far, far in excess of the

litigants."

"Your point, sir?"

"Considering everything that's involved, what would be your

response if the Court in its wisdom decided against you?"

"Quite simple," replied Chief Thunder Head. "We would

declare war against the United States of America, knowing we'd

have the sympathy of our Indian brothers across the land. Many

thousands of white men would not survive. We would lose, but

so would you." '

"Holy shit," intoned the nasal-twanged Chief Justice Reebock.

"I have a house in New Mexico--2'

"The land of the warlike Apaches, sirT' asked the Hawk

innocently.

"Two and a half miles from the reservation," answered the

justice, swallowing.

"The Apache is our brother in blood. May the Great Spirit grant

you a swift and relatively painless death."

"What about Palm Beach?" asked another member of the Court,

his brows arched.

"The Seminoles are our cousins. They boil the blood of the

white man to remove its impurities-while the blood is still in the

body, of course;.it tenderizes the meat."

"Aspen ... T' said yet another, haltingly. "Who's thereT'

"The impetuous Cherokee, sir. They're even closer cousins, due

to the geography. However, we've frequently voiced disapproval

over their primary method of retribution. They strap their enemies

face down over killer anthills."

"Augh!" gasped Jennifer.

DE ROAD TO OMAHA 557

"Lake ... Lake GeorgeT' asked a pale-faced justice on the left, his

expression conveying sudden fear. "I have a lovely summer home

there."

"Upper New York State, sir? Need you ask?" MacKenzie lowered

his voice, as if to confirin the unspoken terror. 'The hunting and

burial grounds of the Mohawk?"

"Something like that ... I imagine."

"Our tribe is an offspring of the Mohawks, sir, but in all honesty,

we felt we had to flee and travel west, away from our closest blood

brothers."

"Why was that?"

"The Mohawk brave isperhaps the most ferocious and daring of

us all-but, well, I'm sure you understand."

"Understand ... what?"

"When provoked they torch their enemy's tepees at night, as well

as setting fire to all their enemy's property. It is a scorched earth

policy that we found too severe for our branch. Of course, the

Mohawks still consider us one with them. The ties of blood are not

easily washed away. Without question, they would join our

struggle."

"I think we should confer again!" snapped the Chief Justice, as

the microphones went silent and the Court, their heads whipping

back and forth, whispered among themselves.

"Mac!" hissed Redwing. "None of what you said is true! The

Apaches are from the Athabaskan people and are no part of us, and

the Cherokees wouldn't strap anybody over an anthill, that's

preposterous, and the Seminoles are the most peaceful tribe of all

the nations! ... The Mohawks, well, they like to shoot craps because

it brings in money, but they never attacked anyone who didn't attack

or steal from them first, and they certainly would never scorch the

land because then you can't grow anything on iti"

"Please, daughter of the Wopotamis," said the Hawk, standing

imperiously in his feathered headdress and looking down at

Jennifer. "What do the dumb palefaces know?"

"You're besmirching all the Indian nations!"

558 R6BERT LUDLUM

"What have these people been doing to us all these years?"

"us?"

The microphones crackled on again, and again the sniffling,

nasal voice of the Chief Justice shot out of the speakers. "Let the

record show that the Court will recommend to the government of

the United States that it will enter into immediate negotiations with

the Wopotami nation to seek a reasonable solution for past

malfeasances. Without argument, the Court upholds the plaintiff's

case. It will be announced forthwith. We are adjourned sine die!"

And then, without realizing that the microphone was still operative,

the Chief Justice added. "Someone call the White House and tell

Subagaloo to shove it! That son of a bitch got us into this mess, he

alwqys does. He probably had our goddamned air-conditioning

shut off, too. I'm sweating right down to the crack in my ass! ...

Sorry, dear."

News of the Wopotami triumph reached the lobby and the steps of

the Supreme Court in a matter of minutes. Chief Thunder Head, in

full regalia, strode down the marble corridor toward the great hall

expecting the adulation and the celebration of his people. A

celebration was, indeed, in progress, but what the celebration was

about appeared somewhat irrelevant to the celebrants. The huge

gallery was filled With men and women of all ages, -dancing,

prancing, from awkward waltzes to hard rock, the participants

whirling and wiggling to the recorded sounds of upgraded,

speeded-up versions of original Indian chants ft-om enormous

speakers. Even the guards, the tourists, and the D.C. police joined

partners hither and yon; the revered great hall was the scene of a

wild carnival.

"Oh, good God!" exclaimed Sunrise Jenniker Redwing as she

walked out of the elevator with Sam and Aaron on the first floor.

"It's a joyous occasion," said Pinkus. "Your people are rightfully

jubilant."

"My people? Those aren't my people!"

"What do you mean?" asked Devereaux.

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 559

"Look! Do you see a single Wopotami, a single painted face or

Indian skirt dancing or singing or shouting?"

"No, but I see a lot of Wopotamis out on the floor." "So do I,

but I can't understand what they're doing." "Well, they seem to be

going from group to group encouraging ... oh, oh, they're

carrying-"

"Paper cups! And plastic bottles-it's what Roman told us.

They're passing out yaw-yaw juice!"

"Slight correction," said Sam. 'They're selling it."

"I'll murder that Calfhose!"

"Second suggestion, Jennifer," said Aaron, chuckling.

"Instead, put him on your finance committee."

EPILOGUE

The New York DAILY NEWS

WOPS TAKE SAC

Washington, D.C., Friday-In a stunning decision, the Supreme Court

has upheld the legitimacy of a suit brought by the Wopotami tribe

of Nebraska against the government of the United States. The

Court, in a unanimous decision, held that a territory of several

hundred square miles in and around Omahh is the rightful property

of the Wopotamis, according to a treaty affirmed by the Forty-ninth

Congress in 1878. This land includes the headquarters of the

Strategic Air Command. The Senate and the House of Representa-

tives have been called back into emergency session and attorneys

from several thousand law firms have expressed interest in the

Forthcoming negotiations.

IL PROGRESSO rFALIANO

Questo giornale muove obiezone all'insensibilita' del Daily News

facendo uno di un'espressione

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 561

denigratoria. nella tastata di ieri. Noi non siamo dei

61 pellarossa salvaggi"!

(This newspaper takes great exception to the insensitivity

of the Daily News by the use of a derogatory ethnic slur in its

headline of yesterday., We are not redskinned savages!)

HOLLYWOOD VARIErY

Beverly Hills, Wednesday-Messrs. Robbins and Martin, top

execs at the William Morris Agency, have announced that a

major deal has been concluded between their clients, known

at this juncture only as six terrif actors who've been toiling for

the government as an antiterrorist unit for the past five years,

and Consolidated-Colossal Studios, Emmanuel Greenberg,

producer, for.a $100,000,000 pic starring their clients who'll be

'picting themselves. At the press conference held at Merv's

Place, that great legit character actor, Henry Irving Sutton,

made an appearance, stating that he was so moved by the

property he was coming out of retirement to play a major role.

Apparently Greenberg was also mucho moved-he intermittently

wept, too choked up to speak. Many at the press outing said

it was because he was so proud, but others maintained it was

due to the negotiations. Greenberg's former wife, Lady

Cavendish, was also present. She kept smiling.

THE NEW YORK T1h4ES

CIA DIRECTOR FOUND ALIVE RESCUED FROM AN ISLAND IN

THE DRY TORTUGAS

Miami, Thursday-A fishing yacht,the Contessa, owned by the

international industrialist Smythington-Fontini, spotted smoke

from a fire on the beach of an uninhabited out island in the Dry

Tortugas. As the Contessa drew in to shore, the crew and

passengers heard loud cries for help both in En-562 ROBERT LUDLUM

glish and Spanish and saw three men racing into the water,

giving thanks for having been found. One of the three was

Vincent F. A. Mangecavallo, director of the Central Intelligence

Agency, until this moming presumed lost at sea last week.

The presumption was based on the debris of the yacht Gotcha

Baby, on which Mr. Mangecavallo was a passenger and which

was wrecked in a tropical storm. The debris included several

personal effects of the director.

The story of survival is one of extraordinary heroilsm on the part

of Mr. Mangecavallo. According to the two Argentinean crew,

who've been flown back to their families in Rio de Janeiro, the

director literally dragged them through shark-infested waters by

their holding on to his legs as Mr. Mangecavallo swam to the

uninhabited island. Upon hearing the news, the President said, "I

knew my old navy buddy would pull through!" As previously noted,

the Navy Department had no comment other than to say,

"Mat's nice."

In Brooklyn, New York, one Rocco Sabatini, upon reading the

account of the rescue, said to his wife over the breakfast table.

"Hey, what' the hell's going on here? BamBam can't swim."

THE WALL STREET JOURNAL

RASH OF BANKRUPTCIES

SHOCKS FINANCIAL AMERICA

New York, Friday-Lawyers are scurrying throughout the corridors of

corporate America today, rushing in and out of executive suites and

board meetings, trying to put scores of conglomerate Humpty

Dumpties back together again. The conventional wisdom is that it's

impossible, as massive overextensions of debt incurred in the

recent frenzy of buyouts, and block stock purchases have left many

of the nation's industrial giants, both corporate and individual,

jointly and severally, with empty pockets,

TM ROAD TO ONAHA 563

red faces, and, in a number of cases, a sudden desire to leave

the country.

It was reported that at Kennedy International Airport one

such company president was heard to shout hysterically,

"Anywhere but Cairo! I will not clean urinals!" The significance

of the remark is unclear.

STARS AND STRIPES

THE NEWSPAPER OF THE U.S. ARMY

DEFECTORS FROM CUBA COMMISSIONED

Fort Benning, Saturday-In a first for the army, two highly

regarded former officers in Castro's military machine, experts

in sabotage, espionage, covert operation, intelligence, and

counterintelligence, have been commissioned with the ranks

of first lieutenant at this base, announced General Ethelred

Brokernichael, chief of Information and Public Affairs.

Desi Romero and his cousin, Desi Gonza ez, who defected

from "the intolerable situation in our homeland," will head up

a Special Forces unit being formed at Benning after linguistic

indoctrination and orthodontal treatment.

The army welcomes such brave and experienced men who

risked their lives to seek freedom and honor. In the words of

General Brokemichael, "A great motion picture could be made

of their exploits,

we should look into that."

Summer was fading, lethargy receding, each a prelude to the

energized games of autumn. The north winds grew chillier in, the

mornings, reminding the residents of Nebraska that soon they

would become colder, then very cold, finally numbing the skin;

another prelude, this, to the winter snows. However, such thoughts

were far from the minds of the Wopotami nation, for as the

negotiations with the United'States Government continued,

Washington saw fit to send two hundred and twelve state-of-the-art

trailer homes to the reservation, replacing the wigwams and the

564 -ROBERT LUDLUM

ramshackle structures previously used for communal gatherings

and shelter for many against the winter snows. Of course, what

Washington did not know was that several hundred perfectly

adequate cabins had been bulldozed only weeks previously and that

the tepees, or wigwams, were previously an unfamiliar sight on the

reservation except for a few around the tourists' gate. MacKenzie

Hawkins was not one to overlook either the subtleties or the

inconsistencies of observable terrain; no trained military man would.

it was all part of the strategy, and no bat-. tle was ever won without

a plan.

"I still can't believe it," said Jennifer, walking hand in hand with

Sam down a dirt road on the reservation, the field to their right

dotted with huge, extravagant trailers, each with a satellite television

dish attached to the roof. "It's all coming out the way Mac thought

it would."

"The negotiations are going well then?"

"Incredibly. If we frown simply because something's not clear,

they fuss and backtrack and make a better offer. Several times I've

had to interrupt the government people and,explain that the

financial aspects were perfectly satisfactory, I just wanted a legal

point clarified. One lawyer from the GAO shouted, 'You don't like

it, don't worry, it's out!"

"That's a nice position to be in."

"I was merely excusing myself to go to the ladies' room.

"Strike my comment. But why are you being so gentle?"

"Come on, Sam, what they've offered is so outrageously beyond

our wildest dreams it would be criminal to argue-,,

"Men why even negotiate? What are you after?"

"ro begin with, a legally binding guaranteed timetable for our

immediate needs, such as good housing, fine schools, paved roads,

a real, honest-to-God village with seed money for stores and shops

so decent livings can be made right here legitimately. Then maybe

a few goodies like a couple of community pools and clearing Eagle

Eye Mountain for ski lifts and a restaurant-but, of course, the

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 565

latter could be considered part of our commerce. It was Charlie's

idea; he loves to ski."

"How's he doing?"

"Darling, I diapered th at kid and now I sometimes feel almost

incestuous."

"Huh?"

"He's so much like you! He's quick and smart and, yes, funny---

@'

"I'm a very serious officer of the court," Devereaux broke in,

grinning.

"You're a lunatic and so is he, both your lunacies mitigated by

quick perceptions, irritating memories, and reducing complexities

to fundamental simplicities."

"I don't even know what that means."

"Neither does he, but you both do it. Did you know that he came

up with an insane, insignificant blemish on our history of

jurisprudence called non nomen amicus curiae when Hawkins filed

his brief? Who would ever know what it is, much less remember it?"

"I do. Jackson versus Buckley, 1827, one stole pigs from the

other--2'

"Oh, shut up!" Jenny released'his hand, then inimediately

grabbed it back.

"What's Charlie going to do when this is oveil"

"I'm making him the attorney-of-record for the tribe. He can run

the ski resort in winter at the same time."

"Isn't that terribly limiting?"

"Perhaps, but I don't think so. Someone has to be here to make

damn sure Washington lives up to every article of the reconstruction

agreement. When you're involved with building on this scale, you'd

better have a lawyer at your beck and call. Ever put an addition on

your house that was completed on time? And I should add that I've

placed heavy penalty clauses on every aspect of the construction."

"Charlie will have his hands full. What else did you get from

Dizzy City, as Mac calls it? I mean beside your "immediate needs'T'

"Very simple. An uninvadable, irrevocable trust based on

irreversible guarantees by the Treasury Department that the tribe

will receive a basic two million dollars a year, adjusted for inflation,

for the next twenty years."

566 ROBERT LUDLUM

"Mat's chickenshit, Jenny!" cried Sam.

"No, it's not, darling. If we can't make it by then, we don't

deserve to. We don't want a free ride, we, simply want the

opportunity to get in the mainstream. And knowing my Wopotarnis,

we'll take you palefaces for just about every nickel you've got. If I

also know my tribe, and surely I do, in twenty years your President

will probably have a surname like 'Sundown' or 'Moonbeam,' take

my word for it. We didn't refine the yaw-yaw juice for nothing-,,

"And now what?" asked Devereaux.

"And now what What?"

"What about us?"

"Did you have to bring that up?"

"Isn't it about time?"

"Of course it is, but I'm afraid."

"I'll protect you."

"From whom? You?"

"If need be. Actually, it's very simple, and as you've pointed out,

Charlie and I can reduce complex matters into simple issues anyone

can understand."

"What the hell are you talking about, SamT' "Reducing a

complicated situation into a very simple problem."

"What, may I ask, is that?"

"I refuse to live the rest of my life without you, and somehow I

get the idea that you might feelthe same way."

"Say there's a grain of truth in what you say, just a grain, even

a large kernel, how is it possible? I'm in San Francisco and you're

in Boston. That's not a good arrangement."

"With your credentials, Aaron would hire you in a minute at a

terrific salary."

"With your record, Springtree, Basl and Karpas of San Francisco

would make you a partner before me."

"I could never leave Aaron, you know that, but you've already-left

one firm in Omaha. So you see it's been reduced to a simple

either/or, based on the assumption that we'd both take the gas pipe

if we couldn't be together."

"I didn't go that far."

"I did. Can't youT'

THE ROAD TO OMAHA 567

"I refuse to answer on the grounds that it may incriminate me."

"Still, I have a solution."

"What is it?"

"Mac gave me a medallion of his old division from World War

Two, the one that broke through the Bulge, and I always keep it on

me for good luck." Devereaux reached into his pocket and withdrew

an outsized, lightweight, ersatz coin with the face of MacKenzie

Hawkins etched in the center. "I'll flip it up and let it land on the

road. I'll take heads, you take tails. If it's tails, you'll go back to

San Francisco and we'll both suffer the tortures of the damned. If

it's heads, you'll come to Boston with me.

"Agreed. " The medallion spun end-over-end in the air and fell

on the dirt road. Jennifer bent down. "Good heavens, it's heads."

She started to pick up the coin when Sam's hand clamped over

hers.

"No, Jenny, you mustn't lean over like that!"

"Like what?"

"It's very bad for your sacroiliac!" Devereaux pulled her up while

clutching the medallion in his right hand.

"Sam, what are you sayingT'

"The husband's first job is to protect his wife."

"From what?"

"Bad sacroiliacs." Devereaux manipulated the medallion in his

fingers and scaled it into the pasture on their left. "I don't need any

lucky pieces anymore," he said, embracing Jenny. "I have you, and

that's all the luck I ever wanted or needed."

"Or maybe you didn't want me to see the other side of the coin,"

whispered Redwing into his ear while softly biting it. "The Hawk

gave me one of those in Hooksett. His face is on both sides. If you

had said tails, I would have killed you."

"Wanton bitch," whispered Sam, nibbling her lips like a

chimpanzee finding peanuts. "Is there a secluded field we might

wander into?"

"Not now, Rover, Mac's expecting us."

"He's out of my life; this is the end!"

568 ROBERT LUDLUM

"I sincerely hope so, my darling, but being a realist, I wonder for

how long?"

They rounded the corner of the dirt road where the huge

multicolored, multilayered tepee of imitation animal skins flapped

down from the apex to the widespread stakes in the ground. Smoke

emerged from the opening above.

"He's there," said Devereaux. "Let's make the goodbyes quick

and simple, like in nice-to-know-you-stay-thehell-away-from-our-

lives!"

"That's a bit harsh, Sam. Look what he's done for my people."

"It's all a game for him, Jenny, don't you understand that?"

"Then it's a good game he plays, darling, can't you see that?"

"I don't know, he always confuses me-@',

"Never mind," said Redwing. "He's coming out. Good Lord, look

at him!"

Sam stared in disbelief. General MacKenzie Lochinvar Hawkins,

a.k.a. Thunder Head, chief of the Wopotamis, bore absolutely no

resemblance whatsoever to either alleged person. There was not

an inkling of the military, much less the majesty of the American

Indian; in fact, there was no dignity properly attributed to either

image. Instead, regality had been replaced by gaucherie, the flam-

boyance of the shallow man, which somehow was more solid, more

convincing. Partially covering his bristling, close-cropped gray hair

was a yellow beret, and below li@'s strong nose a thin, blackened

mustache, and below that a purple ascot that was in flaming

contrast to his pink silk shirt, which was color-coordinated with-his

tight-fitting bright red trousers, the cuffs lopping over a pair of white

Gucci loafers. Naturally, the suitcase he'was carrying was a Louis

Vuitton.

"Mac, who the hell are you supposed to beT' yelled Devereaux.

"Oh, there you two are," said the Hawk, without answering the

question. "I thought I'd have to leave without seeing you. I'm in a

dreadful huffy."

" 'A dreadful hurry'?" said Jennifer.

THE ROAD TO OMAHA S69

"NW, who are you?"

"Mackintosh Quartermain," replied the Hawk sheepishly,

"veteran of the Scots Grenadiers. It was Gin-Gin's idea."

"What?"

"Off to Hollywood," mumbled Hawkins. "I'm a coproducer

and technical adviser on Greenberg's flick." ,"Flick' ... T'

"Just to keep an eye on Manny's financial imagination ... and

maybe a few other things, if they crop up. Hollywood's in a

mess, you now. It nee some c thinking innovators.... Look, it was

terrif seeing you two sweethearts, but I'm really in a hurry. I'm

meeting my new adjutant-assistant--Colonel Roman Zabritski, late

of the Soviet military cinema, at the airport. Our plane goes on to

the Coast."

"Roman ZT' asked a stunned Redwing.

"What happened to CyrusT' said Sam.

"He's somewhere in the south of France, checking on one of

Frazier's chAteaus. It was vandalized."

"I thought he wanted to go back to the laboratory."

"Oh, well, what with his prison record and everything ... well,

Cookson's buying a chemical plant.... Look, it was great you dolls

came out to see me, but I've really got to dash-bash. Give us a

kiss, sweetheart, and if you ever want a screen test,. you know

where to jingle me." The astonished Redwing accepted the Hawk's

embrace. "And you, Lieutenant," continued MacKenzie, throwing his

arms around Devereaux, "you're still the best legal skull on the

planet, except maybe for Commander Pinkus and the little lady

here."

"Mac!" cried Sam. "Don't you see? You're starting all over again!

There'll be nothing left of Los Angeles!"

"No, not true, son, not true at all. We'll bring back the glory

days." The Hawk picked up his Louis Vuitton suitcase, stifling the

emergence of tears. "Ciao, babes," he said, quickly turning away

and hurrying up the dirt road, a man with a mission.

"Why do I have the idea that sometime, somewhere in Boston,

the telephone will ring and at the other end will be

570 ROBERT LUDLUM

Mackintosh Quartermain?" said Devereaux, his arm around

Jennifer as they watched the figure of the Hawk grow smaller in

the distance.

"Because it's inevitable, my darling, and we wouldn't have it

any other way."

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.

ROBERT LUDLUM is the author of seventeen novels published in

thirty-two languages andforly countries with worldwide sales in

excess of two hundred million copies. His works include The

Scarlatti Inheritance, The Osterman Weekend, The Matlock Paper,

The Rhinemann Exchange, The Gemini Contenders, The Chancellor

Manuscript, The Road to Gandolfo, The Holcroft Covenant, The

Matarese Circle, The Bourne Identity, The Parsifal Mosaic, The

Aquitaine Progression, The Bourne Supremacy, The Icarus Agenda,

Trevayne, The Bourne Ultimatum, and The Road to Omaha. He lives

with his wife, Mary, in Florida

His name defines the international thriller. And now Robert Ludlum

crafts his most suspenseful, surprising novel since The Bourne

Identity-a multileveled, deftly plotted story of a brilliant and

seductive woman who lives singlemindedly for vengeance; the

powerful, shadowy forces that support her; and the one man who

must find her.

Amaya BaJaratt is beautiful, deadly, and elusive-an accomplished

assassin who has made her final vow: Revenge.

Tyrell Hawthorne was a naval intelligence officer--one of the best-

until the rain-swept night in Amsterdam when he learned his wife

was dead, a victim of the lethal games spies play.

Now Hawthorne is about to be drawn into the deadliest game of all.

For the key to a chilling conspiracy waits on one of the Caribbean's

hundreds of uncharted islands. No one knows these deceptive

waters better than 'rye Hawthorne. No one--except the ingenious

Bajaratt herself-has mastered the moves of the deadly hunt more

cunningly than be. No one else dan stop her!

Lightning-swift action, gale-force pace, the deft layering of

deception and disguise-all the striking hallmarks of the classic

Ludlum adventure combine in The Scorpio Illusion.

Now ... turn the page for an exciting preview of

The Scorpio Illusion, coming to bookstores everywhere

on May 19, 1993!

Somewhere in the Caribbean

Sundown. The distressed sloop, its mainmast shattered by

lightning, its sails ripped by the winds of the open sea, drifted into

the small, quiet beach of a private island in the Lesser Antilles.

During the past three days, before the dead calm descended, this

section of the Caribbean had suffered not only a hurricane with the

force of the infamous Hugo, but sixteen hours later a tropical storm

whose bolts of lightning and earth-shaking thunder had set fire to

a thousand palms and caused a hundred thousand residents of the

island chain to look to their gods for deliverance.

The Great House on this island, however, had survived both

catastrophes. It was made of iron-bolted stone and stee ' I and built

into the huge rising hill on the north side, impenetrable,

indestructible, a fortress. That the nearly destroyed sloop had

managed to survive and find its way into the sweeping rock-hewn

cove and the small beach was a miracle, but it was an ominous mir-

acle, not of her God's making, that caused the tall black maid in a

white uniform to rush down the stone steps to the water's edge and

fire four shots into the air from the gun in her hand.

"Gdnja!" she yelled. "No lousy ganja here! You go away!"

The lone figure kneeling on the deck of the boat was a woman

in her mid-thirties. Her features were sharp, her long hair stringy

and unkempt, her shorts and halter abused by the previous weather

... and her eyes enigmatically cold as she rested her powerful rifle

on the gunwale and peered through the telescopic sight; she

squeezed the trigger The loud report shattered the stillness of the

island cove, echoing off the rocks and the

hill beyond. Instantly the uniformed maid fell facedown into the

gently lapping waves....

MIA London

"Our field man in Dominica flew north and confirms the

informition the French sent us." The chairman of Britain's foreign

service intelligence approached a square table in the center of the

conference room. Covering the surface was a large, thick volume,

one of hundreds in the bookshelves, that held detailed cloth maps

of specific areas of the world. The gold lettering across the black

cover of the volume on the table read: The Cari6bean-Windward and

Leeward Islands. The Antilles. British and U.S. Virgin Territories.

"Index some place called the Anegada Passage, would you please?"

he asked his associate.

I "Of course." The other man in the Strategy Room moved quickly as

he noticed the frustration of his superior; it was not due to the

situation but to his rigid right hand that would not obey his

commands. The associate flipped the heavy cloth pages to the map

in question. "Here it is.... Good God, no one could have traveled so

far in those storms, not with a craft that size."

"Perhaps she didn't make it." "Make what?"

"Wherever she was going."

"From Basse-Terre to the Anegada during those three days? I'd

think not. She'd have to have been in open water more than half

the time to reach it so quickly."

"That's why I,asked you here. You know the, area quite well,

don't you? You were posted there."

"If there's such a thing as an expert, I suspect I qualify. I was

the control for nine years, based on Tortola, and flew all over the

damned place-rather a pleasant life, actually. I still stay in touch

with old friends."

"Yes, I've read your file. You did outstanding work."

"The cold war was on my side and I was fourteen years younger.

I wouldn't get behind the controls of a dual--engine over those

waters now on a heavy bet."

"Yes, I understand," said the chairman, bending over the map.

"So it's your expert opinion that she couldn't have survived."

" 'Couldn't' is an absolute. Let's say it's highly unlikely, damn

near impossible."

"That's what your counterpart at the Deuxi6me thinks. He's

convinced she went down at sea."

"In this case, his opinion is probably justified.... But, if I may,

since you've asked me up here for whatever I can offer, might I ask

a question or two?"

"Go ahead."

"This BaJaratt woman in obviously somewhat of a legend in the

Baaka Valley, but I've been poring over those lists for the past

several years and I don't recall ever having seen the name. Why is

that?"

"Because it's not her own, not the Bajaratt," interrupted the head

of MI-6. "It's the name she gave herself years ago, the name she

thinks preserves her secrets, since she believes no one has any

idea where it came from or who she really is. On the assumption

that we might be infiltrated, and in the projection that she could be

on to larger things, we've kept that infonnation in our black files."

"ph, yes, yes, I see. If you know a false name and its origins,

meanin ' the real one, you can trace a back9

ground, build a personality, even a pattern of predictability. Who

exactly is she, what is she?"

"One of the most accomplished terrorists alive."

",krab?"

'No.

"Israeli?"

"No, and I wouldn't broach that speculation too broadly."

"Nonsense. The Mossad has a broad spectrum of activities....

But, if you will, please answer my question. Just why is this woman

such a priority-red?"

"She's for sale."

"She's what ... T'

"She goes wherever there's unrest, rebellion, insurgency, and

sells her talents to the highest bidder-with remarkable results, I

might add."

"Forgive me, but that sounds balmy, old man. A lone woman

walks into caldrons of revolt and sells advice? What does she do,

take out advertisements in the newspapers?lf

"She doesn't have to, Geoff," replied the chairman of MI-6,

returning to the conference table and sitting down somewhat

awkwardly as his left hand unnaturally had to adjust the chair.

"She's a scholar where destabilization's concerned. She knows the

strengths and weaknesses of all the warring factions, as well as the

leaders and how to reach them. She has no allegiances, moral or

political. Her profession is death. It's as simple as that. . .

Saba

Hawthorne hastened his pace, finally breaking into a run. He

had to get back to Gorda.... Where the hell

was the plane! It had been secured to the pier; the pilot and the

dock boys had assured him that it would remain in place until he

returned.

Then he saw the signs, hastily painted and nailed to posts'

several spelled correctly, most not. DANGER. PYLON REPAIRS IN

PROGRESS. BOATERS STAY WAY TILL DAMAGE FI)CED.

For God's sake it was nearly six o'clock in the evening, the

waters darkening, the visibility underneath as opaque as night

because of the lengthening. shadows of the Caribbean sun. No one

repaired pylons under those conditions; a pier could collapse,

burying a scuba metal-man under its weight without the light

filtering down from above to warn him. Tyrell ran through the

demarcation line to the single machine shop far to the right of the

extended dock, its conveyor rail and heavy winches leading down

to the water. There was no one inside. It,was crazy! Men working

underwater at this hour without backups, without oxygen and

medical equipment in case of an accident? He raced out of the shop

and down to the beach that led to the steps of the pier, aware that

a cloud'cover blurred the rays of the setting sun. How could

anyone work this way? He had repaired hulls under similar

conditions, but only with backups and with- lines held by those

above, prepared to yank him up in an emergency. He climbed the

steps and cautiously walked out on the pier. The clouds

intercepted the sun, darker clouds now, rain clouds.

His first instinct was to raise the metal-men and, with the

authority of the military officer he had been, to yell at everyone and

tell them how stupid they were, then dismiss them for the night.

His authority diminished with each step he took; there -were no

lines, no bubbles in the darkened water.

There was no one on the pier or beneath it. The marina was

deserted.

Suddenly the dock's floodlights atop aluminum poles switched

on, the beams blinding. Then a hot icecold slice in his left shoulder

was accompanied by a loud gunshot; he gripped the wound and

plunged over the pier into the water, hearing a staccato volley of

gunfire as he dove beneath the surface. For reasons he could

never explain, he let his panic guide him. He swam underwater as

long as his breath would permit to the nearest yacht he could recall.

He surfaced twice, only his face, to inflate his lungs, and proceeded

until he felt the hard wood of a boat's hull. He surfaced again in its

deepest waterline, breathed again, and swam under to the other

side. He raised himself on the gunwale and looked over at the pier,

now half in blurred, streaked sunlight, half under the glare of

floodlights. His two would-be killers were crouching at the end of

the dock, peering into the water. Suddenly one leaped into a motor-

driven skiff and started the engine, instructing his associate to

release the line and jump in, his 1upo at the ready. They

crisscrossed the small harbor, an AK-47 and the shotgun-of-thewolf

in their hands.

Hawthorne slithered over the gunwale of the yacht and found

what he expected to find in the nylon straps near the fishing tender-

a simple scaling knife. He slipped back over the side and into the

water; his shoes having disappeared, he removed his trousers,

trying to remember where they sank should he survive. He then

wriggled his tan guayabera jacket loose, oddly thinking that

Geoffrey Cooke would have to pay for his money, his papers, and

his lost apparel. He swam into the darker waters, again suddenly

aware that the driver of the small boat held a powerful flashlight

that

he kept roving over the sundown waters. Hawthorne dove deep in

the path of the skiff until he heard the motor above him.

Timing his moves, he lunged to the surface directly behind the

skiff and grabbed the pivoting metal casing of the engine, his head

to the side, his hand in shadows, preventing the rudder from

turning. Furious, and confused by the fact that the motor did not

respond to his commands, the skipper leaned over the stem less

than a foot above the wake. His eyes. bulged at the sight Tyrell's

hand as if it were some monstrous tentacle from the deep. Before

he could scream, Hawthorne plunged the blade of the scaling knife

into the killer's neck, Tye's left hand surging up, gripping his would-

be assassin's throat so that no sound emerged that carried above

the engine. He yanked the corpse over the stem into the water and,

carefully moving the propeller to far starboard, climbed into the

killer's seat as the man in front obsessively moved his flashlight

back and forth, scouring the watery path ahead. Hawthorne

grabbed the AK-47 and spoke clearly.

"The waves splash a lot at this hour and the motor's pretty loud.

I suggest you put down your weapon or join your friend. You, also,

would make a nice tenderloin for our sharks. They're really

benevolent creatures; they prefer what's already dead."

"Che cosa? Impossibile!"

"That's what we're going to talk about," said Tyrell, heading out

to sea.

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