THE ROAD TO GANDOLFObyRobert LudlumBantam Books by Robert Ludlum Ask your bookseller for the hooks you have missed THE BOURNE IDENTITY THE CHANCELLOR MANUSCRIPT THE HOLCROFT COVENANT THE MATARESE CIRCLE THE OSTERMAN WEEKEND THE- ROAD TO GANDOLFO THE SCARLATTI INHERITANCE          The Road to          Gandolfo        Robert Ludlum              ~        BANTAM BOOKSTORONTO-NEW YORK LONDON SYDNEY                   This low~pricedBantam Bookhas been completely reset in a type facedesigned for easy reading, and was printedfrom new plates. It contains the completetext of the original hard-cover edition.   NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN Oh41TTED.        THE ROAD TO GANDOLFOA Bantam Book I published by arrangement with             the Author  Bantam Export editionlApril /982     Bantam edition I June /982All rights reserved.Copyright O /975 by Michael Shepherd.Cover art copyright ID /982 by Bantam Books, Inc.This book may not be reproduced in whole or in pan, by -     mimeograph or any other means, withoutpermission.For information address: Bantam Books, Inc.         ISBN 0~553-20531-5Published simultaneously in the United States and CanadaBantam Books are published by Bantam Hooks, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words "Bantam Books" and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent andTrademarkOffice and in other countries. Marca Registrada. BantamBooks, Inc., 666 Fifih Avenue, New York, New York 10103.PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA             098765432 1                  7 ~           For John Patrick     A distinguished writer and an   honored man whose idea this was. ,                                 .    A WORD FROM THEAUTHORThe Road to Candolfois one of those rareif insane accidentsthat can happen to awriter perhaps once ortwice in his lifetime.Through divine ordemonic providence aconcept is presentedthat fuels the firesof his imagination. Heis convinced it istruly a staggeringpremise which willserve as the spine ofa truly staggeringtale. Visions of onepowerful scene afteranother parade acrosshis inner screen, eachexploding with dramaand meaning and. . .well, damn it, they'rejust plain staggering!  Out come reams ofpaper. The typewriteris dusted and pencilsare sharpened; doorsare closed and headymusic is played todrown out the soundsof man and naturebeyond the cell ofstaggering creation.Fury takes over. Thepremise which will bethe spinal thunderboltof an incredible talebegins to take onsubstance ascharacters emerge withfaces and bodies,personalities andconflicts. The plotsurges forward,complex gears mesh andstrip and make a hellof a lot ofnoise drowning out thework of true masterslike that Mozartfellow andwhat's-his-nameHandel.But suddenly somethingis wrong. I meanwronglThe author isgiggling. He can'tstop giggling.  That's horrible!Staggering premisesshould be accordedawed respect. . .heaven knows notchuckles!  But try as he may thepoor fool telling thetale is trapped,bombarded by a fugueof voices allrepeating an old arsantigua phrase.You've-got-to-be-kidding.  Poor fool looks tohis muses. Why arethey winking? Is thatThe Messiah he'shearing or is itMairzy-Dotes? Whathappened to thestaggeringthunderbolt? Why is itspiralingout of whack in a clear blue sky,hiccuping its way to a diminished. .. giggle?  Poor fool is bewildered; he givesup. Or rather, he gives in because bynow he's having a lot of fun. Afterall, it was the time of Watergate, andnobody could invent that scenario! Imean it simply wouldn't play inPeoria. At that point-in-time, thatis.  So poor fool plunges along, enjoyinghimself immensely, vaguely wonderingwho will sign the commitment papers,figuring his wife will stop thembecause the oaf does the dishes nowand then and makes a damn goodmartini.  The ocavre is finally presented and,most gratefully for poor fool, thecloseted sound of laughter is heard.Followed by screams of revolt andthreats of beyond-salvage terminationwith extreme-prejudice.'Not under your namer"Time mandates change, and change iscleansing.  Now it's under my name, and I hopeyou enjoy. I did have a lot of fun.                          RobertRadium Connecticut Shore, 19~32   A LARGE PART OF THIS STORY TOOKPLACE A WHILE BACK. AND QUITE A BIT OF IT TOMORROW.    SUCH IS THE POETIC LICENSE OF          LITURGICAL DRAMA.                             paBehind each corporationmust be the singularforce, or motive, thatsets it apart from anyother corporatestructure and gives itits particular identity.Shepherd s Laws of Economies:   Book XXXII, Chapter 12   ..          PROLOGUEThe crowds gathered inSt. Peter's Square.Thousands uponthousands of thefaithful waited inhushed anticipationfor the pontiff toemerge on the -balconyand raise his hands inbenediction. Thefasting and theprayers were over, theFeast of San Genarrowould be ushered inwith the pealing ofthe twilight Angelusechoing throughout theVatican. And the bellswould be heardthroughout all Rome,heralding merrimentand good feeling. Theblessing of PopeFrancesco the Firstwould be the signal tobegin.  There would bedancing in thestreets, and torchesand candlelight andmusic and wine. In thePiazza Navonna, theTrevi, even sectionsof the Palatine, longtables were heapedwith pasta and fruitand all manner ofhomeproduced pastries.For had not thispontiff, the belovedFrancesco, given thelesson? Open yourhearts and yourcupboards to yourneighbor. And his toyou. Let all men highand low understandthat we are onefamily. In these timesof hardship and chaosand high prices, whatbetter way to overcomebut to enter into thespirit of the Lord andtruly show love forthy neighbor?  For a few days letrancors subside anddivisions be healed.Let the word go forththat all men arebrothers, all womensisters; and alltogether brothers andsisters and very mucheach others' keepers.For but a few days letcharity and grace andconcern rule thehearts of everyone,sharing the sweet andthe sad, for there isno evil that canwithstand the force ofgood.  Embrace, raise thewine; show laughterand tears and acceptone another inexpressions of love.Let the world 3  ~..see there is no shame-in theexultation of the spirit. And oncehaving touched, having heard thevoices of brother and sister, carryforth the sweet memories beyond theFeast of San Genarro, and let life beguided by the principles of Christianbenevolence. The earth can be a betterplace; it is up to the living to makeit so. That was the lesson ofFrancesco 1.  A hush fell over the tens ofthousands in St. Peter's Square. Anysecond now the figure of the belovedPapa would walk with strength anddignity and great love onto thebalcony and raise his hands inbenediction. And for the Angelus tobegin.  Within the high-ceilinged Vaticanchambers above the square, cardinals,monsignors, and priests talked amongthemselves in groups, their eyescontinuously straying to the figure ofthe pontiff seated in the corner. Theroom was resplendent with vividcolors: scarlets, purples, immaculatewhites. Robes and cassocks and headpieces  symbols of the highest officesin the Church swayed and were turned,giving the illusion of a constantlymoving fresco.  And in the corner, seated in a wingchair of ivory and blue velvet, wasthe Vicar of Christ, Pope Francesco 1.He was a plain man of wide girth, andthe strong yet gentle features of acampagnuolo, a man of the earth.Standing beside him was his personalsecretary, a young Black priest fromAmerica, from the archdiocese of NewYork. It was like Francesco to havesuch a papal aide.  The two were talking quietly, thepontiff turning his enormous head, hishuge, soft brown eyes looking up atthe young priest in serene composure.  "Mannaggi'!" whispered Francesco,his large peasant hand covering hislips. "This is crazyl The entire citywill be drunk for a weekl Everyonewill be making love in the streets.Are you sure we have it right?"  ''1 double-checked. Do you want toargue with him?" replied the Black,bending down in tranquilsolicitousness.  "My God, not He was always thesmartest one in the villages!"A cardinal approached the pontiffsschair ard leaned                   4                   forward. "Holy Father, it is time. Themultitudes await you," he said softly."Who ? Yes, of course. In a minute, mygood friend."  The cardinal smiled under hisenormous hat, his eyes were filledwith adoration. Francesco alwayscalled him his good friend. "Thankyou, Your Holiness." The cardinalbacked away.  The Vicar of Christ began humming.Then words emerged. "shegelida...manina...a rigidoesanime...ah, la, la-laa tra-la, la,la-laaa...."  "What are you doing?" The youngpapal aide from the archdiocese of NewYork, Harlem district, was visiblyupset.  "Rodolfo's aria. Ah, that Puccini!It helps me to sing when I amnervous."  "Well, cut it out, man! Or pick aGregorian chant. At least a litany."  "I don't know any. Your Italian'sgetting better, but it's still not sogood."  "I'm trying, brother. You're not theeasiest to learn with. Come on, now.Let's go. Out to the balcony."  "Don't push! I go. Let's see, Iraise the hand, then up and down andright to left "  "Left to right!" whispered thepriest harshly. "Don't you listen? Ifwe're going on with this honkeycharade, for God's sake learn thefundamentals!"  "I thought if I was standing,giving not taking I should reverse it."Don't mess. Just do what's natural.""Then I sing.""Not that natural! Come on."  "All right, all right." The pontiffrose from his chair and smiledbenignly at all in the room. He turnedonce again to his aide and spokesoftly so that none could hear. "Incase anyone should ask, which one isSan Genarro?"  "Nobody will ask. If someone does,use your standard reply."  "Ah, yes. 'Study the scriptures, myson.' You know, this is all crazy!"  "Walk slowly and stand up straight.And smile, for God's sake! You'rehappy."5"I'm miserable, you African!"  Pope Francesco I, Vicar of Christ,walked through the enormous doors outonto the balcony to be greeted by athunderous roar that shook the veryfoundations of St. Peter's. Thousandsupon thousands of the faithful raisedtheir voices in exultation of thespirit."11 Papa! 11 Papa! 11 Papa!"  And as the Holy Father walked outinto the myriad reflections of theorange sun setting in the west, therewere many in the chambers who heardthe muted strains of the chantemerging from the holy lips. Eachbelieved it had to be some obscureearly musical work, unknown to all butthe most scholarly. For such was theknowledge of the erudite, PopeFrancesco.  "she . . . gelida . . . marina . . .a rigido esanimeee . . . ah', la,la-laaa . . .tra-la, la, la . . .Ia-la-laaa . . ."               CHATTIER"That son of a bitch!" BrigadierGeneral Arnold Symington brought thepaperweight down on the thick layer ofglass on his Pentagon desk. The glassshattered; fragments shot through theair in all directions. "He couldn't!"  "He did, sir," replied the frightenedlieutenant, shielding his eyes from theoffice shrapnel. "The Chinese are veryupset. The premier himself dictated thecomplaint to the diplomatic mission.They're running editorials in the RedStar and broadcasting them over RadioPeking."  "How the hell can they?" Symingtonremoved a piece of glass from hislittle finger. "What the hell are theysaying? 'We interrupt this program toannounce that the American militaryrepresentative, General MacKenzieHawkins, shot the balls off a ten-footjade statue in Son Tai Square'.PBullshit! Peking wouldn't allow that;it's too goddamned undignified.""  "They're phrasing it a bitdifferently, sir. They say he destroyedan historic monument of precious stonein the Forbidden City. They say it's asthough someone blew up the LincolnMemorial."- "It's a different kind of statue!Lincoln's got clothes on; his ballsdon't show! It's not the samel"  "Nevertheless, the White House thinksthe parallel is justified, sir. ThePresident wants Hawkins removed. Morethan removed, actually, he wants himcashiered. Courtmartial and all.Publicly."  "Oh, for Christ's sake, that's out ofthe question." Symington leaned back inhis chair and breathed deeply, tryingto control himself. He reached out forthe report on his desk. "We'll transferhim. With a reprimand. We'll 7                   -                   send transcripts of the censure, we'llcall it a censure to Peking."  "That's not strong enough, sir. TheState Department made it clear. ThePresident concurs. We have tradeagreements pending "  "For Christ's sake, Lieutenant!"interrupted the brigadier. "Will someonetell that spinning top in the OvalOffice that he can't have it on allpoints of the compass! Mac Hawkins wasselected. From twenty-seven candidates.I remember exactly what the Presidentsaid. Exactly. 'That mother's perfect!'That's what he said."  "That's inoperative now, sir. He feelsthe trade agreements take precedent overprior considerations." The lieutenantwas beginning to perspire.  "You bastards kill me," said Symington,lowering his voice ominously. "Youreally frost my apricots. How do youfigure to do that? Make it'inoperative,' I mean. Hawkins may be asharp pain in your diplomatic ass rightnow, but that doesn't wash away what wasoperative. He was a Bucking teen-agehero at the Battle of the Bulge and WestPoint football; and if they gave medalsfor what he did in Southeast Asia, evenMac Hawkins isn't strong enough to wearall that hardware! He makes John Waynelook like a pansy! He's real; that's whythat Oval Yo-yo picked him!"  "I really think the office of thepresidency regardless of what you maythink of the mamas commander in chief he  "Horse shit!" The brigadier generalroared again, separating the words inequal emphasis, giving the crudity ofhis oath the sound of a militarycadence. "I'm simply explaining toyou in the strongest terms I know thatyou don't publicly court-martial aMacKenzie Hawkins to satisfy a Pekingcomplaint, no matter how many goddamnedtrade agreements are floating round. Doyou know why, Lieutenant?" -  lbe young officer replied softly,sure of his accuracy."Because he would make an issue of it.Publicly." "Bing-go." Symington's comment sprangout in a highpitched monotone. "TheHawkinses of this country have a 8constituency, Lieutenant. That'sprecisely why our commander in chiefpicked himlHe's a politicalpalliative.. And if you don't thinkMac Hawkins knows it, wel~you didn'thave to recruit him. I did."  "We are prepared for that reaction,General." The lieutenant's words werebarely audible.  The brigadier leaned forward,careful not to put his elbows in theshattered glass. "I didn't get that."  "The State Department anticipated ahard-line counterthrust. Therefore wemust institute an aggressive coun-terraction to that thrust. The WhiteHouse regrets the necessity but atthis point in time recognizes thecrisis quotient."  "That's what I thought I was goingto get." Symington's words were lessaudible than the lieutenant's. "Spellit out. How are you going to reamhim?"  The lieutenant hesitated. "Forgiveme, sir, but the object is not to reamGeneral Hawkins. We are in aprovocatively delicate position. ThePeople's ReDublic demandssatisfaction. Rightly so; it was acrude, vulgar act on General Hawkins'spart. Yet he refuses to make a publicapology." ,  Symington looked at the report stillin his right hand. "Does it say why inhere?"  "General Hawkins claims it was atrap. His statement's on page three."  The brigadier flipped to the pageand read. The lieutenant drew out ahandkerchief and blotted his chin.Symington put down the reportcarefully on the shattered glass andlooked up.  'If what Mac says is true, it was atrap. Broadcast his side of thestory.""He has no side, General. He wasdrunk.""Mac says~dr~gged. Not drunk,Lieutenant.""They were drinking, sir."  "And he was drugged. I'd guessHawkins would know the difference.I've seen him sweat sour mash.""He does not deny the charge,however."  "He denies the responsibility of hisactions. Hawkins was the finestintelligence strategist in Indochina.He'sdrugged couriers and pouch men inCambodia, Laos, both Vietnams,andprobably across the Manchurianborders. He knows the goddamneddifference."  "I'm afraid his knowing it doesn'tmake any difference sir. The crisisquotient demands our acceding toPeking's wishes. The trade agreementsare paramount. Frankly, sir, we needgas.""Jesus! I figured that was one thingyou had."  The lieutenant replaced thehandkerchief in his pocket and smiledwanly. "The levity is called for, Irealize that. However, we have justten days to bring everything intofocus; to make our inputs and come upwith a positive print.  Symington stared at the youngofficer; his expression that of agrown man about to cry. "What doesthat mean?"  "It's a harsh thing to say, butGeneral Hawkins has placed his owninterests above those of his duty.We'll have to make an example. Foreverybody's sake.""An example? For wanting the truthout?""There's a higher duty, General.' "I know," said the brigadier wearily."To the trade greements. To the gas.  "Quite frankly, yes. There are timeswhen symbols have to be traded off forpragmatic objectives. Team playersunderstand."  "All right. But Mac won't lie downand play busted symbol for you. Sowhat's the input?"  "The inspector general," said thelieutenant, as an obnoxious studentmight, holding up a severed tapewormin Biology 1. "We re running anin-depth data trace on him. We know hewas involved in questionableactivities in Indochina. We havereason to believe he violated interna-tional codes of conduct.""You bet your ass he did! He was oneof the best!"  "There's no statute on those codes.The IG specialists have caseloadsgoing back much further than GeneralHawkins's ez-o~icio activities." Thelieutenant smiled. It was a genuinesmile; he was a happy person.  "So you're going to hang him withclandestine operations that half thejoint chiefs and most of the CIA knowwould bring him a truckload ofcitations if they could talk 10about them. You bastards kill me."Symington nodded his head, agreeingwith himself.  "Perhaps you could save us time,General. Can you provide us with somespecifics?"  "Oh, no! You want to crucify the sonof a bitch, you build your own crossI"'You do understand the situation,don't you, sir?"  The brigadier moved his chair backand kicked fragments of glass fromunder his feet. "I'll tell you some-thing," he said. "I haven't understoodanything since nineteen forty-five."He glared at the young officer. "Iknow you're with Sixteen-hundred, butare you regular army?  "No, sir. Reserve status, temporaryassignment. I'm on a leave of absencefrom Y. I and B. To put out firesbefore they burn up the flagpoles, asit were.""Y. I and B. I don't know thatdivision."  "Not a division, sir. Youngblood,laker, and Blowe, in Los Angeles.We're the top ad agency on the Coast."  General Arnold Symington's faceslowly took on the expression of adistressed basset hound. '1he uniformlooks real nice, Lieutenant." Thebrigadier paused, then shook his head."Nineteen forty-five," he said.  Major Sam Devereaux, fieldinvestigator for the Office of theInspector General, looked across theroom at the calendar on his wall. Hegot up from the chair behind his desk,walked over to it, and Xed the day'sdate. One month and three days and hewould be a civilian again.  Not that he was ever a soldier. Notreally; certainly not spiritually. Hewas a military accident. A fracturecompounded by a huge mistake thatresulted in an extension of his tourof service. It had been a simplechoice of alternatives: Reenlistmentor Leavenworth.  Sam was a lawyer, a damn fineattorney specializing in criminal law.Years ago he had held a series ofSelective Service deferments throughHarvard College and Harvard LawSchool; then two years of postgraduatespecialization and clerking; finallyinto the fourteenth month of practicewith the prestigious Boston law firmof Aaron Pinkus Associates.11  The army had faded into a vaguelydisagreeable shadow across his life;he had forgotten about the long seriesof deferments.The United States Army, however, didnot forget.  During one of those logistic crunchesthat episodically grip the military,the Pentagon discovered it had asudden dearth of lawyers. TheDepartment of Military Justice was ina bind hundreds of courts-martial onbases all over the globe weresuspended for lack of judge advocatesand defense attorneys. The stockadeswere crowded. So the Pentagon scouredthe long-forgotten series ofdeferments and scores of youngunattached, childlesslawyers obtainable meat were sentunrefusable invitations in which wasexplained the meaning of the word"deferment" as opposed to the word"annulment."  That was the accident. Devereaux'smistake came later. Much later. Seventhousand miles away on the convergingborders of Laos, Burma, and Thailand.- The Golden Triangle.  Devereaux for reasons known only toGod and military logistics never saw acourt-martial, much less tried one. Hewas assigned to the LegalInvestigations Division of the Officeof the Inspector General and sent toSaigon to see what laws were beingviolated.  There were so many there was no wayto count. And since drugs tookprecedence over the black market therewere simply too many Americanentrepreneurs in the latter hisinquiries took him to the GoldenTriangle where one-fifth of theworld's narcotics were being funneledout, courtesy of powerful men inSaigon, Washington, Vientiane, andHong Kong.  Sam was conscientious. He didn't likedrug peddlers and he threw theinvestigatory books at them, carefulto make sure his briefs to Saigon weretransmitted operationally within theconfused chain of command.  No report signatures. just names andviolations. After all, he could getshot or knifed at the least,ostracized for such behavior. It wasan education in covert activities.  His trophies included seven ARVNgenerals, thirty-one representativesin Thieu s congress, twelve U. S. Armycolonels light and full threebrigadiers, and fifty-eight 12assorted majors, captains,lieutenants, and master sergeants.Added to these were five congressmen,four senators a member of thePresident's cabinet, eleven corpora-tion executives with Americancompanies overseas six of whichalready had enough trouble in the areaof campaign contributions and asquarejawed Baptist minister with alarge national following.  To the best of Sam's knowledge onesecond lieutenant and two mastersergeants were indicted. The rest were"pending."  So Sam Devereaux committed hismistake. He was so incensed that thewheels of Southeast Asian justice spunoff the tracks at the first hint ofinfluence that he decided to trap avery big fish in the corruption netand make an example. He chose a majorgeneral in Bangkok. A man namedHeseltine Brokemichael. Major GeneralHeseltine Brokemichael, West Point'43.  Sam had the evidence, mounds of it.Through a series of elaborateentrapments in which he himself actedas the "connection " a participant whocould swear under oath to the generalsmalfeasance, he built his casethoroughly. There could not possiblybe two General Brokemichaels and Samwas an avenging angel of a prosecutor,circling in for his kill.  But there were. Two. Two majorgenerals named BrokemichaeWoneHeseltine, one Ethelred! Apparentlycousins. And the one inBangkok Heseltine was not the one inVientiane Ethelred. The VientianeBrokemichael was the felon. Not hiscousin. Further, the Brokemichael inBangkok was more an avenger than Sam.He believed he was gathering evidenceon a corrupt IG investigator. And hewas. Devereaux had violated most ofthe international contraband laws andall of the United States government's.  Sam was arrested by the MPs, throwninto a maximum security cell,- andtold he could look forward to thebetter part of his lifetime inLeavenworth.  Fortunately, a superior officer inthe inspector general's command, whodid not really understand a sense ofjustice that made Sam commit so manycrimes, but did understand Sam's legaland.investigatory contributions to the13cause of the inspector general, cameto Sam's aid. Devereaux had actuallyfiled more evidentiary material thanany other legal officer in SoutheastAsia; his work in the field made upfor a great deal of inactivity inWashington.  So the superior officer allowed alittle unofficial plea bargaining inSam's case. If Sam would disciplinaryaction at the hands of a furious MajorGeneral Heseltine Brokemichael inBangkok, constituting a six-month lossof pay no criminal charges would bebrought. There was just one morecondition: to continue his work forthe inspector general's office for anadditional two years beyond theexpiration of his army commitment. Bythat time, reasoned the superiorofficer, the mess in Indochina wouldbe turned over to those messing, andthe IG caseloads reduced orconveniently buried.Reenlistment or Leavenworth.  So Major Sam Devereaux, patrioticcitizen-soldier, extended his tour ofduty. And the mess in Indochina was inno way lessened, but indeed turnedover to the participants and Devereauxwas transferred back to Washington,D.C.  One month and three days to go, hemused, as he looked out his officewindow and watched the MPs at theguardhouse check the automobilesdriving out. It was after five; he hadto catch a plane at Dulles in twohours. He had packed that morning andbrought his suitcase to the office..  The four years were coming to anend. Two plus two. The time spent, hereflected, might be resented, but ithad not been wasted. The abyss ofcorruption that was Southeast Asiareached into the hierarchicalcorridors of Washington. Theinhabitants of these corridors knewwho he was, he had more offers fromprestigious law firms than he couldreply to, much less consider. And hedid not want to consider them; hedisapproved of them. Just as hedisapproved of the currentinvestigation on his desk.  The manipulators were at it again.This time it was the thoroughdiscrediting of a career officer namedHawkins. Lieutenant General MacKenzieHawkins.  At first Sam had been stunned.MacKenzie Hawkins was an original. Alegend. The stuff of which cults were14born. Cults slightly to the political rightof Attila the Hun; Hawkins's place in themilitary firmament was secure. BantamBooks published hisbiography serialization and Aeader'sDigest rights had been sold before a wordwas on paper. Hollywood gave obsceneamounts of money to film his life story.And the antimilitarists made him an objectof fascist-hatred.  The biography was not overly successfulbecause the subject was not overlycooperative. Apparently there were certainpersonal idiosyncrasies that did notenhance the image, four wives paramountamong them. The motion picture was lessthan triumphant insofar as it-comprisedendless battle scenes with little or nohint of the man other than an actorsquinting through the battle dust yellingto his men in a peculiar lisp to 'getthose Godless . . . [Roar of cannon] . .. who would tear down Old Glory! At 'em,boyst"  Hollywood, too, had discovered the fourwives and certain other peculiarities ofthe studio's on-the-set technical adviser.MacKenzie Hawkins went through starletsthree at a time and had intercourse withthe producer's wife in the swimming poolwhile the producer watched in fury fromthe living room window.  He did not stop the picture, however.For Christ's sake it was costing damn nearsix mill!  These misfired endeavors might havecaused another man to fade, if only fromembarrassment, but not so Mac Hawkins. Inprivate, among.his peers, he ridiculedthose responsible and regaled hisassociates with stories of Manhattan andHollywood.  He was sent to the war college with anew specialization: intelligence,clandestine operations. His peers felt alittle more secure with the charismaticHawkins consigned to covert activities.And the colonel became a brigadier andabsorbed all there was to learn of his newspecialty. He spent two years grindingaway, studying every phase of intelligencework until the instructors had no more toinstruct him.  So he was sent to Saigon where theescalating hostilities had blossomed intoa full-scale war. And in Vietnam both 15 ,                   ,Vietnams,and Laos, and Cambodia, andThailand, and Burma Hawkins corruptedthe corruptors and the ideologuesalike. Reports of his behind-the-linesand across-theneutral-bordersactivities made "protective reaction"seem like a logical strategy. Sounorthodox, so blatantly criminal werehis methods of operation that G-2,Saigon, found itself denying hisexistence. After ail, there werelimits. Even for clandestineactivities.  If Amer1ca First was a maxim and itwas Hawkins saw no reason why itshould not apply to the filthy worldof covert operations.  And for~Hawkins, America was first.Ir-re-fuckinggardlessl  So Sam Devereaux thought it was alla little sad that such a man was aboutto be knocked out of the box by themanipulators who got to where theywere by draping the Bag so gloriouslyand generously around themselves.Hawkins was now an offending lion inthe diplomatic arena and had to beeliminated in the cause ofdouble-think. The men who should havebeen upholding the general's point ofhonor were doing their best to sinkhim fast in ten days, to be precise.  Normally Sam would have takenpleasure out of building a caseagainst a messianic ass like Hawkins;and regardless of his feelings to thecontrary, he would build a caseagainst him. It was his last file forthe inspector general's office, and hewas not going to risk another two-yearalternative. But he was still sad. TheHawk, as he was known misguidedfanatic as he might be deserved betterthan what he was getting.  Perhaps, thought Sam, his depressionwas brought about by the last:operative" instruction from the WhiteHouse: find something in the moralsarea Hawkins can't deny. Check to seeif he was ever in the care of apsychiatrist.A psychiatrist! Jesust They neverlearned.  In the meantime, Sam had dispatcheda team of IG investigators to Saigonto see if they could dig up a fewnegative specifics. And he was off toDulles airport to catch a plane to LosAngeles.All of Hawkins's ex-wives lived within aradius of thirty 16                   1                   miles of each other, from Malibu toBeverly Hills. They'd be better thanany psychiatrist. Christ! Apsychiatrist!  At 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue,Washington, D.C., they were allnovocained above the shoulders.                 17                                CHAPTER TWO"My name is Lin Shoo," said theuniformed Communist softly,slant-eyeing the large, disheveledAmerican soldier who sat in a leatherchair, holding a glass of whiskey inone hand and a well-chewed cigar inthe other. "I am commander of thePeople's Police, Peking. And you areunder house arrest at this moment.There is no point in being abusive,these are merely formalities.'  "Formalities for what?" MacKenzieHawkins shouted from his armchair theonly occidental piece of furniture inthe oriental house. He put his heavyboot on a black lacquered table andflung his hand over the leather back,the lighted cigar dangerously close toa silk screen room divider. "Therearen't any goddamned formalitiesexcept through the diplomatic mission.Go down there and make yourcomplaints. You'll probably have toget in line."Hawkins chuckled and drank from hisglass.  "You have chosen to reside outsidethe mission," continued the Chinesenamed Lin Shoo, his eyes darting be-tween the cigar and the screen."Therefore you are not technicallywithin United States territory. So youare subject to the disciplines of thePeople's Police. However, we know youwill not go anywhere, General. That iswhy I say it is a formality."  "What have you got out there?"Hawkins waved his cigar toward thethin, rectangular windows.  "There are two patrols on each sideof your residence. Eight in all."  "That's a big Sucking guard detailfor someone who's not going anywhere."  "Small liberties. Photographically,two is more desirable than one andthree is menacing."18  'You taking liberties?" Hawkins drewon his cigar and again rested his handover the back of the leather chair.The lighted butt was no more than aninch from the silk.  "The Ministry of Education has doneso, yes. You will admit, General, yourplace of isolation is most pleasant,is it not? This is a lovely house ona lovely hill. So very peaceful, andwith a fine view." Lin Shoo walkedaround the chair and unobtrusivelymoved the panel of the silk screenaway from Hawkins's cigar. It was toolate; the heat of the butt had causeda small circular burn in the fabric.  "It's a high-rent district," repliedHawkins. "Somebody in this people'sparadise, where nobody owns anythingbut everyone owns everything, ismaking a fast buck. Four hundred of'em every month."  "You were fortunate to find it.Property can be purchased bycollectives. A collective is notprivate ownership." The police officerwalked to the narrow opening that ledto the single sleeping room of thehouse. It was dark, where sunlightshould have been streaming through thewide window there was a blanket nailedacross the frame into the thinsurrounding wall. On the floor anumber of mats had been piled one ontop of another; wrappings fromAmerican candy bars were scatteredabout and there was a distinct odor ofwhiskey."Why the photographs?"  The Chinese turned from theunpleasant sight. "To show the worldthat we are treating you better thanyou treated us. This house is not atiger cage in Saigon, nor is it adungeon in the shark-infested watersof Holcotaz.""Alcatraz. The Indians got it.""I beg your pardon?"  "Nothing. You're making a big splashwith this thing, aren't you?" .  Lin Shoo was silent for a moment; itwas the pause before profundity."Should someone who has for yearspublicly denounced the deeply feltobjectives of your belovedmotherland dynamite your Lin-KolonMemorial inside your Washington Squarewithin your state of Columbia, therobed barbarians on your Court ofSupreme Justice would, no doubt, haveexecuted him by now." The Chinesesmiled and smoothed the tunic of hisMao uni19form. "We do not.behave in suchprimitive ways. All life is precious.Even a diseased dog, such as you.""And-you gooksnever denounced anybody,is that it?"  "Our leaders reveal only truth. Thatis common knowledge throughout theworld; the lessons of the infalliblechairman. Truth is not denunciation,General. It is merely truth. Allknowing."  ' Like my state of Columbia,"muttered Hawkins, removing his footfrom the lacquered table. "Why thehell did you pick me out? A lot ofpeople have done a lot of goddamneddenouncing. Why am I so special?"  "Because they are not so famous. Orinfamous, if you wilW. Although I didenjoy the film of your life. Veryarbsbc; a poem of violence."You saw that, huh?"  "Privately. Certain portions wereextracted. Those showing the actorportraying you murdering our heroicyouth. Very savage, General." TheCommunist circled the black lacqueredtable and smiled again. "Yes, you arean infamous man. And now you haveinsulted us by destroying a reveredmonument  "Come off it. I don't even know whathappened. I was drugged and yougoddamned well know it. I was withyour General Lu Sin. With his broads,in hi* house."  "You must give us our honor backagain, General Hawkins. Can't you seethat?" Lin Shoo spoke quietly, asthough Hawkins had not interrupted."It would be a simple matter for youto render an apology. A ceremony hasbeen planned. With a small contingentof the press in attendance. We havewritten out the words for you."  "Oh, troy!" Hawkins sprang out ofthe chair, towering over thepoliceman. "We're back to that againlHow many times do I have to tell youbasturds? Americans don't crawll Inany goddamned ceremony, with orwithout the goddamned pressl Read thatstraight, you puke-skinned dwarfl"  "Do not upset yourself. You placefar too much emphasis on a mereceremonial function; you placeeveryone  all of us in most difficultpositions. A small ceremony; solittle, so simple"Not to me it isn'tl I represent thearmed forces of the 20United States and nothing's little orsimple to usl We don't trip easy, buddyboy; we march straight to the drumsl""I beg your pardon?"  Hawkins shrugged, a touch bewildered byhis own words. "Never mind. The answer'sno. You may scare the lace-pants boysdown at the mission, but you don't shakeme."  "They appealed to you because they wereinstructed to do so. Certainly that musthave occurred to you."  "Double bullshit!" Hawkins walked aroundto the fireplace, drank from his glassand placed it on the mantel next to abrightly colored box. "Those fags werecooking up something with that group ofqueens at State. Wait'll the WhiteHouse wait'll the Pentagon reads myreport. Oh, boy! You bowlegged runts willhightail it to the mountains and thenwe'll blow them upl" Hawkins grinned, hiseyes bright.  "You are so abusive," said Lin Shooquietly, shaking his head sadly. Hepicked up the brightly colored box nextto the general's glass. "Tsing Taowfirecrackers. The finest made in theworld. So loud, so bright with whitelight when they go bang, bang, bang. Verylovely to watch and to hear.""Yeah," agreed Ha'wkins, slightlyconfused by the change  of subject. "Lu Sin gave 'em to me. Weshot off a motherk~adthe other night. Before the Suckerdrugged me.""Very beautiful, General Hawkins. Theyare a fine gift.""Christ knows he owed me something."  "But do you not see?" continued thepolice officer. "They soundlike explosives. Look like detonating am-munition, but they are neither. They areonly show. Semblances of something else.Real in themselves but only an illusionof another reality. Not dangerous atall.""So?"  "That is precisely what you are beingasked to give. The semblance, not thereality. You have only to pretend. In ashort, simple ceremony with but a fewwords that you know are only an illusion.Not dangerous at all. And very polite."  "Wrong-o!" roared Hawkins. "Everybodyknows what a firecracker is; nobody'llknow I'm pretending."al  "Between the two of us, I mustdiffer. It is nothing more than adiplomatic ritual. Everyone willunderstand, take my word for it."  "Yeah? How the hell do you knowthat? You re a Peking cop, not aKissing-ass."  The Communist fingered the box offirecrackers and sighed audibly. 'Iapologize for the minor deception,General. I am not with the People'sPolice. I am second vice-prefect forthe Ministry of Education. I am hereto make an appeal to you. An appeal toyour reason. However, the rest isquite true. You are under housearrest, and the patrols outside arepolicemen."  "I'll be goddamned! They sent me alace-pants." Hawkins grinned again."You boys are worried, real worried,aren't you?"  The Communist sighed once more."Yes. The idiots who started thisthing have been shipped to miningcollectives in.Outer Mongolia. It waslunacy; although I'll grant them youwere a temptation, General Hawkins.Have you any idea the volumes ofscurrilous attacks you've made onevery Marxist, Socialist, and, forgiveme, even vaguely democraticallyoriented nation on the face of thisearth? The worst examples I should saybest examples of demagoguery!"  "A lot of that crap was written bythe people who paid me to speak',"said Hawkins, a bit reflectively. Andthen he quickly added, "Not that Ididn't believe it! Goddamn, Ibelieve!"  "You're impossible!" Lin Shoostamped his foot as a child might."You're as insane as Lu Sin and hisband of growling paper lions! May theyall crack many rocks and fornicatewith Mongolian sheep! You are simplyimpossi  Hawkins stared at the Communist bothat the furious expression on his faceand the brightly colored box offirecrackers in his hand. He had madea decision and both of them knew it.  "I'm also something else, slanteyes," said the lieutenant general,approaching Lin Shoo.  "No! No! No violence, you idiot " Itwas too late for the Communist toscream. Hawkins had grabbed the cloth                  ~9                   of his tunic, pulled him swiftly offhis feet and chopped Lin Shoo beneaththe mandible.  The vice-prefect of the Ministry ofEducation slumped instantly intounconsciousness.  Hawkins grabbed the box offirecrackers out of Lin Shoo's handand raced around the lacquered tableinto the sleeping quarters. He grabbedthe blanket nailed across the window,folded back a tiny section on the edgeand looked outside at the rear of thehouse. There were the two policemenchatting-calmly, their rifles at theirsides. Beyond them was the slopinghill that led down to the village.  Hawkins released the blanket and ranback into the main room, droppingimmediately to his hands and knees andscrambling obstacle-style toward thefront door. He stood up and silentlyopened it a crack. The two flankingpolicemen were about forty feet awayand were as relaxed as the troops inthe rear. What's more, they werelooking down the descending road,their attention not on the house.  MacKenzie took the brightly coloredbox of firecrackers from under hisarm, ripped off the lightweight paperand shook out the connecting stringsof cylinders. He wound two separatestrands together, twisted both fusesinto one, and removed his World War IIZippo from his pocket.  He stopped; he sucked his breath,angry with himself. Then, holding thestrands of firecrackers at his side,he walked casually past the windowsinto the bedroom and removed hisholster and cartridge belt fromanother nail in the thin wall. Hestrapped the apparatus around hiswaist, removed the Colt .45 andchecked the magazine. Satisfied, heshoved the weapon into its leathercasing as he walked out of thebedroom. He circled the armchair infront of the Han Shu mantel, steppedover the immobile Lin Shoo andreturned to the front door.  He ignited the Zippo, and held theflame beneath the twisted fuse, thenopened the door and threw the entwinedstrands onto the grass beyond theporch.  Closing and bolting the door softlyand swiftly, Hawkins dragged a smallred lacquered chest from the foyer andforced it against the thick, carvedpanel. Then he raced 23into the sleeping quarters and pulledback a small section of the windowblanket and waited. The explosions were even louder thanhe remembered made so, he guessed,from the combined strands burstingagainst one another. The guards at the rear of the housewere jolted out of their lethargy;their weapons collided in midair aseach whipped his off the ground.Rifles in waist-firing position, thetwo men raced toward the front of thehouse. - The moment they were out of sight,Hawkins yanked down the blanket,crashed his foot into the thin stripsof wood and thinner panes of glass,shattering the entire window. Heleaped through onto the grass andstarted running toward the fields andthe sloping hill.                 Al                               CHAPTER THREEAt the base of the hill was the maindirt road that circled the village.Like spokes from a wheel, numerousoffshoots headed directly into thesmall marketplace, in the center ofthe town. A semipaved thoroughfarebranched outward tangentially from thecircling road and connected with apaced highway about four miles ffi theeast. The American diplomatic missionwas twelve miles down that highwaywithin Peking proper.  What he needed was a vehicle,preferably an automm bile, butautomobiles were practicallynonexistent outside the highestofficial circles. The People's Policehad automobiles, of course; it hadcrossed his mind to double back aroundthe hill to find Lin Shoo's, but thatwas too risky. Even if he Lund it andstole it, it would be a markedvehicle.  Hawkins circled the village keepingto the high ground above the road.They would be coming after him. Hecould stay in the hills indefinitely,that didn't bother him. He hadbivouacked underground in themountains of Cong-Sol and Lai Tai inCambodia for months at a time; hecould live in the forests better thanmost animals. Goddamn, he was a prol  But it was also pointless. He had toget to the mission and let the FreeWorld know what kind of enemy it wassucking up to. Enough was enough,goddamn itl They could send out radiomessages, barricade the whole complex,and fight it out until the offshorecarriers sent in air strikes topinpoint pulverize, even if it meantblowing up half of Peking. Then thecopters could come in and get themout.as  Of course, the civilians would shitin their pants, but he would controlthem. Teach the fancy pants how tofight. Fight! Not talk!  MacKenzie stopped his fantasizing.Below to the right, coming around thebend in the road about a quarter of amile away was a lone motorcycle. On itwas a shee-san police official, a kindof Chinese state trooper. The answerto a prayer!  Hawkins rose from the tall grass andstarted scrambling down the hill. Inless than a minute he was at the edgeof the dirt border. The bike was stillaround the curve out of sight, but heheard it coming closer. He threwhimself down on the dirt in the middleof the road, drawing his legs up toappear smaller than he was, and layperfectly still.  The motorcycle's engine roared as thedriver came around the curve, thensputtered as it skidded to a stop.Theshee-san got off the bike and whippedout the kickstand. Hawkins could hearand feel the quick footsteps as thetrooper approached.  The shee-san bent over him andtouched his shoulder, recoiling at therecognition of the American uniform.Mac moved. The shee-san shrieked.  Five minutes later Hawkins hadstretched the shee-san's tunic andpants over his rolled-up trousers andshirt. He slipped the trooper'sgoggles over his eyes and put on the.ludicrously tiny visor hat, using thechin strap to hold it in place, acloth pimple sitting on the crew-cut,grayish black hair. Fortunately forhis sense of well-being, he had acigar. He chewed the end to itsdesired juiciness and lighted up.He was ready to ride.  The diplomatic attache ran into thedirector's office without saying aword to the secretary or even knockingat the door. The director wasthreading his teeth with dental floss.  "Excuse me, sir. I've just receivedthe instructions from Washingtonl Iknew you'd have~to read them!"  The director of the diplomaticmission, Peking, reached for the cableand read it. His eyes widened and hismouth 26opened in astonishment. A long strandof dental floss, caught in his teeth,extended down to the desk.  He saw the roadblock cutting off hisentry onto the Peking highway. It WASabout three quarters of a mile downthe semipaved thoroughfare; a singleshee-san patrol car and a line oftroopers stretching across the roadwas all he could distinguish throughthe fogged-up goggles.  As he drew nearer, he could see thatthe guards were shouting to eachother. One trooper stepped in front ofthe line and began waving his ride inthe air hysterically  back and forth,a signal for the approaching rider tostop.  There was only one thing for it,thought Hawkins. If you're going tobuy a goddamned grave, buy it bigl Goout with all weapons on repeat-fire,blazing barrels of thunder arrdlightning; go out with the screams ofthe Commie bastards ringing in yourearsl  Goddamnl He couldn't see for theBucking dust, and his goddamn footkept slipping off the tiny fucking gaspedal.  He slapped his hand to his holsterand pulled out the .45.  He couldn't focus worth shit, but byChrist, he could squeeze the trigger!He did so repeatedly.  To his astonishment the shee-san didnot fire back; instead they dove intothe mounds of dirt and sand, screaminglike hysterical piglets, scamperinginto and over the mounds of dirt,burying their asses from the firepowerof his single .45 weapon.Goddamn! Disgracefull  Unless his goggles were playingtricks with the dirt and cigar smokeand the onrushing blurs, even thetrooper in front an officer, byChrist; he had to he even he didn'thave the balls to fight back.An officer!  MacKenzie kept the bike attop-throttle and exhausted the clip ofthe .45. He careened up and over amound of dirt and sand and cascadedonto a sloping hill of grass. As thebike was in midair he glimpsed theblurs of screaming heads beneath himand wished to hell he had more ummo.He twisted the handlebars violently sohe could angle down and zoomdiagonally back toward the road.27  Goddamn! He hit the surface againlHe'd broken through the barricade! Hewas barrel-assing onto the Pekinghighwayl  The eat concrete was a joy. Thespinning wheels of the motorcyclehummed; the wind rushed against hisfaces clear, intoxicating blasts ofclean, dustless air which forced thesmoke of his cigar into whirlingpockets around his ears. Even thegoggles were clear now.  He took the next nine miles like astar-spangled meteor through anunknowing Chincom sky. Another mileand he would turn into the northernside streets of Peking. Goddamn! Hewas going to make it! And then, byChrist, the Commie bastards would findout what an American counterstrikewasl  He raced the bike through thecrowded streets and careened off thecurb at the entrance to GloriousFlower Square, the final stretch tothe mission which stood at the end ofthe small plaza, fronting the streetin alabaster, Oriental splendor. Therewere, as usual, crowds of PeWngers andout-of-/owners milling about, waitingto catch glimpses of the strange, hugepink people that came and went throughthe white steel doors inside themedium^sized compound.  It wasn't much of a compound atthat; there was no brick wall or highmetal fence surrounding the mission.Only a thin latticework of decorativewood, lacquered against the elements,enclosing the clipped grass lawn thatfronted the steps.  The protection was in the windowsand- doors: iron grillwork and steel.  MacKenzie rewed the bike's engine tomaximum, figuring the noise would partthe throngs of onlookers.It did.The Chinese scattered as he raced downthe street.  And Hawkins damn near fell off thebike's saddle at what he saw in frontof him; what in a sense was rushingtoward him at goddamn near fifty milesan hour on that short stretch ofpavement in Glorious Flower Square.  There were three sets of woodenbarricades elongated horses in frontof the closed latticework gate1 Eachhorizontal plank was a foot or soabove the other, forming a 28receding escalator wall of thickboards backed up by the delicate,filigreed fence.  Standing in a line at port-arms werea dozen or so soldiers, flanked by twoofficers, all staring straight ahead.At him.  This is it, thought MacKenzie,nothing left but the gesture, themoffo~the act itself.Total defiance!Goddamn! If he only had some ammoleftl  He crouched and headed the bikeright into the center of thebarricade; he twisted the baraccelerator to the maximum and pressedthe foot choke all the way down.  The speedometer's needle wavered ina violence of its own as it quiveredand shot up swiftly- toward the end ofthe dial; man and machine burstthrough the air corridor like astrange, huge bullet of flesh andsteel.  Amid the screams of the hystericalcrowds and the scattering of thepanicked soldiers, Hawkins yanked thehandlebars furiously back and slappedthe weight of his body against therear of the saddle. The front wheelrose off the ground like an abstract,spinning phoenix followed by a madextension of tail and rider andcrashed into the upper section of thebarricade.  There was a thunderous shattering ofwood and latticework as MacKenzieHawkins shot up, into and through thetiers of obstructions, a maniacallyeffective human cannonball thatdragged the rest of the weapon withhim.  The bike plummeted down into thepath of washed pebbles that led to thesteps of the mission. As it did so,MacKenzie was hurled forward,somersaulting over the bars, rollingon the tiny stones until he thuddedinto the base of the short flight ofsteps to the white steel door, thecigar still gripped between his teeth.  Any second now the Chincoms wouldregroup, the fusillade would begin,and the sharp chops of icelike painwould commence, giving him, perhaps,only seconds be" fore oblivion came.  But the firing did not begin. Onlylouder and louder screaming from thecrowds and the soldiers. Orientalheads peered over the mass ofwreckage, above the shattered planks,in front of the smashed latticework.Most of the 29soldiers who had thrown themselves onthe ground were now on their hands andknees.  Yet no one fired a weapon. ThenMacKenzie understood: he was,technically, within U.S. territory. Ifhe was shot inside the compound itmight be construed as an execution onAmerican soil. It could become aninternational incident. Goddamn! Hewas protected by lace-pantsfol-de-rol! Diplomatic niceties werekeeping him alivel  He scrambled to his feet, ran up thesteps to the white steel door andbegan punching the bell and poundinghis hand on the metal panel.There was no response.  He banged louder and kept his freehand on the bell. He yelled to thoseinside and after what seemed likeminutes, the single rectangular slotin the door was opened.A pair of wide, frightened eyes peeredout.  "For Christ's sake, it's Hawhnsl"roared MacKenzie, putting hisscreaming mouth inches in front of thepanicked set of eyes. "Open thegoddamned door, you son of a bitchlWhat the hell are you doing?"The eyes blinked, but the door did notopen.  Hawkins yelled again, and again theeyes blinked. After several secondsthe eyes were replaced by tremblinglips.  'No one's home, sir," came thequivering, unbelievable words."What?!""Sorry, General."  The shaking lips were now replacedby the rapid slamming of metal. Theslot was closed.  MacKenzie stood there in temporaryshock. Then he started pounding onceagain and yelling again and punchingthe bell buttons so hard the Bakelitecracked.Nothing.  He looked back at the crowds and thesoldiers, and became aware of thescreams and grins and wave after waveof giggles.  Hawkins jumped down the set of stepsand began running across the lawn infront of the building. All the windowswere not only shut, but the iron innershutters had been closed behind thegrillwork. The whole god30damn mission was sealed tight, anenormous white, rectangular clam.  He raced around the side. It was thesame everywhere: closed windows, ironshutters, grillwork.  He rounded the back lawn and ran tothe large rear entrance. He beganpounding the door and yelling louderthan he thought he had ever yelled inhis life.  Finally the slot opened and anotherset of eyes appeared less frightenedthan those in front but neverthelesswide and disturbed."Open this bucking door, goddamn ill"  Once more lips appeared, and nowMacKenzie could see the graymoustache. It was the ambassador.  "Get away from here, Hawkins," saidthe deep, anglicized voice, cultivatedin the Eastern Establishment. "You'rejust not operative!"And the slot was closed.  MacKenzie stood there immobilized.Time and space fused into nothingness.He was vaguely aware that the crowdsand the soldiers had moved around thelatticework fence at the sides and therear of the mission.  Without really thinking, he backedaway from the entrance and looked upat the outside wall of the buildingand at the roof.  He could do it, using the grillworkof the windows. He jumped to the firstwindow and climbed up the grillworkuntil he reached the next protrusionof crisscrossing bars.  In several minutes he had scaled theside of the building and pulledhimself over the edge of the slopingtiled roof.He trudged up to the apex and lookedaround.  The flagpole was centered in thegrass on the lawn to the left of thegravel path. The gently waving clothof Old Glory undulated in the breezein isolated splendor.  Lieutenant General MacKenzie Hawkinstested the wind and then unzipped hisfly.                  3                               CHAPI`ERFOURDevereaux smiled at the doorman of theBeverly Hills Hotel, then walkedaround the huge automobile to thedriver's side, tipped the parkingattendant, and climbed in behind thewheel, the glare of the sunlightbouncing off the hood. It was all soSouthern California: doormen, parkingAttendants, silent tips, oversizedcars and blinding sunlight.  As was the telephone conversation hehad held two hours ago with the firstMrs. MacKenzie Hawkins.  He had decided to begin logically,piecing together a progressivedisintegration of the man. Surely apattern would emerge; it would beeasier to document this contemporaryversion of the Rake's Progress if hestarted with the subject'sintroduction to the really corruptworld: soft silks and money as opposedto mere killing, torture, and WestPoint arrogance.  Regina Sommerville Hawkins was thatintroduction.. According to the databanks, Regina was Virginia HuntCountry, spoiled-rich out of Foxcroftand Finch. She had set her cotillionbonnet for the trophy called Hawkinsin UL947, when the celebrated youthfulwarrior of the Bulge had furtherimpressed the nation with dazzlingfeats on the gridiron. Since DaddySommerville owned most of VirginiaBeach, and Ginny was an authenticSouthern belle money and magnolia, notjust the fragrance the match waseasily arranged. The heroicup-from-the-ranks West Pointer wasmet, overwhelmed, and temporarilysubdued by the lilting drawl, largebreasts, and indigenous conveniencesof this soft but persistent daughterof the Confederacy.Daddy knew a lot of people inWashington, so, com32Lined with Hawkins's own talents andtrack record, Regina expected to be ageneral's wife within six months. Ayear at best.  In Washington. Or Newport News. OrNew York. Or perhaps lovely Hawaii.With servants and uniforms and dancesand more servants and.. .  However, Hawkins was peculiar, andDaddy did not know that many peoplewho could curb his odd behavior. TheHawk did not want the la-de-da life ofWashington Newport News, or New York.He wanted to be with his troops. Andthere was a congressional on his sheetrequests were not denied lightly.Regina found herself in out-of-the-wayarmy camps where her husband furiouslytrained disinterested draftees for awar that wasn't. So she decided toshed her trophy. Daddy did know enoughpeople to make that easy. Hawkins wastransferred to West Germany andRegina's doctors made it clear shecould not take the climate. Thedistance between them just made itfeasible to call the whole thingquietly off.  Now, nearly thirty years later,Regina Sommerville Hawkins ClarkMadison Greenberg was living in asuburb of Los Angeles called Tarzanawith her fourth husband, EmmanuelGreenberg, motion picture producer. Onthe phone two hours ago she had saidto Sam Devereaux:  "Listen, lover, you want to talkabout Mac? I'll Bet the girlstogether. We usually meet onThursdays, but what the hell is aday?"  So Sam wrote down the directions toTarzana and was now on his way in arented car to Regina's manse. The carradio played Muddied Waters, whichseemed appropriate.  He found the driveway of theGreenberg residence and entered it,ascending, he was sure, the finalcrest of the hills. Halfway into theproperty was an iron gate, operatedelectrically; it swung open as heapproached.  He parked in front of a four-cargarage. On the flat asphalt surfacethere were two Cadillacs, a SilverCloud Rolls and, in rather obviouscounterpoint, a Maserati. Twouniformed chauffeurs were talkingidly, leaning against the Rolls. Samgot out of the car with his attachecase and closed the door. "I'm Mrs.Greenberg's broker," he said to thechauffeurs.33  "This is the place, man," laughedthe younger chauffeur. "Merrill,Lynch, and The Girls. That's what theyought to call it."  "Maybe they will some day. Is thatthe path to the door?" Sam gesturedtoward a flagstone walk that seemed todisappear into a short forest ofCalifornia fern and miniature orangetrees.  "Yes, sir," said the older,dignified chauffeur, as if it wereimportant to cut short the youngerman's informality. 'Jo the right.You'll see it."  Sam walked down the path to thefront door. He had never seen a pinkdoor before, but if he had to see one,he knew it would be in SouthernCalifornia. He pushed the doorbell andheard the chimes ring out the openingnotes of the Love Story theme. Hewondered if Regina knew the ending.  The door opened and she stood in thefoyer, dressed in tight-fitting shortsand an equally tight, translucentshirt that made her huge breasts burstforward in an absolutely challengingfashion.  Though in her forties, Regina wasdark haired, tanned, unlined, andlovely, and she carried her frontagewith the assurance of youth.  "You're the mayjor?" she asked, therank emerging in the low, slow, flat Aof the Hunt Country.  "Major Sam Devereaux," he confirmed.It was silly to state the name soformally but his attention was on hertwo titanic challenges.  "Come on in. I reckon you figuredwe'd all take offense at a uniform."  "Something like that, I guess."Devereaux smiled foolishly forced hiseyes away from the shirt and walkedinto the foyer.  The foyer was short; the entrance toa huge sunken living room, the farwall of which was nothing but glass.Beyond the glass was a kidney-shapedpool surrounded by a terrace ofItalian tile, bordered by an ornateiron fence overlooking the valley.  All this he noticed after, say,fifteen seconds. The first quarterminute was taken up observing threeadditional pairs of breasts.34  Each pair was magnificent in itsindividual style. Full and Round.Narrow and Pointed. Sloping yetArgumentative.  They belonged in turn to Madge,Lillian, and Anne; Regina Greenbergmade the introductions swiftly andpleasantly. And Sam automaticallyrelated the breasts  the girls to thedata in his attache case.Lillian was number three. Palo Alto,California.Madge was number two. Tuckahoe, NewYork.Anne was number four. Detroit,Michigan.A nice cross-section of Americana.  Regina Ginny was obviously theoldest, not so much in appearance asin authority. For in truth, all thegirls were in that vague age rangebetween middle thirties and the nextdecade a span Southern California wasexpert in obscuring. And each wasdressed in sexy Southern California:casual but minutely engineered forthat effect.  MacKenzie Hawkins was a man whosetastes and abilities were to beenvied.  The courtesies were gotten over withrapidly, courteously. Sam was offereda drink, which he dared not refuse inthis company, and seated in a sunkenbean bag from which it was impossibleto rise. He managed to place theattache case at his side, butimmediately realized that the contor-tions required to reach over, pick itup, and open it on his lap would taxPlastic Man, so he hoped it would notbe necessary.  "Well, here we all are," drawledRegina Greenberg. "Hawkins's Harem, asit were. What does tide Pentagon want?Testimonials?"  "There's one we'll all give withoutreservation," said Lillian brightly."Enthusiastically," said Madge."Ooah," said Anne.  "Yes, well. The general's abilitiesare enormous," stammered Sam. "Imean well, I didn't expect to meet youall at once. Together. In a group."  "Oh, we're a real sorority, Major."Madge, Round and Full, sat in a beanbag next to Sam and reached over,touching his arm. "Ginny told you.Hawkins s ""Yes, I understood," said Devereaux,swiftly interrupting. 35  "Talk to one of us about Mac, youtalk to all of us," addedLillian Narrow and Pointed from acrossthe room in a particularly mellifluousvoice.  "That's right," cooed Anne Slopingyet Argumentativc~ standingoutrageously in front of the centerpane of glass on the swimming poolwall.  "In the event we don't have aquorum, I act as spokeswoman," drawledRegina Greenberg from a jaguar-skincouch against the right wall. "That'sbecause I was there first and haveseniority."  "Not necessarily years, dear," saidMadge. "We won't let you malignyourself."  "It's difficult to know ho'w tobegin," said Sam, who nevertheless,plunged into the difficulty. Hetouched first gently, on the abstracthardships of dealing with a highlyindividualistic personality. Heslowly, gently explained thatMacKenzie Hawkins had involved hisgovernment in a most delicatesituation for which a solution had tobe found. And although said governmentwas filled with undeniable and undyinggratitude for General Hawkins'sextraordinary contributions, it wasoften necessary to study a man'sbackground to help him and hisgovernment  resolve delicatesituations. Frequently the partiallynegative led to the positive, if onlyto balance and accentuate theaffirmative.  "So you want to screw him," recappedRegina Greenberg. "It had to happen,didn't it, girls?"There was a chorus of yesses anduh-huhs.  Sam knew better than to offer a flatdenial, there was more intelligence orperception in that room than mighthave been evident at first. "Why doyou say that?" he asked Ginny.  "Gawd Mayjorl" replied Titanic."Mac's been on a collision course withthe high-brass pricky-shits for yearslHe sees through their manure piles.That's why they like it when thoseNorthern liberals make him out a joke.But Mac's no joker"  "Nobody thinks he's funny right now,Mrs. Greenberg. Let me assure you."  "What's Mac done?" The question wasput defensively by Anne, stillsilhouetted splendidly at the window.36 l   "He defaced " Sam stopped; badchoice of word. "He destroyed anational monument belonging to a gov-ernment we're trying to maintain adetente with. Like our LincolnMemorial.  "\Vas he drunk?" asked Lillian, eyesand narrow frontage leveled at Sam;two sets of sharp artillery."He says he wasn't."  "Then- he wasn't," stated Madgepositively from the bean bag besidehim.  "Mac can drink a whole battalionunder a mess hall slop shoot." GimpyGreenberg's drawl was punctuated byher affirmatively nodding head. "Buthe never, never plays the whiskey gameto the disadvantage of that uniform."  "He wouldn't put it into words,Major," said Lillian, "but it was astronger rule than any oath he evertook."  "For two reasons," added Ginny. "Hesurely didn't want to disgrace hisrank, but just as important, he didn'tlike for the pricky~shits to laugh athim because of booze."  "So you see," stated Madge in thebean bag, "Mac didn't do what theysaid he did to the Lincoln Memorial.He just wouldn't."  Sam looked back and forth at thegirls. Not one of these ex-Mrs.Hawkinses was going to help him; nonewould utter a negative word about theman.WhyP  He struggHed like hell to get out ofthe bean bag and tried to assume thestance of a cross-examining attorney.A very soft, gentle attorney. He pacedslowly in front of the massive window.Anne went to the bean bag.  "Naturally," he began, smiling,"these circumstances, this group here,evoke several questions. Not thatyou're under any obligation to answer,but frankly, speaking personally, Idon't understand. Let me explain "  "Let me answer," interrupted Regina."You can't figure out why Hawkins'sHarem protects its namesake. Right?""Right.  "As spokeswoman," continued Ginny,receiving nods of assent from theothers, "I'll be brief and to thepoint. Mac Hawkins is one great guy inbed and out, and don't snicker at thebed because most marriages haven't gotit. 37You can't live with the son of abitch, but that's not his fault.  "Mac gave us something we'll neverforget because it's with us every day.He taught us to break our molds.Sounds simple, doesn't it?'Break yourmold.' But, lover, it sets you free.'You're your own goddamned inventory,'he used to say. 'There's nothing youhave to do and nothing you can't do;use your inventory and work likehell.'  "Now, I don't think that all of usbelieve that's holy writ. But by gawd,he made each one of us try a lotharder. He set us free before it waschic and we haven't done badly.So,~you see, there's not one of us ifMac came knocking at the door whowouldn't accommodate him. You dig?""I dig," replied Sam quietly.  The telephone rang. Regina reachedbehind the couch to the French phoneon the marble table. She turned toSam. "It's for you."  Sam looked a bit startled. "I leftyour number with the hotel but Ididn't expect. . ." He walked to thetable and took the phone.  "He what?l" Blood drained from Sam'sface. He listened again. Jesus! Hedidn'tI" And then in the weariness ofaftershock: "Yes, sir. I can see hemost certainly did.... I'll go back tothe hotel and await instructions.Unless you'd rather turn this over tosomeone else; my tour is up in amonth, sir. I see. Five days at theoutside, sir."  He hung up and turned to Hawkins'sHarem. Those four magnificent pairs ofmammaries that both invited and defieddescription.  'We're not going to need you,ladies. Although Mac Hawkins may."  'I'm your only contact withSixteen-hundred, Major," said theyoung lieutenant as he pace`}somewhatchildishly, thought Sam the plushBeverly Hills Hotel room. "You canrefer to me as Lodestone. No names,please."  "Lieutenant Lodestone,Sixteen-hundred. Has a nice ring toit," said Devereaux, pouring himselfanother bourbon."I'd go easy on the alcohol.""Why don't you go to China instead? Ofme, that is." 38"You do have a long, long flight.""Not if you make it, I don't."  "In a way, I wish I could. Do yourealize there are seven . hundredmillion potential consumers overthere? I'd really like to get asee-you shot of that market.""A who?""Close-up look. A real peek-see.""Ohh. C-U. Not see-you "  "What an opportunity!" The lieutenantstood by the hotel window, his handsclasped behind his back. Caveat consumer.  "Then go, for Christ's sake! Inthirty-two days I've got a permit toget out of this Disneyland and I don'twant to trade my uniform in for aChinese smock!"  "I'm afraid I can't, sir.Sixteen-hundred needs pro-PR now. Allthe other slambangs are gone. Some areturning out a crackerjack house organat Dannemora.... Damn!" The lieutenantturned from the window and walked tothe writing desk where there were ahalf dozen photographs, five by seven."It's all here, Major. All you need.They're a little hazy, but they showBrand X, all right! He certainly can'tdeny it now."  Sam looked at the blurred butdefinable telephotos from Peking. "Healmost reached, didn't he?"  "DisgracefulI" The lieutenant wincedas he studied the photographs."There's nothing left to be said."  "Except that he almost made it." Samcrossed to an armchair and sat downwith his bourbon. The lieutenantfollowed him.  "Your head IG investigator in Saigonwill fly his reports directly to youin Tokyo. Take them with you toPeking. They've got a lot of realdirt." The young officer smiled hisgenuine smile. "Just in case you needsome final stickum for the coffin."  "Gee, you're a nice kid. Ever meetyour father?" Sam drank a great dealof his bourbon.  "You mustn't personalize it, Major.It's an objective operation and wehave the input. It's all part of the ""Don't say again "  ". . . game plan." Lodestoneswallowed the words. "Sorry. Andanyway, if you do personalize it, whatmore do you 39want? The man's a maniac. A dangerous,egotistical madman who's interferingviolently with peaceful pursuits."  "I'm a lawyer, Lieutenant, not anavenging angel. Your maniac madeseveral contributions to other gameplans. He's got a lot of people in hiscorner. I met with eight four thisafternoon." Sam looked at his glass.where did the bourbon go?"Not any more, he doesn't," said theofficer flatly."He doesn't what?""Whatever constituency he had willdisappear."  "Constituency? a politician?" Samdecided he needed another drink. Hecouldn't follow this Buster Brown anylonger. So why not get really drunk?  "He peed on the Stars and StripeslThat's a Peoria no-nor""Did he really reach?"  "We're sending you to China,"continued Lodestone, overlooking thequestion, "in the fastest way possible.Phantom jet aircraft over the northernroute, stops in Juneau and theAleutians, into Tokyo. From there asupply carrier to Peking. I've broughtall the papers you need fromWashington."  Devereaux mumbled into his bourbon."I don't like moo goo gal pan and Ihate egg rolls...."  "May I suggest you get some rest,sir? It's almost twenty-three hundredand we have to leave for the airbase atoh four hundred. You take off at dawn."  "Wish I'd said that, Lodestone. Nicering to it. Five hours. And you're downthe hall but not in here:'"Sir?" The young man cocked his head.  "I'm going to give you an order. Goaway. I don't want to see you until youcome to sew in my name tags.""What?"  "Get the hell out of here." And thenSam remembered and his eyes thoughslightly glazed were laughing. "Youknow what you are, Lieutenant? You'rea pricky-shit. A real, honest-to-Godpricky-shit. Now I know what it means!"Four hours.... He wondered.It was worth a try. But first he neededanother drink.:. He poured it and walked to the writingdesk and 40laughed at the Peking telephotos. Theson of a bitch had flair, no questionabout it. But he was not at the deskto look at the photographs; he openedthe drawer and took out his notebook.He turned the pages and did his bestto Ecus on his own handwriting. Hewalked to the telephone by the bed,dialed nine, and then the number onthe page.  "Hello?" The voice was magnolia-softand Sam could actually smell theoleander blossoms."Mrs. Greenberg? This is Sam Devereaux"  "Well, how're you?" Regina'sgreeting was positively enthusiastic;there was no attempt to conceal herpleasure that the caller was a man."We were all wondering which one you'dcall. I'm really flattered, Mayjor! Imean, actually, I'm the elderstateswoman. I'm really touched."  Her husband was probably out,thought Sam through the bourbon,warmed by the memory of herchallenging, translucent shirt.  "That's very kind of you. You see,in a little while I'm going to go ona long, long trip. Over oceans andmountains and. more oceans and islandsand..." Jesus! He hadn't figured outhow to put it; he hadn't really beensure he could dial her number. Goddamnbourbon fantasies! "Well, it'ssheecrit~ecret. Very covert. But I'mgoing to talk to your namesake?"  "Of cawsse, lover! And naturally,you didn't get half a chaynce to askall those important governmentquestions. I understand, I really do.""Well, several items came up, one inparticular "  "It usually does. I do believe Ishould do all I can to help thegovernment in its delicate situation.You're at the Beverly Hills?""Yes, ma'm. Room eight twenty."  "Wait a sec." She put her hand overthe receiver, but Sam could hear hercalling out. "Manng! There's a nation-al emergency. I have to go to town."                  41                   1                                CHATTIER FIVE"Major! Major Devereauxl Your phone isoff the hook. That s a no-no.  An incessant, ridiculously loudknocking accompanied Lodestone's nasalscreams.  "What the gawd-almighty hell isthat?" asked Regina Greenberg, nudgingSam under the covers. "It sounds likean unoiled piston.  Devereaux opened his eyes into thevisual abyss of a hangover. "That,dear patron saint of Tarzana, is thevoice of the evil people. They surfacewhen the earth churns."  "Do you know what time it is? Callthe hotel police, for heaven's sake."  "No," said Sam, reluctantly gettingout of bed. "Because if I do, thatgentleman will call the joint chiefsof staff. I think they're scared todeath of him. They're merelyprofessional killers; he's inadvertising."  And before Devereaux could reallyfocus, hands had dressed him, cars haddriven him, men had yelled at him, andhe was strapped into an Air ForcePhantom jet.  They all smiled. Everyone in Chinasmiled. With their lips more thantheir eyes, thought Sam.  He was met at the Peking airfield byan American diplomatic vehicle,escorted by two flanking Chinese armycars and eight Chinese army officers.All smiling; even the vehicles.  The two nervous Americans that camewith the diplomatic car were attaches.They were anxious to get back to themission; neither was comfortablearound the Chinese troops.Nor did either attache care to discussvery much of 42anything except the weather, which wasdull and overcast. Whenever Sambrought up the subject of MacKenzieHawkins_nd why not? he had relievedhimself on their roof their mouthsbecame taut and they shook their headsin short, lateral jerks and pointedtheir fingers below the windows atvarious areas of the automobile. Andlaughed at nothing.  Finally Devereaux realized they wereconvinced that the diplomatic car wasbugged. So Sam laughed, too. Atnothing.  If the automobile was fitted withelectronic surveillance, and ifsomeone was listening, thoughtDevereaux, that person was probablyconjuring up a picture of three adultmales passing dirty comics back andforth.  And if the ride from the airfieldseemed strange to Sam, his half-hourmeeting with the ambassador at thediplomatic mission in Glorious FlowerSquare was ludicrous.  He was ushered into the building byhis cackling escorts, greeted solemnlyby a group of serious-faced Americanswho had gathered in the hallway likeonlookers in a zoologicallaboratory unsure of their safety butfascinated by the new animal broughtin for observatior~and propelledquickly down a corridor to a largedoor that was obviously the entranceto the ambassador's office. Onceinside, the ambassador greeted himwith a rapid handshake, simultaneouslyraising a finger over his slightlyquivering moustache. One of theescorts removed a small metal deviceabout the size of a pack of cigarettesand began waving it around the windowsas though blessing the panes of glass.The ambassador watched the man."I can't be sure," whispered theattache."Why not?" asked the diplomat.  "The needle moved a touch, but itcould be the Joudspeakers in thesquare."  "Damn1 We have to get moresophisticated scanners. Scramble amemo to Washington." The ambassadortook Sam s elbow, leading him back tothe door. "Come with me, General.""I'm a major.""That's nice."The ambassador propelled Sam out of theoffice, across 43the corridor to another door, which heopened, and then preceded Devereauxdown a steep flight of stone stepsinto a large basement. There was asingle light bulb on the wall; theambassador snapped it on and led Sampast a number of wooden crates toanother door in the barely visiblewall. It was heavy and the diplomathad to put his foot against thesurrounding cement in order to pull itopen.  Inside was a long-out-of-use,walk-in refrigerator, now serving asa wine cellar.  The ambassador entered and struck amatch. On one of the racks was acandle, half burned down. Theambassador held the flame to the wick,and the light swelled ffickeringlyagainst the walls and the racks. Thewine was not the best observedDevereaux silently.  The ambassador reached out andyanked Sam into the center of thesmall enclosure and then pulled theheavy door almost shut, but notcompletely.  His lean, aristocratic featuresaccentuated by the wavering flame ofthe candle, the ambassador smiledapologetically.  "We may strike you as a touchparanoid, but it's not the case atall, I can assure you.""Oh, no, sir. This is very cozy. Andquiet."  Sam tried to return the ambassador'ssmile. And for the next thirty minuteshe received his last instructions fromhis government. It was an appropriateplace to get them: deep underground,the surrounding earth inhabited byworms that never saw the light of day.  Armed with his briefcase and nocourage whatsoever, Devereaux walkedout the mission's white steel door, tobe greeted by a Chinese officer whowaved at him from the foot of thepath. Sam saw for the first time theevidence of wreckage large splintersof wood, several angle irons  lyingabout on the lawn.  The officer stood outside the borderof the property and grinned a flatgrin. "My name is Lin Shoo, MajorDeveroxx. I will escort you toLieutenant General Hawkins. My carshould you please."  Sam clinked into the back seat ofthe army staff vehicle and settledback, his case on his lap. As opposedto the 44nervous Americans, Lin Shoo was not atall inhibited about talking. Thesubject quickly became MacKenzieHawkins.  "A highly volatile individual, MajorDeveroxx," said the Chinese, shakinghis head. "He is possessed by dragons.""Has anyone tried reasoning with him?"'1, myself. With great and charmingpersuasion."' But not with great or charmingsuccess, I gather."  "What can I tell you? He assaultedme. It wasn't proper at all.'  "And you want a full-scale trailbecause of that? The ambassador saidyou were adamant. A trial or a lot ofhazzerai.""Hazzerai?""It means trouble. It's Jewish.""You don't look Jewish...."  "What about this trial?" interruptedSam. "Are the charges centered onassault?"  "Oh, no. That would not bephilosophically consistent. We expectto suffer physically. Through struggleand suf- fering there is strength." Lin Shoosmiled; Devereaux- didn't know why. "The general will betried for crimes against themotherland."  "An extension of the originalcharge," said Sam, making a quietstatement.- "Far more complex, however," repliedLin Shoo, his smile fading intoresigned depression. "Willfuldestructionroof national shrines not unlike yourLinkolon Memorials. He escaped once,you know. With a stolen truck he raninto the statuary on Son Tai Square. Heis now charged with defacement ofvenerated artistic craftsmanship thestatuary he ran into was sculpturedafter the designs of the chairman'swife. And there can be nocounterargument concerning drugs forthis. He was seen by too manydiplomatic people. He made great sumsof noise in Son Tail"  "He'll claim extenuatingcircumstances." No harm in testing,thought Devereaux."As with assault, there is no suchthing."  "I see." Sam didn't but there was nopoint pursuing it. "What could hedraw?"45"How so? Draw? The sculpture?""Prison. What sort of prison sentence?How long?""Roughly four thousand, seven hundredand fifty years.""What? You might as well execute him!"  "Life is precious to the sons anddaughters of the motherland. Everyliving thing is capable ofcontribution. Even a vicious criminallike your maniac imperialist general.He could have many productive years inMongolia."  "Now just hold on!" Devereauxchanged his position abruptly to lookLin Shoo full in the face. He couldnot be sure, but he thought he hearda metallic click from the front seat.Not unlike the of a pistol's safetycatch.  He decided not to thinktabout it. Itwas better that way. He returned hisattention to Lin Shoo.  "That's crazy! You know that's justplain dumb! What the hell are youtalking about? Fourthousand Mongolia?" Devereaux'sattache case fell out of his lap; heheard  again the metallic click. "Imean, let's be reasonable.-. ."Devereaux's words drifted offnervously. He picked up the leathercase.  '1hese are the legitimate penaltiesfor the crimes," said Lin Shoo. "Noforeign government has the right tointerfere with the internal disciplineof its host nation. It isinconceivable. However, in thisparticular case, perhaps, it is notentirely unreasonable."  Sam paused before speaking; hewatched the scowl on Lin Shoo's facereturn slightly, ever so slightly, toits previous polite, unhumorous smile."Do I detect the beginnings of anout-of-court settlement?""How so? Out of court?""A compromise. Do we talk about acompromise?"  Lin Shoo now allowed the scowl tofloat away. His smile came as close tobeing genial as Devereaux couldimagine. "Please, yes. A compromisewould be enlightening. There isstrength, also, in enlightenment."  "And maybe a little less than fourthousand years in Mongolia in thecompromise?"  "Fraught with possibilities. Shouldyou suffled where others have not.After all, it is to our mutualadvantage to reach a compromise."46  "I hope you know how right you are.Hawkins is a national hero."  "So was your Speeroo Agaroo, Major.Your President said so himself.""What can you offer? Dispense with thetrials"  Lin Shoo dropped his smile, toosuddenly for comfort thought Sam.  "We cannot do that. The trial hasbeen announced. Too many people in theinternational community know of it."  "You want to save face, or do youwant to sell gas?" Devereaux sat back;the Chinese officer did want a com-promise."A little of both is a compromise, isit not?"  "What's your little? In the event Ican get Hawkins to be reasonable.  "A reduction of the sentence wouldbe one consideraffon." Lin Shoo'ssmile returned  "From four thousand to twenty-fivehundred years?" asked Devereaux."You're all heart. Let's start withprobation; I 11 concede acquittal."How so? Probation?"  "I'll explain later; you'll like it.Give me some real incentive to work onHawkins." Sam fingered the top of hisattache case, tapping his nails on theleather. It was a silly thing thatusually split adversaries'concentration and sometimes produceda hasty concession.  "A Chinese trial takes many forms.Long, ornate, and quite ritualistic.Or very short, swift, and devoid ofexcess. Three months or three hours.I can, perhaps, bring about the latter"  "That and probation, I'll buy," saidSam quickly. "That's incentive enoughto make me want to work real hard.You've got a deal.""This probation. You will have todefine more legalistically."  "Basically, you not only save faceand sell gas, but you can show howtough you are and Stan be heroes in theworld press. All at the same time.What could be better than that?"  Lin Shoo smiled. Devereaux wonderedbriefly if there wasn't moreunderstanding beyond that smile thanthe Chinese cared to show. Then hedismissed the thought; 47Lin Shoo distracted him by asking aquestion and answering it before Samcould speak.  'What could be better than that?Having General Hawkins out of China.Yes, that would be better."  "What a coincidence. Because that'sone insignificant part ofprobation.""Really?" Lin Shoo looked straightahead.  "You, I can handle," said Sam,almost reflectively. "I've still gotto worry about Brand X."                 48                                CHAPTER SewThe cell could be seen clearly througha single pane of unidirectional glassembedded in the heavy steel door.There was a western-style bed, awriting desk recessed overhead lights,both a desk lamp and bedside light,and a large rug on the floor. Therewas an open door on the right wallthat led to a small bathroom, and ahorizontal clothes rack on the leR.The room was no more than ten feet bytwelve feet, but all thingsconsidered, far grander than Sam hadvisualized.The only thing missing was MacKenzieHawkins.  "You see," said Lin Shoo, "howconsiderate we are, how well appointedare the general's accommodations?"  "I'm impressed," replied Devereaux."Except I don't see the general."  "Oh, he is there." The Chinesesmiled and spoke soRly. "He has hislittle games. He hears the footstepsand conceals himself on either side ofthe door. Twice the guards werealarmed and made ill-consideredentrances. Fortunately, there wereseveral to overcome the general'sstrength. Now all the ships arealerted. His meals are deliveredthrough a slot.""He's still trying...." Sam chuckled."He's something."  "He is many things," added Lin Shooenigmatically as he approached awebbed circle beneath theunidirectional glass and pushed a redbutton. "General Hawkins? PleaseGeneral, show yourself. It is yourgood and gracious friend, Lin Shoo. Iknow you are beside the door General.""Up your ass, slant eyes!"  Lin Shoo released the buttonmomentarily and turned to Devereaux."He is not always the essence ofcourtesy." 49The Chinese returned to the speakerand pushed the button again. "Please,General, I have a countryman of yourswith me. A representative of yourgovernment. From the armed forces ofyour nation "  "You better check her goddamnedpurse! Maybe up her skirt! Herlipstick might be a bomb!" came theshout from the unseen general officer.  Lin Shoo turned back to Devereaux inbewilderment. Sam gently moved theChinese out of the way, pushed thebutton himself, and yelled into thespeaker.  "Get off it, you chickenfucker! Showthat hairy ass you call a face or I'llopen the slop-shoot and drop in thatbucking lipstick! I'll fray you, youmiserable son of a bitch!Incidentally, Regina Greenberg sayshello."  The immense head of MacKenzieHawkins slowly appeared in the pane ofunidirectional glass It merged fromthe side, huge, crew-cut,leather-lined. Mac's expression wasone of utter consternation. Ahalf-chewed cigar was gripped betweenhis teeth, beneath wide, bloodshoteyes that betrayed disbelievingcuriosity.  "How so? What do you say?" LinShoo's controlled lips were parted inastonishment.  "It's a highly classified militarycode," said Devereaux. "We only employit under extreme conditions."  "I will not pursue the matter; itwould not be courteous. If you flipthe lever on the side of the glass,General Hawkins will see you. When youfeel comfortable, I shall admit you.However, I will remain outside,please."  Sam pushed the small handle on thesides of the glass; there was a click.The large, squinting face reacted withinstant hostility. Devereaux had thefeeling that Hawkins was observingsomething very obscene butunimportant: Sam, the militaryaccident.  Devereaux nodded to Lin Shoo. TheChinese reached out with both hands,as if to pull with one and push withthe other, and unlatched the door. Theheavy steel panel opened; Sam walkedin.  To an enormous fist that camerushing toward him, on a directcollision course with his left eye.The impact came; the room, the world,the galaxy spun out of orbit into the50                   1                   shimmering of a hundred thousandsplotches of white light.  Sam felt the wet cloth over his facebefore he felt the pain in his head,especially his eye, and he thoughtthat was strange. He reached up,pulled the cloth away and blinked. Allhe saw at first was a white ceiling.The center light hurt his head,especially his left eye. He realizedhe was on a bed, so he rolled over andeverything came back to him.  Hawkins was at the writing desk,papers and photographs scattered aboutthe top. The general was reading froma sheaf of stapled papers.  Devereaux did not have to move hispainful head farther to know that hisopened attache case was somewhere nearthe general. Nevertheless, he did soand saw it at Hawkins's feet. Open andupside down. Empty. The contents infront of the general.  Sam cleared his throat. He could notthink of anything else to do. Hawkinsturned; his expression was not pleas-ant. Somehow absent was thatwelcoming, manly bond of recognitionbetween comrades-at-arms."You little pricky-shits have beenbusy, haven't you?"  Painfully, Devereaux swung his legsover the side of the bed and touchedhis left eye. He touched it gently,mainly because he could barely see outof it. "I may be a shit, General, butI'm not so little, as one day I hopeto prove to you. Christ, I hurt."  "You want to provesomething" Hawkins gestured at thepapers and allowed himself the inklingof a cynical grin " to meP With whatyou know about me? You've got moxie,boy. I'll say that for you.''  ' That phrase is about asantediluvian as you are," muttered Samas he stood up. Unsteadily. 'Youenjoying the reading material?"  "It's some goddamned recordl They'llprobably want to make another movieabout me."  "Leavenworth Productions. Filmprocessed in the prison laundry. Youare a bonafide fruitcake." Devereauxpointed to a blanket draped over thedoor covering the 51pane of unidirectional glass. "Is thatsmart?" He gestured at the blanket.  "It's not dumb. It confuses them. Theoriental mind has two very pronouncedpressure points: confusion and em-barrassment." Hawkins's eyes werelevel.  The statement startled Sam. Perhaps itwas Hawkins's choice of words, or maybethe quiet intelligence behind- the voice. Whatever it was, it wasunexpected. "I mean it's a littleuseless; the room is bugged. Bugged,helll All they have to do is push a redbutton and they can hear everything wesay."  "Wrong, soldier," replied the generalas he got out of the chair. "If you area soldier and not a goddamn lacepants.Come here." Hawkins walked over to theblanket and folded back, first, acorner on the right, then the oppositesection of the cloth on the left. Inboth small areas were barely visibleholes-in the wall, now very visiblewith wet toilet paper shoved into thecenters. Hawkins dropped the twosections of the blanket and then  pointed to six additional plugs of wettoilet tissue two on each wall, upperand lower and grinned his leather-linedgrin. "I've gone over this Lucking cellpalm-spread by palm-spread. I'veblocked out each mike, there aren't anyothers. Naturally, I didn't touch 'embefore. See how careful the goddamnedmonkeys were? Even got one right overthe pillow in case I talked in mysleep. That was the toughest to spot."  Grudgingly, Sam nodded his approval.And then he thought of the obvious. "Ifyou have plugged every one, they'llrace in here and move us. You shouldrealize that."  "You should think better. Electronicsurveillance in close areas is wiredterminally into a single unit. First,they'll figure they've got a short inthe unit circuit, which will take 'eman hour to trace if they don't have tobreak down the walls and can do it withsensors and that'll confuse 'em. Then,if they rule out a short, they'll guessI plugged 'em and that'll embarrass'em. Confusion and embarrassment; thepressure points. It'll take 'em anotherhour to figure how to get us somewhereelse without admitting error. We've gotat least two hours. So you better dosome pretty fine explaining in thattime."52 i   Devereaux had the distinct feelingthat he had better be capable of somepretty fine explaining. Hawkins was awily pro and Sam did not relish anyconfrontation. Certainly not physicalor, he was beginning to suspect,mental."Don't you want to hear about ReginaGreenberg?""I've read your notes. You've gotlousy handwriting."  "I'm a lawyer; all lawyers havelousy handwriting. It's part of thebar exam. Also I didn't intend to havethem typed up."  "I should hope not," said Hawkins."You've also got a dirty mind.""You've got terrific taste.""I don't discuss former wives.""They've discussed you," counteredSam.  "I know the girls. You didn't getanything you could use. Not from thegirls, you didn't. Anything else yougot is none of my business.""Do I detect a moral position?"  "In my own crude way. I got a littleclass, boy." Hawkins pointed to thedesk; his arm, hand, and extendedfinger all were very steady. "Now,start explaining that stuff."  "What's there to explain? You'veread it, you say. So do I have to tellyou that it represents an airtightcase of persona non "rata on one side,and a large embarrassment for theother? If I do, I just have."Devereaux touched his eye; it hurtlike hell, so he sat down again on thebed.  "That stuff in Indochina," growledHawkins, walking to the desk andpicking up the stapled pages, "it'swritten up like I was working for thebucking gooks!"  "I wouldn't go that far. It raisescertain questions as to your methodsof operation "  "That's going that far, boy!"interrupted the general. "I was eitherworking for 'em or working with trothsides, or just pocketing half thepouch money in Southeast Asia! Or Iwas so dumb I didn't know what I wasdoing at all!"  'lAhh!" sang Sam in a lilting, falsetremolo. "Now we are beginning tounderstand, said Alice to Cock Robin.Amilitary, really military, man withtwo Congressional Medals of Honor is adubious bet for traitor. But all thatcombat, all those banging noises andthat scurrying behind the line andcapture and torture and primitivemeans of 53brutal surviva~the cumulative effectof all that would certainly flip outsaid hero right into laughing land.Very sad, but the human psyche cantake only so much."  "Horseshit!"roared Hawkins. "Myhead's screwed on a hell of a lottighter than those Puckers who askedfor all this crapl"  "Two points for the general," saidDevereaux, holding up his fingers inthe V sign. "I hereby state for therecord that the general's head isscrewed better than anyone atSixteen-hundred. And, I might add, sois the general.""What does that mean, boy?"  "Oh, come on, Hawkins. You'refinished! How and why it happened, Idon't know. I just know that you gotin the way at a rotten time, you madetoo much noise and you are expendable!Not only expendable, but a goddamnedpawn that Sixteen-hundred's giving uploud and clear. You're even anexample!""Horseshit, again! Wait'll thePentagon gets wind of this!"  "They've it'~already got itsnostrils full. The brass noses arecolliding with each other, running tothe deodorant factories. You don'texist, General! Except maybe as awayward memory." Sam got up from thebed. The pain in the eye was spreadingthroughout his head again.  "You can't sell that and I won't buyit," said Hawkins defensively, hisvoice indicating a slightly diminishedconfidence. "I've got friends. I'vegot a career sheet that reads like arecruiting poster. Goddamn it,soldier, I'm a general officer whocame up from the ranks from theSucking mud in Belgium! They won'ttreat me this way!"  "I'm not a soldier. I'm a lawyer andI'm telling you you've been treatedwith several layers of forget-me gas.Those telephotos from your buddies inPeking sealed the whole ball of wax.You've bubbled over.""They've got to prove it!"  "They've got that, too. I was givenit in a pitch-black wine cellar aboutan hour ago. By a psychotic holding acandle. A very solid citizen. They'vegot you."  Hawkins squinted his eyes andremoved the chewed unlit cigar fromhis mouth. "How?"  "'Medical records.' That's the hardevidence. Psychiatric and physical.'Stress collapse' is only thebeginning. 54The Defense Department will issue astatement that says, in essence, youwere purposely placed in ambivalentsituations so they could ascertain thedevelopment. 'Schizoid progression,'I think it's called. Conflictingobjectives like the Indochina stuff.Also those pictures of you pissing onthe mission's roof have a verycomplicated psychiatric explanation."  "I've got a better one. I wasgoddamned angry! Wait'll I give myversion.  "You won't get a chance to tell it.If the game plan becomes an issue, thePresident plans to go on the air,praise your past, show your currentmedical records with heartbreakingreluctance, of course and ask thecountry to pray for you.  "Couldn't happen." The general shookhis head confidentially. "No onebelieves a president anymore."  "Maybe not, but he's got thebuttons. Not his own, maybe, butenough others. You'll be strapped downin a Nike silo, if he says so." Samsaw that there was a metal mirror inthe small cubicle that housed thetoilet. He walked toward the door.  "But why should he do it? Why wouldanyone let him do it?" Hawkins's cigarwas held limply in his hand.  Devereaux looked at the size and hueof the shiner over his left eye."Because we need gas," he replied.  "Huh?" Hawkins dropped his cigar onthe rug. Obviously without thinking,he stepped on it, grinding it into thesurface. Gas?  "It's too complicated. Never mind."Sam pressed the sensitive flesh aroundhis eye with his fingers. He hadn'thad a mouse in over fifteen years; hewondered how long it would take forthe swelling to recede. "Just acceptthe situation for what it is and makethe best deal you can. You haven't gotmuch choice.""You mean I'm supposed to lie down andtake it?"  Devereaux walked out of the toilet,stopped and sighed. "I'd say theimmediate objective was to keep youfrom lying down in Mongolia. For somefour thousand-plus years. If youcooperate, maybe I can pull it off.""Out of China?""Yes."55  "How much cooperation? With thegooks and Washy ington?" Hawkins'ssquint was very pronounced."A lot. All the way down the pike.""Out of the army?""No point in staying. Is there,really?""Goddamn!"  "I agree. But where does it get you?There's a big world out of thatuniform. Enjoy it."- Hawkins crossed back to the desk inangry silence. He picked up one of thephotographs, shrugged and dropped it.He reached into his pocket for a freshcigar. "Goddamn boy, you're notthinking again. You're a lawyer,maybe, but like you say, you're nosoldier. A field commander sucks in ahostile patrol, he doesn't feed it, hecuts it down. Nobody's going to let meenjoy. They'll put me in that Nikesilo you mentioned. To keep me fromtalking."  Devereaux exhaled a long breaththrough his lips. "It's just possibleI can build a shield acceptable to allparties. APrer you went down the pikeover here. Full confession, publicapology, the works.""Goddamn!""Mongolia, General...."  Hawkins bit into the cigar, thebullet between his teeth, thought Sam."What's a 'shield'?"  "Off the top of my head, I figure aletter to the secretary of the army,accompanied by a tape of your readingit verified by voice print. In theletter, and the tape, you state thatin moments of complete lucidity you'reaware of your illness et cetera, etcetera."Hawkins stared at Devereaux. "You'reout of your mind!""There are a lot of Nike silos in theDakotas.""Jesus!"  "It's not as bad as it sounds. Theletter and the tape will be buried inthe Pentagon. Used only if youpublicly make waves. Both to bereturned, say, in five years. Howabout it?"  Hawkins reached into his pocket fora book of matches. He struck one anda cloud of pungent smoke nearly foggedout his face; but his voice was clearbehind it. "Down this 56 -Chinese pike of yours, there's no talkabout that psychiatric bullshit. Noone tries to make me out a nut."  "Hell, no. Nothing like that. Simplefatigue." Devereaux paced back andforth in the small enclosure as he sooften did in conference rooms, weavingthe fabric of defense. "A littlebooze, maybe; that's sympathetic, evenkind of cute when the client's aballsy type." Sam stopped, clarifyinghis thoughts. "The Chinese wouldprefer an ideological approach; it'dsoften them up. You saw the light.They've been generous to you, nice toyou. The People's regime is dandy. Andtolerant. You didn't realize that.You're really sorry for all thosenasty things you've said for a quarterof a century."  "Goddamn! You make me bleed, boy!"With a technique that escaped Sam,Hawkins actually chewed on his cigaras he roared. And then he removed itand lowered his voice. "I know, Iknow . The silos are Mongolia. Jesus!"  Devereaux watched the man painfully.He took several steps toward him andspoke softly. "You've been squeezed,General. By righteous pieces ofplastic; nobody knows that better thanI do. I've read your file and I agreewith maybe one-fiftieth of what youstand for; in many ways I think you'rea menace. But one thing you're not isa manipulator. And you're no joke.Remember what you told the girls? Yousaid everyone's his own inventory.That says a lot to me. So let me helpyou. I'm no soldier, but I'm a damnedgood lawyer."  Hawkins turned away. Inembarrassment, thought Sam. When thewords came, there was adefenselessness about them that madehim wince.  "Don't know why I'm so concernedabout what anybody says or why I don'tsettle for a silo or Mongolia. God-damn, boy, I've spent thirty-someyears in this man's army. You take offthe uniform no matter what you put meinto I'm as naked as a plucked duck.I only know the army; I don't knowanything else, not trained foranything when you come right down toit. Never spent any time with thetechnological except little stuff inG-two, things like that. Don't knowanything about fancy doings like'negotiations.' All I know how to dois fuck up and trap 57pouch thieves those Indochina reportsare right about that: I outsmarted theKGB, the CIA, the ARVN, and even thesellouts on the Saigon general staff.But that's different. I can handlepersonnel, I suppose. But they alwaysgave me the misfits, the stockadeproducts, if they'd been civiliansthey wouldn't be allowed on thestreets. I was always good with them.I could control those deviousbastards, I could put myself in theirslimy shoes and use 'em, use theirgoddamned angling. But there's nothingI can do on the outside."  "That doesn't sound like the man whosaid everyone's his own inventory.You're better than that."  Hawkins turned and faced Sam. Hespoke slowly reflectively. "Shit, boy.You know what? The only goddamnedthing I'm trained for is to be acrook, maybe. And I'd probably fuckthat up because I don't give that muchof a damn about money."  "You look for challenges. Talentedpeople always do. Monev s aby-product; usually the challengethere is in the amounts, what theyrepresent, not what they canpurchase."  "I guess so." Hawkins took a deepbreath and stretched; his resignationwas coming into focus for him, thoughtDevereaux. He walked past Samaimlessly, humming the opening notesof Mairzy-Doats. Devereaux knew fromlong experience with clients to letthe moment subside allow the clienttime to fully accept the decision.  "Wait a minute, boy. Wait aminute ." Hawkins took the cigar outof his mouth and leveled his eyes withSam. "Everybody wants my cooperation.The Chinks, those assholes inWashington probably a dozen gasconglomerates. I mean they not onlywant it, they need it. So much sothey'll fake records, build a case .That ball of wax got out of control ""Now, hold on. What we're faced with "  "No, you hold on, boyrltm not goingto give you a hard time. I'll make youa better deal than you thought possi-ble." Hawkins shoved the cigar betweenhis teeth, his eyes alive, his voicethoughtful yet intense. "I'll doexactly say exactly, whatever youbastards want me to say and do. Wordfor word, gesture for gesture. I'llkiss every butt on Son Tai Square, ifyou want. But I want two things. Outof 58China and the army they go together.And one thing more: three days in theG-two files back in D.C. Just my own,nobody else's. What the hell, I wroteup the goddamned things! A last lookat my contributions, all the guardsyou want. I'll be making my finalevaluations and additions. Standardprocedure for discharging intelligenceofficers. How about it?"Sam hesitated. "I don't know. Thatstuffs classified "  "Not to the officer who filed it!Clandestine Operations RegulationSeven Seven Five, Statute ofAmendments. Actually, he's reguired tomake his final evaluations.""Are you sure?"Never more sure of anything in mylife, boy."  "Well, if it's standard ""I just gave you the regulation! It'smilitary bible, boy!""Then I can't see any obstacles "  "I want it in writing. In exchangefor that letter and tape thatcertifies me so fatigued I eat lizardshit. In fact, I'll make the ultimatumD.C. issues me a written order tocomply with CO Beg Seven Seven Fiveupon my return to the States, or Illopt for all the silos in MongolialI've still got a lot of supportersback home. They may be a littlesquirrelly, but they're also goddamnednoisy."  MacKenzie Hawkins chuckled; hiscigar was a mangled pulp of itself. Itwas Sam's turn to squint."What are you thinking of?"  "Not a hell of a lot, boy. You justreminded me of something. Everyone ishis own inventory. The sum of hisparts. There may be a big goddamnedworld.out there. And a challenge ortwo."                 59                     Part    IIThecloselyheldcorporation thatis, thecompanywhoseinvestorsare few,regardless of caVitalization  musthave atitsfinancialcore menofgenerousheart andstoutcourage,who willinfusethestructurewiththeirdedication andsense ofpurpose.Shepherd's Lawsof Economics:    1900k    CVI,    Chapter    38          C~ERSElIENThe People's trialwent brilliantly forall concerned.MacKenzie Hawkins wasthe image ofconverted, reformedhostility; he was amanly pussycat,playing his role toperfection. On hisarrival at Travis AirForce Base inCalifornia, he emergedfrom the plane a stoicfigure and spokeclearly into thecameras, and at thecrowds of press andlunatic Ringers;charming the media anddefusing thescreechingsuperpatriots.  He stated simply thatthere came a time whenold soldiers evenyoungish oldsoldiers should stepaside gracefully;times changed andvalues with them. Whatwas perfidy a decadeago was, perhaps, aproper course ofaction today. Themilitary man, themilitary mind was notequipped nor should itbe trained for greatinternationall issues.It was enough that themilitary man, a simplewarrior in hisnation's legions sic .. . ibid . . . ingloma transit . . .MacKenzieHawkins adhere~to theeternal truths as hesaw them.It was all veryrefreshing.It was all veryheartfelt.It was all bullshit.And Mac Hawkins wassuperb.  It was remarked thatthe man in the OvalOffice watched fromdeep down in a sunkenarmchair with his pet150-pound dog, Python,protectively on hislap. He laughed andclapped his hands overPython's fur andstamped his feet andgiggled and had awonderful time. Hisfamily skipped in andlaughed and clappedtheir hands andgiggled and stampedtheir feet just likedaddy. They weren'tsure why daddy was sohappy, but it was thebest fun they'd hadsince daddy shot thatawful little spanielin the stomach. 63  Sam Devereaux watched thetransformaffon of MacKenzie Hawkinsfrom roaring bear to passive possumwith dubious awe. The Hawk had turnedinto a soft-bellied mushybeak, andwhat was basically lacking was themotive. Not that Sam discounted thespecter of imprisonment  Mongolia orLeavenworth but once Hawkins hadagreed to the plea of guilty, thepublic apology, the letter andgratuitous photographs of his bowedhead during the hundred-year sentenceof probation, he could have merelyresumed his military bearing and letwhatever storms rage that might.Instead, he went to extremes to stillany controversy. It seemed as thoughhe really wanted to fade away(terrible phrase, thought Devereaux).  Naturally, it crossed Sam's mindthat Hawkins's behavior was somehowrelated to Washington's quid pro quoregarding the G-2 files the CORegulation 775, and MacKenzie's accessto them. If so, it was an unnecessaryeffort on the general's part; threeintelligence services had looked overthe files and found nothing tocompromise national security. By andlarge the entries concerned old-hatSaigon conspiracies, some ancientEuropean network speculations, and aslew of conjectures, rumors' andunsubstantiatedallegations dipsy-doodle nonsense.  If Hawkins honestly believed hecould make a compromising dollar andfor what other purpose would he insiston CO 775? from these out-of-date,unconfirmed recordings, there was noharm in it. What with inflation, thereduced pension he would receive, andthe overall untouchability of hisstatus, things were going to be roughenough. So nobody much cared what hedid with his old files. Besides, ifthere was any resulting embarrassmentthere was also the letter.  "Goddamn, it's good to talk to youagain, young Ella.', MacKenzie's voicewas loud and enthusiastic over thetelephone, causing Sam to jerk theinstrument away from his ear. Thegesture was part audio-input, part rawfear of association.  Devereaux had left the Hawk over twoweeks ago in California, just afterthe press conference at Travis. Sam 64had flown back to Washington, hisdischarge barely three days off, and hehad spent the time wrapping up any andall desk matters that mightconceivably even barelyconceivably stand in the way of thatglorious hour.  Hawkins wasn't a desk matter, but hismere presence was an abstract threat.On general principles.  "Hello, Mac," said Sam cautiously.They had dispensed with the militarytitles at the beginning of the Pekingtrial. "You in Washington?"  "Where else, boy? Tomorrow I trekover to G-two for my Seven Seven Five.Didn't you know?"  "I've been pretty busy. There's beena lot to close out here. No reason foranyone to tell me about your SevenSeven Five."  "I think there is," replied the Hawk."You're escorting me. I thought youknew that."  There was a sudden, huge lump in themiddle of Devereaux's stomach. Heabsently opened his desk drawer andreached for the Maalox as he spoke."Escorting you? Why do you need anescort? Don't you know the address?I'll give you the address, Mac, I'vegot it right here. Don't go away.Sergeant! Get me the address of G-twoArchives! Move your ass, Sergeant!"  "Hold on, Sam," came the soothingwords of MacKenzie Hawkins. "It's justmilitary procedure, that's all. Nothingto get uptight over. Anyway, I know theaddress; you, should, too, boy andthat's a fact."  "I don't want to escort you. I'm alousy escort! I said good-bye to you inCalifornia.""You can say hello again over dinner.How about it?"  Devereaux breathed deeply. Heswallowed the Maalox and waved away theWAC who was his sergeant-secretary."Mac, I'm sorry, but I do have a numberof things to finish up. Maybe at theend of the week; anytime actually theday after tomorrow. At sixteen hundredhours to be precise."  "Well, Sam, I thought we ought to goover the G-two routine for tomorrowmorning. I mean you have to be there,son. It's in the orders. We wouldn'twant anything Sucked up over there,would we? Jesus! They wouldn't leteither one of us out then."65  "Where do you want to have dinner?"asked Devereaux. He grimaced. TheMaalox bottle was empty.  You're escorting me. I thought youknew that.... It's in the orders. Wewouldn't want anything fucked up overthere, would weP  No, we certainly would not.Devereaux shook his head. A couple inthe next booth were staring at him. Hestopped and grinned foolishly; thecouple whispered to each other andlooked away. Their reaction was clear:You never knew who was being sentencednext.  A tall man came through thecurtained arch across the room. It wasSam's turn to stare. In awe.  It was the Hawk. He was sure of it.But the tall man threading his waypolitely through the crowded room borelittle resemblance to the disheveled,cigar-chewing MacKenzie Hawkins whohad squinted at him through the glassof a Peking cell. And even less to theclose-cropped Hawkins who stood ramrodstraight at all times and took eachstep as though marching to the tune ofa thousand pipers against a strongwind.  To begin with there was the Van Dykebeard. Granted it was new, but thedefinition was clear and exceedinglywell groomed. As was the hair; it wasnot only growing out, but it had beenshaped by tonsorial hands so that thegray swept over the ears in waves.Very, very distinguished. And theeyes well, one could not really seethe eyes because they were covered bytinted, tortoise-shell glasses, a verylight tint that was more academic, ordiplomatic, than mysterious.  And the man's walk. Good God!Hawkins's ramrod military posture hadbeen replaced by a tasteful, goddamnit, elegant grace. There was asoftness about the whole bearing, akind of casual glide that was morePalm Beach than Fort Benning.  "I saw you watching me," said theHawk as he slid into the booth. "Notbad, eh, boy? Not one of those pricky-shits stopped me. How about that?""I'm astonished," answered Sam."You shouldn't be, son. First thingyou learn in inf~ltra 66          ~tion is adaptability. Not justterrain, but a good-sized accent onlocal customs and behavior. It's aform of psychowar."What the hell are you talking about?"  "Behind the lines, Sam. This isenemy territory, don't you know that?"  By the time Mac Hawkins hadelegantly spooned his iced vichyssoisehe had reached the heart the core thebombshell of his reason for dinnerwith Sam. It was explosively capsuledin a single name.  Heseltine Brokemichael. Late MajorGeneral of Command, Bangkok. Currentlyin limbo, Washington, D.C.  "Yes, Sam, old Brokey was with me inKorea and points east and south. Damnfine officer; a little hot-headed, butthen he always had to contend withthat stupid bastard cousin of his.What's that idiotic name- of his?Ethelred? Can you imagine? TwoBrokemichaels in the same goddamnedarmy, both with f eak namesl"  "I'm not hungry any more," saidDevereaux quietly. The Hawk continued.  "Yes, sir, you really laid the heavymortar on Brokey's career. He couldn'tget another star on his collar if hebought all the astrologers in thePentagon. You see, they can never besure; one of the goddamnedBrokemichaels is a crook, but, ofcourse, you never proved that,either."  "They wouldn't let me!" Devereaux'swhisper carried farther than he caredto think about. The couple in the nextbooth stared again. Sam grinned again."I had the evidence; I built the case.They made me drop it!"  "And a good man was cut down justwhen the joint chiefs were lookingkindly on him. I tell you, it's apity.""Get off it, Mac. I had that bastardcold- "  "The wrong bastard, boy. And eventhen you committed serious crimes toget your so-called evidence."  "I took a calculated risk because Iwas damned angry. I paid for it withtwo years of my life in thatcockadoodle uniform. And that's it. Iwant out."  "That's too bad. I mean, I'm sorryto hear you say that because you mayhave to spend a little more time overat IG if I "ff7  "Hold it!" interrupted Devereaux ina whisper that bordered a roar. "I'mout the day after tomorrow! Nothingnothing's going to change that!"  "I certainly hope not. Let mefinish. You may have to spend time ifI can't talk old Brokey out of thiscrazy idea of his. You see, thosecharges against you in Bangkok weren'tactually dropped; they were sort ofsuspended because of the complicatedcircumstances, and what with all thosepeace freaks screaming against themilitary. Now, Brokey doesn't holdanything against you, Sam, but he'dreally like to clarify his own status,you can understand that. He figuresthat if he resurrects those charges,you can dig up the files and get theright Brokemichae~you'd have to or beon a rock pile and he'd have the JCSsmiling nicely,on him, just like theyused to. Wouldn't take more than, say,six or seven months. A year at theoutside  maybe eighteen months if thetrial was a long one, but you'd bothget what you want i'  "I want out! That's all I want!" Samwrung his napkin so tightly itsqueaked. "I paid for my moralindignation. It's past! ~"Past for you, boy. Not old Brokey."  "The facts are there. I made agoddamned apology, it's in writing.The day after tomorrow, after sixteenhundred hours, I'll dictate astatement to a civilian secretaryrecapping the whole thing inone-syllable words. I will not reopenthat case!"  "You will if old Brokey pulls out acertain Bangkok file and issues adirective for your arrest. He is ageneral officer, Sam. Even though hemay have pulled duty cleaning out theSucking high-brass latrines, for allI know."  Hawkins had pursed his lips, taking,and shaking his head slowly; the wide,innocent eyes behind the tintedglasses conveyed anything butinnocence.  "All right, Mac. Game time is over.You said, if you couldn't talkBrokemichael out of this nonsense. Canyou talk him out of it?"  "Either talk him out of it, orremove him from the scene for a coupleof days. Yes, I can do one or theother. Once you've got that discharge,boy, Brokey'd have a hell of a timeconvincing anyone to go after you.That paper's sort 68                   l                   of a statute of limitations, you know.But I don't have to tell you that."  "No, you don't. Just tell me whatrotten thing you want from me."  The Hawk removed his tinted glassesand, elegantly, wiped thenon-prescription lenses as though hewere polishing jade. "Well, as amatter of fact, I've been giving a lotof thought to my immediate future. AndI think there's a place for you, butI'm not sure."  "Don't ever be. Next week I'll beback at my desk in Boston with AaronPinkus Associates, the best law firmin the Bay State."  "Well, you could take an extra fewweeks. Say a month, couldn't you?Jesus, boy, it's been four years;what's another month?"  "Aaron Pinkus will one day be on theSupreme Court. Every day with him isan education and I'm not giving upthirty years of paid education. Whatdo you mean; you think there's a placefor me? Doing what?"  "I may need an attorney. I thinkyou're the best I ever met.""I'm probably the only one you've evermet "  "But you've got a few weak spots,young Ella," interrupted Hawkins,replacing his tinted glasses. "I'msorry to say that, but it's a fact. SoI don't know whether to hire you ornot. I have to ponder some more aboutyou."  "In the meantime, you'll keepBrokemichael out of the picture?"  "And you'll give some consideratonto acting as my attorney? Just for acouple of weeks? You see, I've got alittle money saved up "  "I know exactly how much moneyyou've got," broke in Devereauxsympathetically. "I had to. You wantadvice for investments?""Sort of  "Then without qualification I'llhelp you. I mean that." Sam did. Aftera lifetime of devotion, risk, andservice Mac had managed to amass thesum total of fifty-od] thousanddollars. No other assets whatsoever.No houses real estate, stocks.Nothing. That and a reduced pensionwas all he had for the rest of hislife. "And if I can't give 69you the advice I think you shouldhave, I'll find someone else who can.""That's mighty touching, son."  Was there a hint of glistening tearin this tough oldline officer's eyes?It was difficult to tell with thetinted glasses.  "It's the least I can do. It maysound corny, but it's the least anytaxpayer can do for you. You've givena lot, and you've been shafted by theplastic men. I know that."  'Well, boy," said Hawkins, inhalingdeeply, heroically, "everyone doeswhat he has to do in this world. At agiven moment of time~uch! This goddamnfaggot suit is tighter than a MemorialDay uniform." The Hawk pulled out afolded, faded magazine from his breastpocket. The pages showing weredog-eared and marked with red pencil."What's that?" asked Devereaux.  "Oh, some Chincom propaganda theslants left in my cell. It's thestandard Commie crap, misspelledEnglish and all. This is an articlethat's supposed to show the kind ofinjustice that's widespread inorganized religion. This here Catholicpope has a first cousin kind of likethe Brokemichaels in a way, exceptthey don't have the same names butthey look alike. Actually they'reidentical, except that this pope'scousin grows a beard to hide thelikeness.""I don't understand. Where's theinjustice?"  "This cousin is a small-time singerin a minor opera company and half thetime he's out of work. The Chincomsmake the obvious comparison. Thesinger sings his heart out for thepeople's culture and starves half todeath, while his pope cousin eats likea guinea gourmet and steals from thepoor.""It interested you so much you markedit ups"  "Hell, no, boy. I just picked outthe inaccuracies to show this priestfriend of mine. It may surprise you,but I've been doing a little studyingabout things I haven't thought muchabout before. God, and the church, andthings like that . Don't you laugh,now."  Devereaux smiled gently. "I'd neverlaugh at a thing like that. I don'tthink it's anything to laugh at. Aman's 70   religious thoughts are not only hisconstitutional right, butoften his very real sustenance."  "That's a mighty nice way to phrase it.Real deep, Sam. By the way, just oneother thing about this Brokemichaelbusiness. Tomorrow morning at G-two. Keepyour bucking mouth shut and do as I say."  Hawkins was waiting under the canopywhen Sam pulled up to the curb in frontof the hotel. He held what looked like avery expensive briefcase in one hand,opened the car door with his other andslid in. There was a broad grin on hisface."Godciamn! It's a beautiful morning!"  It was not. It was cold and wet and theskies promised a heavy rain."Your barometer's a little off."  "Nonsense! The day like age depends onhow you feel, boy. And I feel justgrand!" Hawkins smoothed the lapels ofhis tweed suit, adjusted the deep redpaisley tie over the modish stripedshirt, and ran his fingers delicatelyover the hair-above his ears.  "Glad you're in such good spirits," saidSam, starting up the car and entering theflow of traffic. "I don't want to dampenthem but you can't take a briefcase withyou. You can't remove any papers. Nothingleaves the G-two offices."."  Hawkins laughed. He pulled out a cigarfrom his shirt pocket. "Oh, don't worryyour legal head about details," he said,snipping off the end of the cigar with asterling silver clipper. "I've taken careof all that."  "There's nothing to take care oil I'mresponsible for you and I've gottwenty-four hours to keep my nose clean."Devereaux took his hostility out on thehorn the sound was returned in goodmeasure by the surrounding vehicles.  "Jesus, you're in a foul temper. Youjust keep your eyes on the high ground,don't concern yourself with the flanks."  "Goddamn it, doesn't anybody speakEnglish anymore? What goddamned flanks?What does that mean?"  "It means what I said last night."MacKenzie spoke as he lighted his cigar."Do as I say and don't make waves. By theway, would you like to know the name ofthe Ella in 71                  . . .icharge ,oftheG-two archives? Well, noreason for you to know, but he's abright son of a bitch, a real genius.Didn't know what I was doing for theservice when I got him out of thatprison camp west of Hanoi a few yearsback. He's a Pointer, too. Can youbeat thatP Class of forty-seven. Sameas me. Goddamn! The coincidences inthis world "  'No! . . . No, Mac! No! No, no, no! Youcan't! I won't let you!" Sam attackedthe horn again. Viciously hammering onit. At a crippled old lady who washaving a difficult hme crossing theintersection. The poor, tremblingthing sank her head farther into herquivering shoulders.  "Regulation Seven Seven Five makesit clear that a legal escort is justthat. An escort. Not an observer. Hetakes the clandestine operationsofficer to and from the place ofexamination, but he's not permittedinside the room. I guess there're alot of dishonest lawyers, Sam."MacKenzie took a long, savoring intakeof cigar smoke.  "There's another thing that's notallowed in that room, you son of abitch!" Devereaux slammed his hand infury on the rim of the horn once more.The crippled old lady was now splayedout in the middle of the street. "Andthat's a briefcase!"  "It is, if the officer is making hisfinal contributions: Nobody can see thosebut the ranking archivist of G-two.It's classified material."  "There's nothing in there!" yelledSam, pointing at his briefcase."How do you know? It's locked."  Upon entering the offices of armyintelligence, Hawkins was escortedquietly, professionally, to thespecific room selected for his 775, bytwo flanking military police. Sam tookup the rear. It seemed to Devereaux asformal an exercise as an execution,except that Mac was loose and slightlyslouched in his modish tweed suit, notramrod at all. But once the four ofthem were inside the room, Hawkinsstraightened up and replaced his warmcivilian tones with the harsh bark ofa leather-lined general officer.. Heordered the MPs to take Sam into thenext room and summon their superior.The MP captains saluted, tookDevereaux by the elbows silently intothe adjacent room, 72slammed the door, locked it, checkedthe corridor, and walked in Wehrmachtunison out into the hallway. Theylocked that door,. too.  He had a vague feeling-of deja vu;then he remembered. He'd watched alate night movie on television severalweeks ago. Seven Days in May. Hewalked to the single window and lookedout. And down. Through the bars It wasfour stories to the street. G-2 wasn'ttaking any chances with legal escortsfrom the inspector general's office,he thought.  There was the sound of voices fromthe next room. And then overlymasculine laughter accompanied byeruptions of profanity. Oldcomrades-in-arms recalling the goodold days when everyone got his assshot off, except the generals. Sam satdown in a chair and picked up a dog-eared, worn-out copy of Let's StampOut V.D. in G-2, and read.  His reading which was actuallyrather fascinating was suddenlyinterrupted by the steady repetitionof another sound from the examinationroom.Therump-chump. Therump-chump.Therump-chump.  Devereaux swallowed several times,annoyed with himself for leaving hisantacid tablets in the car. The soundhe was hearing could not be confusedwith any other sound in his frame ofreference, no matter how hard hetried. It was a Xerox machine  Why would an examination room forthe processing of eyes-only classifiedfiles have a Xerox machine?On the other hand, why wouldn't it?  The first question was infinitelymore logical. A Xerox machine was acontradiction in spirit and in fact tothe purpose of Regulation 775.  Sam went back to his reading, unableto keep his mind even on the pictures.  An hour and twenty minutes later thetherump-chumping stopped. Severalminutes after that a metallic crack ofa lock was heard and the door of theexamination room was opened. MacKenzieemerged carrying his expensive brief-case, now bulging and strappedtogether with shining steel G-2 bands,and a foot-long steel chain danglingfrom the crossbar.73  "What the hell is that?" askedDevereaux from the chair,apprehensively and not at all kindly.  "Nothing,".replied the Hawk casually."Just some Fleet-Pac-Com-Sat transferfiles.""And what the hell is that?"  "Majo?;"continued MacKenzie, raisinghis voice, standing suddenly veryerect. "I present Brigadier GeneralBeryzfickoosh! Atten...hut!"  Devereaux shot up from the chair andsnapped his hand in salute as abarrel-cheated officer with twelverows of ribbons, an eye patch and, Samswore, a fright wig on his head,walked swiftly into the room. Thesalute was returned with a vibratingflourish; the officer then extended alarge, muscular hand.  "Hear you're up for discharge,Major," said the general gruffly.  "Yes, sir," answered Devereaux,gripping the outstretched hand.  At which instant Hawkins slapped thebriefcase chain over Sam's wrist,securing the triple combination lockbetween the links, and barked, "Firsttransfer completed, General!"  "Confirmed, sir!" shot back thegeneral, still holding Devereaux'shand in an iron grip, his one eyestaring at Sam. "Fleet-Pac-Com-Sat isnow in your custody, Major! Preparefor second transfer!""For what, General?"- "Say!" The general released Sam'shand. "Aren't you the legal prick whoshafted old Brokey Brokemichael?"  Devereaux's stomach was suddenly inagony; perspiration formed instantlyon his forehead,' es the heavy briefcase pulled him halfway to the floor."There are two sides to that story,sir."  "Goddamned right!" shouted thegeneral. "Brokey's and some shit-assnoncombatant's who should be on astockade rock pilel""Now, just a minute, Generals""What, soldier? You beinginsubordinate?""No, sir. Not at all, sir. I wouldjust like to point,,out  ."Point out!? You point your ass inthe direction of that               74               door an secure the transfer ofFleet-Pac-Com-Sat, or I'll point youright into a court-martial! Forinsubordination and incompetence!"  "Yes, sir! Right away, sirl" Samtried to salute but the chain and thebriefcase were too heavy so he made arapid about-face and headed for thedoor, which was miraculously opened bythe two MP captains.  The formalities at the entrance deskwere over with quickly. The steel G-2bands securing the briefcase were somekind of symbol of authority. Devereauxsigned the checkout book and theminiature camera silently took hisphotograph.  Out on the street, Sam turned to theHawk. "That guy's crazy! Another tenseconds he would have thrown me intosolitary! For what?"  "Old Brokey's got a lot of friends,"said MacKenzie. "Here, I'll drive."  "Thanks." Devereaux reachedawkwardly into his pocket and gaveHawkins the keys, his hand stilltrembling. They walked to the parkinglot and got in the car.  Fifteen minutes later, in the middleof a Washington traffic jam, Sam'snerves began to calm down. His panicat being faced with a weird,apoplectic general screwing up hisdischarge at the last minute wasfading. But that concern was beinginexorably replaced with another verygenuine fear. Brought about partiallyby the Hawk's silence.  "Mac, now that this pile offleet-kumquats is in my custody, whatthe hell am I supposed to do withthem? Where's this second transfertaking place?""Don't you know?""Of course, not.""The general thinks you do.""Well, I don't!"~ "You want to go back and ask him,Sam? Personally, I don't recommend it.Not with the way he feels about you.Iesus! He might dig up all kinds ofvery serious violations. Arid you justgot your picture taken. One thingalways leads to another, you know whatI mean? Like the domino theory. Yourtrial could last for a year or two."  "What the hell's in here, Hawkins?Don't bullshit me! What is it?"75  "Sorry, Sam. I'm afraid I can'tdiscuss it. You understand, boy. It'sclassified."  Sam sat forward on the couch, hisarm stretched out over the coffeetable. MacKenzie manipulated thehacksaw back and forth over the chain.  "Once I get this goddamned chainoff, we can work on the lock," saidMac comfortingly. "It would be easierwith a small blowtorch."  "Not on my arteries, you son of abitch! And thanks for not telling meyou didn't have the combination."  "Now, don't worry, I'll have it offin ten or fifteen minutes. The steel'sa touch harder than I figured."  An hour and fourteen minutes laterthe last links were severed, leavingone dangling chain and a triplecombination lock around Devereaux'swrist.  "I've got to get in touch with myoffice," Sam said. "They'll expect meto check in."  "No, they won't. You're with me.Covering my Seven Seven Five. That'swhat the agreement states. One dayminimum, three days maximum.""But we're not there.""We went to lunch...." MacKenziecleared his throat."I should still telephone "  "Goddamn, you've no faith in me atall! Why the hell do you think Iwaited until this morning before goingto G-two? You've got one day left andI account for your time. You can't getin trouble if you're not there.""Of course not. No trouble just afiring squad."  "Nonsense." Hawkins got up from thefloor, carrying the freed briefcase tothe hotel writing desk. "You're saferwith me. I know those IG close-outs.You think you're winding everything upand some pricky-shit waltzes in andtells you you're not going anywhereuntil some brief is completed."  Devereaux looked over at thegeneral, now snapping the G-2 bandsand opening the expensive briefcase.There was logic in Mac's madness.There was sure to be someball-breaking file or other that aconfused superior did not care to haveleft in his lap. A memorandum could bemisplaced or not read. Aconfrontation, even a discus76sign, between legal officers not beoverlooked. Hawkins definitely had apoint: Sam was safer away from theofflce.  MacKenzie removed several hundredXeroxed pages and put them on the deskbeside the briefcase. Devereauxpointed to them and spoke cautiously,"That's all your Seven Seven Five?"  "Well, not actually. A lot of it'sopen stuff that's never been closedout."  Sam was suddenly more uncomfortablethan he had been for the past threehours. "Wait a minute. You said backat G-two that it was just raw materialon people you'd run across.  "Or people other people ran across.I added that, son, I really did. Youwere just so upset you didn't listen."  "Oh, Christ! You removed raw flieson subjects that weren't yours?"  "No, Sam," replied the Hawk as hesquared off some pages. "You did. Itsays so right at the security desk.Your signature."  Devereaux sank back in the couch."You devious son of a bitch."  "That kind of says it," agreedHawkins sadly. "There were times inthe field operating way the hellbehind the lines, of course when Iwondered how I could bring myself todo the things I did. But then theanswer was always the same. 1 wastrained to survive, boy And survive Ido." The Hawk now had four piles ofXeroxes neatly to the left of thebriefcase on the desk. He tapped hisfingers over them as if playing apiano and then looked over at Sampensively. "I think you're going to doreal fine. You uphill accept thetemporary appointment as my attorney,won't you? Won't be for long."  "And it's a little more complicatedthan investments, isn't it?" Devereauxremained well back in the couch."A mite, I suspect."  "And if I refuse I don't even haveto worry about Brokemichael. He'sminor. Now there's a small matter ofremoving classified files from G-two.No statute of limitations on thatlittle caper.". "Don't imagine there is."                  77                ,., . .                   "What do you want me to do?"  "Work up some contracts. Pretty simplestuff, I should think. I'm forming acompany. A corporation, I guess you'dcall it."  Sam inhaled deeply. "That's really kindof amusing, if it weren't so sad.Purpose and intent notwithstanding,there s a not-so-minor item calledcapitalization required when you form acorporation. I know your finances. Ihate to disabuse you but you're notexactly in the corporate assets league.""No faith, that's your trouble. I expectyou'll change.""And what does that cryptic remarkmean?"  "It means I've got the assets figuredout to the dollar, that's what itmeans." Hawkins planted his fingers overthe Xeroxes in an elongated press. As ifhe had found the Lost Chord."What assets?""Forty million dollars."  "Whatl" In his stunned disbelief, Samleaped up from the couch. The danglingsteel chain followed swiftly and in ahowling instant of pain, the bottomlinks whipped .t across his eye.His left eye.Ille room went around and around.                   78                               CIIAPTER EIGHTDevereaux ripped open the envelope theinstant he closed the hotel door. Hepulled out the rectangular slip ofheavy paper and stared at it.  It was a cashier's check made out tohis name. The amount was for tenthousand dollars.It was absurd.Everything was absurd; nothing madeany sense at all.  He had been a civilian for exactlyone week. There had been no hitchesregarding his discharge; noBrokemichael surfaced, and nolast-minute problems developed in theoffice because he had not gone to theoffice until an hour before his formalseparation from the army. And when hearrived he not only had a patch overhis left eye, but a thick bandagearound his right wrist. From burns.  He had moved out of his apartment,sent his belongings to Boston, but didnot follow them because a devious sonof a bitch named MacKenzie Hawkinsstated that he needed "his attorney"in New York. Therefore Sam had atwo-room suite at the Drake Hotel onPark Avenue, reserved and paid for.The suite was leased for a monthHawkins thought it would be enoughtime.  For what? MacKenzie was not yetready to "spell it out." However, Samwas not to worry; everything was "onthe expense account."Whose expense account?The corporation's.What corporation?The one Sam would soon be forming.Absurd!  Forty million dollars' worth ofdelusions that screamed for a frontallobotomy.79 i  And now a cashier's check for tenthousand dollars. Free and clear andno receipt required.  Ridiculous! Hawkins could not affordit. Besides, he had gone too far.People did not send other people(especially lawyers) ten thousanddollars without some kind of expla-nation. It simply was not healthy.  Sam walked over to the hoteltelephone, checked the confusinglitany on the pull-out tab beneath theinstrument, and placed a call toMacKenzie.  "Goddamn, boyt That's no way tobehave! I mean, you might at least saythank you."  "What the hell for? Accessory totheft? Where did you get ten thousanddollars?""Right out of the bank.""Your savings?""That's right. Didn't steal fromanyone but myself.""But why?"  There was a slight pause inWashington. "You used the word, son.I believe you called it a retainer."  There was a second pause. In NewYork. "I think I said I was the onlylawyer I knew who had a retainer basedin the sort of blackmail that couldmarch me in front of a firing squad."  "That's what you said. And I wantedto correct that impression. I want youto know I value your services. Isurely wouldn't want you to think Ididn't appreciate you."  "Cut it out! You can't afford it andI haven't done anything."  "Well, boy, I believe I'm in abetter position to judge what I canafford. And you did do something. Yougot me out of China some four thousandyears before my parole was due.""That's different. I mean "  "And tomorrow's going to be yourfirst day of work," interrupted theHawk. "Not much, but a beginning."  There was now a long pause in NewYork. "Before you say anything, youshould understand that as a member ofthe bar, I subscribe to a canon ofethics that is very specific. I'll donothing to jeopardize my standing asan attorney."  Hawkins replied loudly, with nopause whatsoever, "I should hope not!Goddamn, boy, I don't want anyslippery shyster in my corporation.Wouldn't look good on the stationery"  "Mac!" roared Devereaux inexasperation. "You didn't havestationery printed?""No. I just said that. But it's a hellof an idea."  Sam did his best to control himself."Please. Please. There's a law firm inBoston and a very nice man who'll beon the Supreme Court someday whoexpects me back in a couple of weeks.He wouldn't look kindly on my beingemployed by somebody else during myleave. And you said my work for youwould be finished in three or fourweeks. So no stationery.""All right," agreed Hawkins sadly.  "Now, what's on for tomorrow? I'llcharge you by the day and deduct itfrom the ten thousand and return therest at the end of the month. FromBoston."'Oh, don't worry about that."  "I do worry. I should also tell youthat I'm not licensed to practice inthe state of New York. I may have topay outside attorney's'fees; dependingupon what you want done. I gather itinvolves filing for this corporationof yours." Devereaux lit a cigarette.He was happy to see that his handswere not shaking.  "Not yet. We'll get to that in acouple of days. Tomorrow I want you tocheck out a man named Dellacroce.Angelo Dellacroce. He lives inScarsdale. He's got several companiesin New York.""What do you mean, 'check out'?"  "Well, I understand he's hadbusiness problems. I'd like to knowhow serious they are. Or were. Sort offind out what his current state ofwell-being is."" 'Well-being'?"  "Yeah. In the sense of his beingaround and not in jail, or anythinglike that."  Devereaux paused, then spoke calmly,as if explaining to a child. "I'm alawyer, not a private investigator.Lawyers only do what you're talkingabout on television."Again MacKenzie Hawkins replied quickly.''I can't be81lievethat. If somebody wants to becomepart of a corporation, the attorneyfor the company should find out if thefellow's on the up-and-up, shouldn'the?"  "Well, it would depend on the degreeof participation, I suppose.""It's considerable."  "You mean this Angelo Dellacroce hasexpressed interestP"  "In a way, yes. But I wouldn't wanthim to think I was being rude bymaking inquiries, if you know what Imean."  Devereaux noticed that his hand nowtrembled slightly. It was a bad sign;better than a pained stomach but stillbad. "I've got that strange feelingagain. You're not telling me thingsyou should tell me.""All in good time. Can you do what Iask?"  "Well, there's a firm-here in thecity that my office uses used to use,anyway. Probably still does. Theymight be able to help."  "That's fine. You see them. Butdon't forget, Sam, we've got alawyer-client relationship. That'slike a doctor or a priest or a goodwhore; my name doesn't get mentioned.""I could do without the lastreference," said Devereaux.Damn it. His stomach growled. He hungup.  ':Angelo Dellacroce!" Jesse Barton,senior partner, sonof-founder, Barton,Barton and Whistlewhite, laughed."Sam, you've been away too long!""That bad?"  "Let's put it this way. If ourmutual Boston friend and yourerstwhile employer I assume he's stillyour employer Aaron Pinkus, thoughtyou were seriously consideringDellacroce for some kind of moneydeal, he'd call your mother.""That bad?"  "I'm not kidding. Aaron wouldquestion your sand* and personallyremove your name from the officedoor." Barton leaned forward."Dellacroce is Cosa Nostra with acapital Mafia. He's so high in thecharity rackets the cardinal inviteshim to the Alfred E. Smith dinnerevery year. And naturally, he'suntouchable. He drives districtattorneys 82and prosecutors right out of theirgourds. They can't get him, but notfor lack of trying."  "Then Aaron mustn't learn of my veryinnocent inquiry," replied Sam inconfidence.  "Your indiscretion is safe with me.Incidentally, is it an indiscretionsThis party of yours, is he really thatnaive?"  Sam's stomach began to answer forhim. He spoke rapidly to cover thesound. "In my judgment, yes. I'mpaying back a debt, Jesse. My clientsaved my ass in Indochina.""I see."  "So he's important to me," continuedSam. "And according to you he's naive.About this Dellacroce."  "Don't take my word for it," saidBarton, reaching for his telephone."Miss Dempsey, get me Phil Jensendowntown, please." Jesse replaced thereceiver. "Jensen's second in commandat the prosecutor's office. Federaldistrict, not municipal. Dellacroce'sbeen a target over there ever sincePhil joined; that was damn near threeyears ago. Jensen gave up an easysixty thou' to go after the evilpeople."''Commendable."  "Bullshit. He wants to be a senatoror better. That's where the real moneyis " The telephone rang. Barton pickedit up. "Thank you.... Hello, Phil?Jesse. Phil, I've got an old friendhere; he's been away for a few years.He was asking me about AngeloDellacrocc  The explosion on the other end ofthe line reverberated throughout theoffice. Jesse winced. "No, forChrist's sake, he's not involved withhim. Do you think I'm crazy?. . . Itold you he's been away; out of thecountry, as a matter of fact." Jesselistened for a moment and looked overat Sam "Were you in northern Italy?.. . Where, Phil?. . . Around Milan?"  Devereaux shook his head. Bartoncontinued, one ear at the telephone,his words directed at Sam"Or Marseilles? . . . Or Ankara? . .. What about Rashid?"Devereaux kept shaking his head.  "Algiers?. . . Were you in Algiers?.. . No, Phil, you're way off. This isvery straight. I wouldn't be callingyou if it was anything else, now wouldI?. . . Simple investment stuff, verylegitimate.... Yes, I know, Phil....Phil says 83-those bastards will own Disneylandnext.... Come on, Phil, that's notkosher; he'll simply walk away fromhim. I just wanted to confineDellacroce's status.... Okay. Allright. I've got it. Thanks."  Barton replaced the phone and leanedback. "There you are.'"I touched a raw nerve."  "The rawest. Dellacroce not onlyskipped free of an airtight indictmentlast week, but because of a grand juryleak, the prosecutor's office has toissue a public apology. How does thatgrab you?""I'm glad I'm not Jensen."  "Jensen's not. His office will layoff Dellacroce for a couple of monthsthen ring him in again. Won't do themany good; Dellacroce's got his ass inbutter. He slides in and out ofcourtrooms."  "But my client should stay away."Devereaux did not ask a question.  "Several continents," replied Barton."Clothes don't make the man; hisinvestors do. Ask anyone from Biscayneto San Clemente.""Well, goddamn, isn't thatinteresting? You just can't tell          ^,,          anymore, can your  "Stay clear of him," saidDevereaux, shifting the hotel phoneand reaching for the glass of bourbonon the other side of the desk. "He'sbad news and you don't want. ,,m near you."I see what you mean ""I'd rather you said 'Yes, Sam, I'llstay away from AngeloDellacroce.' That's what I'd like tohear you say.""See what you mean.""You're not listening. When you pay alawyer a retaineryou listen to him. Now, repeat afterme: 'I will not gonear ' ""I know you've had a hard day, butyou might put yourmind to the next order of business.Just sort of think about it.""I'm still thinking about AngeloDellacroce.""That part's finished with ""Glad to hear it."" for the time being. Now, I want youto begin roughing84.                  ,~                   out a kind of standard corporation. Areal legal document that has blanksfor people putting in money."  "People like Dellacroce?"Devereaux's voice made clear hisposition. - ~Goddamn, forget about that guineabastard!"  "From what I know about him I thinkyou should refer to him as theRoman-blood-royal. But I'd rather younever referred to him again. What kindof corporation? If you want it filedin New York, I'll have to bring inanother attorney. I told you that."  "No, &~; bog!" Hawkins shouted thewords. "I don't want anyone elseinvolved! Just you!"  "I made it very clear: I'm notlicensed to practice here. I can'tfile in the state of New York."  "Who said anything about filing? Ijust want the papers.  Sam was numb. He was not sure whathe was supposed to say; what he couldsay. "Do you mean to tell me youretained me for ten thousand dollarsto prepare legal papers you are notgoing to execute strike that file?"  "Didn't say I wouldn't sometime. I'mjust not going to worry about it now."  "Then why get a lawyer until youneed one? And why the hell am I in NewYork?"  "Because I don't want you inWashington. For your own good. Andwhen a man raises money for acorporation, he's got to have reallegal-looking documents to give forit. I reversed the order of yourquestions."  "I'm glad you told me. I won'tpursue either one. What kind ofcorporation?""A regular one.""There's no such thing. Every companyis different.""The kind where profits are shared.Among investors.""In that they're all the same. Orshould be.""That's the kind I want. No monkeybusiness."  "Wait a minute." Devereaux put downthe phone and crossed to the chairwhere he'd left his attache case. Fromit he took out a yellow legal pad andtwo pencils and returned to the desk."I'll need the specifics. I'm going toask you some questions so I can roughout this not-to-befiled, unexecutedlegal document."85"Go ahead, boy.""What's the title? The corporatename."  "I thought about that. What do youthink of the Shepherd Company?"  "Not a hell of a lot. I don't knowwhat it means. Not that it makes anydifference. Call it anything youlike.""I like the Shepherd Company.""Fine." Sam wrote out the words."What's the address?""United Nations."Devereaux looked at the telephone."What?""The address. Whatever the UnitedNations building .,.IS."Why?""It's. . . symbolic.""You can't use a symbolic address.""Why not?""I forgot. You're not filing. Allright. The depository?"Who?""The bank. Where the corporate fundswill be deposited."  "Leave that blank. A couple of lines.There'll be several banks."  Sam's pencil involuntarily stopped.He forced it onward. "What's thepurpose of the company?"  There was a pause in Washington."Give me some legal-sounding choices."  Now a longer pause in New York.Devereaux's pencil really objected."Let's start with 'intent.'""Obviously, to make money."... ~ A,, rlowr "By having something peoplewill pay for." "Manufacturing?Production of merchandise?" "No, notreally." "Marketing?" "That's nearer.Keep going." "Where?" "Some morewords," replied Hawkins. "I'm not acorporate attorney but if I rememberthe books, a company's purpose itsmotive for profit is in one form oranother of production, manufacturing,marketing, acquisition, serviced ""Hold it! That one."86"Services?""That's good, but I mean the onebefore that."Sam exhaled. "Acquisition?""That's it. Acquisition."  "Acquiring at one price, disposingat a second, higher price. You're inbrokerage?"  "that s very good, Sam. That'sreally using the old noodle.  Devereaux pushed the pencil againstits inanimate will and wrote on thepad. "If you're a broker, there's gotto be a product. Services or realestate or merchandise "  "Of a deeply religious nature,"interrupted MacKenzie, his voice lowand solemn."What is?""The product."  Sam inhaled; it was a long breath.When he exhaled it was with a hum."Are you saying that you are forminga company to broker the acquisition ofreligious merchandise?""That'll do," answered Hawkins simply."Artifacts?""That's even better.""For Christ's sake, what is?" -"'Broker the acquisition ofreligious artifacts.' Goddamn, boy.PerfectI"  Devereaux borrowed the standard NewYork State forms for a limitedpartnership agreement from Barton. Itwas a relatively simple matter totranscribe his notes into thepartnership forms and have the hotelstenographer retype the pages asthough they had been dictated. Thingswere looking up, thought Sam as hescrutinized the finished product,replete with its blank lines forinvestors, depositories, amounts; andthe inane description of"brokering theacquisition of religious artifacts."  But it looked as legal as a chapterin Blackstone. Yes, Sam mused as hebalanced the envelope containing thegobbledygook he was about to mail toMacKenzie Hawlcins. Things werelooking up. He'd be back in Bostonwith Aaron Pinkus Associates in a fewdays; his "legal" work for the Hawkwas finished. Altogether it had takenhim nine 87.days, some three weeks short of themonth Mac had figured.  He had agreed to stay at the Drake aday or two longer giving Macsufficient to approve of his labors.There was no question that approvalwould come, and it did.  "My word, Sam, that's a mightyimpressive looking document," said theHawk over the telephone fromWashington. "I'm downright amazed youwere able to write it all up soquickly."  "There are certain guidelines tofollow; it wasn't that difficult.""You're too modest, young-fella."  "I'm anxious, that's what I am.Anxious to get back to Boston  "I can certainly understand that,"broke in Hawkins without thecommensurate affirmative that wouldhave curtailed the sudden, growingpain in Devereaux's stomach."Listen, Mac  "I see you made me president of thecompany. You didn't tell me that."  "There were no other names. I askedyou about the corporate officers andyou said leave the lines blank."  "What are those titles secretary andtreasurers Are they importantP""Not if you're not filing.""Suppose someday I decided to?"  "The standard procedure is tocombine the two. Most states requirea minimum of two general partners fora limited partnership agreement.""But I could have more if I wanted to,couldn't I?""Certainly."  "I just wanted to know what's right,Sam. Not important. It's never goingto be filed. Just passes the time."  Devereaux thought he detected a noteof melancholy in Hawkins's voice. WasMac beginning to come to grips withhis own fantasies? Did he begin tounderstand that his irrational forayinto corporate legalities was simplecompensation for the absence ofcommand decision? Sam 88began to relax. He actually felt sorryfor this old warhorse. Passes the timewas a euphemism for filling the days."I'm sure it does, General.""Why, Sam, you haven't called megeneral in weeks.""Sorry. A slip."  "I'll be in touch with you tomorrow,boy. You've worked hard. Have a littlefun tonight. Remember, it's on theexpense account."  "As to that ten thou'. It's verygenerous of you but I don't want it.I don't need it. I'll deduct whateverlegal expenses stenographer, supplies,that kind of thing and return therest. Then there's an investmentcounselor I *now in Washington "  Devereaux stopped. He realized thatthe click on the other end of the linehad terminated the conversation..  There was no point in not having agood time. He had spent enoughweekends in New York to know where theaction was: the singles' bars on ThirdAvenue.  Sam was spectacularly successful.His catch was a nubile young thing whohad come out of Omaha, Nebrask~thecounty seat of Henry Fonda and MarionBrando to scale the Broadway heights.She was terribly impressed with alawyer who did a lot of work forMetro-Goldwyn-WarnerBrothers when hewasn't handling contracts for BotvlingFor Dollars and Masterpiece Theatre.  Sam was impressed, too. All duringthe night, throughout most of the nextmorning, well into the followingafternoon and (with time out for foodand limited discussion) into the nextevening.  It was 9:27 when the telephone rang,9:29 when the nubile young thing spokesleepily. "Sam, the phone's on.. ..my sloe."You're very observant.""Shall I get it?" she asked."Since it's on your side, I'd sayyes.""You're sure?"  Sam opened his eyes. The girl hadraised herself and was stretching;the sheet had fallen away. "Make itquick," Devereaux said."If you're sure."89  "I have no wife and my motherdoesn't know where I am and AaronPinkus. wouldn't be mad. Get thephone talk fast, and hang up."  The girl reached for the instrument;Sam reached for the girl.  'there's a man with a raspy voicewho wants to talk to you. He says hisname is Angelo Dellacroce." Shehanded Sam the receiver.  "Hey, you!" The words spat from thetelephone. "You Samuel Deverooze,sectatary-treasurer of this ShepherdCompany?"                 90                                    CEDERFormer Lieutenant General MacKenzieHawkins, twice awarded the nation'shighest honor for extraordinary heroismbeyond the call of duty in deadly combatagainst the enemy, cowered like afrightened boy at the sight of formerMajor Sam Devereaux, military accident.  Hawkins could see Sam getting out of thetaxi at the entrance of the North HamptonGolf Club. The brass lamps on top of thestone posts flanking the drive were theonly source of light; it was a cold,cloudy night and no moon could be seen.The lamps, however, gave sufficientillumination to reveal the anguishedexpression on Devereaux's face.  Sam was furious, MacKenzie realizedthat. But, he thought to himself, he hadnot actually lied. Not really. He nevertold Devereaux he wouldn't approach AngeloDellacroce. Only that he had no reason todo so when Sam pressed him on the point.At that moment. Not later.  The secretary-treasurer title wassomething else. It looked terrific on thepartnership agreement: Samuel Devereaux,Esq., Counselor-at-law, State 4-Ff, DrakeHotel, New York, right above the linereserved for the second most importantoffice in the Shepherd Company. It was forDevereaux's own good; he'd understand thatsoon enough. But at the moment SamuelDevereaux, Esq., was mad as a caged bullfenced off from heifers in heat.  The Hawk had agreed to Dellacroce'srendezvous. because it suited him. TheItalian was so concerned aboutsurveillance he had insisted on meetingMac in the middle of the fairway on holesix at the North Hampton Golf Club betweenthe hours of midnight and one in themorning. But if Hawkins had objected andchanged the location to 91                     ..lthe Bell Telephone Company, Dellacrocewould have capitulated.  For Dellacroce had no choice. Machad a folder on the Mafioso that wouldhave guaranteed a jail sentence worthyof a court in the People's Republic.  Still, a meeting at night in terrainsurrounded by thick woods and streamsand small lakes appealed to Hawkins.He was at home in such territory. Itwasn't Cambodia or Laos, but he couldsort of keep his hand in, as it were.  He flew up from Washington in theafternoon and with falseidentification rented a car and droveout to North Hampton. As soon as itwas dark, he circled the golf club andparked at the west perimeter.Dellacroce had told him that the clubwas closed for the evening and thenight watchman would be replaced byone of his men.  Which meant, of course, thatDellacroce would double the patrolseverywhere, especially around the areaof fairway six.  His pockets stuffed with coils ofthin rope and rolls of three-inchadhesive, Hawkins employed an old HoChiminh tactic that had served himwell in the past. He began hiscommando assault at the farthest pointinside the hostile area and worked hisway toward the front.  At 2300 the enemy patrols started toman their emplacements within theNorth Hampton Golf Club. There werenine (a few more than Mac hadanticipated) spaced out in the roughby the edge of the woods on both sidesof fairway six, the line of relayextending back to the clubhouse andthe driveway.  One by one, Hawkins immobilizedeight patrols; he removed all weapons,bound them, taped their faces allfacial muscles, not just themouths and rendered them unconsciouswith kai-sai chops at the base of theskull. Then he worked his way back tothe ninth patrol who manned theentrance.  He saved for this man a strategythat was particularly effectiveagainst the Pathet Lao. For the guardhad to be able to talk.  The man was exceedingly cooperative.Especially after Mac had sliced histrousers from crotch to cuff.At ten minutes to midnight, Dellacroce'shuge black solimousine drove swiftly through thegates and up to the wide, pillaredporch. In the darkness the ninthpatrol, riveted to a pillar, spoke.  "Everythings fine, Mr. Dellacroce.All the boys are spread good, like yousaid."  The man's voice was a bit high and alittle strained, but Hawkins figuredrightly that Dellacroce had otherthings on his mind.  "Okay. Real good," was the raspyreply as Dellacroce; got out of theautomobile, flanked by two heavysetbodyguards who walked like gorillaswith their hands in their fur. "Rocco,you stay here with Augie. You,Fingers, you come with me. And, Meat,you get the fuckin' car back in thelot outta sight."  Before Dellacroce and Fingers hadrounded the corner of the building,the ninth patrol was kai-saied out ofcommission. By the time Dellacroce andFingers had  disappeared across the lawn, Rocco hadjoined Angie in peaceful oblivion.  The gentleman named Meat wasHawkins's next dispatchee. It tooknearly five minutes, but only becauseMeat was an experienced combat man. Hedid not park the limousine at the edgeof the lot; instead, he had pulled toa stop in the center. It was goodpositioning, thought Mac. Meat couldobserve all his flanks unencumbered byvisual shadings or sightlineobstructions. Meat was good.But not good enough.  MacKenzie scrambled diagonally out ofthe parking area, over the first tee,and left through the rough towardfairway six. Since Dellacroce had madeit clear he would be alone, Hawkinsknew that Fingers would be hiding inthe darkness, no doubt at the edge ofthe woods, and if he had a brain inhis head, across the fairway owtheeast side for a superior line of fire.  But Fingers did not have such sawy.He remained in the west rough, pronein the underbrush, eliminating anyrear flank observation.  Goddamn, thought MacKenzie, it wasnot much fun taking an asshole likeFingers.Nevertheless, he took him. Silently.In eleven seconds.Leaving Angelo Dellacroce alone in themiddle of fair 93   'way six, the lighted end of a cigarprotruding from -his fat mouth, hissquat body sagging at ease, his plumphands clasped behind his back asthough waiting to be served a plate oflinguini in a slow trattoria.  Three minutes later Devereaux's taxiwas heard on the deserted back roadfronting the golf club, and MacKenziewaited behind the pillar.  As Sam walked haltingly up the drive,Hawkins decided not to tell him aboutthe immobilized patrols. It would-only worry the ex-major; better tolet him think Dellacroce was true tohis word: he was alone on fairway six."Goddamn! Hello, Sam!"  Devereaux threw himself to theground, hugging the gravel for dearlife. And then he looked up; MacKenzietook out a small but powerful pencillight from his pocket and flicked iton.  The ex-major was certainly angry Hisface was kind of pinched and puffed,as if it might explode right out ofhis skin.  "You unprincipled son of a bitch!"Sam whispered, tiny and fearintermeshed. "You lowlife! You're themost devious, despicable form ofsubhuman that ever lived! What thehell have you done, you bustards"  "Now, now' that's no way to talk.Come on, get up; you look silly downthere all splayed out. . ." MacKenziereached for Devereaux's hand.  "Don't touch me, you slug worm!Fucking Mongolian sheep is too goodfor you! I should have let Lin Shoopry out your fingernails, one by one,for four thousand fucking years! Don'ttouch me!" Sam staggered to his feet."Look, Major  "Don't call me that! I don't own aserial number and I don't want to beaddressed ever by anything remotelymilitary! I'm a lawyer; but I'm notyour goddamned lawyer! Where the hellare we? How many 'torpedoes' have uscovered with guns?"  MacKenzie grinned. "There's nobodyboy. Just Dellacroce standing out onthe fairway like a nice uncle at abackyard pasta party."  "I don't believe youl Do you knowwhat that gorilla told me on thephone' when I said I wouldn't come outhere? 94That goddamned hood told me my healthwould take a sudden turn worsel That'swhat he told mel"  'Oh, don't pay any attention to thatsort of thing. Those fat slobs alwaystalk tough."  "Horseshit!" Devereaux peered intothe darkness. '~at maniac said if Iwas late he'd send a basket of fruitto the hospital tomorrow! And if Itried to leave town, some goon calledMeat would find me before the week wasupl"  The Hawk shook his head. "Meat'spretty good, but I think you couldtake him. I'd put my money on you,boy."  "I don't want to take him oranybody! And don't put any money onme! You're never going to see meagain! I just wanted to get this overwith. I want to meet this Dellacroce;tell him the whole thing's a crazymistaket I had some typing done foryou, and that's alll"  "Now listen to me, son. You'reoverreacting.. There's nothing toworry about at all." Hawkins startedwalking across the lawn. Devereauxkept pace, his head snapping in thedirection of every noise. "Mr.Dellacroce will be exceedinglycooperative. And there'll be no moretough talk, you'll see.""What was that?" There was a squishingsound.  "Relax, All you? I think you steppedon some dog turd. Do me a favor. Don'tstart explaining anything untill Italk with Dellaeroce, okay? It won'ttake me more than three or fourminutes."  "No! Absolutely no! I don't care tohave.a promising legal career cutshort in the middle of a fairway atsome Cosa Nostra golf courser Thesepeople don't play gamest They usebullets, and chains, and heavy cementlAnd riversl What was that?" There wasa fluttering of wings in the darktrees.  "We alarmed a bird. Let's put itthis way. If you just keep your mouthshut until I'm finished, 111 pay youanother ten thousand. Free and clear.How about thatP"  "You're a lunatic! No, again.Because I can't spend it displacingroots in a Boston cemetery! You couldoffer ten million, the answer's stillnol"'~at's not out of the question  "For Christ's sake, have yourselfcommitted before somebody else doesl"95  "Then I'm afraid I'll have to put itthis way. You either shut up until mybusiness with Mr. Dellacroce isfinished, or tomorrow morning I callthe FBI and tell them there's anex-major walking around peddlingraw-file intelligence documentshe-illegally removed from the G-twoarchives."  "Oh, no you don't! Because I'll tellthe truth. I'll tell them how youblackmailed me, then conned me, thenblackmailed me again. You'd get alighter prison sentence in PekingI"  "It surely does get complicated,doesn't it? I mean you'd be reopeningthe Brokemichael business. How wouldit look? A man violates the espionagelaws because he doesn't hke spendinga little extra time in the service ofhis country. In a cushy job, not evencombat. Pretty weak blackmail, I'dsay.""You unprtuc~pled "  "I know, I know," said the Hawkwearily. "You keep repeating yourself.What you've got to understand is thatit doesn't make a whole lot ofdifference to me. As you said, I'vebeen shafted. How much more shaftingcan they do?"  Hawkins kept walking. Devereauxfollowed reluctantly, his eyes dartingeverywhere, his nerves obviouslyfrayed; a series of whispered. squeaksemerged from his throat until he foundthe words. "Have you no decency, sir?No sense of compassion? No love ofyour fellow man within your heart?"  "I surely do," said the Hawk. Theycut across the third tee onto fairwaysix. "Now keep that eloquent tongue ofyours inactive for a while. It youdon't like the way things go, thenspeak your piece. Can I be fairer thanthat?" ~  The overcast sky was thinning out;intermittently the moon shone through.And a hundred yards ahead they couldsee the squat figure of AngeloDellacroce, his hands still claspedbehind his back, the lighted stub ofa cigar still in his mouth. ~  "He must have ashes all over hisfront," said Hawkins quietly. Thenlouder, "Mr. Dellacroce?"  There was a grunt from the obesebody in front of them. MacKenzieflicked on his pencil light and heldit over his own head, spilling thelight on his longish steel-gray hair,96throwing shadows down across hisprecisely barbered Van Dyke."You're making us a target!" whisperedSam."Who's going to shoot?"  They approached the Italian; Macextended his hand. Dellacroce made nomove to accept it. Hawkins spokequietly. "Even when I accepted gooksurrenders I got a handshake. Sort ofseparates us from the animals."  Reluctantly Dellacroce Dulled hishand from behind his back and the twoshook. '~1 ain't no gook and thisain't no surrender," said the raspyvoice.  "Course it isn't," answeredMacKenzie brightly. "It's thebeginning of a profitable association.By the way, this is my attorney andgood friend, Sam Devereaux ""Mac!"  "Shut up and shake hands," saidHawkins sotto Face. "Goddamn, boys. Isaid shake hands!"  With even greater reluctance, thetwo hands inched toward each other,touched briefly and separated asthough the owners feared infection.  "That's better," said the Hawkenthusiastically. "Now we can talk."  And MacKenzie did. He started bylisting the illegal activities~othforeign and domesti~of AngeloDellacroce. It took him two minutes.  "Now, Mr. Dellacroce, the reason theauthorities can't catch up with you isthat they don't have access to asingle financial clearinghouse thatties in specifically with all thesehere sundry enterprises. I realize itwill sound strange to you, sir, but Ibelieve I have that acesss. There's abank in Geneva, Switzerland; the firstthree numbers-on the account happen tobe seven, one, five. In this accountis something over sixty-two milliondollars ""Basta! Basta!"  " and the deposits were madedirectly from such locales as I'vesuggested. Now I guess you've studiedthe new Swiss laws relative to suchaccounts. They're tricky because fraudin one country may not constitutefraud in Geneva. But goddamn, wouldyou believe there's now a way forInterpol to subpoena the records ofthose accounts? All the internationalpolice have to do is submit a 97   ,copy of a payment to a specificaccount that's been made by aconvicted narcotics dealer. And itsurely is wondrous good fortune on mypart to have in my possession Xeroxedcopies of quite a few such payments "  "Basta! You shut up!" Dellacroceroared. "Fingers! Manny! Carlo! Dino!Get out here! Now!"There were only the sounds of thenight in reply.  "There's no one there. At least noone that can hear you," said the Hawksoftly.'What!? Fingers! Figlio deltaprwtftuta! Get out herel"Nothing.  "Now, you and I, Mr. Dellacroce, willstep away from my friend and attorney,here, so we can talk real privatelike." MacKenzie touched the Italian'sarm, which was instantly yanked away."Meat! Augie! Rocco! You hear me,boys? Get out here!"  "They're sleeping, too, sir," saidHawkins kindly. "They won't wake upfor a couple of hours."  Dellacroce whipped his head towardMac. "You got cops here? How many copsyou got?" The questions overlapped.  "Nobody. Iust me and my good friendand attorney ""How many? Alone you couldn't!""Alone, I did," answered the Hawk."My best boys!"  "I'd hate like hell to see yoursupport troops." MacKenzie chuckled."Now it's time for our private talk."  The Hawk led Dellacroce thirty feetaway. He talked quietly for exactlyfour minutes and thirty seconds.  At which point a rasping,ear-splitting scream shattered thestillness of fairway six."Mannnnucagggiii'!"  And Angelo Dellacroce fainted rightthere on the manicured grass.  MacKenzie bent over the man andgently slapped him back intoconsciousness.  They talked once more with the Hawkholding the obese Italian's neck asthough he were a medical corpsman.The scream came again."Mannnnuaauggggiii'!"And Dellacroce fainted again. 98So the Hawk revived him again.And they talked for two minutes more."Mannnnnnuaggggiiii'!"  This time MacKenzie lowered theman's head on the grass of fairway sixand got up. The moon had brokenthrough the night clouds, revealing astunned Sam staring at the sight ofthe fallen Dellacroce. This was it,thought the Hawk, as he walked slowlytoward Devereaux. There was no pointin procrastinating any longer. Samwould have to be told. There was noother way.  "Well, Sam," began Mac with quietconfidence in the intermittentmoonlight on fairway six, "it's apretty good start. Mr. Dellacroce waseager to subscribe to the full amountreserved for him. The Shepherd Companyhas its first ten million dollars."  Devereaux's knees buckled. The Hawkrushed forward and caught him beforehe hit the ground. The ground was nothard but MacKenzie wanted Sam to knowhe cared; it was always a good idea tolet one's superior-adjutant know thecommander was concerned for hiswell-being. "Goddamn, son, you've gotto stop this kind of thing! You'rebehaving no better than Mr.Dellacroce! Now that's just notproper; you're cut from a finertunicl"  Sam's eyes were swimming around andaround in the moonlight on fairwaysix. The words that emerged from histrembling lips were by and largeincoherent, but several phrases wererepeated often enough to be under-stood. "Secretary-treasurert.~h, myGod, I'm a sec'atarytreasurerl Tenmillion dollars' worth of cement! I'min ten million dollars' worth of shit!I'll he sunk in concrete pajamas! I'mdead!"  "Now, now, stop your wailin'. You'rea big lawyer, fella; you shouldn't actlike this."  "I should never have met you, yousquirrelly bastard! That's the onlyshouldn't of my lifer Oh, my God! Thatkiller passed out!""So did you. Almost. I caught you "  "Shhh! Let's get out of here! I'llsend him a letter I'll get someBellevue stationery I'll certify youa lunatic! It was all a lousy joker""Oh, Mr. Dellacroce knows better thanthat, boy." Hawkins 99patted Devereaux's cheek-with hisright hand while, with his left, hekept an iron grip on the base of Sam'sskull inhibiting any movement abovethe waist. "Dellacroce's a veryreligious man, most of these Italianfellas are; doesn't make anydifference what they do for a living.That's separate. He knows I told himthe truth."  "What the hell are you talking about?What's religion got to do withanything? Get off my neck!"  "Religion helps a man recognize thetruth. He may not like it; his religionmay not like it, or even admit it isthe truth, but because he'scontemplated, the religious man canseparate what's real from what'shorseshit. You follow me?""Not for a goddamned second! My neckhurtsl"  "Sorry. I'll ease up, but it's timewe talk." MacKenzie removed his hand.Instantly Devereaux bolted, but the.Hawk merely rolled with him, pinninghim back to the earth. "I said we'vegot to talk, boy. You're a reasonableperson; you can see the logic inthat."  "The problem," whispered Sam,straining on the ground, "is thatyou're not reasonable or logical! Do youknow what you've done? Guys likethat " He gestured with his head;somehow, he could not use his hands."They freeze people for welching ontheir bookies! They think nothingabout paying for the biggest funeralin town for a paisan who held out on askim! I.know. I'm from Boston."  "You're overreacting again. Mr.Dellacroce won't do anything likethat. He knows where he stands whichis roughly in twenty feet of lye if hedoesn't behave. That account inGeneva. He stole from his own people."  Grudgingly, suspiciously, Devereauxstared at Mac in the moonlight."You're sure of that?"  "It was all in the G-two files.Trouble was nobody put it together. Idon't think they wanted to;-Dellacroce's crowd are big Pentagonsupporters, what with government con-tracts and union affiliations . Now,will you listen to me?"  With a reluctance born of fear, butwith an assent formed in necessity,Sam nodded. The Hawk helped him up andthe two men walked into the rough offfairway six. There was a large oaktree whose leaves filtered themoonlight. Sam sat down against thetrunk; Mac fell to 100one knee in front of him, the lineofficer clarifying orders at a firebase.  "Remember a couple of weeks ago mytelling you how I was looking intothings I hadn't thought much aboutbefore? God and the church and thingshike."  "I remember saying I wouldn't laugh" Devereaux's reply was flat, wary. Amonotone.  "That was very thoughtful, boy.Well, I was doing some thinking, butnot quite in the way you maybeconsidered. You and I know thatninety-nine percent of all Commiepropaganda is horseshit; everybodyknows that. Ours is only say, fifty tosixty percent, so we're way ahead onthat score. But that one percent ofthe Bolshie feedback got me towondering. About this Catholicsituation. Not what people believe,that's their business. But how theorganization operates. And it seemedto me that these Vatican fellows gotsuch a good thing going they shouldspread a little more around. I mean,they got investments, son. When thestock market goes up a couple ofpoints anywhere in the world, theymake zillions." v"And if it goes down, they losezillions."  "Not sol The brokers get 'em out intime or they get canned from theKnights of Malta. It's part of the ar-rangement. And they can't get theirpictures taken with the pope."That is horseshit."  "If it is, why do all the Catholicbrokers on Wall Street have all thoseinitials after their names. You knowof any college degrees that start withthe leper K? Malta, Columbus, Lourdes.And the saints! Jesus! Knights ofAssisi, Knights of Peter, Matthew itgoes on for pages. It's kind of asocial order. The more a fellow on thestock exchange does for the Vatican,the better the K after his name. AndWall Street's only one example. It'sthe same all over the place."  "I think you've been reading somepretty strange books. The Ku KluxKlanne'; maybe. Nineteen twentyedition."  "Hell, no. I don't cotton to thatshit. A man's got a right to believeanything he likes. I'm only talkingabout the financial part. Then there'sreal estate. Do you know the sort ofreal estate the Vatican boys have? Iswear they pick 101up rent from the Ginza to the Gazastrips and most places in between.They own the prime properties in NewYork Chicago, Hartford, Detroit 'mostevery place where the micks, the wops,the Polacks and all those kind ofpeople migrated. They always do it thesame way. They go in early before allthe ethnics get settled and buy upland and build a big church.Naturally, all these Ellis Islandersare nervous being in a strange placeand all, so they build their housesnear the church. In a generation or sotheir kids are lawyers and dentistsand own automobile dealerships. Sowhat do they do? They move out to thesuburbs and go to work where they oncelived, which is now the center oftown, the business district. And thechurch property skyrockets! It's aregular pattern, boy!"  "I'm trying to find somethingnegative here and I can't," said Sam,staring in the shadows at the excitedHawkins. "What's wrong with thepattern?"  "I didn't say it was wrong. I saidit made for one hell of a centralizedportfolio.""'Centralized portfolio'? You've gota new vocabulary."  "Like you said, I've been reading.And not such strange books as youmight think. You see, Sam, the productthese Vatican boys manufacture that'snot meant disrespectfully, only in abusiness sense doesn't change. It mayhave to adjust a mite now and then,take a tuck here or a nip there, butthe basic merchandise stays the same.That reduces a major cost factor andallows for a continuous profit figurewith no chance of negative entry ""'Negative entry'?""That's an accounting term."  "I know it's an accounting term. Howdo you know  don't tell me. Yourreading material.""Maggie's drawers, son.""What?"  "Never mind. You're on target,that's all. Now, you take an economicsituation where the stock exchangesand the real estate markets hold firm,and that means you got the banks,because you control both money andland. Prime economic resources. Andyou add to that a product thatrequires minimum assembly alterationswith maximum purchase growth hell,boy, it's a worldwide gold mine." 102                  ..Tl  "You have been reading. But ifyou're right, why's there's so muchhassle over the parochial schools andtheir costs?"  "That's services Sam. That's anentirely different entry column. I'mtalking about basic portfolios, notannual operating expenditures; theyfluctuate with economic conditions.Anyway, it's mostly blackmail.""That's succinct. They wouldn't likeyou in Boston."  The Hawk shifted his weight andspoke a little more softly, but withno loss of emphasis. "You mentionedbefore about something wrong. Well, Idon't like to mention it because itonly applies to the pricky-shit highbrass and not the troops, but there issomething that's got a bit of stink toit.""You found a moral position?"  "Morality and economics should bemore related than they have been;everybody knows that. You take thispolitical thing. Nobody's traded firepower with the Reds any better'n Ihave. Goddamn, nobody's going to buryme! But it strikes me.that theseCatholic fellas in the Vatican andthat means all the powerfuldioceses use the Bolshie excuse a mitetoo freely to oppose a lot Of reformsthat could make things easier for thepeasant slobs scratching a life out ofvery tough ground."  Devereaux eyed Hawkins skeptically."That position's a little dated. Agreat many changes are taking place inthe Church. This new pope is openinga lot of windows. Like John theTwenty-third did."  "Not quick enough, Sam. What theVatican brass needs is a good shake-upin commandI" '"You can't change a two-thousand-yearpattern over.. ..nlgflt  .  "Oh, I understand that," interruptedthe Hawk. "And I'm glad you brought upthis new pope. This Francesco. Becausehe's a very popular fellow. Even thosewho hate his guts for doing what he'sdoing know he's the biggest assetthey've got in the whole damn churchthat's not meant in a religious sense,of course. I don't take positions thatway.""What positions? What sense?"'1his Francesco," continued Mac,overlooking Devereaux's 103questions, "is more than just thepope, which is enough to begin with.He's a beloved individual, you knowwhat I'm driving at?""I wish you wouldn't say that."  "He's the sort of person every manjack of a Catholic would reallysacrifice for, you see what I mean?""I don't like that phrase, either."  The Hawk changed knees rapidly; itwas good to redistribute weight asoften as possible when in an immobileposition. "Do you know the estimatedtotal communicant membership of theCatholic Church?""The what?"  "How many Catholics there are in theworld? Never mind, 111 tell you. Fourhundred million. Now, taking themedian figure of one Americandollar setting a specific date for therate of exchange; some giving more,most less that comes to four hundredmillion dollars.""What does?""The projected gross.""What projected gross?"  "Of the Shepherd Company's businessservices. This here 'brokering theacquisition of religious artifacts.'It's a clear ratio of ten to one interms of capitalization, but naturallythe profit ratio, as opposed to thegross figure, will be affected by thenecessary outlay for equipment andsupport personnel.""What the hell are you babblingabout?!""We're going to kidnap the pope, Sam.""WhaotI"  "I've got a trunkful of books, boy.I've really-.been studying thetactical problems and I think I've got'em licked. You see, there's thisplace called Chiesa di San Tommaso diVillanova in Gandolfo pardon my lousyItalian and the route from the Vaticanis over a kind of country thoroughfarecalled the Via Appia Antica. It's theroad to this here Gandolf~CastelGandolfo, they call it. TheseItalians, they never use one word whenthey can use two.""Whaant?!""Now, don't go overreacting. You'llwake up Dellacroce." "Whaaet?""But first we have to corral theremaining capitalization. 104There's thirty million more coming. Ibelieve I've almost narrowed down thethree investors, but I've still gotsome refining to do." The Hawk clappedhis hand over Devereaux's open mouth."Now, don't start that again. You keeprepeating yourself."  Devereaux's eyes bulged aboveMacKenzie's spread hand, but the restof his body was frozen. Sort of a formof comatose shock, thought Hawkins.He'd seen a lot of that kind of thingwhen raw recruits got their firsttaste of a fire fight. At least Samwasn't screaming;. Or struggling. Hewas just plain still and kind of cold.The Hawk continued; he had only a fewwords left to say. The in-depth com-mand analyses would come later. In away he was glad Devereaux~soverreaction was so extreme. In hisenthusiasm he had nearly given Samsome tactical ink rmation he was notsure he wanted Devereaux to have.  "I didn't choose you lightly. Nosuperior-adjutant is an easy choicefor a commander to make, for in manyways the SA is an extension ofhimself. You got it on merit, boy. Idon't say you're ideal, you've gotdeficiencies. I've told you that. Butgoddamn, your assets outpoint yourliabilities. I say that as an honestfriend as well as a superior officer.  "Now, there'll be certain executiveorders that you'll be asked to carryout, not always knowing precisely whythey're vital. You'll just have toaccept them. Command is a lonelyresponsibility; there's not always thetime to share the reasons for one'sdecisions. Ask any frontline officerwho sends a battalion into fire. Butyou'll do splendidly I just know youwill. And if by any chance you'retempted to question the orders of yoursuperior officer, or feel that youcannot in conscience implement them,I think you should know that ourinvestor, Angelo Dellacroce, believesthat you alone, as the attorney andsecretary-treasurer of the ShepherdCompany, compiled that list of hisillegal activities and furnished mewith them. I believe that's why hedidn't care to shake hands with you.Coupled with your G-two espionageviolations, I'd say your position wassomewhat untenable. But if I were youand had my druthers, I'd choose tofight the government treason chargesrather than our investor, Mr.Dellacroce. I think that 105Mafia bastard would cut your ballsoff, grind 'em up in a blender, andserve 'em as a fancy pate at yourfuneral. Like you said earlier, it'dprobably be an expensive funeral.  There was no point in the Hawkholding his hand over hissuperior-adjutant's mouth any longer.Sam had merfed and gleefed in a spasmof panic and passed out cold.  The moonlight, filtering through theleaves of the large, sturdy oak in therough off fairway six, cut shafts ofyellow and white across Sam's young,peaceful, unmistakably strongfeatures.  Goddamn, thought MacKenzie, theboy's going to be fine! He just neededa little time to absorb the facts. Ofcourse, if a person didn't know anybetter, he'd think the son of a bitchwas dead.                 106                               CHATTIER TENSam Devereaux sank despondently intothe hotel chair and wished he weredead.  Well, not really, but it certainlywould solve a lot of problems. Ofcourse, it was entirely possible thatthe state of his demise might comeabout whether he desired it or not.Which brought his eyes back to theinsane, unfired but filled-out limitedpartnership agreement between theShepherd Company, MacKenzie Hawkins,President, and the North HamptonCorporation, Mrs. Angelo Dellacroce,President, Depository the Great Bankof Geneva, Switzerland. He held thelegal document in his hand andwondered absently where hisfingernails had gone.  Prominently on the first page,directly under the title of presidentand above the line reserved for thesecretarytreasurer, was his name.  Mr. Samuel Devereaux,Counselor-at-law, Suite BEE The DrakeHotel, New York City.  He speculated for a moment whetherhe could alter the Drake's registryand then abandoned the idea. What wasthe point? On one flank (Hank?) wasthe United States government with veryspecific espionage laws, and on theother was Angelo Dellacroce and hisguards-of-honor with their white tieson white shirts and dark glasses andblack suits and very unspecificmethods of dealing with the likesof"squeals" such as S. Devereaux,counselor-at-law.  Sam wondered what Aaron Pinkus woulddo. Then he realized what Aaron woulddo and abandoned that thought, too.Pinkus would sit Shiva for him.  He got out of the chair and wanderedaimlessly through the hotel suite.What the hell was he going to do? Whatin 107God's name could he do? His gaze fellon the unsigned, typewritten note onthe desk.Copies of this limited partnershipagreement havebeen sent by messenger to MacKenzieHawkins, E:squire, President, theShepherd Company, % The WatergateHotel, Wash. D.C. Instructions cabled:Great Bank of Geneva. Funds transferawaits presence Sec.-Treas., Shep.Co., Samuel Devereaux in Geneva.He had been cabled internationally.  In some marble banking hall inSwitzerland, a powerful broker ofinternational finance had no doubtalready listed him as the bona fideoverseer of the transfer of tenmillion dollars into an account of anonfiled but- very much existingcompany named Shepherd.  That's what he was going to dowhether he liked it or not. It wasGeneva, or a lifetime of crackingrocks at Leavenworth, or Dellacrocejustice feet-in~ement style.Kidnap the pope!  My Godl That's what the crazybastard said. He was going to Icidnapthe pope!  All of Mac's other insanities paledby any stretch of comparison! WorldWar Three might be more acceptable! Asimple war would be so much well,simpler. Borders were defined,objectives properly obscured,ideologies flexible. A war was ducksoup compared to 400 millionhysterical Catholics, and heads ofstate moaning and groaning theirobsequious platitudes, blaming everyconceivable inimical faction,extremist or not (secretly glad to berid of the meddling nuisance in theVatican) and. . .  My God! World War Three could be avery logical consequence of Hawkins'sact!  And with that realization Sam knewwhat he had to do. He had to stopMacKenzie. But he could not stop himif he were in a maximum security cellin Leavenworth; who would believe him?And he certainly could not stop him ifhe were at the bottom of one of thedeeper sections of the Hudson River,probably upstate, courtesy of AngeloDellacroce; who would hear him?108  No, the only way he could push theHawk's insanity out of the realm ofreality was to find out how the hellMacKenzie intended to pull off hispapal score. The most foolish thinghere would be to assume he couldn't doit. The Hawk was no joke; anyone whothought he was need only look at afew~of Mac's accomplishments includingfour extraordinary ex-wives who adoredhim, and a little matter of an initialcapitalization of ten million dollars,to say nothing of military exploitsspanning three decades and the samenumber of wars.  What the Hawk was bringing to theprofession of crime were all thestrategic resources, the finely honeddiscipline, and the leadership of anexperienced general officer. MacKenziewas starting at the top; no graduateof the lineup he but instead' afull-fledged criminal commander whohad already outsacked a Mafia don inhis own backyard.  The son of a bitch had flare. Christ!He had the balls of King Kong smashingthe concrete off the Empire StateBuilding as he climbed up the sides.Kidnap the pope!Who the hell would believe it?Samuel Devereaux believed it, that'swho believed it.What was left was for S. Devereaux,counselor-at-law, ta. figure out howto stop it. And stay both alive andoutside prison walls so doing. A vagueidea was coming into focus, but it wasstill too blurred to make sense. Yetthere was a core of possibility withinthe outlines.  "Don't be too confident," said Samout loud. "You're dealing with aliving, legal, spinal meningitis!"  But it was possible. He could pretendto go along with MacKenzie (alwayswith great reluctance, to actotherwise would be out of character),gather in.the diseased money  and, atthe last moment, convene the investorsand blow the whole operation out ofthe sky. And to save his hide, there'dbe a lot of "in the case of my suddendemise, my own attorneys areinstructed to publicly reveal..." anynumber of things.  Including the translation ofthe-Shepherd Company's "brokering ofreligious artifacts."Who would believe it?"Stop that!" Sam grabbed his wrist,startled by the 109sound of his own voice. He was furtherstartled by the sound of thetelephone. He raced to it like a manfacing execution rushing to hear whatthe governor had to say.  "Goddamn! This must be the attorneyand secretary and treasurer of theShepherd Company! With assets over tenmillion dollars! How does that strikeyou?""It's a leading question. I'll notindulge."  "You know something, boy? You mustbe a pistol of a lawyer!"  "Are you sure you want to talk overthe telephone?" asked Devereaux. "It'sbeen given a pretty good FCC ratinglately."  "Oh, that's all right. We won't sayanything we shouldn t. At least, Iwon't, and I hope to hell you knowbetter. I just wanted to tell you thatthe additional copies of the part-nership agreement are downstairswaiting for you. I sent them up lastnight with an old master sergeant Iused to know "  "Good Cod, you had duplicates made?You damn fool! Those copy placesusually keep a set! If they'rephotostats there'll be negatives!"  "Not where I was. Right down here inthe Watergate lobby there's a bigmachine. You put in a quarter for eachpage Jesus! You should have seen thecrowds gatherl They're a little jumpyaround here, aren't they? But nobodysaw anything. It was kind of weird.Everybody staring; nobody sayinganything. Except two guys from theWashington Post who came running infrom the street "  "All rightl" interrupted Devereaux."The copies are downstairs. What thehell am I supposed to do with them?"  "Put 'em in your fancy briefcase,the one I gave you. Take 'em toGeneva. You won't need 'em inSwitzerland, of course, but there maybe one or two other stops on the wayback. Namely, London, that's prettydefinite. You'll be at the Savoy fora day or two. Airline tickets andeverything will be at the hotel inGeneva. When you're in London agentleman named Danf rth will callyou. You'll know what to do."  "That's dirty pool. I won't knowwhat to do, I don't know what I'mdoing! You can't ~ just put me in thiscrazy 110situation and not tell me anything.I'm carrying documentst My name is onthem! I'm involved with the transferof ten million dollars""  "Now, calm down," said the Hawk withgentle firmness. "Remember what I toldyou: There'll be times when, as myadjutant, you'll be asked to carry outorders  "Bul~htt!" roared Sam. "What am Isupposed to say to people?"  "Well, what's bullshit to one manmay be sugar-coated wheat to another.If anyone presses you, you're justhelping an old soldier who's quietlyraising a few dollars to spreadreligious brotherhood."'That's absurd," said Devereaux."That's the Shepherd Company," saidthe Hawk.  MacKenzie lifted up five specificpages from the Xeroxed G-2 filesscattered over the hotel bed and tookthem to the desk across the room. Hesat down, picked up a red crayon, andproceeded to mark each copy on the topleft border. One through five.  Goddamnl It was the sequence he hadbeen looking for, the pattern he knewwas there because a man can't resistgoing back to his first method offortune building if the circumstancesappear right. And because timeminimizes the problems and pressuresa person felt decades ago, especiallyif the profits remain.  The cover intelligence out of Hanoithree years ago had been confusing butauthentic. Authentic, that is, on thebottom line, everything else wasdistorted.  An Englishman was making a killingby brokering hardware and ammunitionto North Vietnam.  No big deal, London did not frown ontrade to the Commie bloc, althoughthere were specific regulations as towar machinery. But it was a periodduring that screwed-up, half-assedconflict when the boys in Hanoi andMoscow and Peking were running slow onthe production lines. Money could bemade in large bundles by anyone whocould divert combat supplies intoNorth Vietnamese ports.One Lord Sidney Danforth had done justthat.  Buying in the United States, WestGermany, and France, he sailed underChilean flag ostensibly for ports inthe 111new African countries. Except theships did not go anywhere near Africa.They altered their courses in interna-tional Pacific waters, sped north,refueled in the Russian out-islands,and headed south to Haiphong asregulationbound trading vessels.  G-2 could never prove Danforth'sinvolvement because the Communistpayments were made directly to theChilean companies and Danforth stayedwell out of sight. And Washington wasnot about to provoke an incident.Danforth was a powerful Englishmanwith a lot of clout in the ForeignOffice. Nam wasn't worth it.  What had intrigued MacKenzie,however, were the two keys: Chileanflag and African ports. They werecovers that had been used before.Thirty years ago. During World War II.  It was common knowledge inintelligence circles that certainSouth American companies with outsidefinancing had fed war machinery to theAxis at enormous profit during theearly forties. In those hectic wartimedays the shipping destinations werealways Capetown and Port Elizabethbecause the manifest records in thoseharbors were chaotic at best, butusually nonexistent. Scores of shipsthat were supposed to dock in SouthAfrica altered courses in the southernAtlantic waters and headed into theMediterranean. To Italy, generally. .  Was it possible that one Lord SidneyDanforth had imitated his ownoperations of three decades past?  It was one thing to chisel a fewmillion out of Southeast Asia in theseventies, something else again tomake a fortune out of the holocaustthat tested the courage of the BritishLion. A man could get his name takenoff the Buckingham Palace guest listpretty quickly for something likethat.  It was time for the Hawk to have atransatlantic talk with Lord SidneyDanforth, seventy-two-year-oldknighted paragon of British industry.And just about the wealthiest man inEngland.  Goddamnl The Shepherd Company wasattracting some of the mostinteresting investors.                  112                               CHAPlER ELEVENThe Strand was crowded. It was shortlypast five o'clock; the legion ofoffice workers were heading home.  Sam had arrived at Heathrow Airporton the 3:40 flight from Geneva and hadwasted no time getting to the relaxedcomfort of a Savoy suite. He neededit. Geneva had been a nightmare.  He had realized that for any futurerecord, he had to convey a veryspecific ignorance as to theobjectives of the Shepherd Company,cloaking this lack of knowledge inprofound respect for the unnamedprincipals involved; especially thepresident, who was motivated bydeeplyfelt religious convictions.  The Geneva bankers were, at firstimpressed by his humility. My God, tenmillion united States dollars and theoverseeing lawyer only smiled andspoke convivial banalities, demurringwhen pressed for identities, noddingsoulfully about religious brotherhoodwhen the staggering amount was broughtup. So they asked him out to lunch,where there were a lot of winks anddrinks and offers of bedroomgymnastics of an incredible variety.This was, after all; Switzerland; abuck was a buck and this hardnosedapproach was not to be confused withyodeling and edelweiss and Heidi inher pinafores. Gradually, thoughtDevereaux, as the lunches evolved intodinners, the Geneva bankers thought hewas either the dumbest attorney everto practice before the American bar orthe most implausibly secretivemiddleman ever to cross their borders.  He kept up the charade for threedays and nights, leaving behind ahalf-dozen confused Swissburgomasters, tearfully frustratedover unrequited confidences and terri-113bly sick to their stomachs after toomuch industrial lubricant. And thestrain on Sam was unbearable. He hadreached the point where he could notconcentrate on anything but his ownrigid, blank smile and the necessaryquiet control of his fears. He was sopreoccupied with himself that when thevice-president of the Great Bank ofGeneva saw him off at the airport,Devereaux just smiled and said "Thankyou" when the banker threw up over hisraincoat.  In his anxiety to get the hell out ofGeneva, he had left his shaving kitbehind, which explained why he was nowon The Strand looking for a drugstore.He walked south for a block and a half,opposite the Hippodrome, and went intothe Strand Chemists. His purchases made,he headed back to the hotel,anticipating a long, warm bath, a shave,and a good dinner at the Savoy Grille.  "Major Devereaux!" The voice wasenthusiastic, American, and feminine. Itcame from a taxi which stopped in SavoyCourt.  It was Sloping yet Argumentative, thefourth Mrs. MacKenzie Hawkins, thelovely lady named Anne. She. hurled herself at Sam, encircling hisneck with her arms pressing her cheekand various other parts against him.  Instantly she withdrew and ratherawkwardly composed herself. "I'm awfulsorry. Gosh, that was real forward ofme. Please forgive me. It was just soterrific to see a familiar face."  "Nothing to apologize for," said Sam,remembering that Sloping yetArgumentative had appeared to him as themost naive, as well as the youngest, ofthe four wives. She had oohed a lot, ifhe recalled correctly. "Are you stayingat the Savoy?"  "Yes. I got in last night. I've neverbeen to England before, so I spent thewhole day just walking everywhere. Gosh,my feet are yelling at me." She partedher very expensive suede coat andfrowned at the lovely legs very much inevidence below her short skirt. -  "Well, let's get you off themquickly. Into the bar, Imean."  "I can't tell yout It's just so marry tosee someone you knowl"114"Are you here by yourself?" askedDevereaux.  "Oh yes. Don, he's my husband now isso darned busy with his marinas andrestaurants and all those other thingsthat he just said to me last week inLA, he said, 'Annie, honey, why don'tyou get your pretty little ass out ofthe way for a while? This is going tobe a heavy month.' Well, I thought ofMexico and Palm Springs and all theusual places, and then I figured,damn! Annie, you've never been toLondon. So off I flew." She noddedbrightly to the Savoy doorman andcontinued as Sam gestured her throughthe entrance into the lobby. "Donthought I was crazy. I mean, who do Iknow in England? But I think that waspart of it, you know? I wanted to gosomeplace where there weren't all theusual faces. Somewhere really differ-ent.""I hope I didn't spoil it.""How?""Well, you said I was a familiarface "  "Oh, my, no! I said familiar, but Ididn't mean familiar: I mean, onelittle short afternoon at Ginny'sisn't that kind of familiar."  "I see what you mean. The lounge isright up those stairs." Sam noddedtoward the steps on the left that ledto the Savoy's American Bar. But Annestopped, still holding onto his arm.  "Major," she began haltingly, "myfeet are still screaming and my neckis sore from looking up and myshoulder's aching from this darnedpurse strap. I'd really love to spenda little time straightening myselfout."  "Oh, sure," replied Devereaux. "I'mbeing thoughtless. And stupid. As amatter of fact I was going to do some,er, straightening out myself. I leftmy shaving gear in Switzerland." Heheld up the bag from the Strand Chem-ists."Well then, that's marvel""I'll call you in about an hour "  "Why do that? Have you seen the sizeof those johnnies upstairs? WowlThey're bigger than some of Don'sladies' rooms. In his restaurants, Imean. There's plenty of room. Andthose big, groovy towels. I swearthey're terry cloth sheets!" Shesqueezed his arm and smiledingenuously.115"Well, it is solution " "The only one. Come on, we'll get somedrinks from room service and reallyrelax." They started for the elevatorn"It's very kind of you "  "Kmd, hell! Ginny told us you called.She positively forded it over us. Nowit's my turn. You were in Geneva?"Sam stopped. "I said Switzerland ""Isn't that Geneva?"  Anne's suite was also on the Thamesside, also on the sixth Hoor, andconveniently no more than fifty feetdown the corridor.from his.  Su~itze7land. Isn't that Geneva?Several thoughts crossed Devereaux'smind, but he was entirely too exhaustedto dwell on them. And, for the firsttime in days, entirely too relaxed tolet them interfere.  The rooms were very like his own.High ceilings with real moldings;marvelous old furniture polished, func-tionaWdesks and tables and pictures andchairs and a sofa that would do creditto Parke-Bernet; mantel clocks andlamps that were neither nailed down norwith imbedded plastic cards proclaimingownership; tall casement win-, cows,flanked by regal drapes, that lookedout on the river with the lights ofsmall boats, the buildings beyond, andespecially Waterloo Bridge'  He was in the sitting room, on thepillowed sofa, with his shoes off anda tall drink in his hand. The LondonPhilharmonic was on BBC1, playing aVivaldi concerto, and the warmth froma heater filled the room with asplendid comfort. Good things came tothe deserving, thought Sam.  Anne came out of the bathroom andstopped in the frame of the doorway.Devereaux's glass was suddenly checkedon its way to his lips. She wasdressed if that was the word in atranslucent sheath that at once leftlittle to, yet completely provoked, theimagination. Her Sloping yetArgumentative breasts swelled toblushing points beneath the soft,single layer of fabric; her long,-light-brown hair fell casually andsensually over her shoul116ders, framing her extraordinaryendowments. Her tapered legs wereoutlined under the sheath.  Without saying a word, she raisedher hand and beckoned him with herfinger. He rose from the sofa andfollowed.  Inside the huge, tiled bathroom, theenormous Savoy tub was filled withsteaming water; several thousand bub-bles gave off the scent of roses andwet springtime. Anne reached up andremoved his tie, and then his shirt,and then unstrapped his buckle,unzipped his trousers and lowered themto the floor. He kicked them freehimself.  She placed her hands on both sidesof his waist and pulled down hisshorts, kneeling as she did so.  He sat on the edge of the warm tubwhile she pulled off his socks; andshe held his left arm as he slid overthe side, his body disappearing underthe steaming white bubbles.  She stood up, undid a yellow bow ather neck, and the sheath fell to thefloor on top of the thick white rug.She was utterly magnificent.And she got into the tub with Sam.  "Do you want to go down to dinner?"asked the girl from beneath thecovers."Sure," replied Devereaux from undersame.  "Do you know we slept for over threehours? It's nearly nine-thirty." Shestretched; Sam watched. "After we eat,let's go to one of those pubs."  "If you like," said Devereaux, stillwatching her, his head on the pillow.She was sitting up now, the sheet hadfallen to her waist. Sloping yetArgumentative were challenging allthey surveyed.  "Gosh," Anne spoke softly, a touchawkwardly, as she turned and lookeddown at Sam, who could barely see herface. "I'm being real forward again.""Friendly's a better word. I'mfriendly, too."  "You know what Lmean." She bent overhim and kissed him on both eyes. "Youmay have other plans; things you haveto do or something."  "Things I want to do," interruptedDevereaux warmly. "All plans arecompletely flexible, subject only towhim and pleasure."117"That sounds sexy as hell.""I feel sexy as hell.""Thank you."  "Thank you." Sam reached above andbeyond her soft lovely back and pulledthe sheet over them.  Ten minutes later (it was either tenminutes or several hours, thoughtDevereaux) they made the decision:They really did need food, preceded,of course, by short, smoky drams oficed whiskey, which they had in thesitting room, on the pillowed couch,under two soft, enormous bath towels.  "I think the word is 'sybaritic.'"Sam adjusted the terry cloth over hislap. BBC1 was now playing a NoelCoward medley and the smoke from theircigarettes drifted into the sprays ofwarm orange light from the fireplace.Only two lamps were turned on; theroom was dreamed of in a thousandballads.  "Sybaritic has a selfish meaning,"said the girl. "We share, that's notselfish."  Sam looked at her. Hawkins's fourthwife was no idiot. How in hell did hedo it? Had he done it? "The way weshare, it's sybaritic, believe me."  "If you want me to," she answered,smiling and putting her glass down onthe coffee table."It s not important. Why don't wedress and go eat.?"  "All right. I'll just be a fewseconds." She saw his questioningexpression. "No, I will. I don'tdawdle for hours. Mac once said " Shestopped, embarrassed."It's okay,"-he said gently. 'I'dreally like to hear."  "Well, he once said that if you tryto change the outside too much, youcan't help but mix up the inside. Andyou shouldn't do that unless there'sa goddamned good reason. Or if youreally don't like yourself" She swungher legs out from under her and rosefrom the couch, holding the towelaround her body. "One, I don't see anyreason; and two, I kind of like me.Mac taught me that, too. I like us."  "So do I," said Devereaux. "Whenyou're finished, we'll go down to myroom and I'll change."  "Good. I'll button your shirt andtie your tie." She grinned and dashedthrough the foyer door into the bed-room. Devereaux got up naked, throwingthe long towel 118over his shoulder, and went to theside table where the bar was set up ina silver tray. He poured q smallquantity of Scotch and thought aboutMac Hawkins's barroom philosophy.  Change the outside too much you mixup the inside. . It wasn't bad, allthings considered.  The tiny white light shone betweenthe red and green bulbs on the smallpanel beside Devereaux's door. Sam andthe girl saw it simultaneously as theywalked down the corridor andapproached his suite. It was the signthat a message was at the front deskfor the guest. Devereaux swore underhis breath.  Goddamn it! Geneva had not beenerased that quickly. Or so completely,either. The least Hawkins could do wasto let him get a decent night's sleep!  "One of those lights was on for methis afternoon," said Anne. "I cameback to change my shoes and found it;it means you have a phone call.""Or a message."  "Mine was a call. From Don in SantaMonica. I finally got him back; youknow, it was only eight o'clock in themorning in California.""Nice of him to get up and phone."  "Not so. My husband owns two thingsin Santa Monica: a restaurant and agirl. The restaurant's not open ateight in the morning; forgive mybitchiness. I think Don just wanted tomake sure I was really seven thousandmiles away." Anne smiled up at himnaively. He was not sure how torespond' all things considered.  "Seems like a lot of trouble for,well, for checking up." Sam.snapped onthe light switch in his foyer. Beyond,the sitting room lamps were on, as hehad left them five hours ago.  "My husband suffers from a mentalillness peculiar to cheap strayers. Asa lawyer, I'm sure you're familiarwith it. He's paranoid about gettingcaught. Not morally, you understand;when he's juiced up, he flaunts thatpart. Just financially; he's scared todeath some court will make him pay bigif I opt for out."  They walked into his sitting room;he wanted to say something but, again,all things considered he was not 119sure what it should be. He chose thesafest. "I think the man's out of hismind." $'  "You're sweet, but you didn't haveto say it. On the other hand, Isuppose it's the safest thing youcould say  "Let's find another subject," heinterrupted quickly indicating thecouch and the coffee table with theSavoysupplied newspapers on it. ' Sitdown and I'll be with you in a minute.I haven't forgotten: You button theshirt and tie the tie." Sam startedfor the bedroom door."Aren't you going to call the desk?"  "It can wait," he answered from thebedroom. 1 have no intention ofletting anything interfere with aquiet dinner. Or for that matter,showing you a pub or two, if they'restill open when we're finished."  You really should find out who'strying to reach you. It could beimportant."  "You're important," shouted Sam,removing a tan double-knit suit fromthe awkward hanger in his suitcase.  "It could be something vital," saidthe girl from the sitting room.  'You're vital," he replied,selecting a red-striped shirt from thenext layer of clothes.  I can't ever not answer a phone, orcheck for messages, or call back evena name I never heard of; that's beingtoo casual."  "You're not a lawyer. Ever tried toget a lawyer the day after you'vehired him? His secretary is trained tolie with the conviction of AimeeSemple McPherson."  "Why?" Anne was now standing in thebedroom doorway.  "Well, he's got your money; he'sscrounging around for another fee.What the hell, your case probablyentails an exchange of letters withthe opposing attorney, otherexplanations notwithstanding. Hedoesn't want complications."  Anne approached him as he slipped onthe red-striped shirt. Shenonchalantly began buttoning it.'You're a very cool Clyde. Here youare in strange country "  "Not so strange," he broke in,smiling. "I've been here before. I'myour tour guide, remember?"120 .j   "I mean, you've just come fromGeneva where you obviously had a badtime "'Not so bad. I survived."" and now someone is desperatelytrying to find you ""What's desperate? I don't knowanybody so desperate."  "For Christ's sakel" The girl yankedhis collar as she fastened it. "Thingslike this make me nervous!""Why?""I feel responsible!"  "You shouldn't." Devereaux wasfascinated. Anne was very serious. Hewondered....And the telephone rang."Hello?"  "Mr. Samuel Devereaux?" asked theprecise voice of a male Britisher."Yes, this is Sam Devereaux.""I've been waiting for your call "  "I just got in," interrupted Sam. "Ihaven't checked my messages yet. Whois this?""At the moment, merely a telephonenumber."  Devereaux paused, annoyed. "Then Ishould tell you you would have waitedall night. I don't return calls totelephone numbers."  "Come, sir," was the agitated reply."You're not expecting any other callerof consequence.""That's a little presumptuous, I think  "Think whatever you like, sir! I'min- a great hurry and quite put outwith you. Now, where do you wish tomeet?"  "I don't know that I want to. Fuckoff, Basil, or whatever the hell yourname is."  The pause was now on the other endof the line. Sam could hear heavybreathing. In seconds the telephonenumber spoke. "For God's sake, havepity on an old man. I've done you noharm."  Sam was suddenly touched. The voicehad cracked slightly; the man wasdesperate. He remembered Hawkins'slast conversation. "Are you ""No names, please!"."All right. No names. Are yourecognizable?""Extremely. I thought you knew that.""I didn't. So we meet someplace outof the way."               121               "Very much so. I thought you knewthat, too."  "Stop saying that!" Devereaux was asmuch annoyed with Hawkins as he waswith the Englishman on the telephone."Then you'd better choose it, unlessyou want to come to the Savoy."  "Impossible! That's kind of you. Ihave several apartment buildings inBelgravia. Ones the Empire Arms; doyou know it?"I can find it."  "Good. I'll be there. Flat fourseven. It will take me an hour to getinto London.""Don't hurry. I don't want to meet inan hour.""Oh? At what time then?""When do the pubs close these days?""Midnight. A little over an hour.""Shit!""I beg your pardon?""I'll see you at one o'clock."  "Very well. The Empire security willbe alerted. Remember, no names. Justflat four seven.""Four seven.""And, Devereaux. Bring the papers.""What papers?"  The pause was longer now, theEnglish breathing heavier. "Thatgoddamned agreement, you ass.  The girl not only accepted the factthat their dinner would be short andthat he had to leave the hotel, butshe seemed positively elated.  Sam was wondering less and less. Thewhy escaped him, but the what wasbecoming clearer. He agreed to have anightcap with her when he returned.The hour was unimportant, Anne said;she gave him a key.  The taxi stopped at the curb infront of the Empire Arms. At Sam'smention of flat four seven, he was ledby a doorman in a series of swift,secretive movements that took himthrough service doors, a short backstaircase, a freight elevator, and thedelivery entrance of the flat.  An ominous looking man with a northcountry accent asked foridentification and then led Samthrough a pantry, a large living room,a hallway, and finally to a smalldimly 122lit library where a rather ugly littleold man sat in shadows by the window.The door closed. Devereaux stood,adjusting his eyes to the light andthe unattractive ancient in thearmchair."Mr. Devereaux naturally," said thewrinkled old man."Yes. You must be the Danforth Hawkinsspoke of,"  "Lord Sidney Danforth." The uglylittle person spat out the ugly words,then suddenly his voice was syrup. "Idon't know how your employer piecedtogether what he did, nor do I for amoment admit anything; it's all sopreposterous. And so long ago.Nevertheless, I am a good man, acharitable man. Quite a wonderful man.Give me the damned papers!""What?""The agreement, you insufferablebastard!"  Stunned, Sam reached into his breastpocket where he had 4 folded copy ofthe Shepherd Company's limitedpartnership. He crossed to the uglylittle person and gave it to him.Danforth swung out a portable deskpanel from somewhere at the side ofthe armchair and snapped on a brightworklight at the top of the board. Hegrabbed the papers and startedscanning them.  "Fine!" said Danforth, wheezing,Sipping over the pages. "They sayabsolutely nothing!" The littleBritisher reached for a pen and beganfilling in the blank lines. When hehad finished, he refolded the papersand handed them distastefully toDevereaux. "Now, get out! I am amarvelous man, a magnanimous provider,a humble multimillionaire whomeveryone adores. I have richlydeserved the extraordinary honorsheaped upon my person. Everybody knowsthat. And nobody, I repeat, nobodycould conceivably associate me withsuch madness! I am only spreadingbrotherhood do you understand me?Brotherhood, I sayi""I don't understand anything," saidSam.  "Neither do I," replied Danforth."The transfer will be made in theCayman Islands. The bank is listed andthe ten million will be shifted withinforty-eight hours. Then I'm throughwith you!""The Cayman Islands?""They're in the Caribbean, you ass."                 123-            CHAPTER TWELVEHe could see the tiny white lightshining fifty feet down the Savoycorridor. He did not have to get anycloser to know it was the door to hisrooms; avoiding it was a second, verygood reason to let himself into Anne'ssuite.  "If that's not you, Sam, I've gotproblems," she calledfrom thebedroom."It's me. All your problems are happyones.""I like those kind."  Devereaux walked into the largebedroom with the windows overlookingthe river. Anne was sitting-up, read-ing a brightly colored paperback bythe light of the table lamp. "What'sthat?" he asked. "It looksimpressive."  "A marvelous history of Henry theEighth's wives. I got it at the Towerthis morning. That man was a monster!""Not really. A lot of his troubleswere geopolitical.""In his crotch they were!"  "That's more historically sound thanyou may think. How about a drink?"  "You've got to make a phone callfirst. I promised; first thing you didwhen you got back."  The girl turned a page calmly. Samwas not only astonished, he wascurious. "What did you say?"  "MacKenzie called. All the way fromWashington." She turned another page.  "MacKenzie?" Devereaux could not helphimself; he roared. "Just MacKenziecalled! You're sitting there like youheard from room service and tell meMacKenzie called. How do you know hecalled? Did he call you?"  "Really, Sam, stop being so uptight."Cold as ice, she turned anothergoddamned page. "It's not as though Ididn't know him. I mean, after all "124  "Oh, no! Spare me the odiouscomparisons! I just want to know aboutthis extraordinary coincidence thathas you seven thousand miles from hometaking a telephone call from anax-husband who's calling Threethousand miles from New York."  "If you'll calm down, I'll tell you.If you won't, I'm just going to keepon reading."  Devereaux thought about how much hewanted a drink; but he suppressed hisanger and spoke quietly. ''I'm calmand I would very much like to have youspeak. Please..spea<.  Alne put the book down on her lap andlooked up at him. "To begin with, Macwas every bit as uptight as you arewhen I got on the line." ."How did you get on the line?""Because I was worried."That's why, not how."  "If you recall, and I think you willif you try real hard, you left me atthe table downstairs. You were runninglate and. I insisted. I told you I'dsign the check and go upstairs. Am Iright so far?""I owe you for dinner. Go on."  "A nice young man in white tie andtails came to the table and said therewas an urgent transatlantic call foryou. Are they always so dressed up?""It's a Savoy custom. What did yousay?"  "That you wouldn't be back until verylate; I wasn't sure of the time. Heseemed upset so I asked him if I couldhelp. He said the caller was a GeneralHawkins from Washington, and I thinkthe rank and the city made himnervous. Mac always does that; it getsbetter telephone service. So I toldhim not to worry about a thing. I'dtalk to the old fart. He liked that."Anne returned to her book. "Now, gocall him. The number's on the desk inthe others room. It's also on the deskin your place and also downstairs. I'm very flattered that yougot it here first."  It was possible, Sam reflected.Unlikely but within the scope ofpossibility, as certain radio wavesindicated the possibility ofadditional civilizations in galacticspace. "What did Hawkins say? How washe uptight?""Oh, just that I was here, I suppose,"said the girl, 1a5reluctantly taking her eyes off thepage. "He started swearing and yellingand giving orders. I said 'Mac,' Isaid, 'go wash your mouth out withbrown soap)' I always used to tell himthat. I mean he uses language westayed away from in Belle Isle.Anyway, he calmed down and started tolaugh." Anne's eyes drifted upward, atnothing. She was remembering, thoughtSam, and those memories were not coldones. "He asked me if I'd gotten ridof the fancy gigolo waiter yet that'swhat he calls Don and if not, why not.And how you were such a nice fellow.You know, Mac thinks a great deal ofyou. Anyhow, it is very important thatyou call him back. I said it'd beawfully late; maybe not until three inthe morning. But he said that was allright; it would only be ten o'clock inWashington.""Can't it wait until morning?"  "No. Mac was very emphatic. He saidif you thought about putting it off Ishould tell -you it had something todo with an Italian gentleman who wasasking for you.""Did he add that he was in theundertaking business?"  "No. But I think you should callhim. If you want privacy, you can usethe phone in the other room."  "Goddamn, boy! Isn't it a real smallworld! There you are halfway acrossthe globe and who do you run into butlittle old Annie. Not that she's old,you understand "  "I understand," interrupted Sam,"that you've got greetings for me fromDellacroce. What did you tell yourdeeply religious friend now? That Icrucified Jesus?"  "Hell, no. That was just a littlepsycho-prod, in case you werereluctant to return my call. I haven'teven talked to Dellacroce. I don'tthink he's in favor of any furthercommunications. Does that make youfeel better?"  Devereaux lit a cigarette. It helpedcover the slight pain that wasdeveloping in his stomach. "I'll tellyou the truth, Mac. It simply makes menervous that you called me at all. Itmakes me feel that you are about tosay something that will not bring meany closer to Boston, or my mother, ormy real employer, Aaron Pinkus; that'sthe way your psych-prod makes mefeel."  There was a long series of audibletsks from MacKenzie Hawkins inWashington. "You are a very suspiciousper126son. It must be the lawyer in you. Howdid everything go with Danforth'?"  "He's a madman. He blows hot andcold like a psycho. He also signed thepapers; he's in for ten million forreasons I . can't possibly imagine.The bank's in the Cayman Islands, whichis, I assume, the reason for yourtelephone call.""You mean you think I'd ask you to goto the Caymans?""It crossed my mind."  "I wouldn't do that. The Caymansaren't any fun. Just dinky little hotspots with lots of banks andpricky-shit bankers. They're trying tomake the place into anotherSwitzerland.... No, I'll fly downthere myself and take care of it. Andyou've got another ten thousand addedto your account. Thought you'd like tokn~that."  "Mac!" Devereaux's stomachexperienced a sharp, stingingsensation. "You can't do that!"  "It's easy, boy. You just make thecashiers check out for deposit only."  "That's not what I meant You have noright putting money into my account)""The bank didn't argue "  "The bank wouldn't argue! I argue! Iam arguing! Christ, don't~youunderstand? It means you're payingme!""One-tenth of one percent? Goddamn,boy, I'm cheating.,,you!  "I don't want to be paid! I don'twant anything to do with any moneyfrom you! That makes me an accessory!"  "I don't know anything about that,but it's surely not right for oneperson to call upon the time and thetalents of another person and not payhim for it." Hawkins's voice had thering of a quiet evangelist.  "Oh, shut up, you son of a bitch,"said Devereaux, recognizing theinevitability of defeat. "Outside ofDanforth, why did you call?"  "Well, now that you mention it,there's a fellow in West Berlin I'dlike you to talk with."  "Wait. Don't tell me," interruptedSam wearily. '4The airline tickets andthe hotel reservations will be at theSavoy desk before I can say kipperedherring.""By morning, anyway."127  "Okay, Mac, I know when I'm hung." Hewas getting in deeper. Somehow, someway, sometime, Sam thought, hewouldhave to climb out.MacKenzie wrote out the figurenumerically.$20,000,000.00Then he wrote it in words:Twenty million dollars.  Strange, but it had no real effect onhim. It was merely a means, not an endin itself. Although it had occurred tohim that he could easily call it aneconomic day, wrap it up, and retire tothe south of France. Certainly, neitherDellacroce nor Danforth would sue. Notbloody likely. But that wasn't what itwas all about, the money was both aconveyance and a by-product. And in itsway, a legitimate form of punishment.The two marks deserved their losses.  But time was running short and hecould not allow himself to getsidetracked. Suminer was only a fewmonths away; there was an enormousamount of work to do. The selection andtraining of the support personnel wouldbe time-consuming. The leasing andstocking of the maneuver site would bedifficult, especially the covertpurchasing of equipment. The maneuversthemselves would take a number ofweeks. All told, there was a great dealto accomplish in a short time. Becauseof this it was a natural  temptation to veer from the initialstrategy and go with less than the fullcapitalization, but it would be wrong.That's for sure. He had set the figureof forty million not merely for thenuinerical symmetry to the four hundredmillion (although it certainly lookedproper on the limited partnershipagreement, in the blank lines he hadfilled out), but because forty milliontook care of everything, includinglast-extremity contingencies.  Otherwise known as quick-wittedevacuation of the fire base.  It would have to be forty million. Hewas just about ready for his thirdinvestor.Heinrich Koenig, Berlin.Herr Koenig had not been easy. WhereasSidney Danford' 128had overworked his modus operandi inChile, and whereas Angelo Dellacrocehad been just plain sloppy with regardto his Mediterranean payments andentirely too ostentatious in his mannerof living, Heinrich Koenig had made noobvious errors, and lived the quietlife of a country squire in a peacefulrural town twenty-odd miles fromBerlin.  But twenty-two years ago Koenig hadplayed an enormously dangerous gamebrilliantly. A game that not onlynetted him a fortune but also insuredthe capitalization and ultimate successof his various business enterprises.  During the height of the Cold War,Koenig was a doubleagent-cum-blackmailer. He began bysecretly informing on single agents toboth sides, then extortingcash financed through opposingintelligence channels from thoseseeking protection from exposure. Soonhe was issued exclusive international,nontariff "franchises" for his newcompanies from scores of countriesdependent upon the economic goodwill ofboth giant factions. Finally, with thegrace of Mephistopheles, he forcedWashington, London, Berlin, Bonn, andMoscow into declaring his companiesoutside the regulatory legalities thatgoverned other industries. Koenigaccomplished this by explaining to eachthat he would inform the others of itspast activities.  And then, to the profound relief ofmany governments, Koenig retired. Hehad built his empire on the trampledbodies deceased and paralyzed of halfthe bureaucratic and industrialpopulation of Europe and America. Hehad remained untouchable because of thevery real terror of chainreaction-reprisal. What bureaucrat,what undersecretary, what minister orstatesman (indeed, what head of agovernment) would allow access to thehorrors of Pandora's box? So, inretirement, Koenig remained as safe asduring his halcyon days of furiousactivity.  Fear was Koenig's clout. But therewas no fear or clout if a man didn'tgive a good goddamn about reaction orreprisals governmental, industrial, orinternational.- And naturally this was Hawkins'sweapon.  For there was an international armyof victims,who would quick-march forthe kill if they thought they could 129                  I,'                   do so with impunity, if everyone realizedhis past sins were known to everybodyelse. Complete disclosure was Mac'sthreat.  Koenig would certainly see the logic ofthis approach; it was the absence of itthat had guaranteed his fortunes. Hesurely could foretell the effects ofseveral hundred lengthy cablegrams sentsimultaneously to several hundred inhab-itants of the corridors of powerthroughout the world. Oh, yes! Koenigwould be convinced, the instant a barrageof names, dates, and activities wasrattled off to him.  MacKenzie picked up the raw-fle Xeroxesfrom the bed, keeping the piles insequence, and carried them to the coffeetable in front of the couch. He sat dowryand with the red crayon he began circlingtwo or three items on each page. ;  Things were going beautifully. Itwas all a question ofmaking a realistic appraisal of one'scapabilities and thelogistics available to complement thoseabilities. Simpleinventory. He picked up the Xeroxes,moved to the desk,and arranged the papers properly infront of the telephone. He was ready tocalmly, dispassionately recite arecord of international duplicity thatwould cause GenghisKhan to blush.Heinrich Koenig would part with tenmillion dollars.  His eyes rimmed with black circles ofexhaustionDevereaux went through customs atBerlin's Templehof Airport, fullyprepared to have his forehead stamped bythe officiously barking neo-Nazi whoinspected his papers and luggage. Christ,he thought, give a German a rubber stampand he went wild.  At one point he stared in amazement atthe contents of his own suitcase.Everything was folded neatly and arrangedtidily as though packed by BergdorfGoodman, and he simply did not packsuitcases that way. Then through the fogof dislocation, he remembered that Annehad taken care of everything. She notonly had packed for him, she had alsoaccompanied him to the cashier's desk andhelped him settle his bill.  She had done all this, reflected Sam,because he was not in condition to domuch for himself. The insanity of his 130predicament had led him into a battlewith a bottle of Scotch. He lost. Theonly thing he did remember to do wasto airmail the goddamned limitedpartnership agreement to Hawkins.  Berlin's Kempinsky Hotel was aTeutonic version of New York'sold~Sherry-Netherland with a slightlyharsher interior; the overstuffedlobby chairs seemed cast more inconcrete than leather. Still, itscreamed money, polished dark wood,arid terribly proper clerks Sam knewhated his weak, democraticallyoriented, and inferior guts.  The front desk dispensed with himefficiently and swiftly. He wasescorted by a disagreeable aging SSOberfuhrer who treated his suitcase asthough it contained bagels and lox.Once inside the suite (it wasenormous; Mac Hawkins did send himfirst class) the Oberfuhrer snapped upthe shades in the various rooms withthe authority of a Nan used to issuingcommands to a firing squad. Devereaux,fearing for his life, grosslyovertipped him, saw him to the door asif he were a visiting diplomat and bidhim a gracious auf Wiedersehen!  He opened his suitcase. Anne hadpossessed the foresight to wrap a fullbottle of Scotch in a Savoy towel. Ifthere was ever a time to ingest theindigestible, it was now. Not much;just enough to get the motor running.  There was a knock on the door. Samwas so startled he coughed a mouthfulof whiskey over the bed. He corked thebottle and furiously looked for aplace to hide it.  Under the pillow! Covered by thebedspread! He stopped. What was hedoing? What the hell was the matterwith him? What was happening to him?Goddamn you, MacKenzie Hawkins!  He took a deep breath, and calmlyplaced the bottle on the dresser top.He took another deep breath, openedthe door, and promptly, involuntarily,expelled every bit of air in hislungs.  Standing in the door frame was theblonde Aphrodite from Palo Alto,California, catalogued in his memoryas Narrow and Pointed. The third Mrs.MacKenzie Hawkins. Lillian.  "I knew it was you! I said to theman at the desk that it had to beyou!"131  Sam was not sure why he hadcatalogued Lillian as Narrow andPointed. "Narrow" did the lady aninjustice. Perhaps it was a relativeadjective, subject to the immediatevisual comparison to the other six.  Devereaux was thinking these absurdthoughts and he was aware staring likea twelve-year-old at his first Art~stsand Models magazine, while Lillian satacross from him, explaining that shehad flown into Berlin three days agoto attend a two-week course in gourmetcooking.  Of course, it was unbelievable.After all, he was a skilled attorney.He had analyzed scores of crime-riddenmentalities, stripping away the layersof fraud from sophisticated deceiverson all levels of the social jungle. Inspite of his drained mind and body, hewas not a man to be conned easily andhe would let the third Mrs. MacKenzieHawkins know that in spades! He staredat her harder then mentally shrugged.What the hell!  "So there we are, Sam. I may callyou Sam, mayn't 1? It's amazing whatan interest in really fine cooking canlead to."  "But entirely plausible, Lillian!That's what makes coincidencestruly well, coincidental!" Sam laughedquasihysterically, doing his best tocontrol his eyes. He was simply tooexhausted to be successful; he justgave up and let his eyes roam freely.  "And I can't think of a better wayto see Berlin. If we're lucky, we canfind an indoor tennis court! I hearthe hotel has a swimming pool; perhapsa gymnasium " Lillian stopped andDevereaux felt deprived; in his spentcondition he was enjoying the soft,breathless, aural massage. "I may betaking far too much for granted. Areyou traveling alone?"He knew he shouldn't. He shouldn't."More alone than I've ever been in mylife."  "Well, we certainly can't have that.If you don't mind my saying so, youlook dreadfully tired. I think you'vebeen working half to deaths You reallyneed someone to look after you.""I am only a warm shadow of mysubstance...."  "You poor lamb. Come over here andlet me rub your shoulder blades. Itdoes wonders, it really, really does."32 ~ '   "I am a wasted vestige. I am filledwith vacuum and molten lead...."  "You're exhausted, my lamb. That'sthe good boy; stretch out and putyour head on Lilly's lap. Oh my, yourtemples are so warm. And your neckmuscles are much too tense. There,that's better; doesn't it feelbetter?"  It did. He could feel her nimblefingers unbutton his shirt and thegentle hands moving about his chest,caressing his flesh with the touch ofangels. What the hell. He opened hiseyes, his sight was filled with theunbearable loveliness of twomagnificent breasts inches above hisface.  "Do you like hot tubs filled withlots of soap bubbles that smell likeroses and springtime?" he whispered.  "Not actually," she whispered back."I'm partial to warm showers.Straight up, as it were."Sam smiled.                 133                 .~                             CHAPTER THIRTEENThe fragrance permeated the air aroundhim; he did not need to open his eyes toknow its source.  If he was able to reconstruct theprevious evening with any accuracy andthe quiescence below his waist convincedhim that he could they had spent most ofthe night in the Kempinsky shower.  Sam opened his eyes. Lillian wasbeside him, sitting up against thepillows with a pair of horn-rimmedglasses perched on her lovely upturnednose. She was reading from an enormouspiece of frayed cardboard, the whitesheet covering her chest but not for aninstant obscuring the shafts beneath."Hello," he said quietly.  ' Good morning!" She looked down athim and positively beamed. "Do you knowwhat time it is?"  The blonde creature was a healthytype, he considered. It must be all thatCalifornia suriboarding, or perhapsMacKenzie Hawkins had taught her to dopushups. "My watch is under the coverswith my wrist. I do not know what timeit is."  "It's twenty after ten. You slept foreleven hours. How do you feel?"  "Are you telling me we went to bed Iwas asleep by eleven thirty last night?"  "You could be heard at the BrandenburgGate. I kept shoving you to stop yoursnoring. You were positively operatic.How's your head?""Fairly secure, as a matter of fact. Iwonder why?"  "All that steam. And exercise.Actually, you weren't capable ofdrinking a great deal. I think yourbloodstream 134 .            .went into revolt." Lillian picked upa pencil from the bedside table andlightly checked the menu.  "You smell terrific," he said afterseveral moments of looking up at her,remembering the sightlines from herlap and the touches of angels over hischest.  "So do you, lamb," she replied,smiling, removing her glasses, andgazing down at Sam. "Do you know, youhave a very acceptable body?""It has its points."  "I mean you have a fundamentallysound physique moderately wellproportioned and coodinated. It'sreally a pity you've let itdisintegrate." She tapped her glassesagainst her chin like a doctorstudying postoperative cond~tions.  "Well, I wouldn't go so far as tosay disintegrate. I played lacrosseonce. I was pretty good."  I m sure you were, well over adecade ago. Now look here " Lilly putdown her glasses and peeled theblankets away from Devereaux's chest."See here. And here and here and here!Absolutely no tone whatsoever. Musclepockets that've had no discernible usefor years! And here.""Ouch!"  "Your latissimi dorsi are positivelynonexistent. When was the last timeyou exercised?""Last night. In the shower."  'what aspect of your conditioncannot be debated. But it's a minorpart of the whole being ""Not to me it isn't!"  " relative to the muscular network.Your body is a temple; don't let itcrumble and decay with misuse andneglect. Spruce it up! Give it achance to stretch and breathe and beuseful, that's what it's meant for.Look at MacKenzie ""I object! I don't want to look atMacKenzie!""I'm speaking clinically.  "I knew it," mumbled Devereaux indefeat. "I can't escape him. I'mpossessed."  "Do you realize~that Mac is wellover fifty' And take his body. It'staut. It's a coiled spring toned toperfection...." 135  Lilly's eyes drifted up at nothing. AsAnne's had done at the Savoy.She wasremembering, as Anne had remembered andthose memories were not cold.  "Well, for God's sake," said Sam."Hawkins spent his whole life in thearmy. Running and jumping and killingand torturing. He had to stay in shapeso he could stay alive. He had nochoice."  "You're wrong. Mac understands themeaning of full capacity, experiencingthe total potential. He once said tome well, never mind, it's unimportant."The girl removed her hand fromDevereaux's chest and reached for herglasses.  "No, please." The bedroom in theKempinsky might have been a bedroom atthe Savoy. But the wives were notinterchangeable; they were veryindividual. "I'd like to hear what Macsaid."  Lilly held her glasses in both hands,fingering the stems pensively. "'Yourbody should be a realistic extension ofyour mind, pushed to its limit but notabused.'"  "I liked the 'change the outside, mixup the inside' better ""What?"  "Something else he said. Maybe I don'tunderstand; the intellectual and thephysical are poles apart. I mightimagine I could fly off the EiffelTower, but I'd better not try it."  "Because that wouldn't be realistic,it would be abusive. But you mighttrain yourself to scale down it inrecord time. That would be therealistic, physical extension of yourimagination. And it's important toattempt it.""Scale down the Eiffel Tower?""If Eying off it is a seriousconsideration."  "It's not. If I follow thispseudoscholastic doggerel, you'resaying that if you think about doingsomething you should actually translateit as much as possible into physicalterms."  "Yes. The main thing is not to remaininert." Lilly waved her arms inemphasis; the sheet plummeted down.Unbearably lovely, thought Devereaux.But at the mo  ment untouchable; the girl was indebate. 136 - "This is either far morecomplicated or much simplerthan it sounds," he said.  "It's more complicated, believe me,"she answered. "The subtlety is in theobviousness."  "You believe in this challengeconcept, don't you?" Sam said. "I meanit's fundamentally the necessarysatisfaction of meeting the challenge,isn't it?"  "Yes, I suppose it is. For its ownsake; to try to reach out for what youcan imagine. To test your potential."""And you believe that." There was noquestion implied."Yes, I do. Why?"  "Because at this moment my imaginationis working so hard I can't stand it. Ifeel the necessity of physicalexpression; to test my potential. Withinreasonable limits, of course." He rosefrom his base camp until he sat facingher their eyes level. He reached out andtook her glasses, folded them, anddropped them over the side of the bed.He held out his hand and she gave himthe menu.  I~illian's eyes were bright, her lipsparted in a half smile. "I was wonderingwhen you were going to ask."And then the Nazi telephone rang.  The voice on the other end of the linebelonged to a man brought up in hisformative years watching all those warmovies from Warner Brothers. Everysyllable dripped evil."Ve do not vill not cannot shpeak on dertelephone."  "Go across the street and open awindow. We'll shout," replied Devereauxirritably.  "Der time ist der essence! You vill godown to der lobby, to der fart chair infront of der vindow, on der richt of derhentrancel Under der arm carry a foldedcopy of Der Spiegel. Und you vill becrossing der legs every tventy seconds."I'm sitting down?"  "You vould look foolish crossing derlegs standing up, mein Herr.""Suppose someone's sitting in thechair?"  The pause conveyed both anger andconfusion. There followed a short,strange sound that gave rise to theimage 137.of a small pig squealing infrustration. "Remove him!" was thereply that followed the squeal."That's silly."  "You vill do as I say! Dere is notime to argue! You vill be contacted.Fifteen minutes."  "Hey, wait a minute! I just got up.I haven't had breakfast; I've got toshave ""Fourteen minutes, mein Herr!""I'm hungry!"  The connection was broken by a loudclick on the line. "To hell with him,"said Devereaux, turning back inanticipation to the extraordinaryLillian.  But Lillian was not where she shouldhave been. Instead, she was standingon the other side of the bed in Sam'sbathrobe.  "To coin a phrase, my darling, wewere saved by the bell. You havethings to do, and I really must getready for class."Class?"  "Der erstklassig Strudelschule,"said Lilly. "Less expert but probablymore fun than the Cordon Bleu inParis. It starts at noon. We're overin the Leipziger Strasse; that's pastUnter der Linden. I really shouldhurry."  "What about us? And breakfastand don't you shower in the morning?"  Lillian laughed; it was a nice,genuine laugh. "Der schule is finishedby three-thirty. I'll meet you backhere.""What's your room number?""Five eleven.""I'm five nine.""I know. Isn't that marvelous.""Or something...."  The confusion in the Kempinsky lobbywas absurd. "Der fart chair in frontof der vindow" was occupied by anelderly gentleman whose close-cropped,bejowled head kept nodding down intothe folds of neck flesh as he dozed.On his lap, unfortunately, was afolded copy of Der Spiegel.The elderly man was, at first, annoyed,then furious at 138the two men who flanked his chair andtold him in no uncertain terms to getup and come with them. Twice Sam triedto intercede, explaining as best hecould that he, tool had a folded copyof Der Spiegel. It did no good; thetroopers were interested only in thegentleman sitting in the hugearmchair. Finally, Devereaux stooddirectly in front of the two contactsand every twenty seconds, crossed anduncrossed his legs.  At which point the bell captain cameup to Sam- and in perfectly good, loudEnglish gave him the directions to themen's room.  Whereupon a large woman with astriking resemblance to Dick Butkusapproached the trio around thearmchair and began hitting the twoGestapo men with both a hatbox and anextremely large, black leatherhandbag.  There was only one thing for it,thought Devereaux. He grabbed one ofthe contacts around the neck andpulled him away from the fire zone.  "You crazy son of a bitchl I'm theone! You're from Koenig, aren't you'd"  Thirty seconds later Devereaux waspropelled out of the Kempinskyentrance and into a nearby alley.  Halfway-down the alley, taking upmost of the space between thebuildings, was an enormous open truckwith a canvas tarpaulin stretchedacross the rear rigging poles. Underthe tarpaulin, from deck to canvas,were hundreds of crates piled on topof one another, filled with thousands(it seemed like thousands) ofscreeching chickens.  There was a narrow corridor in thecenter of the van between the crates.It led to the rear window of the cab.In front of the window were two tinystools.  "Hey, come on! This is ridiculous!It's goddamn it, it's unsanitary!"  His escorts nodded Germanically andsmiled Germanically and Germanicallyheaved Sam up into the tiny corrido;and shoved him down the eighteen-inchpassageway toward the stools.  All around him sharp beaks pecked athis person. The noonday sun wascompletely blanketed out by the heavycanvas tarpaulin above. The odor ofchickenshit was unbearable.139  They drove for nearly an hour intothe countryside stopping every now andthen to be looked over by cooperativeEast German soldiers who waved themon, pocketing deutschmarks as they didso.  They entered a large farmingcomplex. Cattle were grazing in thefields, silos and barns could be seen,barely, through the opening of thetiny passageway between the crates andthe flying feathers at the rear of thetruck.  Finally they stopped. Escort numberone grinned his Germanic grin and ledSam into the sunlight.  He was marched into a large barnthat reeked of cattle urine and freshmanure. He was led Germanically  downa crisscross series of turns throughthe stinking building until they cameto an empty stall. A row of blueribbons denoted the residence of aprize steer.  Inside, sitting on a milking stool,surrounded by piles of bullshit, wasthe heavyset man Sam knew was HeinrichKoenig.  He did not get up; he sat there andstared at Devereaux. In his tiny eyes,surrounded by folds of blemishedflesh, were thunderbolts.  "So...." Koenig remained immobile,drawing out the word disdainfully,waving the escorts away.  "So?" replied Sam, his voicecracking slightly, aware of the wetchicken droppings on his back.  "You are the representative fromthis monster, General Hawkins?" Koenigpronounced the word "general" with ahard Germanic G.  "I'd like to clear that up, if Imay," said Devereaux with falselaughter. "Actually, I'm just a slightacquaintance, barely know the man. I'ma low-profile attorney from Boston;actually not much more than a lawclerk. I work for a little Jewish mannamed Pinkus. You wouldn't like him.My mother lives in Quincy and throughthe strangest coincidences'  "Enough!" A very loud fart could beheard in the vicinity of the milkingstool. "You are the contact, theintermediary, with this devil fromhell!"  "Well, as to that, I would have todebate the legal association; saidassociation subject to theclarification of intent with regard toforeknowledge. I don't believe - " 140  "You are a jackal, a hyena! But suchdogs bark loudly if the meat issufficient. Tell me. This Hawkins. Heis a Gehlen operation,.nein?""A who?""Gehlen!"  Devereaux remembered. Gehlen was themaster spy of the Third Reich whobought and sold for all factions afterthe war. It would not do for Koenig tothink there was any connection betweenHawkins and Gehlen; for it would meanthere was a link to one Sam Devereaux,who was way out of his league.  "Oh, I'm sure not. I don't thinkGeneral Hawkins ever heard ofwhat's-his-name. I know I haven't."The chickenshit was melting underSam's shirt, all over hisfevered back.  Koenig rose slowly from the milkingstool, a second flatus loudlyproclaiming his ascent. He spoke withquiet, intense hostility.  "The general has my reluctantrespect. He has sent me a babblingidiot. Give me the papers, fool."  "The papers ." Sam reached into hisjacket pocket for another Xerox copyof the Shepherd Company's limitedpartnership agreement.  The German fingered the paperssilently, squeezing each one as heflipped it. His audible reactions wereblunt: a combination of Arts andgrunts.  "This is outrageous! A greatinjustice! Political enemieseverywhere! All wishing only todestroy me!" Beads of saliva formed atthe corners of Koenig's mouth.  "I agree wholeheartedly," saidDevereaux, eagerly nodding his head."I'd throw it away if I were you."  "You would like that? All of you.You are all out to get me! My greatcontributions that kept peace in theworld, enemies in constant touch, thatopened hot lines and.red lines andblue lines between the greatpowers these are forgotten. Now youwhisper behind my back. You tell liesabout nonexistent bank accounts, evenmy humble places of residence. Younever concede that I earned everydeutschmark I possess! When I retired,none of you could tolerate it; you didnot have me to kick around any longer!And now this! The injustice!" 14"Oh, I understand."  "You understand nothing! Give mesomething to write with, you idiot."He farted and signed.                 142                             CHAPIER FOURTEENThe bells of the Angelus pealed insolemn, vibrant splendor. They echoedthroughout St. Peter's Square, floatedabove Bernini's marble guardians, andwere heard in quiet celebration beyondthe (lame, deep in the Vatican gar-dens. Seated on a bench of whitestone, looking up at the orange raysof the descending sun, was a corpulentman with a face best described ashaving weathered seven decadesgood-naturedly, if not alwayspeacefully. The face was full, but thepeasant quality of the.bone structureunder the folds of flesh would tend todeny that the face was pampered. Theman's eyes were wide and large andbrown and soft; they held nearly equalparts of strength, perception,resignation, and amusement.  He was dressed in the splendid whiterobes of his office. The highestoffice of the Holy Apostolic CatholicChurch, the descendent of Peterhimself, the Bishop of Rome, thespiritual commander of 400 millionsouls throughout the earth.Pope Francesco I, the Vicar of Christ.  Born Giovanni Bombalini in a smallvillage north of Padua in the firstyears of the century. It was a birththat was recorded sketchily, at best,for the Bombalinis were not affluent.Giovanni was delivered by a midwifewho, as often as not, forgot to reportthe fruits of her labors (and herpatient's labors) to the villageclerk, secure in the knowledge thatthe church would do something;christenings made money. ActuallyGiovanni Bombalini's emergence intothis world might never have beenlegally recorded at all except thathis father had a wager with his cousinFrescobaldi, three villages to thenorth, that his second child would bea male. Bornbalini Senior wanted to143                   _                   take no chances that his cousinFrescobaldi would renege on the bet,so he went to the village hall himselfto report the birth of a male child.  As it happened, part of the wagerwas that Frescobaldi's wife who wasexpecting in the same month would notgive birth to a boy. But of course shedid, and the bet was canceled. Thischild, Guido Frescobaldi, was bornaccording to the sketchy records twodays after his cousin, Giovanni.  Early in his life Giovanni showedsigns of being different from theother children of the village. Tobegin with he did not care to learnhis catechism by verbal repetition, hewanted to read it, then memorize it.This upset the village priest for itsmacked of precociousness and somehowwas an affront to authority, but thechild would not be denied.  The ways of Giovanni Bombalini wereindeed extraordinary. Although henever shirked his labors in thefields, he was rarely too tired tostay up half the night readingwhatever he could get his hands on.When he was twelve he discovered thebiblioteca in Padua, which was hardlythe library in Milan, nor Venice, norcertainly Rome, but it was said bythose who knew Giovanni that he readevery book in Padua, then Milan, thenVenice. By which time his priestrecommended him to the holy fathers inRome.  The church was Giovanni's answer toa prayer. And as long as he prayed agreat dea~which was easier, though noless time-consuming than laboring inthe fields he was allowed to read morethan he ever thought would be allowedhim.  By the age of twenty-two, GiovanniBombalini was an ordained priest. Somesaid the best-read priest in Rome anerudite fantastico. But Giovanni didnot possess the properly stern visageof a proper Vatican erudite; nor didhe assume the proper attitudes ofcertainty with regard to everydaytruths. He was forever findingexceptions and flexibilities inliturgical history, pointing out (somesaid mischievously) that the writingsof the church found their strength inhonest contradictions.  At twenty-six Giovanni Bombalini wasa sharp pain in the large Vatican ass.Aggravated further by his maturedappearance, which was the antithesisof the gaunt, aca144demic image so desired by Rome'seruditi. He was, if anything, thecaricature of a field peasant from thenorthern districts. Short of stature,stocky, and wide of girth, he lookedlike a farmhand more at home in thegoat stables than in the marble hallsof the various Vatican collegia. Noamount of theological erudition, orgood nature, or, indeed, deep beliefin his church could counteract thecombined aggravation of his mind andappearance. So posts were found forhim in such unlikely locations as theGold Coast, Sierra Leone, Malta, and,through an error Monte Carlo. Anexhausted Vatican dispatcher misreadthe name Montes Claros and insertedMonte Carlo no doubt because he hadnever heard of Brazil's MontesClaros and the fortunes of GiovanniBombalini turned.  For into the cauldron of high stakesand high emotions wandered the simplelooking priest with the bemused eyes,gentle humor, and a head packed withmore knowledge than any twelveinternational financiers put together.He'd had little to do in the GoldCoast, Sierra Leone, and Malta, so hehad occupied his time, when notpraying or teaching the natives, bysubscribing to scores of readingservices and adding to his alreadyextraordinary memory bank.  It is common knowledge that peoplewho live with constant motion, andhigh risk, and a great deal ofalcohol, occasionally need spiritualconsolation. So Father Bombalini beganto comfort a few stray lambs. And tothe amazement of these first fewstrays, they found not so much asimple priest who outlined penance,but a most amusing fellow who coulddiscourse at length on almost anysubject: economic conditions of worldmarkets, historical precedents foranticipated geopolitical events, and,particularly,. food. (Here he favoredthe more basic sauces, eschewing theartifices of the often inappropriatehaste cuisine.)  Before too many months had passed,Father Bombalini was a regular guestat many of the larger hotel suites andgreat houses of the CBte d'Azur. Thisrather odd-looking, rotund prelate wasa marvelous raconteur, and it alwaysmade everyone feel better to have himaround before going out tocovet successfully his neighbor'swife.And a number of excessively largecontributions to the 145.church were made in Father Giovanni'sname. With increasing frequency.  Rome could no longer overlookBombalini. The exchequers of theVatican treasury said so.  The war found Monsignor Bombalini invarious Allied capitals andoccasionally attached to variousAllied armies. This was brought aboutfor two reasons. The first was hisadamant deposition to his superiorsthat he could not remain neutral inlight of the known Hitlerianobjectives. He catalogued his thesiswith sixteen pages of historical,theological, and liturgicalprecendents, none but the Jesuitscould understand it, and they were onhis side. So Rome shut its eyes andhoped for the best. The second reasonfor his wartime travels was that theinternational rich of Monte Carlo inthe thirties were now colonels andgenerals and diplomats andambassadorial liaisons. They allwanted him. There were so manyintra-Allied requests for his servicesthat in Washington, 1 Edgar Hoovermarked Bombalini's file: HighlySuspect. May be a fairy.  The postwar years were a time ofrapid acceleration up the Vaticanladder for Cardinal Bombalini. Much ofhis success was due to his closefriendship with Angelo Roncalli, withwhom he shared a number of unorthodoxviews, as well as a penchant fordecent, but not necessarily exclusive,wine and a good game of cards afterthe evening prayers.  As he sat on the white stone benchin the Vatican gardens GiovanniBombalini Pope Francesco reflectedthat he missed Roncalli. They hadaccomplished much together; it hadbeen good. And the similarities oftheir respective ascendencies to thechair of St. Peter never ceased toamuse him. Roncalli, John, would havebeen amused, too; no doubt, was, ofcourse.  They were both compromises offeredby the stern, orthodox constituenciesof the Curia to quiet the fires ofdiscontent within the global flock.Neither compromise expected to reignvery long. But Roncalli had it easy;he had only theological arguments andundeveloped social reformers tocontend with. He didn't have damn foolyoung priests who wanted to marry andhave children and, when of otherpersuasions, run homosexual parishes"Not 146that any of these personally botheredGiovanni; there was absolutely nothingin theological law or dogma thatactually prohibited marriage andoffspring; and, as far as the other,if love of fellow man did not surmountbiblical ambiguities, what had theylearned? But, Mother of God, the fussthat was made!  There was so much to do and thedoctors had made it clear that histime was limited. It was the onlything they were clear about, theycould isolate no specific illness, noparticular malady. They just conferredand confirmed that his "vital signs"were slowing down at an alarming rate.He had demanded openness from them;Mother of God, he had no feat ofdeath! He welcomed the rest. He andRoncalli could plow the heavenlyvineyards together and take up theirbaccarat again. At last count Roncalliowed him something over six hundredmillion fire.  He had told the doctors that theylooked too long in their microscopesand too little at the obvious. The ma-chine was wearing out; it was assimple as that. Whereupon they noddedpontifically and uttered somberly"Three months, four at the most, HolyFather."  Doctors. Basta! Veterinarians withcagini in the Curia! Their bills wereoutrageous! The goatherders of Paduaknew more about medicine; they had to.  Francesco heard the footsteps behindhim and turned. Walking up the gardenpath was a young papal aide whose nameescaped him. The youthful priestcarried a clipboard in his hand. Therewas a painted crucifix on theunderside; it looked silly.  "Your Holiness asked that we resolvesome minor matters before the vesperhour.""By all means, Father. What are they?"  The aide rattled off a series ofinconsequential functions ceremonialin nature, and Giovanni flattered theyoung prelate by requesting hisopinion on most of them.  "Then there is a request from anAmerican periodical, Viva Gourmet. Iwould not mention it to the HolyFather except that the inquiry wasaccompanied by a strong recommendationfrom the United States Armed ForcesInformation Service.""That is a most unusual combination, isit not, Father?" 141                   1                   "Yes, Your Holiness. Quiteincomprehensible.""What was the request?"  "They had the effrontery to ask theHoly Father to submit to an interviewwith a lady journalist regarding thepontiffs favorite dishes.""Why is that an effrontery?"  The young prelate paused; he seemedmomentarily perplexed. Then hecontinued with confidence. "BecauseCardinal Quartze said it was, HolyFather."  "Did the learned cardinal give hisreasons? Or, as usual did he communewith God all by himself and simplydeliver the divine edict?" Francescotried not to overdo his perfectlynatural reaction to Ignatio Quartze.The cardinal was a loathsome fellow injust about every department. He was anerudite aristocratico frbm a powerfulItalian-Swiss family, who had thecompassion of a disturbed cobra.Looked like one, too, thoughtGiovanni.  "He did, Holy Father," replied thepriest. And the instant he spoke, theaide was struck by a sudden embar-rassment. "He he  "May I suggest, Father," said thepontiff with graceful understanding,"that our splendidly berobed ca dinaloffered the opinion that the pope'sfavorite dishes were less thanimpressive?""I I  "I see he did. Well, Father, it istrue that I subscribe to simplercooking than does our cardinal withthe unfortunate nasal drip, but it isnot due to lack of knowledge. Merelylack of, perhaps, ostentation, notthat our cardinal who is afflictedwith that unfortunate eye that straysto the right as he talks, isostentatious. I don't believe it evercrossed his mind.""No, of course not, Holy Father."  "But I think that during these daysof high prices and widespreadunemployment, it might be a fine ideafor your pontiff to outline a numberof inexpensive, though I assure you,quite excellent dishes. Who is thisjournalist? A lady, you say? Don'tever tell anyone I said it, Father,but they are not the best cooks."  "No, surely not, Your Holiness. Thenuns of Rome are strenuous148  "Galvanizing, Father. Positivelygalvanizing! Who is the journalistfrom this gourmet periodical?"  "Her name is Lillian von Schnabe.She is American from the state ofCalifornia, married to an older man,a German immigrant who fled Hitler. Ascoincidence would have it, she iscurrently in Berlin."  "I merely asked who she was, Father.Not her biography. How do you know allthis?"  "It was in the recommendation fromthe United States Army InformationService. The military think highly ofher, apparently."  "More than apparently. So, herhusband fled Hitler? One does not turnaway from such compassionate women.Coupled with the state of foodprices a number of inexpensive papaldishes is called for. Set up anappointment, Father. You may tell ourresplendent cardinal, who suffers fromthe unfortunate affliction of ahigh-decibeled wheeze that we trulyhope our decision is not an affront tohim. Viva Gourmet. The Lord God hasbeen good to me; it is a mark ofrecognition. I wonder why itscorrespondent is in -Berlin? There'sa monsignor in Bonn who makes anexcellent Sauerbraten."  "I swear, you've got feathers inyour teeth!" said Lillian as Samwalked into the room."It's better than chickenshit.""What?"  "My business contact had a strangemethod of transpottation.""What are you talking about?""I want to take a shower.""Not with me, honey!"  "I've never been so hungry in mylife. They wouldn't even stop fora what the hell is it? A strudel.Everything was ein, zwei, drei! Machschnell! Christ, I'm starved! Theyreally think they won the war!"  Lillian backed away from him. "Youare the filthiest, most foul-smellingman I've ever seen. I'm surprised theylet you in the lobby."  "I think we goose-stepped." Samnoticed a large white businessenvelope on the bureau. "What's that?"149  "The front desk sent it up. They saidit was urgent and they weren't sureyou'd stop for messages." -"I can only conclude your ex, thefruitcake, has been- busy." Devereaux picked up theenvelope. Inside were airline ticketsand a note. He didn't really have toread the note; the airline tickets saidit all.Algiers.Then he read the note."No! Goddamn it no! That's less than anhour from ... .now!"What is?" asked Lillian. "The plane?"  "What plane? How the hell do you knowthere's a plane?"  "Because MacKenzie called. FromWashington. You can imagine his shockwhen I answered "  "Spare me your inventive details!"roared Devereaux as he raced to thetelephone. "I've got several things tosay to that devious son of a bitchl Evenconvicts get a day off! At least timefor a meal and a shower!"  "You can't reach him now" said Lillianquickly. "That was one of the reasons hecalled. He'll be out for the rest of theday."  Sam turned menacingly. Then he stopped.This girl could probably cut him in two."And I suppose he offered a suggestionas to why I should be on that plane.Once he got over the shock of hearingyour lovely voice, of course."  Lillian looked puzzled. It crossedDevereaux's mind that the puzzlement wasnot entirely genuine. "Mac mentionedsomething about a German named Koenig.How anxious this Koenig was for you toleave Berlin one way or the other."  "The less controversial method beingAir France to Paris and from Paris toAlgiers?"  "Yes, he did say that. Although not inthose exact words. He's terribly fond ofyou, Sam. He speaks of you as a son. Theson he never had."  "If there's a Jacob, I'm Esau.Otherwise, I'm fucked as Absolom.""Vulgarity isn't called for "  "It's the only thing that is calledfor! What the hell is in Algiers?"150  "A sheik named Azaz-Varak," answeredLillian Hawkins von Schnabe.  Hawkins left the Watergate in ahurry. He had no desire to talk toSam; he had absolute faith in Lillian,in all the girls, actually. They weredoing their jobs splendidly! Besides,he was to meet with- an Israeli majorwho, with any luck, could put thefinal pieces of the puzzle togetherfor him. The puzzle being SheikAzaz-Varak. By the time Devereauxreached Algiers a telephone call wouldhave to be made. The Hawk could notmake it without that final item whichwould insure the last of the ShepherdCompany's capitalization.  That Azaz-Varak was a thief on aglobal scale was nothing new. Duringthe Second World War he sold oil atoutrageous prices to the Allies andthe Axis simultaneously, favoring onlythose who paid instantly in cash. Thisdid not make him enemies, however;instead, his policies engenderedrespect, from Detroit to Essen.  But the war was ancient history.That war. It was Azaz-Varak's behaviorin a far more recent conflagrationthat interested Hawkins: the Mideastcrisis.Azaz-Varak was nowhere to be found.  While oaths were hurled across thelands of the Middle East, and theworld watched armies clash againstarmies, and crisis-laden conferencestook place, and outrageous profitswere made, the greediest sheik of themall claimed to have a case of shinglesand went to the Virgin Islands.  Goddamn! It didn't make sense! SoMacKenzie went back into Azaz-Varak'sraw files and studied them with theeye of a professional. He began tofind the pattern in the years between1946 and 1948. Sheik Azaz-Varak hadapparently spent a considerable amountof hme in Tel Aviv!  According to the reports, his firstfew trips were made quite openly. Itwas supposed that Azaz-Varak soughtIsraeli women for his harem.Thereafter, however, Azaz-Varak con-tinued to By into Tel Aviv, but notopenly; landing at night in outlyingprivate airfields that couldaccommodate his most modern andexpensive private planes.  More women') Hawkins had researchedexhaustively and was unable to unearththe name of a single Israeli female151who ever went back to the sheikdom ofAzaz-Kuwait. Then, what had Azaz-Varakbeen doing in the state of Israel? Andwhy had he traveled there sofrequently?  MacKenzie's breakthrough came,strangely enough, from informationsupplied by naval intelligence Onisland of St. Thomas, where Azaz-Varakhad fled during the Mideast war.There, he tried to buy up moreproperty than anyone wished to sell.Rebuffed, he became furious.  The islanders had enough trouble.They did not need Arabs with haremsand slaves. Jesust Slaves! The veryidea sent the bureau of tourism intoapoplexy; visions of all that kitchenhelp in revolt were positivelynauseating. AzazVarak wassystematically prevented from buyingtwo buckets of sand. When it wassuspected he was trying to negotiatethrough second and third parties,covenants were included that wouldhave made Palm Beach green with envyand the ACLU purple with rage. Simplyput: no Sucking Arabs could own,lease, sublease, visit, or trespass.  So in his frustration, theacquisitive sheik angrily, andhastily, brought in an Americanholding company called the BuffaloCorporation and tried to negotiatethrough it. There were laws and St.Thomas was a United States possession.And it did not take much research onHawkins's part to uncover the factthat the Buffalo Corporation  address:Albany Street, Buffalo, New York;telephone: unlisted was a subsidiaryof an unknown company calledPan-Friendship, main office: Beirut;telephone: also unlisted.  Subsequent overseas calls to severalIsraeli clearinghouses made stunninglyclear what Azaz-Varak had been doingduring all those visits to the Jewishhomeland. He owned half the realestate in Tel Aviv, much of it in thepoorer sections of town. The sheik wasa Tel Aviv slumlord.  The Buffalo Corporation collectedrents from all over the city. And ifthe Israeli major who was in ordnanceand supply confirmed a report the Hawkhad received from some old Cambodianbuddies in the CIA, the BuffaloCorporation was also in anotherbusiness. One that held mostunfortunate implications for the ownerof said Buffalo 152.,Corporation, insofar as he was thevery Arab who scared hell out of therealtors in St. Thomas.  The report was simple; all MacKenzieneeded was one military official tocorroborate it. For the CIA boyslearned that a major expediter ofpetrochemicals and fuel for the armyof Israel during the Mideast war wasa little-known American company calledthe Buffalo Corporation.  Sheik Azaz-Varak not only owned halfthe real estate in Tel Aviv, but atthe height of the conflict, he fed theIsraeli war machine so the maniacs inCairo wouldn't damage his investments.  It was the sort of information thatsimply demanded a long-distance call,thought MacKenzie Hawkins. To thesheikdom of Azaz-Kuwait.  Devereaux appreciated the sympathyfrom the Air France stewardess, but hewould have appreciated food more.There were no supplies in the galleyof the 727, a conditiion that would becorrected in Paris. Apparently andthere was no way to be sure heunderstood correctly the Bochecatering trucks that serviced AirFrance had been tied up in aRussian-induced traffic jam on theautobahn, and what had been left inthe galley had been stolen by theCzechoslovakian ground crew in Prague.And besides, the food was better inParis.  So Sam smoked cigarettes, caughthimself chewing bits of tobacco, andtried to concentrate on the doings ofMacKenzie Hawkins. His seatmate wassome kind of Eastern religious,perhaps a Sikh, with brown skin tingedwith gray, a very small black beard,a purple turban, and darting eyes thatwere as close as a human's could be tothose of a rat. It made thinking aboutMacKenzie easier; there would belittle conversation on the trip toParis.  Hawkins had raised his third tenmillion. And now there was an Arabiansheik who was the fourth and finalmark. Whatever it was that MacKenziehad culled from the raw files had theeffect of thermonuclear blackmail.Christ! Forty million!What was he going to do with it? Whatkind of "equip153ment and support personnel" (whateverthe hell they were) could possiblycost so much?  Granted one did not kidnap a popewith a dollar and a quarter in hispocket, but was it necessary to coverthe Italian national debt to do it?  One thing was certain. The Hawk'splan for the kidnapping included theexchange of extraordinary sums of mon-ey. And whoever accepted such sumswere ipso facto accessories to themost outrageous abduction in history!It was another avenue he, Sam, couldexplore. And a pretty good one atthat. If he could obtain the names ofeven a few of Mac's suppliers, hecould scare them right out of thepicture. Certainly the Hawk was notgoing to say to someone: Yes, I'll buythat railroad Brain because I'm goingto kidnap this pope fellow and it'llbe a big help. No, that was hardly theway of an experienced general officerwho had drugged half the pouchcouriers in Southeast Asia. But if he,Sam, reached that same someone andsaid: You know that train you'resexing to that bearded idiotP It'sgoing to be used to kidnap the pope.Have a good night's sleep well, thatwas something else again. The trainwould not be sold. And if he couldprevent a train from being sold,perhaps he could prevent othersupplies from reaching the Hawk.MacKenzie was army; lines of supplywere paramount to any operation.Without them whole strategies werealtered, even abandoned. It wasmilitary holy writ.  Yes, resected Devereaux, gazing outinto the German twilight from thehoodless Air France plane, it was avery decent avenue to explore. Coupledwith his first consideration findingout how the Hawk intended to pull offthe kidnapping, and the secondconsideration finding out whatspecific blackmailing materialMacKenzie held over his investors, thesuppliers were a third, powerfulingredient. In preventive medicine.  Sam closed his eyes, conjuring upvisions of long ago. He was in thebasement of his home in Quincy,Massachusetts. On the huge table inthe center of his room was his set ofLionel trains, going around andaround, weaving in and out of theminiature shrubbery and over the tiny154bridges and through the toy tunnels.But there was something strange aboutthe sight. Except for the engine andthe caboose, all the other vehicleswere marked identically: 'Refrigerator Car. Food."  At Orly Airport, the passengers toAlgiers were told to remain on theplane. For Devereaux nothing matteredonce he saw the white truck pull upalongside the aircraft and men inwhite coats transferring immaculatesteel containers into the galley. Heeven smiled at Rat Eyes beside him,noticing as he did so that hisseatmate's purple turban had slippedsomewhat over his brown forehead. Sammight have said something he'd learnedlong ago that even strangersappreciated it when you told themtheir zippers were open but sinceseveral other turbaned acquaintanceswho'd boarded at Orly had come up topay their respects and had saidnothing, Devereaux felt it wasn't hisplace. Besides most of the otherpurple turbans seemed a touchlopsided. Perhaps it was a customindigenous to the particular religioussect.  Regardless, all Sam could thinkabout were the immaculate steel trays,now securely in the Air France galleybroilers, sending out deliriouslyinviting wafts of escalope de veau,tournedos, sauce Bearrzaise, and, ifhe was not mistaken, steak au poivre.God was in his heaven and on AirFrance as well. Good Lord! Devereauxvaguely calculated the hours sincehe'd eaten: It was nearing thirty-six.  Unintelligible words droned over thecabin loudspeakers, the 727 taxied outonto the field. Two minutes later theywere airborne and the stewardesseswent about the business ofdistributing the most meaningfulliterature Sam could think of: menus.  His order took up more time thananyone else in thecabin. This waspartially due to the fact that hesalivated and had to swallow as hespoke. There followed an agonizinghour. Normally it was not agonizing toSam, for it was taken up withcocktails. But today he could notdrink. His stomach was too empty.  At length, dinner approached. Thestewardess went down the aislespreading the miniature tablecloths,placing the napkin-enclosedsilverware, and reconfirming thechoice 155of dinner wines. Sam could not helphimself, he kept craning his neck overthe edge of the seat. The scents fromthe galley were driving him crazy.Every odor was a banquet to hisnostrils; the juices ran down histhroat at each recognizable smell.And naturally it had to happen.  The weird looking Sikh beside himlunged from his seat and unraveled hispurple turban. Out of the cloth fella large, lethal revolver. It crashedto the deck of the aircraft Rat Eyeslunged down, retrieved it, andscreamed.'Aigee! Aiyeel Aigee! Al Fatah! AlFatah! Aigee!"  It was the signal; a screechingsymphony of "Aiyees" and "Fatahs"could be heard behind first class,throughout the tube of the longfuselage. From somewhere in his trou-sers, Rat Eyes pulled out an extremelylong, murderous looking scimitar.Sam stared numbly. In complete defeat.  So the man wasn't a Sikh. He was anArab. A goddamn Bucking PalestinianArab.What else?  The stewardess now faced themurderous blade, the barrel of thehuge pistol was jammed between herbreasts. She did her best, but theterror could not be concealed.  "On the wires! On the wires to yourcaptain!" screeched the Palestinian."This aircraft will proceed toAlgeria. This is the wishes of AlFatah! To Algiers! Only Algiers! Oryou will all die. Die! Die!"  "Mais, out, monsieur," screamed thestewardess. "The aircraft isproceeding to Algiers! That is ourdestination, monsieur!"  The Arab was crestfallen. His wild,piercing eyes became temporary poolsof dull mud, the frustration conveyedby the tiny dots of questioning chaosin the center of the mud.  Then the eyes sprang back once moreto the vivid, cruel, violentexuberance.  He slashed the air with the hugescimitar and waved the pistolmaniacally.  His demonic, defiant screams wereworthy of shattering the high-altitudeglass, but fortunately did not."Aiyee! Aipee! Arafatt Hear the wordof Arafat! Jewish  156dogs and Christian pigs! There willbe no food or water until we land!That is the word of Arafat!"  Deep within the recesses of Sam'ssubconscious a small voicewhispered: You're Ducked, babe.                 157                            CHAPItER FIFTEENThe stage manager winced; two violinsand three horns went sour during thecrescendo of "Musetta's Waltz." Theact s finale was ruined. Again.  He made a note for the conductor whohe could see was smiling blissfully,unaware of the grating dissonance. Itwas understandable: the man's hearingwasn't so good anymore.  As the stage manager looked out, hesaw that the spotlight operator haddozed off again; or had gone to thetoilet. Again. The shaft of light wasangled down, immobile, into the pit ona confused flautist instead of onMimi.He made a note.  On the stage itself was anotherproblem. Two problems. The swinginggates into the cafe had been hungupside down, the pointed tops invertedso that they vee'd up from the floor,providing the audience a clear viewbehind the scenery where numerous barefeet were being rubbed and not a fewextras scratched themselves inboredom. The second problem was thestep unit on stage left; it had becomeunhinged so that Rodolfo's legplummeted down into the open spacecausing his tights to rip up to hiscrotch.The stage manager sighed and made twomore notes.  Puccini's La Boherne was being givenits usual performance by the company.Mannaggia!  As he finished putting threeexclamation points after histwenty-sixth note of the evening, theassistant box-office managerapproached his lectern and handed hima message.It was for Guido Frescobaldi, andbecause any distrac158tion was preferable to watching theremainder of the act the stage managerunfolded the paper and read it.  Instantly, involuntarily, he caughthis breath. Old Frescobaldi would havea fit if it was possible for Guido tohave a fit. There was a newspaperreporter in the audience who wanted tomeet with Frescobaldi after theperformance.  The stage manager shook his headsadly, recalling vividly Guido's tearsand protestations when the last (andonly) newspaper reporter interviewedhim. There were two reportersactually: a man from Rome and a silentChinese colleague. Both Communists.  It was not the interview that hadupset Frescobaldi, it was the articlethat came out of it.  Impoverished Opera Artist Strugglesfor Peoples' Culture as Cousin, thePope, Lives in Indolent Luxury off theHonest Sweat of Oppressed Workers!  That had been for openers. The frontpage headlined the story in theCommunist newspaper, Lo Popolo. Thearticle had gone on to say thatdiligent investigative reporting onthe part of Lo Popolo's journalistsever alert to the inequities ofcapitalism's unholy alliance withsavage organized religion haduncovered the crass injustice done tothis look-alike relative of theworld's most powerful and despoticreligious leader. How one GuidoFrescobaldi sacrificed for his artwhile his cousin, Pope Francesco,stole everyone blind. How Guidocontributed his great talent for thegood of the masses, never seekingmaterial rewards, satisfied only thathis contributions uplifted the spiritof the people. So different from hiscousin, the pontiff, who contributednothing but new methods to extractmoney from the frightened poor. GuidoFrescobaldi was the earthly saint; hiscousin the subterranean villain nodoubt with orgies in the catacombs,surrounded by treasures.  The stage manager did not know agreat deal about Guido's cousin, orwhat he did in the catacombs, but hedid know Frescobaldi. And Lo Popolo'sreporter had etched a portrait thatwas somewhat at variance to the Guidothey all knew. But it was this Guidothe world outside of Milan read about.Lo Popolo stated in an editorial thatthe 159                  .~                   l                   shocking story was to be reprinted inall the Socialist countries, includingChina.  Oh, how Frescobaldi had screamed!His roars had been the protestationsof a thoroughly embarrassed man. Thestage manager hoped that he couldcatch Guido during the act change andgive him the message, but it was notalways easy to find Guido during anact change. And it was useless to putthe note in his dressing room for hewould never see it.  For the role of Alcindoro was GuidoFrescobaldi's moment in the operaticsun. It was his single triumph in alifetime devoted to his belovedmusica. It was proof that tenacityreally did overshadow talent.  Guido was usually so moved by theevents on stage as well as his ownperformance that he waddled in atrance behind the scenery until theconfusion of an act change was over,his eyes invariably moist, his headheld high in the knowledge that he hadgiven his all for the audience of LaScala Minuscolo, the fifth-stringcompany of the worldrenowned operahouse. It was both a training groundand a musical cemetery, allowing theinexperienced to flutter their vocalwings and the over-the-hill to stayoccupied until the Great Conductorsummoned them to that gloriousfestival in the sky.  The stage manager reread the note toGuido. In the audience that night wasa lady journalist named SignoraGreenberg who wished to chat withFrescobaldi. He had been recommendedto her by no less a distinguishedsource than the United States ArmyInformation Seruizio. And the stagemanager knew why this SignoraGreenberg included the recommendationin her note. Ever since the Communistswrote that terrible article, Guidorefused to talk to anyone from thenewspapers. He had even grown a hugewalrus moustache and beard to lessenthe likeness between himself and thepontiff.  The Communists were stupid. LoPopolo, through habit, was alwayspicking a fight with the Vatican, butthey soon learned what everyone elseknew: Pope Francesco was not a man tovilify. He was simply too nice afellow.Guido Frescobaldi was a nice fellow,too, thought the 160stage manager. Many a late night theyhad divided bottles of wine together;a middle-aged signaler of cues and theelder character actor who had givenhis life for music.  What a drama was in the real storyof Guido Frescobaldi! It was worthy ofPuccini, himself!  To begin with, he lived only for hisbeloved opera; all else wasinconsequential, necessary solely tokeep body and musical soul together.He had been married years ago. And sixyears later his wife had left him,taking their six children with herback to her native village near Paduaand the security of her father's notimmodest farm. Though Frescobaldi'scircumstances, which by traditionmeant the circumstances of his family,had not been destitute. And if his ownincome was currently less thanadequate for him, it was by choice notnecessity. The Frescobaldis wereactually quite well off; theircousins, the Bombalinis, had beensufficiently wealthy to allow theirthird son, Giovanni, to enter thechurch, and God knew that took alittle money.  But Guido turned his back on allthings clerical mercantile, andagricultural. He wanted only hismusic, his opera. He badgered hisfather and mother to send him to theacademy in Rome, where it was soondiscovered that Guido's passion faroutdistanced his talents.  Frescobaldi had the Latin fire andthe soul, perhaps, but he alsopossessed a rotten musical ear. AndPapa Frescobaldi was getting nervous;so many Guido associated with were nonsono stabile they wore funny clothes.  So at the age of twenty-two, Papatold Guido to come home to the villagenorth of Padua. He had been studyingin Rome for eight years; no noticeableprogress had been made. No jobs atleast in music had been offered, nomusical future seemed to hold promise.  Guido did not care, however. It wasthe total immersion in things musicalthat counted. Papa could not under-stand. But Papa would no longer pay,so Guido came home.  The elder Frescobaldi told his sonto marry his nice village cousin, RosaBombalini, who was having a littletrouble finding a husband, and Papawould give Guido a 161fonografo for a wedding present. Thenhe could listen to all the music hewished. Also, if he did not marryCousin Rosa, Papa would break his ass.  So for six years, while his cousinand brother-in-law Father GiovanniBombalini, studied in the Vatican andwas sent to strange places, GuidoFrescobaldi endured a forced marriageto the three-hundred-pound bundle ofselfindulgent hysteria named Rosa.  On the morning of his seventhanniversary, he gave up. He awokescreaming; he smashed windows, brokefurniture, threw pots of linguiniagainst the walls, and told Rosa thatshe and her six children were the mostrepulsive human beings he had evermet.Basta!Enough was enough!  Rosa gathered the children togetherand fled to the village farm; andGuido walked downtown to his father'spasta shop, picked up a bowl of tomatosauce, heaved it in Papa's face andleft Padua forever. For Milan.  If the world would not let him be agreat operatic tenor, he at leastwould be near great singers, greatmusic.  He would clean toilets, sweepstages, sew costumes, carry spears.Anything.He would make his life at La Scala!  And so it had been for over fortyyears with Frescobaldi. He had risenslowly but happily from toilets tobrooms, from stitching to spears.Finally he was awarded those first fewwords on stage Not so much to sing,Guido! More like talk, you seep andthe sheer openness of his emotion madehim an instant favorite of lessdiscriminating operagoers. Of La ScalaMinuscolo. Where the ticket scale waslower.  In his way Frescobaldi became abeloved fixture as well as a devotedparticipant. He was always availableto help in rehearsals, to cue, tostand in, to recite, and his knowledgewas formidable.  Only once in all the years did Guidocause any trouble for anyone, and itwasn't really his fault. That, ofcourse was the Lo Popolo attempt toembarrass his cousin, the pope.Luckily, the Communist writer had notdiscovered Frescobaldi's earlymarriage to the pontiffs sister. Itwould 162have been difficult for him, however,because Rosa Bombalini had died ofovereating three decades ago.  Hurriedly, the stage manager madehis way to Frescobaldi's dressingroom. He was too late. The ladyspeaking to Guido surely was theSignora Greenberg. She was veryAmerican and, indeed, very wellendowed. Her Italian was a littlestrange, however. Her words were drawnout like yawns, but the lady did notappear sleepy.  "You see, Signore Frescobaldi, thepurpose will be to counteract thosenasty things the Communists wrote."  "Oh, yes, please!" cried Guidoimploringly. "They were infamous!There is no finer man in the worldthan my dear cousin, 11 Papa. I weepfor the embarrassment I caused!""I'm sure he doesn't feel that way. Hespeaks so well ofyou.  "Yes yes, he would," repliedFrescobaldi, the moisture clouding hisblinking eyes. "As children we wouldplay in the fields together, when ourfamilies visited. Giovanni  excuse me,Pope Francesco was the best of all.the brothers and cousins. He was agood nutn even as a boy. Does thatmake sense? And brains!"  'He'll be happy to see you again,"said the Signora. "We haven'tscheduled the exact time yet but hehopes you'll meet with him for thephotographs.'  Guido Frescobaldi could not helphimself. Although he lost not a dramof dignity, he wept~uietly, without asound or a gesture. "He is such a kindman. Did you know that when thatterrible magazine came out he sent mea note, in his own hand. He wrote tome: 'Guido, my cousin and dear friendWhy have you hidden yourself all theseyears? When you come to Rome, pleasecall on me. We will play some bocce.I put a course in the garden. Always,my blessing, Giovanni.'" Frescobaldidabbed his eyes with the edge of themakeup towel. "Not a hint of anger oreven displeasure. But of course Iwould never disturb so great apersonage. Who am 1?"  "He knew it wasn't your fault. Youunderstand that your cousin wouldrather not have it known that we'replanning this anti-Communist story.With politics the way they are"Not a word!" interrupted Guido. "I saynothing. I wait 163only to hear from you and I shall cometo Rome. If need be and I am scheduledto perform I shall allow my understudyto take my place. The audiences maythrow vegetables, but for Francesco,anything!""He'll be touched."  "Did you know," said Frescobaldi,leaning forward in the chair, loweringhis voice, "that under this moustacheof mine, the face is very like myexalted cousin's?""You mean you really look alike?""It was ever so since we werechildren."  "It never would have crossed mymind. But now that you mention it, Ido see a resemblance."  The stage manager closed the doorsilently. It had been partially open;they had not seen him and there was nopoint in interrupting. Guido might beembarrassed; the dressing room wassmall. So Frescobaldi was going to seehis cousin, the pope. Buenissimo!Perhaps he might beseech the pontiffto allocate some funds to La ScalaMinuscolo. They could use the money.The singing was really terrible.'Aigee! Al Fatah! Arafat!"  The screaming Palestinianrevolutionaries dashed through theexit doors and down the steps to theconcrete of Dar el Beida airport. Theyhugged and kissed each other andslashed at the night air with theirblades. One unfortunate had his fingersliced off in the rejoicing, but itdid not cause much conern. Under theleadership of Rat Eyes the group madea dash for the fence that surroundedthe feld.  No one tried to stop them. Indeed,the searchlights were swung in theirdirection to help them see their wayover the fence. The authoritiesunderstood that it was desirable forthe idiots to leave the field thisway. If they walked into the terminaland out through the doors, a largedegree of face would be lost. Besides,the quicker they left the better. Theywere doing nothing for the touristtrade.  The instant the final Palestinianraced out of the aircraft Sam hadlurched into the Air France galley. Tono avail. In the midst of crisis, AirFrance had kept its head and its 164financial acumen. The gleaming mentaltrays were in place for the nextcontingent of passengers."I paid for some goddamned food!"yelled Sam.  "I'm sorry," said the stewardess,smiling blankly. "Regulations prohibitthe serving of food after landing.""For God's sake, we were hijacked!"  "Your ticket reads Algiers. We arein Algiers. On the ground. Afterlanding. There can be no food.""That's inhuman!""That is Air Frawnce, monsieur."  Devereaux staggered through theAlgerian customs. He held fourAmerican five-dollar bills in hishand, separated as though they wereplaying cards. Each of the fourAlgerian inspectors down the line tookone, smiled, and passed him on to thenext man. No luggage was opened; Samgrabbed his suitcase off the conveyorand looked frantically for the airportrestaurant.It was closed. For a religiousholiday.  The taxi ride from the airport tothe Aletti Hotel on Rue de l'Enur ElKhettabi did nothing to calm hisnerves or soothe his agonizingly emptystomach. The vehicle was ancient, thedriver more so, and the road down intothe city steep and filled with windingcurves and hairpin turns.  "Were terribly sorry, MonsieurDevereaux," said the dark-skinned deskclerk in overly precise English. "Allof Algiers is in a state of fastinguntil the sun rises in the morning. Itis the will of Mohammed."  Sam leaned over the marble counterand lowered his voice to a whisper."Look, I respect everyone's right toworship in his own way, but I haven'teaten and I've got a little money "  "Monsieur!" The clerk's eyes widenedin Algerian shock as he interruptedand drew himself up to his full heightof roughly five feet. "The will ofMohammed! The way of Allah!"  "Good Lord! I don't believe myeyes!" The shout came from across theAletti lobby. The light was dim, theceiling high. The figure was obscuredin shadows. The only thing Sam knewwas that the voice was deep andfeminine. And 165deeply feminine. Perhaps he had heardit before, he could not be sure. Howcould he be sure of anything at thatmoment in such an unlikely spot as anAlgerian hotel lobby during anAlgerian religious holiday in the laststages of starvation. All was beyondsureness.  And then the figure walked throughthe hazy pools of light, led by twoenormous breasts that cleaved the airin majestic splendor.  Full and Round. Naturally; why didhe even bother to act surprised? Tenmillion thirty million, forty milliondollars no longer shocked him. Whyshould the sight of Mrs. MacKenzieHawkins, number two?  She pressed the cool, wet towel onhis forehead; he lay back on the bed.Six hours ago she had taken off hisshoes and socks and shirt and toldhim. to lie back and stop shaking. Intruth, she'd ordered him to stopshaking. And while he was at it, tostop babbling incoherently about crazythings like Nazis and chickendroppings and wildeyed Arabs whowanted to blow up airplanes becausethey flew where they were supposed tofly. Such talk!  But that had been six hours ago. Andduring the interim she had taken hismind off food, and MacKenzie Hawkinsand some sheik named Azaz-Varak,and oh my Godl the kidnapping of thepope!  She had reduced the dimensions ofthe whole insanity to the simplerproportions of a terrifying nightmare.  Her name was Madge; he hadremembered that. And she had sat nextto him on the bean bag in ReginaGreenberg's living room; and she hadreached over to touch him every timeshe emphasized a point. He rememberedthat distinctly because each time shehad leaned toward him, Full and Roundseemed to burst out of her peasantblouse, as they seemed now about toburst out of the silk shirt she wore.  "Just a bit longer," she said in herdeep, somewhat breathless voice. "Thedesk clerk promised you'd be the firsttray out of the kitchen. Now justrelax.""Tell me again.""About the food?"166  "No. About how come you're here inAlgiers. It'll take my mind off thefood."  "Then you'll just start babbling again.You simply won't believe me.""Maybe I missed something ", "You're teasing me," said Madge,leaning over dangerously, adjusting thetowel. "All right. Short and to thepoint. My  late husband was the leading WestCoast-importer of African art. Hisgallery was the largest in.California.When he died he had over $100,000 fledup in seventeenthcentury Musso-Grossaistatuary. What the hell am I going- to do with five hundred statues of nakedpigmies? I mean really! You'd do justwhat I'm doing. Try to stop the shipmentand get your money back! Algiers is theclearing house for Musso-Grossai Now,damn it! There you go again!"  Devereaux could not help himself. Tearsof laughter rolled down his cheeks. "I'msorry. It's just that it's so much moreinventive than a sudden London vacationfrom a philandering husband. Or agourmet school in Berlin. My God, it'sbeautiful! Five hundred naked pigmies!Did you think it up, or did Mac?"  "You're too suspicious." Madge smiledgently, knowingly, and lifted the towelfrom his forehead. "That's no-way tolive. Here, I'll soak this with somecool water. Breakfast should be here infifteen or twenty minutes." She rosefrom the bed and looked over at thewindow in silent thought. The orangerays of the new day were streamingthrough the window. '1he sun's up."  Devereaux watched her; the dawn's lightwashed over her striking features,heightening the sheen of her auburn hairand adding a soft, deep glow to herface. It was not a young face but it hadsomething better than youth. An opennessthat accepted the years and could laughgracefully at them. There was adirectness that touched Sam."You're a terrific looking person," hesaid.  "So are you," she replied quietly."You've got what an old friend of mineused to call a face you'd like to know.Your eyes level. My- friend used to say'watch the eyes especially in a crowd;see if they listen.' Actually, Mac said167 . .. ~it. A long time ago. I suppose thatsounds silly, eyes listening."  "It doesn't sound silly at all. Eyesdo listen. I had a friend who used togo to Washington cocktail parties,he'd repeat the word 'hamburger' overand over again  just 'hamburger,'nothing.else. He swore that ninetypercent of the time the people aroundhim would say things like, 'Veryinteresting. I'll check the statisticson that'; or 'Have you mentioned it tothe undersecretary?' He always knewwho'd say those things because theireyes were moving so fast; you see, hewasn't very important."  Madge laughed softly; their eyeslocked and she smiled. "He sounds veryimportant to me.""You're a nice person, too."  "Yes, I try to be." She looked overat the window again. "MacKenzie alsosaid that too many people run fromtheir perfectly natural inclination tobe concerned human beings. As ifconcern was a sign of weakness. Hesaid: 'Goddamn Midgey, I'm concernedand no son of a bitch better call meweakl' And no one ever did."  "I suppose being concerned isanother way of being nice," addedDevereaux, mulling over the latesthomily.  "There's no better way," said Madge,carrying the towel into the bathroom."I'll be out in a minute."  She closed the door. Sam repeatedthe words to himself: Too many peoplerun from their perfectly naturalinclination to be concerned humanbeings. MacKenzie was a man of morecomplications than Devereaux cared tothink about. At least, until breakfastarrived.  The bathroom door opened. Madgestood in the door frame and smileddeliberately, a sense of marvelous funin her eyes, very much aware of thepicture she presented. She no longerwore her skirt. Instead her breastswere now lovingly encased in anivory-colored brassiere made of webbedlace. Below, her short slipaccentuated the curve of her hips andbore witness to the soft white fleshthat touched and wanted to betouched between her upper thighs.  She walked around to the side of thebed and took his immobile hand. Shesat down gracefully and leaned over,168her incredible spheres touching him,sending electricity through himcausing him to suddenly inhale veryshort breaths. She kissed him on thelips. She pulled back and undid hisbelt and with the swift, gracefulmovements of a dancer, pulled down histrousers."Why Major, you have been thinkingnice thoughts "And the Algerian terrorist telephonerang.  The galaxy went out of whack again.Sanity vanished in a sudden rush ofhysteria. Sweet reason and laced bras-sieres and soft flesh were no more.Instead, screams in Arabic, commandsthat threatened unbelievable violenceshould they be disobeyed.  "If you'll stop yelling about pigsand dogs and vultures for a second,maybe I can figure out what you'retrying to say," said Sam, holding thephone away from his ear. "All I saidwas that I couldn't come down rightnow.""I am the emissary from SheikAzaz-Varak!""What the hell is that?""Dog!""It's a dog? You mean a puppy dog?"  "Silencel Azaz-Varak is the god ofall khans! The possessor of the desertwinds, the eyes of the falcon, thecourage of all the lions of Judea, theprince of thunder!"  "Then what does he need me for?"ventured Sam hesitantly, reluctantlyrecognizing the name of the Hawk'sfourth mark. The final ten million.Jesus! He thought about it now with nomore emphasis than ten boxes of PopTarts!  "Silence, dog! Or both your earswill be cut from your head and placedwith hot irons up your unspeakable."  "Now, goddamn it, that's notfriendly! You talk nicer or I'm goingto hang up; there's a lady here."  "Please, Mr. Deveroo," said theArabic voice, suddenly quite gentlewith a trace of a whine. "In the nameof Allah, for the love of Allah, donot be difficult. It will be my earsin unspeakable places if you aredifficult. We must leave for Tizi Ouwuimmediately.""Tizi who?""Ouzou, Mr. Deveroo.""Ouzoo? Did you say Ouwo?" 69i  Suddenly, without any warningwhatsoever, the most unexpected thing Samcould imagine happened. Madge grabbed thetelephone from him.  "Give me that!" she ordered. "I knowTizi Ouzou; my husband and I stayed thereonce. It's a dreadful place,  Listenhere, whoever you are, you'd better havea damn good reason to ask my friend to goto Tizi Ouzou. It's the godforsaken endof nowhere! Without a decent hotel orrestaurant, to say nothing about toiletfacilities!"  The girl held the phone to her ear,nodding briefly every three or fourseconds. The whine on the line becamevery audible."Really, Madge, I can handle  4'Be quiet. This son of a bitch isn'teven Algerian . . . Yes. Yes.... Allright. Then we'll both be down!... Takeit or leave it, you desert gnat, that'sthe only way it's going to be.... They'reyour ears, sweetie.... And one -otherthing. The minute we get there, I want ahuge meal waiting for my friend here, doyou understand? . . . And no biscuits ofcamel dung, either! All right. Fiveminutes."She hung up and smiled at Devereaux, whowas mostly naked and completely pale.          ;"That was very generous of you, but it'snot necessary "  "Don't be silly. You don't know thesepeople, I do. You have to be firm;they're quite harmless, despite thosegoddamned knives. Besides, do you thinkI'd let you out of my sight for a minute?After I've seen what nice thoughts you'vebeen thinking? And in your condition."She leaned over and kissed him again."It's really very touching."  Devereaux realized that in his weakenedcondition he might be subject tohallucinations; but he was not preparedfor the two robed Arabs that met them inthe Aletti lobby.  Peter Lorre and Boris Karloff. Quite abit younger than the more recentphotographs Sam remembered, but otherwise unmistakable.  The next twenty minutes were a blur. Yethe had to be able to think clearly.Azaz-Varak (whoever and wherever he was)signified the last of the investors. Hehad to begin putting together the piecesof his counterstrategy.170  Peter Lorre sat in the front seat nextto Boris, who drove. The car spedthrough the streets and careeneddangerously around the corners of earlymorning Algiers. They were halfway up awinding, steep hill when Devereauxrealized they were heading for Dar elBeida airport."We going on a plane?" asked Samapprehensively.  Madge answered beside him. "Oh sure,sweetie. Tizi Onzou's like two hundredmiles east. You wouldn't want to drive.Remember, I've levees there."  Devereaux looked at her. He wondered,and whispered, "I remember. What I can'tunderstand is why you're here. Do youknow what you're involved with? Do youknow what you're doing?"'I'm trying to be helpful.""So was Rose Mary Woods."  The interior of the helicopter was onlyslightly smaller than the main level ofPennsylvania Station. Pillows wereeverywhere and beside each seat was anelaborate water pipe attached to thewall with a kind of Bunsen burnerunderneath it. An open galley was at therear.And after three minutes in the air, Samwas given the  first sustenance he could recall. A smallcup of acrid, black liquid that vaguelysmelled of coffee, but more of bitterlicorice mixed with stale sardines.  He drank it in one swallow, grimaced,and looked at the tiny person wrapped insheets who had poured it for him. Thetiny person manipulated several wheelsaround the water pipe in the wall andheld a match to the burner beneath. Along rubber tube with a mouthpiece wasreeled from somewhere and held out forSam.  He took it and wondered. It probablywould not do him any good, but on theother hand it was something to put inhis mouth, and nothing of that nature atthis point could be any worse than thenumbed agony he was experiencing. Heinserted the mouthpiece between histeeth and drew on it.  It wasn't smoke exactly; it was more avapor. Sweet and pungent at the sametime. Really very pleasant. Actuallyquite delightful. Rather diverting inits way.  He drew more heavily; and then morerapidly; he looked across at Madge,sitting opposite him in a bank of 171pillows. "Would you mind, my dear?" heheard himself saying calmly. "Pleaseremove all your clothes."  "I'd go easy on that," replied thegirl in her most provocative,breathless whisper.  Was she whispering? Her voice seemedto arrive at his ears on differentlevels of sound.  "Your blouse first, if you please."Again he was not quite positive he hadsaid what he heard himself saying."Then perhaps if you would remove yourshirt while performing a small,undulating dance. That would be veryaccommodating.""Put that damn thing down."  "It's up?" He could actually smellher perfume. And the pains were gonefrom his stomach. Instead he couldfeel a surging force of great strengthpulsating throughout his body. He wascapable of giant deeds; he was whatwas it.P the possessor of the desertwinds. A prince of thunder, a hurlerof lightning. With the courage of allthe lions of Judea.  "That's not a Lucky Strike you'repulling-on. It's pure hashish."  "Who. . . ?" The information reachedthat small section of his brain thatwas functioning. What the hey was hedoing? He spat out the mouthpiece andtried to stabilize the aircraft; ithad to be the helicopter becausesomething was suddenly going aroundand around. The lion of Judea wasshrinking. A mangy pussycat was takingits place.  And then he heard the whining wordsof Peter Lorre, who had walked backfrom the pilot's area. "We are on aheading south-southeast of TiziOuzou."  "How come?" Madge was upset and didnot bother to conceal it. "You saidTizi, not someplace else. I've gotfriends on Rue Joucif, you fly! Mylate husband did a lot of favors forthe Algerian government!"  "A thousand nights of blissfulpardons, lady of Deveroo, but mygovernment is Azaz-Kuwait. My sheik isthe sheik of all sheiks, the god ofall khans, the eyes of the falcon, thecourage "  "When you're caging mee, cakingmeee, caging meeee!" Sam suddenlyfound himself bursting forth in song;at least, it sounded like him. It wasa song.172"Shut up, Majorl" shouted Madge.'>4lon~alonnnnne on this night thatwas meant for " "Will you be quietl"yelled the girl."It seemed appropriate," mumbled Sam.  "Where are we goingY' asked Madge ofthe whining Arab, who was looking atDevereaux as though the Americanshould be watched closely.  "Seventy miles southeast of TiziOuzou is a stretch of desert that istraversed only by Bedouin tribes. Itis very remote and lends itself toconfidential rendezvous. An eagle'stent has been spread for the sheik ofall sheiks, the god of all knans.Azaz-Varak, the magnificent, is flyingin from his holiest of kingdoms tomeet with the unspeakable dog namedDeveroo.""When I'm calling ynooo Deveroo ordyynoooo " "Will you shut up!"                 173                             CHATTIER SIXTEENThere were maps everywhere, coveringthe Watergate bed, spilling over thecoffee table, scattered about thefloor, propped up against the bureaumirror, and draped over the hotelsofa. There were gasoline road maps,railroad maps, elevation charts,geological and vegetationcarto-analyses; even aerialphotographs from sequential altitudesof 50(}, 1,50O, 5,000 and finallyZO,O(*i feet.  These plus 363 ground-levelphotographs of every inch of theterrain under study.Nothing could be left to change.  Five minutes ago he had made hisfinal decision. The real estate brokerfrom the highly confidential, interna-tional firm of Les Chateaux Suisse desGrands Siecles would be arrivingimminently. Naturally, secretly; thefirst law of Les Chateaux Suisse wasabsolute secrecy.  Mac had selected a remote chateau inthe canton of Valais, south ofZermatt, in the countryside nearChampoluc. The surrounding lands twohundred acres were in thecartographical shadow of theMatterhorn and were virtuallyinaccessible.  What was uppermost in his mind weretwo factors. The first was terrain. Itwould have to come as close aspossible to duplicating Ground Zero,as Hawkins had decided to name it.Every turn and curve and rise of theroad; each slope and hill that mightplay a part in the approach to or theescape from Ground Zero would have tobe simulated as precisely as possible.Maneuvers were useless if the traininggrounds did not reflect the combatcone.  The second factor was theinaccessibility. His base ofoperations, as Mac had come to thinkof the leased property, had to becompletely concealed from the outlyingcountry 174roads as well as from the air. Thearea had to be one where huge piecesof equipment could be hidden inseconds; where a complement of atleast a dozen men could live and trainfor a minimum of eight weeks.  The chateau in question possessedthese specifics. it was not that farfrom Zurich. The Shepherd Company'scapital would be transferred toZurich. Devereaux would have to see tothis centralization of finances. Aswell as the vetting of the chateau'slease.  There was a discreet knock at thehotel door. MacKenzie steppedcarefully over the maps andphotographs on the floor and went toit. He stood close to the panel andspoke.  "Monsieur D'Artagnan?" Les ChateauxSuisse used pseudonyms all the time.  "Out, man general," was the quietreply Mom the corridor.  Hawkins opened the door and amiddle-aged, nondescript, portly manentered. Even his slightly waxed mous-tache was nondescript, thoughtMacKenzie. He'd be a tough fellow tospot in a crowd; there was absolutelynothing outstanding about him.  "I see you have perused theinformation we sent you," saidMonsieur D'Artagnan in an accentformed west of Alsace-Lorraine. He wasobviously a man who wasted no time onthe amenities, and the Hawk wasgrateful for that."Yes, I have. I've made my decision.""Which property?""Chateau Machenfeld."  "Ahh, Le Machenfeld! Magnifiqueextraordinaire! What history has beenplayed on its rolling fields; whatbattles won and lost in front of itstowering parapets of granite! And theindoor plumbing has been kept mostfunctioningly modern. An exquisitechoice. I congratulate you. You andyour coterie of religious brotherswill be very happy." D'Artagnanremoved the fattest envelope Hawkinshad ever seen from his inner jacketpocket. The highly secretive firm didnot carry briefcases, Mac remembered;so much confidential informationcrammed into one repository was toodangerous. The brokers carried onlythose papers of immediate concern.175."Are those the leasing arrangements?"  "Out, men. All completed and readyfor your chosen and agreed-upon mark.And the six months' deposit, ofcourse."  "Well, before we get to that, let mego over the conditions~'"There are new ones, monsieur?"  "loo. I just want to make sure youunderstand the old ones."  "But, my general, everything wasunderstood," said D'Artagnan, smiling."You dictated the specifications; Itranscribed them myself, as is ourpolicy, and you approved thetranscript. Here. See for yourself."He handed Hawkins the papers. "I thinkyou know we would never alter ourclients' demands. We have only to fillin the specific chateau andcross-check to make sure the demandsare not in conflict with the owner'sconditions of lease. I have done sowith all potential locations; thereare no conflicts."  MacKenzie took the papers and pickedhis way between the maps andphotographs to the sofa. With one handhe removed two huge elevation chartsand sat down.  "I want to be positive that what I'mreading is what I heard."  "Ask any questions you wish. As isthe policy of Les Chateau Suisse desGrands Siecles, each broker is com-pletely familiar with all conditions.And when our business is concluded thepapers are microfilmed and placed inthe company vaults in Geneva. Wesuggest you make similar arrangementswith your copies. Untraceable."  Hawkins read aloud. "Whereas theparty of the first part, hereafterknown as the lessee, takes possessionin-nomen-incognitum...." Mac's eyesskimmed downward. "In the absence of.. . communicatum-directorum betweenthe party of. . . and the party of. .. Goddamn! You boys got your trainingin clandestine operations.'  D'Artagnan smiled; the waxedmoustache stretched a little. "Askyour questions, monsieur."And so it began.  Les Chateaux Suisse des GrandsSiecles was nothing if not thoroughand speeific~in the language of alease that 176would never from that moment on see thelight of day. To begin with allidentities were held sacrosanct, neverto be divulged to any individual,organization, court, or government. Nolaw, national or international,superseded the agreement; it was theonly law. Payments were made to the firmeither in cash or treasurer's checks; inthe case of the Shepherd Company, froma Cayman Island depository.  Whenever explanations of "source" weredesirable, they would be expedited wherenecessary and in the interests ofcontrolling outside curiosity. In thecase of the Shepherd Company, the soleexplanation of"source" was a loosefederation of internationalphilanthropists interested in the studyand promulgation of an historicreligiosity.  All supplies, equipment,transportation, and services would beexpedited in complete confidentiality byLes Chateaux Suisse des Grands Sieclesand consigned to branch offices inZermatt, Interlaken, Chamonix, orGrenoble. Any and all deliveries ofconsequence to Le Chateau Machenfeldwould be made between the hours of mid-night and 4 A. M. Drivers, technicians,and laborers, where possible, would befrom the ranks of the Shepherd Company'sbrotherhood,. who would be sent downfrom Le Machenfeld to the branchoffices. In the absence thereof, onlyemployees of Les Chateaux Suisse who hadno less than ten years acceptableservice with the firm would be assignedthe deliveries.  All payments were to be made inadvance, based on book retail value,with a surcharge of 40 percent for theconfidential services of Les ChateauxSuisse."That's a lot of percent," saidMacKenzie.  "It's a very wide boulevard," repliedD'Artagnan. "We don't avail ourselves tothose who drive in narrow streets. Wethink our consultation fee is ampleproof of this."  It was, thought the Hawk. The"consultation fee"  applied againstwhatever lease was arrived at, if alease ureas signed was $500,000.  "You do mighty fine work, Mr.D'Artagnan," said Hawkins, taking up afountain pen.  "You're in good hands. In a few daysyou will, as it were, vanish from theface of the earth."177 .                    .~ .~  "Don't worry. Everybody Iknow that's everybody  will beextremely grateful never to hear fromme again. Seems I generatecomplications." The Hawk laughedquietly to himself. He signed hisname: George Washington Rappaport.  D'Artagnan left with MacKenzie'streasurer's check drawn on the CaymanIslands' Admiralty Bank. The amountwas for $1,495,000.  The Hawk picked up a handful ofphotographs and walked back to thehotel sofa. As he sat down, however,he knew he could not dwell on themajesty of Machenfeld. There wereother immediate considerations.Machenfe}d would be worthless withoutthe personnel to train within itsborders. But former Lieutenant GeneralMacKenzie Hawkins, twice winner of theCongressional Medal of Honor, knewwhere he was going and how to getthere. Ground Zero was several monthsaway. But the journey had begun.  He wondered how Sam and Midgey weredoing. Goddamn, that boy was gettingaround! .  The helicopter descended, droppingstraight down and causingtorrential.clouds of sand to blast upin increasingly furious layers fromthe desert floor. So thick was theenveloping storm that the only way Samknew they had landed was the jarringthud of the undercarriage as it metand was swallowed by the dunes.  They had been in the air somewhatlonger than had been anticipated.There had been a minor navigationalproblem: The pilot was lost. It had tobe the pilot since it was unthinkableto admit the possibility that theeagle's tent of Azaz-Varak was in thewrong place. But at last, they saw thecomplex of canvas below.  The sand settled and Peter Lorreopened the hatch. The desert sun wasblinding. Sam held Madge's arm as theystepped out of the aircraft, if thesun was blinding, the sand wasboiling. "Where the fuel! are we?"Payee!" '4igee!" 'ltigee!" 'perigee!"  The screams were everywhere, andfrom everywhere there was rushingmovement. Turbaned Arabs, their sheetsflying in the wind like a hundredwhite sails, raced out of 178the various tents toward them. PeterLorreand Boris Karloff flanked Sam,gripping his arms as if displaying ananimal carcass. Madge stood in front,somewhat protectively thought Devereauxuncomfortably, as though she were aboutto give instructions to a slaughterhousebutcher. The racing battalion of sheetsand turbans formed two single lines thatcreated a corridor leading slightlyuphill in the sand to the largest of thetents, about fifty yards away.  Peter Lorre's nasal shriek filled theair 'perigee! The eye the falcon! Thehurler of lightning! The god of allkhans and the sheik of all sheiks!" Heturned to Sam and screamed even louder."Kneel! Unworthy white hyena!"  "What2" Devereaux wasn't arguing; hejust thought the sand would melt histrousers.  "It is better to kneel," said thedeep-throated Boris Karloff, "than tofind yourself standing on stumps."  The sand was, indeed, uncomfortable.And Sam, in an instant of real humanconcern, wondered what Madge was goingto do; she wore a very short skirt aboveher desert boots. He squinted and lookedat her.  He need not have indulged in humanconcern, he thought. Madge was notkneeling at all. Instead she had movedslightly to the side and was standingerect-. She was spectacular."Bitch," he whispered.  "Keep your head," she answered quietly."That's meant figuratively I think."  '14iyee! Behold the prince of thunderand lightning!" shrieked Peter Lorre. ~  There was movement at the tent at theend of the corridor of abus and turbans.Two minions swept back the front flapand prostrated themselves on the ground,their faces in the sand. From theshadowed recesses emerged a man who wasa mayor disappointment, a walkinganticlimax, to the dramatic preparationsfor his entrance.  The prince of thunder and lightning wasa spindly little Arab. Peering out fromthe shrouds was about the ugliest faceDevereaux had ever seen. Below theoutsized, narrow, hooked nose,Azaz-Varak's lips were curled actuallycurled so that his thick black moustacheseemed fused to his nostrils. The pallorof his skin (what could be seen) was 179.                    .                    a sickly beige, which served toemphasize the dark, deep circles underhis heavy-ridded eyes. '  Azaz-Varak approached, lipspressing, nostrils sniffing, headbobbing. He looked only at Madge. Whenhe spoke there was a certain authorityin his whine.  "The wives of the lion's lair, theroyal harem none understand theawesome responsibilities that befallmy generous person. Would you like acamel, lady?"  Madge shook her head with a certainauthority of her own. Azaz-Varakcontinued to stare."Two camels? The airplane?"' "I'm in mourning," said Madgerespectfully but firmly. "My wealthysheik passed away just after the lastcrescent moon. You know the rules."  The heavy-ridded eyes of Azaz-Varakwere filled with disappointment, hiscurled-up lips smacked twice as hereplied. "Ahh, it is the awesomeburdens of our faith. You have twocrescents of the calendar to survive.May your sheik rest with Allah.Perhaps you will visit my palaces whenyour time has passed."  "We'll see. Right now, my escort ishungry. Allah wants him to protect me;he can't do that if he faints."  Azaz-Varak looked at Sam as thoughstudying the preslaughtered carcass."He has two functions, then. One:worthy, one despicable. Come, dog. Tothe eagle's tent."  "That's where the food is, isn'tit?" Devereaux smiled his best, mostingratiating smile as he scrambled tohis feet.  "You will partake of my table whenour business is concluded. Pray toAllah that it is finished before thenorthern snows come to the desert. Didyou bring the unmentionableagreement?"  Devereaux nodded. "Did you bring anyhot corned beef?""Silence!" shrieked Peter Lorre.  "Lady," said Azaz-Varak, addressingMadge, "my servants will see to yourevery wish. My palaces are lovely; youwould like them."  "It's tempting. We'll see where I amin a month or so." She winked atAzaz-Varak. His lips went through aseries 180                   l                   of wet pressings before he snapped hisfingers and proceeded toward theeagle's tent.  The minutes stretched into quarterhours, those to the inevitable hour,and then two more of them. Devereauxhonestly believed he had reached theend. A promising legal career wasbeing snuffed out, starved out, in themiddle of some godforsaken stretch ofdesert, seventy miles south of aridiculously named place called TiziOuzou in North Africa.  What made the ending so ludicrouswas the sight of Azaz-Varak poringover each sentence of the ShepherdCompany's limited partnership papers,with eight to ten screeching Arabslooking over his shoulder, arguingvehemently among themselves. Everypage was treated as though it were theonly page; every convoluted andunnecessary legalism torn apart for ameaning that was not there. Sam sawclearly the terrible irony: theesoteric legalistic nonsense that wasthe essence of every lawyer'slivelihood was keeping him from hisown survival.  An insane thought went through hispained brain: if all legal documentswere written to be understood betweenmeals all meals postponed until saidunderstanding was clear the state ofjustice would be on a much higherplane. And most lawyers of hisacquaintance out of work.  Every now and then one ofAzaz-Varak's ministers would carryover a page and point to a particularparagraph, asking him in excellentEnglish what it meant. InvariablyDevereaux would explain that it was astandard clausewhich invariably it was and notimportant.  If it was not important, why was thelanguage so confusing? Onlysignificant items were in confusingwords; otherwise there was no need forthe confusion.  And, too, good things were statedclearly; unworthy things were oftenobscured. Did standard mean unwor thy?And so it went. Until at one point Samscreamed.Nothing else; he simply screamed.  Azaz-Varak and his gaggle ofministers looked over at him. Theynodded as if to say, "Your point iswell taken." And then went back toscreaming at each other.181  At the instant the darkness started tocloud his vision his last look at livingthings, thought Sam, he heard the words,whined by the sheik of sheiks.  "The northern snows have reached thedesert, unspeakable one. These foul papersare life camels' prints in storms of sand:They are without meaning. Not any meaningthat would bring the wrath of Allah, orcertain international authorities. Mygenerous, all-knowing person has signedthem. Not that I subscribe to thedespicable suggestions made to my ear, butonly to help unite the world in love, youhated dog."  Azaz-Varak rose from the mountain ofpillows beneath him. He was escorted to ascreened-off section of the enormous tentby several hunched-over ministers anddisappeared- beyond the silks.  Peter Lorre came up to Sam, the limitedpartnership agreement in his hands. He gaveit to Devereaux and whispered, "Put this inyour pocket. It is better that the eye ofthe falcon not fall on it again.""Is falcon edible?"  Perplexed, the tiny Arab looked at Sam."Your eyeballs are swimming in theirsockets, Abdul Deveroo. Have the faith ofthe Koran, first paragraph, book four.""What the hell is that?" Sam could hardlyspeak.  "'The feasts were brought among theunbelieving infidels and no longer werethey unbelieving.'""Does that mean we eat?"  "It does. The god of all khans has orderedhis favorite: boiled testicle of camelbraised with the stomach of desert rat."  '~igeeeeeel" Devereaux. blanched andleaped up from the floor of the eagle'stent. The spring had been sprung; there wasnothing left but self-annihilation. The endwas at hand; the forces of destructioncalled for his finish in an explosion ofviolence.  So be it. He would meet it swiftly.Surely. Without thought, only blindingfury. He ran around the pillows and overthe rugs and out onto the sand. It wassundown, his end would come with the orangesun descending over the desert horizon.Boiled testicles! Stomach of rat! - 182.1"Madge! Madge!"  If he could only reach her! Shecould bring back news of his demise tohis mother and Aaron Pinkus. Let themknow he died bravely."Madge! Where are you?!"  When the words came he feltstirrings of bewilderment that werecontradictory to the last thoughts ofthose who were about to perish.  "Hi, sweetie! Come on over. Lookwhat I've got here. It s a gas!  Sam turned, his ankles deep in sand,his caked lips trembling. Fifty yardsaway a group of Arabs were gatheredaround the front of the helicopter,all peering into the pilot's cabin.  In a trance of confusion, Devereauxstaggered toward the bewilderingsight. The Arabs squealed and grumbledbut let him through. He gripped theledge of the window and peered inside.It was easy; the aircraft had sunkinto the dune upon landing.  It was not his eyes, however, thatwere assaulted. It was his ears.  There was a continuous, deafeningcrackle of static from thehelicopter's panel that filled thesmall enclosure like jack hammers ina wind tunnel. Madge was in the co-pilot's seat, her blouse necklinelowered another several buttons.  Then he heard the words ridingthrough the static and Sam froze hishunger and exhaustion replaced momen-tarilv by a kind of hypnotic terror."Midgey! Midgey, girl! You stillthere?"  "Yes, Mac, still here. It's justSam. He's finished withwhat's-his-name. '"Goddamn! How is he?"  "Hungry. He's a very hungry boy,"said Madge, expertly manipulatingswitches and dials on the radio panel.  "There'll~be plenty of time forrations later. An army travels on itsstomach, but first it's got toevacuate the fire zone! Before it getsits ass shot off! Does he have thepapers?""They're sticking out of his pocket ""He's a fine young attorney, that boy!He'll go far! Now, 183get out of there, Midgey. Get him toDar el Beida and on that plane forZermatt. Confirm, and over and out!"  "Roger~onfirm, Mac. Out." Madgewhipped through several dozen switchesas though she were a computerprogrammer. She turned her face toDevereaux and beamed. "You're going tohave a nice rest, Sam. Mac says youreally deserve a vacation.""Who? Where. . . ?""Zermatt, sweetie. It's inSwitzerland."                 184                  PART           - IIIThe smooth-runningcorporation is largelydependent on its executivepersonnel, whosebackgrounds andallegiances are compatiblewith the overallobjectives of thestructure and whoseidentities can be sub-merged to the corporateimage.Shepherd's lows of Economics: `~ Book CXIV Chapter 92 CHAPTER SEVENTEEN           ,Cardinal IgnatioQuartze, his thin,aristocratic featuresbespeaking generationsof noblesse oblige,stormed across therugs of his Vaticanoffice to the largebalconied windowoverlooking St.Peter's Square. Hespoke in fury, hislips compressed inanger, his nasal voicesearing like thescreech of a bullet.  "The Bombalinipeasant goes too far!I tell you he is adisgrace to thecollege which God helpus al~elevated him!  The cardinal'saudience was a plump,boyish-looking priestwho sat, aslanguorously as hishabit allowed, in apurple velvet chair inthe center of theroom. His pink cheeksand pursed, thick lipsbespoke, perhaps, aless aristocraticbackground than hissuperior but not lessa love of luxury. Hisspeech was more a purrthan a voice.  "He was and remainsonly a compromise,Cardinal. You wereassured his healthwould not permit anextended reign.""Every day is anextension beyondendurance!"  "He has certain . . .humilities that serveus. He has quietedmuch hostile press.The people look uponhim warmly; ourworldwidecontributions arenearly as high as theywere with Roncalli."  "Please! Not thatname! What good is atreasury that expandsand contracts like athousand concertinasbecause the Holy Seesubsidizes everythinghe can put his fatpeasant hands on! Andwe don't need afriendly press.Division is far betterto solidify our own!Nobody understands.""Oh, but I do,Cardinal. I reallydo ""Did you see him today?"continued Quartze asif the 187          .~lpriest had not spoken. "He openlyhumiliated me! In audience! Hequestioned my African allocations."  "A patently obvious ploy to appeasethat terrible black man. He's forevercomplaining."  "And afterward he tells jokes jokes,mind you to the Vatican guard! Andwaddles into the museum crowds andeats an ice eats an ice mindyou offered by some Sicilian broodmare! Next he'll drop lira in themen's room and all the toilet seatswill be stolen, Such indignities! Whathe does to the bones of St. Peter!They will turn to dust!""It cannot be very long, my dearCardinal."  "Long enough! He'll deplete thetreasury and fill the Curia withwild-eyed radicals!>'  "You are the next pontiff. Thenegative reactions of the broad middlehierarchy support you. They aresilent, but resentments run deep.'  The cardinal paused, his mouthcurved slightly downward as he staredout into the square, his jaw juttedforward below the dark hollows of hisdeep-set eyes. "I do believe we havethe delegates. Ronaldo, get me theplans for my villa at San Vincente. Itcalms my nerves to study them."  "Of course," said the priest, risingfrom the purple chair. "You mustremain calm. And when summer comes youwill be rid of the Bombalini peasant.He will stay at Castel Gandolfo for atleast six weeks."  "The plans, Ronaldo! I'm very upset.Yet in the midst of chaos, I remainthe most controlled man in theVatican  The plans, you transvestite!"screamed the cardinal.  The moment the papal aide with theever present clipboard left the room,Pope Francesco I got out of theelevated, high-backed, white velvetchair (a repository that would havefrightened Saint Sebastian) and satnext to the lady from Viva Gourmet onthe couch. He was struck immediatelyby the beauty of her voice, it waswarm and lilting. Very lovely. Itbefitted such a healthy looking woman.  The aide had suggested that theinterview be limited to twentyminutes. The pontiff had suggestedthat it should 188end when concluded. The ladyjournalist had reddened slightly withembarrassment, so Giovanni put her atease by switching to English andasking her if she thought there was amarket for clipboards with crucifixespainted on the undersides. She hadlaughed while the aide, who did notunderstand English, stood by the door,the clipboard clutched to his breastlike a plastic stigmata.  The aide would have to be replaced,thought the pope. He was another youngprelate seduced by the pretensions ofIgnatio Quartze.The cardinal was tooobvious; he was moving his chargesinto the papal apartments before thepapal funeral was arranged. ButFrancesco had made up his mind. TheChurch was not going to be left in thepontifical hands of Ignatio Quartze.To begin with, they held the chaliceat Mass as though wringing the neck ofa chicken.  The interview with Viva Gour7net'sLillian von Schnabe was productive andpleasant. Giovanni expounded on two ofhis favorite subjects: that good,substantial meals could be createdfrom inexpensive stock and flavoredwith simple, spiced sauces; and thatin these difficult days of high pricesit w,as a mark of distinction to saynothing of Christian brotherhood toshare one's table with one's neighbor.  Mrs. van Schnabe saw immediatelywhat he was trying to communicate. "Isthis a form of 'the loaves and thefishes,' Your Holiness?"  "Let us say He was not preaching tothe wealthier sections of Nazareth. Anumber of His miracles were based insound psychological principles, mydear. I open my basket of fruit, youopen your basket of pasta; we havefruit and pasta. The simple additionalone gives variety. Variety werightfully equate with more ratherthan less.""And the diet's improved," agreedLilhan, nodding.  "Perfetto. You see? Two principios:reduce the cost and share the supply.""That sounds almost socialistic,though, doesn't it?"  "When stomachs are empty and pricesare high, labels are foolish. In theBorsa Valo~the stock exchange, youcall it they are not prone to openbaskets; they sell them. It is fittingthat they do so, considering thenature of their 189labors. But I do not address suchpeople. They eat at the Grand Hotel,on each other's expense accounts. Ibelieve that, too, is a derivative ofthe 'loaves and fishes' principle."  They discussed numerous recipesbased on the village dishes from thepope's past. Giovanni could see thatthe nice lady with the lovely voicewas impressed. He had done hisnutritional homework; carbohydrates,proteins starch, calories, iron, andall kinds of vitamins were to be foundin his recipes.  Lillian filled half a notebook,writing as rapidly as the pope spoke,stopping him occasionally to clarifya word or a phrase. After nearly anhour had passed, she paused and askeda question Giovanni did notunderstand.  "What about your own personalrequirements, Your Holiness? Are thereany restrictions or specificnecessities called for in the mealsbrought to you?""she causal What do you mean?':"We are what we eat, you know."  "I sincerely hope not. I am in myseventh decade, my dear. An excess ofonion or olive or pimento.... But suchinformation is not needed for yourarticle. People my age quite naturallygravitate to and regulate theirpersonal needs in this area."  Lillian put her pencil down. "Ididn't mean to pry, but you're sofascinating a man and I am consideredone of the best nutritional experts inAmerica. I suppose I just wanted toapprove of the way your kitchen treatsyou."  Ahh, thought Giovanni Bombalini, howmany years it has been since a lovelyperson of the opposite gender has beenconcerned about him! He could notremember, it was so long ago/Pinched-faced nuns and officiousnurses, yes. But so attractive a lady,with such a lovely voice....  "Well, my dear, these outrageousdoctors do insist on certainfoods.-..."Lillian picked up her pencil.And they talked for another fifteenminutes.  At the end of which time there was aknock on the door of the papalapartment. Francesco rose from thecouch and returned to the elevated,high-backed, white velvet chair                 190                  i                  that belonged in one of thoseCinecitta biblical spectaculars.  An agitated Cardinal Ignatio Quartzestood in the doorway, a handkerchiefdabbing his aquiline nose, noisesemerging from his throat. "I am sorryto interrupt, Holy Father," he said inboth Italian and high dudgeon, givingthe word "holy" a rather profane buteminently courteous connotation, "butI've just been informed that YourHoli-ness has seen fit to disagreewith my instructions regarding theconvocation of the Bankers forChrist."  "'Disagree' is too strong a term. Imerely suggested that the convocationcommittee reconsider. To occupy theSistine Chapel for two days at theheight of the spring tourist seasonseems unwarranted."  "If you will forgive my contraryobservation, the Sistine is the mostfavored and frequented site wepossess. All convocations of meritconvene there."  "Thus denying thousands every year ofits beauty. I'm not sure there's meritin that."  'We are not an amusement park, PopeFrancesco." Strange noises continuedto come from the area of thecardinal's throat; he blew his nosewith aristocratic vigor.  "I sometimes wonder," repliedGiovanni. "We sell such a diversity ofbaubles everywhere. Did you knowthere's a stand featuring rhinestonerosary beads?"  "Please, Your Holiness. The Bankersfor Christ. They expect the Sistine.We are finalizing extremely importantmatters.  "Yes, my dear Cardinal, I receivedthe memorandum. 'Accruals for Jesus'is somewhat labored, I think, but Isuppose these are certain taxadvantages." Giovanni's attention wassuddenly drawn to Lillian. She hadclosed her notebook politely butfirmly; she was anxious co leave. Ahh,it had been such a pleasant interlude!Airy Quartze was not going to spoilit; he could wait. He addressed theattractive lady with the lovely voice.In English, of course; a language onlybarely understood by Quartze. "Howrude we are. Do forgive us. Theagitated cardinal with the propellersin his nasal passages has once againfound my judgments lacking."19  "Then I would have to say hisJudgment left much to be desired,"said Lillian, rising from the couchand placing her notebook in her purse.She looked into Giovanni's eyes andspoke softly with feeling. "I supposethis isn't a proper thing to say butsince I'm not Catholic, I'll say itanyway. You're one of the mostattractive men I've ever met. I hopeyou re not offended."  Giovanni Bombalini, Pope Francesco,Vicar of Christ felt the stirrings ofmemories of fifty years ago. And theywere good. In- a profoundly sacredsense for which he was grateful. "Andyou, my dear, possess an honesty-however erroneous your presentopinion that walks in the warm lightof God."  "If I do, it's because I was taughtby someone quite like you, I think.Although few would recognize thesimilarity."  "I am flattered. This someone, givehim the blessings of afarmhand-priest."  Lillian smiled. She started for thedoor, where Quartze's handkerchieffluttered a tattoo in front of hisagitated face and the sounds of mucusstill could be heard beyond hisaquiline nose and very thin lips. Theprelate sidestepped to let her pass,doing his best to ignore her. SoLillian paused briefly, forcing him tolook at her. When he did so, shewinked.  As she closed the door the words fromPope Francesco were clear and firm.For in his anger, the pontiff raisedhis voice, in English.  "Talk to me not of the Sistine,Ignatiot Instead, discuss these plansI requested for your waterfront homeat Sam Vincentet What are 'securityarrangements'P They include a steambath)"  Hawkins had reserved both seats inthe first-class section of theLufthansa 747. Since he needed elbowroom, there was no point ininconveniencing a fellow passenger.This way, he was able to place filefolders beside him for quickreferrals.  He had specifically chosen the nightflight to Zurich. The travelers, byand large, would be diplomats, bankersor corporate executives used totransatlantic flights; they 192-would use the night for sleep, notsocializing. He would have a minimumof interruptions.  For selections would have to bemade, offers of recruitment dispatchedimmediately from Zurich.  MacKenzie's briefcase containedassorted personnel profles from whichhe would choose his troops. They werethe last of the files he had Xeroxedat the G-2 archives. Those fortunateenough to be chosen would be his bri-gade; his personal army that would beprivileged to engage, in the mostunusual maneuver in modern militaryhistory.  And each soldier would return fromthe engagement one of the richest menin his pelt of the world.  For, where possible, they would befrom separate parts of the world. Forthe inviolate condition of recruitmentwas that none would ever acknowledgethe existence of the others once theengagement was completed. It would bebetter if they came from differentplaces.  The dossiers in the Hawk's briefcasewere those of the most accomplisheddouble and triple agents in the U.S.Army data banks. And there was acommon denominator running througheach file: All were in forced retire-ment.  The state of double and tripleagenting was at a low ebb. The expertsdescribed in the dossiers had not hadreally gainful employment - for sometime, and for such men inactivity wasanathema. It meant not only a loss ofprestige within the community ofinternational criminals, but also areduced scale of living.  The prospects of $500,000 per manwould not be lightly dismissed. Andeach potential recruit was worth it.Each was the best at his specialty.  It was all a question of logistics.Think then outthink. Every functionhandled by an expert, every move timedto the split second.  And that required a commander whodemanded flawless precision from histroops. Who trained them to perform atpeak efficiency levels. Who did notstint when it came to equipment andsimulation; who would duplicate as faras technically possible the exactconditions projected for the 193.                   i                   assault. In essence a general officerthe first rank. Himself. Goddamni  Once the brigade was selected andassembled, Mac would outline the basicstrategy. Then he would allow hisofficers to offer suggestions andrefinements. A good commander alwayslistened to his subordinate officersbut, of course, reserved finaljudgment for himself.  The weeks of training would showwhere the strengths and weaknesseslay; the objective was merely toeliminate all weakness.  The fewer troops the better, but notso few as to impair the efficiency ofthe mission. Which was why there wasonly one payment for each soldier:$500,000. There would be no rewards ifthey were caught. At least, not thekind they were after. There would becertain family allotments in the caseof capture. It was the sort of thingall armies had learned to take forgranted. Men performed better undercombat conditions if their minds werefree of concern about their families.It was a good thing, too. It wasanother proof of separation betweenthe species.  The Shepherd Company would bankfunds for denendents in advance ofGround Zero; to be deducted, ofcourse, from all final payments uponthe successful completion of theoperation.  Goddamn! He was not only pro, he wasa very "borough pro at that! If thoseidiots in the Pentagon had turned overthe whole U. S. Army to him, theywould not be having all that troublewith volunteer enlistments. ThePentagon pricky-shits did not reallyunderstand "the book." If a soldiertook the book for what it was anddidn't try to bend it politically, orfind ambiguities to hide behind well,it was a goddamned good book. Flawedbut workable.  He had no time to think aboutpricky-shits. He had about refined hisbrigade. The required areas ofexpertise were seven: camouflage,demolition, sedative medicines, nativeorientation, aircraft technology,escape cartography, and electronics.  Seven experts. He had narrowed thedossiers down to twelve. Before hereached Zurich he knew he would havethe seven. It was just a question ofreading and rereading. He would sendout his offers from Zurich, not fromthe 194Chateau Machenfeld, nothing could betraced to Machenfeld. He even had tobe careful in Zurich. Not with regardto traces, however, he could handlethat problem. But he had to make damnsure he didn't run into Sam Devereaux.Sam was due within hours of his ownarrival, he wasn't ready for Sam'skind of panic. He could handle thatproblem better within the confines ofMachenfeld.  But then, thought the Hawk, hedidn't really have anything to worryabout. Devereaux was the girl's prob-lem and they had each and everyone carried out their assignments withreal know-how.  Goddamn! They were splendid! A manhad to count himself fortunate,indeed, to have such a quartet of finewomen behind him. "Behind every greatman..." they said. Behind him therewasn't one fine lass, there were four.  And a grander, more upstanding groupof girls there never were! Sam was alucky fellow and he didn't know it.Hawkins made a mental note to tell himwhen he saw Sam at Machenfeld.Tomorrow, if the schedule held  Devereaux walked down the stationplatform looking for the correctlynumbered railway car. The task wasmade difficult because he could notstop belching. He had eaten his wayfrom Tizi-whatever-the-hell-it-was,through Algiers, past Rome, intoZurich. Madge had seen him off at Darel Beida airport admitting no moreduring their good-byes than she hadsaying hello in the Aletti Hotel room.  But Sam had made up his mind not tospeculate any further about the girls.Whatever propelled them to do whatthey did for the Hawk could be left toKrafEt-Ebing; he had other things toconcentrate on.  The capitalization of forty milliondollars was committed. Hawkins now hadhis marbles (no, he did not have hismarbles, but that was anotherquestion), and he would start playingthe game. The-Hawk would begin hisfinal arrangements, make hispurchases, recruit his what wasits "support personnel."Jesus! Support personnel!195So he could kidnap the popel  Oh, my God! The whole world was anenormous fruitcake!  There was only one thing to bear inmind, one objective to keep in focus:How to stop MacKenzie Hawkins.  Two objectives: Stay out of jailhimself. And out of the homicidalclutches of the Mafia, the Peerage,the Nazis and particularly those Arabswho wanted to stuff his unmentionablesinto unspeakables.  He found his compartment, the sortmade famous by Rex Harrison andMargaret Lockwood. Shadows and blackvelvet collars and the incessanttherumping of the metal wheels againstthe metal tracks below signifying theinevitable approach of terror. Andlarge windows on the sliding doors,with curtains suddenly drawn backrevealing the faces of evil.  Night Train, Orient Express withslow dissolves to hands inching intofolds of dark overcoats, ever soslowly withdrawing the black steel ofmurderous pistols. The train started.~  "Well, Ah declare! Ah said tomyself, Ah simply don't heleeve it!It's the mayor! Right here in li'l oleZurich!"  There was no reason to be the leastastonished. After all, Titan*s was onschedule.  Regina Sommerville Hawkins ClarkMadison Greenberg stood in thecorridor outside the railroadcompartment and spoke through thewood-framed window. She slid the dooropen and filled the small enclosurewith remembrances of magnoliablossoms. Sam sat down calmly by thewindow, amazed at his own casualness."Your timing's nothing short ofbrilliant. The train rolls and so doyou. If I tried to get off at LucerneI have an idea you'd start screaming'rape!' "  "Why, what a peculiar thing to say.I hope you haven't forgotten theBeverly Hills Hotel; I never will."  "My memories have no beginnings, nomiddles, no ends. The world fornicatesin a thousand broken mirrors; we abuseourselves in the reflections of Sodomand Gomorrah...."Now, tell me why you just happen tobe in Zurich. At                  196                   i                   i                   the Hauptbahnhof, on this particulartrain, in this particular car.'  "Oh, that's easy. Manny's shooting apicture in Geneva. For UA. I thinkit's so porn they had to make itoutside the States."  "That's Geneva; this is Zurich. Youcan do better than that. Let's have itfor Hawkins's Harem. A little imagina-tion, please."  "Honestly! Now you're downrightoffensive!" Regina swept her vicunaback and placed her hands defiantly onher hips. Two cannons had Devereaux intheir sights. "I don't think you'vegot a damn thing to complain about. Weroot ourselves up out of verycomfortable circumstances; traipse allover the world, subject ourselves toevery kind of inconvenience~rush,rush, rush~heck on everything  lookafter you, body and soul make sure noone hurts you see to your everycomfort . Oh, Lawdy, what more couldwe do?! And for what? Abuse! Justplain, big ale abuse!"  Regina dropped her defiant pose andbegan to cry. She opened her purse,withdrew a Kleenex, and sat downopposite Sam, dabbing her eyes.A lost, hurt little girl."Hey, come on. That's not fair."  As are most men, Sam was helplessbefore a tearful woman.  Regina sobbed; her chest throbbed.Devereaux got out of his seat andknelt in front of her. "It's okay.It's all right. Don't cry, please."  Between subsiding gasps, the girllooked at him gratefully. "Then youdon't hate me? Say you don't hate me."  "How could I hate you? You'relovely and sweet and for Christ'ssake, please stop crying."  She put her face next to his and herlips against his ear. "I'm sorry. It'sjust that I'm exhausted. Thepressure's been simply God-awful. I'vestayed by the telephone night and day,always worryin' and, of course,wonderin'. I really missed you."  Ginny's coat was like a warm,comforting blanket between them. Thehuge, soft lapels came close toenveloping 197Devereaux's arms. She took both hishands and guided them between the Aidsof thick fabric and placed them on thesofter, warmer, more comforting swellsof loveliness that were beneath thesilk of her blouse.  "That's better. Stop crying now." Itwas all he could think to say, so hesaid it softly.  She whispered into his ear, causingall kinds of things to happen to hismetabolism. "Do you remember thosemarvelous old English movies that tookplace on trains like this?"  "Sure. Rex Harrison saving MargaretLockwood from the evil Conrad Veidt "  "I think you can slide the doorclosed and lock it. And there arecurtains...."  Devereaux rose from the floor. Helocked the door, closed the curtains,then turned back to Regina. She hadremoved her vicuna coat and spread itinvitingly over the soft seat of therailroad compartment.  Beneath them the therumping soundsof the metal against metal signifiedthe inexorable journey, the beatsomehow sensual. Outside, the lovelycountryside of Switzerland whipped by,bathed in a Swiss twilight.  "How much time do we have before wereach Zermatt?" he asked.  "Enough," she replied, smiling. Shebegan unbuttoning her silk blouse."And we'll know. It's the last stop."                 198                             CHAPTER EIGHI`EE~Hawkins registered at Zurich's HotelD'Accordwith a counterfeit passport.He'd purchased it in Washington froma CIA agent who realized the courtswould not let him write a book when heretired; the man also offered aselection of wigs and hidden camerasbut MacKenzie demurred. On settlinginto the room, his first act was to goright down to the lobby again andnegotiate with the head switchboardoperator: cash for cooperation. Sincethe cash was one hundred dollars, itwas agreed that all his calls andcablegrams would be routed through herboard.  He returned to the room and spreadthe seven dossiers (his finalselections) over the coffee table. Hewas immensely pleased. These men werethe most devious, experienced provocateursin their feids. It was now merely aquestion of enlisting them. AndMacKenzie knew he was an exceptionallyqualified recruiter.  Four he knew he could reach byphone. Three by cable. Admittedly, thetelephone contacts would be difficult,for in no case would one call find theexpert in. But he would reach them byusing various codes from the past. Onecall would be made to a Basque fishingvillage on the Bay of Biscay; anotherto a similar coastal town in Crete. Athird would be placed to Stockholm, tothe sister of the espionage expert whowas currently living as a minister ofthe Scandinavian Baptist Church. Thefourth call would be to Marseilleswhere the man sought was employed asa tugboat pilot.  And the geographical diversity' Inaddition to those he could reach bytelephone (Biscay, Crete, Stockholmand Marseilles), there were thecablegrams: to Athens, Rome, 199and Beirut What a spread! It was anintelligence director's dream!  MacKenzie took off his jacket, threwit on the bed, and withdrew a freshcigar from his shirt pocket. He chewedthe end to its proper consistency andlighted up. It was just nine-fifteen;the afternoon train to Zermatt was atfourfifteen.  Seven hours. Now that was a goodomen if ever one existed! Seven hoursand seven subordinate officers torecruit.  He carried the three dossiers to thedesk and arranged the files in frontof the telephone.-The cablegrams wouldbe sent first.  At precisely twenty-two minutes tofour the Hawk replaced the telephoneand made a red check mark on thedossier titled Marseilles. It was thelast of the phone contacts; he neededonly two replies to the cables toAthens and Beirut. Rome had respondedtwo hours ago. Rome had been out ofwork longer than the others.  The calls had gone smoothly. In eachcase the initial conversations withthe middlemen and women had beenreserved, polite, general, almostabstract. And with each MacKenzieemployed just the right words,quietly, confidentially. Each experthe had wanted to reach called himback.  There had been no hitches withanyone. His proposals were couched inthe same universally understood lan-guage; the term yellow mountain thespringboard. It was the highest scorean agent could make for himself. Theyellow mountain figure was a "fivehundred key" with advance funds bankedagainst contingencies. The securitycontrols included "inaccessibleclearinghouses" that maintained noconnections with internationalregulatory agencies. The time factorwas between six and eight weeks,depending on the "technologicalrefinements called for in thesophisticated engineering process."And finally, as leader, his ownbackground encompassed wholesale ser-vice to entire governments in mostSoutheast Asia, proof of which couldbe confirmed by several accounts inGeneva.  He had done his research well. To aman, they all needed to mine theyellow mountain.200Hawkins got up from the desk andstretched. It had been a long day andit wasn't over yet. In twenty minuteshe would have to leave for therailroad station. Between now and thenhe would speak with the switchboardoperator and give her instructions forthose callers who might try to reachhim. The instructions be simple: hehad reserved the room for a week, hewould return to Zurich in three days.The callers could contact him there,or leave numbers where they could bereached. MacKenzie did not want toreturn to Zurich, but Athens andBeirut were exceptional recruits.The telephone rang. It was Athens.Six minutes later Athens was in.One more to go.The Hawk moved his untouched luggageto the door and repacked hisbriefcase, leaving Beirut's dossier ina separate, easily accessible spot. Helooked at his watch: three minutes tofour. There was no point inprocrastinating any longer. He had toleave for the station. Returning tothe desk he dialed the switchboardoperator and told her he wanted toleave a few simple instructionsThe operator interrupted politely."Yes, of course, mein Herr. But mayI take them later? I was about to ringyour room. An overseas call has justcome in for you. Ftom Beirut."Goddamn!Sam opened his eyes. The sun wasstreaming through the huge Frenchdoors; the breeze billowed the drapesof blue silk. He looked around theroom. The ceiling was at least twelvefeet high, the fluted columns in thecorners and the intricately carvedmoldings of dark wood everywherebespoke the word ' chateau." It allcame into focus. He was in a placecalled Chateau Machenfeld, somewheresouth of Zermatt. Outside the thick,sculptured door of his room was a widehallway with Persian prayer rugsscattered over a glistening darkfloor, and muted candelabra on thewalls. The hallway led to an enormouswinding staircase and a proliferationof crystal chandeliers above a greathall the size of a respectableballroom. There, among pricelessantiques and Renaissance portraits,was the entrance  201gigantic double doors of oak openingon a set of marble steps that led toa circular drive large enough tohandle a funeral for the chairman ofGeneral Motors.What had Hawkins done? How did he doit? My God. Why? What was he going touse such a place for?Devereau-x~ looked at the sleepingRegina, her dark brown hair lying inwaves over the pillow, her California-tanned face half buried under theeiderdown quilt. If she had anyanswers, she wouldn't tell him. Of allthe girls, Ginny was the mostoutrageously manipulative; she hadorchestrated him right down to themoment of sleep. Partially, grantedonly partially, because he wasfascinated by her. There was a will ofsteel beneath the soft magnoliaexterior; she was a natural leaderwho, as all natural leaders, tookdelight in her leadership. She usedher gifts, mental and physical, withimagination and boldness, and aconsiderable dash of humor. She couldbe the strong moral proselytizer onemoment, and the lost little girl inthe middle of burning Atlanta thenext. She was the laughing,provocative siren in the plantationmoonlight, and with the flick of aswitch, a conspiratorial, whisperingMata Hari giving orders to asuspicious looking chauffeur in theshadows of the Zermatt railroadstation."Mach Feldman's ass is in the bitterseltzer!"To the best of Sam's recollectionthose had been the words Ginny hadwhispered to the strange man in theblack beret, with the gold fronttooth, whose catlike eyes rivetedthemselves to the front of her blouse."Mac's in felt!" had been thewhispered reply. "His sight's in anauto bomb's flower pot!"With that less-than-articulaterejoinder, Ginny had nodded, grabbedDevereaux's arm, and propelled himinto the Zermatt street."Carry your suitcase in your lefthand and whistle something. He'll turninto an alley and we'll wait at thecorner for him to bring out the car.""Why all the nonsense? The left hand.The whistling"Others are checking. To make surewe're not being followed."The Orient Express syndrome was beingsomewhat202 -overdone, Sam had thought at the time,but nonetheless he'd switched thesuitcase to his left hand and startedwhistling."Not that, you ninny!"`'What's the matter? It's some kind ofhymn ""Over here it's called 'DeutschlandUber Alles'!"He'd switched to "Rock of Ages" asanother man, this one in a real ConradVeldt overcoat complete with velvetlapels, came up to Regina and spokesoftly."Your warts are in the wagon.""Mack Feldman's ass surely has sweetshackles," she had answered quietly,rapidly. And within seconds a longblack automobile raced out of the darkalley and they had climbed in.That was how the tortuous, two-hourdrive had begun. Miles of winding,uphill roads cut out of the Swissmountains and forests, intermittentlyilluminated by the eerie wash ofmoonlight. Until they reached somekind of massive gate that wasn't agate; it was an honest-to-godportcullis. In front of a moat.A real moat! With heavy planks andthe sounds of water below. Thenanother winding, uphill road thatended in the enormous circular drivein front of the largest country houseSam had seen since he touredFontainebleau with the Quincy BoyScouts. And even Fontainebleau didn'thave parapets. This place did,certainly high and definitely stone,with the sort of cutout patterns oneassociated with Ivanhoe.Quite a place, Chateau Machenfeld.And he had only seen it at night. Hewasn't sure he wanted to see it indaylight. There was somethingfrightening about the mere thought ofsuch a massive edifice when related toone MacKenzie Hawkins.But where did the chateau fit in?What was it for? If it was going to bethe son of a bitch's command post, whydidn't he just rent Fenway Park and bedone with it? It had to take an armyof minions to keep the place running;minions talked. Ask anyone atNuremberg or in-Sirica's courtroom.But Regina wouldn't talk. (Ofcourse, she wasn't a minion; in no waydid the word ft.1 Yet he had tried.All 203the way down from Zurich well, perhapsnot every moment and half the night inMachenfeld perhaps less than half hehad done his best to get her to tellhim what she knew.They had sparred verbally, eachtalking obliquely, neither coming togrips with any positive statementsthat could lead to any realconclusions. She admitte~she had nochoice that all the girls had agreedto turn up in the right places at theright times so that he, Sam, wouldhave company and not be led intotemptations that could be debilitatingon such a long business trip. And havesomeone trustworthy to take messagesfor him. And watch out for him. Andwhere the goddamned cotton-pickin'hell was the harm in that? Where washe going to find such a concernedgroup of ladies who had his bestinterests at heart? And kept him onschedule?Did she know what the business tripwas about?Lawdy, no! She never asked. None ofthe girls asked.Why not?Landsakes, honey! The Hawk told themnot to.Couldn't any of them draw . . .certain inferences? I mean, my God,his itinerary wasn't exactly that ofa New England shoe salesman.Honeychile! When they were marriedto the Hawk  individually, ofcourse he was always involved withtopsecret army things they all knewthey shouldn't ask questions about.He wasn't in the army now!Well-live-and-die-in-Dixie! That's thearmy's fault!And so it went.And then he began to understand.Regina was no patsy. None of the girlswas. Fall guy was not in theircollective vocabulary. If Ginny, orLillian, or Madge, or Anne knewanything concrete they weren't aboutto say so. If they perceived a lack ofcomplete integrity, each put on blind-ers, and her own particular activityremained unrelated to any largeraction. None certainly would discussanything with him.There was another problem in themidst of the Hawk's insanity: Samgenuinely liked the girls. Whateverthe whack-a-doo furies were that drovethem to do MacKenzie'sbidding, each was her own person, each anindividual, each God help him had anhonesty he found refreshing. So, if he didspell out what he knew, the instant he didso they were accessories. To a conspiracy.It didn't take a lawyer know that. Whatwas he thinking about; he was a lawyer.As of this. . . point in time. . . eachgirl was clean. Maybe not like a hound'stooth; maybe not even like a wing'sbridgework, but legally it could be arguedthat each had operated in a vacuum. Therewas no conspiracy under the circumstances.Thank you, Mr. Defense Attorney. Thebench suggests that you reclaim yourtuition from law school.Sam got out of the ridiculouslyoversized, canopied bed as quietly aspossible. He saw his shorts halfway acrossthe room toward the French doors, whichwas where he was heading, anyway, andbriefly wondered why they were so farfrom,the bed. Then he remembered, and hesmiled.But this was morning, a new day, andthings were going to be different. Ginnyhad given him one specific to hang onto:Hawkins would arrive by late afternoon orearly evening. He would use the time untilthen to learn whatever he could aboutChateau Machenfeld. Or more precisely,what the Hawk was planning for ChateauMachenfeld as it related to one PopeFrancesco, Vicar of Christ.It was time for him to mount his owncounterstrategy. Hawkins was good, noquestion about it. But he, Sam Devereauxfrom the Eastern Establishment's QuincesBoston axis, wasn't so bad, either.Confidence! Mac had it; so did he.As he put on his shorts, the obviousfirst move in his counterstrategy cameinto focus. It wasn't just obvious, it wasblatant; bells rang! Such an extraordinaryplace (mansion, estate, compound, smallcountry) as Machenfeld would demand anunending series of supplies to keep itfunctioning. And suppliers were likeminions, they could see, and hear, andbear witness. The Hawk's proclivity formassiveness could be the most vulnerableaspect of his plans. Sam had considereddisrupting Mac's supply lines as one ofhis options, from a military point ofview, but he 205had no idea how positively logical it was.It might be all he needed.He'd circulate rumors as massivelydangerous, as gigantically outrageous, asthe sight of Machenfeld itself. He'd startwith the servants, then the suppliers,then everyone else who came near thechateau until a state of isolation wasbrought about and he could come to gripswith a deserted Hawkins and what the hellwas that noise?He walked rapidly to the French doorsand through them to the small balconybeyond. It overlooked the rear of ChateauMachenfeld. He assumed it was the rear;there was no circular drive below.Instead, there were gardens in springbloom, with "raveled paths and latticedarbors and scores of small fishpondscarved out of rock. Beyond the gardenswere green fields that merged intogreener, darker forests, and in thedistance were the majestic Alps.The noise continued, spoiling the view.He could not, at first, determine where itcame from, and so he squinted in thesunlight. And instantly wished to hell hehadn't. Because he could now see what wasmaking the noise.One, two, three. . . five, six. . .eight, nine! Nine assorted insanelyassorted vehicles were slowly going downa dirt road that bordered the fields,progressing south toward the surroundingforests.There were two long black limousines, ahuge earthmoving bulldozer, an outsizedtractor with pronged forks in front, andfive goddamn it, yes, five motorcycles!It didn't take a lot of imagination toget the picture. The Hawk was about toenter maneuvers! He had bought himself hisown personal papal motorcade! Plus equip-ment that could shove the ground aroundinto any design he liked: The route ofsaid papal motorcade!But he hadn't even arrived atMachenfeld! How the hell was he ableto and what the hell was that?In his anger and confusion, Devereauxgripped the balcony, shaking his head infrustrated bewilderment. His eyes werearrested by an extraordinary sight fiftyyards away.Within a kind of patio, outside a pairof open doors that looked like theentrance to some sort of enormous kitchen,stood a large man wearing a chefs hat, whowas 206-in the process of checking off itemsfrom a thick sheaf of papers in hishands. In front of the man was amountain of crates and cartons andboxes that must have reached theheight of fifteen feet!Lines of supply, shit!There wasn't anything left in Europefor Hawkins to buy. There was enoughfood down there to eliminate half thefamine on the Ganges! The son of abitch had requisitioned enough rationsfor an army, goddamn it, an armysetting out on a two-year bivouac!Limousines, motorcycles, bulldozers,tractors, food for the entire LostBattalion! Sam's counterstrategy movenumber one was shot to hell by aparade of nine idiotically assortedvehicles and some gasping eccentric ina chefs hat.The only state of isolation in theforeseeable future was from any andall lines of supply. They were totallyunnecessary.That left the minions. The dozen orso servants that had to be around tokeep Machenfeld afloat. Kitchens, gar-dens, fields (that probably meantbarns, maybe livestock), and at leastthirty to forty rooms with cleaningand waxing and polishing and dusting.Christ! There had to be a staff oftwenty!He'd begin right away. Perhaps withthe drivers of the nine vehicles;convince them to get the damn thingsoff the chateau's grounds before itwas too late. Then he'd rapidly gofrom one group of servants to another.Let them know in ominous terms, whichmeant legal terms, that if they knewwhat was good for them they'd get thehell out of Machenfeld before all theagents of-Interpol descended.All the food in Switzerland wouldn'tdo the Hawk any good if there was noone on the premises. To run thepremises. And a few well-chosen wordsto those manning the vehicles, wordslike "international violations," "per-sonal accountability," and "lifeimprisonment," would surely cause thatstream of motorcycles and limousinesand trucks to barrel-ass back over themoat into safer territory.Sam was so preoccupied with his newstrategy that he wasn't really awarethat his undershorts kept sagging,causing him to hold them 'up with afree hand. He was 207forced to be aware of it now becauseas he gripped the railing his shortshad plummeted down to his ankles.Swiftly, he retrieved his modesty,noting with a degree ofself-satisfaction that the games withGinny Greenberg must have be'en prettydamned exciting indeed. But it was notime for pleasant reminiscence, therewas work to do. His watch read nearlyeleven; he hadn't realized he'd sleptso long the games were not onlyexciting, but exhausting. He hadbarely five or six hours to geteverybody out. Such a large staff ofservants probably had lots of personalbelongings. That would meantransportation, perhaps morecomplicated than he had considered.But one thing had to be clear: whenthe minions left the grounds ofMachenfeld, they were not to return.For any reason. Anything less wouldweaken his basic premise: Machenfeldwas a threat to everyone who remained,therefore no one was to do so.Evacuation!The chateau was to be deserted!Then what the hell was MacKenzie goingto do?Stew in his cigar juice, that's whathe was going to do! It was merely aquestion of logistics and execution.Goddamn! Logistics and execution! Hewas beginning to think like the Hawk!And have the confidence of the Hawk!Be bold! Be outrageous! Take fate bythe balls and . . .Shitl Before anything could happen,he had to get dressed. He racedthrough the French doors into theroom. Ginny stirred and moaned alittle and then buried her headfarther into the eiderdown quilt. Hestepped out of the torn underwear, andcrossed quietly to his suitcase whichwas on an overstuffed armchair againstthe velourcovered wall.It was empty.There wasn't a goddamn thing in hissuitcase.He looked around for the closet.Closets. There were four.Empty. Except for Ginny's dresses.Shit!He ran as quietly as possible to thesculptured door and opened it.Sitting across the wide hallway was theblack beret with '208the gold front tooth and catlike eyeswhich were now focused on Sam's lowerextremities. In the confusion that,perhaps, was understandable. The sneerwas not."Where are my clothes!?" whisperedDevereaux,-partially closing the door,leaning against it."In the tauntree, mein Herr,"replied the black beret in an accentformed in some Swiss canton run byHermann Goring."Everything?""Courtesy of Chateau Machenfeld. Allwas dirty.""That's ridiculous!" Sam tried tokeep his voice low. He did not want towake Ginny. "Nobody asked me ""You were asleep, mein Herr,"interrupted the black beret, grinningsuggestively, his gold tooth gleaming."You were very tired.""Well, now I'm very angry! I want myclothes back. Right away!""I cannot do that.""Why not?""It is the launtree's day off.""What? Then why did you take them?""I told you, mein Herr. They weredirty."Sam stared at the catlike eyesacross the hallway. They had narrowedominously; ~ and the gold tooth was nolonger seen because the grin haddisappeared, replaced by an adamantmouth. Sam closed the door. He had tothink. Quickly. As Mac would say, hehad to weigh his options. And he hadto get out.He did not consider himself abrawler, yet he was not a physicalcoward. He was a pretty big fellow,and regardless of what Lillian said inBerlin, he was in fair shape. Still,all things considered it was a goodguess that the black-berated maniacacross the hall could beat the shitout of him. Even naked, he could notleave by the stairs.Option One considered and rejected.That left the windows, morespecifically the small balcony beyondthe French doors. He grabbed hisshorts off the floor, put them on,held them up, and walked silentlyoutside. The room was three storiesoff the ground, but directly below wasanother balcony. With sheets, ordrapes, tied together he could make itwith reasonable safety.209Option Two was feasible.He went back inside and studied thedrapes. As his mother in Quincy wouldsay, they were spring drapes. Silk,billowy, not strong. Option Two wasfading. Then he looked at the bedsheets, ignoring the inviting sight ofRegina who was now more outside theeiderdown quilt than under. If thesheets were combined with the drapes,this would probably hold him. OptionTwo was reemerging.Battle dress.That was a problem. There was nothingbut dresses.So, assuming Option Two succeededand he reached the ground, he hadOptions Three and Four to consider.And as he considered them there was asinking feeling in his stomach. Hecould race around Machenfeld inunderwear that kept falling down tohis ankles or he could put on one ofGinny's Balenciaga prints and hope thezipper held.A man running around spreadingalarms in disheveled underwear, or aParis original, was not likely to betaken too seriously. There might evenbe Options Five and Six to contendwith: be locked up, or be raped.Shit!He had to keep his head; he had toget hold of himself and think thingsout. Slowly. He could not allow aminor item like clothing to stand inthe way of evacuation. What could theHawk do? What was that goddamned termhe used so frequently?Support personnel! That was it!Sam raced back out on the balcony.The man in the chefs hat was stillchecking off items on his list. It'dprobably take him a week."Psssst! Psssst!" Devereaux leanedover the railing, remembering at thelast instant not to let go of theunderwear. "Hey you!" he whisperedloudly.The man looked up, startled atfirst, then smiled broadly. 'huh!Bonjour, monsieur! (ha Ha?" heshouted.Sam held his finger to his lips."Shhh!" He gestured for the chef tocome closer.He did so, carrying his papers,making a last notation as he walked."Oui monsieur?""I'm being held prisoner!" whisperedDevereaux with solemn urgency and muchauthority. "They've taken my          210clothes. I need clothes. And when Iget down I want you to get everyonewho works here into the kitchen; I'vegot some very important things to say.I'm a lawyer. Avocat." The man in thechef's hat cocked his head. "ye necomprends pas, monsieur Desirez-vousle petit d~jeuner?""Who.7 No. I want clothes. See? AllI've got is this, these." Samstretched his torn undershorts so theycould be seen between the rails; thenhe pointed to his legs. "I need pants,trousers! Right away. Please!"The expression on the man's facechanged from bewilderment tosuspicion. Perhaps even distastemingled with hostility. "Vossous-vetements vent tres jolts," hesaid shaking his head, turning backtoward the patio and the crates offood."Wait! Wait a minute!""The chef is French, mein Herr, butnot that French." The voice came frombelow, from the balcony directlyunderneath. The speaker was animmense, bald man with shouldersnearly as wide as the depth of theruling. "He thinks you are making amost peculiar offer. I can assure youhe's not interested.""Who the hell are you?"'My name is unimportant. I leave thechateau when the new master ofMachenfeld arrives. Until then hisevery instruction is my command. Hisinstructions do not include yourclothing."Devereaux had an overpowering urgeto let his shorts fall and copyHawkins's action on the roof of thediplomatic mission in Peking, but hecontrolled himself. The man on thebalcony below was huge. And obviouslycouldn't take a joke. So instead heleaned over and whispered the wordsconspiratorially."Hell Hitler, you fuckerI"The man's arm shot forward; hisheels clucked like the bolt of arifle. ''lawohl! Sieg hell!""Oh, shit!" Sam turned and walkedback into the room. In exasperation,he kicked offhis shorts. Then heabsently studied them as they lay onthe floor. Perhaps it was the angle ofthe fabric, he was not sure. Butsuddenly they looked strange.He bent down and picked them up. allChrist! What games?The elastic waist had been cutdeliberately in three places! Theincisions were incisions, not tears.There were no loose threads orstretched cloth. Someone had taken asharp instrument and sliced thegoddamn things! On purpose.Immobilizing him by the simplestmethod possible!"Lawdy! What's all that shoutin'about?" Regina Greenberg yawned andstretched, modestly pulling theeiderdown quilt over her enormousbreasts."You bitch," said Devereaux in quietanger. "You devious bitchI""What's the matter, honeychile?""Don't 'honeychile' me, you Southernretardant! I can't get out of herel"Ginny blinked and yawned again. Shespoke with calm authority. "You know,Mac once said something that's been acomfort to me all through the years.He said, when the mortars are fallingall around you and things lookterrible,and, believe me, there were times whenthe world looked pretty terrible tome he said, think of the good thingsyou've done, the accomplishments, thecontributions. Don't ponder yourmistakes or your sorrows; that onlyputs you in a depressed state of mind.And a depressed state of mind is notequipped to take advantage of that onemoment that could arise and save- yourass. It's all a question of mentalattitudes.""What the hell has that bullshit gotto do with the fact that I don't haveany clothes?""Not an awful lot, I guess. It'sjust that you sounded so depressed.That's no way to face the Hawk."Devereaux started to answer blindly,angrily. Then he stopped, looked atthe sincerity in Ginny's eyes andbegan again. "Wait a minute. 'Face theHawk.' You mean you want me to fighthim? Stop him?""That's your decision, Sam. I onlywant what's best for everyone."Will you help me?"Ginny was pensive for a moment, thenreplied firmly. "No, I won't do that.Not in the way you're thinking. I oweMacKenzie too much.'2121 ''-l"Lady!" burst out Devereaux. "Do youhave any idea what that lunatic is upto?"Mrs. Hawkins number one looked athim with an expression of suddenlyimposed innocence. "A lieutenantdoesn't question a general officer,Major. He can't be expected tounderstand the intricacies of command""Then what the hell are we talkingabout?""You're a smart fellow. The Hawkwouldn't have promoted you if youwerent. I just want him to have thefinest advice he can get. So he can dowhatever it is he wants to do the bestway possible." Ginny rolled over underthe eiderdown quilt. "I'm really verysleepy."And Devereaux saw them on thebedside table next to her head.A pair of scissors.              ala                       CHAPTER NINETEEN"Sorry about the clothes," said theHawk in the huge drawing room. Samglared and retied the curtain sash heused as a belt around the eiderdownquilt. "You'd think the laundry wouldhave more than one key, wouldn't you?These big fancy places don't trustanyone; shows the kind of house gueststhey must be used to, I suppose.""Oh, shut- up,t' mumbled Devereaux,who found it necessary to double-loopthe sash because the silk keptslipping. "The laundress will be herein the morning, I presume.""I'm sure of it. She's one of thefew who go home at night. To thevillage. That'll change, of course;there'll be a lot of changes.""Just tell me there'll be one changeand I'll go back and have dinner withAzaz-Varak.""Come on now, Sam, you've.got aone-track mind. Let's get on to otherthings. You sure you don't want ashirt and a pair of trousers? justtake me a minute to go upstairs...."Hawkins made a gesture past a dozen orso overstuffed, antimacassaredarmchairs toward the great hall."Nol I don't want anything fromyou! I take that back. I do wantsomething. I want you to call off thiscrazy business and let me go home!"MacKenzie bit off the chewed end ofhis cigar, spitting it between thefeet of a suit of armor. "You uphillgo home, I promise you that. Theminute you centralize the companyfinances and make a few deposits thatcan be tapped under certainconditions, I'll drive you to theairport myself. That's the word of ageneral officer."214of'"It's the reasoning of a brainsoaked in linseed oil! Do you have anyidea what you're asking me to do?That's not chopped liver you'retalking about, it's forty million dol-lars. I'm marked for life! They'llhave a record sheet on me in everyInterpol headquarters and policestation in the civilized worldl Youdon't put your name on forty milliondollars' worth of bank transfers andexpect to go back to a normal lawpractice. Word gets out.""That's not so, and you know it. Allthat Swiss banking stuff isconfidential."Devereaux looked around to make sureno one else was within hearing. "Evenif it's supposed to be, it's not goingto be once a . . . certain attempt ismade to snatch a. . . certain personin Rome! And that's all it will be! Anattempt! You'll have your ass in anet, and every contact you've madesince China will be put under amicroscope and my name will surfaceand so will forty Sucking milliondollars in Zurich and that's thebaligame!""Now, goddamn, boy, we've been overthat! Your job's finished now. Or willbe soon's you take care of the money.You don't have to be involved anymore.And you're clean, son. You're ahundred percent Clorox!""I'm not." Devereaux choked as hewhispered and clutched the eiderdownquilt. "I just told you: The minuteyou're nailed, I'm nailed!""For what? Say you happened to beright which I don't for a secondconsider remotely possible what canthey nail you for? Banking funds foran old soldier who told you he wasraising money to support anorganization dedicated to spreadingreligious brotherhood? Let me ask youa question, Mr. Attorney. Could you,under oath, testify to anywrongdoing?""You're insane!" broke in Sam,stumbling slightly as he steppedforward. "You told me! You're going tokidnap " Devereaux stopped and madecharade-like gestures that includedhauling a body over his shoulder andthe sign of the cross."Well, hell, boy, there are oathsand there are oaths! Be reasonable.Anyway, that's hearsay. Notadmissible."Sam closed his eyes; he began tounderstand what 215martyrdom was all about. He continued,his whisper strained but controlled."I walked out of those archives withthat Sucking briefcase chained to mywristl"- "Outside of that," mumbledMacKenzie. "Anyhow, that's army stuff;neither of us has much use for thearmy. Anything else?"Devereaux thought."Circumstantially, it's the mother-loving end. There hasn't been a singleaboveboard transaction.""That's subjective," said Hawkins,shaking his head, confirming his ownjudgment. "There's been no violence;no one's lied. No theft, no collusion.Everything voluntary. And if theparticular methods seem unusual,that's the prerogative of everyindividual investor, as long as hedoesn't infringe on the rights ofothers." Mac paused and held Sam'seyes. 'There's something else, too.You said yourself that a lawyer'sfirst responsibility was to his clientnot abstract moral dilemmas.""I said that?""You surely did.""That's not bad ""It's goddamned eloquent, that'swhat it is. You've got a silver tonguein your head, young man."Sam stared back at the Hawk, tryingto see beneath his guile. But itwasn't guile; he meant what he said.And since personal sincerity was themomentary leveler, Devereaux decidedto be personally sincere."Listen to me," he said quietly."Say you go through with this thisinsanity, because that's what it is,you know. Say you really do it. Youactually kidnap the pope and get awaywith it. Even for a few days. Do youknow what might happen? What you couldtrigger?""Surely do. Four hundred milliongreen samolians from four hundredmillion howling mackerel snappers. Nooffense intended, just a harmlessphrase.""No, you gung-ho son of a bitch!There'd be international revulsion!And recrimination. And then mainly ac-cusations! Governments would pointtheir fingers at other governments!Presidents and chairmen and primeministers would use blue lines and redlines and then very hot lines. Andbefore you know it, some assholerecites a code 816 ifrom a tiny black box in a briefcasebecause he didn't like what some otherasshole said. Jesus, Mact You couldstart World War Three!""Goddamn! Is that what you've beenthinking about?""It's what I've tried not to thinkabout."Hawkins threw his cigar into thecavern that was the Machenfeldfireplace and stood arms akimbo, aflame dying in his eyes. "Sam, boy,you couldn't be farther from thetruth. You know, son, war isn't whatit used to be. Hasn't any spirit to itanymore. Bugles and drums, and mencaring for men, and hating an enemybecause he can hurt the things yoplove. That's all gone now. Now it'sbuttons and shifty-eyed politicianswho blink a lot and wave their handswithout meaning very much. I hate war.I never thought I'd hear myself sayit, but I'm saying it and learning itnow. I'd never allow a war."Devereaux bored into the Hawk's eyeshe would not let MacKenzie look away."Why should I believe that? Everythingyou've done reeks of con. Immense con.Why should a war stop you?""Because, young man," repliedHawkins quietly, returning Sam's starein full measure., "I just told you thetruth.""All right. Suppose you provoke onewithout meaning to?"Goddard! Now you're pushing me toofar!" MacKenzie strode from thefireplace to a second suit of armor tothe right of the mantel. The facepiece was open so he slammed itshut-"I put in damned near forty yearsand got Sucked by the plastic meritYour Words, boy! Now, I don't feelsorry for myself because I knew whatI was doing and was accountable for myactions! But, goddamn, don't,ask me tofeel sorry for them or be accountablefor their stupidity!"So much for personal sincerity,thought Devereaux. Like Options One,Two, Three, and Four in the morning,it was shot to hell. This time in aburst of self-righteousness. There wasnothing for it but to find anotherway. One would present itself, Sam wasconvinced of that. The Hawk had a wayto go before the pontiff of theCatholic Church blessed the edelweissat Machenfeld. Something would turnup; and Option Seven Options Five andSix 217                ,                1                happily avoided was coming into focus.For the moment he had to calmMacKenzie down and under no circum-stances lose his confidence. And thenMac did have a point. A legal point.He, Sam, was clean. Legally clean.In every other way the mud was an inchthick, but in evidentiary considera-tions, he was not a good case for anyprosecutor."Okay, Mac, I'm not going to fightyou. You were screwed and I did sayit, and I believe you. You hate war.Maybe that's good enough. I don't knowanymore. Personally, I just want to goback home to Quincy, and if I readabout you in the papers, I'll rememberthe words of a scarred but honestwarrior spoken in this room.""A tongue of silver, boy! I admirethat.""As long as it's not a head of lead,I'll accept that. Do you have thepapers for the Zurich bank?""Don't you want to hear the amountI've. . . accrued for yourparticipation? How do you like that'accrued'? I'm a corporate president,you know;'we don't fuck around withsecond-rate vocabularies.""I'm impressed. What's the entryfigure?""The what?""The accrual, that's the noun rootof the verb 'to accrue.' ""Smartass shavetail. What do you sayto a half a million dollars?"Sam could not say anything. He wasnumb. He saw his hand move inastonishment, and he watched it witha certain fascination, not sure if theappendage belonged to him. It musthave; when he thought about jigglingthe fingers, they jiggled.A half a million dollars.What was there to think about? Itwas as insane as everything else.Including the fact that he was notindictable.It was Monopoly time. Let's buyBoardwalk and Park Place.Stop. Co To Jail.Why worry?It didn't do any good anyway."That's reasonable severance pay," Samsaid. ale"That's all you've got to says Withwhat I banked t'or you in New- York,you can hire that Jewish fella andhe'll be happy to take the job."MacKenzie was the injured party. Heobviously expected Devereaux topractice a little bit of hiswell-advertised overreaction."Let's say I'll erupt withenthusiasm when I'm looking at thosefigures in a bank book in Boston withmy mother sitting across the roomcomplaining about the new managementat the Copley Plaza. Okay'?""Do you know something?" saidHawkins, his eyes squinting. "You'rekind of weird.""I'm. kind of. . ." Devereaux did notfinish the sentence. There was nopoint.There was the abrupt, episodicclicking of high heels. ReginaGreenberg walked through the cathedralarch into the drawing room. She wasdressed in a beige pants suit, therather severe jacket buttoned overTitanics. She looked, well, ratherefficient, thought Sam. She smiledbriefly and addressed Hawkins."I've met with the staff. Five willstay. Three couldn't; they'd have tolive in the village and I explainedthat wasn't acceptable.""I hope they weren't hurt."Ginny laughed confidently "Hardly. Ispoke to each individually, and gaveall three two months' wages.""The rest understand theconditions?" MacKenzie reached intohis pocket for a fresh cigar."And their bonuses," said Ginny."Minimum three months. All withfamilies to explain that they've beenhired for resident staff work inFrance for the duration. No questionsare to be asked.""No different from overseas duty,"commented the Hawk, nodding his head."And the money's a hell of a lotbetter than combat pay without aweapon in sight.""The logistics are in your favor,too," continued Ginny. "Only two ofthe five are married. Not too happily,I gather. They won't miss, or bemissed.""Well have to get women, though,"countered MacKenzie, ''for R and R.I'll scout the grounds later; spec outtent arrangements far enough away fromthe maneuvers, of course. And thecounselor here is going into Zurich to219                i                take care of several financial itemsfor me. What do you think, Sam? Howlong do you figure it will be beforeyou're finished''Devereaux had to force himself toconsider the Hawk's question. He wasstunned by the obvious controlMacKenzie wielded over Ginny.According to the data banks, she haddivorced MacKenzie over twenty yearsago; yet here she was deferring to himlike a schoolgirl with a crush on herteacher."What did you say?" Sam knew thequestion but wanted a few seconds toevaluate."How long will Zurich take?""A day. Maybe a day and a half, withno hitches. A lot will depend on theaccount clearances. I think the trans-fers are coded through Geneva, but Imay be wrong about that.""Can 'hitches' be eliminated with alittle honey in the pot?""Probably. Relinquishing-of-interestcould apply. The time period's minorbut the,sums aren't. The depositorieswould pick up several thousand onpaper. That might act as a generalincentive.""Goddamn, son, you hear yourself?You hear how good you are?""Elementary bookkeeping. A triallawyer figures litigation with banksis prime-meat. They've got more waysto lie to themselves and everybodyelse~than anyone since tribes startedto barter. A decent attorney simplypicks the lies he knows will suit himbest.""You hear that, Ginny? Isn't that boysomething?!""You're mighty impressive, Sam; I'vegot to admit it. And, Mac, since themayjor here's got everything undercontrol, maybe I could go up to Zurichwith him and kind of keep himcompany.""Why, that's a splendid ideal Don'tknow why I didn't think of it.""I can't imagine how it escapedyou," said Devereaux quietly. "You'reall heart."From all points of the compass theHawk's subordinate officers arrived.They were met at the Zermatt railroad              220               1               station by the bereted, gold-toothed,cat-eyed chauffeur whose name wasRudolph. And Rudolph had a hectic twodays.Crete showed up first, withoutincident. That is, he managed to crossinternational boundaries under thescrutiny of very professionalauthorities without incident (but witha forged passport) and got as far asthe Zermatt station, where histroubles erupted. For Rudolph refusedto acknowledge Crete to be Crete inspite of the proper identity markingson his clothing, and consequentlywould not let him into his Italiantaxi.Because, for reasons that escapedHawkins, none of the G-2 data bankentries on Crete had established thefact that he was Black. Yet there itwas. Crete was a brilliantaeronautical engineer, a Sovietsympathizer as long as the Huskiespaid him, a defected espionage agentcomplete with a doctor's degree andvery black skin. Rudolph was totallybewildered, so MacKenzie had to usesome very harsh language over thetelephone with Rudolph, and finallythe berated maniac let the schwarzerin the back seat of his car.Marseilles and Stockholm were next.They flew in together out of Parisbecause they met each other on theprevious night at Les Calavados on theBoulevard George Cinque and renewed anold acquaintanceship that went back tothe days when both were making moneyfrom the Allies and the Axis. Theywere delighted to discover that theywere both on a trip to the same yellowmountain in Zermatt. Rudolph had notrouble with Stockholm and Marseillesbecause they spotted him before hespotted them and they criticized himfor his stupidity at being obvious.Beirut did not take the train fromZurich; he hired an ambulance,instead. He had his reasons; they wentback to several contraband run-inswith the Zurich police. So he flewinto Geneva, drove a rented car in thename of a socially elite transvestite,dropped it in Lausanne, contactedl'Hopital des Deux Enfants in Montreuxand leased the ambulance, ordering itto transport him as a coronary wishingto spend his last days in Zermatt. Hetimed everything to the Zurich trainhowever and all would have 221-1,gone smoothly except for Rudolph.Unfortunately, Rudolph had a flat tireon the back roads of Machenfeld, and inhis subsequent haste to reach theBahnhoff on time he had a minorcollision in the railroad station'sparking lot. With the ambulance.Therefore it was difficult forRudolph to identify the highly agitatedcoronary patient, who climbed out ofthe rear door yelling about imbeciles,with the figure whose markingsidentified him as Beirut.But Rudolph-was beginning to shrugmore and more. The master ofMachenfeld, he was beginning tosuspect, was not all there in the head.And neither were the people he was sentup to Zermatt to meet.And the lovely lady of his late-nightdreams, the beautifully breastedfraulein, had left the chateau forseveral days. Things were not the same.Rome and Rudolph got alongsplendidly. Rome lost his luggage onthe train. The combined chaos offinding his three suitcases and hiscontact from the chateau proved astrain nearly too much for Rome.Rudolph sympathized and allowed him tosit in the front seat on the trip tothe chateau.Biscay was extremely secretive. Oncehe displayed the coded identification(a pair of white gloves with blackroses stitched on the back) Biscayexcused himself to go to the men's roomand disappeared through a window. Aftera half hour, Rudolph's impatienceturned to curiosity and the curiosity,in turn, became panic when hediscovered the men's room empty. Hetried to remain inconspicuous as helooked in nooks and crannies andluggage bins. Biscay followed himdiscreetly. And it was only afterRudolph called Machenfeld in panic thatBiscay, listening from an adjacentbooth, decided that his contact wasauthentic.Biscay sat in the back seat, andRudolph did not say a single word allthe way to Machenfeld.The last to arrive was Athens. IfBiscay was suspicious, Athens wasparanoid. To begin with, he pulled theemergency cord on the train, stoppingit in the freight yards just outsidethe station. Conductors and engineersran through the cars looking for theemergency, while Athens-                 222-jumped off and raced over the tracksto the platform, where he concealedhimself behind a concrete pillar. Itwas not difficult for Athens to spotRudolph.The train finally proceeded into thestation. Rudolph examined all thedisembarking passengers; Athens couldsee his anxiety. When there was no oneleft on the platform railroadpersonnel, Athens approached Rudolphfrom the rear and tapped him on theshoulder. As he did so, he displayedhis identification (a red ascot) andgestured for Rudolph to follow him.At which point, Athens raced back tothe end of the platform, jumped downonto the tracks and started runningtoward the freight yard. He soonoutdistanced Rudolph and started aseries of l-See-You's between theimmobile cars.Five minutes later a distraughtRudolph was being comforted by theenergetic Athens as they walked out ofthe freight yards toward the taxi.And as MacKenzie Hawkins watched thecar approach from the ramparts ofMachenfeld, he congratulated himselfonce more on his professionalism.Seventy-two hours had passed since hehad begun making his coded contactsfrom the D'Accord; and in thatseventy-two hours every one of hissubordinate officers was physically onthe premises.Goddamn!Based on the accepted principle thatlarceny goes a long way in the bankingbusiness, Sam's trip to Zurich morespecifically his trip to the StastsBank to centralize the ShepherdCompany's capital was so successful sorapidly that he would be able to catchthe early afternoon train back toZermatt. And since Regina Greenbergwas out shopping, he left a messagefor her at the Hotel.D'Accord: Havegone bowling. Will be home late.He wanted those hours on the trainby himself; to think, to refine. ForOption Seven was becoming more sharplydefined as the hours passed. Duemainly to the papers he carried out ofthe bank given him by a perspiringtrust officer who was considerablyricher than he was before he'd metSam.agelAmong the fourteen documents, fourpertained to the account transfersfrom Geneva, the CaymanIslands, Ber-lin, and Algiers minus accruedinterest, of course, one listed thetotal assets of the Shepherd Company,with its bond of confidentiality, itscodes of release and the accountnumber, one was in the name of thefamily Devereaux (Sam did not explainit and the banker had asked noquestions, treating the item as thoughit did not exist); and eight separatedocuments defined eight separatetrusts.One of these accounts was largerthan the others and within it werefour individual sets of figures. . .obviously meant for four individuals.It did not take much reflection onDevereaux's part to identify them:Mrs. Hawkinses one, two, three, andfour.That left seven trusts, each with anidentical maximum figure.Seven.The Hawk's support personnel.MacKenzie had recruited seven men tokidnap the pope. (Sam couldn't imaginethat any were women, the Hawk's fourex-wives were capable of anythingcalling for feminine skills.) Theseseven were his what was itssubordinate officers. MacKenzie hadallowed that his subordinate officerswould be arriving at Machenfeldshortly."What do you mean 'subordinateofficers'?" Devereaux had asked."The troops, son, the troops!" theHawk had replied, the flame reignitedin his eyes."What do you mean 'shortly'?""We're on blue alert, boy. Thatmeans all posts are manned, contactexpected from here on in.""Like in a few days?""Maybe sooner, depending on enemycounterpersonnel blockades. Our troopswill have to cross hostile territoryon their way to base camp.""What the fuck are you talking about?""Nothing you have to be concernedwith. Just bring back that money stufffrom Zurich. Before I give my firstbriefing on the mission, I want mysubordinate officers to see forthemselves just how thoroughly commandcenter has taken care of theirinterests. It'll give 'em a real sense224of purpose, of comradeship; itemanates from the top, you know. Italways has."That other reason why Option Sevenwas coming into focus. Bring back thatmoney stuff...before I give my firstbriefing . . . command center hastaken care Of their interests.The Hawk's troops had been recruitedwithout knowing precisely what the warwas all about. Militarily speakingthere was nothing unusual in that, butconsidering the enormity of theprojected enemy s resources namely,the whole world a few well-chosenwords like, "Do you realize what thismaniac intends to do? Kidnap thepope!" and "You're dealing with acertified mental case!" and "Yourcommander is a fruitcake!" and "Thislunatic shot the jade balls off aChinese monument." things like thatcould very well make the supportpersonnel look to other fields ofendeavor.It was a question of timing. Andpsychology. If Sam read him correctly,Hawkins was going to hit hissubordinate officers with adouble-barreled salvo: a highlytechnical, strategically "feasible"description of the abduction, and bonafide documents from the Staats Bank duZurich that guaranteed each man afortune, regardless of outcome! Itwould be a tough act to cripple, butthat's what Option Seven was allabout.Sam would reach the subordinateofficersQrst. He would shootoffcannons of doubt regarding theHawk's fundamental sanity. There wasnothing more frightening to criminalunderlings than the possibility thattheir employers were unbalanced. Lackof balance meant lack of judgment, nomatter how well disguised. And lack ofjudgment could spellten-to-twenty-to-life; in this case,probably a long rope and a blindfold.Even the criminal element in Europehad to have heard of the paranoidgeneral who was thrown out of China.It wasn't that long ago. And when hehad finished this part of his oralsummation, Sam would place his highcard on the table.High? There were none higher. It wasirresistible.For on the train to Zermatt be wouldgo through the documents from theStasts Bank du Zurich, specifically225lthe trust accounts, and write out allthe numbers and the sequential codesof release, and put them on sevenpieces of paper.He would give each man a card withthe information written on it. Eachcould leave Chateau Machenfeld withoutso much as sitting through a meal,head for Zurich  and claim his monetlEach subordinate officer would makea fortune! For doing absolutelynothing. Irresistible!~ Giovanni Bombalini, Vicar of Christ,walked out into his beloved garden tobe alone. He did not wish to seeanyone or talk with anyone. He wasangry with the world, his world, andwhen one was angry it was always bestto meditate.He sighed. If he was to be truthfulwith himself he had to admit he wasangry with God. It was so senseless!He raised his eyes to the afternoonsky and a single word emergedplaintively from his lips."Why?" .He lowered his head and continueddown the path. The sprays of lilieswere in spring bloom, greeting life.As he was about to leave it.The doctors had just delivered theircollective report. His vital signswere diminishing with increasedacceleration. He had no more than sixor seven weeks.Death itself was easy. Good heavens,it was a relief! Life was thestruggle. But struggle or no, he hadnot consolidated the necessary forcesto carry on his and Roncalli's work.He needed more time; he needed theauthority of the office to bringdivergent factions closer together.Why could not God understand that?Eh, my beloved Lord? Why? Just alittle more time?-l promise not tolose my temper. Nor will I insult thenasal-toned pardon, most HolyFather the cardinal or his band ofantediluvian thieves. Six months woulddo nicely. Then I shall rest in thearms of Christ with grateful devotion.Five months, perhaps? Much could beaccomplished in five months....Giovanni tried with all his heart toperceive a heavenly 226response. If there was one, it was tooweak to get through his vital signs.Perhaps, dear Father, if you wouldspeak to the Holy Virgin? She mightfind more eloquent words to convey mysupplication. It is said that womenare more persuasive in thesematters....Still nothing. Just a minor pain inhis knees which meant the weight washard on his old bones and he shouldsit for a while. What was it thatlovely giornalista had said? Therewere certain exercisesBasta! All he needed was to collapsedoing push-pulls. Ignatio Quartzewould roll his body under the bed andthey would not find him for a week. Inthe meantime, Quartze would pack theCuria.The pontiff reached his favoritewhite bench and lowered himself on thecool stone. A breeze came from thegarden walls, fluttering the leaves ofthe tree above him. Was it a sign? Itwas refreshing. Then the breezestopped; the still air returned andthe fluttering of leaves was replacedby footsteps clattering over the path.It was the new papal aide. A youngBlack priest from the diocese of NewYork City, a brilliant student who haddone much good work in the Harlemdistricts. Francesco had sought outjust such a deserving youngprelate over considerable opposition.It was a small part of a large design."Your Holiness?""Yes, my son. You look agitated.What's the matter?"'1 think I did something quitewrong. I was bewildered and youweren't in your rooms and there didn'tseem to be anything else to do. I'mvery sorry.""Well, now, we won't know the extentof this calamity until you describeit. You didn't, by any chance, findCardinal Quartze in my closet and callthe guards?"The Black priest smiled. Ignatio hadmade clear his disapproval of theaide's appointment. Francesco tookevery opportunity to lessen theinsult."No, Your Holiness. I heard yourprivate telephone ringing. The one inthe drawer of your bedside table; itjust kept ringing."               227                l                "It would, my son," interrupted thepontiff. "It is not connected to theVatican switchboard. A minor indulgence.So you answered it. Who was calling? Onlya few old friends and an associate or twoof long standing have the number. Thereis no great harm in what you did. Who wasit?""A monsignor in Washington, HolyFather. He was very upset ""Ahh, Monsignor Patrick DennisO'Gilligan! Yes, he calls frequently. Weplay chess together long distance.""He was very excited and he thought Iwas you. He didn't give me a chance tospeak. He rattled on so fast I couldn'tstop him.""Yes, that sounds like Paddy; he's hadhis problems. The Berrigans again? Thosetwo keep busy ""NQ, Holy Father. Much worse. ThePresident called him. Something about theconfidence of the confessional, andwhether it was admissible. He wants toconvert, Holy Father!""she cosa? Madre di Dio!""It gets worse, Your Holiness. SixteenWhite House aides want to fad Jesus rightaway. Under certain conditions of Vaticanprivilege and something called Christianimmunity."Giovanni sighed. There was so much to do.- Four months, Oh, Lord?                Is                 !                         CHATTIER I1VENIYThe unfamiliar faces had one thing incommon, thought Sam. Very muscularbodies. As though each enjoyed theoutdoors, kept in trim by moving rocksunder the eyes at. penitentiaryguards. And speaking of eyes, that wasand other thing in common. All theireyes seemed a little sleepy at first,the lids half closed. But it was onlyappearance. On closer examination theeyes could be seen spinning in theirsockets like pinballs caught betweenmagnets, very little went unobserved.There was a tall, blond man wholooked like he jumped out of atelevision commercial for Scandinaviancigars, a Black who nodded silently agreat deal and spoke an Englishrefined in university lecture rooms,another darkskinned fellow withdistinctly sharp, northern featureswhose accent was like all those peoplein formal clothes at the Savoy; twoFrenchmen who had something to do withboats; a long-haired man in very tighttrousers who strutted when he walkedlike a tango dancer, aware of his assunmistakably Italian; and finally, arather wild-eyed Greek who wore a redkerchief and kept telling jokes no onequite understood.There was a soft-spoken politenessamong them that was positivelyunctuous, complemented by manners thatseemed born of breeding and wealth,were it not for the shifty eyes. Theycertainly were very much at home inthe huge drawing room of ChateauMachenfeld, where the Hawk hadeveryone gather before the latedinner.Gathered, but in the interests ofinternational security, notintroduced. No names were used.Sam had returned to the chateau atseven. It would have been an hourearlier but he had to walk the lastthree 229miles because no taxi out of Zermattwas allowed to travel beyond certainzones and Rudolph was nowhere to befound. When Sam called information forMachenfeld's telephone number, hediscovered there was no such place.It all might have taken the heartout of him, but Option Seven kept himgoing. He knew when a case was won.MacKenzie had greeted him with mixedfeelings. The Hawk was pleased that hehad brought back the financial papersso promptly, but felt that histreatment of Regina was mostungentlemanly. She was a fine girl,and now Sam could not properly saygood-bye to her.Why not?Because her luggage had been sent tothe airport. Ginny was on her way backto California, with a stop in Rome tolook at the museums.So much for Ginny, thoughtDevereaux. He was a little sad, butthere was Option Seven to think about.And he began to think the timing wasperfect.MacKenzie told him that there wouldbe no business discussed the firstevening. Just social chitchat andstrolls through the gardens andcocktails and dinner and brandy. Why?Because the troops would like achance, he believed to size each otherup, check their rooms for bugs, oiltheir weapons, and generally assurethemselves that Machenfeld was noInterpol trap. Sam could expect tohear noises during the night; most ofthe men would carry out their ownsurveillance, and that was goodbecause they would undoubtedly runinto one another and realize furtherthat everything was on the up-and-up.In the morning, when all wererefreshed, the Hawk would hold hisfirst briefing. Before he did that,however he would certainly take thetime to say good-bye to Sam. He wasgoing to miss his~young friend, noquestion about it. But the word of ageneral officer was his bond; it wasthe glue that held his battalionstogether.Devereaux's work was finished.Rudolph would drive him into Zermatt,where'd he'd take the morning train toZurich and the late-afternoon flightto New York.There was one thing Sam should beaware of, however, just in case hebecame nervous or was afflicted withhypertension. For the next month orso, several associates 230of the Shepherd Company's firstinvestor, Mr. Dellacroce, would stayin close touch with him. Their nameswere Fingers and Meat, Hawkinsbelieved; it was just a temporaryarrangement, no offense intended.Yes. Sam understood. There was nopoint in MacKenzie being redundant.Devereaux had terminated theconversation, he would shave andshower the sweat of three mountainmiles off him, and return forcocktails.In his room, Sam found the scissorsGinny had used on his underwear andcut out seven strips of paper fiveinches long, one inch wide. He wroteout the identical message on each.Vitally important you meet with mein my room third floor, rear of house,last door in the north hallway on theright. 2:00 A.M. sharp. Your lifedepends on it. I am a friend. Remembertwo o'clock this morning!He folded the strips of paper neatlyso they fit into the palm of his handand put them in his jacket pocket. Hethen removed the seven index cardsfrom his briefcase, the ones with theaccount numbers and sequentialcodes-ofrelease written on them andput them in his trousers pocket. Theywere his high cards. IrresistiblyHe returned to the drawing roomdownstairs and put to use all thesocial graces a fine Boston upbringingprovided. He shook hands with the men.And passed each his message.By one thirty in the morning he wasready. The Italian came first, hishands encased in sheer, skintightblack gloves, his feet laced inballet-like slippers with ridgedrubber soles. And then, one by one,the rest showed up in apparel not muchdifferent. There was a proliferationof gloves, and soft shoes or sneakers,and black sweaters, and narrowtrousers with thick belts holdingthicker knives, and small holsterswith single straps across smallpistols, and in several cases coils ofwire.Altogether a very professional groupof psychopaths, thought Sam, as hetold them with quiet, not completelyheartfelt authority to relax and getcomfortable, and smoke if they wished.231I .Since they all were relaxed, andmost smoking already, he wasn't sureit was a good opening. But the bestsummations were those that built fromquiet even awkward beginnings.So he began. Softly, at first.Starting with a man as a tribal being,looking to the heavens for meaningbeyond his daily battle for survival,finding solace in that which he couldnot really comprehend, because therewas comfort in primitive faith. Therewas structure, an organization tonatural phenomena, and that meantthere had to be a force, a mind, aprofound all-knowing intelligence thatconceived the whole. Yet could neverbe truly understood.There was beauty in that lack ofunderstanding, for men strove beyondthemselves for the all-seeing,all-knowing force that created theearth, created them, knew them  lovedthem.Without this search, man was ananimal. With it he reached out, andcompassion became a part of him.Sam explained that symbols andtitles were not important inthemselves, for correlations could bedrawn between all religions. Theessence was the differentiationbetween good and evil. But symbols andtitles held mystical meaning, andprofound comfort, for millions ev-erywhere. Faith. The poor and theoppressed prayed to them, held them inreverence and hope. And for millionsthese symbols were the warm light intheir unceasing winters of darkness.Devereaux paused. It was the momentfor a crescendo.'Gentlemen, facing you is a crime ofsuch monstrous porportions, a crime ofsuch profound evil a crime whichcannot possibly succeed and can onlylead each of you to your death, or toa life endured, not lived, in a brutalprison cell. For within the walls ofthis chateau is a man who would robyou of your most pricelesspossessions! Yourfreedom! Your verylives! For he conceives the impos-sible. In his unbalanced woefullyunbalanced mind he is convinced he canovercome the swift and terrible reac-tion, the vengeance, of the entireworld! He expects to lead you into thegaping jaws of oblivion. He intends tokidnap the pontiff of the CatholicChurch! He is, in a word, insane!"              232               I               Sam stopped. He bored his eyes intothe face of each man. Cigarettes weresuspended in midair, mouths were openin disbelief, eyelids were stretched,stares conveying a paralysis born ofshock.He had them! The jury was in thepalm of his hand! The phrases had comeout like thunder!It was time for his high cards.Those irresistible figures andsequential code words that would makeeach man in the room rich. Very, veryrich. For doing nothing but avoidingthe risk of oblivion.' Gentlemen, I realize the state ofshock you're in and it pains me to seeit. It pains me to have caused it. Asthat great Roman, Marcus Aurelius,observed: We must all do what we haveto do, at the moment fate demands thatwe do it. But as the Indian prophet,Baga Nishyad, also observed: Bucketsfilled with tears can be spread overgrain and the rice will grow likejewels. I do not have jewels,gentlemen, but I do have riches foreach of you. Deserved rewards. Sums ofmoney that will lessen your pain, andsend you back to the lands of yourchoice, to live in freedom, freedomfrom fear, from oblivion. And fromwant. Here. I pass among you thesesmall index cards. Each is a passportto your personal nirvanas. Let meexplain."And Sam did.And the seven subordinate officersstudied the cards, glancing at oneanother as they did so."Do you speak French?" asked one ofthe Frenchmen.Devereaux laughed a touch too gailyhe felt. "Not really.""Thank you," said the Frenchman,turning to the others. "Vous parley loosfran~aisi"To a man they nodded affirmatively.So they all began speaking French.Quietly. Rapidly. Until seven headsnodded once again affirmatively. Samwas touched; he knew they were tryingto find a way to thank him.Which was why he was bewildered whentwo of the men suddenly approached andgrabbed him, spun him around, andbegan wrapping his wrists in wire.               1 ~                "What the hell are you doing?" heyelled. "What are you doing to myhands? And what the hell is that?"He gestured his head at the redkerchief the Greek had whipped fromhis neck and was now twirling.- 'And what the hell are they?!"He referred to a number of metalliccracks that sounded strangely likeweapons being inspected."We have that compassion you spokeof, monsieur," said the Frenchman. "Weoffer a man the choice of a blindfoldbefore we execute him.""What!?""Be brave, signore," said theItalian. "We all know this business.We accept the odds or we do not play.""Ya," added the Viking. "It is agame. Some yin. Some lose. You lost.""Whaaat?!"'wake him dawn to the patio," saidthe second Frenchman. "We'll tell thestaff it's target practice.""Mac! Maac! Maaac!" He was led downthe hallway. Several pairs of handsclapped themselves over his mouth hebit them. "For Christ's sake! Hawkins'Where the fucka,.. .are your!Again the hands clamped over hisface. The cordon marched withprecision down the hallway toward themagnificent winding staircase.Devereaux again forced his mouth openand bit furiously at the flesh aroundhis teeth; hands and arms whipped backmomentarily. It was enough for Sam tokick out behind him and for an instantfree himself.He raced and plunged bodily down thecurving steps, tumbling over and overas he fell."Hawkins! You son of a hitch, getout here! These maniacs want to shootme!"He bounced over the treads, careenedagainst the wall and plummetedshoulders over backside down into thelast straightaway. His shouts wereprogressively blurred, but the overallmeaning was unmistakable."Shit-kickers! Blindfolds ouch!Pistols! Goddamn  you oh ohh .Hawkins! Uhu! Jesus my head!"He reached the bottom of the staircase,a disheveled 234heap. The Hawk strode through thecathedral arch from the drawing room,a cigar clenched between his teeth,several folded maps in his hand. Helooked at Sam on the Roorand then upat the band of subordinate officers..'Coddamn, boy! This changeseverything!"Once again his clothes were taken.Only now there weren't even anydresses in the closet. His meals werebrought up by Rudolph.The Hawk explained that it had takena command counterdecision to save hislife; and the troops did not like itone bit."For a fact, I nearly had a mutinyon my hands before the brigade set itscolors," Hawkins had told him the nextmorning."Set its what? Never mind, don't tellme.""I mean it, son. I had to take sternmeasures and let them know right offthat in matters of extreme prejudice,no authority regardless ofconsensus exceeded that of a fieldgeneral. It was touch and go for awhile, but I've handled the roughestin my day. Those pups, good as theyare, Weren't any match. It's in theeves, boy. Always the eyes."I don't understand," Devereaux hadmoaned sincerely. "I spelledeverything out beautifully. Iunraveled the whole ball of wax. Thebackground, the motive. Jesusl Eventhe money! I had them!""You had nothing," the Hawk repliedconcisely. "You made two big mistakes.To begin with, you assumed that sucha group of men, such a fine contingentof officers, would accept moneysurreptitiously, without earning it"Get off it!" Devereaux had roaredhis interruption. "You can't sell thathonor-among-thieves bullshit becauseI won't buy it!""I think you're misjudging, boy, butif that's the way you see it, there'syour second mistake to consider.""What mistake?""One of the oldest traps in Interpolis to set up a hot bank account andsend someone after it. I'm surprisedyou didn't know that. You set up sevenall at once."               235               .~.                l                Sam had retreated under theeiderdown quilt and pulled it over hishead. Unfortunately, he could notblock out MacKenzie's words."You know, Sam, life is a series ofcompartments, some related to eachother, most separate. But every oncein a while these parallelcompartments, as I call them, have toacknowledge one another's existence.Now, you saved my life in Peking. Youbrought to bear your skills and yourexperience and kept me from thatoblivion I hear you talked about. Andlast night, here in Switzerland, Isaved your life. Using what skills andexperience I have. We're even. Ourcompartments in this area aren'tparallel anymore. So don't Suck son.I can't be responsible. And that's theword of a general officer."By the end of two weeks, Sam wassure he'd lose what was left of hissanity. The mere thought of clothesdrove him mad. Throughout his! lifeclothes were an accepted part ofliving sometimes pleasant, evenego-fulfilling  but they had not beena subject he ever dwelled on for anylength of time.That's a nice jacket; the price isokay. Get it. Shirts? His mother saidhe should get shirts. What's wrongwith Filene's? So I'm a lawyer. Okay,1 Press. Shirts and gray flannels.Socks? His bureau drawer somehowalways had socks in it. And shorts andhandkerchiefs. A suit was a pretty bigoccasion, the few times in his adultlife when he went out and bought one.Still, he'd never been tempted to haveone tailor-made. And in the goddamnedarmy, his civilian jackets andtrousers were on hand only becausethey meant a change from the goddamneduniform. No. Clothes had never been amajor factor in ho life.They were now.But necessity~art of which was notlosing one's sanity was the mother ofinvention. And truer words were neversaid. So Sam began to invent, and thethesis of his invention was that hewas undergoing a sincere change ofposition..It had to be gradual, based onavailable alternatives. Since he wasso completely, intrinsically, legallyenmeshed in the Shepherd Company'soperations and since all ave836nues of separation had been blocked,what was the point of fighting anylonger? Life was compartmentalized;and he was locked into a big vaultnamed MacKenzie Hawkins  which alsoheld some forty million dollars, whichwas a lot of chopped liver.Maybe, just maybe, his negativeapproach was selfdefeating, all thingsconsidered. Perhaps, just perhaps, heshould be putting his energies intoproductive channels; find areas wherehe could contribute. After all, therewas one indelible bottom line. If theShepherd Company got blown up, a hellof a lot of shrapnel would find itsway into the hide of the second andonly other corporate officer ofrecord.These were the conjectures he beganto put into words haltingly, withoutmuch conviction at first duringMacKenzie's daily visits at the startof the third week. But he realizedthat simply saying them was not verypersuasive. The Hawk had to see hismind working, observe thetransformation.By Wednesday he had built up to thefollowing:"Mac, have you considered the legalaspects after you know, after ""Ground Zero's good enough. Whatlegal aspects? Seems to me you'veobliged nicely in that department.""I'm not so sure. I've been involvedin a fair amount of plea bargaining.From Boston to Peking.""What are you talking about?""Nothing. I was just oh, nothing."By Thursday, this: "There could beconsequences abler. . . this GroundZero. . . that you haven't thoughtout. A cancer could be growing on thepresidency of the Shepherd Companythat ultimately may cripple theoffice.""Spell it out, boy.""Well.... No, never mind. It's justconjecture. What was all that noisethis afternoon? It sounded very excit-ing "The Hawk squint-eyed him beforebeing pulled into the question."Goddamn, it was exciting," heanswered after several seconds."Nothing like the evolvement ofprecision in maneuvers! It fires up aman's heartl What the hell were youtalking~about? This cancer stuff."- 237"Oh, forget it. The old legal brainwas just wandering. Are the maneuversreally all that. . . top drawer?""Yeah . . ." Hawkins rolled thecigar from one side of his mouth tothe other. "They're all right, Iguess."On Friday: "How was the practicetoday? Sounded great.""Practice? Goddamn, it's not practice,it's maneuvers!""Sorry. How were they?""A little sloppy; we've got some minordifficulties.""Sorry, again. But I've gotconfidence in you. You'll straightenthings out."`'Yeah. . ." The Hawk paced at thefoot of the bed, his cigar a mashedpulp. "I may have to pick up a fewdiversion troops. Two or three, that'sall. I wasn't concentrating. And,goddamn, Sam, I would have beenon-thebarrel-sight except for thetrouble you've caused!""I told you. I really regret allthat. I wasn't concentrating "MacKenzie stopped and blurted outthe words. "Do you mean that?""Yes," replied Devereaux slowly,with conviction. "The first thing alawyer learns is to deal with facts,hard evidence. All of it, not just thebits and pieces. I isolated. I m trulysorry."I won't pretend to understand thatbullshit, but if you feel the way Ithink you're saying, what the hellwere you talking about yesterday? And,damn it, the day before. Those'consequences' after Ground Zero."Bingo! as they said in Boston,thought Devereaux to himself. But heshowed no emotion, he was the calmprobing attorney with his client'sbest interests at heart. "All right.I'll spell it out. I know those trustaccounts Mac. Excluding the one majortrust, which I gather is yours, yourseven men can draw (or have theirconsigners draw) up to three hundredthousand on the basis of the firstcode releases. The second codereleases are on a printout sheet inone of the other documents. The print-out requires your countersignature andI assume you'll send it to Zurich justbefore you leave for Ground Zero. AmI right so far?""I really skull-sessioned that trustbusiness. What's wrong?""Nothing. Yet. With the second releaseeach man has a a3stotal of five hundred thousand,correct? That's his fee, right? A halfa million for Ground Zero. Everybodythe same."Not bad for six weeks' work.""There are other things to consider.Plea bargaining on a large scale caninclude more than immunity. And notjust through writing a book, althoughI understand a lot of cash is funneledthrough publishers these days.""What are you talking about?" TheHawk quashed his cigar out on thebedpost."What's to prevent any or all ofyour subordinate officers from goingstraight to the authorities throughintermediaries, of course and makingseparate deals? After the fact. Theyhave your~money; they avoidprosecution because they cooperate.Remember, we're talking about one ofthe biggest scores in history. Theywould make a few thousand on top ofwhat they've got."MacKenzie's squinting eyes suddenlywidened in relief. Andself-satisfaction. There wasdefinitely a sense of triumph in hisgrin. "Is that what you've troubledyourself over, boy?""Don't make light of it '"Hell, no, I won't. And I didn't.None of my men would do anything likethat. Because they're going to want todisappear like jackrabbits runningfrom a brush fire. They won't surfaceanywhere for fear of colliding witheach other.""Now I don't understand," said Samdejectedly.The Hawk sat on the bed. "I'vecovered all that, son. Sort of in thesame way I lashed you to the loadedhowitzer. You gave me the idea. Iintend to say good-bye to each officerseparately. And with each I'm going tohand him an open-faced bearer bondworth an additional half million. Andtell him he's the only one getting it.Because like a good general officerI've kept my combat logs, and inrereading them I realized the missioncould not have been successful withouthis particular strategic contribu-tions. They're hung. Both ways. A manwon't inform on a crime that couldn'thave been committed without hisexpertise especially when it's worthan additional half million and he sureas hell doesn't want his fellow con239.               1               spirators to know he got preferentialtreatment to the tune of a halfmillion.""My Godl" Sam could not stop theadmiration from creeping into hisvoice."Clausewitz makes it clear that youdon't engage the Berber in the sameway you do battle with the king'sdragoons. It's a question ofapplicable tactics."Devereaux, once again, was struck bythe Hawk's sheer boldness. He spokesoftly, barely above a whisper,"You're talking about Jesust three anda half million dollars!""That's correct, you add real quick.And a million apiece for the girls,that's four more million. Plus theoriginal compensation for theofficers, another three and a half.And for your information, though Ishould probably reconsider, I've gotanother bearer bond Fir you. That's amillion on your paysheet.""What?""I kind of suspected you neverunderstood the forty-millcapitalization. I didn't just come upwith a figure, you know. That sum wasarrived at after very carefuldeliberation. I got a booklet from theSecurities and Exchange Commissionwhich told what to look for in soundcorporate financing. You see, beforethe company even markets its services,we have a preoperation salary outlayof close to fifteen million; thenthere was the capitalization expenses,including travel and front money andfinder's fees I Linda screwed you onthat, son, but I knew you had goodthings coming and the corporate realestate and the equipment indigenous tothe marketing sources....Involuntarily, Sam's ears distortedthe sound waves. Isolated phrases suchas "aircraft purchases estimated atfive million," and "shortwavecommunication relays coming in at amillion-two," and "refurbishing, andsupplies," and "additional companyoffices" all these came through withsufficient clarity to make Sam wonderwhere he was. Stark naked under aneiderdown quilt somewhere inSwitzerland, or fully clothed in aboardroom somewhere in the ChryslerBuilding. Unfortunately for the stateof his stomach, everything cametogether with the Hawk's briefsummation.240"This SEC booklet was very specificabout liquid assets available forreserve capital. It recommended apoint spread of twenty to thirtypercent. Then I checked out thecustom-of-the-trade practices withlimited partnership agreements andfound that the overcalls weregenerally ten to fifteen percent,which struck me as inadequate. So Iskulledabit and decided on twenty-fivepercent plus. And that's what we'vegot. The budget projections prior tomarketing come to just about thirtymillion. Taking that as the basefigure, you add twenty-five percentplus, or ten million for contingency.That makes forty million and that'swhat I raised. Damned sound economics,I'd say."Devereaux was temporarily speechless.His mind was racing but no words came.MacKenzie the military fruitcake wassuddenly Hawkins the conglomeratefinancier. And that was morefrightening than anything he hadpreviously considered. Militaryprinciples (or lack thereofwhen combined with industrialprinciples (of which there was a lackthereof did a military-industrialcomplex make. The Hawk was a walkingmilitary-industrial complex!If there was strident urgency inSam's stopping MacKenzie before, itwas tripled now."You're invincible," said Samfinally. "I rescind all my previousreservations. Let me join you, reallyjoin you. Let me earn my sillymillion."-               241                      ClIAPI`ER TWENTY-ONEEach officer had been assigned a colorin French. Not only was French spokenby everyone, but the sounds of thecolor words were more distinctive inFrench than in any other language.The AmeicanNegro from Crete wasIVoir; of course. The Viking fromStockhohn, Cris; the Frenchman fromBiscay was Bled, while his countrymanfrom Marsilles was Vert thedark-skinned non-Black from Beirut wasBran; Rome was Orange; and t'inally,Athens was Rouge, in honor of his everpresent kerchief. To instill asense~of discipline and identity amongthe men, the Hawk further insistedthat the word "Captain" precede eachcolor.This aspect of authority andidentity was desirable becauseMacKenzie's second command bynecessity stripped his men of theirspecific individualities. For GroundZero's assault was to be made instocking masks. Head and face hairwere to be at a minimum; skinspowdered or bleached to mediumCaucasian hues, and all ambulationwhich, no 'doubt, had been studiouslydisguised, drastically changed.The men accepted the order withoutquestion. Razors and scissors andbleaching agents went to work; nonehad any desire to stand out any moredistinctly from his fellow officersthan basic nature dictated. There wassecurity in anonymity, and they knewit.The maneuvers progressed into thefourth week. The forest road borderingthe Machenfeld field had been shapedto cvntorm as accurately as possibleto the site of Ground Zero; bouldershad been moved, trees uprooted, wholeareas of bush transplanted. A secondlocation had been selected andcosmeticized: a winding, narrow, backroad that descended a relatively steephill in the woods.242iIn redesigning both these sites themen worked from enlargedphotographs 123 photographs, to beexact  sent by an agreeable tourist inRome by the name of LillianvonSehnabe. However, Mrs. von Schnabedid not take credit for her films. Asa matter of fact, the rolls were sentundeveloped by two relays of couriersunknown to each other and delivered toa bewildered Rudolph in Zermatt. Inseveral cases of tampons. Rudolph putthe strange cargo in the trunk of hisItalian taxi, underneath the tools. Aman had his dignity to consider.On the third day of the fourth weekthe Hawk scheduled the first completerun-through of the assault. Bynecessity it was a start-stophold-to-position exercise as the menswitched around, assuming the pivotalroles of the adversary. Motorcyclesraced, limousines sped, figures instocking masks leaped from theirstations to perform the tasksassigned. Using a stopwatch, MacKenzieclocked each phase of the maneuver; hehad developed eight basic phases forthe entirety, from incursion toescape. And goddamn, his officers wereprogressing beautifully! They knewthat the overall success of GroundZero depended on the complete successof each individual assignment withineach speciBc phase. The concept offailure was not attractive.Which was why the captains objectedunanimously to the Hawk's primetactical innovation: total absence ofhand weapons. A well-placed knife ora rapidly exercised garrote had servedthem all in past skirmishes, moreoften than not being the differencebetween survival and capture. ButMacKenzie was adamant: It would beboth guarantee and proof that no harmwould come to the pope until theransom was paid. Therefore, allpistols, knives, coils, foot studs,knee cleats, finger points evenpig-iron knuckles were eliminated.Forbidden, too, were any forms ofhand-to-hand above the level of basicjukato.Eventually, they accepted thelimitations. "In Sweden there is asaying," intoned Captain Gris in hisNordic lilt. "One Volvo in the garageis worth a lifetime of passes on theScandinavian railroad. I shallaccommodate the commander.""Oui," agreed Captain Bleu, theFrenchman from Biscay. 243~ For the recompense involved,.! shallsing them to sleep with Gascognelullabies, if it is required."But lullabies were not required.Instead sleep was to be induced byhalf-inch hypodermic needlesdispensing solutions of sodiumpentothal. Each officer would beoutfitted with a thin bandolieracrosshis chest, which carried tinyhypodermic needles in small rubberreceptacles where once had beenbullets. They were easy to extractswiftly. If administered properly,within a three-inch diameter on thelower right area of the neck, theanesthetic would take effect inseconds. The problem was merely toimmobilize the victim for those briefmoments until the drug causedcollapse. It was not a difficultproblem and since there'd beconsiderable noise from the vehicles,even a partial scream or two might gounnoticed.So the officers, heeding the wordsof wisdom from Gris and Bleu,reevaluated their objections to theHawk's order. In a way it was achallenge; and none were interested inlifetime passes on the Scandinavianrailroad. Not when he could own afleet of Volvos.Each captain's expertise was calledon. Captain Gris and Bleu were mastersof camouflage- and escape cartography.Captain Rouge was an expert indemolition; he had personally blown upsix piers in the Corinth strait whenit was rumored the American fleet wassailing in. Sedative medicines were aspecialty of the Englishman, CaptainBrun, who had darkened his skin for alife in Beirut, most narcotics heldinterest for him. Aircraft technologyand electronics were coveredbrilliantly. The first, of course, wasthe bailiwick of Captain Noir, whoseexploits in Houston and Moscow werelegend. The second was the province ofCaptain Vert, who found it necessaryin Marseilles to devise anextraordinary variety of radiocommunications. It was such a busyport; and Interpol was alwaysunderfoot.Lastly, native orientation was leftto Captain Orange, who knew Rome likethe back of his constantly gesturinghand. He would write out fulldescriptions of eightinnocuous-looking sets of clothingthat blended into the current dress,and further, he would provide aminimum 244of four separate methods oftransportation, using publicconveyances where feasible, to thesite of Ground Zero. For during thefinal days of the fourth week, eachcaptain was to travel to Rome andpersonally survey the assault area.The airfield at Zaragolo would be noproblem; they agreed to that. Andneither would the helicopter at GroundZero. It would be flown in the nightbefore the assault. Grisand Bleuassured them the camouflage would beundetectable.Coddamn, thought MacKenzie as hesnapped the stopwatch at the end ofthe maneuver's Phase Eight. Twentyoneminutes! In another day or so it wouldget to the optimum eighteen. He felta surge of pride in his once bemedaledchest. His machine was emerging as oneof the finest ministrike forces in themilitary books.Even the three privates (thediversionary troops) were splendid.They had but two functions: scream andlie still. But as was proper for thelowest enlisted ranks, they knewnothing. They had been recruited byCaptain Brun from the poppy fieldshigh in the Turkish hills, to whichthey would return the instant GroundZero was terminated. They'd been hiredto perform at a fixed price, did notcare to know anything and, naturally,were housed by themselves in enlistedquarters and did not eat at theofficers' mess.They were called simply: Privates One,Two, and Three.The run-through completed, theofficers gathered around the Hawkbeside the huge blackboard he'd set upon an A-frame in the field. Sweat waspouring- through their stocking masks.Those in priestly habits took them offcarefully, studying them for repairsthat might be needed; and theinevitable cigarettes and matches cameout of pockets. No lighters;fingerprints could be lifted fromlighters.The three privates, naturally, wentoff by themselves. In sight but notwithin hearing. Enlisted personnelwere not privy to tactical analyses,it was not proper.The analysis began. Althoughimmensely pleased Hawkins did notdwell on the positive; he told themtheir mistakes, 245marking up the blackboard with hiscriticisms with such sharp authoritythat the officers cowered like rebukedchildren."Precision, gentlemen! Precision iseverything! You must never allow yourconcentration to lapse, even for asecond! Captain Noir, you're cuttingyour time too close between Phase Oneand your station in Phase Six. CaptainGris you had trouble with your cassockover the uniform. Practice it, man!Captains Rouge and Brun, your execu-tion of Phase Five was just plainsloppyl Take out that radio equipment!Go over your moves! Captain OrangelYours was the most serious lapse ofail!""she cost I make no mistakes!""Phase Seven, Captain! Without theproper execution of Phase Seven, thewhole mission goes up in mortar smoke!That's the exchange, soldier! You'rethe one who speaks Italian best. I putthis Frescobaldi in the pope's car andtake the pope. Where the hell wereyou?"'In position, Generale!""You were on the wrong side of theroad! And Captain Bleu, for an expertat camouflage, you stuck out like aplucked duck in your Phase Fourstation! Cover; man! Use the foliagefor cover!"Now, as to this latrine rumor thatsome of you are unhappy over PhaseEight, the escape routes to Zaragolo;that a few of you figure we shouldhave two copters at Ground Zero. Well,let me tell you, there's no contingen-cy for radar, gentlemen. One smallbird with Italian air force markings,flying low, can get through. Twochoppers would be picked up on ascanner. I don't think any of youcotton to having your asses a thousandfeet in the air surrounded by thewhole guinea air force. No offense,Captain Orange.'The captains looked at each other.They'd obviously discussed Phase Eightamong themselves, and since the smallhelicopter at target center waslifting out only the Hawk, the pope,and the two pilots, they had grumbled.But the commander painted a convincingpicture. The escape routes on theground had been exhaustively analyzedby Gris and Bleu, who were not onlythe best in the 246business, but who would be using themas well. It was conceivable that theground was safer."We withdraw our objections," saidCaptain Vert.'Good," said MacKenzie. "Now let'sconcentrate on "It was as far as he got. For in thedistance, across the south field,running through the grass was thefigure of Sam Devereaux in sweatpants, shouting at the top of hislungs."One, two, three, fourl What do welike ~ jog for? Good health, goodhealth! Five, six, seven, eightl Getthe weight! Out of the freight! Four,three, two, one! Jogging is a lotoffun!""Mon Dies!" cried Captain Bleu. "Theso*-headed one never stopst He hascarried on so for five days nowl""Before we rise in the morning!"added Gris. "During rest periods,whenever there is a peaceful moment heis below the windows, shouting."The other captains joined in achorus of agreement. They had acceptedthe general's decision not to shootthe idiot, even grudgingly allowedthat there was no harm in letting thefool out of the room to exercise aslong as two guards from the Machenfeldstaff were assigned to him. Thejackass wasn't going anywhere; not insweat pants, with no top, over a highbarbed-wire fence that led only toimpenetrable Swiss mountain forests.But they had drawn the line regardingthe clown's participation in GroundZero.So here he was, trying to impressthem with his training. A patheticallypoor athlete who cannot make the team,but will not stop tryin"All right. All right," sathe Hawk,suppressing a laugh. "I'll talk to himagain, make him quiet down. He's justdoing it for your benefit, you know.He really wants to join the bigfellas."He was driving them all crazy, andhe knew it. Of course there were timeswhen he thought he might collapse fromexhaustion, but the knowledge that hisgrotesqueries were having theirdesired erect kept him going. Everyoneavoided him, some actually ran at thesight of 247...him. His insane behavior had become anirritating, aggravating joke. Alreadythree dogs which had appeared out ofnowhere to guard him were taken fromthe corridor outside his room to thestaff quarters below because of theirincessant barking. And he made it apoint to run by the staff arearepeatedly. The hounds, themselvesweary of being screamed at for theirperfectly natural reactions, nowmerely raised their heads and staredwith hatred at him from behind thegates as he passed by.As did the staff and MacKenzie'sofficers. Sam was a loud nuisance, ajoke that had worn thin. What washappening, of course, was that he wasbeing taken for granted. And in a fewdays he would take advantage of thatscorn.Although he was not allowed to eatwith Mac and his band of psychopaths,the Hawk was considerate enough tocontinue visiting him every day in thelate afternoon when Sam was broughtback to his room and the sweat pantsremoved. Devereaux understood. Hawkinsneeded a sounding board for hisenthusiasms. And, bragging, he droppedthe information that he and his menwould be away for a day or two toexecute a surveillance check of GroundZero. They would then return for anylast-minute alterations of strategy.But Sam shouldn't be concerned. Hewould not be lonely at Machenfeld.What with the guards, and the dogs,and the staff.Sam smiled. For when the Hawk andhis freaks left the chateau, it washis own personal Ground Zero. He hadbegun to prime his guards, thewild-eyed Rudolph and some obviouskiller with no name. He had convincedRudolph and No Name on severaloccasions to sit in the middle of afield as he ran around it. It was notdifficult they were grateful to bestationary. They simply sat in thegrass with two ominous looking pistolstrained on him as he jogged andintermittently stopped to performcalisthenics. On each occasion he hadgradually widened the distance betweenhim and his guards so that thisafternoon he was nearly 250 yards awayfrom them.The army had taught him sornethirq;about small weap248ons,heknew that there was no handgun thatwas any damned good beyond thirty yards.Not in terms of accuracy, scatter shotwas something else, but he had to takesome chances. Stopping the Hawk was thekind of objective that in war made heroesof unheroic soldiers. What had MacKenziesaidP "It's commitment. Nothing takes itsplace. All the ammo in the world can't bea substitute...."Sam was committed. The prospects ofWorld War Ill loomed larger every day.His plan was simple. . . and relativelysafe. He had been tempted to give it anoption number, but his options had notbeen noticeably successful so he decidedagainst it. He would Jog here in thesouth field, as he was doing now wherethe bordering forest was thickest and thegrass higher than in the other pastures.He would widen the distance betweenhimself and the guards as he had donethis afternoon and institute intermittentcalisthenics. Among them pushups. Whichnaturally brought him close to theground, below the [ever of the grass.At the proper moment, he would crawlaway as fast as he could toward theforest, then race to the fence. However,when he reached the fence, he would notclimb it. Instead, he would remove thesweat pants properly  torn and throw them over. And then, ifall went as it should, if Rudolph and NoName were racing in several directionssat once, he would scream as thoughseverely- ~ hurt and get the hell out of the area.Into the thickest woods.Rudolph and No Name would naturally runto the spot at the fence, see the sweatpants on the other side, and undoubtedlytake the appropriate actions: One wouldgo over the fence, while the other racedhack to the chateau for the dogs.At which point Sam would wait until heheard the barking. Then he would returnto Machenfeld, go in through the door,steal clothes and a weapon. From thatpoint to an automobile in the circulardrive, and a pistol to threaten thegatekeeper, had to be clear sailing.It had to belWhat could go wrong?249The Hawk wasn't the only one capable ofstrategies. He'd learn not to mess witha Boston lawyer who worked for AaronPinkus!The shouts interrupted his thoughts. Hewas within sight of the maneuver area,he could see the strange looking roadsigns and the vehicles. Rudolph and NoName were yelling at him to come back.Naturally, he would oblige; he was notpermitted to observe maneuvers."Sorry fellas!" he yelled breathlesslyas he reversed direction, his legspounding the soft earth. "Let's headdown to the gate and back and call it adays"Rudolph and No Name grimaced and got upfrom the grass. Rudolph gave him afinger; No Name a thumb to the teeth.Sam made it a point every afternoon toend his jagging with a run down to themain gate. It was a good idea to studythe premises as thoroughly as possiblein anticipation of his escape. It wasconceivable that he might have tooperate the mechanism himself, dependingupon the state of panic at the moment.If it was maximum (as MacKenzie ; wouldsay) the gate might even be left open.He contemplated this possibility as hisfeet clattered over the boards on themoat, when suddenly his musings werereplaced by a feeling of discomfort. Fordown at the gate a long, black limousinewas being admitted with much bowing-andobsequious grinning on the part of thegatekeeper. And when he heard the wordsshouted from the driver's seat as theautomobile was expertly whipped out ofthe gate area toward him, he froze andinstantly considered drowning himself inthe Machenfeld moat."I don't believe it!" yelled LillianHawkins van Schnabe at the wheel. ' SamDevereaux in sweat pants! God almighty,you took my advice. You're toning upthat wreck of a vessel you live in!"And if he considered drowning himselfat Lillian's words, the next voice heheard drove him to the railing."You surely look better than you did inLondon!" shouted Anne from Santa Monica,Mrs. Hawkins number four  Sloping yetArgumentative. 'Your little trip musthave ;done you a world of good!"aso         -             CHAPTERDevereaux's escape plan did not becomeunglued as had Options One throughFvur. Neither was it bypassed asOptions Five and Six had been. Nor hadit exploded in a torrent of abuse aswas the fate of Option Seven. It was,however, postponed.He suddenly had two additionalguards to contend with, one of whomwas as much a shock to the Hawk asboth were to Sam. MacKenzie admittedit. Casually, without letting it upsethis schedule; merely using the realityto bolster his overallstrength turning a liability into anasset."Annie's got a problem, counselor,"the Hawk said back in Devereaux'sroom. "I think you might give it somelegal thought. Do something about itwhen this is over.""All problems pale intoinsignificances '"Not hers. You see, Annie'sfamily the whole goddamn t:amilv spentmore time in prison than out of it.Mother, father, brothers she was theonly girl they had record sheets thattook up most of the precinct files inDetroit.""I never came across any of that.It's not in the data banks." Devereauxwas momentarily sidetracked from hisown concerns. MacKenzie wasn't tryingto con him now. There was no fire inthe eyes, only sadness. Truth. Butthere hadn't been any mention of acriminal record in Anne s dossier. Ifhe remembered correctly, shed beenlisted as the only daughter of twoobscure Michigan school teachers whowrote poetry in medieval French.Parents deceased."Course not," said the Hawk. "Ichanged all that for the army. Andeverybody else, mainly her. It was abig hangup for the girl; it washolding her back., MacKenzie 251                i                1                lowered his voice as if the words werepainful, butnevertheless a reality that could not bebrushed aside."Annie was a hooker. She fell into poorways very artifi-cial ways for her when she was growingup. She workedthe streets. She didn't know any betterthen. She had nohome life, most of the time no home.When she wasn'thooking she'd spend her time inlibraries, looking at allthe pretty magazines, imagining what itwould be like tolive decent. She was constantly tryingto improve herself,you know. She never stops reading, evennow, always afterbettering herself. Because underneaththere's a very fineperson. There always was."Sam's memory went back to the Savoy.Anne in bedwith a huge, glossy paperback of TheWives of Henry Vlllon her lap. Then later, the words spokenwith suchconviction in the foyer doorway as shewas about to getdressed. Words that meant a great dealto her. Devereauxlooked up at the Hawk and repeated themquietly. "'Don'tchange the outside too much or you'llmess up the inside.'She said you told her that."MacKenzie seemed embarrassed. It wasobvious he hadnot forgotten. "She had problems. Like Ijust said, under-neath there was a very fine person shedidn't recognize.                   rHell, I did. Anybody would.""What's her legal problem?" Sam asked."This goddamned gigolo-waiter husband ofhers. She'sstuck with that fucker for six years;helped him go from ahot-pants beach boy to owning a coupleof restaurants. Shebuilt those restaurants. She's damnedproud of them! Andshe likes the life. Overlooking thewater, all those boats,nice people. She lives descent now, andshe did it.""So?""He wants her out. He's got himselfanother woman andhe doesn't want any lip from Annie. Aquiet divorce andjust get the hell out.""She doesn't want the divorce?""That's immaterial. She doesn't want tolose the restau-rantsl It's principle, Sam. Theyrepresent everything she'sworked for.""He can't simply take them. There's theproperty set-258tlement to consider, and California lawsare rough as hell." "So's he. He wentback to Detroit and dug up her policerecord.'Sam paused. "That's a legal problem,"he said."You's work on it?""There's not much I can do here.It's a confrontation problem, bigattack variety. Fire fi:'r fire, digup counteraccusations." Devereauxsnapped both his finger~the legalwunderkind making a brilliantdecision. "Tell you what. Let me outof here and I'll fly straight toCalifornial I'll hire one of the bestLA private detectives like ontelevision and really go after thisprick!'"Good thinking, boy," replied theHawk, clucking his tongue in respect."I like that aggressive tone; you bearit in mind for later. Say, in a monthor two.""Why not now? I could ""I'm afraid you can't. That's out ofthe question. You're here for theduration. Talk with Annie, though.Learn what you can. Maybe Lillian canhelp; she's a resourceful filly."With these words MacKenzie dispensedwith his liability and gained anasset: Sam now had two additionalpeople to keep an eye on him. He mightoutwit Rudolph and No Name; the girlswere something else again.Within hours after their arrival,however, it was apparent to Sam thatLillian would have very little time topay attention to him. In her usualforthright manner she plunged intofurious activity, commandeering two ofthe Machenfeld staff to help her. Thework began first thing in the morningwhen the brigade went out formaneuvers.Upstairs. In the top floor rooms andon the ramparts of the chateau.There was the banging of hammers andthe whirring of saws and the crackingof plaster. Furniture was carried upand down the long winding staircase;those pieces too large or too awkwardwere raised and lowered by putties andropes over the outside walls. Scoresof potted plants and bushes and smalltrees were placed. around thebattlements seen from the ground bySam for he was not permitted above thethird floor. Paints and brushes and253panels of wood were transported dailyby Lillian and her two helpers andwhen Sam could no longer politelyignore her labors, he asked her whatshe was doing."A little arranging, that's all," shereplied.Finally, crates of crushed stone andwashed gravel were hoisted up thewalls, accompanied by several concretebenches and (if Sam was not mistaken,and being from Boston he was not) amarble prayer stall.It was suddenly very clear toDevereaux exactly what Lillian wasdoing. She was turning the top floorand the ramparts of Chateau Machenfeldinto a full-fledged papal residence!Complete with apartments and gardensand prayer stallslOh, my God! A papal residence!Anne, on the other hand, spent mostof her time with Sam. Since MacKenziehad deemed it improper for the girlsto eat at the officers' mess it wasdiversionary for women to break breadwith a strike force prior tocombat Anne and Lillian were assignedtheir meals in Devereaux's room, Samunder the eiderdown quilt,~ of course.But Lillian was rarely there; shespent most of her timeupstairs arranging.So Sam and Anne were throwntogether. On a surprisingly platonicbasis. True, he made no pass, but shemade no offer either. It was as thoughboth understood the insanity whirlingaround them, neither wanting the otherto be involved, each, in a very realsense, protecting the other. And themore they talked together, the moreSam began to understand what MacKenziemeant about Anne. She was the mostgenuine, guileless person he had evermet in his life. All the girls weredevoid of artifice, but there wassomething different about Annie.Whereas the others had reached certainplateaus conscious of their worth,Annie was not satisfied. There wasabout her a delightfully irreverentsense of purpose that proclaimed forall the world to hear that she couldexpand, could experience but goodheavens! one did not have to be gloomyabout- it.Devereaux recognized his imminentdanger: he could get reallysidetracked. He began to think that hehad been looking for this girl forabout fifteen years. 254And he couldn't think about that.Another plan had come into focus. Onehe knew would work.-The very day Hawkins and hisbrigade of banana cap" tains took offfor Ground ZerolThe last sweet and sour strains ofthe orchestra filled the theater.Guido Frescobaldi took his curtaincalls, wiping a tear from his eyes. Hehad to shed his art and think ofthings plenipotentiary now. He had tohurry to his dressing room and lock uphis makeup box.The call had come! He was going toRomel He was going to be embraced byhis beloved cousin, the most belovedof all popes, Giovanni Bombalini,Francesco, Vicar of Christ! Ohh! Suchblessings had come to himl To bereunited after all these years!But he could say nothing. Absolutelynothing. That was part of thearrangements. It was the wayBombalini  Madre di Cristo PopeFrancesco wished it, and one did notquestion the ways of so munificent apontiff. But Guido did wonder just alittle bit. Why did Giovanni insistthat he tell the management that smalllie that he was going to visit familyin Padua, not Rome? Even his friend,the stage manager, had winked when hetold him."Perhaps you might ask your familyto pray to Saint Peter for a littlesacred fire, Guido. The box office hasnot been good this season."What did the stage manager know? Andwhen did he know it?It was not like the Giovanni of oldto be secretive. And yet who was he,Frescobaldi, to doubt the wisdom ofhis beloved cousin, the pope.Guido reached his small dressingroom and.began to take off hiscostume. As he did so his eyes fell onhis Sunday church suit, pressed andhanging neatly in the center of thewall. He was going to wear it on thetrain to Rome. And he suddenly feltvery ungrateful and ashamed ofhimself.Giovanni was being so good to him.How could he even think a compromisingthought?The lady journalist who was bringingthem together had assasked for all his measurements. Everylast one. When he asked why, she toldhim. And he had wept.Giovanni was buying him a new suit.The Hawk and his subordinateofficers from Rome. The final check ofGround Zero had gone off without ahitch; no alterations were required.Further, all intelligence data hadbeen gathered and processed. Usingbasic surveillance techniques employedin hostile territories, Hawkins haddonned an enemy uniform (in this casea black suit and a clerical collar)and obtained a Vatican pass, andidentification that certified him tobe a Jesuit doing an efficiency studyfor the treasury. He had free accessto all calendars and personnelschedules. From apartments tobarracks.They all confimned the Hawk'sprojections.The pope would leave for CastelGandolfo on the same day he had chosenfor the past two years. He was anorganized man; time was to beallocated properly with regard toneeds and functions.. Castel Gandolfoexpected him, and he would be there.The pope would use the same modestmotorcade he had employed previously.He was not a wasteful or pretentiousman. One motorcycle point with twofront and rear flanks. Basic. Thelimousines were restricted to two: hisown, in which his most personal aidesaccompanied him; and a second, forsecretaries and lesser prelates, whocarried his current working papers.The route of the motorcade was thescenic road he had spoken of withfeeling whenever he mentionedGandolfo: the beautiful Via AppiaAntica, with its rolling Ells andremnants of ancient Rome along theway.Via Appia Antica. Ground Zero.The two Lear jets had been deliveredto Zaragolo. It was an airfield forthe rich. The small Fiat sedan, whichwas the diversion equipment for theTurk privates, had been purchased byCaptain Noir, in the name of theEthiopian embassy. It was parked in anall-night garage next to a policestation where the crime rate was at aminimum.as6GuidoFrescobaldi was on his way toRome. Regina would handle him. She'dput him up at a pensrone she rentedcalled The Doge, on the Via DueMacelli, right near the Spanish Steps,and take good care of the old manuntil the morning of the assault.` Andfirst thing that morning she'd loadhim up with a thiopental solution thatwould keep him on a harmless high fordamn near twelve hours.The Hawk planned to pick Guido up inthe Fiat on his way to Ground Zero. Ofcourse, Regina would have him properlydressed by then, with a very largeovercoat that covered his fancyclothes. Skirts, really.There was only one last item to takecare of. The two limousines used inmaneuvers had to be driven to a placecalled Valtournanche, several milesnorthwest of the Alpine town ofChampoluc. To a little-used privateairfield frequented by the jetsettersheading for their ski.chalets. Thelimousines were a natural. They wereregistered to nonexistent Greeks, andthe Swiss never bothered Greeks whocould afford such automobiles.Lillian could take care of thetransfer. Oversee it, actually. Shecould use the two men who had helpedher shape up the pope's BOQ. Once thecars were in position they couldvanish along with Lillian. Mac, ofcourse, would give them bonuses.He'd get rid of Rudolph, too, andthat psycho, what'shis-name, theminute they were back from Ground Zeroand the pope was safely secretly inhis quarters. The chef had to stay;what the hell, even if he did find outwho he was cooking for, he was aFrench Huguenot wanted by the policein sixteen countries.That left Anne. And Sam, of course.He could handle Sam. Sam was solashed to that loaded howitzer he waspart of the casing. But he couldn'tfigure out Annie. What was the girl upto? Why wouldn't she leave? Why hadshe used his own oath against him?"You gave your solemn word that ifever any of us came to you. in need,you'd never abandon us. You'd neverallow an injustice to be done if youcould prevent it. I'm here. I'm inneed, and an injustice has been done.I've nowhere else to go. Please let mestay."t57Well, of course, he had to. Afterall, it was-the word of a generalofficer.But who's Could it he Sam?Coddarnn!So he would die in Gandolfo. Itcould be worse, thought GiovanniBombalini, gazing out the windows ofhis study. A half century ago all hehad to look forward to was a gravesitein the Gold Coast, preceded by a long,drawnout Last Rites ceremony deliveredhalf in Latin, half in Kwa with swarmsof flies circling hs head. Gandolfocertainly held advantages over thatexit.He would be able to work better,too, at Gandolfo, use the weeks leftto straighten out his own affairs,which were minimal, and do his best toset a course tor the immediate futureof the Church. He would bring with himseveral hundred analyses of the mostpowerful dioceses throughout the worldand issue scores of promotions;balancing, but balancing in favor ofyounger, more vigorous perspectives.Which often had nothing to do withyouth.He had to keep reminding himselfthat the intractable old guard was notto be scorned, and should not be. Theold war-horses had gone throughecclesiastical battles unknown to thevast majority of those who screamedfor reform and change. It was not easyto alter the philosophies of alifetime. But the Jine old war-horsesknew when to step aside and graze inthe pastures, ready with anaffectionate eye to offer advice whenasked, compassion regardless. Theothers the Ignatio Quartzes of theworld needed a push.Pope Francesco decided that amonghis last acts would be a littlepushing. It would take the form of aLast Rites Dissertation to be read tothe Curia after his death, and thenmade public. It was a bitpresumptuous, he supposed, but if Goddid not want him to complete it, Hecould always summon him at His will.He had begun the dissertation,dictating to the young Black priest.And he had sent a papal memorandum toevery office in the Vatican appointinghis young aide as executor of hispersonal effects in the event he wascalled by the arms of Christ.assGiovanni was told that IgnatioQuartze threw up for nearly an hourafter receiving the papalinstruction. It must have wreckedhavoc with the cardinal's nasal pas-sages."Your Holiness?" The young Blackaide came through the door of thebedroom carrying a suitcase. "I can'tfind the miniature chessboard'. It'snot in the drawer with thetelephone."Giovanni thought for a moment, thencoughed an embarrassed laugh. "I'mafraid it's in the bathroom, Father.Since Monsignor O'Gilligan solved hisconversion problems by explainingpenance, he's been an absolute terrorin his moves. Concentration wasrequired.""Yes, sir." The young priest smiledas he put down the suitcase. "I'llput it in the vestment trunk.""Are we about packed? I say 'we,'but you've done the work.""Almost, Holy Father. The pills andthe tonics will stay in mybriefcase.""A little fine brandy could do justas well.""I have that, too, Your Holiness.""You are truly a man of God, my son."              259               CHAPItERTVIENIY THREERIGIRATII COSTRUZIONE!The large metal sign was secured to thecenter of the wooden barrier whichstretched across the width of the backcountry road.                    -  -It looked very official, right down tothe last tiny red reflector, and theimposing insignia of Rome's municipalgovernment. It also officially closed offa section of the Via Appia Antica to allapproaching vehicles, offering instead adetour cut out of the forest down theAppian hill. And since this particularstretch of the Appian road was thenarrowest on the entire route, there wasno feasible alternative to the detour ifthe vehicles in question were larger thanthe smallest Fiat. Not even the size ofthe Fiat sedan which the Hawk had drivenout of the garage next to the policestation and which now lay overturned atthe bottom of the hill.Any larger automobile would not have roomto turn around. To reverse direction adriver would have to steer his carbackward for the better part of a mile,over countless potholes and aroundnumerous blind curves. Of course the samedriver might opt for negotiating the wideexpanses of fields that regularlyinterrupted the Appian forests, but theywere filled with rocks and mounds andintermittent stone walls, some built inancient times. The fields were not onlytreacherous, but it was against the law todrive on them.These thoughts went through CaptainNoir's head, his black face powdered underthe stocking mask, as he lay motionless inthe bushes off the side of the road beyondthe barrier. He had heard the sounds ofthe motorcycles in the distance.260All was ready.Ground Zero had arrived.The location was perfect. Only treesand fields hills the general hadplanned well. The abduction couldprobably be carried out on thisisolated stretch of road without thedetour but in some ways the detour wasthe most important aspect of GroundZero. The vehicles could turn aroundby inches but they wouldn't. Theywould use the detour.Still, in case they didn t, CaptainNoir held in his hand a piercing,high-frequency whistle. Its use meantthat Plan Able, Phase One, PositionsOne through Three were aborted,instantly implementing Plan Baker,Phase Double Zero, Positions OneHundred One through One Hundred Ten:abduction farther up the Appia.Down the road beyond the barrier,the blue helmet with the white crossenameled on the steel stood out likean enormous jewel in the Italiansunlight. It was on the head of themotorcycle patrolman in front of thepapal column; the Vatican point, asthe general termed him. The uniformedofficer was traveling at medium speed,any faster on the old road would beuncomfortable for those in thelimousines.The patrolman spotted the barrierwith the large official sign and droveup to it. Captain Noir held hisbreath. The officer jumped off hismotorcycle, kicked out the stand, andwalked up to the obstruction. Heraised his eyebrows in bewilderment,looked beyond the barricade for signsof construction and grumbledunintelligibly.He turned and held up his hands. Thelead automobile had reached a pointapproximately a hundred feet from thebarrier.The patrolman returned to his idlingbike, mounted, swung the bars, droveswiftly to the lead limousine, andspoke excitedly to those inside.The rear door opened, a priest in ablack cassock got out. He and thepatrolman walked back toward thebarrier, their attention on thesloping road down the Appian hill. --IThere was rapid, indistinguishablechatter between them; and then aseries of gestures that conveyed onlyindeci'-        261sign. The priest turned, picked up thecloth of his cassock, and trotted backpast the lead car to the papallimousine.Captain Noir could not see too well,but the slight Appian breeze carriedthe sounds of more excited chatter.Noir swallowed and gripped thehigh-frequency whistle in his hand.Then to his great relief he heardlaughter. And the priest returned tothe lead car, nodded his head,gesturing to the left at thepatrolman, and climbed back into thelimousine.An adventurous decision had justbeen made; the general knew his enemy.The motorcade turned left down thehill, led by the patrolman. All thevehicles entered cautiously, at veryslow speeds, and when the two rearmotorcycles reached the first curve onthe slope, Noir got out of the grassand raced to the barrier, pulling itacross the opening of the detour. Heripped off the top sign revealing thesecond:DINAMITE! FERMAI PERICOLOIHe had done it! By God, he'd doneit! He had escaped Flynn Machenfeldand was on his way to Rome, and ifeverything held firm, no one wouldknow he was gone until morning! Thenit would be too late! The Hawk wouldbe on his way to Ground Zero!There was no way they could know hewas gone. Unless they broke down thedoor to his room, which was highlyunlikely under the circumstances. Annewasn't talking to hire; she'd stampedoff to her room in the south wing. Hehad provoked an argument that could beheard on the peaks of the Matterhorn,eliciting language from her she musthave learnedirom her felonious family.Rudolph and No Name wantedabsolutely nothing to do with him.Especially proximity. After the battlewith Anne he had proceeded to complainto his guards of sudden, agonizingpains in his groin. He had doubled upand screamed."Oh, Jesus! It's Kuwaitiencephalitis! I saw it in the Algeriandesert five weeks ago! Oh, my God! Icaught it! The testicles swell likebasketballs, but heavier! I've got tohave a doctor! Get me a doctor!"262"No doctor. No outsidecommunications until master ofMachenfeld returns." Rudolph wasstern."Then you better watch it!" Samcontinued. "It's highly contagious!"Whereupon he had fainted, clutchinghimself through the sweat pants.Panicked, No Name and Rudolph movedback swiftly against the wall in thedrawing room. Revived but in agony,Sam crawled out of the room and up thestaircase. To meet h* Maker in peace,and with enormous testicles.Rudolph and No Name stayed wellbehind until Sam reached h* room andclosed the door. When he opened thedoor for one last time he saw that hisguards were far down-the hallway withdouble handkerchiefs fled aroundtheirfaces, aerosol cans ofdisinfectant billowing clouds of sprayaround them.The coast was clear! For abeautiful, foolproof exitiromMachenfeld.Lillian and two of the staff weredriving the limousines to an airfieldsomewhere south. He'd overheard theHawk explaining the route to Mrs.Hawkins number three; the trip wasfour hours long and it was vital thatshe position the vehicles on a mad bythe west highway of the airfield.An airfield!That meant airplanes! Andairplanesilew to Rome! And even ifthey didn't or wouldn't there weretelephones! And radios!His new plan had jelled instantly.He would be inside the trunk of thesecond limousine, the one being drivenby a member of the chateau staff. Ithad been a simple matter to jam thelock of the vehicle's trunk while hehad been saying good-bye to Lillian,helping her with the suitcases.As soon as h* guards disappeared inthe cloud of disinfectant, Sam tiedthree blankets together, scaled downto the ground from the balcony, racedto the limousine in the drive, andcrawled into the trunk.Once inside' he wrapped the blanketsaround h* upper body, grateful hestill had h* sweat pants, and waited.He was counting on nature to providehim with a shortcut to his objectiveand he was not disappointed.The limousines sped through the gateand the trip had               263                l                l                begun. After three and a half hours ofbouncing, plunging, climbing, andracing through the Swiss mountains,Sam heard the rapid blasts of thelimousine's horn. Within secondsthere'd been a corresponding reply inthe distance, from the leadautomobile, and the car slowed downand stopped. The driver got outquickly. Devereaux could hear thefootsteps outside the trunk. And thenhe'd heard the unmistakable mutedsplashing.He opened the trunk, climbedsilently out, and hit the urinatingSwiss with a jack handle.Before a half minute had passed,Devereaux had removed the man'strousers, jacket, shirt, and shoes.Pulling on the trousers and thejacket enough to obscure him in thenight darkness he had raced around tothe door and leaped into the driver'sseat, tapping the horn twice as asignal to resume the trip.Lillian honked back, and startedoffimmediately.The airfield at Valtournanche(that's what the sign had said) didpresent a minor problem, but it wasmore than compensated for by theextraordinary sum of money Sam foundin the jacket he had taken from theSwiss. Five thousand dollars,American! The Hawk must have given thestaff member a bonus!It automatically gave birth toanother, incredible plan! Amagnificent finale!He could stop the Hawk without thepolice! Without the authorities! Stophim cold, dismantle Ground Zero anddisperse the brigade all at the sametime! With no Bring squads or hangmenor life imprisonment in the offing! Itwas perfect. Beyond error.There was a curve in the road on thewest border of the airfield. Samslowed his limousine, and the instantLiUian's vehicle rounded the turn, hestopped the cat; turned of theignition, grabbed the shirt and theshoes, jumped out, and raced into thewoods.He waited in the darkness for theinevitable. Lillian's automobile couldbe heard in reverse gear. She and herescort got out and ran back to theabandoned second car."Isn't that the limit!" Lillian wasangry. "The ungrateful worm chickenedout at the last moment! And after Macgave him all that money. WeU, itdoesn't surprise me. His neck               264                muscles had no tone; it's always asign of weakness. Come on! Get in!We're almost there."An hour later Devereaux, dressed ina leather jacket and baggy trousersoddly too large for his frame, wascounting out $2,500 to a stunned pilotin a Valtournanche hangar, the fee fora rushed, unscheduled light to Rome.Sam had chosen a man quite a bitsmaller than himself, with no apparentmuscle tone whatsoever. Pilots whotook this kind of employment were notgenerally considered to be of thehighest moral character. He didn'tcare to be rolled and dropped off intoan Alpine mountain pass.But he had made it! They wereairborne! They'd reach Rome wellbefore dawn. And then he, SamDevereaux, the finest young attorneyin Boston, would deliver the bestsummation of his career.Captains Gris and Bleu, dressed intight-fitting police uniforms, stooderect and motionless behind the trunksof two Appian maples on opposite sidesof the winding road motionless exceptfor their right hands, which theyflexed at their sides, thumbscaressing the short hollow needlesthat protruded from the invertedrings.As the commander had predicted, thetwo motorcycles at either side of thepapal limousine had dropped back andnow rode parallel in front of thebikes flanking the rear. And again, asthe commander had projected, the noisewas deafening.One by one the vehicles passed. Asthe final two patrolmen came betweenthe two maple trees, Gris and Bleuleaped out, hammerlocked both men withtheir left arms, and each plunged asmall needle into his man's neck.Within seconds the patrolmen werelimp.Gris and Bleu lowered themotorcycles~between their legs anddragged each body off into theunderbrush. Together they entered thewoods and raced diagonally downhillthrough the tangled foliage toposition themselves for their nextassignment. Secreted in these posi-tions were the cassocks they wouldslip over their uniforms.adsCaptains Orange and Vert lay ontheir stomachs across from one anotherhidden by the tall weeds. Their postswere at the start of the second curveon the descending side road. Throughthe dense reeds they saw and smiled asthey did so that the two finalmotorcycles failed to appear. Theother team of patrolmen struggled tokeep their bikes upright, ridingbehind the second limousine.Captain Orange crossed himself asthe pontiffs vehicle passed.Captain Vert spat. It was long pasttime for the Church to install aFrench pope; the Italians were pigsabout that.The papal car turned into the finaldownhill curve. Orange and Vert sprangup and out and executed the practicedmaneuvers with lightning-swiftdispatch against the motorcycleescorts.The patrolmen collapsed; the papallimousine was entering the turn at thebase of the Appian hill. There wereonly seconds remaining before thedetonations of Phase Four, the smokebombs from the overturned Fiat. Orangeand Vert ran to their nextassignments the most prestigious ofall: Phase Seven. Phases Five and Six,the destruction of the communicationsequipment and the sedation of thepapal entourage, would be occurringany second.Phase Seven was the zenith of GroundZero: the exchange of the popes. GuidoFrescobaldi for Giovanni Bombalini.The explosions from the Fiat werepositively frightening; the screams ofthe hysterical Turks terrifying. TheHawk grinned in appreciation. Goddamn!What a beautiful sight! All that smokeand noise and well, the screams wereoverdone.The motorcade stopped in shock,agitated voices swelling. Onemotorcycle and two limousines in anisolated back country road bordered bya steep hill on the south side and atall, thick forest on the north.Optimum, observed the Hawk, holdinga weaving Guido Frescobaldi in thebushes.Captain Noir reached his post andsignaled Captains Rouge and Brun; theywere strung out at ten-yard intera66vals, prepared for the moment toimplement Phase Five: the destructionof all communications equipment.It came.The single Vatican policeman jumpedoff his motorcycle and ran toward thesmoking Fiat with the trapped, scream-ing passengers. Every door of bothlimousines was swung open. The driversand the priests screamed and wavedtheir hands and shouted orders ateveryone and no one, then ran towardthe overturned car.Now!Dressed as priests, Noir, Rouge, andBrun dashed from their hiddenrecesses. Brun and Rouge plunged intothe front seat of the first limousine,ripping out every wire in sight. Noirraced to the second automobile, thepapal car, and dove through the opendoor toward the equipment.Suddenly a hand lashed out over theseat, followed by an arm extendingfrom a white cassock. But the hand andthe arm were not white. They wereblack!And the grip that held Noir'sneck accompanied by the swift, hardrabbit punches that hammered hishead was a street tactic Noir knewwell. It was indigenous to a plot ofturf called Harlem!Noir wrenched his aching, poundinghead and was suddenly, astoundingly,face to face with a brother!A brother in the honkey white robes ofthe Church!It went against Noir's grain tocoldcock a brother, but there wasnothing for it. The Catholic kid wasgood, but he hadn't taken advancedtraining above 138th Street andAmsterdam. Noir twisted his thumb andforefinger into the sensitive flesh,the Black priest screamed and releasedNoir s head as Noir yanked him halfwayover the seat. He sighed as he choppedthe Catholic kid at the base of theskull. He immediately went about hisbusiness, ripping wires and smashingdials. The fat old honkey in whiterobes~the man, himself, figuredNoir leaned forward and pulled the kidinto the back seat, cradling the kid'shead as if the kid was really hurt."He'll be okay, pops. I don't knowhow you boys do it. I swear I don't!The Baptists got his turf tied up inribbons. They've got rhythm! Course,you ve got the cops...."267Son of a bitch! What the hell elsecould go wrong? What other delays wereconcealed in the blinding sunlight ofRorr~e's Leonardo da Vinci Airport? Itwas a nightmare being played out inthe bright morning without benefit ofsleep!The goddamned, dwarf son of a bitchof a pilot from Valtournanche insistedthat his aircraft be cleared by thenarcotic inspectors! Nobody gave adamn if a plane flew in six vaults ofstolen gold, or undeclared diamonds,or eyes-only defense plans for all ofNATO, as long as there wasn't a jointon board! No amount of protesting onSam's part made any diffemacewhatsoever Well, yes it did. It causedhim to be stripped and searched.''Per favom, signom. Where is yourunderwear? Where did you leaveits Search the plane again!""That's crazy!" screamed Devemaux."How could a pair of shorts -"she cosa?" inquired the capitanosuspiciously."Shorts!" Sam outlined a pair ofbriefs. "Whem could I hide . . ."'Ah haaa," interrupted thecapitally. "The mountain Swiss wearlong underwear. With pockets. Andflaps. And many buttons. Buttons arehollow.""I'm not Swiss! I'm American!"The capitano's eyebrows shot up ashe loweKd his voice. 'Ah haaa Mafia;SignOKPAnd so it went until Sam haddispensed ten one-hundred-dollarAmerican bids, which happened tocoincide with the end of thecapitano's shift, whereupon Sam wasreleased."Where can I get a taxi?""Have your money exchanged first,signom. No taxi has change forAmerican one-hundred-doUar bills.""I don't have any hundreds left. Onlyfive hundreds.""Then they will cad the police. Forcertainly such money cannot possiblybe authentic. You will need lim."- Oh, my God, the police! thought Sam.The police and hysterical taxi driverswere the last thing he wanted. Theydefinitely were not part of hs grandfinale to thwart the Hawk.And so he spent the better part of anhour in the 268exchange line only to be told by thelady with a moustache that bills of suchdenominations had to be examined byspectographs."Thank you, signore," said the face offur finally. "We have processed theseunder four different machines. They arevery nice. Here is your fire. Do youhave an empty suitcase?"It was 9:45. Still time! A taxi intoRome took about an hour when oneconsidered the traffic, and then perhapsa half hour to get to the southernoutskirts where he could pick up the ViaAppia.The ride down the Appia couldn't bemore than twenty minutes or so. He wouldrecognize the signs he had seen duringmaneuvers, he was sure of that. He'dreach Ground Zero with at least a trayhour to spare!-He'd stop the Hawk, prevent World War111, eliminatethe specter of life imprisonment, andgo home to Bostonwith a real Swiss bank account!Goddamn! If he had two cigars, he'dsmoke them both at the same time!He ran across the terminal to thedoors under the signs that read Taxi inthree languages. He raced breathlesslyonto the concrete.Up and down the whole area werehundreds of immobile dories fined withluggage. Groups of men were gathered inthe street, close to riot.Sam approached a tourist. "What's goingon?""Goldanged guinea bastards called acab strikel" Sam backed away. He hadseveral million fire stuffed in hispockets like football pads. There had tobe somebody in one of the parking lotswith an automobile.He found him. At twenty minutes pasteleven. And offered money. The faster hedrove the more thousands of fire hewould get. The man agreed.11:32! He would make illHe had to!It was the summation of his life!Why was he kidding himself? It was hislife.Gris and Bleu pulled at the clericalropes around their cassocks. They wereon their knees, concealed by the 269dense underbrush and cascadingbranches at the base of the hill bythe edge of the old road. Both wereprepared to spring through the foliageto execute Phase Six, theimmobilization of the moto'rcade. Theoverturned Fiat was directly in frontof them, the smoke billowingeverywhere, the five papal aides, thetwo chauffeurs and the remainingpatrolman all making genuine attemptsto reach the screaming Turks.The numbers presented no problem.Once Gris and Bleu joined thesmoke-engulfed melee, they would workswiftly, their church habits adding tothe confusion. It would be a simplematter to incapacitate one adversary,then another. Rouge would join them onthe west flank, intercepting anyonewho might discover the conspiracyprematurely, and make a dash for thelimousines.Now!Gris and Bleu lunged out of thebrush into the confusion of smoke,screams, and flailing arms, their widecassocks billowing, rings at theready.One by one the members of the papalentourage collapsed to the ground,beatific smiles on their peacefulfaces."Tie them! Give me some coral"yelled Gris to the Turks as the three"victims" crawled out of the windowsand from under the car."Not tight, you maniacs!" added Bleuharshly. "Remember what the commandersaid!""Man Dies!" roared Bleu suddenly,grabbing Gris's shoulder, pointing tothe ground beyond the rising smoke."Qu'est-ce que c'est pa?"In the middle of the road, halfwayto the limousines, lay Rouge flat onhis back, one arm raised, the wristbent, as though frozen inmid-pirouette. The stocking mask couldnot disguise the expression ofOlympian repose underneath. In theconfusion, he had tripped over hiscassock, plunging his needle into hisstomach."Quick!" yelled Gris. "The antidote!The general thinks of everything!""He has to," said Bleu."Now!" ordered the Hark, holdingGuido Frescobaldi, who had suddenlyraised his voice- in song.270Across the dirt road, Mac could see(grange crossing himself as he leapedout of the bushes toward the papallimousine. It was wasted motion, hethought; the pope was not going toattempt any escape. He had helped hisaide down on the seat and was gettingout of the car, his face wrathful.The Hawk took Frescobaldi by thehand, and led him toward thelimousine."I bid you good day, sir," said theHawk to the pope. It was a propermilitary salutation for a surrender.'lAnimale!" roared the pontiff in aroll of thunder that reverberatedthroughout the Appian forests andhills. "Uccisore! Assassino!""What's that?"''Basta!" The thunder cracked again.And the lightning was in Francesco'seyes; the eyes of a giant in the bodyof a mortal. "Take my life! You killmy beloved children! The children ofGod! You slay the innocent)! Send meto Jesus! Kill me, too! And may Godhave mercy on your soul!""Oh, for Chri for heaven's sake, shutup! Nobody's going to kill anybody.""I see what I see! The children of Godare slain!""That's plain horseshit! Nobody'shurt, and nobody's going to get hurt.""They are all morto," saidFrances'co, with less conviction, hiseyes darting everywhere inbewilderment."No more than you are. We wouldn't betying them up if they were, would we?Orange! Over here!""Sl, Generate." Orange came aroundthe hood of the limousine, crossinghimself repeatedly.'tGet that colored boy out of thecar. Must be a house guest of the popehere.""That man is a priest. My personalaide!'"You don't say? Must be a fine ladwith the choirs. Easy, Orange," saidMacKenzie as the Italian pulled theunconscious Black prelate from theautomobile. "Put him in the brush andloosen that big robe. It's too damnhot for~ ,,ponchos."You mean," asked Giovanniincredulously, "they're all alive?""Certainly, they're alive," repliedMacKenzie, signaling            271            Vert to prepare Frescobaldi for theexchange; the pope's double satserene.--"I don't believe you! You'vemurdered them!" roared the popesuddenly."Will you keep quiet!" The Hawk didnot ask a question. ' Listen to me. Idon't know how you handle yourcommand, but I assume you can tell ifa soldier's alive or not."she coca?. .""Captain Gris!" yelled MacKenzie tothe masked Scandinavian tying up apriest by the hubcaps of the firstlimousine. "Lift that man up and bringhim here, please."Gris complied. MacKenzie took thepontiffss right hand."Here! Put your fingers on the sideof the throat next to the collar bone.Now, see? Do you get pulse?"The pope's eyes narrowed, hisconcentration on the touch. 'Theheart . Yes. You speak the truth. Theothers? They are the same? The heartsbeat?"1 gave you my word," said the Hawksternly. "1 must reprimand you, sir.Opposing commands do not lie whencapture is secure. We're not animals,sir. But we haven't much time." TheHawk gestured for Vert to bringover-the narcotized Frescobaldi. "I'mafraid we'll have to change some ofyour clothes. I'll have to " ~MacKenzie stopped. Pope Francescowas staring at Frescobaldi. It was thefirst moment he had taken cognizanceof the singer who was clean shaven andnow, without his moustache, lookedmore like Giovanni Bombalini than didBombalini himself."Guido! It is Guido Frescobaldi!"The pontiff's Voice could have beenheard in the Bay of Naples, so loudwas his roar. "Guido, my own flesh! Myblood! It- is Guidol Madre di Dio! Youare a part of this this heresy?!"Signore Guido Frescobaldi smiled."she gelida . . . marina . . . a rigidoesanime . . . ah, la-la . . .14-laaa.. ~ .""It's him, all right, but he's beena little out of things since thismorning. And will be for a whilelonger. Come on, now. We've got to getsome of that hardware off you and onhim. Captain Orange? Captain Vert?Give Mr. Francesco a hand."an"Them!" The Hawk spoke in the tonesof a victorious general officer. Heheld the grinning GuidoFrescobaldi bythe shoulders, admiring the finalresult. "He looks real fine, doesn'the?"Francesco, transfixed, could nothelp himself. "Jesus et SpiritusSanctus. The ugly Frescobaldi ismyself. It is a miracle of God.""Two like-spits in the gunnery pool,Mr. Pope!"The pontiff was barely audible. "Youput . . . Frescobaldi . . . in thechair of St. Peter?""For about two hours with luck by mycalculations.""But Why?""Nothing personal. I^understandyou're a very nice fellow.""But why? In the name of God, why?That is no answer.""Didn't expect it to be," repliedthe Hawk. "I just don't want youscreaming your head off. You've got amighty loud voice."Then I shall be screaming my headout if you do not tell me....Aiyeeeee! ...'"All right! All right! We'rekidnapping you. Holding you forransom. You'll be fine no harm willcome to you and that's the word of ageneral officer."."The conference was interrupted byCaptain Gris and Bleu, who raced upand snapped to attention."The area is secured, General," barkedGris."All sedations are completed," addedBleu. "We are prepared to move.""Good! Let's move then. Troops!Evacuate the area! Prepare to executeescape procedures! By your numbers!Move!"As if on cue, the sounds of therevving helicopter could be heard fromthe camouflaged area fifty yards awayfrom the center of Ground Zero.And then there was another sound.From the road at the top of the Appianhill: A car screeching to a halt."Stop!" came a plaintive wail fromthe woods. "For Christ's sake, stop!""What2""Mon Dieu!"273"she rosa?!""I say!""Tokig!""Bakasi!""Shit!"Sam stumbled down the old dirt road onthe hill. He came racing around the lastcurve and fell to one knee.Giovanni Bombalini watched inastonishment; automatically he gave thekneeling figure his rather confusedbenediction, ' Dens et f glib""Will you shut up!" MacKenzie glared atFrancesco. "Goddamn, Sam! What the hellare you doing here? You're supposed to besick as a dog ""Listen to me, everybody!" broke in Sam."Everyone gather aroundI" He struggled tohis feet; the captains stood where theywere, their faces betraying a certaininsensitivity. "Escape! Run for yourlives! Leave this man alone.! It's a trap!Machenfeld has fallen! It happened lastnight! Hundreds of Interpol police areswarming..." Sam's jaw was suddenly agaping orifice as he stared at the Hawk."What did you says""You're a real pistol, son. I respectyour moxie, like I said before. But Ican't say you have much respect for myknow-how." MacKenzie snapped one of thestraps that crisscrossed his chest overhis field jacket. It was attached to alarge leather case that was lashed overhis hip. "No assault operation ever staysout of contact with its command center.Not since 1971, anyway. Hell, I used topatch relays from Ly Sol in Cambodia rightstraght down to the Mekong units.""What2""Tri-arced, high-frequency radio contact,boy. Set a schedule and receive-sendsimultaneously. You're dated, Sam! As ofan hour ago the only thing swarming aroundMachenfeld were butterflies. I don't knowhow you did it, but you're mighty luckyyou got here alone.... Come to think ofit, you'd he a damned fool to get here anyother way. All right, men! Resume PhaseEight! Come on, Sam. You re going for aride. And I tell you this now, boy. Anymore trouble and I'm going to open a doorat two thousand feet and you can fly byyourself"274                -'"Mac, you can't! Think of World WarThreel""Think of a nice free-fall without aparachute straight into a plate ofspaghetti!"And then there was another sound. Afrightening one. From the top of thehill. From the road again.The captains and the Turks froze.The Hawk whipped his head around andup toward the Via Appia.The pontiff said one word."Carabinieri."The whining, jarring, two-notescream of the Italian state policesirens could be heard in the distance.Drawing nearer."Goddamn! How?! What the hellhappened? Sam, you didn't!"'My God, no! I didn't! I wouldn't!""I think there is a miscalculation,signore," said Pope Francesco softly.'What? What mother whatmiscalculation?""The motorcade was to stop at thesmall village well, not so much avillage of Tuscabondo. It is a mile orso past the deviazone, your detour.""Jesus!""He can be merciful, SignoreGenerale.""Those bastards will be swarming thehills, the fields. Goddamn!""And the air, Generale," saidCaptain Orange excitedly, breaking outin a sweat under his mask. 'Thecarabinieri have fleets of elicotteri.They are the pozzi of the skyl"  "Jesus H. Christ!" -."Figlio di Santa Maria Figlio diDio He is the way, Generale.""I told you to shut up. Men! Checkyour maps! Quickly! Gris and Bleu,evaluate escape routes E-Eight and E-Twelve. Our previous routes werefaster but more exposed. Deliver yourdecision in one minute! Orange andVert. Give me Frescobaldi! Join theothers! Sam, you stay here!"The screams of the sirens werenearer, almost at the intercept pointof the Appia. Frescobaldi, weaving inMacKenzie's grip, sang louder.Is"Signora." Giovanni Bombalini took a steptoward MacKenzie. "You speak of the wordof a general. You have great sinceritywhen you say it.""What? Yes, of course. You're not muchdifferent, I suspect. Command's a bigresponsibility.""Indeed it is. And truth isresponsibility's right arm." The popelooked once more at the unconsciousfigures of his motorcade, each bodycomfortably stretched out, none harmed."And compassion, naturally."The Hawk was barely listening. He washolding Frescobaldi, keeping an alert eyeon a stunned Sam Devereaux, and watchingCaptains Gris and Bleu make their finalevaluations over the maps. "What are youtalking about?'You say you have no wish to inflict harmon my person."Of course not. Wouldn't get much ransomfor a corpse. Well, maybe with your people""And Frescobaldi is as strong as an ox,"said the pope, as much to himself as toMacKenzie, while studying thehalf-conscious Guido. "He always was.Signore Generale if I said I would go withyou without interference, perhaps even inthe spirit of cooperation, would you grantme a small request? As one commander toanother?"The Hawk squinted at the pontiff."What is it?""A brief note, only several words inEnglish to be left with my aide. I wouldwant you to read it, of course."MacKenzie took out a combat pad from hisfield jacket, ripped off a page, unclippedthe waterproof pencil and handed both toFrancesco. "You've got fifteen seconds."The pope put the paper against thelimousine and wrote swiBly. He gave thepage back to the Hawk.I am safe. With GodEs blessing I shallreach you asthe chess-playing O'Gilligan reaches me.                       Honkes'  ."If it's a code, it's pretty piss-poor.Go ahead, put it in the colored fella'spocket. I like that part that says you'resafe."                            ~-276Giovanni ran to the figure of his papalaide, stuffed the note under his cassockand returned to the Hawk. "Now, SignoreGenerale, you waste time."'What?""Put Frescobaldi in the limousine!Hurry! Inside is a briefcase. With mypills. Get it, please.""What?""You would last five minutes in theCuria! Where is the elicottero'?""The copter?""Yes.""Over there. In a clearing."Captain Gris and Bleu had completedtheir swift conference. Gris called out.' We have briefed the men General. Wego! We meet at Zaragolo!""Zaragolo!" said the pontiff. "Theairport at Monti Prenestini?""Yes," answered the Hawk, staring withsudden concentration on Pope Francesco."What about it?""Tell them to stay north of RoccoPriora! There are battalions of policein Rocca Priora.""That's east of Frascati "Yes!""You heard him, Captains! OutflankRocco Priora! Now, scramble!" roared theHawk.No!" screamed Sam, backing away on theroad, looking up at the hill.Everybody's crazy! You're out of yourminds! I'm going to stop you. All ofyou!"Young man!" Giovanni stood erect andaddressed Sam pontifically. 'Will youplease be quiet and do as the generalsays?!"Noir emerged from the clearing. "Thebird's ready, General! We've got a cleanlift-off area."'We've also got an extra passenger. Getthe counselor, Captain. You might showhim a needle, if you can manage"With real pleasure," said Noir.One dosage, Captain!"-"Shit!"And so Giovanni Bombalini, the HolyFather of the Catholic Church, andMacKenzie Hawkins, two-time win277nerof the Congressional Medal of Honor,put Guido Frescobaldi into the papallimousine and ran like hell through theAppian forest to the helicopter.It was difficult for Francesco. Thepontiff swore mildly at Sebastian, thepatron saint of athletes, and finally.indesperation pulled up the skirts of hishabit, displaying rather thick peasantlegs, and damn near beat MacKenzie tothe aircraft.The Lear jet soared above Zaragolo'scloud cover, Captain Noir at thecontrols, Captain Rouge in theco-pilot's seat. The Hawk and the popesat in the forward section, across fromone another, each by a window.Bewildered, MacKenzie glanced over atFrancesco. He knew from long years ofexperience that when command wasstymied, the best thing to do was to donothing, unless the combat at handrequired immediate counterstrike.Such was not the case now. The problemwas that Francesco did- not behave likeany enemy the Hawk had ever fought.GoddamntThere he sat, his heavy robesunbuttoned down to his undershirt, hisshoes off, and his hands folded casuallyacross his wide girth, looking out theLear's window like some kind of happydelicatessen proprietor on his firstairplane ride. It was amazing. Andconfusing.GoddamntWhy?MacKenzie realized that there was nopoint in wearing his stocking mask anylonger. The others had to, for their ownprotection, but for him it made nodifference.He removed it with a grateful sigh.Francesco looked over at him, notunpleasantly. The pope nodded his head,as if to say, Nice to meet you face toface.Goddamn!MacKenzie reached into his pocket fora cigar. He lifted one out, bit off theend, and pulled out a book of matches."Per fawre?" Francesco was leaningtoward him."What?""A cigar, Signore Generale. For me. Doyou mind?"            278.           .."Oh, no, not at all. Here you are."Hawkins extracted a second cigar fromthe pack and handed it to the pontiff.And then, as an afterthought, reachedinto his other pocket for the clipper.But it was too late.Francesco had bitten off the end,spat it out somehow withoutoffense taken the matches from Mac'shand, and struck one.Pope Fraucesco, the Vicar of Christ,lighted up. And as the circles ofaromatic smoke rose above his head,the pontiff sat back in the seat,crossed his legs under his habit, andenjoyed the scenery below."Craze," Francesco said."Prego," replied MacKenzie.              2791       PARTI' ~The ultimate success of anycorporation is dependentupon its major product~orservice. It is imperativethat the projected consumerbe convinced throughaggressive public reIationstechniques that theproduct, or service, isessential to his veryexistence, if possible.Shepherd's Laws of Economics:Book CCCXXI, Chapter 173CHAPTER I1VENTY-I?OURSam sat in thecushioned, wroughtiron chair at thenorthwest corner ofthe Machenfeldgardens. Anne hadpicked the spot aftercareful deliberation;it was the area of thegardens that providedthe best view of theMatterhorn whose peakcould be seen in thedistance.It had been threeweeks now since theawful thing:Ground Zero.The captains and theTurks had departed torunknown parts of theworld, never to beheard from again. Thestaff had been reducedto one cook, whohelped Anne and Samwith the housecleaningand the gardens.MacKenzie was not verygood at either chore,but he did take turnsdriving into thevillage for thenewspapers. Too, hechecked daily with thehigh-priced doctor hehad flown in from NewYork, just in case.The doctor, aspecialist in internalmedicine, had no ideawhy he was being paidsuch extraordinarysums of money to doabsolutely nothing butlive lavishly in alakeside residence,and so in the spiritof the AMA he acceptedthe unreported cashand did not complain.Francesco (Sam couldnot bring himself tosay pope) had settledcomfortably into thesealed-off top-floorapartments and couldbe seen daily walkingon the rampartsthrough his rooftopgardens.MacKenzie had reallydone it! He had wonthe biggest militaryol>jective of hiscareer.And he was currently,through a convolutedseries ofextraordinarilycomplex, untraceableconduits, making hisransom demands of theVatican.Ultrahigh-frerluencyradio codes arcingfrom the Alps toBeirut to Algiers;relayed by 283desert and ocean towers fromMarseilles, to Paris, to Milan, and onto Rome.According to the schedules he hadimposed, the Vatican reply was to beradioed out of Rome and relayed fromBeirut by 5 P.M.MacKenzie had left Machenfeld todrive to the isolated transmissioncenter a lone cabin high in the upperAlps, in which was installed thefinest, most sophisticated radioequipment obtainable. It had beendelivered to Machenfeld by Les ChateauSuisse but put into operation by theHawk himself. No one but MacKenzieknew the location of the mountainretreat.Oh, my God! Five o'clock thisafternoon! Sam forced his thoughtsaway from the awful thing.There was movement up at thechateau. Anne had walked out theterrace door carrying the usual large,glossy picture book under her arm anda silver tray with glasses on it inher hands. She started across the lawnto the gardens. Her walk was firm,feminine; a graceful, natural danceroblivious to the subtle rhythmsinherent in her grace. Her light brownhair fell casually, framing the clearpink skin of her lovely face. Herwide, bright blue eyes reflectedwhatever light they faced.He had learned something from allthe girls, thou-glut Devereaux.Something different and individuallytheir own gifts to him. And if anormal life was ever to returnhe would be grateful for theirgifts.But perhaps he had learned the mostimportant thing from Anne: Try forimprovement but don't deny what'spast.There was laughter on the lawn. Annewas looking up at the ramparts whereFrancesco, dressed in a colorful shesweater, was leaning over the parapet.It had become their private game,Anne's and Francesco's. Whenever theHawk was out of sight they heldconversations. And Sam wassure because Anne would not denyit that she had made numerous trips upto his private apartments bringing himglasses of chianti, which wasspecifically forbidden from his diet.Anne and Francesco had become goodfriends.284Several minutes later that judgmentwas confirmed. Anne placed the silvertray with the drinks on the table nextto Sam. Her eyes were smiling.'Did you know, Sam, that Jesus was avery practical, down-to-earth person.When he washed Mary Magdalene's feet,He was letting everybody know she wasa human being. Maybe a very fine one,in spite of what she sed to do. Andthat people shouldn't throw rocks ather because maybe their feet weren'tso clean, either."MacKenzie climbed the finalprecipice by means of an Alpine hook.The last two hundred yards of thespiraling summit road were too deepwith mountain snow for the motorcycle,so it was faster to make the finalascent directly. It was eleven minutesto five, Zurich time.The signals would commence in elevenminutes. From Beirut. They would berepeated after an interval of fiveminutes, to double-check for decodingerrors. At the end of the secondseries he would confirm reception bytransmitting the air-clearance code tothe relay in Beirut: four dashes,repeated twice.Once inside, the Hawk started thegenerators and watched withsatisfaction as the myriad wheels spunwith a smooth whirring sound withinthe casing, and the dials beganregistering output.When the two green lights went on,signifying maximum performance, heplugged in the single electric heater,feeling the warmth of the glowingcoils. He reached over to the powerfulshortwave equipment, flipped on thereceiving switches and turned theamplifier spools to high volume. Threeminutes to go.He walked to the wall. Slowly hebegan to turn a handle, hearing thegears mesh. Outside, beyond the irongrillwork of the tiny window, he couldsee a webbed disc swing out and up onits track.He returned to the radio receivingpanel and revolved the parallelmegacycle and tetracycle dials withdelicate precision. The voices of adozen languages emerged from theamplifiers. When the needles were inthe exact parallel cycle points therewas silence. One minute to go.285MacKenzie took out a cigar from hispocket and lighted up. He inhaled withreal contentment and blew out thesmoke in ring after ring.Suddenly the signals were there.Four short, highpitched dashes;repeated once. The channel wascleared.He picked up a pencil, his handpoised above a page of notepaper,prepared to write out the code as itwas beamed from Beirut.The message terminated, the Hawk hadfive minutes to decode. To convert thesignals into numbers, then transferthe numbers into letters and theletters into words.When he had finished, he stared indisbelief at the Vatican reply.It was impossible!Obviously, he had made severalerrors in receiving the Beiruttransmission.The signals began again.The Hawk started writing on a freshpage of notepaper. Carefully.Precisely.The transmission ended as it began:four dashes, repeated once.MacKenzie put the decoding schedulein front of him. He believed he hadmemorized it thoroughly, but this wasno time to make a mistake. Hecross-checked every dot, every dash.Every word.There were no errors.The unbelievable had happened.Relative to the insane requestregarding the contribution of four hundred millionAmerican dollars, byassessing worldwide dioceses on thebasis of onedollar per communicant, the treasuryof the Holy Seeis in no position to consider such arequest. Or anyrequest at all for this particularcharity. The HolyFather is in excellent health andsends his blessings inthe name of the Father, the Son, andthe Holy Spirit.Ignatio Quartze,Cardinal Omnipitum,Keeper of the Vatican Treasury as6The Shepherd Company suspendedoperations.MacKenzie Hawkins walked the groundsof Chateau Machenfeld, smoking hiscigars, staring blankly at theinfinite beauty of the Alps.Sam made an accounting of thecorporation's monetary assets,exclusive of the properties andequipment. Of the originalcapitalization of $40,000,000, thereremained $12,810,431.02.Plus a contingency expense fund of$150,000, which had not been touched.Not bad at all. Especially since theinvestors, to a panicked vulture,refused reimbursement. They wantednothing whatsoever to do with theShepherd Company or any of itsmanagement personnel. None would evenbother to file for tax losses as longas Shepherd's corporate executivespromised on the Bible, Burke'sPeerage, Mein Kampf, and theKoran never to get in touch with himagain.And Francesco, now sporting aTyrolean hat along with his favoriteski sweater, was allowed out of thetop-floor apartments. For the sake ofeverybody's sanity, it was agreed torefer to him as Zio Francesco,somebody's uncle.Since he showed no inclination to goanywhere or do anything other thanenjoy the company, Zio Francescoroamed freely. There was someonealways nearby, but not to preventescape; for assistance. He was, afterall, in his seventies.The cook was especially taken withhim, for he spent long periods in thekitchen, helping with the sauces, andevery once in a while askingpermission to fix a particular dish.He made one request of the Hawk. TheHawk refused it.No! Absolutely no! Zio could nottelephone his apartment in theVatican! It made no differencewhatsoever that his telephone wasprivate or unlisted or concealed inthe drawer of his bedside tabletTelephone calls could be traced.Not if they were radioed, insistedFrancesco. The Hawk had impressed themall, frequently, by telling them about,287his complicated methods ofcommunicating with Rome. Of course, asimple telephone call would not haveto be nearly so complex. One littlerelay, perhaps.No! All that spaghetti had gone toZio's head. His brain was soft.The Hawk's was softer, perhaps,suggested Francesco. What progress wasthe general making? Were not mattersat a stalemate? Had not CardinalQuartze outflanked him?How could a telephone call changethat?How could it make things any worse?persisted Francesco. The Hawk could beat the radio, his hand on a switch,prepared to break the connectionshould Zio say anything improper. Wasit not more advantageous to thegeneral for at least two people toknow he was alive? That the deceptionwas truly a deception? There certainlywas nothing to lose, for the Hawk hadalready lost. And possibly there wassomething to gain. Perhaps four hun-dred million American dollars.Besides, Guido needed help. This wasno criticism of his cousin, who wasnot only strong as a bull but a mostgentle and thoughtful person. But hewas new at the job and would certainlylisten to his cousin Giovanni Bom-balini. Helped, of course, byGiovanni's personal aide, the youngAmerican priest from Harlem.The situation might not be remediedovernight for there were matters ofhealth and logistics to be considered.But when all was said and done, whatalternative did the Hawk have?He obviously had none. And soMacKenzie came down from the Alpinecabin one afternoon carrying threecanvaswrapped cartons of radioequipment and proceeded to install theinstruments in a Machenfeld bedroom.When all was completed, the Hawkissued an irrevocable command.-Only heand Zio Francesco were allowed insideduring radio transmissions.That was fine with Anne and Sam.They had no desire to be there. Thecook thought everybody was crazy andwent back to the kitchen.And at least twice a week from thenon very late at night the huge diskantenna was wheeled out and raisedabove the battlements. Neither Sam norAnne knew what 288was being said or whether anything wasbeing accomplished, but often whenthey sat in the gardens to talk andlook at the glorious Swiss moon, theyheard great peals of laughter from theupstairs room. The Hawk and the popewere like small boys thoroughlyenjoying a new game.A secret game, played in theirpersonal clubhouse.Sam sat in the garden absentlylooking at his copy of the LondonTimes. Life at Chateau Machenfeld hadbecome routinized. For instance, everymorning one of them would drive intothe village to pick up the newspapers.Coffee in the gardens with thenewspapers was a wonderful way tostart the day. The world was such anunholy mess; life was so peaceful atMachenfeld.The Hawk, having discovered theexistence of riding trails on theproperty, purchased several finehorses and rode frequently, sometimesfor hours at a time. He'd foundsomething he'd been looking for,thought Sam.Francesco discovered oil painting.He would trek over the fields in hisTyrolean hat with Anne or the cook,set up his easel and paints, andrender for posterity his impressionsof the Alpine splendors. That is, whenhe wasn't in the kitchen, or teachingAnne to play chess, or debatingalways pleasantly with Sam over pointsof law.There was one thing about Francescothat nobody talked about, but all knewhad something to do with his attitude.Francesco had not been a well man whenhe was taken out of the Appian hills.Not well at all. It was the reason Machad insisted on the availability ofthe New York specialist.But as the weeks went by, Francescoseemed to improve in the Alpine air.Would it have been the same,otherwise?No one, of course, would speculate,but Francesco had said something atdinner one evening that registered onthem all.'Those doctors. I shall outliveevery one of theml They would have hadme buried a month ago."The Hawk responded with a coughingfit.And Sam? What of him?Whatever it was, he knew that itincluded Anne.He looked at her now in the late morningsun, sitting in 289the chair reading the newspaper, theever present book on the table besideher. A Pictorial History, ofSwitzerland was the title today.She was so lovely sogloriously herself. She'd help himbecame a better lawyer, by making thelaw seem not so important.Now he began to think about otherthings.Like reading quietly. Understanding.Evaluating.Like Judge Devereaux.Oh, Boston was going to like Anne!His mother would like her, too. AndAaron Pinkus. Aaron would approvewholeheartedly.If Judge Devereaux ever got back toBoston.He'd think about that tomorrow."Sam'?" said Anne, looking over athim."What'?""Did you read this article in theTribune?""What articled I haven't seen theTribune.""llere." She pointed but did notgive him the paper. She was engrossed."It's about the Catholic Church. Allkinds of things. The pope has calleda Fifth Ecumenical Council. Andthere's an announcement that a hundredand sixtythree opera companies arebeing subsidized, to elevate thespirit of creativity. And a famouscardinal my God, Sam it's thatIgllatio Q''artze! The one Mac yellsabout.''"What about him?''"It seems he's retiring to somevilla called San Vincente. Somethingto do with papal disputes over Vaticanallocations. Isn't that strange?"Devereaux was silent for severalmoments before he replied. "I thinkour friends have been very busy up onthe ramparts."In the distance were the sounds ofgalloping hooves. Seconds laterMacKenzie Hawkins emerged on the dirtroad from beyond the trees and thefields where only weeks ago maneuverswere held. He reined in his horse andtrotted up to the northwest corner ofthe gardens."Goddamn! Isn't it a glorious day?You can see the peak of theMatterhorn!"There was the music of a trianglecalming from the other direction.MacKenzie waved; Devereaux and Anneturned 280and saw Francesco on the terraceoutside the kitche door, thetriangle and the silver bar in hishands. He w dressed in a largeapron, the Tyrolean hat firmly on hhead.Zio Francesco called out."Lunch, everybody! The s''ecialedi giorno is fantast co!""I'm hungry as a horse!" roaredback the Hawk as patted his mount."What've you got, Zio?"Francesco raised his voice to theAlpine hills. And the, was music inhis words."My dear friends. It's Ling'`iniBo7nbalini!              291              ,.,                     LUDLUM- ONLUDLUMFew writers have skyrocketed to popularitywith the speed of Robert Ludlum, with eachsucceeding thriller becoming a biggerbestseller. The key to his success may liein John Leonard's comment in The New YorkTimes, "Mr. Ludlum stuffs more surprisesinto his novels than any other six-pack ofthriller writers combined."Some people claim Ludlum has secretsources for information found in hisstories. In one, an early book, a lreytheme was CIA involvement in domesticsurveillance. At that time the subjectshocked many people. Later, of course,this fact proved to be correct. Otherpeople suspect Ludlum was an agent himselfduring the years prior to his career as anovelist. Not true. For close to twentyyears he was in show business as an actor,producer, and as the "voice" of dozens oftelevision commercials for productsranging from Tiparillos to Tuna Helper.During his "voice" period, Ludlum's wifecrowned him "King of the Toilet Bowls." Ashe tells it, "there was this productcalled Plunge. All I had to do was read, .,                          ~1'.~three words: Plunge works fast. In spiteof my off-ean delivery, they used mythree words in over one hundre differentcommercials. The money from this put onemy children through two years ofcollege."Although none of Ludlum's novels drawson his sho business background forsubject matter, they all refle'techniques he learned in the theater.Ludlum says, "tt theater man knows thathe must involve the audienc Heunderstands structure more than anyoneelse I} lo~cal evolving of one eventinto another event will out losing theaudience's attention. Because if you lo;their interest, you're closing Saturdaynight."Ludlum admits, "I write primarily as anentertains But I find that whetheryou're writing comicallydramatically, you write from a point ofview of som thing that disturbs oroutrages you. And that's what do. Iadmit to being outraged mostly by theabu: of power by the fanatics. Theextremes bother me, rig or left." Yet headds, "I disapprove of violence, thatwhy I show pain for what it is. When mycharacte get hit, they hurt. They don'tjump back into actic like John Wayne."All of this and Moroccan be found in thepublishr work of Robert Ludlum. Sincehis first novel, TH SCARLATTIINHERITANCE, he has amassed ~ enviablerecord of success: THE OSTERMAN WEE!END, THE MATLOCK PAPERS, THE RHINt MANNEXCHANGE, THE GEMINI CONTENT ERS; morerecently, THE CHANCELLOR MAN' SCRIPT,THE HOLCROFT COVENANT, TO MATARESECIRCLE and THE BOURNS; IDE! TITY. 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