The Road to Omaha: A Novel

by Robert Ludlum

  “And I submit that’s impossible!”

  “Come now, my dear, a million dollars in solid cash with the promise of millions more to come within a short period of time? In exchange for what? The temporary holding of what they had to know was at best a ceremonial title? It must have been irresistible.… ‘Let the crazy white man have his few months of fun, where’s the harm?’ ”

  “There wasn’t full disclosure,” insisted Jennifer.

  “There doesn’t have to be. If all business negotiations required full disclosure from all the parties involved, our economic system would collapse, you know that.”

  “Not when it comes to fraud, Mr. Pinkus.”

  “Indeed not, but how can you prove fraud? As I understand it, he promised millions on the basis of turning the tribe’s fortunes around, making them wealthy beyond their wildest dreams, then proceeded to back up his offer with an initial compensation of one million dollars, no strings attached, as they say.”

  “They didn’t understand! They didn’t realize that he intended to make them litigants in the most inflammatory lawsuit against the federal government in the nation’s history—my God, the Strategic Air Command!”

  “Apparently, neither did they pursue with any degree of intense curiosity how he intended to make them extraordinarily wealthy. Instead, they joyfully took the million and spent it—rather injudiciously, I gather.… And forgive me, Miss Redwing, but I believe your brother was very much aware of the general’s intentions. In fact, he was very much an accessory—”

  “He thought it was all a big joke!” cried Redwing, lurching forward. “A harmless joke that gave the tribe a lot of money, an influx of tourists, and a great deal of fun!”

  “The Supreme Court is fun …?”

  “He didn’t think it would get to first base,” said Jennifer defensively. “Besides, he had no idea about the million dollars or the deal Hawkins cut with the Council. He was appalled!”

  “Lack of communication between friendly parties is not grounds for fraud or conspiracy, except perhaps between the parties themselves, which would then put them on an adversarial basis.”

  “You’re saying the Council deliberately withheld information from my brother.”

  “I’m afraid I am. As he did from them to a large extent.”

  “And if we, our group, suddenly insert ourselves—”

  “Which you have no legal right to do,” interrupted Aaron gently.

  “… and tell the whole story,” continued Redwing, her eyes growing wide in astonishment, “it will be interpreted as a self-serving action on our part to move into the money, stealing it from them if there ever is any!… My God, it’s all been turned around! It’s crazy!”

  “Yes, my dear, crazy—like a hawk. The general would have made a superb corporate attorney.”

  Suddenly, from the open balcony of the Alpine lobby’s second floor, a figure emerged from a door and walked to the railing. It was Eleanor Devereaux, her hair groomed and her posture regal, very much the grand dame. “I just had a horrible dream,” she announced, in full control of her voice and words. “I dreamt that mad General Custer and all those savage Indians at the battle of Little Big Horn joined together and attacked a packed convention of the American Bar Association. The lawyers were all scalped.”

  The tall, stooped, elderly gentleman in the long brown gabardine topcoat and black beret might have come from any of the various campuses in the Boston area, a professor, stern-faced yet somewhat bewildered by the opulence of the Four Seasons Hotel lobby. He kept squinting behind his large tortoiseshell glasses, eventually gravitating to the bank of elevators after a brief, aimless stroll around the premises.

  Of course, there was nothing aimless about the Hawk’s surveillance, and everything about his appearance was contrived. Previous reconnoitering had established every shadowed corner and each less obvious seating place, and he bore no resemblance whatsoever to the buckskinned giant who had severely disabled one Caesar Boccegallupo of Brooklyn, New York, five hours ago. An experienced soldier did not walk into enemy territory without checking the terrain. There were no surprises, so the general walked into an elevator and pressed the number of Little Joseph’s floor.

  “Room soivice,” said Hawkins, knocking at the door.

  “I got already!” cried the voice inside. “… Oh, the apple and pears soaked in booze and set on fire? I thought they was comin’ later!” The door opened and a stunned Joey the Shroud could only exclaim, “You! What the hell are you doin’ here?”

  “All conferences between commanders are prefaced by preliminary meetings between their subordinates so the agendas are clear,” replied the Hawk, brushing Joey aside as he walked into the room. “Since I consider my current adjutants unequal to the task—purely for linguistic reasons—I’m taking their place.”

  “Fazool, you’re the ass end of the trolley car!” cried the Shroud, slamming the door shut. “I got enough on my mind, you I don’t need.”

  “But you need your apples and pears flambé?”

  “Yeah, very tasty, a nice combination of burnt fruits, and the aroma is extremely full-bodied, like an old factory experience.”

  “What?”

  “It smells good. I read that on a menu in Vegas. Hoo-hay, my momma would shoot out of her grave if she thought I torched a pear, and my poppa would chase me right into Bed Sty! But what did they know, may they rest in eternal peace.” Joey blessed himself, then looked at the general and spoke harshly. “Now, the fancy-shmancy talk aside, what are you doin’ here?”

  “I just explained. Before I formally confer with your superior officer, I’d like the landscape a great deal clearer. My rank requires it and I demand it.”

  “You can require and demand all you like, General Fazool, but the big man ain’t no fuckin’ soldier boy. I mean, he’s up there with the archangels of the government, y’know what I mean?”

  “I’ve met a few in my day, Joseph, and for that very reason I want a G-Two, One Thousand One, or there’ll be no conference.”

  “What’s that, a license plate?”

  “It’s a full rundown of whom I’m temporarily scheduled to confer with.”

  “Hoo-hay, on the grave of my Aunt Angelina, it’s for your own good!”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  “I can’t tell you nothin’ without permission, you gotta understand that.”

  “Suppose I pluck your fingernails out, one by one, Little Joseph?”

  “Hey, come on, Fazool, we been through this. Underneath your bullshit you may be a tough gibrone, but you ain’t no screeching Nazi.… Here, here are my hands. You want I should call room service for a pair of pliers?”

  “Stop it, Joseph.… This minor perspicacity on your part must never leave this room!”

  “If what you mean is that you don’t want no pliers, forget it. I tole that to a dozen capitanos in Mussolini’s army—that fat lasagna!”

  The telephone rang. “That has to be your connection, Joseph. Sometimes the truth is the best avenue. Tell your superior, I’m here—right here with you!”

  “The time’s right,” said the Shroud, looking at his watch. “He’s gotta be alone now.”

  “Do as I say.”

  “I got a choice? I can take the no-fingernails bit, but your outsized claw around my throat while you grab the Ameche is somethin’ else.” Little Joey crossed to the bedside telephone and picked it up. “It’s me,” he said, “and the big General Fazool is ten feet away as we speak, Bam-Bam. He wants words with you, only he don’t know who he’s talkin’ to but I value my fingers, if y’know what I mean in Vegas terms, huh?”

  “Put him on, Joey,” said the calm voice of Vincent Mangecavallo.

  “Here,” cried the Shroud, holding out the phone for Hawkins, who walked rapidly over and grabbed it.

  “Commander X, here,” said the Hawk into the mouthpiece. “I assume I’m talking to Commander Y.”

  “You are General MacKenzie Hawkins, serial numb
er two-zero-one-five-seven, United States Army, twice recipient of the Congressional Medal of Honor, and the biggest pain in the ass the Pentagon has ever had to put up with. Am I correct?”

  “Well, certain judgments are not necessarily absolutes.… Who the hell are you?”

  “I am a man who barely a day ago wanted you in your grave—with full military honors, of course—but who now wants you to stay very much alive and above ground, do I make myself clear?”

  “No, you don’t, you D.C. pricky-shit. Why change sides?”

  “Because the zabagliones who wanted your exit papers now want mine, and I find that determination not to my liking.”

  “Zabagliones?… Little Joseph here …? You were the clown who sent that asshole Caesar somebody-or-other to the Four Seasons?”

  “To my disgrace and lack of respect, I did that. What can I say?”

  “Easy, son, it wasn’t your fault, it was his. He just wasn’t very bright and I had two very street-smart adjutants.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t want you to be too hard on yourself. Command has to expect the unexpected sidewinder, it’s part of the options course in the War College.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I guess you’re just not officer material. What else can I say?”

  “You can just listen to me, that’s what.… I’m very pissed off that certain people who I thought had great respect for me now want to see me in that grave we agreed was for you—only now they want me there with you, which I find to my distaste, capisce?”

  “So what did you have in mind, Mr. No Name?”

  “I want you to stay alive and well so I can do unto those elegant, respectable types exactly that which they would do unto me. Namely, bury the bastards.”

  “Back up, Commander Y. If you’re talking about termination-with-extreme-prejudice among civilian personnel, I’ll need a direct order from the President, cosigned by the chairman of the Joint Chiefs and the DCI—that’s the director of Central Intelligence.”

  “No kidding?”

  “I don’t expect you to know how these things are done—”

  “And I don’t want done what you just said!” broke in Mangecavallo harshly. “A few simple hits I don’t need you for. A man buys the dirt, he’s got peace; what I got in mind for these pearly-white Zucchinis is pure torment. I want them ruined, busted, broke—part of the homeless with a credit line of Hobo Pete!”

  “ ‘Hobo’ who?”

  “He used to clean urinals in the Brooklyn subways—that’s what I want for those bastards! For the rest of their miserable lives, I want those scungilli to clean urinals in Cairo!”

  “As a fact, Commander Y, as a young captain in the desert war against Rommel, I became quite friendly with the Egyptian officer corps—”

  “Basta!” yelled Mangecavallo, instantly lowering his voice and oozing what charm there was in him. “Forgive me, great, great General. I’m stressed out, if you know what I mean.”

  “You can’t let that happen,” admonished the Hawk. “We’ve all been there, Commander, but you can’t give in to it. Remember, your men look to you for the strength they may not have. Stand tall and deliver it!”

  “I will treasure those words,” said a humbled Vinnie the Bam-Bam. “But right now I must warn you—”

  “You mean the SFIs?” interrupted Hawkins. “Little Joseph relayed your previous message and the current situation is under control. The hostile troops are immobilized.”

  “What? They found you already?”

  “More precisely, Commander, we spotted ’em first and took appropriate action. My forces are presently in safe shelter and will remain there out of combat range.”

  “What happened? Where are the SFs?”

  “SFIs,” corrected the Hawk. “The Incorrigibles. Not those other brave normal men I trained and who gave so much. These are the psychopaths we never had a chance to weed out.”

  “But where are they?”

  “Well, by this time they’re probably in jail, all on a morals rap, and if not, there are four stark-naked men running up and down the staircases of the Ritz-Carlton hotel doing their goddamnedest not to be seen.… Oh, the fifth member is no doubt still in a Lincoln that won’t start, also naked, with a mobile cellular phone that’s been ripped out and smashed in the gutter.”

  “Holy shit!”

  “I believe that message will ultimately be sent back to Washington.… Now, let’s get down to tactics, Commander. You obviously know what my agenda is. What’s yours?”

  “The same as yours, General. A rotten, terrible thing was done to a small, naïve tribe of innocent original inhabitants of this great U.S. of A., and a magnanimous wealthy nation must make restitution.… How does that grab you so far?”

  “Right in the gun sight, soldier!”

  “Now what you don’t know, General, is that several members of the Supreme Court found your attorney’s brief kinda convincing. Not a firm majority by any means, but they’re talking, like in private.”

  “I knew it!” broke in the Hawk triumphantly. “Otherwise they never would have reached the Golden Goldfarb—who I also kinda trained, goddamn it!”

  “You know Hymie the Hurricane?”

  “Damn good man, strong as an elephant and with the brains of a Rhodes scholar.”

  “He was a Rhodes scholar.”

  “What did I just tell you?”

  “All right, all right,” smoothed Mangecavallo. “But because of the SAC situation and for reasons of national security, the Court won’t allow the brief to be made public for another eight days, and the day before it does, you and your attorney-of-record must appear in closed session to answer oral interrogation. That’s for you to make your final case.”

  “I’m prepared for that, Commander Y. I’ve been prepared for it for damn near a year! I welcome the invitation. My case is pure.”

  “Yeah, but the Pentagon, the air force, and, most especially, the defense contractors aren’t. They want your ass, General, a dead ass.”

  “If the contingent they sent up to Boston this afternoon is an indication of their combat evaluation, I’ll walk into that Court in full Wopotami regalia.”

  “Jesus! I’m told they were like the most violent, the craziest, except for a unit they keep in the walled-up funny farm, where they like to play volleyball by throwing the guards over the net. They’re called the Filthy Four—they’ll come after you next!”

  “In that case,” said the Hawk, squinting, “and assuming you’ve got support personnel at your command, perhaps you might allocate a platoon for our assistance. To tell you the truth, Commander Y, I’ve only got two operative subordinates to defend our position, as it were.”

  “That’s the problem, General. Under normal circumstances, I could send up a whole crew of experienced hitters to protect you, but there’s no time now—such secret protection takes a little time to put together, because it’s got to be totally secret or we all lose.”

  “That sounds to me like lace-pants pricky-shit talk, Mr. No Name.”

  “It’s not … on my Aunt Angelina’s grave—”

  “That’s Little Joseph’s aunt.”

  “It’s a big family.… Listen, I can collect two, maybe three very close associates who can be counted on to keep the silence like holy monks, but any more than that could be a problem. They’d be missed, questions asked, bad rumors started like, ‘Who’s he working for?’ or ‘He looked fine yesterday, what do you mean he’s in the hospital?’ or maybe even ‘I hear he spilled all our beans to the family in Hartford who wants our action—that’s who he’s working for!’ … See what I mean, great General? Too many of those kind of questions would come up with large numbers protecting you, and with them my name might just surface, and that can’t happen!”

  “You in some kind of lizardshit, Commander Y?”

  “I told you. I’m facing my own personal demise. I’m finito, schiacciata, my bones rock salt!”

 
“Feeling poorly, soldier …? Hang in there, Commander, doctors don’t know everything, fella.”

  “Afy doctors do, ’cause they don’t know a fucking thing about medicine!”

  “I’d get a second, maybe a third, opinion—”

  “General, please! It’s what I explained before. Certain parties expect me to be cold chopped liver within a day or two, and that’s the way it’s got to be—maybe I should say that’s the way it’s got to look—because while I’m dead I can operate on your behalf as well as my own.”

  “I’m not much of a religious man,” concluded the Hawk pensively. “Frankly, I’ve seen too much blood spilled by all those fanatics who say they’ll kill everybody who doesn’t believe the way they do. History’s full of that shit, and I don’t go along with it. We all came from the same slime that crawled out of the water, or the same lightning bolt that put a primitive brain in our heads. So nobody’s got a right to claim exclusivity.”

  “Is this a long story, General? Because if it is, we don’t have time.”

  “Hell, no, it’s short. If you’re dead, Commander, you’re sure as snow isn’t pea-green going to operate from that grave of yours. Somehow I can’t figure you to be a candidate for resurrection.”

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “Even if He was, you’re not, soldier.”

  “I won’t be dead, General—I’m simply gonna disappear like I was dead, capisce?”

  “Not entirely.”

  “Like I said, we’re working on it. It’s vital that my enemies—your enemies—think I’m out of the scenario.”

  “What scenario?”

  “The one that’s got your dead ass, and the dead asses of everybody that’s involved in your Wopotami bullshit!”

  “I take exception to that remark, sir.”

  “Wrong word, I swear it on—oh, forget it! I mean your crusade for a wronged people, how does that grab you?”

  “Clearer in the gun sight, Commander.”

  “You see, while I’m supposedly dead and out of the scenario, I got my capos supremos working on Wall Street. They’re gonna inflate those SAC stocks to the multibillion fuckin’ zenith on the basis of sudden Pentagon reversals where Omaha’s concerned, and then you walk into that Supreme Court and they all crash—like a nuclear bomb on all their loans, which are based on projections, and the country club boys, who can’t pay their bills, are cleaning urinals in Cairo! You dig, General? We both get what we want!”