“And traced to the deceased director of the Central Intelligence Agency,” said Pinkus.
“That has a familiar ring to it,” noted Sam.
“Those naked men at the Ritz …?”
“Disowned by all of Washington, including the zoo. Subsequently they were bailed out by someone claiming to be a member of a nudist cult in California and disappeared.”
“Damn,” said Jenny, discouragement as well as anger in the drawn-out expletive. “We should never have permitted Hawkins to ship those four armed lunatics up at the ski lodge back to wherever it was. We had them for intended assault with deadly weapons, concealed invasion of property, masks, guns, grenades—even a tattooed forehead. We were idiots to let Thunder Cigar talk us into it!”
“My dear, they knew absolutely nothing; we questioned them at length—to no avail but incoherence. They themselves were maniacally programmed psychopaths, as deniable as the nudists. And to turn them over to the police would have revealed our whereabouts.… Worse, I’m embarrassed to say, since the lodge is in my firm’s name, there would have been considerable media interest.”
“Also,” added Devereaux, “and I’m not in the habit of throwing bouquets at Mac, but he was right: By sending them back, we created the climate that led directly to this crazy Suicidal Six flying into Boston.”
“And to General Ethelred Brokemichael,” said Aaron, smiling as wickedly as it was possible for him.
“What do you mean, Mr. Pinkus? You made it clear yesterday that Brokemichael would be out of reach, shipped to an unmapped outpost, if he surfaces. You said Washington could not permit the name of the official who ordered up the Air Force Two—I remember, because I agreed with you.”
“And we were both right, Jennifer, but we lacked the general’s deviousness, as I believe Sam phrased it. That fine military tactician had a voice-activated recorder strapped to his chest during his entire interview with General Brokemichael. The Pentagon couldn’t send ‘Brokey the Deuce’ far enough away to be out of reach.… I must tell you, however, that General Hawkins wants it known that it was our mercenary-chemist, Colonel Cyrus, who suggested the device.”
“I assume the name of that powerful public figure is on the tape,” said Sam, controlled but dire hope on his face.
“Most definitely. Even to the fact that he got on the base without being recognized.”
“Who the hell is he?” pressed Devereaux.
“I’m afraid our general declines to reveal the name at this time.”
“He can’t do that,” exclaimed Redwing. “We’re all in this together, we have to tow!”
“He says if Sammy knew, he’d become a loose cannon and ‘… mount his high horse and take his personal cavalry into battle …’ to the detriment of Hawkins’s next strategy. The ‘high horse cavalry’ words were exact and accurate. I know, for I’ve lived through a number of Sam’s legal indignations.”
“I’m never a loose cannon,” protested Devereaux.
“Should I remind you of several loud criticisms you’ve given the court?”
“They were entirely justified!”
“I never said they weren’t—if they were, you’d be with another firm. To your credit, you caused the retirement of at least four judges in the Boston district.”
“There, you see?”
“So does the general. He claimed you got on that high horse of yours—by way of bribed pilots and stolen helicopters—from someplace in Switzerland to Rome, and he doesn’t care for a repeat performance.”
“I had to!”
“Why, Sam?” asked Jennifer quietly. “Why did you have to?”
“Because it was wrong. Morally and ethically wrong, against all the laws of civilized man.”
“Oh God, Devereaux, cut it out! You actually can turn me—forget it.”
“What?”
“Forget it!… So Thunder Trunk won’t tell us, Mr. Pinkus. What do we do now?”
“We wait. He’s having a duplicate made of the tape, and Paddy Lafferty will bring it to us this evening. Then if we don’t hear from the general within twenty-four hours, I’m to use whatever influence I have to reach the President of the United States and play the tape for him over the telephone.”
“Very heavy,” said Sam softly.
“The heaviest,” agreed Jennifer.
Although the trip south to New York City from Hooksett in Aaron Pinkus’s limousine was somewhat cramped in the rear quarters—the Suicidal Six sat three facing three while the Hawk rode in front with Paddy Lafferty—several things were accomplished. The first was made possible by a brief stop at a shopping mall in Lowell, Massachusetts, where the general purchased two additional tape recorders and a carton of one-hour tapes, enough, he figured, for the trip to New York. Along with these items, Mac bought a small patch cord with a built-in attenuator that enabled him to transcribe the spoken material from one tape onto a new one in a second machine, thus duplicating whatever recorded dialogue was stored.
“Here, let me show you how it’s done. It’s really very simple,” the Radio Shack clerk said.
“Son,” replied the Hawk in haste, “I was crosspatching prehistoric transmitters between the caves before you could turn on a radio.”
Back in the limousine, the first newly purchased tape recorder activated, Mac turned to Brokemichael’s men in the rear of the vehicle. “Gentlemen,” he began, “since I’ll be the liaison between you and these motion picture people you’ll be meeting, your commander, my friend Brokey, suggested that you give me a complete rundown of your experiences, both as individuals and as members of your incredibly successful Suicidal Six. It will help me in my subsequent conversations with those big producers.… And don’t be put off by the presence of Mr. Lafferty here—Gunnery Sergeant Lafferty. We were comrades together at the Bulge.”
“I could die right here on the spot, me soul already sanctified!” choked Paddy under his breath.
“What was that, Gunny?”
“Nothin’, General. I’ll drive like you taught us to up through Roubaix. Greased lightnin’, it was.”
As the huge automobile raced forward, there began an uninterrupted four hours of narrative, the complete history of the unit called the Suicidal Six—uninterrupted, that was, except when the members interrupted one another, which was frequently, with explosive energy incarnate. By the time they reached Bruckner Boulevard on their way across the bridge to Manhattan’s East Side, the Hawk held up his left hand, his right turning off the tape recorder. “That’ll be fine, gentlemen,” he had said, his ears ringing from the Crescendos of melodramatics from the backseats. “I’ve got the full picture now, and both your commander and I thank you.”
“Good heavens,” cried Sir Larry. “I just remembered! Our clothes, the luggage your young adjutants picked up for us at the hotel last night, everything’s badly in need of pressing. It would hardly be proper for us to be seen at the Waldorf walking around in wrinkled clothing. Or, God knows, into Sardi’s!”
“Good point.” It was a wrinkle Hawkins had not considered, and it had nothing to do with clothes. The last thing they needed was for the exuberant actor-commandos to be parading around anywhere! Especially six high-spirited performers who believed they were on the edge of great success. Christ! thought MacKenzie, recalling his brief Hollywood days: All any actor—specifically any unemployed actor—needed was the slightest hint that a coveted role was in the offing and his or her personal network went to work. He never faulted the actors, for unrewarded talent needed all the confidence it could corral, but this was no time for the Suicidal Six to revert to their preclandestine lives. Sardi’s! A theatrical institution! “Tell you what,” the Hawk continued, “the minute we get to the rooms we’ll have everything sent out to the hotel cleaners.”
“How long will that take?” asked The Duke-cum-chairman of the board.
“Well, it doesn’t really matter,” Mac replied, “at least not for tonight and maybe not even tomorrow.”
“What?�
�� said Marlon.
“Hey, come on!” added Sylvester.
“I haven’t seen the West Forties in years!” interrupted Dustin.
“And Mr. Sardi is a close personal friend,” said Telly. “He’s the owner, an ex-marine, by the way—”
“Sorry, gentlemen,” the Hawk broke in. “I’m afraid I wasn’t clear about this bivouac, I just thought you’d naturally understand.”
“Understand what?” Sly spoke again, none too kindly. “You sound like an agent.”
“Your upcoming conferences demand the … utmost secrecy. Although your splendid commander, General Brokemichael, is going to bat for you with these Hollywood people, you’re still in the army, and everything could fall apart if word gets out. I mean really fall apart. Therefore, you’re confined to quarters until he says otherwise.”
“We’ll call him,” suggested Marlon.
“That’s out!… I mean all communications are on status ‘black drape.’ ”
“That’s for emergencies,” said Dustin. “Frequency interception.”
“And that’s what we’re talking about. Those rotten politicians who tried to pit us against one another are out to wreck your film, your careers. They want it all for themselves!”
“Dirty bastards,” exclaimed The Duke. “I won’t deny a lot of them are actors, but all their crap is shallow!”
“Not an honest spine in their motivations,” added Sylvester.
“Not an ounce of truth,” stated Marlon emphatically.
“You’ll grant there’s technique,” said Sir Larry. “But it’s Pavlovian, over-rehearsed, as it were.”
“As it is!” confirmed Telly. “Sound bites, programmed expressions, and wrinkled eyebrows when they forget their lines—when will people wake up?”
“Well, they may try to act, but they’re not actors!” cried The Duke. “And I’ll be damned if they’ll take work away from us!… We’ll confine ourselves to quarters and do whatever else you like, General!”
MacKenzie Hawkins, neat but less than impressive in his gray suit, steel-rimmed glasses, reddish toupee, and slightly stooped shoulders, walked across the carpeted, crowded lobby of the Waldorf, looking for a pay phone. It was shortly past one o’clock in the afternoon, the actor-soldiers of Suicidal Six safely ensconced in adjoining suites on the twelfth floor. Spared Desi the Second’s more deleterious culinary fare, refreshed by large amounts of wholesome, restorative food, exercise, and a decent night’s sleep without spiders crawling up the walls, all the members of the unit were fully recovered and in exuberant spirits. The men had assured him that they had their combat fatigues with them—a vital component—and that they would stay in their suites and make no outside calls, no matter how tempting the urge. As they were getting settled, the Hawk had taken out the original tape recorder from Fort Benning, duplicated the entire conversation with Brokey the Deuce, given the duplicate to Paddy Lafferty, and instructed him to take it to Swampscott. Now, bouncing several balls in the air at the same time, he had to make several untraceable calls—the first to Little Joseph in Boston; the second to a retired la-di-da admiral who had sold his soul to front for the State Department and who also owed Mac a favor for saving his miscalculating ass on an offshore battlewagon in Korea’s Bay of Wonsan; and finally to one of his dearest old buddies, the first of his four delightful wives, Ginny, in Beverly Hills, California. He dialed the zero code, entered his credit card number, and dialed.
“Little Joseph, it’s the general.”
“Hey, fazool, what took you so long? The big man wants to talk to you, but he don’t want to call that swamp place ’cause he don’t know what could be on the Ameches!”
“That dovetails with my strategy, Little Joseph. I want to talk with him.” The Hawk looked down at the number of the pay phone. “Can you reach him?”
“Yeah. Every half hour he walks by a phone on Collins Avenue in Miami Beach. That’s in about ten minutes from now.”
“Should I call him direct?”
“No win, place, or show, fazool. He calls you, not the revoice, that’s the word.”
“All right, tell him to call this number in New York, but give me twenty minutes, I’ll be here.” Mac gave the number of the Waldorf’s pay phone and hung up. He then reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a small notebook; he fingered through the pages until he found the one he wanted. Again, he went through the credit card procedure. “Hello there, Angus, how’s the bull of the North Korean Pampas who just happened to blow up our buried beach radio stations in Wonsan?”
“Who the hell are you?” replied the harsh voice of a three-martinied former naval admiral.
“One guess, Frank. You want to go over the sixteen-incher coordinates?”
“Hawk? Is that you?”
“Who else, sailor?”
“You know damned well I had faulty intelligence—”
“Or you misread the figures—eyes-only figures, for you only, Frank.”
“Cut it out, Hawk! How the hell could I know you were there? Give or take a few miles or so, who knew, who cared?”
“My ass cared, Frank, along with my team. We were way behind the lines.”
“It’s over! I’m retired!”
“But you’re a consultant, Frank, a big respected expert to the State Department on Far East military affairs. All those parties, the perks, the private planes and vacations, courtesy of the contractors.”
“I’m damned well worth it!”
“Except that you can’t tell one beach from the other—give or take a few miles or so. That’s an expert?”
“Hawk, give me a break! Bringing up old stuff won’t do either of us any good. Jesus, I saw on television that you were getting a big Swedish award, so what do you want from me? I pick up a few goodies and look after my garden—arthritis and all. So what?”
“So you talk to State.”
“That I do, and I give them my best input.”
“Here’s additional input you’re going to give them, Frank, or the Soldier of the Century is going to blow the whistle on one of the biggest military blunders in Korea.” The Hawk then detailed his addendum.
The call to Beverly Hills started off poorly. “Mrs. Greenberg, please?”
“There’s no Mrs. Greenberg at this residence,” said the cold male British voice from California.
“I must have dialed the wrong number—”
“No, you simply used the wrong name, sir. Mr. Greenberg left over a year ago. Did you, by chance, care to speak with Lady Cavendish?”
“That’s Ginny?”
“That’s Lady Cavendish. May I ask who’s calling?”
“Hawk’s good enough.”
“ ‘Hawk’? As in the revolting predatory bird, sir?”
“Very revolting and very predatory. Now tell Lady Caviar or whatever the hell her name is that I’m on the line!”
“I’ll tell her, but I guarantee nothing.”
The abrupt silence of a telephone on hold was broken by the loud, excited voice of Mac’s first wife. “Sweetie, how are you?”
“I was better before I talked to that clown who should have his adenoids taken out. Who the hell is he?”
“Oh, he came with Chauncey; he’s been the family butler for years.”
“Chauncey?… Cavendish?”
“Lord Cavendish, sweetie. Oodles of money and everyone wants to meet him. He’s on everybody’s A list.”
“A list?”
“You know, invitations, sweetie.”
“What happened to Manny?”
“He got bored with an older woman so I set him free for a large hunk of change.”
“Goddamn, Ginny, you’re not old!”
“In Manny’s eyes, any girl over sixteen is also over the hill.… But enough about me, darling, you’re the one. I’m so proud of you, Hawk—the Soldier of the Century! All the girls are proud of you!”
“Yeah, well, hold up the parties, kid, it all could be a con.”
“What? I won’t have
it—we won’t have it!”
“Ginny,” interrupted MacKenzie, “I don’t have time. The D.C. pricky-shits have got my ass in a sling again and I need help.”
“I’ll call the girls together this afternoon. What can we do and whom can we do it to?… Of course, I can’t get hold of Annie; she’s back in one of those leper colonies, I think, and Madge is on the East Coast—New York or Connecticut or someplace like that—but I’ll get her and Lillian on a conference call.”
“I was really just calling you, Ginny, because I think you’re the one who can help me.”
“Me, Hawk? Look, I appreciate your chivalry, but I really am the oldest. It doesn’t exactly thrill me to admit it, but Midgey and Lil are probably better suited to your needs. They’re both still darling to look at. Of course, Annie remains the champ in that department, but I think the clothes she prefers these days would scare the hell out of anybody in a pair of vulnerable pants.”
“You’re a fine and generous woman, Ginny, but it’s nothing like that.… Do you still talk to Manny?”
“Only through the lawyers. He wants some of the paintings we bought, but I’ll be damned if I let the horny little bastard scrape the paint off the cheapest frame.”
“Goddamn, there goes the shot I was hoping for!”
“Spell it out, Hawk. What is it that you need?”
“I need one of those screenwriters he hires at the studio to put something together for me.”
“Are they going to do another movie about you?”
“Hell, no. Never!”
“I’m relieved to hear it. So what do you need a writer for?”
“Some pretty incredible material, all true, that I want to dangle in front of those Hollywood buddhas, only it’s got to look good and I’ve got to do it quickly. Like in a day, maybe.”
“A day?”
“Hell, boiled down it wouldn’t be any more than five or ten pages, but pages of pure dynamite, Ginny. I’ve got it all on a few tapes. Manny would know someone who could do it—”
“So do you, sweetie! What about Madge?”
“Who?”
“Your number three, mon général.”
“Midgey? What about her?”
The Road to Omaha: A Novel Page 45
