The Road to Omaha: A Novel

by Robert Ludlum

  “It wasn’t, and I don’t need your help for transportation. My driver happens to be the champion wrestler of New England!”

  “If you’re selling tickets, I’ll buy one if you’ll only please just leave,” said the FBI agent, gathering up Devereaux’s belongings and handing them to him.

  “I won’t forget this, Mikulski,” Sam rejoined, rising with all the dripping dignity he could summon to his one-shoed feet. “As an officer of the court, I intend to file charges at the Justice Department. Your dereliction of duty cannot be tolerated.”

  “You do that, pal, only get the name right, okay? I mean, we wouldn’t want a screw-up like you did with those two generals, would we? There are a lot of Mikulskis around here.”

  “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”

  “That’s for the doctors to say, not me, but frankly I’m leaning in that direction.”

  “You’ll see!” said Sam the Avenger, turning and hobbling to the door, twice skidding on the wet floor. “You’ll hear from me!” he added, going into the outer office and slamming the door behind him.

  Unfortunately, Special Agent Mikulski did hear about Sam, precisely three minutes and twenty-one seconds after his departure. As the FBI man swallowed his fourth gulp of Maalox, the priority line on his telephone console rang; he pressed the button and picked up the phone. “Mikulski, FBI.”

  “Hey, Teddy, it’s Gerard over at the base,” said the commander of the 10th District Massachusetts Coast Guard station.

  “What can I do for you, sailor?”

  “I called on a hunch that you could fill me in on the Frazier-Devereaux alert.”

  “What …?” asked the special agent, barely audible. “Devereaux, you said?”

  “Yeah, we got that cork-popping loon Frazier but no Devereaux, and Frazier didn’t tell us a thing. He just sat there with an ass-eating grin and made his phone call.”

  “ ‘Didn’t?’ ‘Sat?’ … Past tense?”

  “It’s nuts, Teddy. We had to let him go and that’s what we can’t understand. What was that stupid alert about anyway? We damn near burned out an engine, stranded three men in a dinghy, and crashed five marina buoys which we have to pay for, all for nothing! Devereaux disappeared, and we don’t even know what he was wanted for. I figured you federals could fill us in.”

  “We never even got the alert,” said Mikulski forlornly. “Tell me what happened, Gere.” Commander Gerard did so and the special agent blanched, reaching for his Maalox. “That son-of-a-bitch Devereaux just left here a few minutes ago. He’s a walking banana barge! What the hell have I done?”

  “If you didn’t get the alert, you didn’t do anything, Teddy. We teletyped out our report and that’s all we could do.… Hold it, I just got handed a note. A shaver named Cafferty from the Boston P.D. is on the phone. Do you know him?”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Wait a minute. P.D.-Boston is where that goddamn alert originated! I’m going to give that bastard a salvo he’ll never forget! Talk to you later, Teddy.”

  “Eight months, four days, and five and a half hours,” mumbled Mikulski, opening his top drawer and looking at his marked-off retirement calendar.

  29

  The champion wrestler of New England drove his Jeep into the Birnbaum driveway in Swampscott. “Here we are, Mr. Devereaux. I’ve seen this place from the water but never from inland. Some joint, huh?”

  “I’d ask you in, Boomer, but the conversation’s going to be pretty heavy and very confidential.”

  “I’ll bet it is! You land up on our beach, then the FBI, then here—wow. But don’t mistake me, sir, I wasn’t hinting, honest. I’ll split fast, and if anybody without legal authority asks me, I never saw you.”

  “Well put—legally. However, I insist on paying you.”

  “No way, Mr. Devereaux, it’s been an honor. But if you don’t mind, I took the liberty of writing out my name in case—in a couple of years from now maybe—you might at least consider me for a clerking position. No special privileges, I wouldn’t want that.”

  “No, I don’t think you would, Boomer,” said Sam, taking the piece of paper and looking into the clear, earnest eyes of the pre-law student. “But if I want to grant them, there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  “Sorry, sir, I have to be good enough. You learn that in weight-class wrestling.”

  “Let’s put it this way. With that statement you won’t have to look for us, we’ll find you.… Thanks, Boomer.”

  “Good luck, sir!” Devereaux climbed out of the Jeep; it spun around the drive and disappeared through the gates. Sam looked at the imposing brick entrance to the Birnbaum beach house, took a deep breath, and hobbled up the flagstone path to the door. Things would be so much simpler if he had both shoes, he considered as he rang the bell.

  “I’ll be damned!” roared the huge black mercenary-chemist, Cyrus, as he pulled back the door. “I don’t know whether to hug you or to slug you, but get the hell in here, Sam!”

  Devereaux trudged sheepishly into the foyer, his blotted clothes, matted hair, and shoeless foot apparent for all to see. The “all” consisted of Cyrus, Aaron Pinkus … and the love of his eternal existence, Jennifer Redwing, who stood in the far corner of the room staring at him. What was in her alert—angry?—eyes, he could not tell.

  “Sammy, we’ve heard everything!” shouted Aaron, who rarely if ever shouted, as he rose from the couch and spryly ran around it to greet his employee by gripping Devereaux’s both arms and placing his elderly head against Sam’s left cheek. “Thank Abraham, you’re alive!”

  “It wasn’t that hard,” said Devereaux. “Frazie may be a maniac, but he sure knows how to drive a boat, and then there was this kid who’s the champion wrestler of New England—”

  “We know what you’ve been through, Sammy,” exclaimed Pinkus. “Such courage, such chutzpah. All because you acted on principle!”

  “It was dumb, Devereaux,” said Cyrus, “but you got guts, man, I’ll give you that.”

  “Where’s Mother?” asked the avenger, avoiding Jenny’s eyes.

  “She and Erin went back to Weston,” answered Aaron. “Apparently Cousin Cora fell into some teapots.”

  “And Desis One and Two are on beach patrol with Roman Z,” added Cyrus.

  “They let in Boomer’s Jeep—the car I was in,” said Sam, disapproval in his statement.

  “Not exactly,” countered the mercenary. “Why do you think I was at the door? Desi the First radioed that the tall loco was back.”

  “He’s always had a way with words,” said Devereaux, slowly turning his head and looking over at Jenny. “Hi,” he said cautiously.

  It was like a pavane filmed in slow motion, as Aaron Pinkus and Cyrus M gracefully moved away from the line of contact. Tears flowing from her eyes, Sunrise Jennifer Redwing ran across the carpeted floor as Sam walked gallantly, if unsteadily, down the marble steps into the living room. Devereaux held his place as she rushed into his arms; they embraced, their lips meeting in swollen agony and delight.

  “Sam,” she cried, holding him fiercely. “Oh, Sam, Sam, Sam! It was Switzerland all over again, wasn’t it? Mac told me! You did what you did because you knew it was right. It was the legal, moral thing to do! Leaping off a boat and swimming miles and miles in a storm to right the wrong! Oh, God, I do love you!”

  “Well, it wasn’t that many miles, maybe four or five—”

  “But you did it! I’m so proud!”

  “It was nothing.”

  “It was everything!”

  “I failed. The tape was drowned.”

  “But you weren’t, my darling, you weren’t!”

  Suddenly, there was the eruption of static and a squawking Hispanic voice over Cyrus’s radio. “Hey, mon! A big leemoseeno ees racing into dee house! You want me to blow it away?”

  “Not yet, Desi!” ordered the mercenary. “Cover the door; and you, Roman, come to the front, all weapons ready!”

  Moments later, the mid
dle-European voice of Roman Z could be heard. “It iss only one old man weez white hair walking to the door. Iss driver inside turning on raadio. Iss lousy music.”

  “Stand to,” ordered Cyrus, removing his gun from his shoulder holster. “If I have to fire, converge.”

  “Was dat? Con-sompding?”

  “Iss no problem. Old man don’ go for pockets or gun.”

  “Out. Stay at the ready!”

  “Reddy wad …?”

  “Out!”

  “Wad …?”

  The doorbell rang as Cyrus waved Pinkus, Jenny, and Devereaux away from any conceivable line of gunfire. He yanked the door open, his weapon at his side, only to be faced by a tall, slender, elderly gentleman.

  “You’re the butler, I presume,” said R. Cookson Frazier, his anxiety in no way mitigating his genuine courtesy. “I must see your employer immediately, it’s of the utmost urgency.”

  “Cookson!” cried Aaron Pinkus, emerging from a curtained beach window. “What are you doing here?”

  “It’s unbelievable, Aaron, absolutely unbelievable!” said Frazier, clutching a paper in his hand and rushing down the marble steps, his arms upright in apoplectic disbelief. “You and I and all of Boston have been gulled, old fellow, positively caged!”

  “What is that in English, Cookson?”

  “Here, look!” Again, suddenly, the entangled figures of Jennifer and Sam came out of the far right shadowed corner. “Who the hell are they?” yelled Frazier.

  “The young man with one shoe and rather distressed clothing is Samuel Devereaux, Cookson—”

  “Oh, you’re Lansing’s son. Damn fine man, your father. Damn shame he was taken so early.”

  “And our lady friend is Jennifer, Jennifer Redwing.… Cookson Frazier.”

  “Lovely tan, my child. Caribbean, no doubt. I’ve a house in Barbados—I think. You and Lansing’s son must go down and enjoy it—haven’t been there in years.”

  “What’s so unbelievable, Cookson?”

  “As I say, here … look!” The old gentleman thrust out the paper in his hand. “This came to my house over the fax machine that has a noninterceptor, nonmemory line confirmed by Washington—just a moment, old boy, can everyone here be trusted?”

  “My word on it, Cookson. What does it say?”

  “You read it. I’m still in a state of shock.”

  Aaron took the thin fax paper, scanned it, and slowly, in bewilderment, lowered himself into the nearest chair. “It’s beyond my understanding,” he said.

  “What is it?” asked Devereaux, his arm protectively around Jennifer’s shoulders.

  “It says, and I quote: ‘This communiqué is top secret and must be destroyed upon perusal, its contents restricted to the highest levels of law enforcement. Geoffrey C. Frazier, code name Rumdum, is a highly effective and covertly much-decorated undercover agent for the federal government. Proceed accordingly with maximum regard for Officer Frazier’s cover, credibility, and safety.’ … It’s signed by the director of the Drug Enforcement Agency. My word!”

  “The boy’s a damned Scarlet Pimpernel!” cried Cookson Frazier, throwing himself into the chair next to Aaron. “What in heaven’s name am I to do?”

  “To begin with, I’d say you should be enormously proud as well as relieved. You yourself said there was another man inside your grandson and you were right. Instead of a wastrel, he’s a highly successful, highly decorated professional.”

  “Yes, but good God, old boy, the only way he can continue to be successful without being killed is to bring further disrepute on the family!”

  “I hadn’t considered that,” said Pinkus, frowning and nodding in agreement. “But surely one day the truth will be revealed, and all manner of praise will be heaped on the Boston Fraziers.”

  “If that day comes, Aaron, the last male Boston Frazier will have to skip to Hackensack or Tierra del Fuego and assume another name. He’ll be a marked man!”

  “That, too, I had not considered.”

  “Protection,” said Cyrus, walking down the steps, “and extremely thorough protection can be purchased, Mr. Frazier.”

  “Oh, forgive me, Cookson, this is … Colonel Cyrus, an expert in security.”

  “Good Lord, forgive me, Colonel! Damned stupid of me at the door. I do apologize.”

  “No offense. In this neighborhood, it’s a perfectly understandable mistake. However, I’m not really a colonel.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “What he means,” cried Sam, his eyes boring in on the mercenary, “is that he’s retired from the military. He’s not with any army—the army, that is.”

  “Oh, I see,” said Frazier, turning back to a bewildered Cyrus. “Well, obviously, your expertise in security matters serves you well. Aaron only hires the finest. As a matter of fact, although it’s probably too minor for your time, I’ve an alarm system in my house that confuses the hell out of me. I keep setting it off.”

  “The pinpoints either aren’t clean or they overlap in the circuitry,” said Cyrus offhandedly, frowning at Devereaux. “Call your alarm’s service department and tell them to check the point relays.”

  “Really? Just like that?”

  “It’s common in house systems,” replied the mercenary, trying to read Sam’s nodding expressions. “Even a momentary power shortage can louse up those firefly circuits.”

  “I’m sure the colonel would be happy to take a look at it, wouldn’t you, Colonel?” said Devereaux, his nods now jackhammering behind Cookson Frazier’s head.

  “When my work for Mr. Pinkus’s security concerns are over … certainly,” answered the hesitant soldier of fortune-chemist, definitely confused. “Perhaps sometime next week,” he concluded weakly.

  “Good fellow!” exclaimed Frazier, slapping his hand on the arm of the chair, then suddenly reverting to his previous state of quandary. “I can’t get over my grandson. It’s positively incredible.”

  “Why do I conjure up the image of a winking Crazie Frazie, his captain’s hat lopsided and drinking from a champagne bottle probably filled with seltzer?” said Sam. “But then I’ve never seen anyone drive a boat like that even in the movies.”

  And then, as if evoked by the mention of motion pictures, the telephone rang, answered quickly by Colonel Cyrus, who was standing next to the antique white table. “Yes?” said the mercenary softly.

  “We roll, soldier,” said the voice of MacKenzie Hawkins from New York. “We’ve scratched Plan A—it’s too risky now—going with Plan B as we discussed an hour ago. Any news about Lieutenant Devereaux?”

  “He’s here, General,” replied Cyrus quietly, cupping the phone as the others excitedly discussed Sam’s seagoing revels with Secret Agent Geoffrey Frazier. “He just arrived a few minutes ago and he’s a mess. Do you want to talk to him?”

  “Christ, no! I know that phase he’s in; I call it Righteous Rabbit. What’s the damage?”

  “None that we can tell; no one believed him. Apparently the tape was destroyed.”

  “Thank Hannibal for favors, big and small, but I knew he’d show up; he never does that sort of thing right … Then you haven’t gone over either of the plans with him yet?”

  “I haven’t gone over them with anybody; no time. Mr. Pinkus has been on the phone with the Boston police ever since the Coast Guard radioed that they’d spotted the boat Sam was on.”

  “A boat? The Coast Guard?”

  “We gather it was a hell of a chase and the sight of your lieutenant confirms it, wet clothes, one shoe, and all.”

  “Switzerland again, goddamnit!”

  “We gathered that, too, at least his girlfriend did. She’s all over him like he was Johnny-come-marching-home with one leg—probably because of his one shoe.”

  “Good! Work on the filly when you explain the plan, Colonel. She’ll convince him if you convince her. I know that boy when he’s got the hots, all my wives told me.”

  “I’m not following you, General.”

  “I
t’s not important. Just remember, our enemies are desperate, and the only way they can short-circuit us is to stop us from getting into the Supreme Court. That’s where Sam can climb up on his pulpit and say whatever he wants to say, expose whomever he wants to expose, yell as loud as he likes. But only there, Colonel. He wouldn’t get to first base with anyone else in Dizzy City. They protect their turfs, and they’d blow him out of the Beltway if only because he makes too much noise.”

  “Since I can personally vouch for that Washington reaction, it won’t be difficult to be convincing,” said Cyrus. “But how come Plan B? I thought you and I agreed that A was perfectly feasible.”

  “I don’t know who the inside contact is but my informant, the one I told you about—”

  “The government honcho everyone thinks is dead,” interrupted the mercenary.

  “That’s the one, and let me tell you, he’s out for blood. Speaking of which, he made it goddamned clear that we’re facing termination with extreme prejudice—and I mean real extreme, Colonel.”

  “My God, they’d go that far?”

  “They haven’t got a choice, soldier. Through mergers and megabuyouts, that whole crowd owns seventy percent of the defense industries and is so many billions in debt it would take World War Three to bail ’em out, if it lasted that long, which it wouldn’t.”

  “How do you read the strategy, General?”

  “I don’t have to read it, I know it! They’ve hired the scum of the earth to stop us: head-bashing gunslingers, union busters for hire, probably mercs like you looking for bucks.”

  “It’s a free economy,” said Cyrus, now whispering as he glanced over at Aaron, Jenny, and Sam, who, in turn, were glancing over at him. “And there’s a lot of economics involved.… I can’t talk much longer. Did your supposedly deceased informant tell you when and how all those nasty people will get in place?”

  “They’ll be everywhere! In the crowds, among the Court guards, even up into the outer chambers!”

  “That’s a rough call, General.”

  “Plan B creates the diversion we need, Colonel. Nobody’s happy about it, especially the Wopotamis, but it’s in place. They’re all ready to do their thing.”