The Road to Omaha: A Novel

by Robert Ludlum

  “Good!”

  “All is not so good. Bam-Bam is a proud man, fazool, and your original American buddies are not so good to him. He says they treat him like garbage and the feathers around his head don’t fit!”

  • • •

  12:18 P.M. The manager of the Embassy Row Hotel on Massachusetts Avenue was not prepared for the current behavior of one of his favored guests, namely Aaron Pinkus, attorney-at-law. As usual, whenever the celebrated lawyer journeyed to Washington, it was a given that his stay was confidential, as, indeed, was the case with any guest who requested the same, but this afternoon Mr. Pinkus had carried confidentiality to its extreme. He had insisted that he and his party use the delivery entrance and ascend to their adjoining suites—on the freight elevator. Furthermore, only the manager himself was to be aware of the attorney’s presence; fictitious names were to be entered into the register and, therefore, should any telephone calls come for him, those callers would naturally be told that no Aaron Pinkus was registered, for indeed he was not. However, should calls come specifying only the room numbers, they should be put through.

  It was not like Pinkus to issue such vigilant instructions, considered the manager, but he thought he knew why. Washington was a zoo these days, and no doubt a lawyer of his expertise had been called to testify before Congress on some complicated points of law about a bill fraught with special interests. Obviously, Pinkus had brought down a contingent of the brightest attorneys in his firm to advise him during the hearings.

  Which was why the manager was bewildered when, as he routinely checked the front desk, a man in an orange silk shirt, a blue silk sash, and a gold earring swinging from his left lobe came up to the counter and asked where the “droogy store” was.

  “Are you a guest of the hotel, sir?” asked the suspicious clerk.

  “Wat alse?” replied Roman Z, displaying his room key. The manager glanced at it. It was the number of a Pinkus suite.

  “Over there, sir,” said the mortified clerk, pointing across the lobby.

  “Iss good! I need new cologne! I charge, no?”

  Only seconds later, two swarthy men dressed in uniforms the manager did not recognize, apparently from some South American revolution, he thought, rushed up to the desk.

  “Where’d he go, man?” cried the taller of the two, several gaps in his teeth.

  “Who?” asked the clerk, backing away from the counter.

  “The gitano wid d’gold earring!” said the second Hispanic. “He got the key to d’room but my amigo pressed d’wrong button on the h’evelator. We wen’ up, he wen’ down!”

  “Two elevators?”

  “Ees securidad, chu know wad I mean?”

  “Security?”

  “Dat’s it, gringo,” answered the man with the missing teeth, as he studied the formally dressed clerk in the cutaway. “Chu got nice clothes like I got víspera—dee odder day ago. Chu bring ’em back in d’morning, chu no pay so much rent. I read dat on a sign.”

  “Yes, well, these are not rented, sir.”

  “Chu buy dem? Madre de Dios, you gotta good chob!”

  “A lovely job, sir,” said the astonished clerk, glancing over at the even more astonished manager. “Your friend went to the ‘droogy’—the drugstore, sir. It’s over there.”

  “Gracias, amigo. Chu keep dis nice rich chob!”

  “Indeed, sir,” mumbled the clerk as Desis One and Two raced across the lobby after Roman Z. “Who are those people?” asked the clerk, turning to the hotel manager. “That room key was for one of our better suites.”

  “Witnesses?” said the appalled manager, a ray of hope in his reply. “Yes, of course, they could only be witnesses. It’s probably a hearing about the mentally impaired.”

  “What is?”

  “Never mind, they’ll be gone by the day after tomorrow.”

  Upstairs in the suite Aaron Pinkus had reserved for Jennifer, Sam, and himself, the vaunted attorney was explaining the hotel of his choice. “One can usually repel curiosity by confronting it and discouraging it,” he said, “especially if you’re dealing with an institution that profits from your patronage. If I had made our requests to an unfamiliar hotel, the rumors would fly.”

  “And you’re not an unknown in this city,” added Devereaux. “Can you trust the manager?”

  “I would in any event; he’s a fine man. However, since all flesh has its weaknesses and the muckrakers in this town are vultures constantly in search of informational carrion, I made it plain that he was the only person who knew we were here. I felt bad doing so; it wasn’t necessary.”

  “There’s ‘safe’ and there’s ‘sorry,’ Mr. Pinkus,” said Redwing, walking to a window and looking down at the street below. “We’re so close—to what I don’t know, but it frightens me. Within a matter of days my people will either be patriots or pariahs, and right now my money’s on pariahdom.”

  “Jenny,” began Aaron, a muted sadness in his voice, “I didn’t wish to alarm you, but upon reflection, I think you’d never forgive me if I didn’t tell you now.”

  “Tell me what?” Redwing turned away from the window, staring at Pinkus, then glancing at Sam, who shook his head conveying no knowledge of Aaron’s statement.

  “I spoke with an old friend of mine this morning, a colleague from the early days, in fact, who’s now a member of the Court.”

  “Aaron!” cried Devereaux. “You didn’t mention anything about this afternoon, did you?”

  “Of course not. It was merely a social call. I said I had business here and perhaps we might have dinner.”

  “Thank heavens!” said Jenny.

  “He was the one who brought up this afternoon,” said Pinkus quietly.

  “What?”

  “What?”

  “Not in terms of specifics, mind you, only with regards to our proposed dinner.… He said that it was quite possible he wouldn’t be able to make it for he might be hiding and under guard in the cellars of the Supreme Court.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what I said—”

  “And?”

  “He said today was one of the strangest in the annals of Supreme Court history. They’re holding a special session in chambers with plaintiffs over a case that has acrimoniously divided the justices. None of them knows how the others will ultimately vote, but they’re determined to dispose of their initial responsibility, which is to make public a rather momentous suit against the government. They’ll do so immediately after the hearing is over.”

  “What?” screamed Redwing. “This afternoon?”

  “Originally, they kept it off the Court calendar for reasons of national security and the possibility of reprisals against the litigants—the Wopotamis, I presume; then, apparently, the administration demanded that news of the suit be kept secret for an extended period of time.”

  “Thank heavens for somebody!” cried Jennifer.

  “For Chief Justice Reebock,” explained Aaron, “who’s not the most likable fellow in the world, albeit quite bright. Unaccountably, and contrary to his normal disposition, Reebock went along with the White House. When the rest of the justices learned this, the majority simply revolted, including my friend. He made it clear that along with the others, even those ideologically opposed to him, the Executive had no constitutional right to impose restrictions on the Judicial.… Sometimes it all comes down to ego, doesn’t it? Forget checks and balances, ego’s the great equalizer.”

  “Mr. Pinkus, my people will be in the streets, on the steps of the Supreme Court! They’ll be slaughtered!”

  “Not if the general plays his cards right, my dear.”

  “If there was a wrong card to show, he’d show it!” yelled Redwing. “That man is instant hate! There’s no one on earth he’s incapable of offending!”

  “But you hold the deck,” interrupted Devereaux. “He can’t legally do a damn thing without your approval; your contract with him is binding.”

  “Has that ever stopped him before? F
rom all I’ve learned about your prehistoric dinosaur, he tramples over the international laws of behavior, his own government, the Joint Chiefs, the Catholic Church, the universal concepts of morality, and even you, Sam, whom he professes to love like his own son! It’s not you who’ll climb up on that sacrosanct bully pulpit to denounce injustice, it’ll be him, and to make his case he’ll nuke the whole goddamn system and turn the Wopotamis into the biggest threat this nation has faced since Munich in ’39! He’ll be a bolt of lightning that has to be shorted out, grounded, before a hundred other minorities think they see how they’ve been screwed by a government, and there’ll be riots in the streets everywhere.… We can correct these things with time and prudence, but not his way, which is chaos!”

  “She’s got a point, Aaron.”

  “Again, a brilliant summary, my dear, but you overlook a fundamental law of nature.”

  “What the hell is that, Mr. Pinkus?”

  “Wrapped in a bagel, he can be stopped.”

  “For God’s sake, how?”

  At that moment, the door of the suite burst open, crashing against the wall as a furious Cyrus stood in the frame. But it was a different Cyrus; he was dressed in an extravagantly expensive pinstriped suit, Bally shoes, and a foulard tie. “Those sons of bitches got out!” he yelled. “Are they here?”

  “You mean Roman and our two Desis?” said Sam, holding his breath. “They’ve deserted?”

  “Hell, no, they’re like kids at Disneyland; they’ve got to explore. They’ll be back but they disobeyed orders.”

  “What do you mean, Colonel?” asked Pinkus.

  “Well, I went to—I went to the can and told them to stay put, and when I got out they were gone!”

  “You just said they’d be back,” offered Devereaux. “So what’s the problem?”

  “You want those grinder monkeys running around in the lobby?”

  “It might be rather refreshing, actually,” said Aaron, chuckling. “Give a little life to the army of diplomats here, who walk around so rigidly you’d think they were containing severe cases of duodenal gas—forgive me, my dear.”

  “Once again, no apologies are necessary, Mr. Pinkus,” said Jennifer, her gaze on the huge mercenary. “Cyrus,” she continued, “you look so—oh, I don’t know what the word is—but so … I guess, distinguished.”

  “It’s the threads, Jenny. I haven’t worn a suit like this since forty-six relatives in Georgia got together and bought me one at the Peachtree Center when I got my doctorate. Couldn’t afford one before then and certainly not afterward. Glad you like it; me, too. It’s courtesy of Mr. Pinkus, whose tailors jump through the eyes of needles when he sneezes.”

  “Not true, my friend,” said Aaron. “They simply understand the meaning of emergency.… Isn’t our colonel a magnificent sight?”

  “Awesome,” agreed Sam reluctantly.

  “The Colossus of Rhodes dressed for an IBM board of directors’ meeting,” added Redwing, nodding approvingly.

  “Then, perhaps, I should introduce you to your new associate at the hearing this afternoon.… May I present Judge Cornelius Oldsmobile, who will accompany you into the chambers as a visiting amicus curiae extraordinary, courtesy of my old friend who’s a member of the Court. He is not permitted to speak, only observe, but he will be sitting next to General Hawkins, who logically thinks he’s there as military security. At the conclusion of the hearing, should our general be determined to add inflamatory comments, ‘Judge Oldsmobile’ has assured me that there are a number of ways to prevent him from doing so, including a metabolic seizure that for one of the general’s age would mandate his immediate removal.”

  “Aaron, you old fox!” cried Sam, leaping up from his chair.

  “It pained me to even conceive of such an action, but one must consider the alternative, as the lovely Jennifer suggests.”

  “God, I wish you were thirty years younger!” cried Redwing. “Hell, even twenty!”

  “So do I, my child, but I’d be grateful if you never mentioned such a thought to Shirley.”

  “Maybe I will, if Pocahontas doesn’t behave,” said Devereaux. “You know, it could have been ten, maybe fifteen miles in the storm, but I’m too modest to talk about it.”

  Arnold Subagaloo wriggled his broad beam into the captain’s chair, secure in the knowledge that the tight-fitting arms would hold his body firm as he indulged in his favorite office pastime. When he raised his arm to throw his darts, his pear-shaped frame was confined to the parameters imposed, ensuring a better aim, as there was a minimum of lower lateral movement. After all, he was an engineer par excellence, with an IQ of 785, and knew everything there was to know about everything except realpolitik, courtesy, and a diet.

  He had pressed the button that pulled back the flushed curtain on the wall, revealing an enormous photographic tableau stretching from corner to corner with the enlarged faces of one hundred six men and women—enemies all! Liberals in both parties, environmentalist loonies who could never understand a profit and loss statement, Feminazis who were forever trying to emasculate God’s order of masculine superiority, and, above all, those senators and congressmen who had the temerity to tell him he wasn’t the President!… Well, maybe he wasn’t, actually, but who the hell did they think thought for the President? Every hour, every minute!

  As Subagaloo began to throw his first dart, his private telephone rang, causing the sharp, pointed missile to deviate and go through an open window on the left, resulting in a loud scream from a landscaper in the Rose Garden.

  “That motherfucker’s at it again! I quit!”

  Arnold dismissed the gratuitous remark out of hand; he should have hit the man between the eyes—obviously a member of some socialist-communist union expecting two weeks’ severance pay for a lousy twenty years on the job. Unfortunately, Subagaloo could not get out of the chair; his swollen hips were unable to negotiate the tight-fitting arms. As there was no other choice, he waddled across the floor, chair and rump temporarily attached, to the incessantly ringing phone.

  “Who are you and how did you get this number?” yelled the Chief of Staff.

  “Easy, Arnold, it’s Reebock, and we’re on the same side on this one.”

  “Oh, Mister Chief Justice! Are you about to give me another big problem I don’t need?”

  “No, I just solved the biggest one you’ve got.”

  “The Wopotamis?”

  “They can starve to death on their stupid reservation, who cares? I had a little barbecue at my house last night, the whole Court. Naturally, as my wine cellar is the finest in Washington, everyone got pissed to the antlers except the lady, and now she doesn’t count. We had a very American, intellectual conversation around the pool. Very erudite, very judicial.”

  “So?”

  “Six to three against the Wopotami savages, guaranteed. Two of our brethren wavered, but they saw the light when our nubile lady caterers took off their clothes and went for a swim. Our two would-be bleeding hearts claimed they were pushed into the pool, but the photographs don’t show that. Such injudicious behavior—the tabloids would go wild, I made that rather clear.”

  “Reebock, you’re a genius! Not on my level, of course, but not bad, not bad at all.… But let’s keep this between ourselves, all right?”

  “We speak the same language, Subagaloo. Our job is to keep the un-American deviates out of the mainstream. They’re dangerous, every one of them. Can you imagine where we’d all be without the income tax and those civil rights laws?”

  “In heaven, Reebock, in heaven!… Remember, we never talked.”

  “Why do you think I called you on this number?”

  “How’d you get it?”

  “I’ve got a mole in the White House.”

  “Who, for Christ’s sake?”

  “Come on, Arnold, that’s not fair.”

  “I guess it isn’t, because I’ve got one in the Court.”

  “Stare decisis, my friend.”

  “What else
is new?” said Arnold Subagaloo.

  12:37 P.M. The huge Trailblaze bus, leased and paid for by no one the company had ever heard of, stopped in front of the imposing entrance to the Supreme Court. The driver fell over the large circular steering wheel, anguished tears flowing from his eyes, grateful that his full load of passengers was about to depart. Miles back he had yelled, screamed, and finally shrieked in panic that “Fire—cooking—is not permitted inside the bus!”

  “We’re not cooking, man,” had said a firm voice behind him. “We’re mixing the colors, which means you’ve got to melt the wax.”

  “What?”

  “See?” Suddenly a grotesquely painted face had been thrust in front of his eyes, causing the driver to lurch across the Virginia highway, slipping between the onrushing vehicles until he managed to return to his lane.

  There followed what could only be described as a series of events that justified the screams of the owner of the Last Ditch Motel outside of Arlington, when he had roared from behind a mountain of duffel bags:

  “I’ll blow the fucking place up before I let ’em back in! Holy shit! Fuckin’ war dances around a fuckin’ bonfire in the parking lot! Everybody else in all the other rooms left—running—without a nickel in my till!”

  “You got it wrong, man! They were supplication chants. You know, like prayers for rain and deliverance, even sometimes broads.”

  “Out, out, out!”

  Once the duffel bags had been loaded, by necessity a number strapped on top of the bus, the series of intolerable events continued amid the smoke and the stench of melted-down Crayola crayons. “You see, man, when you mix it with paraffin and press it into your skin, it conforms and slowly drips down your face with the body heat. Scares the hell out of palefaces … see?” The driver saw. Weeping streaks of bright colors slowly crawling down the face of someone named Calfnose. The bus had nearly crashed into the rear of a diplomatic limousine bearing the flags of Tanzania; instead, it merely dented the bumper, then skirted to the left, passing it and removing a side mirror as several wide-eyed black faces stared up at their more colorful counterparts in the windows of the bus.