a dozen or so soldiers, flanked by two
officers, all staring straight ahead.
At him.
This is it, thought MacKenzie,
nothing left but the gesture, the
moffo~the act itself.
Total defiance!
Goddamn! If he only had some ammo
leftl
He crouched and headed the bike
right into the center of the
barricade; he twisted the bar
accelerator to the maximum and pressed
the foot choke all the way down.
The speedometer's needle wavered in
a violence of its own as it quivered
and shot up swiftly- toward the end of
the dial; man and machine burst
through the air corridor like a
strange, huge bullet of flesh and
steel.
Amid the screams of the hysterical
crowds and the scattering of the
panicked soldiers, Hawkins yanked the
handlebars furiously back and slapped
the weight of his body against the
rear of the saddle. The front wheel
rose off the ground like an abstract,
spinning phoenix followed by a mad
extension of tail and rider and
crashed into the upper section of the
barricade.
There was a thunderous shattering of
wood and latticework as MacKenzie
Hawkins shot up, into and through the
tiers of obstructions, a maniacally
effective human cannonball that
dragged the rest of the weapon with
him.
The bike plummeted down into the
path of washed pebbles that led to the
steps of the mission. As it did so,
MacKenzie was hurled forward,
somersaulting over the bars, rolling
on the tiny stones until he thudded
into the base of the short flight of
steps to the white steel door, the
cigar still gripped between his teeth.
Any second now the Chincoms would
regroup, the fusillade would begin,
and the sharp chops of icelike pain
would commence, giving him, perhaps,
only seconds be" fore oblivion came.
But the firing did not begin. Only
louder and louder screaming from the
crowds and the soldiers. Oriental
heads peered over the mass of
wreckage, above the shattered planks,
in front of the smashed latticework.
Most of the 29
soldiers who had thrown themselves on
the ground were now on their hands and
knees.
Yet no one fired a weapon. Then
MacKenzie understood: he was,
technically, within U.S. territory. If
he was shot inside the compound it
might be construed as an execution on
American soil. It could become an
international incident. Goddamn! He
was protected by lace-pants
fol-de-rol! Diplomatic niceties were
keeping him alivel
He scrambled to his feet, ran up the
steps to the white steel door and
began punching the bell and pounding
his hand on the metal panel.
There was no response.
He banged louder and kept his free
hand on the bell. He yelled to those
inside and after what seemed like
minutes, the single rectangular slot
in the door was opened.
A pair of wide, frightened eyes peered
out.
"For Christ's sake, it's Hawhnsl"
roared MacKenzie, putting his
screaming mouth inches in front of the
panicked set of eyes. "Open the
goddamned door, you son of a bitchl
What the hell are you doing?"
The eyes blinked, but the door did not
open.
Hawkins yelled again, and again the
eyes blinked. After several seconds
the eyes were replaced by trembling
lips.
'No one's home, sir," came the
quivering, unbelievable words.
"What?!"
"Sorry, General."
The shaking lips were now replaced
by the rapid slamming of metal. The
slot was closed.
MacKenzie stood there in temporary
shock. Then he started pounding once
again and yelling again and punching
the bell buttons so hard the Bakelite
cracked.
Nothing.
He looked back at the crowds and the
soldiers, and became aware of the
screams and grins and wave after wave
of giggles.
Hawkins jumped down the set of steps
and began running across the lawn in
front of the building. All the windows
were not only shut, but the iron inner
shutters had been closed behind the
grillwork. The whole god30
damn mission was sealed tight, an
enormous white, rectangular clam.
He raced around the side. It was the
same everywhere: closed windows, iron
shutters, grillwork.
He rounded the back lawn and ran to
the large rear entrance. He began
pounding the door and yelling louder
than he thought he had ever yelled in
his life.
Finally the slot opened and another
set of eyes appeared less frightened
than those in front but nevertheless
wide and disturbed.
"Open this bucking door, goddamn ill"
Once more lips appeared, and now
MacKenzie could see the gray
moustache. It was the ambassador.
"Get away from here, Hawkins," said
the deep, anglicized voice, cultivated
in the Eastern Establishment. "You're
just not operative!"
And the slot was closed.
MacKenzie stood there immobilized.
Time and space fused into nothingness.
He was vaguely aware that the crowds
and the soldiers had moved around the
latticework fence at the sides and the
rear of the mission.
Without really thinking, he backed
away from the entrance and looked up
at the outside wall of the building
and at the roof.
He could do it, using the grillwork
of the windows. He jumped to the first
window and climbed up the grillwork
until he reached the next protrusion
of crisscrossing bars.
In several minutes he had scaled the
side of the building and pulled
himself over the edge of the sloping
tiled roof.
He trudged up to the apex and looked
around.
The flagpole was centered in the
grass on the lawn to the left of the
gravel path. The gently waving cloth
of Old Glory undulated in the breeze
in isolated splendor.
Lieutenant General MacKenzie Hawkins
tested the wind and then unzipped his
fly.
3
CHAPI`ERFOUR
Devereaux smiled at the doorman of the
Beverly Hills Hotel, then walked
around the huge automobile to the
driver's side, tipped the parking
attendant, and climbed in behind the
<
br /> wheel, the glare of the sunlight
bouncing off the hood. It was all so
Southern California: doormen, parking
Attendants, silent tips, oversized
cars and blinding sunlight.
As was the telephone conversation he
had held two hours ago with the first
Mrs. MacKenzie Hawkins.
He had decided to begin logically,
piecing together a progressive
disintegration of the man. Surely a
pattern would emerge; it would be
easier to document this contemporary
version of the Rake's Progress if he
started with the subject's
introduction to the really corrupt
world: soft silks and money as opposed
to mere killing, torture, and West
Point arrogance.
Regina Sommerville Hawkins was that
introduction.. According to the data
banks, Regina was Virginia Hunt
Country, spoiled-rich out of Foxcroft
and Finch. She had set her cotillion
bonnet for the trophy called Hawkins
in UL947, when the celebrated youthful
warrior of the Bulge had further
impressed the nation with dazzling
feats on the gridiron. Since Daddy
Sommerville owned most of Virginia
Beach, and Ginny was an authentic
Southern belle money and magnolia, not
just the fragrance the match was
easily arranged. The heroic
up-from-the-ranks West Pointer was
met, overwhelmed, and temporarily
subdued by the lilting drawl, large
breasts, and indigenous conveniences
of this soft but persistent daughter
of the Confederacy.
Daddy knew a lot of people in
Washington, so, com32
Lined with Hawkins's own talents and
track record, Regina expected to be a
general's wife within six months. A
year at best.
In Washington. Or Newport News. Or
New York. Or perhaps lovely Hawaii.
With servants and uniforms and dances
and more servants and.. .
However, Hawkins was peculiar, and
Daddy did not know that many people
who could curb his odd behavior. The
Hawk did not want the la-de-da life of
Washington Newport News, or New York.
He wanted to be with his troops. And
there was a congressional on his sheet
requests were not denied lightly.
Regina found herself in out-of-the-way
army camps where her husband furiously
trained disinterested draftees for a
war that wasn't. So she decided to
shed her trophy. Daddy did know enough
people to make that easy. Hawkins was
transferred to West Germany and
Regina's doctors made it clear she
could not take the climate. The
distance between them just made it
feasible to call the whole thing
quietly off.
Now, nearly thirty years later,
Regina Sommerville Hawkins Clark
Madison Greenberg was living in a
suburb of Los Angeles called Tarzana
with her fourth husband, Emmanuel
Greenberg, motion picture producer. On
the phone two hours ago she had said
to Sam Devereaux:
"Listen, lover, you want to talk
about Mac? I'll Bet the girls
together. We usually meet on
Thursdays, but what the hell is a
day?"
So Sam wrote down the directions to
Tarzana and was now on his way in a
rented car to Regina's manse. The car
radio played Muddied Waters, which
seemed appropriate.
He found the driveway of the
Greenberg residence and entered it,
ascending, he was sure, the final
crest of the hills. Halfway into the
property was an iron gate, operated
electrically; it swung open as he
approached.
He parked in front of a four-car
garage. On the flat asphalt surface
there were two Cadillacs, a Silver
Cloud Rolls and, in rather obvious
counterpoint, a Maserati. Two
uniformed chauffeurs were talking
idly, leaning against the Rolls. Sam
got out of the car with his attache
case and closed the door. "I'm Mrs.
Greenberg's broker," he said to the
chauffeurs.
33
"This is the place, man," laughed
the younger chauffeur. "Merrill,
Lynch, and The Girls. That's what they
ought to call it."
"Maybe they will some day. Is that
the path to the door?" Sam gestured
toward a flagstone walk that seemed to
disappear into a short forest of
California fern and miniature orange
trees.
"Yes, sir," said the older,
dignified chauffeur, as if it were
important to cut short the younger
man's informality. 'Jo the right.
You'll see it."
Sam walked down the path to the
front door. He had never seen a pink
door before, but if he had to see one,
he knew it would be in Southern
California. He pushed the doorbell and
heard the chimes ring out the opening
notes of the Love Story theme. He
wondered if Regina knew the ending.
The door opened and she stood in the
foyer, dressed in tight-fitting shorts
and an equally tight, translucent
shirt that made her huge breasts burst
forward in an absolutely challenging
fashion.
Though in her forties, Regina was
dark haired, tanned, unlined, and
lovely, and she carried her frontage
with the assurance of youth.
"You're the mayjor?" she asked, the
rank emerging in the low, slow, flat A
of the Hunt Country.
"Major Sam Devereaux," he confirmed.
It was silly to state the name so
formally but his attention was on her
two titanic challenges.
"Come on in. I reckon you figured
we'd all take offense at a uniform."
"Something like that, I guess."
Devereaux smiled foolishly forced his
eyes away from the shirt and walked
into the foyer.
The foyer was short; the entrance to
a huge sunken living room, the far
wall of which was nothing but glass.
Beyond the glass was a kidney-shaped
pool surrounded by a terrace of
Italian tile, bordered by an ornate
iron fence overlooking the valley.
All this he noticed after, say,
fifteen seconds. The first quarter
minute was taken up observing three
additional pairs of breasts.
34
Each pair was magnificent in its
individual style. Full and Round.
Narrow and Pointed. Sloping yet
Argumentative.
They belonged in turn to Madge,
Lillian, and Anne; Regina Greenberg
made the introductions swiftly and
pleasantly. And Sam automatically
related the breasts the girls to the
&n
bsp; data in his attache case.
Lillian was number three. Palo Alto,
California.
Madge was number two. Tuckahoe, New
York.
Anne was number four. Detroit,
Michigan.
A nice cross-section of Americana.
Regina Ginny was obviously the
oldest, not so much in appearance as
in authority. For in truth, all the
girls were in that vague age range
between middle thirties and the next
decade a span Southern California was
expert in obscuring. And each was
dressed in sexy Southern California:
casual but minutely engineered for
that effect.
MacKenzie Hawkins was a man whose
tastes and abilities were to be
envied.
The courtesies were gotten over with
rapidly, courteously. Sam was offered
a drink, which he dared not refuse in
this company, and seated in a sunken
bean bag from which it was impossible
to rise. He managed to place the
attache case at his side, but
immediately realized that the contor-
tions required to reach over, pick it
up, and open it on his lap would tax
Plastic Man, so he hoped it would not
be necessary.
"Well, here we all are," drawled
Regina Greenberg. "Hawkins's Harem, as
it were. What does tide Pentagon want?
Testimonials?"
"There's one we'll all give without
reservation," said Lillian brightly.
"Enthusiastically," said Madge.
"Ooah," said Anne.
"Yes, well. The general's abilities
are enormous," stammered Sam. "I
mean well, I didn't expect to meet you
Robert Ludlum - Road To Gandolfo.txt Page 5
