Robert Ludlum - Road To Gandolfo.txt

by The Road To Gandolfo [lit]

  would we? Jesus! They wouldn't let

  either one of us out then."

  65

  "Where do you want to have dinner?"

  asked Devereaux. He grimaced. The

  Maalox bottle was empty.

  You're escorting me. I thought you

  knew that.... It's in the orders. We

  wouldn't want anything fucked up over

  there, would weP

  No, we certainly would not.

  Devereaux shook his head. A couple in

  the next booth were staring at him. He

  stopped and grinned foolishly; the

  couple whispered to each other and

  looked away. Their reaction was clear:

  You never knew who was being sentenced

  next.

  A tall man came through the

  curtained arch across the room. It was

  Sam's turn to stare. In awe.

  It was the Hawk. He was sure of it.

  But the tall man threading his way

  politely through the crowded room bore

  little resemblance to the disheveled,

  cigar-chewing MacKenzie Hawkins who

  had squinted at him through the glass

  of a Peking cell. And even less to the

  close-cropped Hawkins who stood ramrod

  straight at all times and took each

  step as though marching to the tune of

  a thousand pipers against a strong

  wind.

  To begin with there was the Van Dyke

  beard. Granted it was new, but the

  definition was clear and exceedingly

  well groomed. As was the hair; it was

  not only growing out, but it had been

  shaped by tonsorial hands so that the

  gray swept over the ears in waves.

  Very, very distinguished. And the

  eyes well, one could not really see

  the eyes because they were covered by

  tinted, tortoise-shell glasses, a very

  light tint that was more academic, or

  diplomatic, than mysterious.

  And the man's walk. Good God!

  Hawkins's ramrod military posture had

  been replaced by a tasteful, goddamn

  it, elegant grace. There was a

  softness about the whole bearing, a

  kind of casual glide that was more

  Palm Beach than Fort Benning.

  "I saw you watching me," said the

  Hawk as he slid into the booth. "Not

  bad, eh, boy? Not one of those pricky-

  shits stopped me. How about that?"

  "I'm astonished," answered Sam.

  "You shouldn't be, son. First thing

  you learn in inf~ltra

  66 ~

  tion is adaptability. Not just

  terrain, but a good-sized accent on

  local customs and behavior. It's a

  form of psychowar.

  "What the hell are you talking about?"

  "Behind the lines, Sam. This is

  enemy territory, don't you know that?"

  By the time Mac Hawkins had

  elegantly spooned his iced vichyssoise

  he had reached the heart the core the

  bombshell of his reason for dinner

  with Sam. It was explosively capsuled

  in a single name.

  Heseltine Brokemichael. Late Major

  General of Command, Bangkok. Currently

  in limbo, Washington, D.C.

  "Yes, Sam, old Brokey was with me in

  Korea and points east and south. Damn

  fine officer; a little hot-headed, but

  then he always had to contend with

  that stupid bastard cousin of his.

  What's that idiotic name- of his?

  Ethelred? Can you imagine? Two

  Brokemichaels in the same goddamned

  army, both with f eak namesl"

  "I'm not hungry any more," said

  Devereaux quietly. The Hawk continued.

  "Yes, sir, you really laid the heavy

  mortar on Brokey's career. He couldn't

  get another star on his collar if he

  bought all the astrologers in the

  Pentagon. You see, they can never be

  sure; one of the goddamned

  Brokemichaels is a crook, but, of

  course, you never proved that,

  either."

  "They wouldn't let me!" Devereaux's

  whisper carried farther than he cared

  to think about. The couple in the next

  booth stared again. Sam grinned again.

  "I had the evidence; I built the case.

  They made me drop it!"

  "And a good man was cut down just

  when the joint chiefs were looking

  kindly on him. I tell you, it's a

  pity."

  "Get off it, Mac. I had that bastard

  cold- "

  "The wrong bastard, boy. And even

  then you committed serious crimes to

  get your so-called evidence."

  "I took a calculated risk because I

  was damned angry. I paid for it with

  two years of my life in that

  cockadoodle uniform. And that's it. I

  want out."

  "That's too bad. I mean, I'm sorry

  to hear you say that because you may

  have to spend a little more time over

  at IG if I "

  ff7

  "Hold it!" interrupted Devereaux in

  a whisper that bordered a roar. "I'm

  out the day after tomorrow! Nothing

  nothing's going to change that!"

  "I certainly hope not. Let me

  finish. You may have to spend time if

  I can't talk old Brokey out of this

  crazy idea of his. You see, those

  charges against you in Bangkok weren't

  actually dropped; they were sort of

  suspended because of the complicated

  circumstances, and what with all those

  peace freaks screaming against the

  military. Now, Brokey doesn't hold

  anything against you, Sam, but he'd

  really like to clarify his own status,

  you can understand that. He figures

  that if he resurrects those charges,

  you can dig up the files and get the

  right Brokemichae~you'd have to or be

  on a rock pile and he'd have the JCS

  smiling nicely,on him, just like they

  used to. Wouldn't take more than, say,

  six or seven months. A year at the

  outside maybe eighteen months if the

  trial was a long one, but you'd both

  get what you want i'

  "I want out! That's all I want!" Sam

  wrung his napkin so tightly it

  squeaked. "I paid for my moral

  indignation. It's past! ~

  "Past for you, boy. Not old Brokey."

  "The facts are there. I made a

  goddamned apology, it's in writing.

  The day after tomorrow, after sixteen

  hundred hours, I'll dictate a

  statement to a civilian secretary

  recapping the whole thing in

  one-syllable words. I will not reopen

  that case!"

  "You will if old Brokey pulls out a

  certain Bangkok file and issues a

  directive for your arrest. He is a

  general officer, Sam. Even though he

  may have pulled duty cleaning out the

  Sucking high-brass latrines, for all

  I know."

  Hawkins had pursed his lips, taking,

  and shaking his head slowly; the wide,

  innocent eyes behind the tinted

  glasses conveyed anything but

&nb
sp; innocence.

  "All right, Mac. Game time is over.

  You said, if you couldn't talk

  Brokemichael out of this nonsense. Can

  you talk him out of it?"

  "Either talk him out of it, or

  remove him from the scene for a couple

  of days. Yes, I can do one or the

  other. Once you've got that discharge,

  boy, Brokey'd have a hell of a time

  convincing anyone to go after you.

  That paper's sort 68

  l

  of a statute of limitations, you know.

  But I don't have to tell you that."

  "No, you don't. Just tell me what

  rotten thing you want from me."

  The Hawk removed his tinted glasses

  and, elegantly, wiped the

  non-prescription lenses as though he

  were polishing jade. "Well, as a

  matter of fact, I've been giving a lot

  of thought to my immediate future. And

  I think there's a place for you, but

  I'm not sure."

  "Don't ever be. Next week I'll be

  back at my desk in Boston with Aaron

  Pinkus Associates, the best law firm

  in the Bay State."

  "Well, you could take an extra few

  weeks. Say a month, couldn't you?

  Jesus, boy, it's been four years;

  what's another month?"

  "Aaron Pinkus will one day be on the

  Supreme Court. Every day with him is

  an education and I'm not giving up

  thirty years of paid education. What

  do you mean; you think there's a place

  for me? Doing what?"

  "I may need an attorney. I think

  you're the best I ever met."

  "I'm probably the only one you've ever

  met "

  "But you've got a few weak spots,

  young Ella," interrupted Hawkins,

  replacing his tinted glasses. "I'm

  sorry to say that, but it's a fact. So

  I don't know whether to hire you or

  not. I have to ponder some more about

  you."

  "In the meantime, you'll keep

  Brokemichael out of the picture?"

  "And you'll give some consideraton

  to acting as my attorney? Just for a

  couple of weeks? You see, I've got a

  little money saved up "

  "I know exactly how much money

  you've got," broke in Devereaux

  sympathetically. "I had to. You want

  advice for investments?"

  "Sort of

  "Then without qualification I'll

  help you. I mean that." Sam did. After

  a lifetime of devotion, risk, and

  service Mac had managed to amass the

  sum total of fifty-od] thousand

  dollars. No other assets whatsoever.

  No houses real estate, stocks.

  Nothing. That and a reduced pension

  was all he had for the rest of his

  life. "And if I can't give 69

  you the advice I think you should

  have, I'll find someone else who can."

  "That's mighty touching, son."

  Was there a hint of glistening tear

  in this tough oldline officer's eyes?

  It was difficult to tell with the

  tinted glasses.

  "It's the least I can do. It may

  sound corny, but it's the least any

  taxpayer can do for you. You've given

  a lot, and you've been shafted by the

  plastic men. I know that."

  'Well, boy," said Hawkins, inhaling

  deeply, heroically, "everyone does

  what he has to do in this world. At a

  given moment of time~uch! This goddamn

  faggot suit is tighter than a Memorial

  Day uniform." The Hawk pulled out a

  folded, faded magazine from his breast

  pocket. The pages showing were

  dog-eared and marked with red pencil.

  "What's that?" asked Devereaux.

  "Oh, some Chincom propaganda the

  slants left in my cell. It's the

  standard Commie crap, misspelled

  English and all. This is an article

  that's supposed to show the kind of

  injustice that's widespread in

  organized religion. This here Catholic

  pope has a first cousin kind of like

  the Brokemichaels in a way, except

  they don't have the same names but

  they look alike. Actually they're

  identical, except that this pope's

  cousin grows a beard to hide the

  likeness."

  "I don't understand. Where's the

  injustice?"

  "This cousin is a small-time singer

  in a minor opera company and half the

  time he's out of work. The Chincoms

  make the obvious comparison. The

  singer sings his heart out for the

  people's culture and starves half to

  death, while his pope cousin eats like

  a guinea gourmet and steals from the

  poor."

  "It interested you so much you marked

  it ups"

  "Hell, no, boy. I just picked out

  the inaccuracies to show this priest

  friend of mine. It may surprise you,

  but I've been doing a little studying

  about things I haven't thought much

  about before. God, and the church, and

  things like that . Don't you laugh,

  now."

  Devereaux smiled gently. "I'd never

  laugh at a thing like that. I don't

  think it's anything to laugh at. A

  man's 70

  religious thoughts are not only his

  constitutional right, but

  often his very real sustenance."

  "That's a mighty nice way to phrase it.

  Real deep, Sam. By the way, just one

  other thing about this Brokemichael

  business. Tomorrow morning at G-two. Keep

  your bucking mouth shut and do as I say."

  Hawkins was waiting under the canopy

  when Sam pulled up to the curb in front

  of the hotel. He held what looked like a

  very expensive briefcase in one hand,

  opened the car door with his other and

  slid in. There was a broad grin on his

  face.

  "Godciamn! It's a beautiful morning!"

  It was not. It was cold and wet and the

  skies promised a heavy rain.

  "Your barometer's a little off."

  "Nonsense! The day like age depends on

  how you feel, boy. And I feel just

  grand!" Hawkins smoothed the lapels of

  his tweed suit, adjusted the deep red

  paisley tie over the modish striped

  shirt, and ran his fingers delicately

  over the hair-above his ears.

  "Glad you're in such good spirits," said

  Sam, starting up the car and entering the

  flow of traffic. "I don't want to dampen

  them but you can't take a briefcase with

  you. You can't remove any papers. Nothing

  leaves the G-two offices."."

  Hawkins laughed. He pulled out a cigar

  from his shirt pocket. "Oh, don't worry

  your legal head about details," he said,

  snipping off the end of the cigar with a

  sterling silver clipper. "I've taken care

  of all that."

  "There's nothing to take care oil I'm

  responsible for you and I've got

  twenty-four hours to keep my nose clean.
"

  Devereaux took his hostility out on the

  horn the sound was returned in good

  measure by the surrounding vehicles.

  "Jesus, you're in a foul temper. You

  just keep your eyes on the high ground,

  don't concern yourself with the flanks."

  "Goddamn it, doesn't anybody speak

  English anymore? What goddamned flanks?

  What does that mean?"

  "It means what I said last night."

  MacKenzie spoke as he lighted his cigar.

  "Do as I say and don't make waves. By the

  way, would you like to know the name of

  the Ella in 71

  . . .

  i

  charge ,oftheG-two archives? Well, no

  reason for you to know, but he's a

  bright son of a bitch, a real genius.

  Didn't know what I was doing for the

  service when I got him out of that

  prison camp west of Hanoi a few years

  back. He's a Pointer, too. Can you

  beat thatP Class of forty-seven. Same

  as me. Goddamn! The coincidences in

  this world "

  'No! . . . No, Mac! No! No, no, no! You

  can't! I won't let you!" Sam attacked

  the horn again. Viciously hammering on

  it. At a crippled old lady who was

  having a difficult hme crossing the

  intersection. The poor, trembling

  thing sank her head farther into her

  quivering shoulders.

  "Regulation Seven Seven Five makes

  it clear that a legal escort is just

  that. An escort. Not an observer. He

  takes the clandestine operations

  officer to and from the place of

  examination, but he's not permitted

  inside the room. I guess there're a

  lot of dishonest lawyers, Sam."