The Road to Gandolfo Page 7

  “Now, hold on. What we’re faced with—–”

  “No, you hold on, boy! I’m not going to give you a hard time. I’ll make you a better deal than you thought possible.” Hawkins shoved the cigar between his teeth, his eyes alive, his voice thoughtful yet intense. “I’ll do exactly—say exactly, whatever you bastards want me to say and do. Word for word, gesture for gesture. I’ll kiss every butt on Son Tai Square, if you want. But I want two things. Out of China and the army—they go together. And one thing more: three days in the G-two files back in D.C. Just my own, nobody else’s. What the hell, I wrote up the goddamned things! A last look at my contributions, all the guards you want. I’ll be making my final evaluations and additions. Standard procedure for discharging intelligence officers. How about it?”

  Sam hesitated. “I don’t know. That stuff’s classified—–”

  “Not to the officer who filed it! Clandestine Operations, Regulation Seven Seven Five, Statute of Amendments. Actually, he’s required to make his final evaluations.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Never more sure of anything in my life, boy.”

  “Well, if it’s standard—–”

  “I just gave you the regulation! It’s military bible, boy!”

  “Then I can’t see any obstacles—–”

  “I want it in writing. In exchange for that letter and tape that certifies me so fatigued I eat lizard shit. In fact, I’ll make the ultimatum: D.C. issues me a written order to comply with CO Reg Seven Seven Five upon my return to the States, or I’ll opt for all the silos in Mongolia! I’ve still got a lot of supporters back home. They may be a little squirrelly, but they’re also goddamned noisy.”

  MacKenzie Hawkins chuckled; his cigar was a mangled pulp of itself. It was Sam’s turn to squint.

  “What are you thinking of?”

  “Not a hell of a lot, boy. You just reminded me of something. Everyone is his own inventory. The sum of his parts. There may be a big goddamned world out there. And a challenge or two.”

  Part

  II

  The closely held corporation—that is, the company whose investors are few, regardless of capitalization—must have at its financial core men of generous heart and stout courage, who will infuse the structure with their dedication and sense of purpose.

  Shepherd’s Laws of Economics:

  Book CVI, Chapter 38

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The People’s trial went brilliantly for all concerned. MacKenzie Hawkins was the image of converted, reformed hostility; he was a manly pussycat, playing his role to perfection. On his arrival at Travis Air Force Base in California, he emerged from the plane a stoic figure and spoke clearly into the cameras, and at the crowds of press and lunatic fringers; charming the media and defusing the screeching superpatriots.

  He stated simply that there came a time when old soldiers—even youngish old soldiers—should step aside gracefully; times changed and values with them. What was perfidy a decade ago was, perhaps, a proper course of action today. The military man, the military mind was not equipped—nor should it be trained—for great international issues. It was enough that the military man, a simple warrior in his nation’s legions—sic … ibid … in gloria transit … MacKenzie Hawkins—adhere to the eternal truths as he saw them.

  It was all very refreshing.

  It was all very heartfelt.

  It was all bullshit.

  And Mac Hawkins was superb.

  It was remarked that the man in the Oval Office watched from deep down in a sunken armchair with his pet 150-pound dog, Python, protectively on his lap. He laughed and clapped his hands over Python’s fur and stamped his feet and giggled and had a wonderful time. His family skipped in and laughed and clapped their hands and giggled and stamped their feet just like daddy. They weren’t sure why daddy was so happy, but it was the best fun they’d had since daddy shot that awful little spaniel in the stomach.

  Sam Devereaux watched the transformation of MacKenzie Hawkins from roaring bear to passive possum with dubious awe. The Hawk had turned into a soft-bellied mushy-beak, and what was basically lacking was the motive. Not that Sam discounted the specter of imprisonment—Mongolia or Leavenworth—but once Hawkins had agreed to the plea of guilty, the public apology, the letter and gratuitous photographs of his bowed head during the hundred-year sentence of probation, he could have merely resumed his military bearing and let whatever storms rage that might. Instead, he went to extremes to still any controversy. It seemed as though he really wanted to fade away (terrible phrase, thought Devereaux).

  Naturally, it crossed Sam’s mind that Hawkins’s behavior was somehow related to Washington’s quid pro quo regarding the G-2 files—the CO Regulation 775, and MacKenzie’s access to them. If so, it was an unnecessary effort on the general’s part; three intelligence services had looked over the files and found nothing to compromise national security. By and large the entries concerned old-hat Saigon conspiracies, some ancient European network speculations, and a slew of conjectures, rumors, and unsubstantiated allegations—dipsy-doodle nonsense.

  If Hawkins honestly believed he could make a compromising dollar—and for what other purpose would he insist on CO 775?—from these out-of-date, unconfirmed recordings, there was no harm in it. What with inflation, the reduced pension he would receive, and the overall untouchability of his status, things were going to be rough enough. So nobody much cared what he did with his old files. Besides, if there was any resulting embarrassment there was also the letter.

  “Goddamn, it’s good to talk to you again, young fella.” MacKenzie’s voice was loud and enthusiastic over the telephone, causing Sam to jerk the instrument away from his ear. The gesture was part audio-input, part raw fear of association.

  Devereaux had left the Hawk over two weeks ago in California, just after the press conference at Travis. Sam had flown back to Washington, his discharge barely three days off, and he had spent the time wrapping up any and all desk matters that might conceivably—even barely conceivably—stand in the way of that glorious hour.

  Hawkins wasn’t a desk matter, but his mere presence was an abstract threat. On general principles.

  “Hello, Mac,” said Sam cautiously. They had dispensed with the military titles at the beginning of the Peking trial. “You in Washington?”

  “Where else, boy? Tomorrow I trek over to G-two for my Seven Seven Five. Didn’t you know?”

  “I’ve been pretty busy. There’s been a lot to close out here. No reason for anyone to tell me about your Seven Seven Five.”

  “I think there is,” replied the Hawk. “You’re escorting me. I thought you knew that.”

  There was a sudden, huge lump in the middle of Devereaux’s stomach. He absently opened his desk drawer and reached for the Maalox as he spoke. “Escorting you? Why do you need an escort? Don’t you know the address? I’ll give you the address, Mac, I’ve got it right here. Don’t go away. Sergeant! Get me the address of G-two Archives! Move your ass, Sergeant!”

  “Hold on, Sam,” came the soothing words of MacKenzie Hawkins. “It’s just military procedure, that’s all. Nothing to get uptight over. Anyway, I know the address; you should, too, boy and that’s a fact.”

  “I don’t want to escort you. I’m a lousy escort! I said good-bye to you in California.”

  “You can say hello again over dinner. How about it?”

  Devereaux breathed deeply. He swallowed the Maalox and waved away the WAC who was his sergeant-secretary. “Mac, I’m sorry, but I do have a number of things to finish up. Maybe at the end of the week; anytime actually—the day after tomorrow. At sixteen hundred hours to be precise.”

  “Well, Sam, I thought we ought to go over the G-two routine for tomorrow morning. I mean you have to be there, son. It’s in the orders. We wouldn’t want anything fucked up over there, would we? Jesus! They wouldn’t let either one of us out then.”

  “Where do you want to have dinner?” asked Devereaux. He grimaced. The Ma
alox 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 we?

  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 infiltration 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 freak names!”

  “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—–”

  “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 Brokemichael—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 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 fucking high-brass latrines, for all I know.”

  Hawkins had pursed his lips, tsking, and shaking his head slowly; the wide, innocent eyes behind the tinted glasses conveyed anything but 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 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 fella,” 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-odd 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 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 old-line 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—–Ouch! 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 up?”

  “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.”