The Road to Omaha: A Novel

by Robert Ludlum

  “You take one step toward me,” said Redwing, lowering her shoulders and grabbing the strap of her purse from the chair, then suddenly, snapping it open with her left hand and removing the cylinder of Mace with her right. “… you’ll be blinded for a month,” she completed, waving her weapon back and forth between the two formally clothed subordinates and their Wopotami-dressed superior. “Try me and you won’t merely make my day, you’ll make my week.”

  “This is where I came in,” interrupted Sam Devereaux, walking to the mirrored bar and the pitcher of martinis; he hop-skipped and soccer-kicked the fallen glass on the hotel rug.

  “Wait a minute!” exclaimed Aaron, adjusting his steel-rimmed spectacles and studying the lovely bronze-skinned woman. “I know you.… Seven or eight years ago—Harvard, the Law Review, among the top of your class … an outstanding analysis of censorship within the framework of constitutional law.”

  “Nanny’s Naughty Follies, by God!” said Devereaux, laughing as he poured himself a drink.

  “Be quiet, Samuel.”

  “We’re back to Samuel?”

  “Shut up, Counselor.… Yes, Mr. Pinkus, you interviewed me, and I was very flattered by your interest.”

  “But you turned us down, my dear. Why was that?… You certainly don’t have to answer me, because it’s none of my business, but I’m curious. I distinctly remember asking my associates what firm in Washington or New York you were heading for—frankly, I intended to call whomever it was and tell them how fortunate they were. Washington and New York are usually the goals of the best and the brightest, although I obviously disagree. However, I seem to recall that you went with a small, albeit fine firm in Omaha.”

  “It’s where I came from, sir. As you may have gathered, I’m a member of the Wopotami tribe.”

  “I half gathered that, although my other half sincerely hoped you might refute the conclusion. Life would be less chaotic, if that were in the realm of possibility.”

  “It’s not, Mr. Pinkus. My name is Jennifer Redwing and I’m a daughter of the Wopotamis. I’m also extremely proud of the fact.”

  “But where in heaven’s name did you ever meet Samuel?”

  “In an elevator—this morning—at the Four Seasons Hotel. He was very tired; he claimed he was exhausted and made several foolish remarks.”

  “That was sufficient to cause you to be here with him now, Miss Redwing?”

  “She went to my house,” interjected Devereaux. “I apologized—I even tipped the doorman for her—and then I heard this crazy lady give my own address to the taxi driver! What would you have done, Aaron?”

  “Obviously, followed her to your house.”

  “I did.”

  “I went to his house, Mr. Pinkus, because it was the last address I traced down for that demented creature standing next to you!”

  “Angry little filly, isn’t she?” observed the Hawk.

  “Yes, General Hawkins—you couldn’t possibly be anyone else—I am angry, and no, General, I am not a ‘little filly,’ as you will learn when I get through with you. In court or out of court, I’ll chew your ass off!”

  “Verbal abuse, Sergeants. Stay alert.”

  “Oh, shut up, you lowest face on the dumbest totem. Incidentally, that beaded jacket you’re wearing tells the story of an idiot buffalo who hadn’t the brains to get out of a storm. Very appropriate.”

  “Hey, Red,” broke in Sam, a martini at his lips. “Cool it. Remember the corporate trust.”

  “Cool it? Just looking at him makes me want to scream!”

  “He has that effect on people,” mumbled Devereaux, drinking.

  “A moment, please,” said Pinkus, gently holding up his hand. “I believe I heard something that should be clarified.” The venerated attorney turned to Sam. “What ‘corporate trust’? What have you done now?”

  “Just a little pro bono advice, Aaron. You’d approve.”

  “You and any approval on my part may well be mutually exclusive at this juncture.… Perhaps you will explain, Miss Redwing?”

  “I’d be delighted to, Mr. Pinkus. Especially for the benefit of your other guest, General Neanderthal. You may have to translate for him, but I suspect he’ll eventually understand the bottom line, if only because he won’t get anywheres near it.”

  “That’s succinct,” said Aaron, his expression not unlike that of Eisenhower’s upon learning of MacArthur’s dismissal.

  “It’s brilliant, and despite a profusion of faults too numerous to mention, the concept did originate with your employee, Mr. Pinkus. I must grant him that.”

  “The work of a fine attorney starts with a gracious attorney, Miss Redwing.”

  “Really? I never thought of it that way.… Why? I’m merely asking, of course.”

  “Because he—or she—has the confidence of his or her own abilities. There’s no need to feed a tenuous ego by withholding praise from another. Hire that girl or that fellow; neither will distract themselves with real or imagined hostilities.”

  “I think I just learned something—”

  “It’s hardly original, my dear. Without offense, I should point out that our general here said very much the same thing in military terms. Distraction through hostility—the weaker must pretend, the stronger merely watches, prepared to act.”

  “Are you comparing that ape to me …?”

  “Now, see here, you little Injun filly.…”

  “Please, General!… I said only in military terms, Miss Redwing—troop strength, if you like. Say that handsome chest of yours actually did conceal plastic explosives—which I devoutly trust it does not—our general was only trying to instruct his associates to stay on the alert, and not to be distracted by your hostility. The equation is really quite simple.”

  “Wad chu think about bein’ distracted by wad is there, huh, man?”

  “That’s enough, Sergeant—”

  “I agree wid chu, Desi-Uno—”

  “Mairzy doats and dosie doats and little lambs eat ivy …”

  “Oh, shut up!”

  “Samuel, stop it!”

  “Son, you’re spilling your drink—”

  “What, my dear Miss Redwing, were you about to explain about this concept that was conceived in the brain of my presently not-altogether employee?”

  “Quite simply, Mr. Pinkus, as the Wopotami tribe is a registered incorporated entity, a trust at this moment is being set up and signed by the legally empowered Council of Elders, stating that all legal and fiduciary matters be negotiated solely through the offices of the executors of the trust, all parties referred to in prior documents having no authority whatsoever. In short words, the specifically named executors of the trust shall, in concert, hold sole collective power of attorney.”

  “That sounds like mighty fine legalese, little lady,” said Hawkins. “What’s it mean?”

  “It means, General,” replied Redwing, her eyes ice cold on the Hawk, “that no one, repeat no one, other than the executors of the Wopotami trust, can make any decisions, or enter into any agreements, involving the tribe’s interests—or receive any benefits thereof.”

  “Well, I must say that appears to be damn smart protection,” said Hawkins, removing the mutilated cigar, then suddenly cocking his head as if disturbed. “But I suppose the next question is—are these here executors trustworthy, no pun intended, miss?”

  “Beyond reproach, General. Among them are two attorneys, several doctors, a president of an international foundation, three vice-presidents of leading banks, a stockbroker or two, and a renowned psychiatrist whom you should definitely make an appointment to see. In addition, they are all true offspring of the Wopotamis, and, lastly, I am the chairperson of, as well as the spokesperson for, the trust’s executors. Any other questions?”

  “Yes, just one. Is this what the Council of Elders wants?”

  “It certainly is. They’re guided by our advice and we are unwavering. So as you can plainly see. General Hawkins, even if your insane, utterly des
tructive scheme progresses an inch further, we, not you, will be in complete control so as to minimize the deleterious effects on an innocent people, of whom you’ve taken outrageous advantage. In brief, you’re out, you maniac.”

  The expression on the Hawk’s face conveyed not only pain but deep personal hurt. It was as though a world he had nurtured with care and profound love had cast him aside, leaving a bereft, lonely old man, an abandoned champion who refused in dignity to give in to bitterness. “I forgive you your unwarranted suspicions and your intemperate language,” he said softly, “for you truly do not know what you’re doing.”

  “Oh, my God!”

  “The reputed Son of God fits better,” suggested Devereaux, going back to the bar.

  “Chu gettin’ the shaft, Heneral?” asked Desi the Second.

  “Then maybe deze gringos go out for some air, huh, man?” said D-One. “Through the windows, h’okay?”

  “No, gentlemen,” protested Hawkins, quietly, heroically, the sepulchral tones of a saint in his voice. “This grand female has assumed the mantle of command, and the least I can do is to lessen that awesome responsibility—”

  “Here it comes,” interrupted Sam, fingering his martini to catch an olive. “Shovel time, fellas.”

  “Son, you really do misjudge me—”

  “You threw me that one before, Mac. Somehow I couldn’t catch it.”

  “Why not give me a chance, boy?”

  “It’s your bunny pulpit, Br’er Rabbit. Go ahead.”

  “Miss Redwing.” The Hawk nodded his head once, a senior officer acknowledging another. “I respect and understand your skepticism regarding my participation in the cause of the Wopotamis. So now let me put it to rest. As an adopted son of the tribe, I accept all decisions of the wise Council of Elders. Benefits to my person are irrelevant, I only want to see justice done.”

  Jennifer Redwing was stunned. The anticipated, vicious battle with a megalomaniacal giant had been reduced to her straightening out a sweet, injured puppy dog with a lot of legal claptrap. “Well … General … I honestly don’t know what to say.” Jennifer brushed her dark hair back defensively, for a moment ashamed to lock eyes with her wounded previous adversary. “Please understand, sir,” she began, forcing her gaze on the old soldier who had given so much for his country—their country. “I’m extremely protective, perhaps overly protective, of my people because our history is rife with injustices, as are the histories of American Indians everywhere. In your case, I was wrong. I apologize. Please accept that apology, it’s meant.”

  “He’s gotcha!” cried Devereaux, swallowing the remainder of his martini. “The raging lion is a wet pussycat and you buy it.”

  “Samuel, that will be enough! Didn’t you hear what the man said?”

  “I’ve heard a hundred variations—”

  “Shut up, Counselor! He’s a great man and he’s just agreed to everything I wanted. Try to recall, if that gin-drenched brain will let you, your own words. An essential truth, remember?”

  “You forgot the circuitous routes, Counselor,” said Sam, heading back to the bar. “There are bumpy roads ahead, fellas.”

  And, naturally, the hotel telephone rang. Aaron Pinkus, shaking his head in equal parts irritation and anger, walked rapidly to the desk and picked up the intruding instrument. “Yes?”

  “To who is this am I presently speaking to?” asked the high-pitched voice on the line. “The big Hebe lawyer or the big nuthouse general in the Geronimo beads?”

  “This is Aaron Pinkus, and I’m an attorney, if that answers your question.”

  “It’s good enough, yarmulke. It’s by your limo I found you.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Well, it’s a long story and I’d like to tell you, but the Bam-Bam don’t like long stories, and to tell you the truth, you ain’t got much time.”

  “I don’t understand a word you’re saying.”

  “Well, you see, years ago there was this half-assed shamus who put the collar on me, but now we got a truce, and on account of the fact that he’s still got friends downtown, a lot of black-and-whites have been lookin’ for your limo, capisce?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Maybe I should then talk to the wild man, right? Tell the asshole to take the fuckin’ cigar out of his mouth and get on the Ameche.”

  “I believe this is for you, General,” said Pinkus, turning and speaking slowly, hesitantly. “A rather strange fellow who speaks like a chicken might speak—as I imagine a chicken might speak.”

  “Breakthrough!” cried the Hawk, taking rapid strides to the desk and grabbing the phone, then instantly covering the mouthpiece and addressing the others. “Old soldiers, even grunts, don’t fade away. They remember the days, my friends, because they never end!… Is this you, Little Joseph?”

  “We gotta talk, fazool. Everything’s changed. By my side, you’re not the bad guys anymore, but the other bad guys are comin’ after you.”

  “Be a little clearer, Joseph.”

  “There ain’t time, fazool! The big man wants to set up a meet with you in a day or so, but he’s got to play dead for a while, so I’m your connection.”

  “Play dead, Joseph …?”

  “On my Aunt Angelina’s grave. It’s D.C. turf warfare and the big man temporarily lost.… He told me to tell you that the gumbar whose back you spiked but whose neck you didn’t sufficiently break in the hotel lobby has spewed his guts out in some chemical factory in Virginia. By now they know you and your crowd are here in Boston and the silk underwear boys are unleashing—here, I wrote this down—the SFIs to go after you.”

  “The SFIs? Hannibal in elephant shit! He said SFIs?”

  “I couldn’t make a mistake ’cause he repeated it maybe three times and I didn’t know what it meant.”

  “The animals of the world, Little Joseph. I taught ’em, so I should know. Special Forces—Incorrigibles. They’re still in stockades, still trying to kill everyone but the cooks and the nurses.”

  “Now it’s you and your little group, fazool. It took me exactly thirty-one minutes to find you—how long will it take the fuckin’ commandos once they’ve arrived in Boston, which they may have already? Get out of there and call me here at the room-service palazzo when you’re out of the freak-heads’ fire.… And don’t use that fuckin’ limo! It’s a fuckin’ landmark!” Joey the Shroud hung up and the Hawk turned to his troops.

  “Evacuate!” he roared. “Explanations will come later; there’s no time for them now. Adjutants, hotwire two vehicles in the hotel’s parking lot and meet us at the southeast corner. ¡Vamos!” Mac looked harshly at Aaron Pinkus as Desis One and Two ran out the door, then forced his eyes on Sam Devereaux and finally Jennifer Redwing. “You ask me why I fight the mendacities of those in power, why I take up the sword against the corruptors and the manipulators, whether a century ago or now. Let me make it clear, goddamn it! An unseen, unelected government behind our government has let loose a pack of psychopaths with only one mission, the success of which will set them free to roam the streets.… That mission is to kill us, all of us. Why? Because we raised the specter of a crime against an innocent, manipulated people over a hundred years ago that will cost the manipulators billions to rectify!”

  “Goddamn your essential truth!” said Devereaux, throwing his martini into the sink. “Let’s get out of here!”

  “The police, General! I’m a respected man here in Boston. Surely they will protect us.”

  “Commander Pinkus, in this out-of-sanction combat, civilian authorities are useless. How the hell do you think I blew up depots from Normandy to Kai Song?”

  “I simply can’t believe it,” said Redwing, trying to remain calm. “I won’t believe it!”

  “You won’t believe it, little Injun filly? Perhaps I should remind you of the Eastern companies who promised your people throughout the Midwest plains that they were being moved to far better lands where all you found was arid soil and your cattle f
roze. It’s no different, young lady!”

  “Oh, Jesus!” cried Jennifer, racing to the bedroom door.

  “What are you doing?” yelled Devereaux.

  “Your mother, you idiot!”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” said Sam, blinking. “Is there any coffee around?”

  “No time, son!”

  “Help Miss Redwing, Sammy.”

  “At least we’re out of Samuel—”

  “I don’t think there’s a choice,” said Aaron Pinkus.

  The five fugitives from the Ritz-Carlton stood side by side at the southeast corner of the hotel waiting for the arrival of Desi One and Two. They smiled inanely at several passersby, doing their best not to appear like a quintet of adult delinquents. The grand Eleanor was held up by Redwing as the former kept struggling with the words of the “Indian Love Call.”

  “Shut up, Mother!” whispered Sam.

  “This is the daughter I’ve always wanted—”

  “Put it on hold, Mom. She may be a better lawyer than me, and you wouldn’t want that.”

  “I don’t think you’re so hot. Half the time I can’t understand you—”

  “You’re not supposed to, Mother. That’s the law—”

  “Quiet!” ordered the Hawk, nearest the edge of the building, Pinkus at his side. A Lincoln town car had swung in front of the canopied entrance of the hotel as, simultaneously, Desis One and Two plunged into the curb with their two hotwired cars from the parking lot. “Everybody hold it!” continued Hawkins as he and Aaron watched four men in black raincoats climb out of the Lincoln, one from the front and three from the rear seat. The car instantly sped away and parked by the gates of the Public Garden as the four black raincoats walked rapidly into the hotel. “D-One, front and center!” said the Hawk in a loud whisper. “Repeat down the line!” he added.

  “D-One, front and center—”

  “Desi! You with the crazy teeth and the curled-up shirt, get out here!” cried Devereaux. “Go to Mac!”

  “Mizerloo, my Arab love who is my deseerloo—”

  “Shut up, Mother! You’ve got the wrong words and the wrong country anyway.”