“Well, I’m certainly not in a class with Alfred Nobel, who was also a chemist, and who also invented dynamite, and who—many believe—to assuage his guilt over that invention, created the Nobel awards, not one of which would ever be associated with war. The concept of a Soldier of the Century would be anathema to the Nobel committee.”
“So what precisely are you saying, Cyrus?” interjected Jennifer.
“An extension of what I told you this morning. This is the trap to pull in General Hawkins—”
“You know my name?” cried MacKenzie.
“He knows your name, Mac, let it go,” said Devereaux.
“How?”
“Forget it, General,” replied Redwing. “For the moment, he’s my witness.… Okay, Cyrus, it’s a trap. What else? And from the tone of your voice, I’d say there was something else.”
“This isn’t minor-league lunatics with Alexander the Great complexes any longer. This operation is solo and comes from some son-of-a-bitch top gun in the government.”
“Washington?” asked an incredulous Aaron Pinkus.
“Someone in Washington,” refined the mercenary. “Not a collective effort, too much danger of leaks for that, but a highly placed authority who can mount this on his own.”
“Why do you say that?” persisted Aaron.
“Because the Nobel committee in Sweden is pure, and to make it even temporarily impure would take the office of a very important person. After all, any respectable journalist could reach Stockholm and get a confirmation. I suspect that confirmation has already been given.”
“Oh, boy!” exclaimed Sam Devereaux. “This is hardball.”
“I believe I said as much this morning.”
“You also told me that you were thinking of pulling yourself and Roman Z out of here once those trip things with the lithium things were in place.… They’re in place, Cyrus. What now? Are you going to leave us?”
“No, Counselor, I’ve changed my mind. We’re staying.”
“Why?” asked Jennifer Redwing.
“I suppose you expect some profound racial statement, like how we niggers had to survive the Klan by developing a sixth sense and get damned upset when the government behaves in like fashion. That’s voodoo.”
“Hey, don’t the big guy talk good?” interrupted Mrs. Lafferty.
“Later, dear Erin,” said Redwing, her attention on Cyrus. “All right, Mr. Mercenary, no racial voodoo, which I know something about. Why are you staying?”
“Is it important?”
“It is to me.”
“I can understand that,” said Cyrus, smiling.
“I don’t understand a goddamned thing!” exploded MacKenzie Hawkins, crushing a cigar in his fingers as he put it into his mouth.
“Then let the gentleman answer,” rejoined Aaron Pinkus. “If you’ll forgive me, General, please shut the hell up.”
“One commander does not give such an order to another!”
“Oh, blow it out your ass,” said Aaron, suddenly shaking his head, as if wondering where the words had come from. “Good heavens, I’m terribly sorry!”
“Don’t be,” broke in Sam. “You were saying, Cyrus?”
“Okay, Counselor,” said the mercenary, looking at Devereaux. “How much have you and the lady told the others?”
“Everything you told us, except it wasn’t the others, just Aaron. We didn’t include Mac or his ‘adjutants’ or my mother here—”
“Why the hell not tell me?” shouted the general. “… whatever the hell it is you’re not talking about!”
“We needed more to go on before you began issuing orders,” replied Sam curtly, turning back to Cyrus. “Also, we included your difficulties in Stuttgart and the aftereffects. Your ‘release’ from prison, as it were.”
“It doesn’t matter. If this is the mess I think it is and Roman Z and I can help you, I have an idea you won’t use it against us.”
“You have my word on that,” insisted Redwing.
“I didn’t hear a thing,” added Devereaux.
“You wouldn’t have,” said the mercenary pointedly. “Your questions were clumsy, while Miss R.’s were direct and made sense. She made it plain that in order to believe me, she needed some background credibility. I simply gave it to her.”
“It’s all hearsay and inadmissible, as far as I’m concerned,” said Pinkus.
“My interrogations are never clumsy,” mumbled Sam.
“Well, you had a lot on your mind … as well as your trousers,” said Jennifer quietly. “You say your decision to stay isn’t racial, Cyrus, but no one brought up that point but you. Are you protesting too much? You were a black man wrongfully convicted; if it happened to me, an Indian, I’d be mad as hell and stay mad for a long time. I’d want to strike back at any symbol of authority and I’m not sure the cause would matter. Is that why you’re staying?”
“Your psychology’s sound but it’s not applicable. Basically, my plea of self-defense notwithstanding, I was put in jail, not because I was black, but because I was one hell of a chemical engineer. Now, maybe a few idiots in Stuttgart figured that a Schwarzer wasn’t capable of analyzing their final stage of synthesizing compounds—”
“Boy, he’s something” cried Mrs. Lafferty.
“Please, dear Erin.”
“Nevertheless,” continued Cyrus. “The order for that end-user contract was approved by the head honcho of the Arms Control Commission, whom I had personally alerted in writing through a diplomatic relay I never met. One big lousy government appointee with his hand in the till never let my initial suspicions reach the rest of the commission. I was—forgive the term—blacked out, and it had nothing to do with my color, because analytical reports do not include such information.”
“How is your experience in Stuttgart related to this evening’s press conference at Logan Airport?” asked Pinkus.
“Coupled with everything I told your associates about the strange circumstances of this assignment, I have to go back to that sixth sense I denied, because this isn’t race-oriented—it’s corruption-oriented, government corruption. One powerful man in arms control was capable of getting my black butt out of a German prison, where it would have stayed for fifty years if it lasted a month, by pressuring the Bonn courts and cutting a deal with me. Suddenly, there was silence, the voice of the turtle was the only sound heard about that chemical plant, and my bargain was to draw five and serve maybe one if I kept my mouth shut—all for appearances. And don’t tell me palms weren’t greased.”
“But you did cut the deal,” said Jennifer, not kindly. “A convenient plea bargain.”
“I wasn’t too tickled over being the only black in a German prison where a lot of the inmates are skinhead maniacs waiting for Adolf to rise from the dead.”
“I’m sorry, I understand. We, too, have developed a sixth sense.”
“No, please, don’t apologize,” protested the mercenary softly. “When I saw those films on the prison television, all those people put down by the chemicals I knew about, I was ashamed of myself.”
“Hey, come on, Colonel—”
“For God’s sake, stop that, Counselor. I’m no colonel.”
“No, I mean it!” continued Devereaux rapidly. “What could you have done being incarcerated for fifty years, if you’d lasted fifty minutes with the skinheads?”
“That was my rationalization, and it’s also why I broke out with Roman Z. This kind of crap has got to stop, man!”
“And you believe a variation of what you experienced is happening now to General Hawkins?” asked Aaron, leaning forward in his chair. “The evidence being the newscast we just witnessed.”
“I’ll tell you what I won’t and can’t believe is that there’d ever be a Nobel prize for the Soldier of the Century. Secondly, why did this so-called committee fly into Boston, the only airport in the vicinity, where you’ve already been attacked, which means you’ve been tracked by superior high-tech government intelligence? Thirdly, that q
uartet of confused psychopathic crazies who tried to take you in Hooksett were strictly out-of-sanction moronic lowlifes—someone you’ll never find bribed a stockade warden, is my guess. You figured that out by a stenciled prison laundry mark inside a pair of trousers and sent them back in body bags.”
“Goddamned slugs!” roared MacKenzie Hawkins. “What we sent back was a message!… Will somebody tell me what we’re talking about?”
“We’ll fill you in later, Mac,” answered Sam, his hand on Cyrus’s shoulder. “If I read you right,” said Devereaux, “we have to find out who’s now running this operation, am I correct?”
“You’ve got it,” said the mercenary. “Because the assault on you in New Hampshire may have the same origins, but they’ve gone upscale—maybe too upscale, and that means they could be vulnerable.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Pinkus.
“These came in on Air Force Two,” replied Cyrus. “They’re foreign civilians accorded the second highest aircraft in the country, which means it has to be cleared by one of three sources: the White House, which we can dismiss because they’ve got enough trouble with that kid; the CIA, which we should reject out of hand, ’cause half the country rightfully thinks the initials mean Caught in the Act, and they probably wouldn’t risk another embarrassment; and lastly the State Department, which nobody knows what the hell they’re doing but they do it anyway. My guess is one of the last two; and if we can find out which it is, we’ll narrow down the possible people who could order out that plane. Among them is the big bad cannon.”
“Perhaps both the Department of State and the CIA?” suggested Pinkus.
“No way. The Agency doesn’t trust State and vice versa. Also, there’s too much risk of leaks by combining forces.”
“Suppose we find out it’s one or the other?” asked Sam. “What then?”
“We shake the bones of every conceivable Washington big shot until they rattle. We have to find out who’s behind this operation—I mean really nail him or her down: name, rank, and serial number—because it’s the only way to insure your safety.”
“How?”
“Exposure, Sam,” said Jennifer. “We’re still a nation of laws, not maniacs in Washington.”
“Who says?”
“Moot point,” agreed Redwing. “What should we do, Cyrus?”
“The optimum would be to send someone impersonating the general to that hotel they mentioned, with me and Roman Z as his civilian aides. It’s standard that a retired general with two Congressionals would have aides.”
“What about Desis One and Two?” asked Aaron. “They’ll be hurt.”
“Why? They’d be with the real Hawkins.”
“Oh, of course. This feeble mind is aging. Everything’s happening so fast.”
“Also, they’re good boys, and you people should be covered here.” Cyrus stopped, suddenly aware of Eleanor Devereaux’s withering stare from the couch. “Man, that lady doesn’t like me,” he whispered.
“She doesn’t know you,” said Sam in a low voice. “Once she does, she’ll make a large donation to the United Negro College Fund, I promise.”
“Sure, a black mercenary is a terrible thing to waste.… Damn, there’s no one here who could pass for the general. We’ve got to think of something else.”
“Wait a minute!” broke in Pinkus. “Shirley and I support the local theater groups—she likes to have her picture taken at the opening nights. There’s a particular favorite, an elderly performer who’s been in a great many Broadway plays; he’s in what you might call semiretirement. I’m sure I could convince him to help us out, for a fee, of course.… But only, of course, if he was completely safe.”
“You have my word on that, sir,” said Cyrus. “No possible harm could come to him, because Roman Z and I will be on either side of him.”
“An actor?” exclaimed Devereaux. “That’s crazy!”
“In truth, he frequently appears a touch that way.” The telephone rang on the table beside Aaron’s chair; instantly he picked it up. “Yes?… It’s for you, Sam. I believe it’s your maid, Cousin Cora.”
“Oh, my God, I forgot all about her!” said Devereaux, walking around the table to the phone.
“I didn’t,” interrupted Eleanor. “I spoke to her last night, but I didn’t tell her where we were or give her this number.”
“Cora,” cried Sam. “How are … you talked to her, Mother? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You didn’t ask. However, everything’s fine at the house. The police have been around constantly and I think she’s been feeding the entire force.”
“Cora? Mother says everything’s all right over there.”
“The hoity-toity’s fulla tea, Sammy. The damn phone’s been ringing off the hook all day and nobody could or would tell me where the hell you were.”
“How did you find out?”
“Paddy Lafferty’s daughter Bridget. She said Erin gave her this number in case there was any trouble with the grandkids.”
“That makes sense. What is it? Who’s been calling me?”
“Not you, Sambo—everyone but you!”
“Who?”
“First that nut general you’re always talking about, then that long-legged Indian girl who shouldn’t be let out in the streets. And I tell ya, there’s been at least twenty calls for each of ’em, all from the same two fellas, like every half hour or so.”
“What are their names?”
“One wouldn’t tell me and the other you wouldn’t believe. The first sounded panicky as all blazes, kinda like you get sometimes, Sammy. He keeps screaming that his sister should call her brother right away.”
“Okay, I’ll tell her. What about the other guy, the one for the general?”
“Well, yer gonna think I’ve been nippin’ again when you hear it, but I ain’t ’cause there’s been too many cops around.… Boy, what a butcher’s bill yer gonna get—”
“The name, Cora?”
“Johnny Calfnose, can you swallow that, Sammy?”
“Johnny Calfnose?” said Devereaux softly.
“Calfnose …?” gasped Jennifer.
“Calfnose!” shouted the Hawk. “My security’s been trying to reach me? Get off the phone, Lieutenant!”
“My former client’s trying to reach me!” cried Redwing, colliding with the general as each ran to Sam.
“No!” yelled Devereaux, turning and holding the phone out of reach. “Calfnose is for Mac. Your brother wants you to call him.”
“Give me that phone, boy!”
“No, me first!”
“If you’ll all calm down,” said Pinkus, raising his voice. “My brother-in-law has at least three, possibly four, lines on his phones, two at least for Shirley’s sister, and there are telephones all over the place. Just find one, each of you, and push an unlit button.”
It was like the brief pandemonium of a kindergarten recess as the Hawk and Jennifer raced around looking for separate phones. Mac spotted one on the redwood porch, ran to a glass door, and whipped it open with a vibrating crash; Redwing saw another on an antique white desk against the rear wall and pounced on it. The subsequent cacophony of voices shattered the stillness of the Swampscott evening.
“Bye, Cora.”
“Charlie, it’s me!”
“Calfnose, it’s Thunder Head!”
“You’re kidding, little Brother, tell me you’re kidding!”
“Goddamn, zero hour minus four days!”
“You’re not kidding …?”
“Send back my acceptance and sign it T. C. Chief of This Nation’s Most Oppressed People!”
“Send me an airline ticket to American Samoa, Charlie. I’ll meet you there.”
One in triumph, the other in defeat, the Hawk and Jennifer hung up their respective phones. The general strode through the porch door like a commander of a Roman legion entering the gates of Carthage, while Redwing turned away from the elegant white desk as might a lost, delicate bird buffeted by unfrien
dly winds.
“What is it, my dear?” asked Aaron gently, obviously touched by Jennifer’s demeanor.
“The worst,” she replied, barely audible. “The elevator to hell.”
“Come now, Jennifer—”
“Lear jets and limousines, oil wells on Lexington Avenue, and distilleries in Saudi Arabia.”
“Oh, my God.…” whispered Sam. “The Supreme Court.”
“Bull’s-eye!” roared the Hawk. “All rounds blowing out the center of the target! The Supreme Court.”
“Chu sendin’ us back to jail?” cried Desi-One.
“Heneral, why chu do dat?” said the stunned Desi-Two.
“You’ve got it wrong, Captains. You’re on your way up the Ranger ropes to fine military careers.”
“Everybody be quiet!” yelled Devereaux, somewhat startled to see that he was obeyed. “All right, Red, you first. What did your brother say?”
“What the Cro-Magnon just confirmed. Charlie called Johnny Calfnose to see if everything was okay back there, and Johnny was crawling up the walls trying to find your over-the-hill mutant. A telegram arrived yesterday morning requiring an immediate reply, by phone or fax.… General Bomb Balls, alias Thunder Nuts, is to appear in the Court’s chambers to certify his tribal authority in five days from yesterday at three o’clock in the afternoon and present his case. It’s all over but the long agonizing process of watching a people being destroyed. The Court’s arguments are going public.”
“We did it, Sam! The old team hasn’t lost its touch.”
“Nothing!” screamed Devereaux. “I did absolutely nothing! I haven’t anything to do with you.”
“Well, I hate to contradict you, son—”
“I’m not your son!”
“No, he’s mine,” said Eleanor. “Anybody want him?”
“… you are the legal attorney-of-record,” completed Hawkins, somewhat less loudly than before.
“Oh no, that invitation was for you, not me!”
“Wrong again, Counselor,” said Jennifer disconsolately. “You’ve replaced not only my unauthorized brother but me at the whim of your Ape Man. Charlie was very clear, as well as personally relieved. The invitation included one Samuel L. Devereaux, Esquire, attorney for the Wopotami tribe.”
The Road to Omaha: A Novel Page 35