The Road to Omaha: A Novel

by Robert Ludlum

  “He’s all heart and mashed brains. Tell him we need to rent a couple of Caterpillar backhoes, scything machines, a minimum of ten mustangs, and at least a dozen laborers.”

  “What for?”

  “He wants us to clear the north field and stage ‘raiding parties.’ ”

  “Mustangs?”

  “Not the cars, horses. If we’re going to gallop around the circled wagons, we’d better teach the younger ones how to ride, and the few nags we’ve got couldn’t make it from one end of the field to the other.”

  “Okay, but what’s with the laborers?”

  “We may be savages, Calfnose, but collectively we’re the ‘Noble Savage.’ We don’t do that kind of menial work. Or windows, either.”

  That was months ago and this was now, an afternoon drenched with rain, and no summer tourists to buy a plethora of souvenirs shipped in from Taiwan. Johnny Calfnose got up from his stool in front of the admissions window, walked through the narrow leather-sheeted entrance to his comfortable living quarters, and went to the television set. He turned it on, switched the cable channels to a ball game, and sat down in his Barcelona sling chair to enjoy the late afternoon watching a doubleheader. However, all was savagely interrupted by the ringing of a telephone—the red phone. Thunder Head!

  “Here I am, Chief,” cried Johnny, grabbing the phone off an Adolfo parquet table.

  “Plan A-one. Execute.”

  “You’re kidding—you gotta be kidding!”

  “A general officer doesn’t ‘kid’ when the assault’s in progress. It’s code Bright Green! I’ve alerted the plane at the airport and the bus companies in Omaha and Washington. Everything’s at the ready. You leave at dawn, so start spreading the word. All duffels are to be packed and checked by twenty-two hundred hours and the slop shoot’s off-limits to the entire D.C. contingent. That’s gospel, soldier. There’ll be no red-eyed redskins in my brigade. We march!”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to think about this for a couple of weeks, TH?”

  “You’ve got your orders, Sergeant Calfnose. Swift execution is paramount!”

  “That’s kind of what’s bothering me, Big Fella.”

  Sundown had come and gone, the massive, awe-inspiring statue of Lincoln bathed in floodlights as hushed, mesmerized tourists weaved around one another for differing views of the masterpiece. An odd exception was a strange-looking man who seemed furtively occupied with the shadowed grass beneath his feet. He kept walking directly away from the memorial’s steps in a straight line, under his breath verbally abusing the sightseers he collided with, and every now and then thrusting his hands out into the stomachs and cameras of the offending intruders as he adjusted the red wig that kept falling over his ears and his neck.

  Vincent Mangecavallo had not been born and brought up in Brooklyn’s Mondo Italiano without learning a few things. He knew when it was preferable to arrive at a “meet” long before the appointed hour, because a “meet” could be spelled differently, like in a carcass on a hook in a slaughterhouse. The problem Vinnie the Bam-Bam had was in the plural word “paces”—what the hell was a pace? Was it a foot, a yard, a yard and a half, or something in between? He had heard the stories from the old days in Sicily where duels were fought with Lupo guns, the firing marked off by paces as the enemies walked in short steps or long steps, all counted off by a referee, or sometimes by a drum, and nobody paid much attention because the one who cheated always won. But this was America. “Paces” should be more specific, in the interest of fairness and honesty.

  Also, how the hell could he keep an accurate count while walking through the crowds at night? He would reach, like, number sixty-three, bump into some clowns, causing his wig to sideslip on his head and blind him, resume his “pacing,” and forget the number he had reached. So it was back to the steps and start again! Shit! On the sixth attempt, hanging a right for the final yardage, he reached a large tree that had a brass plate on the trunk spelling out the date it was planted by some President in the year one and who could care less, but there was a circular bench around the goddamned tree that made a little more sense. He could sit down, and his face would not necessarily be seen by the nut general he was to meet for the purpose of exchanging information.

  Naturally, Vincent decided to walk away from the tree and wait in the shadows of another—who knew how many lousy paces away? But he knew what to watch for: a tall old joker hanging around that brass-plaqued tree and probably wearing feathers in his head.

  Watching the obese figure circling the rendezvous, the uniformed General Ethelred Brokemichael was astonished! He had never liked MacKenzie Hawkins; in fact, quite the opposite, since Mac was the despised Heseltine’s buddy, but he had always respected the tough old soldier’s abilities. At the moment, however, he had to question all those years of silent admiration. What he had just witnessed was a ridiculous exercise in covert rendezvous procedures—ridiculous, hell, it was grotesque! Hawkins had obviously borrowed or bought a jacket designed for a heavyset man, filled it with stuffing, and to conceal his natural height he walked, or rather half-prowled unnaturally like an ape, through the crowds in front of the Lincoln Memorial—back and forth, back and forth—a grunting gorilla foraging for berries in the underbrush. It was a sight to sicken the creator of the Suicidal Six! And there could be no error in Brokey the Deuce’s recognizing him, for the Hawk still wore his stupid red wig, only here in the warm, humid Washington night it kept falling over his eyes. He obviously had never heard of liquid adhesive, which anyone familiar with the theater would know about; talk of amateurville, MacKenzie Hawkins was a novice’s neophyte!

  Now Brokey’s wig, by sheer coincidence only slightly red—auburn, really—was held in place by a Max Factor flesh-toned base tape that was indistinguishable from his hairline, especially in soft light, a low “muted amber” in theatrical parlance. Professionalism would take the day, thought Brokemichael, deciding to surprise the Hawk, who had retreated to a surveillance position beneath a large spreading Japanese maple thirty-odd feet from the rendezvous. The Deuce was exhilarated; Mac had made an ass of him in Benning and now he would return the favor.

  He made a wide circle, skirting the edge of the crowds in the diminishing wash of the memorial’s floodlights, every once in a while passing another uniform whose arm instantly responded with a salute to his rank. As he approached the maple tree from the eastern flank, the intermittent salutes caused Brokey to wonder again why the Hawk insisted that he wear his uniform for such a covert rendezvous. When he had repeatedly asked why, the only reply he got was:

  “Just do it, and wear every goddamned medal you ever won or issued yourself! Remember, everything we talked about down in Benning is on tape. My tape.”

  The Deuce reached the maple tree and slowly, his back against the trunk, sidestepped his way around the bark until he stood silently next to the really amateur former soldier who had made a fool of him and who was now staring intensely at the rendezvous ground. The really stupid thing was that instead of standing up straight for a better view, the idiot continued to buckle his knees and hunch over the stuffing in his coat, maintaining the short stature of his disguise in the dark shadows of the spreading maple. Amateurville!

  “You expecting somebody?” said Brokey quietly.

  “Holy shit!” exploded the disguised civilian, whipping his head around with such force his red wig spun ninety degrees to the left, the sideburns descending over his forehead. “It’s you?… Sure, it’s you, you got on the brass threads!”

  “You can stand up now, Mac.”

  “Stand up on what?”

  “Nobody can see us here, for God’s sake. I can barely see my feet, but I sure as hell can see that dumb wig of yours. I think it’s on backwards.”

  “Yeah, well, yours ain’t so totally perfect, G.I. Joe!” said the civilian, adjusting his hairpiece. “A lot of the bald older dons wear that shit with the Max Factor tape that suddenly takes the top wrinkles away from your forehead—you can alway
s tell, but, naturally, we don’t say a word.”

  “What do you mean ‘tell’? How can you tell in this light?”

  “Because, you jerk, the light reflects off clear tape.”

  “Okay, okay, Mac. Now stand up so we can talk.”

  “So you’re a couple of inches taller, what d’ya want from me? Go downtown and buy a pair of elevator shoes or maybe a couple of stilts? What’s with you?”

  “You mean you …?” Brokey the Deuce leaned over, his neck thrust forward. “You’re not Hawkins!”

  “Hold it, pal!” cried Mangecavallo. “You’re not Hawkins! I got photographs!”

  “Who are you?”

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  “I’m here to meet the Hawk—over there!” exclaimed Brokemichael.

  “So am I!”

  “You’re wearing a red wig—”

  “So the hell are you—”

  “He wore one in Benning!”

  “I got mine in Miami Beach—”

  “I got mine from my unit’s extensive wardrobe.”

  “You like pěche, too, huh?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Wait a minute!” Brokemichael’s eyes had been drawn in exasperation to the brass-plaqued rendezvous tree. “Look! Over there! Do you see what I see?”

  “You mean the skinny priest in the black suit and collar sniffing around the meet like a Doberman who’s gotta take a piss?”

  “That’s exactly who I mean.”

  “So what? Maybe he wants to sit down on the bench—there’s, like, a bunch of slats that go around the tree—”

  “I know that,” said Brokey the Deuce, squinting in the shadows of the maple. “Now, look,” he continued as the cleric came into the western wash of the distant floodlights. “What do you see?”

  “The collar, the suit, and he’s got red hair, so what?”

  “Amateurville,” determined the creator of the Suicidal Six. “It’s not hair, it’s a wig; and like yours, very badly done. Too long in the nape and too wide at the temples.… Odd, I seem to recall seeing him before.”

  “What nape and whose temple? What’s religion got to do with anything?”

  “Not religion, the wig. It’s not properly fitted.”

  “Oh, I forgot, pêche. I gotta find me a soldier poofereeno at the biggest conference of my life—not that I personally got a problem, you understand—only that this is no time for unholy tolerances!”

  “Perhaps the wigs are the symbols …?”

  “Of what, for Christ’s sake? We gonna join a protest?”

  “Don’t you see? He had all of us wear red wigs!”

  “He didn’t have me do a goddamned thing. I told you, I got mine in Miami Beach at a weirdo shop near the Fontanbloo.”

  “And I found mine in my unit’s wardrobe room—”

  “Some unit—”

  “But he wore a red wig when he came to see me.… My God, it was subliminal motivation directed at improv!”

  “Sub-who to what?”

  “Did he ever use the word ‘red’ to you—use it more than once?”

  “Maybe, I don’t know. The whole deal’s about Indians—redskins, you know what I mean? Maybe he said ‘redskins,’ y’know? But I never saw him, only talked on the phone.”

  “That’s it! He used his voice as the subconsciously motivating force of conviction. Stanislavski wrote extensively about that.”

  “He’s a Commie?”

  “No, Stanislavski, a god of the theater.”

  “Oh, Polish, huh? Well, you gotta make allowances.”

  “What deal?” asked Brokey the Deuce suddenly, snapping his head down at the red-wigged stranger. “What ‘deal’ are you talking about?”

  “That Wop tribe’s suit that’s in the Supreme Court, what else?”

  “In the military, sir,” said Brokemichael firmly and standing tall, “we do not permit code words that connote ethnic slurs. This nation’s outstanding Italian-American citizenry, the sons and daughters of Leonardo Michelangelo and Rocco Machiavelli, are to be treated with the greatest respect for their contributions. The Capones and the Valachis were aberrations.”

  “I’ll go to Mass tomorrow and light a candle on your behalf for your survival should you meet the sons and daughters of the last two mentioned. In the meantime, what do we do right now?”

  “I think we should have a conversation with our redheaded priest.”

  “Good point. Let’s go.”

  “Not yet!” came the deep, harsh voice behind them. “Glad you could make it, gentlemen,” continued the Hawk, coming around the trunk of the maple tree, his trimmed red wig catching the filtered light from the leaves. “Good to see you again, Brokey … and you, sir, I assume, are Commander Y. It’s a distinct pleasure to meet you, whoever you are.”

  As much as his fear would permit, Warren Pease, Secretary of State, was pleased with himself, even impressed. When he had seen that priest swearing at a cabdriver over a fare outside the Hay-Adams hotel, he was struck with an inspiration—he would go to the rendezvous as a man of the cloth! If he did not like what he saw or heard, he could walk away with impunity. After all, nobody gets rough with a priest or a minister in public, it simply was not proper, and more to the point, drew attention.

  And, of course, not to go to the rendezvous would be crazy in spite of what he told that dreadful admiral who was forever submitting expense vouchers for places he never went, to see people he never saw on State Department business that did not exist. Pease had soundly berated him over the phone, not to rectify the admiral’s abuses, but to learn how much he really knew … and how he knew it. The answers to both questions were minimal, confused, and disturbing enough to convince Warren to clear the evening’s calendar and procure a clerical collar and rabat. He had a black suit for state funerals and the inspired reddish toupee completed his outfit.

  As he now walked among the crowds at the Lincoln Memorial, the admiral’s words rang in his ears.

  “Mr. Secretary, I’ve been asked by an old comrade of many years to relay a message to you, a message that could lead to the solution of your most pressing problem—a crisis was the way he described it.”

  “What are you talking about? The Department of State has scores of crises every day, and as my time is the most valuable in Washington, I’ll thank you to be specific.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t be specific. My old comrade made it clear that it was beyond my clearance, way beyond.”

  “That doesn’t tell me anything. Be clearer, sailor.”

  “He said it had something to do with a group of original Americans—whatever that means—and certain military installations, whatever they are.”

  “Oh, my God! What else did he say?”

  “He was very top-max, but he said there was a solution that could weather-wax your skis.”

  “Could weather my who?”

  “Skis.… Frankly, Mr. Secretary, I’m not into winter sports, but militarily speaking, I must assume that the code reference means you can reach your objective far more quickly by meeting with him as soon as possible, which is basically his message.”

  “What’s his name, Admiral?”

  “To reveal that would implicate me in a situation I have nothing to do with. I’m only a conduit, Mr. Secretary, nothing more. He could have chosen a dozen other ex-militaries, and I wish he had.”

  “And I could choose to question a large percentage of your expense vouchers and the propriety of those cozy trips you take on diplomatic aircraft! How does that grab you, sailor?”

  “I’m only delivering a message, Mr. Secretary, I’m not involved!”

  “Not involved, huh? That’s what you say, but why should I believe you? Maybe you’re a part of this evil, malicious conspiracy.”

  “What conspiracy, for Christ’s sake?”

  “Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’d like nothing better than for me to spell out the whole
horrible mess so you can write a book, like all those fine, selfless public servants who were unjustly indicted for doing nothing more than anyone else would do while giving up their stock options by coming down here.”

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!”

  “The name, sailor, the name!”

  “So you can write a book and put me in it? No way!”

  “Well, since you’ve wasted my time this long, you might as well deliver the rest of your rotten message. Where and when does this unnamed monster think I’ll meet him?” The admiral had told him. “Good, fine! I’ve already forgotten whatever you said. Now, shove it, sailor, and never call me again unless it’s to tell me you’re resigning from your consultant’s contract!”

  “Hey, come on, Mr. Secretary, I don’t want any trouble, honest to God!… Look, I’ll talk to the Prez’s buddy, Subagaloo, and he’ll tell you—”

  “To Arnold! No, don’t talk to Arnold, never talk to Arnold! He’ll put you on a list, he’ll have you on a list—a list, a list, a horrible, intolerable list!”

  “Are you all right, Mr. Secretary?”

  “I’m fine, I’m fine, I really will be fine, but do not do and never do call Arnold Subagaloo. He’ll get you on his list, his list, a fretful, dreadful, executionary list!… Over and out, sailor, or whatever you stupid soldiers say!”

  He had told off that awful leech, all right, mused Pease, smiling sweetly at an overly made-up little old lady who looked adoringly at him as he approached the maple tree. The rendezvous had to be the tree up ahead, he thought. It was hardly an inspired location, and Warren wondered why MacKenzie Hawkins, a.k.a. Chief Thunder Head of the nefarious Wopotamis, had chosen it. The light was poor, but perhaps that was good, and there were crowds barely a hundred feet away … that wasn’t bad either; there was protection in numbers. Of course, the maniac Hawkins was taking these precautions for his own safekeeping, not for the benefit of the Secretary of State. He undoubtedly thought the government would have troops throughout the area hoping to capture him, but that kind of show of force was the last thing all the President’s men wanted. It would be terrible PR if the media found out they had set a trap for a two-time winner of the Congressional Medal of Honor. Pease squinted in the dim light under the tree and looked at his watch; he was nearly thirty minutes early. Good, fine; he would walk off to the side and wait—and watch. He rounded the trunk, then stopped, annoyed to see that the little old lady with the garishly rouged cheeks was waiting for him.