The Road to Omaha: A Novel

by Robert Ludlum

  “Goddamn, put him on the phone, Ginny!”

  “No, Mac, there isn’t time. Besides, he’s not here. He’s over at the armory in Santa Barbara playing polo with the British colony.”

  “So what did he do?”

  “Hawk, you must be tired and need to have your shoulders massaged. I told you. He thought the whole thing Midgey’s putting together for you has the earmarks of a megahit and called some friends of his in London to let them know about it.”

  “So?”

  “They’re taking the early morning Concorde and will be here before they took off from London.”

  “Be where?”

  “In New York. To see you.”

  “Tomorrow … today?”

  “Where you are, yes.”

  “And your ex, Greenberg?”

  “Tomorrow morning—this morning for you. Also, since I had Manny and Chauncey’s friends on the record—out here everyone checks out everything, including airline passenger lists and the schedules of studio planes—I called a few other hotshots who want Chauncey at their dinner tables, and gave out a little inside information. You’re going to have a busy day, sweetie.”

  “By Caesar, you’re on the mark, it is wonderful! But frankly, Gin-Gin, I knew you girls would come through for me, except I sort of figured later on, like early next week—not Friday to Monday, of course, because I’m kind of tied up with other endeavors—”

  “Mac, you said, and I quote! ‘In a day!’ ”

  “Well, surely I did, but that was to get the writing stuff out of the way and somehow have it in the hands of those Beverly Hills buddhas over the weekend and get things rolling on Monday or Tuesday.”

  “Look here, once-great husband of mine and dearest friend I’ve ever had, what the hell are you trying to tell me?”

  “Well, Gin-Gin—”

  “Cut the ‘Gin-Gin’ crap, Hawk. When you found Lillian in that run-down gym and decided she needed more help than me, that’s how you started with us, with the Gin-Gin. Then Lil told me that when you ran across Midgey in that coke bust where you wondered where the cola was, she said you began by saying ‘Lilly-Lilly.’ What is it, Mac? We love you, you know that. Why is tomorrow morning a problem? If it’s another wife, we’ll understand and take her under our wings when the time comes.”

  “It’s nothing like that, Ginny. But it’s goddamned important—for a lot of people, a lot of underprivileged people.”

  “You’re tilting at windmills again, aren’t you, my dearest friend?” said Lady Cavendish softly. “I’ll call everything off, if you like. I can do it—actually, you can do it by not answering the phone or the door. The vultures have only a room number, Suite Twelve A, no name, no identification.”

  “No, no, I’ll handle it—we’ll handle it.”

  “We?”

  “I’ve got the boys all here. I just figured on keeping them here until my other problem is solved.”

  “The Suicidal Six?” cried Ginny. “They’re there at the Waldorf?”

  “The whole half dozen, kid.”

  “Are they hunks?”

  “They’re that and more than that in varying sizes. What’s more important, they expect something from me.”

  “Then deliver, Mac. You never failed any of us.”

  “One, maybe.”

  “Annie?… Get off it, Hawk. She got through to me last week on some radio phone with a lot of static. She managed to fly out a dozen really sick children from an island in the Pacific for treatment in Brisbane. She’s happy as can be. Isn’t that what it’s all about? Being happy with yourself? That’s what you taught us.”

  “Tell me, does she ever mention Sam Devereaux?”

  “Sam …?”

  “You heard me, Ginny.”

  “Well, yes, she does, but I don’t think you want to hear it, Mac. Leave it lie.”

  “I want to hear it. He’s my friend.”

  “Still?”

  “By circumstance, yes.”

  “All right.… She says she remembers him as the only man she ever slept with—it was ‘a communion of love,’ that’s the way she put it. All the others are forgotten.”

  “Will she ever come back?”

  “No, Mac. She’s found what you wanted her to find—what you wanted all of us to find. Comfort in our own skins, remember telling us that?”

  “Damned psycho-bullshit!” exclaimed Hawkins, once again wiping a tear from his eye in front of a pay telephone. “I’m no goddamned savior of goddamned souls, I just know who the hell I like and who the hell I don’t like. Don’t put me on any goddamned pedestal!”

  “Whatever you say, Hawk, and anyway, you’d crush it.”

  “Crush what?”

  “The pedestal. Now what about tomorrow morning?”

  “I’ll handle it.”

  “Be kind to the vultures, Mac, kind and noncommital, they can’t stand that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The nicer you are, the more they sweat, the more they sweat, the better off you are.”

  “Kinda like facing down enemy intelligence personnel in Istanbul, right?”

  “That’s Hollywood, Mac.”

  Morning came, barely dawn to be precise, and the phone in Suite 12A began ringing. Hawkins, who lay supine on the floor of the living room area, was prepared for it. He had received Madge’s “Concept Treatment” at 2:03 A.M., finished reading, rereading, and absorbing the eighteen pages of high tension fashioned by his third wife by three o’clock, had taken the telephone off the desk and placed it on the carpet next to his head, and bivouacked for a few hours of sleep. Rest was a weapon for impending combat, as necessary as superior firepower. However, Midgey had done such a superb job—the narrative explosive, each page dynamic in terms of energy, action, and diversified character sketches—that much-needed sleep was postponed for nearly thirty minutes while the Hawk considered becoming a motion picture producer.

  Hell, no! Omaha and the Wopotamis will take up all of my time. Stick to priorities, soldier! Suddenly, the abrasive ringing echoed off the walls of the room.

  “Yes?” said Mac, the phone at his left ear on the floor.

  “Andrew Ogilvie here, General.”

  “What?”

  “Yes, I said ‘General,’ chap. I’m afraid my old Grenadier comrade broke the rules and told me who you were. You had a splendid war, old boy. Much impressed, much impressed.”

  “Much early, too,” said Hawkins. “You really were with the Grenadiers?”

  “A callow youth, to be sure, as was Cavvy.”

  “Cavvy?”

  “Lord Cavendish, of course. He, too, had a fine war. Got right into the mud and the mortars and never ‘lorded’ it over anyone, if you catch my meaning.”

  “Yeah, it’s splendid, real fine. It’s also real early and my troops aren’t ready for muster. Have some morning tea and come up in an hour. You’re first, I’ll give you that.”

  The phone replaced, there was a rapid knocking at the corridor door. Mac got to his feet, and in his camouflaged skivvies walked over to it. “Yes?”

  “Hey, who else?” shouted the intruder in the hallway. “I knew it was you, I’d know that growl anywhere!”

  “Greenberg?”

  “Hey, baby, who else? My lovely, adorable wife, who threw me out of the house for no reason whatsoever and took me for a bundle—but who cares, she’s a doll—gave me a rundown and I knew it was you! Lemme in, pal, okay, okay? A deal we can make!”

  “You’re second in line, Manny.”

  “You got some phonies in there awready? Hey, listen, sweetheart, I gotta whole studio behind me, the big megillah! Wadd’ya want to deal with second-raters for, huh?”

  “Because they own England, that’s why.”

  “That’s crapola! They make those dumb movies where everybody’s talking and nobody knows what they’re saying because they got gefilte fish in their mouths!”

  “Others think otherwise.”

  “What others? For eve
ry Jimmy Bond, they got fifty underwear Gandhis which never made back their negative costs, and don’t let ’em tell you they did!”

  “Others say otherwise.”

  “Who you gonna believe? The rotten redcoats who talk funny or the pure Paul Reveres?”

  “Come back in three hours, Manny, and call first from the lobby.”

  “Mac, give me a break! The whole studio’s got the big eye on me!”

  “I’m giving you a break, you horny toad. Maybe you’ll find a none too discriminating sixteen-year-old hooker in the lobby.”

  “Hey, that’s slander! I’ll sue the bitch!”

  “Just leave now, Manny, or don’t bother to come back.”

  “Awright, awright.” The telephone rang again, pulling Hawkins away from the door, although he would have preferred to wait and make sure Greenberg had really left.

  “Yes?” said the Hawk, picking the phone up off the floor.

  “Suite Twelve A?”

  “So?”

  “This is Arthur Scrimshaw, head of development for Holly Rock Productions, the rock of Hollywood, with worldwide grosses that would stagger the imagination if I were at liberty to disclose them, and, furthermore, the recipient of a total of sixteen Oscar nominations over the past … harrumph … years.”

  “How many Oscars did you win, Mr. Scrimshaw?”

  “Very close, very close. Could have gone either way each time. And speaking of time, I’ve found some in my unbelievably hectic schedule for us to have breakfast—shall I say a power breakfast?”

  “Come back in four hours—”

  “I beg your pardon. Perhaps I didn’t make clear my position—”

  “You made everything perfectly clear, Scrimmy, and so did I. You’re third on the list and that means four hours, leaving an hour for my people to prepare for muster.”

  “Are you quite sure you want to treat the chief of Holly Rock’s division of development in this manner?”

  “Don’t have a choice, Artie boy. The schedule’s been set.”

  “Well … harrumph … in that case, and since you’re in a suite, would you perchance have an extra bed?”

  “A bed?”

  “It’s the damned bookkeepers, you understand. I should fire them all.… They seem to frown upon spontaneous reservations, and I never sleep a wink on the redeye from L.A. I tell you, I’m exhausted!”

  “Try the Salvation Army mission down in the Bowery. They take all contributions over a dime.… Four hours!” The Hawk slammed down the phone, placed it on the hotel desk, and as he turned to head for the nearest bedroom, it rang again. “Goddamn, what is it?” he roared.

  “Emerald Cathedral Studios, heah,” began the mellifluous voice, in a thick Southern accent. “A God-fearin’ patriotic bird flew some information down here regardin’ some great patriotic movie you want to get made, a movie based on real facts! And let me tall ya, boy, we ain’t no part of those Hebes and Nigras that’s runnin’ the filum industry. We’ah simon-pure Christian, flag-wavin’ real Amerucuns who believe that might is fuckin’ right, and we want to tell the story of real Amerucuns doin’ God’s work. We also got lots of dollars—quite a few million, fer a fact. Our Sunday telecasts and used car lots where every salesman’s a Christian minister are weekly uranium mines.”

  “Be at the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C., at midnight tonight,” ordered Hawkins quietly. “And wear white hoods over your heads so I’ll know you!”

  “Ain’t that kinda obvious?”

  “Are you gutless, antimilitary, anti-American liberal types?”

  “Hell, no! We put our money where our mouths are, and we got plenty of both. We’ah Jesse’s boys!”

  “If it’s the right Jesse, catch a plane and be in Washington tonight. Four hundred feet from the front of the statue and six hundred to the oblique right. You’ll reach the honor guard house, and the men inside will tell you where we are.”

  “We got a deal then?”

  “A deal you couldn’t imagine. Remember the hoods. They’re vital!”

  “Gotcha, boy!”

  The phone replaced, MacKenzie walked to the nearest bedroom door and knocked. “Reveille, troops! You’ve got an hour for spit, polish, and mess before engagement. Don’t forget, you’re in combat fatigues and side arms. Place your orders with room service.”

  “We did that last night, General,” shouted the voice of Sly from inside. “It’ll be here in twenty minutes.”

  “You mean you’re up?”

  “Of course, sir,” replied Marlon. “We’ve already been out and run forty or fifty blocks.”

  “You don’t have doors to the hallway.”

  “That’s right, sir,” agreed Sylvester.

  “I didn’t hear you leave, and I hear everything!”

  “We can be very quiet, General,” added Marlon. “And you must have been very tired. You didn’t even move.… We’re all meeting here for petit déjeuner … early mess, sir.”

  “Goddamn!”

  To the Hawk’s annoyance, the telephone rang again. Angry but resigned, he returned to the desk and picked up the shrill instrument. “Yes?”

  “Ahh, it is most pleasurable to hear your beautiful voice,” said the obviously Oriental male on the line. “This most unworthy soul is most rucky to make your acquaintance.”

  “Nice to meet you, too, and who the hell are you?”

  “Yakataki Motoboto, but my rovery friends in Horry wood call me ‘Cruiser.’ ”

  “I can understand that. Come back in five hours and call from the lobby first.”

  “Ahh, yes, you are being friverous, no doubt, but perhaps I can imminate your conditions, since I believe we now own this beautiful hotel and its robby.”

  “What are you talking about, Motorboat?”

  “We also own three of the rargest studios in Horrywood, most worthy person. I suggest you see me first, or perhaps most unfortunatry we must evict you instantry.”

  “No can do, Tojo. Your front desk has a line of credit on our behalf to the tune of a hundred thousand. Until that’s in jeopardy, you can’t move our asses anywhere. That’s the law, Bonsai, our law.”

  “Aiyee! You try the patience of this unworthy soul. I represent the Toyhondahai Enterprises, U.S.A. Motion Picture Operations!”

  “Good for you. I represent six warriors that make your samurai look like chickenshit purveyors.… Five hours, Slope, or I’ll call my buddies in the Tokyo Diet and they’ll take away your tax-exempt company expense accounts for reasons of corruption!”

  “Aiyee!”

  “On the other hand, come back in five hours and all is forgiven.” The Hawk hung up the phone and went to his open duffel bag on the couch. It was time to dress. The gray suit, not the buckskins.

  Nineteen minutes and thirty-two seconds later, the men of the Suicidal Six stood rigidly at attention, a line of superbly conditioned stalwarts impressively filling out their camouflaged combat fatigues, their .45 caliber side arms holstered and strapped tightly around their enviously slim waists. Gone were the theatrical manifestations of their currently assumed “names”; the slouches, swaggers, and vocal imitations had vanished. In their places were rock-hard faces, sharp, precise language, and the concrete postures of relatively young but experienced soldiers, each with striking features and clear, unblinking eyes that held both intensity and perception. At the moment they were passing inspection for their surrogate commander.

  “That’s it, boys, you’ve got it!” cried the Hawk approvingly. “Remember, this is the image you want to give ’em when they first take a look at you. Tough but smart, battle-scarred but human, above the crowd but with the common touch. God, I love it when men look like you! Damn it to hell, we need heroes! We crave brave souls who’ll ride into the mouth of death, into the jaws of hell—”

  “You’ve got it backwards, General, it’s the other way around.”

  “Same damn thing.”

  “Not really.”

  “He wants William Holden in the las
t scenes of Kwai.”

  “Or John Ireland in O.K. Corral.”

  “How about Dick Burton and Big Clint in Eagles Dare?”

  “Or Eroll Flynn in anything.”

  “Don’t forget Connery in The Untouchables.”

  “Hey, fellas, what about Sir Henry Sutton as the knight in Becket?”

  “Absolutely!”

  “Hey, what about Sir Henry, General? We’re here, but where is he? We consider him a part of us now, especially where our movie’s concerned.”

  “On another assignment, men. A very vital assignment; he’ll meet up with you later.… Now, back to the engagement facing us.”

  “Can we relax, sir?”

  “Yes, yes, of course, but don’t lose that, that …”

  “Collective image, General?” asked Telly gently.

  “Yeah, that’s what I mean—I think.”

  “And you’d be quite right, sir,” added the Yale-trained Sly. “You see, we’re basically ensemble players. It’s largely improv and goes with the interacting totality, as it were.”

  “Totality …? Yeah, sure.… Now, listen up. The Hollywood types and the London film types you’re going to meet don’t know what to expect, but when they see six military hunks—as a dear friend of mine who understands their mentalities put it—they’ll see bucketfuls of bucks. Especially because you’re the real thing, and that’s where you’re different. You don’t have to sell yourselves, they’ve got to sell themsleves. You’re the choosers, not the choosees; they may want to buy, but you may not want to sell. You’ve got certain standards.”

  “Isn’t that a dangerous position?” asked The Duke. “Producers hold the purse strings, not actors, especially not actors like us who haven’t exactly set Broadway on fire, to say nothing of Hollywood.”

  “Gentlemen,” said the Hawk. “Forget your previous lives and whatever marks you made or didn’t make. As of now, who and what you are is setting the world on fire! That’s what these people will see flowing into their cash registers. You’re not only professional actors, you’re soldiers, commandos in various disguises to achieve your missions!”

  “Oh, hell,” said Dustin, shrugging. “Anyone with advanced acting techniques under his belt could do it—”