Robert Ludlum - Road To Gandolfo.txt

by The Road To Gandolfo [lit]

  Lincoln's got clothes on; his balls

  don't show! It's not the samel"

  "Nevertheless, the White House thinks

  the parallel is justified, sir. The

  President wants Hawkins removed. More

  than removed, actually, he wants him

  cashiered. Courtmartial and all.

  Publicly."

  "Oh, for Christ's sake, that's out of

  the question." Symington leaned back in

  his chair and breathed deeply, trying

  to control himself. He reached out for

  the report on his desk. "We'll transfer

  him. With a reprimand. We'll 7

  -

  send transcripts of the censure, we'll

  call it a censure to Peking."

  "That's not strong enough, sir. The

  State Department made it clear. The

  President concurs. We have trade

  agreements pending "

  "For Christ's sake, Lieutenant!"

  interrupted the brigadier. "Will someone

  tell that spinning top in the Oval

  Office that he can't have it on all

  points of the compass! Mac Hawkins was

  selected. From twenty-seven candidates.

  I remember exactly what the President

  said. Exactly. 'That mother's perfect!'

  That's what he said."

  "That's inoperative now, sir. He feels

  the trade agreements take precedent over

  prior considerations." The lieutenant

  was beginning to perspire.

  "You bastards kill me," said Symington,

  lowering his voice ominously. "You

  really frost my apricots. How do you

  figure to do that? Make it

  'inoperative,' I mean. Hawkins may be a

  sharp pain in your diplomatic ass right

  now, but that doesn't wash away what was

  operative. He was a Bucking teen-age

  hero at the Battle of the Bulge and West

  Point football; and if they gave medals

  for what he did in Southeast Asia, even

  Mac Hawkins isn't strong enough to wear

  all that hardware! He makes John Wayne

  look like a pansy! He's real; that's why

  that Oval Yo-yo picked him!"

  "I really think the office of the

  presidency regardless of what you may

  think of the mamas commander in chief he

  "Horse shit!" The brigadier general

  roared again, separating the words in

  equal emphasis, giving the crudity of

  his oath the sound of a military

  cadence. "I'm simply explaining to

  you in the strongest terms I know that

  you don't publicly court-martial a

  MacKenzie Hawkins to satisfy a Peking

  complaint, no matter how many goddamned

  trade agreements are floating round. Do

  you know why, Lieutenant?"

  - lbe young officer replied softly,

  sure of his accuracy.

  "Because he would make an issue of it.

  Publicly."

  "Bing-go." Symington's comment sprang

  out in a highpitched monotone. "The

  Hawkinses of this country have a 8

  constituency, Lieutenant. That's

  precisely why our commander in chief

  picked himlHe's a political

  palliative.. And if you don't think

  Mac Hawkins knows it, wel~you didn't

  have to recruit him. I did."

  "We are prepared for that reaction,

  General." The lieutenant's words were

  barely audible.

  The brigadier leaned forward,

  careful not to put his elbows in the

  shattered glass. "I didn't get that."

  "The State Department anticipated a

  hard-line counterthrust. Therefore we

  must institute an aggressive coun-

  terraction to that thrust. The White

  House regrets the necessity but at

  this point in time recognizes the

  crisis quotient."

  "That's what I thought I was going

  to get." Symington's words were less

  audible than the lieutenant's. "Spell

  it out. How are you going to ream

  him?"

  The lieutenant hesitated. "Forgive

  me, sir, but the object is not to ream

  General Hawkins. We are in a

  provocatively delicate position. The

  People's ReDublic demands

  satisfaction. Rightly so; it was a

  crude, vulgar act on General Hawkins's

  part. Yet he refuses to make a public

  apology." ,

  Symington looked at the report still

  in his right hand. "Does it say why in

  here?"

  "General Hawkins claims it was a

  trap. His statement's on page three."

  The brigadier flipped to the page

  and read. The lieutenant drew out a

  handkerchief and blotted his chin.

  Symington put down the report

  carefully on the shattered glass and

  looked up.

  'If what Mac says is true, it was a

  trap. Broadcast his side of the

  story."

  "He has no side, General. He was

  drunk."

  "Mac says~dr~gged. Not drunk,

  Lieutenant."

  "They were drinking, sir."

  "And he was drugged. I'd guess

  Hawkins would know the difference.

  I've seen him sweat sour mash."

  "He does not deny the charge,

  however."

  "He denies the responsibility of his

  actions. Hawkins was the finest

  intelligence strategist in Indochina.

  He's

  drugged couriers and pouch men in

  Cambodia, Laos, both Vietnams,and

  probably across the Manchurian

  borders. He knows the goddamned

  difference."

  "I'm afraid his knowing it doesn't

  make any difference sir. The crisis

  quotient demands our acceding to

  Peking's wishes. The trade agreements

  are paramount. Frankly, sir, we need

  gas."

  "Jesus! I figured that was one thing

  you had."

  The lieutenant replaced the

  handkerchief in his pocket and smiled

  wanly. "The levity is called for, I

  realize that. However, we have just

  ten days to bring everything into

  focus; to make our inputs and come up

  with a positive print.

  Symington stared at the young

  officer; his expression that of a

  grown man about to cry. "What does

  that mean?"

  "It's a harsh thing to say, but

  General Hawkins has placed his own

  interests above those of his duty.

  We'll have to make an example. For

  everybody's sake."

  "An example? For wanting the truth

  out?"

  "There's a higher duty, General.'

  "I know," said the brigadier wearily.

  "To the trade greements. To the gas.

  "Quite frankly, yes. There are times

  when symbols have to be traded off for

  pragmatic objectives. Team players

  understand."

  "All right. But Mac won't lie down

  and play busted symbol for you. So

  what's the input?"

  "The inspector general," said the

  lieutenant, as an obnoxious student

  might, holding up a severed tapeworm

  in Biology 1. "We
re running an

  in-depth data trace on him. We know he

  was involved in questionable

  activities in Indochina. We have

  reason to believe he violated interna-

  tional codes of conduct."

  "You bet your ass he did! He was one

  of the best!"

  "There's no statute on those codes.

  The IG specialists have caseloads

  going back much further than General

  Hawkins's ez-o~icio activities." The

  lieutenant smiled. It was a genuine

  smile; he was a happy person.

  "So you're going to hang him with

  clandestine operations that half the

  joint chiefs and most of the CIA know

  would bring him a truckload of

  citations if they could talk 10

  about them. You bastards kill me."

  Symington nodded his head, agreeing

  with himself.

  "Perhaps you could save us time,

  General. Can you provide us with some

  specifics?"

  "Oh, no! You want to crucify the son

  of a bitch, you build your own crossI"

  'You do understand the situation,

  don't you, sir?"

  The brigadier moved his chair back

  and kicked fragments of glass from

  under his feet. "I'll tell you some-

  thing," he said. "I haven't understood

  anything since nineteen forty-five."

  He glared at the young officer. "I

  know you're with Sixteen-hundred, but

  are you regular army?

  "No, sir. Reserve status, temporary

  assignment. I'm on a leave of absence

  from Y. I and B. To put out fires

  before they burn up the flagpoles, as

  it were."

  "Y. I and B. I don't know that

  division."

  "Not a division, sir. Youngblood,

  laker, and Blowe, in Los Angeles.

  We're the top ad agency on the Coast."

  General Arnold Symington's face

  slowly took on the expression of a

  distressed basset hound. '1he uniform

  looks real nice, Lieutenant." The

  brigadier paused, then shook his head.

  "Nineteen forty-five," he said.

  Major Sam Devereaux, field

  investigator for the Office of the

  Inspector General, looked across the

  room at the calendar on his wall. He

  got up from the chair behind his desk,

  walked over to it, and Xed the day's

  date. One month and three days and he

  would be a civilian again.

  Not that he was ever a soldier. Not

  really; certainly not spiritually. He

  was a military accident. A fracture

  compounded by a huge mistake that

  resulted in an extension of his tour

  of service. It had been a simple

  choice of alternatives: Reenlistment

  or Leavenworth.

  Sam was a lawyer, a damn fine

  attorney specializing in criminal law.

  Years ago he had held a series of

  Selective Service deferments through

  Harvard College and Harvard Law

  School; then two years of postgraduate

  specialization and clerking; finally

  into the fourteenth month of practice

  with the prestigious Boston law firm

  of Aaron Pinkus Associates.

  11

  The army had faded into a vaguely

  disagreeable shadow across his life;

  he had forgotten about the long series

  of deferments.

  The United States Army, however, did

  not forget.

  During one of those logistic crunches

  that episodically grip the military,

  the Pentagon discovered it had a

  sudden dearth of lawyers. The

  Department of Military Justice was in

  a bind hundreds of courts-martial on

  bases all over the globe were

  suspended for lack of judge advocates

  and defense attorneys. The stockades

  were crowded. So the Pentagon scoured

  the long-forgotten series of

  deferments and scores of young

  unattached, childless

  lawyers obtainable meat were sent

  unrefusable invitations in which was

  explained the meaning of the word

  "deferment" as opposed to the word

  "annulment."

  That was the accident. Devereaux's

  mistake came later. Much later. Seven

  thousand miles away on the converging

  borders of Laos, Burma, and Thailand.

  - The Golden Triangle.

  Devereaux for reasons known only to

  God and military logistics never saw a

  court-martial, much less tried one. He

  was assigned to the Legal

  Investigations Division of the Office

  of the Inspector General and sent to

  Saigon to see what laws were being

  violated.

  There were so many there was no way

  to count. And since drugs took

  precedence over the black market there

  were simply too many American

  entrepreneurs in the latter his

  inquiries took him to the Golden

  Triangle where one-fifth of the

  world's narcotics were being funneled

  out, courtesy of powerful men in

  Saigon, Washington, Vientiane, and

  Hong Kong.

  Sam was conscientious. He didn't like

  drug peddlers and he threw the

  investigatory books at them, careful

  to make sure his briefs to Saigon were

  transmitted operationally within the

  confused chain of command.

  No report signatures. just names and

  violations. After all, he could get

  shot or knifed at the least,

  ostracized for such behavior. It was

  an education in covert activities.

  His trophies included seven ARVN

  generals, thirty-one representatives

  in Thieu s congress, twelve U. S. Army

  colonels light and full three

  brigadiers, and fifty-eight 12

  assorted majors, captains,

  lieutenants, and master sergeants.

  Added to these were five congressmen,

  four senators a member of the

  President's cabinet, eleven corpora-

  tion executives with American

  companies overseas six of which

  already had enough trouble in the area

  of campaign contributions and a

  squarejawed Baptist minister with a

  large national following.

  To the best of Sam's knowledge one

  second lieutenant and two master

  sergeants were indicted. The rest were

  "pending."

  So Sam Devereaux committed his

  mistake. He was so incensed that the

  wheels of Southeast Asian justice spun

  off the tracks at the first hint of

  influence that he decided to trap a

  very big fish in the corruption net

  and make an example. He chose a major

  general in Bangkok. A man named

  Heseltine Brokemichael. Major General

  Heseltine Brokemichael, West Point'43.

  Sam had the evidence, mounds of it.

  Through a series of elaborate

  entrapments in which he himself acted

  as the "connection " a participant who

  could swear under oath to the
generals

  malfeasance, he built his case

  thoroughly. There could not possibly

  be two General Brokemichaels and Sam

  was an avenging angel of a prosecutor,

  circling in for his kill.

  But there were. Two. Two major

  generals named BrokemichaeWone

  Heseltine, one Ethelred! Apparently

  cousins. And the one in

  Bangkok Heseltine was not the one in

  Vientiane Ethelred. The Vientiane

  Brokemichael was the felon. Not his

  cousin. Further, the Brokemichael in

  Bangkok was more an avenger than Sam.

  He believed he was gathering evidence

  on a corrupt IG investigator. And he

  was. Devereaux had violated most of

  the international contraband laws and

  all of the United States government's.

  Sam was arrested by the MPs, thrown

  into a maximum security cell,- and

  told he could look forward to the

  better part of his lifetime in

  Leavenworth.

  Fortunately, a superior officer in

  the inspector general's command, who

  did not really understand a sense of

  justice that made Sam commit so many

  crimes, but did understand Sam's legal

  and.investigatory contributions to the

  13

  cause of the inspector general, came

  to Sam's aid. Devereaux had actually

  filed more evidentiary material than

  any other legal officer in Southeast

  Asia; his work in the field made up

  for a great deal of inactivity in

  Washington.

  So the superior officer allowed a

  little unofficial plea bargaining in

  Sam's case. If Sam would disciplinary

  action at the hands of a furious Major

  General Heseltine Brokemichael in

  Bangkok, constituting a six-month loss