bullet between his teeth, thought Sam.
"What's a 'shield'?"
"Off the top of my head, I figure a
letter to the secretary of the army,
accompanied by a tape of your reading
it verified by voice print. In the
letter, and the tape, you state that
in moments of complete lucidity you're
aware of your illness et cetera, et
cetera."
Hawkins stared at Devereaux. "You're
out of your mind!"
"There are a lot of Nike silos in the
Dakotas."
"Jesus!"
"It's not as bad as it sounds. The
letter and the tape will be buried in
the Pentagon. Used only if you
publicly make waves. Both to be
returned, say, in five years. How
about it?"
Hawkins reached into his pocket for
a book of matches. He struck one and
a cloud of pungent smoke nearly fogged
out his face; but his voice was clear
behind it. "Down this 56 -
Chinese pike of yours, there's no talk
about that psychiatric bullshit. No
one tries to make me out a nut."
"Hell, no. Nothing like that. Simple
fatigue." Devereaux paced back and
forth in the small enclosure as he so
often did in conference rooms, weaving
the fabric of defense. "A little
booze, maybe; that's sympathetic, even
kind of cute when the client's a
ballsy type." Sam stopped, clarifying
his thoughts. "The Chinese would
prefer an ideological approach; it'd
soften them up. You saw the light.
They've been generous to you, nice to
you. The People's regime is dandy. And
tolerant. You didn't realize that.
You're really sorry for all those
nasty things you've said for a quarter
of a century."
"Goddamn! You make me bleed, boy!"
With a technique that escaped Sam,
Hawkins actually chewed on his cigar
as he roared. And then he removed it
and lowered his voice. "I know, I
know . The silos are Mongolia. Jesus!"
Devereaux watched the man painfully.
He took several steps toward him and
spoke softly. "You've been squeezed,
General. By righteous pieces of
plastic; nobody knows that better than
I do. I've read your file and I agree
with maybe one-fiftieth of what you
stand for; in many ways I think you're
a menace. But one thing you're not is
a manipulator. And you're no joke.
Remember what you told the girls? You
said everyone's his own inventory.
That says a lot to me. So let me help
you. I'm no soldier, but I'm a damned
good lawyer."
Hawkins turned away. In
embarrassment, thought Sam. When the
words came, there was a
defenselessness about them that made
him wince.
"Don't know why I'm so concerned
about what anybody says or why I don't
settle for a silo or Mongolia. God-
damn, boy, I've spent thirty-some
years in this man's army. You take off
the uniform no matter what you put me
into I'm as naked as a plucked duck.
I only know the army; I don't know
anything else, not trained for
anything when you come right down to
it. Never spent any time with the
technological except little stuff in
G-two, things like that. Don't know
anything about fancy doings like
'negotiations.' All I know how to do
is fuck up and trap 57
pouch thieves those Indochina reports
are right about that: I outsmarted the
KGB, the CIA, the ARVN, and even the
sellouts on the Saigon general staff.
But that's different. I can handle
personnel, I suppose. But they always
gave me the misfits, the stockade
products, if they'd been civilians
they wouldn't be allowed on the
streets. I was always good with them.
I could control those devious
bastards, I could put myself in their
slimy shoes and use 'em, use their
goddamned angling. But there's nothing
I can do on the outside."
"That doesn't sound like the man who
said everyone's his own inventory.
You're better than that."
Hawkins turned and faced Sam. He
spoke slowly reflectively. "Shit, boy.
You know what? The only goddamned
thing I'm trained for is to be a
crook, maybe. And I'd probably fuck
that up because I don't give that much
of a damn about money."
"You look for challenges. Talented
people always do. Monev s a
by-product; usually the challenge
there is in the amounts, what they
represent, not what they can
purchase."
"I guess so." Hawkins took a deep
breath and stretched; his resignation
was coming into focus for him, thought
Devereaux. He walked past Sam
aimlessly, humming the opening notes
of Mairzy-Doats. Devereaux knew from
long experience with clients to let
the moment subside allow the client
time to fully accept the decision.
"Wait a minute, boy. Wait a
minute ." Hawkins took the cigar out
of his mouth and leveled his eyes with
Sam. "Everybody wants my cooperation.
The Chinks, those assholes in
Washington probably a dozen gas
conglomerates. I mean they not only
want it, they need it. So much so
they'll fake records, build a case .
That ball of wax got out of control "
"Now, hold on. What we're faced with "
"No, you hold on, boyrltm not going
to give you a hard time. I'll make you
a better deal than you thought possi-
ble." Hawkins shoved the cigar between
his teeth, his eyes alive, his voice
thoughtful yet intense. "I'll do
exactly say exactly, whatever you
bastards want me to say and do. Word
for word, gesture for gesture. I'll
kiss every butt on Son Tai Square, if
you want. But I want two things. Out
of 58
China and the army they go together.
And one thing more: three days in the
G-two files back in D.C. Just my own,
nobody else's. What the hell, I wrote
up the goddamned things! A last look
at my contributions, all the guards
you want. I'll be making my final
evaluations and additions. Standard
procedure for discharging intelligence
officers. How about it?"
Sam hesitated. "I don't know. That
stuffs classified "
"Not to the officer who filed it!
Clandestine Operations Regulation
Seven Seven Five, Statute of
Amendments. Actually, he's reguired to
make his final evaluations."
"Are you sure?
"Never more sure of anything in my
life, boy."
"I just gave you the regulation! It's
military bible, boy!"
"Then I can't see any obstacles "
"I want it in writing. In exchange
for that letter and tape that
certifies me so fatigued I eat lizard
shit. In fact, I'll make the ultimatum
D.C. issues me a written order to
comply with CO Beg Seven Seven Five
upon my return to the States, or Ill
opt for all the silos in Mongolial
I've still got a lot of supporters
back home. They may be a little
squirrelly, but they're also goddamned
noisy."
MacKenzie Hawkins chuckled; his
cigar was a mangled pulp of itself. It
was Sam's turn to squint.
"What are you thinking of?"
"Not a hell of a lot, boy. You just
reminded me of something. Everyone is
his own inventory. The sum of his
parts. There may be a big goddamned
world.out there. And a challenge or
two."
59
Part
II
The
closely
held
corporati
on that
is, the
company
whose
investors
are few,
regardles
s of ca
Vitalizat
ion must
have at
its
financial
core men
of
generous
heart and
stout
courage,
who will
infuse
the
structure
with
their
dedicatio
n and
sense of
purpose.
Shepherd's Laws
of Economics:
1900k
CVI,
Chapter
38
C~ERSElIEN
The People's trial
went brilliantly for
all concerned.
MacKenzie Hawkins was
the image of
converted, reformed
hostility; he was a
manly pussycat,
playing his role to
perfection. On his
arrival at Travis Air
Force Base in
California, he emerged
from the plane a stoic
figure and spoke
clearly into the
cameras, and at the
crowds of press and
lunatic Ringers;
charming the media and
defusing the
screeching
superpatriots.
He stated simply that
there came a time when
old soldiers even
youngish old
soldiers should step
aside gracefully;
times changed and
values with them. What
was perfidy a decade
ago was, perhaps, a
proper course of
action today. The
military man, the
military mind was not
equipped nor should it
be trained for great
internationall issues.
It was enough that the
military man, a simple
warrior in his
nation's legions sic .
. . ibid . . . in
gloma transit . . .
MacKenzie
Hawkins adhere~to the
eternal truths as he
saw them.
It was all very
refreshing.
It was all very
heartfelt.
It was all bullshit.
And Mac Hawkins was
superb.
It was remarked that
the man in the Oval
Office watched from
deep down in a sunken
armchair with his pet
150-pound dog, Python,
protectively on his
lap. He laughed and
clapped his hands over
Python's fur and
stamped his feet and
giggled and had a
wonderful time. His
family skipped in and
laughed and clapped
their hands and
giggled and stamped
their feet just like
daddy. They weren't
sure why daddy was so
happy, but it was the
best fun they'd had
since daddy shot that
awful little spaniel
in the stomach. 63
Sam Devereaux watched the
transformaffon of MacKenzie Hawkins
from roaring bear to passive possum
with dubious awe. The Hawk had turned
into a soft-bellied mushybeak, and
what was basically lacking was the
motive. Not that Sam discounted the
specter of imprisonment Mongolia or
Leavenworth but once Hawkins had
agreed to the plea of guilty, the
public apology, the letter and
gratuitous photographs of his bowed
head during the hundred-year sentence
of probation, he could have merely
resumed his military bearing and let
whatever storms rage that might.
Instead, he went to extremes to still
any controversy. It seemed as though
he really wanted to fade away
(terrible phrase, thought Devereaux).
Naturally, it crossed Sam's mind
that Hawkins's behavior was somehow
related to Washington's quid pro quo
regarding the G-2 files the CO
Regulation 775, and MacKenzie's access
to them. If so, it was an unnecessary
effort on the general's part; three
intelligence services had looked over
the files and found nothing to
compromise national security. By and
large the entries concerned old-hat
Saigon conspiracies, some ancient
European network speculations, and a
slew of conjectures, rumors' and
unsubstantiated
allegations dipsy-doodle nonsense.
If Hawkins honestly believed he
could make a compromising dollar and
for what other purpose would he insist
on CO 775? from these out-of-date,
unconfirmed recordings, there was no
harm in it. What with inflation, the
reduced pension he would receive, and
the overall untouchability of his
status, things were going to be rough
enough. So nobody much cared what he
did with his old files. Besides, if
there was any resulting embarrassment
there was also the letter.
"Goddamn, it's good to talk to you
again, young Ella.', MacKenzie's voice
was loud and enthusiastic over the
telephone, causing Sam to jerk the
instrument away from his ear. The
gesture was part audio-input, part raw
fear of association.
Devereaux had left the Hawk over two
weeks ago in California, just after
the press conference at Travis. Sam 64
had flown back to Washington, his
discharge barely three days off, and he
had spent the time wrapping up any and
all desk matters that might
co
nceivably even barely
conceivably stand in the way of that
glorious hour.
Hawkins wasn't a desk matter, but his
mere presence was an abstract threat.
On general principles.
"Hello, Mac," said Sam cautiously.
They had dispensed with the military
titles at the beginning of the Peking
trial. "You in Washington?"
"Where else, boy? Tomorrow I trek
over to G-two for my Seven Seven Five.
Didn't you know?"
"I've been pretty busy. There's been
a lot to close out here. No reason for
anyone to tell me about your Seven
Seven Five."
"I think there is," replied the Hawk.
"You're escorting me. I thought you
knew that."
There was a sudden, huge lump in the
middle of Devereaux's stomach. He
absently opened his desk drawer and
reached for the Maalox as he spoke.
"Escorting you? Why do you need an
escort? Don't you know the address?
I'll give you the address, Mac, I've
got it right here. Don't go away.
Sergeant! Get me the address of G-two
Archives! Move your ass, Sergeant!"
"Hold on, Sam," came the soothing
words of MacKenzie Hawkins. "It's just
military procedure, that's all. Nothing
to get uptight over. Anyway, I know the
address; you, should, too, boy and
that's a fact."
"I don't want to escort you. I'm a
lousy escort! I said good-bye to you in
California."
"You can say hello again over dinner.
How about it?"
Devereaux breathed deeply. He
swallowed the Maalox and waved away the
WAC who was his sergeant-secretary.
"Mac, I'm sorry, but I do have a number
of things to finish up. Maybe at the
end of the week; anytime actually the
day after tomorrow. At sixteen hundred
hours to be precise."
"Well, Sam, I thought we ought to go
over the G-two routine for tomorrow
morning. I mean you have to be there,
son. It's in the orders. We wouldn't
want anything Sucked up over there,
Robert Ludlum - Road To Gandolfo.txt Page 9