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Robert Ludlum - Road To Gandolfo.txt

Page 9

by The Road To Gandolfo [lit]


  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."
r />   "Well, if it's standard "

  "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,

 

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