would we? Jesus! They wouldn't let
either one of us out then."
65
"Where do you want to have dinner?"
asked Devereaux. He grimaced. The
Maalox bottle was empty.
You're escorting me. I thought you
knew that.... It's in the orders. We
wouldn't want anything fucked up over
there, would weP
No, we certainly would not.
Devereaux shook his head. A couple in
the next booth were staring at him. He
stopped and grinned foolishly; the
couple whispered to each other and
looked away. Their reaction was clear:
You never knew who was being sentenced
next.
A tall man came through the
curtained arch across the room. It was
Sam's turn to stare. In awe.
It was the Hawk. He was sure of it.
But the tall man threading his way
politely through the crowded room bore
little resemblance to the disheveled,
cigar-chewing MacKenzie Hawkins who
had squinted at him through the glass
of a Peking cell. And even less to the
close-cropped Hawkins who stood ramrod
straight at all times and took each
step as though marching to the tune of
a thousand pipers against a strong
wind.
To begin with there was the Van Dyke
beard. Granted it was new, but the
definition was clear and exceedingly
well groomed. As was the hair; it was
not only growing out, but it had been
shaped by tonsorial hands so that the
gray swept over the ears in waves.
Very, very distinguished. And the
eyes well, one could not really see
the eyes because they were covered by
tinted, tortoise-shell glasses, a very
light tint that was more academic, or
diplomatic, than mysterious.
And the man's walk. Good God!
Hawkins's ramrod military posture had
been replaced by a tasteful, goddamn
it, elegant grace. There was a
softness about the whole bearing, a
kind of casual glide that was more
Palm Beach than Fort Benning.
"I saw you watching me," said the
Hawk as he slid into the booth. "Not
bad, eh, boy? Not one of those pricky-
shits stopped me. How about that?"
"I'm astonished," answered Sam.
"You shouldn't be, son. First thing
you learn in inf~ltra
66 ~
tion is adaptability. Not just
terrain, but a good-sized accent on
local customs and behavior. It's a
form of psychowar.
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Behind the lines, Sam. This is
enemy territory, don't you know that?"
By the time Mac Hawkins had
elegantly spooned his iced vichyssoise
he had reached the heart the core the
bombshell of his reason for dinner
with Sam. It was explosively capsuled
in a single name.
Heseltine Brokemichael. Late Major
General of Command, Bangkok. Currently
in limbo, Washington, D.C.
"Yes, Sam, old Brokey was with me in
Korea and points east and south. Damn
fine officer; a little hot-headed, but
then he always had to contend with
that stupid bastard cousin of his.
What's that idiotic name- of his?
Ethelred? Can you imagine? Two
Brokemichaels in the same goddamned
army, both with f eak namesl"
"I'm not hungry any more," said
Devereaux quietly. The Hawk continued.
"Yes, sir, you really laid the heavy
mortar on Brokey's career. He couldn't
get another star on his collar if he
bought all the astrologers in the
Pentagon. You see, they can never be
sure; one of the goddamned
Brokemichaels is a crook, but, of
course, you never proved that,
either."
"They wouldn't let me!" Devereaux's
whisper carried farther than he cared
to think about. The couple in the next
booth stared again. Sam grinned again.
"I had the evidence; I built the case.
They made me drop it!"
"And a good man was cut down just
when the joint chiefs were looking
kindly on him. I tell you, it's a
pity."
"Get off it, Mac. I had that bastard
cold- "
"The wrong bastard, boy. And even
then you committed serious crimes to
get your so-called evidence."
"I took a calculated risk because I
was damned angry. I paid for it with
two years of my life in that
cockadoodle uniform. And that's it. I
want out."
"That's too bad. I mean, I'm sorry
to hear you say that because you may
have to spend a little more time over
at IG if I "
ff7
"Hold it!" interrupted Devereaux in
a whisper that bordered a roar. "I'm
out the day after tomorrow! Nothing
nothing's going to change that!"
"I certainly hope not. Let me
finish. You may have to spend time if
I can't talk old Brokey out of this
crazy idea of his. You see, those
charges against you in Bangkok weren't
actually dropped; they were sort of
suspended because of the complicated
circumstances, and what with all those
peace freaks screaming against the
military. Now, Brokey doesn't hold
anything against you, Sam, but he'd
really like to clarify his own status,
you can understand that. He figures
that if he resurrects those charges,
you can dig up the files and get the
right Brokemichae~you'd have to or be
on a rock pile and he'd have the JCS
smiling nicely,on him, just like they
used to. Wouldn't take more than, say,
six or seven months. A year at the
outside maybe eighteen months if the
trial was a long one, but you'd both
get what you want i'
"I want out! That's all I want!" Sam
wrung his napkin so tightly it
squeaked. "I paid for my moral
indignation. It's past! ~
"Past for you, boy. Not old Brokey."
"The facts are there. I made a
goddamned apology, it's in writing.
The day after tomorrow, after sixteen
hundred hours, I'll dictate a
statement to a civilian secretary
recapping the whole thing in
one-syllable words. I will not reopen
that case!"
"You will if old Brokey pulls out a
certain Bangkok file and issues a
directive for your arrest. He is a
general officer, Sam. Even though he
may have pulled duty cleaning out the
Sucking high-brass latrines, for all
I know."
Hawkins had pursed his lips, taking,
and shaking his head slowly; the wide,
innocent eyes behind the tinted
glasses conveyed anything but
&nb
sp; innocence.
"All right, Mac. Game time is over.
You said, if you couldn't talk
Brokemichael out of this nonsense. Can
you talk him out of it?"
"Either talk him out of it, or
remove him from the scene for a couple
of days. Yes, I can do one or the
other. Once you've got that discharge,
boy, Brokey'd have a hell of a time
convincing anyone to go after you.
That paper's sort 68
l
of a statute of limitations, you know.
But I don't have to tell you that."
"No, you don't. Just tell me what
rotten thing you want from me."
The Hawk removed his tinted glasses
and, elegantly, wiped the
non-prescription lenses as though he
were polishing jade. "Well, as a
matter of fact, I've been giving a lot
of thought to my immediate future. And
I think there's a place for you, but
I'm not sure."
"Don't ever be. Next week I'll be
back at my desk in Boston with Aaron
Pinkus Associates, the best law firm
in the Bay State."
"Well, you could take an extra few
weeks. Say a month, couldn't you?
Jesus, boy, it's been four years;
what's another month?"
"Aaron Pinkus will one day be on the
Supreme Court. Every day with him is
an education and I'm not giving up
thirty years of paid education. What
do you mean; you think there's a place
for me? Doing what?"
"I may need an attorney. I think
you're the best I ever met."
"I'm probably the only one you've ever
met "
"But you've got a few weak spots,
young Ella," interrupted Hawkins,
replacing his tinted glasses. "I'm
sorry to say that, but it's a fact. So
I don't know whether to hire you or
not. I have to ponder some more about
you."
"In the meantime, you'll keep
Brokemichael out of the picture?"
"And you'll give some consideraton
to acting as my attorney? Just for a
couple of weeks? You see, I've got a
little money saved up "
"I know exactly how much money
you've got," broke in Devereaux
sympathetically. "I had to. You want
advice for investments?"
"Sort of
"Then without qualification I'll
help you. I mean that." Sam did. After
a lifetime of devotion, risk, and
service Mac had managed to amass the
sum total of fifty-od] thousand
dollars. No other assets whatsoever.
No houses real estate, stocks.
Nothing. That and a reduced pension
was all he had for the rest of his
life. "And if I can't give 69
you the advice I think you should
have, I'll find someone else who can."
"That's mighty touching, son."
Was there a hint of glistening tear
in this tough oldline officer's eyes?
It was difficult to tell with the
tinted glasses.
"It's the least I can do. It may
sound corny, but it's the least any
taxpayer can do for you. You've given
a lot, and you've been shafted by the
plastic men. I know that."
'Well, boy," said Hawkins, inhaling
deeply, heroically, "everyone does
what he has to do in this world. At a
given moment of time~uch! This goddamn
faggot suit is tighter than a Memorial
Day uniform." The Hawk pulled out a
folded, faded magazine from his breast
pocket. The pages showing were
dog-eared and marked with red pencil.
"What's that?" asked Devereaux.
"Oh, some Chincom propaganda the
slants left in my cell. It's the
standard Commie crap, misspelled
English and all. This is an article
that's supposed to show the kind of
injustice that's widespread in
organized religion. This here Catholic
pope has a first cousin kind of like
the Brokemichaels in a way, except
they don't have the same names but
they look alike. Actually they're
identical, except that this pope's
cousin grows a beard to hide the
likeness."
"I don't understand. Where's the
injustice?"
"This cousin is a small-time singer
in a minor opera company and half the
time he's out of work. The Chincoms
make the obvious comparison. The
singer sings his heart out for the
people's culture and starves half to
death, while his pope cousin eats like
a guinea gourmet and steals from the
poor."
"It interested you so much you marked
it ups"
"Hell, no, boy. I just picked out
the inaccuracies to show this priest
friend of mine. It may surprise you,
but I've been doing a little studying
about things I haven't thought much
about before. God, and the church, and
things like that . Don't you laugh,
now."
Devereaux smiled gently. "I'd never
laugh at a thing like that. I don't
think it's anything to laugh at. A
man's 70
religious thoughts are not only his
constitutional right, but
often his very real sustenance."
"That's a mighty nice way to phrase it.
Real deep, Sam. By the way, just one
other thing about this Brokemichael
business. Tomorrow morning at G-two. Keep
your bucking mouth shut and do as I say."
Hawkins was waiting under the canopy
when Sam pulled up to the curb in front
of the hotel. He held what looked like a
very expensive briefcase in one hand,
opened the car door with his other and
slid in. There was a broad grin on his
face.
"Godciamn! It's a beautiful morning!"
It was not. It was cold and wet and the
skies promised a heavy rain.
"Your barometer's a little off."
"Nonsense! The day like age depends on
how you feel, boy. And I feel just
grand!" Hawkins smoothed the lapels of
his tweed suit, adjusted the deep red
paisley tie over the modish striped
shirt, and ran his fingers delicately
over the hair-above his ears.
"Glad you're in such good spirits," said
Sam, starting up the car and entering the
flow of traffic. "I don't want to dampen
them but you can't take a briefcase with
you. You can't remove any papers. Nothing
leaves the G-two offices."."
Hawkins laughed. He pulled out a cigar
from his shirt pocket. "Oh, don't worry
your legal head about details," he said,
snipping off the end of the cigar with a
sterling silver clipper. "I've taken care
of all that."
"There's nothing to take care oil I'm
responsible for you and I've got
twenty-four hours to keep my nose clean.
"
Devereaux took his hostility out on the
horn the sound was returned in good
measure by the surrounding vehicles.
"Jesus, you're in a foul temper. You
just keep your eyes on the high ground,
don't concern yourself with the flanks."
"Goddamn it, doesn't anybody speak
English anymore? What goddamned flanks?
What does that mean?"
"It means what I said last night."
MacKenzie spoke as he lighted his cigar.
"Do as I say and don't make waves. By the
way, would you like to know the name of
the Ella in 71
. . .
i
charge ,oftheG-two archives? Well, no
reason for you to know, but he's a
bright son of a bitch, a real genius.
Didn't know what I was doing for the
service when I got him out of that
prison camp west of Hanoi a few years
back. He's a Pointer, too. Can you
beat thatP Class of forty-seven. Same
as me. Goddamn! The coincidences in
this world "
'No! . . . No, Mac! No! No, no, no! You
can't! I won't let you!" Sam attacked
the horn again. Viciously hammering on
it. At a crippled old lady who was
having a difficult hme crossing the
intersection. The poor, trembling
thing sank her head farther into her
quivering shoulders.
"Regulation Seven Seven Five makes
it clear that a legal escort is just
that. An escort. Not an observer. He
takes the clandestine operations
officer to and from the place of
examination, but he's not permitted
inside the room. I guess there're a
lot of dishonest lawyers, Sam."
Robert Ludlum - Road To Gandolfo.txt Page 10