MacKenzie took a long, savoring intake
of cigar smoke.
"There's another thing that's not
allowed in that room, you son of a
bitch!" Devereaux slammed his hand in
fury on the rim of the horn once more.
The crippled old lady was now splayed
out in the middle of the street. "And
that's a briefcase!"
"It is, if the officer is making his
final contributions: Nobody can see those
but the ranking archivist of G-two.
It's classified material."
"There's nothing in there!" yelled
Sam, pointing at his briefcase.
"How do you know? It's locked."
Upon entering the offices of army
intelligence, Hawkins was escorted
quietly, professionally, to the
specific room selected for his 775, by
two flanking military police. Sam took
up the rear. It seemed to Devereaux as
formal an exercise as an execution,
except that Mac was loose and slightly
slouched in his modish tweed suit, not
ramrod at all. But once the four of
them were inside the room, Hawkins
straightened up and replaced his warm
civilian tones with the harsh bark of
a leather-lined general officer.. He
ordered the MPs to take Sam into the
next room and summon their superior.
The MP captains saluted, took
Devereaux by the elbows silently into
the adjacent room, 72
slammed the door, locked it, checked
the corridor, and walked in Wehrmacht
unison out into the hallway. They
locked that door,. too.
He had a vague feeling-of deja vu;
then he remembered. He'd watched a
late night movie on television several
weeks ago. Seven Days in May. He
walked to the single window and looked
out. And down. Through the bars It was
four stories to the street. G-2 wasn't
taking any chances with legal escorts
from the inspector general's office,
he thought.
There was the sound of voices from
the next room. And then overly
masculine laughter accompanied by
eruptions of profanity. Old
comrades-in-arms recalling the good
old days when everyone got his ass
shot off, except the generals. Sam sat
down in a chair and picked up a dog-
eared, worn-out copy of Let's Stamp
Out V.D. in G-2, and read.
His reading which was actually
rather fascinating was suddenly
interrupted by the steady repetition
of another sound from the examination
room.
Therump-chump. Therump-chump.
Therump-chump.
Devereaux swallowed several times,
annoyed with himself for leaving his
antacid tablets in the car. The sound
he was hearing could not be confused
with any other sound in his frame of
reference, no matter how hard he
tried. It was a Xerox machine
Why would an examination room for
the processing of eyes-only classified
files have a Xerox machine?
On the other hand, why wouldn't it?
The first question was infinitely
more logical. A Xerox machine was a
contradiction in spirit and in fact to
the purpose of Regulation 775.
Sam went back to his reading, unable
to keep his mind even on the pictures.
An hour and twenty minutes later the
therump-chumping stopped. Several
minutes after that a metallic crack of
a lock was heard and the door of the
examination room was opened. MacKenzie
emerged carrying his expensive brief-
case, now bulging and strapped
together with shining steel G-2 bands,
and a foot-long steel chain dangling
from the crossbar.
73
"What the hell is that?" asked
Devereaux from the chair,
apprehensively and not at all kindly.
"Nothing,".replied the Hawk casually.
"Just some Fleet-Pac-Com-Sat transfer
files."
"And what the hell is that?"
"Majo?;"continued MacKenzie, raising
his voice, standing suddenly very
erect. "I present Brigadier General
Beryzfickoosh! Atten...hut!"
Devereaux shot up from the chair and
snapped his hand in salute as a
barrel-cheated officer with twelve
rows of ribbons, an eye patch and, Sam
swore, a fright wig on his head,
walked swiftly into the room. The
salute was returned with a vibrating
flourish; the officer then extended a
large, muscular hand.
"Hear you're up for discharge,
Major," said the general gruffly.
"Yes, sir," answered Devereaux,
gripping the outstretched hand.
At which instant Hawkins slapped the
briefcase chain over Sam's wrist,
securing the triple combination lock
between the links, and barked, "First
transfer completed, General!"
"Confirmed, sir!" shot back the
general, still holding Devereaux's
hand in an iron grip, his one eye
staring at Sam. "Fleet-Pac-Com-Sat is
now in your custody, Major! Prepare
for second transfer!"
"For what, General?"
- "Say!" The general released Sam's
hand. "Aren't you the legal prick who
shafted old Brokey Brokemichael?"
Devereaux's stomach was suddenly in
agony; perspiration formed instantly
on his forehead,' es the heavy brief
case pulled him halfway to the floor.
"There are two sides to that story,
sir."
"Goddamned right!" shouted the
general. "Brokey's and some shit-ass
noncombatant's who should be on a
stockade rock pilel"
"Now, just a minute, Generals"
"What, soldier? You being
insubordinate?"
"No, sir. Not at all, sir. I would
just like to point
,,
out .
"Point out!? You point your ass in
the direction of that
74
door an secure the transfer of
Fleet-Pac-Com-Sat, or I'll point you
right into a court-martial! For
insubordination and incompetence!"
"Yes, sir! Right away, sirl" Sam
tried to salute but the chain and the
briefcase were too heavy so he made a
rapid about-face and headed for the
door, which was miraculously opened by
the two MP captains.
The formalities at the entrance desk
were over with quickly. The steel G-2
bands securing the briefcase were some
kind of symbol of authority. Devereaux
signed the checkout book and the
miniature camera silently took his
photograph.
Out on the street, Sam turned to the
Hawk. "That guy's crazy! Another ten
seconds he would have thrown me into
solitary! For what?"
"Old Brokey's got a lot of friends,"
said MacKenzie. "Here, I'll drive."
"Thanks." Devereaux reached
awkwardly into his pocket and gave
Hawkins the keys, his hand still
trembling. They walked to the parking
lot and got in the car.
Fifteen minutes later, in the middle
of a Washington traffic jam, Sam's
nerves began to calm down. His panic
at being faced with a weird,
apoplectic general screwing up his
discharge at the last minute was
fading. But that concern was being
inexorably replaced with another very
genuine fear. Brought about partially
by the Hawk's silence.
"Mac, now that this pile of
fleet-kumquats is in my custody, what
the hell am I supposed to do with
them? Where's this second transfer
taking place?"
"Don't you know?"
"Of course, not."
"The general thinks you do."
"Well, I don't!"
~ "You want to go back and ask him,
Sam? Personally, I don't recommend it.
Not with the way he feels about you.
Iesus! He might dig up all kinds of
very serious violations. Arid you just
got your picture taken. One thing
always leads to another, you know what
I mean? Like the domino theory. Your
trial could last for a year or two."
"What the hell's in here, Hawkins?
Don't bullshit me! What is it?"
75
"Sorry, Sam. I'm afraid I can't
discuss it. You understand, boy. It's
classified."
Sam sat forward on the couch, his
arm stretched out over the coffee
table. MacKenzie manipulated the
hacksaw back and forth over the chain.
"Once I get this goddamned chain
off, we can work on the lock," said
Mac comfortingly. "It would be easier
with a small blowtorch."
"Not on my arteries, you son of a
bitch! And thanks for not telling me
you didn't have the combination."
"Now, don't worry, I'll have it off
in ten or fifteen minutes. The steel's
a touch harder than I figured."
An hour and fourteen minutes later
the last links were severed, leaving
one dangling chain and a triple
combination lock around Devereaux's
wrist.
"I've got to get in touch with my
office," Sam said. "They'll expect me
to check in."
"No, they won't. You're with me.
Covering my Seven Seven Five. That's
what the agreement states. One day
minimum, three days maximum."
"But we're not there."
"We went to lunch...." MacKenzie
cleared his throat.
"I should still telephone "
"Goddamn, you've no faith in me at
all! Why the hell do you think I
waited until this morning before going
to G-two? You've got one day left and
I account for your time. You can't get
in trouble if you're not there."
"Of course not. No trouble just a
firing squad."
"Nonsense." Hawkins got up from the
floor, carrying the freed briefcase to
the hotel writing desk. "You're safer
with me. I know those IG close-outs.
You think you're winding everything up
and some pricky-shit waltzes in and
tells you you're not going anywhere
until some brief is completed."
Devereaux looked over at the
general, now snapping the G-2 bands
and opening the expensive briefcase.
There was logic in Mac's madness.
There was sure to be some
ball-breaking file or other that a
confused superior did not care to have
left in his lap. A memorandum could be
misplaced or not read. A
confrontation, even a discus76
sign, between legal officers not be
overlooked. Hawkins definitely had a
point: Sam was safer away from the
offlce.
MacKenzie removed several hundred
Xeroxed pages and put them on the desk
beside the briefcase. Devereaux
pointed to them and spoke cautiously,
"That's all your Seven Seven Five?"
"Well, not actually. A lot of it's
open stuff that's never been closed
out."
Sam was suddenly more uncomfortable
than he had been for the past three
hours. "Wait a minute. You said back
at G-two that it was just raw material
on people you'd run across.
"Or people other people ran across.
I added that, son, I really did. You
were just so upset you didn't listen."
"Oh, Christ! You removed raw flies
on subjects that weren't yours?"
"No, Sam," replied the Hawk as he
squared off some pages. "You did. It
says so right at the security desk.
Your signature."
Devereaux sank back in the couch.
"You devious son of a bitch."
"That kind of says it," agreed
Hawkins sadly. "There were times in
the field operating way the hell
behind the lines, of course when I
wondered how I could bring myself to
do the things I did. But then the
answer was always the same. 1 was
trained to survive, boy And survive I
do." The Hawk now had four piles of
Xeroxes neatly to the left of the
briefcase on the desk. He tapped his
fingers over them as if playing a
piano and then looked over at Sam
pensively. "I think you're going to do
real fine. You uphill accept the
temporary appointment as my attorney,
won't you? Won't be for long."
"And it's a little more complicated
than investments, isn't it?" Devereaux
remained well back in the couch.
"A mite, I suspect."
"And if I refuse I don't even have
to worry about Brokemichael. He's
minor. Now there's a small matter of
removing classified files from G-two.
No statute of limitations on that
little caper."
. "Don't imagine there is."
77
,., . .
"What do you want me to do?"
"Work up some contracts. Pretty simple
stuff, I should think. I'm forming a
company. A corporation, I guess you'd
call it."
Sam inhaled deeply. "That's really kind
of amusing, if it weren't so sad.
Purpose and intent notwithstanding,
there s a not-so-minor item called
capitalization required when you form a
corporation. I know your finances. I
hate to disabuse you but you're not
exactly in the corporate assets league."
"No faith, that's your trouble. I expect
you'll change."
"And what does that cryptic remark
mean?"
"It means I've got the assets figured
out to the dollar, that's what it
means." Hawkins planted his fingers over
the
Xeroxes in an elongated press. As if
he had found the Lost Chord.
"What assets?"
"Forty million dollars."
"Whatl" In his stunned disbelief, Sam
leaped up from the couch. The dangling
steel chain followed swiftly and in a
howling instant of pain, the bottom
links whipped .t across his eye.
His left eye.
Ille room went around and around.
78
CIIAPTER EIGHT
Devereaux ripped open the envelope the
instant he closed the hotel door. He
pulled out the rectangular slip of
heavy paper and stared at it.
It was a cashier's check made out to
his name. The amount was for ten
thousand dollars.
It was absurd.
Everything was absurd; nothing made
any sense at all.
He had been a civilian for exactly
one week. There had been no hitches
regarding his discharge; no
Brokemichael surfaced, and no
last-minute problems developed in the
office because he had not gone to the
office until an hour before his formal
separation from the army. And when he
arrived he not only had a patch over
his left eye, but a thick bandage
around his right wrist. From burns.
He had moved out of his apartment,
sent his belongings to Boston, but did
not follow them because a devious son
of a bitch named MacKenzie Hawkins
stated that he needed "his attorney"
in New York. Therefore Sam had a
Robert Ludlum - Road To Gandolfo.txt Page 11