Actually, you weren't capable of
drinking a great deal. I think your
bloodstream 134
. .
went into revolt." Lillian picked up
a pencil from the bedside table and
lightly checked the menu.
"You smell terrific," he said after
several moments of looking up at her,
remembering the sightlines from her
lap and the touches of angels over his
chest.
"So do you, lamb," she replied,
smiling, removing her glasses, and
gazing down at Sam. "Do you know, you
have a very acceptable body?"
"It has its points."
"I mean you have a fundamentally
sound physique moderately well
proportioned and coodinated. It's
really a pity you've let it
disintegrate." She tapped her glasses
against her chin like a doctor
studying postoperative cond~tions.
"Well, I wouldn't go so far as to
say disintegrate. I played lacrosse
once. I was pretty good."
I m sure you were, well over a
decade ago. Now look here " Lilly put
down her glasses and peeled the
blankets away from Devereaux's chest.
"See here. And here and here and here!
Absolutely no tone whatsoever. Muscle
pockets that've had no discernible use
for years! And here."
"Ouch!"
"Your latissimi dorsi are positively
nonexistent. When was the last time
you exercised?"
"Last night. In the shower."
'what aspect of your condition
cannot be debated. But it's a minor
part of the whole being "
"Not to me it isn't!"
" relative to the muscular network.
Your body is a temple; don't let it
crumble and decay with misuse and
neglect. Spruce it up! Give it a
chance to stretch and breathe and be
useful, that's what it's meant for.
Look at MacKenzie "
"I object! I don't want to look at
MacKenzie!"
"I'm speaking clinically.
"I knew it," mumbled Devereaux in
defeat. "I can't escape him. I'm
possessed."
"Do you realize~that Mac is well
over fifty' And take his body. It's
taut. It's a coiled spring toned to
perfection...." 135
Lilly's eyes drifted up at nothing. As
Anne's had done at the Savoy.She was
remembering, as Anne had remembered and
those memories were not cold.
"Well, for God's sake," said Sam.
"Hawkins spent his whole life in the
army. Running and jumping and killing
and torturing. He had to stay in shape
so he could stay alive. He had no
choice."
"You're wrong. Mac understands the
meaning of full capacity, experiencing
the total potential. He once said to
me well, never mind, it's unimportant."
The girl removed her hand from
Devereaux's chest and reached for her
glasses.
"No, please." The bedroom in the
Kempinsky might have been a bedroom at
the Savoy. But the wives were not
interchangeable; they were very
individual. "I'd like to hear what Mac
said."
Lilly held her glasses in both hands,
fingering the stems pensively. "'Your
body should be a realistic extension of
your mind, pushed to its limit but not
abused.'"
"I liked the 'change the outside, mix
up the inside' better "
"What?"
"Something else he said. Maybe I don't
understand; the intellectual and the
physical are poles apart. I might
imagine I could fly off the Eiffel
Tower, but I'd better not try it."
"Because that wouldn't be realistic,
it would be abusive. But you might
train yourself to scale down it in
record time. That would be the
realistic, physical extension of your
imagination. And it's important to
attempt it."
"Scale down the Eiffel Tower?"
"If Eying off it is a serious
consideration."
"It's not. If I follow this
pseudoscholastic doggerel, you're
saying that if you think about doing
something you should actually translate
it as much as possible into physical
terms."
"Yes. The main thing is not to remain
inert." Lilly waved her arms in
emphasis; the sheet plummeted down.
Unbearably lovely, thought Devereaux.
But at the mo
ment untouchable; the girl was in
debate. 136
- "This is either far more
complicated or much simpler
than it sounds," he said.
"It's more complicated, believe me,"
she answered. "The subtlety is in the
obviousness."
"You believe in this challenge
concept, don't you?" Sam said. "I mean
it's fundamentally the necessary
satisfaction of meeting the challenge,
isn't it?"
"Yes, I suppose it is. For its own
sake; to try to reach out for what you
can imagine. To test your potential.""
"And you believe that." There was no
question implied.
"Yes, I do. Why?"
"Because at this moment my imagination
is working so hard I can't stand it. I
feel the necessity of physical
expression; to test my potential. Within
reasonable limits, of course." He rose
from his base camp until he sat facing
her their eyes level. He reached out and
took her glasses, folded them, and
dropped them over the side of the bed.
He held out his hand and she gave him
the menu.
I~illian's eyes were bright, her lips
parted in a half smile. "I was wondering
when you were going to ask."
And then the Nazi telephone rang.
The voice on the other end of the line
belonged to a man brought up in his
formative years watching all those war
movies from Warner Brothers. Every
syllable dripped evil.
"Ve do not vill not cannot shpeak on der
telephone."
"Go across the street and open a
window. We'll shout," replied Devereaux
irritably.
"Der time ist der essence! You vill go
down to der lobby, to der fart chair in
front of der vindow, on der richt of der
hentrancel Under der arm carry a folded
copy of Der Spiegel. Und you vill be
crossing der legs every tventy seconds.
"I'm sitting down?"
"You vould look foolish crossing der
legs standing up, mein Herr."
"Suppose someone's sitting in the
chair?"
The pause conveyed both anger and
confusion. There followed a short,
strange sound that gave rise to the
image 137
.
of a small pig squealing in
frustratio
n. "Remove him!" was the
reply that followed the squeal.
"That's silly."
"You vill do as I say! Dere is no
time to argue! You vill be contacted.
Fifteen minutes."
"Hey, wait a minute! I just got up.
I haven't had breakfast; I've got to
shave "
"Fourteen minutes, mein Herr!"
"I'm hungry!"
The connection was broken by a loud
click on the line. "To hell with him,"
said Devereaux, turning back in
anticipation to the extraordinary
Lillian.
But Lillian was not where she should
have been. Instead, she was standing
on the other side of the bed in Sam's
bathrobe.
"To coin a phrase, my darling, we
were saved by the bell. You have
things to do, and I really must get
ready for class.
"Class?"
"Der erstklassig Strudelschule,"
said Lilly. "Less expert but probably
more fun than the Cordon Bleu in
Paris. It starts at noon. We're over
in the Leipziger Strasse; that's past
Unter der Linden. I really should
hurry."
"What about us? And breakfast
and don't you shower in the morning?"
Lillian laughed; it was a nice,
genuine laugh. "Der schule is finished
by three-thirty. I'll meet you back
here."
"What's your room number?"
"Five eleven."
"I'm five nine."
"I know. Isn't that marvelous."
"Or something...."
The confusion in the Kempinsky lobby
was absurd. "Der fart chair in front
of der vindow" was occupied by an
elderly gentleman whose close-cropped,
bejowled head kept nodding down into
the folds of neck flesh as he dozed.
On his lap, unfortunately, was a
folded copy of Der Spiegel.
The elderly man was, at first, annoyed,
then furious at 138
the two men who flanked his chair and
told him in no uncertain terms to get
up and come with them. Twice Sam tried
to intercede, explaining as best he
could that he, tool had a folded copy
of Der Spiegel. It did no good; the
troopers were interested only in the
gentleman sitting in the huge
armchair. Finally, Devereaux stood
directly in front of the two contacts
and every twenty seconds, crossed and
uncrossed his legs.
At which point the bell captain came
up to Sam- and in perfectly good, loud
English gave him the directions to the
men's room.
Whereupon a large woman with a
striking resemblance to Dick Butkus
approached the trio around the
armchair and began hitting the two
Gestapo men with both a hatbox and an
extremely large, black leather
handbag.
There was only one thing for it,
thought Devereaux. He grabbed one of
the contacts around the neck and
pulled him away from the fire zone.
"You crazy son of a bitchl I'm the
one! You're from Koenig, aren't you'd"
Thirty seconds later Devereaux was
propelled out of the Kempinsky
entrance and into a nearby alley.
Halfway-down the alley, taking up
most of the space between the
buildings, was an enormous open truck
with a canvas tarpaulin stretched
across the rear rigging poles. Under
the tarpaulin, from deck to canvas,
were hundreds of crates piled on top
of one another, filled with thousands
(it seemed like thousands) of
screeching chickens.
There was a narrow corridor in the
center of the van between the crates.
It led to the rear window of the cab.
In front of the window were two tiny
stools.
"Hey, come on! This is ridiculous!
It's goddamn it, it's unsanitary!"
His escorts nodded Germanically and
smiled Germanically and Germanically
heaved Sam up into the tiny corrido;
and shoved him down the eighteen-inch
passageway toward the stools.
All around him sharp beaks pecked at
his person. The noonday sun was
completely blanketed out by the heavy
canvas tarpaulin above. The odor of
chickenshit was unbearable.
139
They drove for nearly an hour into
the countryside stopping every now and
then to be looked over by cooperative
East German soldiers who waved them
on, pocketing deutschmarks as they did
so.
They entered a large farming
complex. Cattle were grazing in the
fields, silos and barns could be seen,
barely, through the opening of the
tiny passageway between the crates and
the flying feathers at the rear of the
truck.
Finally they stopped. Escort number
one grinned his Germanic grin and led
Sam into the sunlight.
He was marched into a large barn
that reeked of cattle urine and fresh
manure. He was led Germanically down
a crisscross series of turns through
the stinking building until they came
to an empty stall. A row of blue
ribbons denoted the residence of a
prize steer.
Inside, sitting on a milking stool,
surrounded by piles of bullshit, was
the heavyset man Sam knew was Heinrich
Koenig.
He did not get up; he sat there and
stared at Devereaux. In his tiny eyes,
surrounded by folds of blemished
flesh, were thunderbolts.
"So...." Koenig remained immobile,
drawing out the word disdainfully,
waving the escorts away.
"So?" replied Sam, his voice
cracking slightly, aware of the wet
chicken droppings on his back.
"You are the representative from
this monster, General Hawkins?" Koenig
pronounced the word "general" with a
hard Germanic G.
"I'd like to clear that up, if I
may," said Devereaux with false
laughter. "Actually, I'm just a slight
acquaintance, barely know the man. I'm
a low-profile attorney from Boston;
actually not much more than a law
clerk. I work for a little Jewish man
named Pinkus. You wouldn't like him.
My mother lives in Quincy and through
the strangest coincidences'
"Enough!" A very loud fart could be
heard in the vicinity of the milking
stool. "You are the contact, the
intermediary, with this devil from
hell!"
"Well, as to that, I would have to
debate the legal association; said
association subject to the
clarification of intent with regard to
foreknowledge. I don't believe - " 140
"You are a jackal, a hyena! But such
dogs bark loudly if the meat is
sufficient.
Tell me. This Hawkins. He
is a Gehlen operation,.nein?"
"A who?"
"Gehlen!"
Devereaux remembered. Gehlen was the
master spy of the Third Reich who
bought and sold for all factions after
the war. It would not do for Koenig to
think there was any connection between
Hawkins and Gehlen; for it would mean
there was a link to one Sam Devereaux,
who was way out of his league.
"Oh, I'm sure not. I don't think
General Hawkins ever heard of
what's-his-name. I know I haven't."
The chickenshit was melting under
Sam's shirt, all over hisfevered back.
Koenig rose slowly from the milking
stool, a second flatus loudly
proclaiming his ascent. He spoke with
quiet, intense hostility.
"The general has my reluctant
respect. He has sent me a babbling
idiot. Give me the papers, fool."
"The papers ." Sam reached into his
jacket pocket for another Xerox copy
of the Shepherd Company's limited
partnership agreement.
The German fingered the papers
silently, squeezing each one as he
flipped it. His audible reactions were
blunt: a combination of Arts and
grunts.
"This is outrageous! A great
injustice! Political enemies
everywhere! All wishing only to
destroy me!" Beads of saliva formed at
Robert Ludlum - Road To Gandolfo.txt Page 20