Maybe, just maybe, his negative approach was self-defeating, all things considered. Perhaps, just perhaps, he should be putting his energies into productive channels; find areas where he could contribute. After all, there was one indelible bottom line. If the Shepherd Company got blown up, a hell of a lot of shrapnel would find its way into the hide of the second and only other corporate officer of record.
These were the conjectures he began to put into words—haltingly, without much conviction at first—during MacKenzie’s daily visits at the start of the third week. But he realized that simply saying them was not very persuasive. The Hawk had to see his mind working, observe the transformation.
By Wednesday he had built up to the following:
“Mac, have you considered the legal aspects after—you know, after—–”
“Ground Zero’s good enough. What legal aspects? Seems to me you’ve obliged nicely in that department.”
“I’m not so sure. I’ve been involved in a fair amount of plea bargaining. From Boston to Peking.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Nothing. I was just—oh, nothing.”
By Thursday, this: “There could be consequences after … this Ground Zero … that you haven’t thought out. A cancer could be growing on the presidency of the Shepherd Company that ultimately may cripple the office.”
“Spell it out, boy.”
“Well.… No, never mind. It’s just conjecture. What was all that noise this afternoon? It sounded very exciting.”
The Hawk squint-eyed him before being pulled into the question. “Goddamn, it was exciting,” he answered after several seconds. “Nothing like the evolvement of precision in maneuvers! It fires up a man’s heart! What the hell were you talking about? This cancer stuff.”
“Oh, forget it. The old legal brain was just wandering. Are the maneuvers really all that … top drawer?”
“Yeah …” Hawkins rolled the cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. “They’re all right, I guess.”
On Friday: “How was the practice today? Sounded great.”
“Practice? Goddamn, it’s not practice, it’s maneuvers!”
“Sorry. How were they?”
“A little sloppy; we’ve got some minor difficulties.”
“Sorry, again. But I’ve got confidence in you. You’ll straighten things out.”
“Yeah …” The Hawk paced at the foot of the bed, his cigar a mashed pulp. “I may have to pick up a few diversion troops. Two or three, that’s all. I wasn’t concentrating. And, goddamn, Sam, I would have been on-the-barrel-sight except for the trouble you’ve caused!”
“I told you. I really regret all that. I wasn’t concentrating—–”
MacKenzie stopped and blurted out the words. “Do you mean that?”
“Yes,” replied Devereaux slowly, with conviction. “The first thing a lawyer learns is to deal with facts, hard evidence. All of it, not just the bits and pieces. I isolated. I’m truly sorry.”
“I won’t pretend to understand that bullshit, but if you feel the way I think you’re saying, what the hell were you talking about yesterday? And, damn it, the day before. Those ‘consequences’ after Ground Zero.”
Bingo! as they said in Boston, thought Devereaux to himself. But he showed no emotion; he was the calm, probing attorney with his client’s best interests at heart. “All right. I’ll spell it out. I know those trust accounts, Mac. Excluding the one major trust, which I gather is yours, your seven men can draw (or have their consigners draw) up to three hundred thousand on the basis of the first code releases. The second code releases are on a printout sheet in one of the other documents. The printout requires your countersignature and I assume you’ll send it to Zurich just before you leave for Ground Zero. Am I right so far?”
“I really skull-sessioned that trust business. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Yet. With the second release each man has a total of five hundred thousand, correct? That’s his fee, right? A half a million for Ground Zero. Everybody the same.”
“Not bad for six weeks’ work.”
“There are other things to consider. Plea bargaining on a large scale can include more than immunity. And not just through writing a book, although I understand a lot of cash is funneled through publishers these days.”
“What are you talking about?” The Hawk quashed his cigar out on the bedpost.
“What’s to prevent any or all of your subordinate officers from going straight to the authorities—through intermediaries, of course—and making separate deals? After the fact. They have your money; they avoid prosecution because they cooperate. Remember, we’re talking about one of the biggest scores in history. They would make a few thousand on top of what they’ve got.”
MacKenzie’s squinting eyes suddenly widened in relief. And self-satisfaction. There was definitely a sense of triumph in his grin. “Is that what you’ve troubled yourself over, boy?”
“Don’t make light of it—–”
“Hell, no, I won’t. And I didn’t. None of my men would do anything like that. Because they’re going to want to disappear like jackrabbits running from a brush fire. They won’t surface anywhere for fear of colliding with each other.”
“Now I don’t understand,” said Sam dejectedly.
The Hawk sat on the bed. “I’ve covered all that, son. Sort of in the same way I lashed you to the loaded howitzer. You gave me the idea. I intend to say good-bye to each officer separately. And with each I’m going to hand him an open-faced bearer bond worth an additional half million. And tell him he’s the only one getting it. Because like a good general officer I’ve kept my combat logs, and in rereading them I realized the mission could not have been successful without his particular strategic contributions. They’re hung. Both ways. A man won’t inform on a crime that couldn’t have been committed without his expertise—especially when it’s worth an additional half million—and he sure as hell doesn’t want his fellow conspirators to know he got preferential treatment to the tune of a half million.”
“My God!” Sam could not stop the admiration from creeping into his voice.
“Clausewitz makes it clear that you don’t engage the Berber in the same way you do battle with the king’s dragoons. It’s a question of applicable tactics.”
Devereaux, once again, was struck by the Hawk’s sheer boldness. He spoke softly, barely above a whisper, “You’re talking about—Jesus!—three and a half million dollars!”
“That’s correct; you add real quick. And a million apiece for the girls, that’s four more million. Plus the original compensation for the officers, another three and a half. And for your information, though I should probably reconsider, I’ve got another bearer bond for you. That’s a million on your paysheet.”
“What?”
“I kind of suspected you never understood the forty-mill capitalization. I didn’t just come up with a figure, you know. That sum was arrived at after very careful deliberation. I got a booklet from the Securities and Exchange Commission which told what to look for in sound corporate financing. You see, before the company even markets its services, we have a preoperation salary outlay of close to fifteen million; then there was the capitalization expenses, including travel and front money and finder’s fees—I kinda screwed you on that, son, but I knew you had good things coming—and the corporate real estate and the equipment indigenous to the marketing sources.…”
Involuntarily, Sam’s ears distorted the sound waves. Isolated phrases such as “aircraft purchases estimated at five million,” and “shortwave communication relays coming in at a million-two,” and “refurbishing, and supplies,” and “additional company offices”—all these came through with sufficient clarity to make Sam wonder where he was. Stark naked under an eiderdown quilt somewhere in Switzerland, or fully clothed in a boardroom somewhere in the Chrysler Building. Unfortunately for the state of his stomach, everything came together with the Hawk’s brief summation.
“This SEC booklet was very specific about liquid assets available for reserve capital. It recommended a point spread of twenty to thirty percent. Then I checked out the custom-of-the-trade practices with limited partnership agreements and found that the overcalls were generally ten to fifteen percent, which struck me as inadequate. So I skulled a bit and decided on twenty-five percent plus. And that’s what we’ve got. The budget projections prior to marketing come to just about thirty million. Taking that as the base figure, you add twenty-five percent plus, or ten million for contingency. That makes forty million and that’s what I raised. Damned sound economics, I’d say.”
Devereaux was temporarily speechless. His mind was racing but no words came. MacKenzie the military fruitcake was suddenly Hawkins the conglomerate financier. And that was more frightening than anything he had previously considered. Military principles (or lack thereof) when combined with industrial principles (of which there was a lack thereof) did a military-industrial complex make. The Hawk was a walking military-industrial complex!
If there was strident urgency in Sam’s stopping MacKenzie before, it was tripled now.
“You’re invincible,” said Sam finally. “I rescind all my previous reservations. Let me join you, really join you. Let me earn my silly million.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Each officer had been assigned a color in French. Not only was French spoken by everyone, but the sounds of the color words were more distinctive in French than in any other language.
The Ameican Negro from Crete was Noir, of course. The Viking from Stockholm, Gris; the Frenchman from Biscay was Bleu, while his countryman from Marsilles was Vert; the dark-skinned non-Black from Beirut was Brun; Rome was Orange; and finally, Athens was Rouge, in honor of his ever present kerchief. To instill a sense of discipline and identity among the men, the Hawk further insisted that the word “Captain” precede each color.
This aspect of authority and identity was desirable because MacKenzie’s second command by necessity stripped his men of their specific individualities. For Ground Zero’s assault was to be made in stocking masks. Head and face hair were to be at a minimum; skins powdered or bleached to medium Caucasian hues, and all ambulation which, no doubt, had been studiously disguised, drastically changed.
The men accepted the order without question. Razors and scissors and bleaching agents went to work; none had any desire to stand out any more distinctly from his fellow officers than basic nature dictated. There was security in anonymity, and they knew it.
The maneuvers progressed into the fourth week. The forest road bordering the Machenfeld field had been shaped to conform as accurately as possible to the site of Ground Zero; boulders had been moved, trees uprooted, whole areas of bush transplanted. A second location had been selected and cosmeticized: a winding, narrow, back road that descended a relatively steep hill in the woods.
In redesigning both these sites the men worked from enlarged photographs—123 photographs, to be exact—sent by an agreeable tourist in Rome by the name of Lillian von Schnabe. However, Mrs. von Schnabe did not take credit for her films. As a matter of fact, the rolls were sent undeveloped by two relays of couriers unknown to each other and delivered to a bewildered Rudolph in Zermatt. In several cases of tampons. Rudolph put the strange cargo in the trunk of his Italian taxi, underneath the tools. A man had his dignity to consider.
On the third day of the fourth week the Hawk scheduled the first complete run-through of the assault. By necessity it was a start-stop hold-to-position exercise as the men switched around, assuming the pivotal roles of the adversary. Motorcycles raced, limousines sped, figures in stocking masks leaped from their stations to perform the tasks assigned. Using a stopwatch, MacKenzie clocked each phase of the maneuver; he had developed eight basic phases for the entirety, from incursion to escape. And goddamn, his officers were progressing beautifully! They knew that the overall success of Ground Zero depended on the complete success of each individual assignment within each specific phase. The concept of failure was not attractive.
Which was why the captains objected unanimously to the Hawk’s prime tactical innovation: total absence of hand weapons. A well-placed knife or a rapidly exercised garrote had served them all in past skirmishes, more often than not being the difference between survival and capture. But MacKenzie was adamant: It would be both guarantee and proof that no harm would come to the pope until the ransom was paid. Therefore, all pistols, knives, coils, foot studs, knee cleats, finger points—even pig-iron knuckles—were eliminated. Forbidden, too, were any forms of hand-to-hand above the level of basic jukato.
Eventually, they accepted the limitations. “In Sweden there is a saying,” intoned Captain Gris in his Nordic lilt. “One Volvo in the garage is worth a lifetime of passes on the Scandinavian railroad. I shall accommodate the commander.”
“Oui,” agreed Captain Bleu, the Frenchman from Biscay. “For the recompense involved, I shall sing them to sleep with Gascogne lullabies, if it is required.”
But lullabies were not required. Instead, sleep was to be induced by half-inch hypodermic needles dispensing solutions of sodium pentothal. Each officer would be outfitted with a thin bandolier across his chest, which carried tiny hypodermic needles in small rubber receptacles—where once had been bullets. They were easy to extract swiftly. If administered properly, within a three-inch diameter on the lower right area of the neck, the anesthetic would take effect in seconds. The problem was merely to immobilize the victim for those brief moments until the drug caused collapse. It was not a difficult problem and since there’d be considerable noise from the vehicles, even a partial scream or two might go unnoticed.
So the officers, heeding the words of wisdom from Gris and Bleu, reevaluated their objections to the Hawk’s order. In a way it was a challenge; and none were interested in lifetime passes on the Scandinavian railroad. Not when he could own a fleet of Volvos.
Each captain’s expertise was called on. Captain Gris and Bleu were masters of camouflage and escape cartography. Captain Rouge was an expert in demolition; he had personally blown up six piers in the Corinth strait when it was rumored the American fleet was sailing in. Sedative medicines were a specialty of the Englishman, Captain Brun, who had darkened his skin for a life in Beirut; most narcotics held interest for him. Aircraft technology and electronics were covered brilliantly. The first, of course, was the bailiwick of Captain Noir, whose exploits in Houston—and Moscow—were legend. The second was the province of Captain Vert, who found it necessary in Marseilles to devise an extraordinary variety of radio communications. It was such a busy port; and Interpol was always underfoot.
Lastly, native orientation was left to Captain Orange, who knew Rome like the back of his constantly gesturing hand. He would write out full descriptions of eight innocuous-looking sets of clothing that blended into the current dress, and further, he would provide a minimum of four separate methods of transportation, using public conveyances where feasible, to the site of Ground Zero. For during the final days of the fourth week, each captain was to travel to Rome and personally survey the assault area.
The airfield at Zaragolo would be no problem; they agreed to that. And neither would the helicopter at Ground Zero. It would be flown in the night before the assault. Gris and Bleu assured them the camouflage would be undetectable.
Goddamn, thought MacKenzie as he snapped the stopwatch at the end of the maneuver’s Phase Eight. Twenty-one minutes! In another day or so it would get to the optimum eighteen. He felt a surge of pride in his once bemedaled chest. His machine was emerging as one of the finest ministrike forces in the military books.
Even the three privates (the diversionary troops) were splendid. They had but two functions: scream and lie still. But as was proper for the lowest enlisted ranks, they knew nothing. They had been recruited by Captain Brun from the poppy fields high in the Turkish hills, to which they would return the instant Ground Zero was terminated. They’d been hired to perform at a fixed price, di
d not care to know anything and, naturally, were housed by themselves in enlisted quarters and did not eat at the officers’ mess.
They were called simply: Privates One, Two, and Three.
The run-through completed, the officers gathered around the Hawk beside the huge blackboard he’d set up on an A-frame in the field. Sweat was pouring through their stocking masks. Those in priestly habits took them off carefully, studying them for repairs that might be needed; and the inevitable cigarettes and matches came out of pockets. No lighters; fingerprints could be lifted from lighters.
The three privates, naturally, went off by themselves. In sight but not within hearing. Enlisted personnel were not privy to tactical analyses; it was not proper.
The analysis began. Although immensely pleased Hawkins did not dwell on the positive; he told them their mistakes, marking up the blackboard with his criticisms with such sharp authority that the officers cowered like rebuked children.
“Precision, gentlemen! Precision is everything! You must never allow your concentration to lapse, even for a second! Captain Noir, you’re cutting your time too close between Phase One and your station in Phase Six. Captain Gris, you had trouble with your cassock over the uniform. Practice it, man! Captains Rouge and Brun, your execution of Phase Five was just plain sloppy! Take out that radio equipment! Go over your moves! Captain Orange! Yours was the most serious lapse of all!”
“Che cosa? I make no mistakes!”
“Phase Seven, Captain! Without the proper execution of Phase Seven, the whole mission goes up in mortar smoke! That’s the exchange, soldier! You’re the one who speaks Italian best. I put this Frescobaldi in the pope’s car and take the pope. Where the hell were you?”
“In position, Generale!”
“You were on the wrong side of the road! And Captain Bleu, for an expert at camouflage, you stuck out like a plucked duck in your Phase Four station! Cover, man! Use the foliage for cover!
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