The Road to Omaha: A Novel

  “I wouldn’t even think of ‘taking on’ him, pilgrim. He may not be your size, but he’s black belt karate to the tenth order, and they don’t come no higher.”

  “Oh, come on, Duke, I’d never use that stuff unless we were all in real trouble. And certainly not against a nice guy like the colonel. He’s just upset, I can understand that.… Don’t worry, Colonel, I wouldn’t harm you. What is it?” Dustin walked with the stunned Cyrus to a far corner of the suite as the mercenary kept staring down—way down—at the actor. They stood next to a window, the night lights of Boston throwing a glow over the city, and Cyrus spoke quietly.

  “You were probably right a few minutes ago when you said I could lose my pension. You see, I did come on late, actually only a few days ago, and I had no reason to think this man wasn’t Hawkins. Hell, from what I’ve seen of him on television, he looks like the general and sounds just like him—why wouldn’t it be him? I’m really grateful, Dustin.”

  “That’s okay, Colonel. I’m sure you’d do the same for me if our positions were reversed—say somebody was impersonating Harry Belafonte and you being black knew he wasn’t but I didn’t.”

  “What …? Oh, yes, I certainly would, Dustin, I certainly would. But just so I can get a clearer picture of this whole dirty business—officially, you understand, and since we’re both on the same side—just what was your mission?”

  “Well, as we’re on a restricted, need-to-know basis and you are a colonel, I’ll tell you what I can, which is all we know. We’re to make contact with General Hawkins, abduct him and everyone else around him, and drive to the SAC air base in Westover—that’s here in Massachusetts.”

  “Not back to Air Force Two on the Logan runway?”

  “Oh, no, that was for the press conference.… You know, the Vice-President isn’t really a bad guy. Of course, I don’t think he can act—”

  “He was on the plane?”

  “Sure, but he wasn’t allowed to get off until later.”

  “Then why was he there?”

  “Some gangsters stole one of his cars and it was somehow found here in Boston—”

  “Forget it … I mean it’s not germane. So you kidnap the general and anyone accompanying him, drive to the SAC base in Westover, and then what?”

  “TBDL, Colonel.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “ ‘To be determined later,’ but we were told to carry sweaters and long Johns in our duffels, which presumes the climate will be colder.”

  “Sweden,” said the mercenary.

  “That’s what we figured, but then Sylvester, who was in an overseas tour of Annie in Scandinavia—we hear he was terrific, especially from him—said the summer weather wasn’t that much different from ours.”

  “It isn’t.”

  “So then we figured far more north—”

  “Like in the ice fjords,” completed Cyrus.

  “Wherever … we’d receive further orders at that time.”

  “Like depositing frozen bodies to be discovered in the year 3000 for medical research.”

  “I wouldn’t know anything about that, sir.”

  “I would hope not.… And outside of this Brigadier General Broke … Brokehethel—”

  “That’s Brokemichael, Colonel. Brigadier General Ethelred Brokemichael.”

  “It’s okay, I’ve got it. But outside of him, you have no idea who’s responsible for this mission?”

  “That’s not in our purview, sir.”

  “You can bet your ass it isn’t.”

  “Colonel …?”

  “We split, Roman,” said Cyrus abruptly, walking rapidly to the hotel door, the Gypsy swiftly at his side, as a loud metallic slap was heard from behind his back. “Don’t try to follow us, it would be useless; we’re as expert in our profession as you are on stage, believe me. And you, Mr. Sutton, I don’t know a hell of a lot about acting, but I suspect you’re one of the best, so you can stay here and jaw with your buddies as long as you like.… I’m afraid we used an old mere trick with you tonight. You may have wondered why my friend kept jumping around, studying each of you, so now I’ll tell you. That red carnation in his lapel contains a miniaturized, high-speed camera; we have a minimum of a dozen photographs of each of your faces. And under my jacket I’m wired to the max and still rolling; every word here this evening is recorded.”

  “A moment, please!” exclaimed Sir Henry.

  “What?” Cyrus reached between the folds of his coat and yanked out a large, ugly .357 Magnum as Roman Z whipped his hand from behind his back, displaying a foot-long switchblade knife.

  “My fee,” said Sutton. “Have Aaron send it around by messenger to my flat. And tack on several hundred more, for I intend to take my newfound friends and associates to the finest restaurant in Boston.”

  “Sir Henry!” said Sylvester, touching the great man’s sleeve. “Have you really retired?”

  “Semiretirement, dear boy. I do occasional stints for the locals, y’know, keeps the juices flowing. As it happens, I have a rather well-off son here in Boston from one of my marriages—can’t remember which—who simply insisted I take one of the hundreds of condominiums he’s built. He damn well should, of course; in the halcyon days I sent him through several universities for all those letters after his name. Sweet child, I must say, but never an actor! Damn disappointment, really.”

  “How about the army? You could be our director! They’d probably make you a general right off!”

  “Ah, but remember, my young cohort, what Napoleon said: ‘Give me enough medals and I’ll win you any war.’ But for actors to get ahead, it’s the billing, your name! Progressively larger until it equals the size of the play’s title. Now, as you perform in secrecy, how could the army do that?”

  “Oh, shit,” whispered Cyrus to Roman Z. “Let’s get the hell out of here!”

  They left, and no one in the suite noticed.

  23

  “It’s all here!” cried Jennifer, listening to the tape and looking at the enlarged photographs on the coffee table in the summer house on the beach in Swampscott. “It is a conspiracy, a screwed-up conspiracy, but obviously involving the highest levels of the government!”

  “There’s no question about it,” agreed Aaron Pinkus from his chair, “but whom do we go after? The need-to-know basis cuts off the trail.”

  “What about this Brokemichael?” said Devereaux. “He’s the son of a bitch I caught in the Golden Triangle—”

  “And got his first name mixed up with his cousin,” interjected Jennifer. “Ass.”

  “Hey, look, how many times do you run into first names like Ethelred and Heseltine? They’re both so weird it’s hard not to get confused.”

  “Not for an observant attorney—”

  “Come on, Pocahontas, you couldn’t differentiate between harsh cross-examination and extreme provocation!”

  “Will you two stop it,” said an exasperated Pinkus.

  “I only meant he could be after me,” explained Sam. “Jesus, if he saw my name in the Hawk’s file, his nostrils would outshoot two flamethrowers.”

  “Since you’re formally listed as the Wopotami attorney-of-record, I suppose that’s entirely possible.” Aaron paused, frowning, his head tilted. “On the other hand, Brokemichael couldn’t order his rather unique unit into action by himself, and he certainly wouldn’t have access to Air Force Two—”

  “Which means he was ordered by someone who had both the authority and the access,” completed Redwing.

  “Exactly, my dear, and therein lies our conundrum. This Brokemichael wouldn’t reveal his superior, even if he could, and to paraphrase General Hawkins, the chain of command will be so convoluted as to be untraceable. At least within the time frame available to us—eighty-some hours and counting, as I understand it, but not actually.”

  “We’ve got the evidence,” said Devereaux. “The photographs, the tape in which the entire operation is outlined by two participants—perpetrators, if you like. We c
ould go public—why not?”

  “The stress has addled your normal perceptions, Sam,” answered Pinkus gently. “Deniability is built into this whole operation. Just as our friend Cyrus, who is now on the beach with Roman Z, no doubt consuming several quarts of vodka, put it—‘they’re all lunatics.’ … That’s the deniability. Lunacy, irrationality—crazy people. Actors.”

  “Hold it, Aaron. They can’t deny Air Force Two, that’s too damned heavy.”

  “He’s got a point, Mr. Pinkus. Clearance for the use of that plane has to come from on high.”

  “Thank you, Princess.”

  “I give when it’s deserved.”

  “Wow, what a prelude!”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  “My word, I called you addled, but I’m far worse. You have a glaringly obvious point—”

  “No, he doesn’t,” came the guttural voice of MacKenzie Hawkins from the darkened, partially opened door to the kitchen. It was pulled back and the figure of the Hawk emerged, clothed only in green and black camouflage skivvies and T-shirt. “Pardon my appearance, little … Miss Redbird—”

  “That’s Redwing.”

  “Sorry again, but when I hear voices on bivouac at three o’clock in the morning, my natural instinct is to prowl fast, not dress for the occasion of a dance at the officers’ club.”

  “You dance, Mac?”

  “Check my fillies, son. I taught all of ’em everything from the mazurka to the true Viennese. Soldiers were always the best dancers; they have to make their moves on the ladies in quick fashion—leaves are short.”

  “Please, Sam, the general’s observation, if you will,” said Aaron, looking at the Hawk. “Why is my learned employee wrong about the Vice-President’s plane? It’s the second-ranking aircraft in the country.”

  “Because Air Force Two can be manipulated by a dozen agencies and departments for cosmetic reasons. Regardless of who it is, a Veep’s staff jumps at every opportunity to bring its unnoticed merchandise out of the shadows, whether it’s him or his benevolently provided equipment.… Hell, boy, remember when I landed at Travis from Beijing by way of the Philippines after the Chink trial, and gave that puke-inducing speech about ‘old, tired soldiers’? I had to include that I was eternally grateful to the Vice-President for sending his personal plane.”

  “I remember, Mac.”

  “You know where that Vice-President was, Sam?”

  “No, I don’t,” said Devereaux.

  “He was holed up with one of my wives who wouldn’t let him get to second base in L.A., drunk as a flea in a bottle of bourbon and just about as equal to the task of his desires.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “ ’Cause I smelled the whole China trial scam and wanted to know how high up it went in D.C. I sent my girl to work to see if she could find out.”

  “Did she?” asked an incredulous Pinkus.

  “Sure as hell did, Commander. That tongue-twisting orator fell flat on his face with his trousers around his ankles, asking good old Ginny who I was! Then I knew just how tall the dirty dog was in Washington who had me by the tail, doing nasty things to this old soldier.… That’s when I really made up my mind to pursue a different life and recruited you, Sam.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t remind me.… Ginny seduced the Vice-President?”

  “You weren’t listening, son. That girl’s got taste, and his neutered, fat face wasn’t up to it.”

  “Reminiscences aside,” broke in Aaron, shaking his head as if to erase forbidden images. “What exactly are you saying, General?”

  “I’m saying we’ve now got a direct counter for this counterthrust strategy, Commander. It’ll be a little tricky but we can manage it.”

  “Speak English, Mac.”

  “Hell, boy, it’s worked from the Normandy coast to Saipan! From Pinchon to the Mekong—when the goddamned back-boiler brass didn’t blow it with their big mouths.”

  “I repeat, English.”

  “Disinformation, Sam, within the holier-than-thou chain of command.”

  “I mentioned that a moment ago,” interrupted Pinkus. “The chain of command, I mean.”

  “I know,” acknowledged the Hawk. “I heard everything you all said for the past twenty minutes, taking a few moments off to bring Colonel Cyrus another bottle of vodka on the beach.… Those actor types really blew him into space, didn’t they?”

  “Your disinformation, General?” pressed Aaron.

  “Well, I haven’t actually worked it out yet, but the route’s as clear as an oil slick in new-fallen snow.… Brokey the Deuce.”

  “Who?”

  “What?”

  “I think I know,” said Jennifer. “Brokemichael—not the Indian Affairs Heseltine, but the one who runs those faces on the table from Fort Benning. Ethelred.”

  “The lady’s right. Ethelred Brokemichael was about the poorest excuse for a West Pointer that ever was. He never should have been in the army, but it was on both sides of their families, you know, sons of army brothers. The crazy thing is that Ethelred was actually a more imaginative officer than Heseltine, but he had a weakness. He saw too many movies where generals lived like kings and he tried it on a general’s salary, which doesn’t allow for castles.”

  “Then I was right,” said Devereaux. “He was making bucks out of the Triangle.”

  “Sure, you were, Sam, but he was no mastermind criminal; he was more of an unconscious middleman than anything else. It was like he was in a movie, being paid personal homage by a lot of people he couldn’t understand but did minor favors for.”

  “He pocketed the loot, Mac.”

  “Some, not a hell of a bundle and nowheres near what you claimed. If the army could have proved that, he’d have been out on his duff. He gave a lot of it to the orphanages and the refugee camps. That’s on the record and it’s what saved his tail. There were others who did much worse.”

  “That’s hardly exculpatory,” said Pinkus.

  “I guess not, but, like Sam says, who’s running in the angel sweepstakes?” The Hawk paused and walked to a beach front window in his camouflage skivvies. “Besides, it’s history, and I know Brokey the Deuce. He doesn’t think too much of me, because I knew Heseltine better and they didn’t get along, but we talk.… And we will talk and I’ll goddamned well find out who’s behind this whole fandango or the Deuce will be hung out to dry in public, and he can kiss his gold braid good-bye.”

  “You’re forgetting a negative or two, General,” interrupted Aaron. “To begin with, when word gets back that this ‘Suicidal Six’ has failed, I’m sure Brokemichael will be placed beyond your reach, beyond anyone’s, for the simple reason that through him the name of the high-ranking official who commandeered Air Force Two might surface.”

  “The word won’t get back, Commander,” said Hawkins, turning away from the window. “At least not for the next twenty-four hours, and I’m sure you can arrange for a private jet to fly me to Fort Benning first thing in the morning.”

  “Twenty-four hours?” exclaimed Jennifer. “You can’t possibly guarantee that. Those actors may be lunatics, but they are covert operations professionals.”

  “Let me explain, Miss Redwing. My adjutants, Desis One and Two, are in radio contact with me.… Sir Henry Sutton and the so-called Suicidal Six are currently closing up Joseph’s Restaurant on Dartmouth Street, well oiled and in great spirits. My adjutants will drive them—not to the hotel—but up to the ski lodge, where they’ll remain for the day recovering. And when they’ve just about got their heads in place, Desi Two, who’s not only a fine mechanic but also, I’m informed by Desi the First, an accomplished cook, will lace their chow with a sauce comprised of tomatoes, tequila, gin, brandy, pharmaceutical grain alcohol, and a liquid sedative of indeterminate potency that will provide us with Miss Redwing’s guarantee. We may possibly have more than twenty-four hours, perhaps nearer a week, if it’d do us any good.”

  “Really, General,” countered the daughter of the Wo
potamis, “even men crippled by drugs and alcohol—especially trained military personnel—find enough lucid moments to use the telephone.”

  “The telephone won’t be working—wires down, struck by lightning during the storm.”

  “What storm?” asked Aaron.

  “The storm that whipped up after they all fell into their sacks for some heavy snoring.”

  “When they wake up they’ll climb into the limo and get the hell out of there,” offered Devereaux.

  “Rack and pinion steering will have been broken as a result of the rough country terrain.”

  “They’ll think they’ve been kidnapped and take appropriate measures, physical measures!” said Pinkus.

  “There’s some chance of that but not much. D-One will explain to them that you, Commander, in your wisdom, thought it might be wiser if the group slept off tonight’s festivities at your vacation home rather than risking any embarrassment at the hotel.”

  “What about the hotel, Mac?” said Sam anxiously. “Brokemichael and his crowd will be checking in with the unit for progress reports, if nothing else.”

  “Little Joseph’s covering the phones in the middle suite as we speak.”

  “What the hell’s he going to say?” persisted Devereaux. “ ‘Hi, I’m the Suicidal Seventh and the rest of the boys are bombed out of their skulls at Joe’s Bar’?”

  “No, Sam, he’s going to make it clear that he’s been hired only to take messages and that his temporary employers were called out on business. Nothing more.”

  “You seem to have thought everything through,” conceded Aaron, nodding. “Quite remarkable.”

  “Second nature, Commander. These kinds of counterinsurgency tactics are kindergarten stuff.”

  “Oh, no, Mac, you forgot something.” Devereaux smiled a lawyer’s smile of sardonic triumph. “These days all the limousines have telephones.”

  “Good thinking, son, but Desi the First thought of that a couple of hours ago—”

  “Don’t tell me he’s going to snap off the antenna. That would be a little obvious, wouldn’t it?”

  “No need to. Hooksett, New Hampshire’s out of the cellular range; the tower up there isn’t completed. Desi-Two found out the hard way; he told us he had to drive twenty minutes down the highway to make contact with D-One in Boston the night before last—to tell him exactly where the lodge was.”