The Road to Omaha: A Novel

  “All right, all right!” broke in Pease. “What did you find?”

  “A strange little man in one of the suites—I knew the room numbers, naturally. I recognized his voice immediately, as I’d talked with him a number of times from Benning. He’s a harmless old fellow the boys hired to take messages, which was very smart of them. He hasn’t got much upstairs and that’s a plus; he merely takes messages.”

  “What did he say, for heaven’s sake?”

  “He repeated what he said to me over the phone from my office more times than I can count. His temporary employers had been called away on business; he didn’t know any more than that.”

  “That’s it? They’ve simply vanished?”

  “I have to assume they’re zeroing in on the target, Mr. Secretary. As I explained, they have broad parameters where the missions are concerned, because so much depends on instantaneous reactions, which they’re trained to invent.”

  “Spook babble!” yelled Pease.

  “No, sir, it’s called improvisation—‘improv,’ for short.”

  “You’re telling me you don’t know what the hell is going on. There’s no communication, for Christ’s sake!”

  “There are frequent occasions when the telephone equipment cannot be trusted, both civilian- and government-oriented.”

  “Who made that up, the Pink Panther? Why didn’t you return my calls?”

  “On the air force reconn which I took to Boston, Mr. Secretary? You want the airbornes to have your relay number in their computers?”

  “Hell, no!”

  “And when I reached Boston I had no way of knowing you’d called—”

  “Didn’t you check your office to see if that out-of-sight unit of yours had called you?”

  “We operate in black-drape deep cover. They have only two numbers: one to a line in my Benning office, which is in my bathroom but activates a light under my desk; and the other at my apartment, which is in my clothes closet and starts a tape of ‘There’s No Business Like Show Business.’ Naturally, I have a remote for both answering machines, and there was nothing on either.”

  “I may just slit my wrists. All this high-tech crap means is that nobody can talk to anybody who’s got a pulse.”

  “Once removed, sir, is twice removed from exposure.… That’s a line from the movie Thirty-two Rue Madeleine. Did you ever see it? Cagney and Abel, simply terrific.”

  “I don’t want to hear about any goddamned movies, soldier. I want to hear that your bunch of gorillas have captured Hawkins and taken him to the SAC base in Westover! That’s all I want to hear, because if I don’t hear that pretty goddamned soon, it could be the end for all of us! All it would take is two of those squirrelly justices on the Court sticking with those predictable left-wing radicals who won’t die!”

  “All of us, Mr. Secretary, or just a few of us? Like a once-demoted general of the army and a very successful unit he created?”

  “What?… You don’t carry your brass to play games with me, soldier!”

  “Well, Mr. Secretary, if I may ask you, from a military point of view, why are you so concerned with Mac Hawkins’s activities, whatever they are? The world’s changing, becoming less hostile among the great powers, and as for the lesser ones we can get together and blow them out of ground, like we did with Iraq. Everywhere, on both sides, we’re cutting back, our personnel and equipment reduced every day.… Why, even yesterday morning a famous journalist flew down to interview me in Benning; he’s doing an article on the army’s reaction to the economies imposed on the military in the post-Soviet era, the end of the cold war.”

  “P … p … post-cold war?” stuttered the Secretary of State, lurching forward over the desk, his perspiration now further aggravating his pivoting left eye. “Get with it, soldier! What about a far more dangerous threat, the greatest threat we can imagine?”

  “China, Libya, Israel?”

  “No, you idiot! The weird people—who knows how far they’ll go?”

  “The what?”

  “The … the … UFOs!”

  25

  Jennifer Redwing rushed out of the morning surf at the beach house in Swampscott. She tugged at the straps of her bathing suit, one of many found in the guest cabanas, and dashed across the sand to the terrace steps, where she had draped a towel over the railing. Vigorously, she dried her legs and arms, threw back her hair and massaged her scalp, only to open her eyes and find Sam Devereaux smiling down at her from a chair on the sun deck.

  “You’re a hell of a swimmer,” he said.

  “We learned it luring settlers into the rapids and watching them drown as we swam across,” replied Jenny, laughing.

  “You know, I can believe that.”

  “You know, it’s probably true.” Redwing climbed the steps and walked out on the deck, wrapping the towel around her. “How nice,” she added, looking at the round table of frosted Plexiglas. “A pot of coffee and three cups.”

  “Mugs, actually. I can’t drink coffee from cups.”

  “That’s funny, neither can I,” said Jenny, sitting down. “I guess that’s why I call them cups; it’s interchangeable. I must have a dozen in my apartment, very few the same.”

  “I must have two dozen, and only four are the same. Naturally, those are from Mother, and they’re in some kind of green-colored crystal, and I never use them.”

  “It’s called Irish Glass, and it’s terribly expensive and I’ve got two, and I never use them either.”

  They both laughed and their eyes locked; it was a brief moment, yet not to be dismissed. “Good Lord,” said Sam, “we’ve talked for almost a minute and neither of us has thrown a verbal blade. That calls for me to pour you a cup—a mug—of coffee.”

  “Thanks. Just black, please.”

  “That’s helpful. I forgot the cream or milk or that white powder I avoid because it looks like you could end up in jail for possessing it.”

  “Who’s the third cup—mug—for?” asked the Indian Aphrodite, accepting the coffee.

  “Aaron. My mother’s upstairs; she’s fallen in love with Roman Z, who said he’d make her a Gypsy breakfast and bring it to her, and Cyrus won’t admit it, but he’s nursing a hangover in the kitchen.”

  “Don’t you think he should keep his eye on Roman?”

  “You don’t know Mother.”

  “I may know her better than you, that’s why I asked.”

  Again their eyes met, and their laughter was louder… warmer. “You’re a wicked Indian lady and I should take back your coffee.”

  “The hell you will. Frankly, I think this is just about the best coffee I’ve ever had.”

  “That’s right, compound your statement. Roman Z made it. Of course, he combed the dunes and undoubtedly picked up slimy urchins from the ocean to mix in with the grounds, but if you start howling, I’ll find a razor and shave off your beard.”

  “Oh, Sam,” coughed Jenny, replacing her mug on the table. “You can be amusing, even if you’re one of the most aggravating men I’ve ever known.”

  “Aggravating? Me? Heaven forbid.… But does amusing mean in tepee terms we’ve got a truce?”

  “Why not? I was thinking last night before falling asleep, we have a couple of rugged mountains to climb, and we’re not going to get over them sniping at each other. From here on the fire will be leveled at us, legally and probably otherwise, the otherwise doing nothing for my blood pressure.”

  “Then why don’t you let me ‘run point,’ as the Hawk would say? I won’t cross you at the hearing.”

  “I know you won’t, but what makes you think you’re more capable of handling the ‘otherwise’ than me? And if you say because you’re a man, we’re back to the sniping.”

  “Well, sniping aside, I suppose that’s a natural part of it, but it’s minor. The larger part is that I know Mac Hawkins, know the way he reacts in tight situations. I can even anticipate him, and let me tell you, there’s no one on earth I’d rather have on my side when the wickets get st
icky than Mac.”

  “What you’re saying is you work well in tandem, as a team.”

  “I’m the lesser horse, but we have in the past. I’ve called him a devious son of a bitch more times than a computer could calculate, but when things get nasty, really nasty, I thank the moon and the stars for his God-given deviousness. I can even sense when he’s going to pull something out of that incredible military knapsack of his. I sense it and go with the flow.”

  “Then you’ll have to teach me to do the same, Sam.”

  Devereaux paused, his gaze on the mug of coffee; he looked up at her. “Do you mind my saying that could be foolhardy—even an impediment?”

  “You mean I’d get in the way of the good ole boys?”

  “To be hard-nosed, you might.”

  “Then we’ll just have to risk my incompetence.”

  “Sniper fire again?”

  “Oh, come on, Sam, I know what you’re doing, and I appreciate it, even your latent heroics. Truthfully, it’s tempting, because I’m not a fool, I don’t see myself as a female commando, but these are my people. I can’t just fade; they have to know I’m there—was there. For them to listen to me, they have to respect me, and like it or not they won’t if I hide while someone else does the legal work, the tribe’s legal work.”

  “I see your point. I don’t like it, but I see it.” There was the sound of a door opening and closing, followed by footsteps in the living room. Moments later Aaron Pinkus emerged from the house, his frail body encased in white walking shorts and a blue short-sleeved shirt, his head covered by a yellow golfing cap. He blinked at the bright sunlight and walked to the table. “Morning, Benevolent Employer,” said Devereaux.

  “Good morning, Sam, Jennifer,” replied Aaron, sitting down as Redwing poured him coffee. “Thank you, my dear.… I thought I heard voices out here, but as they were neither loud nor brimming with invective, I had no idea it was you two.”

  “We negotiated a truce,” said Devereaux. “I lost.”

  “So far, things are looking up,” offered the venerated attorney, nodding and sipping from his mug. “My, this is excellent coffee!”

  “Brewed with jellyfish and filthy seaweed.”

  “What?”

  “Pay no attention, Mr. Pinkus. Roman Z made it and Sam’s jealous.”

  “Why, because of Roman and my mother? Hey, I’m not that sort.”

  “Roman Z and Eleanor?” Aaron’s eyes widened beneath the visor of the yellow golfing cap. “Perhaps I should go back inside and come out again. Things are a bit disjointed.”

  “Never mind, it’s silly small talk.”

  “I don’t know about small talk, my dear, but it’s silly in the extreme.… It comes close to being as silly as the mental gymnastics our friend General Hawkins is going through. I just got off the phone with him.”

  “What’s happening?” asked Devereaux quickly. “How are things at the lodge?”

  “Apparently the ski lodge, or at least the problem contained therein, is moving its ‘bivouac’ to three suites at the Waldorf-Astoria in New York.”

  “Huh?”

  “I was no more specific than you, Sam.”

  “It means he’s eliminated the problem,” said Jennifer brightly.

  “And assumed several new ones, I gather,” added Pinkus, looking at Devereaux. “He asked that you set up a line of credit at the Waldorf to the amount of one hundred thousand dollars and not to worry. Since it’s his dilemma, he’ll transfer funds from Bern to Geneva—which I care to know nothing about.… Can you do that, can he? Never mind, nothing!”

  “Actually, it’s a simple computer transfer, a bank draft to be drawn against by the assigned creditor—”

  “I know how it’s done, that wasn’t the question!… Never mind, nothing!”

  “That’s one problem,” said Redwing. “What are the others?”

  “I’m not entirely sure. He asked me if I knew any motion picture producers.”

  “What for?”

  “I have no idea. When I told him I once knew a young man at temple—actually, he was thrown out of the temple—who I later learned produced several triple X-rated films, but outside of that fellow, no one else in the industry, he said not to worry, he’d go in another direction.”

  “This is one of those times when I sense a devious strategy in the making.”

  “Devereaux’s premonition?” asked Jenny.

  “Devereaux’s prophecy,” rejoined Sam. “What else, Aaron?”

  “Even odder. He wanted to know if we had any clients who had eye trouble, specifically straying left eyes, and preferably someone in need of an immediate infusion of money.”

  “Odd?” questioned Redwing. “It sounds crazy!”

  “Never underestimate the devious, as the gospel according to Oliver North says with dripping sincerity.” Devereaux paused. “I can’t think of any such client, but if I could, I’d march him right into a Chapter Eleven for whatever Mac’s got in his knapsack.… Other than that bit of useless trivia, what’s our next move, Boss? Did you and the Hawk discuss it?”

  “Briefly. We’ve got two and a half days to go before the hearing, at which time you, Jennifer, and the general must get out of a vehicle, or vehicles, and mount the steps to the Supreme Court building, be admitted beyond the lobby by the scheduling clerks, pass security, and be taken to the chambers of the Chief Justice.”

  “Oh, oh, I hear Mac talking,” interrupted Sam.

  “Quite right,” agreed Pinkus. “I believe those were his words, or an approximation thereof, minus a vulgarity or two—or three. He told me he had to approach the situation as if he were mounting a three-man insurgency strike behind enemy lines.”

  “That’s very comforting,” said Redwing, swallowing. “What does he expect, a counterinsurgency interdiction where we get our heads blown off?”

  “No, he ruled out overt violence—for it could be counterproductive, since they might be caught.”

  “Thank heaven for small favors,” added Jenny.

  “But he did not rule out interdiction, you had that part right, even the word. He thinks the counterstrategy will be to ‘interdict’ either himself or Sam or both from reaching the Chief Justice’s chambers, for without them the hearing’s a legal wash. Plaintiff and the attorney-of-record must appear together.”

  “And me?”

  “Your appearance, my dear, is by choice—insistence, if you like, as an interested party—and not a legal requirement. However, as you well know, your signed and notarized agreements with the general and Sam here are legally binding. In this situation the interested party controls the case for the plaintiff—not an unknown happenstance.”

  “Read that as in mob trials where certain spectators hover around defendants’ tables,” said Devereaux, addressing Jenny, his eyes then straying back to Pinkus. “Why not stay here until around noon the day after tomorrow, take our own plane to Washington, then a couple of ordinary taxis to the Court? I can’t see it as a problem. No one knows where we are, except the man who hired Cyrus and Roman to join our guard detail, the one Mac spoke to. Even Cyrus agrees with the Hawk now; whoever that man is, he wants to keep us alive and well and heading directly into that hearing.”

  “Cyrus also wants to know why,” said Redwing. “Or didn’t he mention that?”

  “Mac told him; I was there. This ‘Commander Y’ is settling a score with the people who want to stop the hearing, which means stopping us from getting there.”

  “Apparently, my dear, our unknown benefactor was previously a staunch ally of those against us until he learned that these same people had other plans for him. Something in the order of a political sacrifice, if not a human one, neither of which is terribly unusual in Washington, according to the general.”

  “But Mr. Pinkus.…” Jennifer squinted, pinching the features of her lovely face, part morning sunlight, part disturbing thought. “Something’s missing, something vital, I think. Perhaps I’m paranoid where Chief Thunder Head is con
cerned, and why shouldn’t I be? But all Hawkins told us last night was that everything was under control—‘under control.’ What does that mean?… Okay, he’s somehow called off these actor-guerrillas from blowing us away in ravines—it’s always ravines, or cliffs, or whorehouses—but how? What happened in Fort Benning? We were all so relieved to hear we could sleep peacefully, we never asked him.”

  “That’s not quite accurate, Jennifer. Prior to this morning, he and I agreed not to talk in specifics over the telephone, for as he pointed out, a previous assault team was sent after us in Hooksett, and a tap on the line would be routine.”

  “I thought that line up there was cut,” interrupted Devereaux.

  “In the telling, not the reality. He could not say last evening what he said this morning.”

  “The tap was shut down? How could he know—”

  “It wouldn’t matter. This morning he was calling from a pay phone at Sophie’s Diner on Route Ninety-three. He even extolled the kielbasy and eggs.”

  “Please, Mr. Pinkus,” said Redwing. “What did he tell you about Fort Benning?”

  “Maddeningly little, my dear, but enough to make this elderly lawyer wonder what happened to the rule of law among those guardians of the concept.… On second thought, I wonder why I’m even astonished any longer.”

  “That’s pretty heavy, Aaron.”

  “What the general told me carries considerable tonnage, young man. To paraphrase our much-decorated soldier, the hostile action against us—essentially against the laws of airing public grievance—emanates from the office of one of our most powerful public figures, who has covered his tracks to the point of nonexistence. He cannot be confronted, for there’s nothing to confront him with—”

  “Goddamn it!” exploded Devereaux.

  “With everything that’s happened, there must be something!” cried Jennifer. “Wait a minute… that gangster from Brooklyn, the one Hawkins knocked out at the hotel, Caesar somebody-or-other. He was taken into custody!”