The Road to Omaha (59 page)

“Chu are really a great man, Heneral! Look how happy they are—chu make them feel so wunnerful!”

“Yeah, well I’ll tell you something, D-One,” said MacKenzie, removing a mutilated cigar from his pocket. “I don’t feel so wonderful myself. I feel about as big as a sewer rat and ten times dirtier.”

For the first time since their initial encounter in the men’s room at Logan Airport, Desi the First looked disapprovingly at the Hawk. Long and hard.

Warren Pease flew down the stairs of his moderately elegant house in suburban Fairfax in his pajamas. He raced across the living room in the wash of the hallway light, misjudged the door to his study and crashed into the wall, recouped in panic and ran inside to his blinking telephone.
He punched three buttons until he found the right one, fumbled for his desk lamp and, turning it on, fell into the chair screaming.

“Where the hell have you
been
? It’s four o’clock in the morning and no one’s been able to find you all day and night! With every hour we’re closer to catastrophe and you disappear. I demand an explanation!”

“It started with a tummy ache, sir.”

“
What
?” shrieked Pease.

“Stomach trouble. Gas, Mr. Secretary.”

“I don’t believe this! The country’s facing disaster and you have
gas
?”

“It’s not something you can control—”

“Where
were
you? Where’s that goddamned unit of yours? What’s
happening
?”

“Well, the answer to your first question is directly related to your second and third.”

“What did you say …?”

“You see, my acidity—the gas—was brought on by my not being able to raise the unit in Boston, so I went undercover to find them.”

“Undercover
where
?”

“Boston, of course. I hitched a ride on an air force reconn out of Macon and got there around three o’clock this afternoon—actually yesterday afternoon. Naturally, I went immediately to the hotel—it’s a very nice hotel—”

“I’m so happy to hear that. What
then
?”

“Well, I had to be very careful, of course, because we wouldn’t want any official linkage, I think you’ll agree.”

“With every destroyed nerve in my body!” roared the Secretary of State. “For God’s sake, you didn’t wear your
uniform
?”

“Please, Mr. Secretary, I went undercover. I wore a civilian suit, and just in case I ran into any of our retired Pentagon procurement personnel working in the area, I had a splendid idea. I went through my unit’s paraphernalia and found a wig that fit nicely. A touch too red for my taste, but with gray streaks—”

“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
!”

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 sticky 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.”