THE ROAD TO GANDOLFO

by

Robert Ludlum

Bantam Books by Robert Ludlum

Ask your bookseller for the hooks you have

missed

THE BOURNE IDENTITY

THE CHANCELLOR MANUSCRIPT

THE HOLCROFT COVENANT

THE MATARESE CIRCLE

THE OSTERMAN WEEKEND

THE- ROAD TO GANDOLFO

THE SCARLATTI INHERITANCE

    The Road to

    Gandolfo

    Robert Ludlum

    ~

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    THE ROAD TO GANDOLFO

A Bantam Book I published by arrangement with

    the Author

    Bantam Export editionlApril /982

    Bantam edition I June /982

All rights reserved.

Copyright O /975 by Michael Shepherd.

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7 ~

    For John Patrick

    A distinguished writer and an

    honored man whose idea this was.

, .

    A WORD FROM THE

AUTHOR

The Road to Candolfo

is one of those rare

if insane accidents

that can happen to a

writer perhaps once or

twice in his lifetime.

Through divine or

demonic providence a

concept is presented

that fuels the fires

of his imagination. He

is convinced it is

truly a staggering

premise which will

serve as the spine of

a truly staggering

tale. Visions of one

powerful scene after

another parade across

his inner screen, each

exploding with drama

and meaning and. . .

well, damn it, they're

just plain staggering!

    Out come reams of

paper. The typewriter

is dusted and pencils

are sharpened; doors

are closed and heady

music is played to

drown out the sounds

of man and nature

beyond the cell of

staggering creation.

Fury takes over. The

premise which will be

the spinal thunderbolt

of an incredible tale

begins to take on

substance as

characters emerge with

faces and bodies,

personalities and

conflicts. The plot

surges forward,

complex gears mesh and

strip and make a hell

of a lot of

noise drowning out the

work of true masters

like that Mozart

fellow and

what's-his-name

Handel.

But suddenly something

is wrong. I mean

wrongl

The author is

giggling. He can't

stop giggling.

    That's horrible!

Staggering premises

should be accorded

awed respect. . .

heaven knows not

chuckles!

    But try as he may the

poor fool telling the

tale is trapped,

bombarded by a fugue

of voices all

repeating an old ars

antigua phrase.

You've-got-to-be-kidd

ing.

    Poor fool looks to

his muses. Why are

they winking? Is that

The Messiah he's

hearing or is it

Mairzy-Dotes? What

happened to the

staggering

thunderbolt? Why is it

spiraling

out of whack in a clear blue sky,

hiccuping its way to a diminished. .

. giggle?

    Poor fool is bewildered; he gives

up. Or rather, he gives in because by

now he's having a lot of fun. After

all, it was the time of Watergate, and

nobody could invent that scenario! I

mean it simply wouldn't play in

Peoria. At that point-in-time, that

is.

    So poor fool plunges along, enjoying

himself immensely, vaguely wondering

who will sign the commitment papers,

figuring his wife will stop them

because the oaf does the dishes now

and then and makes a damn good

martini.

    The ocavre is finally presented and,

most gratefully for poor fool, the

closeted sound of laughter is heard.

Followed by screams of revolt and

threats of beyond-salvage termination

with extreme-prejudice.

'Not under your namer"

Time mandates change, and change is

cleansing.

    Now it's under my name, and I hope

you enjoy. I did have a lot of fun.

    Robert

Radium Connecticut Shore, 19~32

    A LARGE PART OF THIS STORY TOOK

PLACE A WHILE BACK. AND QUITE A BIT OF IT TOMORROW.

    SUCH IS THE POETIC LICENSE OF

    LITURGICAL DRAMA.

    pa

Behind each corporation

must be the singular

force, or motive, that

sets it apart from any

other corporate

structure and gives it

its particular identity.

Shepherd s Laws of Economies:

    Book XXXII, Chapter 12

    ..

    PROLOGUE

The crowds gathered in

St. Peter's Square.

Thousands upon

thousands of the

faithful waited in

hushed anticipation

for the pontiff to

emerge on the -balcony

and raise his hands in

benediction. The

fasting and the

prayers were over, the

Feast of San Genarro

would be ushered in

with the pealing of

the twilight Angelus

echoing throughout the

Vatican. And the bells

would be heard

throughout all Rome,

heralding merriment

and good feeling. The

blessing of Pope

Francesco the First

would be the signal to

begin.

    There would be

dancing in the

streets, and torches

and candlelight and

music and wine. In the

Piazza Navonna, the

Trevi, even sections

of the Palatine, long

tables were heaped

with pasta and fruit

and all manner of

homeproduced pastries.

For had not this

pontiff, the beloved

Francesco, given the

lesson? Open your

hearts and your

cupboards to your

neighbor. And his to

you. Let all men high

and low understand

that we are one

family. In these times

of hardship and chaos

and high prices, what

better way to overcome

but to enter into the

spirit of the Lord and

truly show love for

thy neighbor?

    For a few days let

rancors subside and

divisions be healed.

Let the word go forth

that all men are

brothers, all women

sisters; and all

together brothers and

sisters and very much

each others' keepers.

For but a few days let

charity and grace and

concern rule the

hearts of everyone,

sharing the sweet and

the sad, for there is

no evil that can

withstand the force of

good.

    Embrace, raise the

wine; show laughter

and tears and accept

one another in

expressions of love.

Let the world 3

    ~..

see there is no shame-in the

exultation of the spirit. And once

having touched, having heard the

voices of brother and sister, carry

forth the sweet memories beyond the

Feast of San Genarro, and let life be

guided by the principles of Christian

benevolence. The earth can be a better

place; it is up to the living to make

it so. That was the lesson of

Francesco 1.

    A hush fell over the tens of

thousands in St. Peter's Square. Any

second now the figure of the beloved

Papa would walk with strength and

dignity and great love onto the

balcony and raise his hands in

benediction. And for the Angelus to

begin.

    Within the high-ceilinged Vatican

chambers above the square, cardinals,

monsignors, and priests talked among

themselves in groups, their eyes

continuously straying to the figure of

the pontiff seated in the corner. The

room was resplendent with vivid

colors: scarlets, purples, immaculate

whites. Robes and cassocks and head

pieces symbols of the highest offices

in the Church swayed and were turned,

giving the illusion of a constantly

moving fresco.

    And in the corner, seated in a wing

chair of ivory and blue velvet, was

the Vicar of Christ, Pope Francesco 1.

He was a plain man of wide girth, and

the strong yet gentle features of a

campagnuolo, a man of the earth.

Standing beside him was his personal

secretary, a young Black priest from

America, from the archdiocese of New

York. It was like Francesco to have

such a papal aide.

    The two were talking quietly, the

pontiff turning his enormous head, his

huge, soft brown eyes looking up at

the young priest in serene composure.

    "Mannaggi'!" whispered Francesco,

his large peasant hand covering his

lips. "This is crazyl The entire city

will be drunk for a weekl Everyone

will be making love in the streets.

Are you sure we have it right?"

    ''1 double-checked. Do you want to

argue with him?" replied the Black,

bending down in tranquil

solicitousness.

    "My God, not He was always the

smartest one in the villages!"

A cardinal approached the pontiffss

chair ard leaned

    4

forward. "Holy Father, it is time. The

multitudes await you," he said softly.

"Who ? Yes, of course. In a minute, my

good friend."

    The cardinal smiled under his

enormous hat, his eyes were filled

with adoration. Francesco always

called him his good friend. "Thank

you, Your Holiness." The cardinal

backed away.

    The Vicar of Christ began humming.

Then words emerged. "she

gelida...manina...a rigido

esanime...ah, la, la-laa tra-la, la,

la-laaa...."

    "What are you doing?" The young

papal aide from the archdiocese of New

York, Harlem district, was visibly

upset.

    "Rodolfo's aria. Ah, that Puccini!

It helps me to sing when I am

nervous."

    "Well, cut it out, man! Or pick a

Gregorian chant. At least a litany."

    "I don't know any. Your Italian's

getting better, but it's still not so

good."

    "I'm trying, brother. You're not the

easiest to learn with. Come on, now.

Let's go. Out to the balcony."

    "Don't push! I go. Let's see, I

raise the hand, then up and down and

right to left "

    "Left to right!" whispered the

priest harshly. "Don't you listen? If

we're going on with this honkey

charade, for God's sake learn the

fundamentals!"

    "I thought if I was standing,

giving not taking I should reverse it.

"Don't mess. Just do what's natural."

"Then I sing."

"Not that natural! Come on."

    "All right, all right." The pontiff

rose from his chair and smiled

benignly at all in the room. He turned

once again to his aide and spoke

softly so that none could hear. "In

case anyone should ask, which one is

San Genarro?"

    "Nobody will ask. If someone does,

use your standard reply."

    "Ah, yes. 'Study the scriptures, my

son.' You know, this is all crazy!"

    "Walk slowly and stand up straight.

And smile, for God's sake! You're

happy."

5

"I'm miserable, you African!"

    Pope Francesco I, Vicar of Christ,

walked through the enormous doors out

onto the balcony to be greeted by a

thunderous roar that shook the very

foundations of St. Peter's. Thousands

upon thousands of the faithful raised

their voices in exultation of the

spirit.

"11 Papa! 11 Papa! 11 Papa!"

    And as the Holy Father walked out

into the myriad reflections of the

orange sun setting in the west, there

were many in the chambers who heard

the muted strains of the chant

emerging from the holy lips. Each

believed it had to be some obscure

early musical work, unknown to all but

the most scholarly. For such was the

knowledge of the erudite, Pope

Francesco.

    "she . . . gelida . . . marina . . .

a rigido esanimeee . . . ah', la,

la-laaa . . .tra-la, la, la . . .

Ia-la-laaa . . ."

    CHATTIER

"That son of a bitch!" Brigadier

General Arnold Symington brought the

paperweight down on the thick layer of

glass on his Pentagon desk. The glass

shattered; fragments shot through the

air in all directions. "He couldn't!"

    "He did, sir," replied the frightened

lieutenant, shielding his eyes from the

office shrapnel. "The Chinese are very

upset. The premier himself dictated the

complaint to the diplomatic mission.

They're running editorials in the Red

Star and broadcasting them over Radio

Peking."

    "How the hell can they?" Symington

removed a piece of glass from his

little finger. "What the hell are they

saying? 'We interrupt this program to

announce that the American military

representative, General MacKenzie

Hawkins, shot the balls off a ten-foot

jade statue in Son Tai Square'.P

Bullshit! Peking wouldn't allow that;

it's too goddamned undignified.""

    "They're phrasing it a bit

differently, sir. They say he destroyed

an historic monument of precious stone

in the Forbidden City. They say it's as

though someone blew up the Lincoln

Memorial."

- "It's a different kind of statue!

Lincoln's got clothes on; his balls

don't show! It's not the samel"

    "Nevertheless, the White House thinks

the parallel is justified, sir. The

President wants Hawkins removed. More

than removed, actually, he wants him

cashiered. Courtmartial and all.

Publicly."

    "Oh, for Christ's sake, that's out of

the question." Symington leaned back in

his chair and breathed deeply, trying

to control himself. He reached out for

the report on his desk. "We'll transfer

him. With a reprimand. We'll 7

    -

send transcripts of the censure, we'll

call it a censure to Peking."

    "That's not strong enough, sir. The

State Department made it clear. The

President concurs. We have trade

agreements pending "

    "For Christ's sake, Lieutenant!"

interrupted the brigadier. "Will someone

tell that spinning top in the Oval

Office that he can't have it on all

points of the compass! Mac Hawkins was

selected. From twenty-seven candidates.

I remember exactly what the President

said. Exactly. 'That mother's perfect!'

That's what he said."

    "That's inoperative now, sir. He feels

the trade agreements take precedent over

prior considerations." The lieutenant

was beginning to perspire.

    "You bastards kill me," said Symington,

lowering his voice ominously. "You

really frost my apricots. How do you

figure to do that? Make it

'inoperative,' I mean. Hawkins may be a

sharp pain in your diplomatic ass right

now, but that doesn't wash away what was

operative. He was a Bucking teen-age

hero at the Battle of the Bulge and West

Point football; and if they gave medals

for what he did in Southeast Asia, even

Mac Hawkins isn't strong enough to wear

all that hardware! He makes John Wayne

look like a pansy! He's real; that's why

that Oval Yo-yo picked him!"

    "I really think the office of the

presidency regardless of what you may

think of the mamas commander in chief he

    "Horse shit!" The brigadier general

roared again, separating the words in

equal emphasis, giving the crudity of

his oath the sound of a military

cadence. "I'm simply explaining to

you in the strongest terms I know that

you don't publicly court-martial a

MacKenzie Hawkins to satisfy a Peking

complaint, no matter how many goddamned

trade agreements are floating round. Do

you know why, Lieutenant?"

- lbe young officer replied softly,

sure of his accuracy.

"Because he would make an issue of it.

Publicly."

"Bing-go." Symington's comment sprang

out in a highpitched monotone. "The

Hawkinses of this country have a 8

constituency, Lieutenant. That's

precisely why our commander in chief

picked himlHe's a political

palliative.. And if you don't think

Mac Hawkins knows it, wel~you didn't

have to recruit him. I did."

    "We are prepared for that reaction,

General." The lieutenant's words were

barely audible.

    The brigadier leaned forward,

careful not to put his elbows in the

shattered glass. "I didn't get that."

    "The State Department anticipated a

hard-line counterthrust. Therefore we

must institute an aggressive coun-

terraction to that thrust. The White

House regrets the necessity but at

this point in time recognizes the

crisis quotient."

    "That's what I thought I was going

to get." Symington's words were less

audible than the lieutenant's. "Spell

it out. How are you going to ream

him?"

    The lieutenant hesitated. "Forgive

me, sir, but the object is not to ream

General Hawkins. We are in a

provocatively delicate position. The

People's ReDublic demands

satisfaction. Rightly so; it was a

crude, vulgar act on General Hawkins's

part. Yet he refuses to make a public

apology." ,

    Symington looked at the report still

in his right hand. "Does it say why in

here?"

    "General Hawkins claims it was a

trap. His statement's on page three."

    The brigadier flipped to the page

and read. The lieutenant drew out a

handkerchief and blotted his chin.

Symington put down the report

carefully on the shattered glass and

looked up.

    'If what Mac says is true, it was a

trap. Broadcast his side of the

story."

"He has no side, General. He was

drunk."

"Mac says~dr~gged. Not drunk,

Lieutenant."

"They were drinking, sir."

    "And he was drugged. I'd guess

Hawkins would know the difference.

I've seen him sweat sour mash."

"He does not deny the charge,

however."

    "He denies the responsibility of his

actions. Hawkins was the finest

intelligence strategist in Indochina.

He's

drugged couriers and pouch men in

Cambodia, Laos, both Vietnams,and

probably across the Manchurian

borders. He knows the goddamned

difference."

    "I'm afraid his knowing it doesn't

make any difference sir. The crisis

quotient demands our acceding to

Peking's wishes. The trade agreements

are paramount. Frankly, sir, we need

gas."

"Jesus! I figured that was one thing

you had."

    The lieutenant replaced the

handkerchief in his pocket and smiled

wanly. "The levity is called for, I

realize that. However, we have just

ten days to bring everything into

focus; to make our inputs and come up

with a positive print.

    Symington stared at the young

officer; his expression that of a

grown man about to cry. "What does

that mean?"

    "It's a harsh thing to say, but

General Hawkins has placed his own

interests above those of his duty.

We'll have to make an example. For

everybody's sake."

"An example? For wanting the truth

out?"

"There's a higher duty, General.'

"I know," said the brigadier wearily.

"To the trade greements. To the gas.

    "Quite frankly, yes. There are times

when symbols have to be traded off for

pragmatic objectives. Team players

understand."

    "All right. But Mac won't lie down

and play busted symbol for you. So

what's the input?"

    "The inspector general," said the

lieutenant, as an obnoxious student

might, holding up a severed tapeworm

in Biology 1. "We re running an

in-depth data trace on him. We know he

was involved in questionable

activities in Indochina. We have

reason to believe he violated interna-

tional codes of conduct."

"You bet your ass he did! He was one

of the best!"

    "There's no statute on those codes.

The IG specialists have caseloads

going back much further than General

Hawkins's ez-o~icio activities." The

lieutenant smiled. It was a genuine

smile; he was a happy person.

    "So you're going to hang him with

clandestine operations that half the

joint chiefs and most of the CIA know

would bring him a truckload of

citations if they could talk 10

about them. You bastards kill me."

Symington nodded his head, agreeing

with himself.

    "Perhaps you could save us time,

General. Can you provide us with some

specifics?"

    "Oh, no! You want to crucify the son

of a bitch, you build your own crossI"

'You do understand the situation,

don't you, sir?"

    The brigadier moved his chair back

and kicked fragments of glass from

under his feet. "I'll tell you some-

thing," he said. "I haven't understood

anything since nineteen forty-five."

He glared at the young officer. "I

know you're with Sixteen-hundred, but

are you regular army?

    "No, sir. Reserve status, temporary

assignment. I'm on a leave of absence

from Y. I and B. To put out fires

before they burn up the flagpoles, as

it were."

"Y. I and B. I don't know that

division."

    "Not a division, sir. Youngblood,

laker, and Blowe, in Los Angeles.

We're the top ad agency on the Coast."

    General Arnold Symington's face

slowly took on the expression of a

distressed basset hound. '1he uniform

looks real nice, Lieutenant." The

brigadier paused, then shook his head.

"Nineteen forty-five," he said.

    Major Sam Devereaux, field

investigator for the Office of the

Inspector General, looked across the

room at the calendar on his wall. He

got up from the chair behind his desk,

walked over to it, and Xed the day's

date. One month and three days and he

would be a civilian again.

    Not that he was ever a soldier. Not

really; certainly not spiritually. He

was a military accident. A fracture

compounded by a huge mistake that

resulted in an extension of his tour

of service. It had been a simple

choice of alternatives: Reenlistment

or Leavenworth.

    Sam was a lawyer, a damn fine

attorney specializing in criminal law.

Years ago he had held a series of

Selective Service deferments through

Harvard College and Harvard Law

School; then two years of postgraduate

specialization and clerking; finally

into the fourteenth month of practice

with the prestigious Boston law firm

of Aaron Pinkus Associates.

11

    The army had faded into a vaguely

disagreeable shadow across his life;

he had forgotten about the long series

of deferments.

The United States Army, however, did

not forget.

    During one of those logistic crunches

that episodically grip the military,

the Pentagon discovered it had a

sudden dearth of lawyers. The

Department of Military Justice was in

a bind hundreds of courts-martial on

bases all over the globe were

suspended for lack of judge advocates

and defense attorneys. The stockades

were crowded. So the Pentagon scoured

the long-forgotten series of

deferments and scores of young

unattached, childless

lawyers obtainable meat were sent

unrefusable invitations in which was

explained the meaning of the word

"deferment" as opposed to the word

"annulment."

    That was the accident. Devereaux's

mistake came later. Much later. Seven

thousand miles away on the converging

borders of Laos, Burma, and Thailand.

- The Golden Triangle.

    Devereaux for reasons known only to

God and military logistics never saw a

court-martial, much less tried one. He

was assigned to the Legal

Investigations Division of the Office

of the Inspector General and sent to

Saigon to see what laws were being

violated.

    There were so many there was no way

to count. And since drugs took

precedence over the black market there

were simply too many American

entrepreneurs in the latter his

inquiries took him to the Golden

Triangle where one-fifth of the

world's narcotics were being funneled

out, courtesy of powerful men in

Saigon, Washington, Vientiane, and

Hong Kong.

    Sam was conscientious. He didn't like

drug peddlers and he threw the

investigatory books at them, careful

to make sure his briefs to Saigon were

transmitted operationally within the

confused chain of command.

    No report signatures. just names and

violations. After all, he could get

shot or knifed at the least,

ostracized for such behavior. It was

an education in covert activities.

    His trophies included seven ARVN

generals, thirty-one representatives

in Thieu s congress, twelve U. S. Army

colonels light and full three

brigadiers, and fifty-eight 12

assorted majors, captains,

lieutenants, and master sergeants.

Added to these were five congressmen,

four senators a member of the

President's cabinet, eleven corpora-

tion executives with American

companies overseas six of which

already had enough trouble in the area

of campaign contributions and a

squarejawed Baptist minister with a

large national following.

    To the best of Sam's knowledge one

second lieutenant and two master

sergeants were indicted. The rest were

"pending."

    So Sam Devereaux committed his

mistake. He was so incensed that the

wheels of Southeast Asian justice spun

off the tracks at the first hint of

influence that he decided to trap a

very big fish in the corruption net

and make an example. He chose a major

general in Bangkok. A man named

Heseltine Brokemichael. Major General

Heseltine Brokemichael, West Point'43.

    Sam had the evidence, mounds of it.

Through a series of elaborate

entrapments in which he himself acted

as the "connection " a participant who

could swear under oath to the generals

malfeasance, he built his case

thoroughly. There could not possibly

be two General Brokemichaels and Sam

was an avenging angel of a prosecutor,

circling in for his kill.

    But there were. Two. Two major

generals named BrokemichaeWone

Heseltine, one Ethelred! Apparently

cousins. And the one in

Bangkok Heseltine was not the one in

Vientiane Ethelred. The Vientiane

Brokemichael was the felon. Not his

cousin. Further, the Brokemichael in

Bangkok was more an avenger than Sam.

He believed he was gathering evidence

on a corrupt IG investigator. And he

was. Devereaux had violated most of

the international contraband laws and

all of the United States government's.

    Sam was arrested by the MPs, thrown

into a maximum security cell,- and

told he could look forward to the

better part of his lifetime in

Leavenworth.

    Fortunately, a superior officer in

the inspector general's command, who

did not really understand a sense of

justice that made Sam commit so many

crimes, but did understand Sam's legal

and.investigatory contributions to the

13

cause of the inspector general, came

to Sam's aid. Devereaux had actually

filed more evidentiary material than

any other legal officer in Southeast

Asia; his work in the field made up

for a great deal of inactivity in

Washington.

    So the superior officer allowed a

little unofficial plea bargaining in

Sam's case. If Sam would disciplinary

action at the hands of a furious Major

General Heseltine Brokemichael in

Bangkok, constituting a six-month loss

of pay no criminal charges would be

brought. There was just one more

condition: to continue his work for

the inspector general's office for an

additional two years beyond the

expiration of his army commitment. By

that time, reasoned the superior

officer, the mess in Indochina would

be turned over to those messing, and

the IG caseloads reduced or

conveniently buried.

Reenlistment or Leavenworth.

    So Major Sam Devereaux, patriotic

citizen-soldier, extended his tour of

duty. And the mess in Indochina was in

no way lessened, but indeed turned

over to the participants and Devereaux

was transferred back to Washington,

D.C.

    One month and three days to go, he

mused, as he looked out his office

window and watched the MPs at the

guardhouse check the automobiles

driving out. It was after five; he had

to catch a plane at Dulles in two

hours. He had packed that morning and

brought his suitcase to the office..

    The four years were coming to an

end. Two plus two. The time spent, he

reflected, might be resented, but it

had not been wasted. The abyss of

corruption that was Southeast Asia

reached into the hierarchical

corridors of Washington. The

inhabitants of these corridors knew

who he was, he had more offers from

prestigious law firms than he could

reply to, much less consider. And he

did not want to consider them; he

disapproved of them. Just as he

disapproved of the current

investigation on his desk.

    The manipulators were at it again.

This time it was the thorough

discrediting of a career officer named

Hawkins. Lieutenant General MacKenzie

Hawkins.

    At first Sam had been stunned.

MacKenzie Hawkins was an original. A

legend. The stuff of which cults were

14

born. Cults slightly to the political right

of Attila the Hun; Hawkins's place in the

military firmament was secure. Bantam

Books published his

biography serialization and Aeader's

Digest rights had been sold before a word

was on paper. Hollywood gave obscene

amounts of money to film his life story.

And the antimilitarists made him an object

of fascist-hatred.

    The biography was not overly successful

because the subject was not overly

cooperative. Apparently there were certain

personal idiosyncrasies that did not

enhance the image, four wives paramount

among them. The motion picture was less

than triumphant insofar as it-comprised

endless battle scenes with little or no

hint of the man other than an actor

squinting through the battle dust yelling

to his men in a peculiar lisp to 'get

those Godless . . . [Roar of cannon] . .

. who would tear down Old Glory! At 'em,

boyst"

    Hollywood, too, had discovered the four

wives and certain other peculiarities of

the studio's on-the-set technical adviser.

MacKenzie Hawkins went through starlets

three at a time and had intercourse with

the producer's wife in the swimming pool

while the producer watched in fury from

the living room window.

    He did not stop the picture, however.

For Christ's sake it was costing damn near

six mill!

    These misfired endeavors might have

caused another man to fade, if only from

embarrassment, but not so Mac Hawkins. In

private, among.his peers, he ridiculed

those responsible and regaled his

associates with stories of Manhattan and

Hollywood.

    He was sent to the war college with a

new specialization: intelligence,

clandestine operations. His peers felt a

little more secure with the charismatic

Hawkins consigned to covert activities.

And the colonel became a brigadier and

absorbed all there was to learn of his new

specialty. He spent two years grinding

away, studying every phase of intelligence

work until the instructors had no more to

instruct him.

    So he was sent to Saigon where the

escalating hostilities had blossomed into

a full-scale war. And in Vietnam both 15

, ,

Vietnams,and Laos, and Cambodia, and

Thailand, and Burma Hawkins corrupted

the corruptors and the ideologues

alike. Reports of his behind-the-lines

and across-theneutral-borders

activities made "protective reaction"

seem like a logical strategy. So

unorthodox, so blatantly criminal were

his methods of operation that G-2,

Saigon, found itself denying his

existence. After ail, there were

limits. Even for clandestine

activities.

    If Amer1ca First was a maxim and it

was Hawkins saw no reason why it

should not apply to the filthy world

of covert operations.

    And for~Hawkins, America was first.

Ir-re-fuckinggardlessl

    So Sam Devereaux thought it was all

a little sad that such a man was about

to be knocked out of the box by the

manipulators who got to where they

were by draping the Bag so gloriously

and generously around themselves.

Hawkins was now an offending lion in

the diplomatic arena and had to be

eliminated in the cause of

double-think. The men who should have

been upholding the general's point of

honor were doing their best to sink

him fast in ten days, to be precise.

    Normally Sam would have taken

pleasure out of building a case

against a messianic ass like Hawkins;

and regardless of his feelings to the

contrary, he would build a case

against him. It was his last file for

the inspector general's office, and he

was not going to risk another two-year

alternative. But he was still sad. The

Hawk, as he was known misguided

fanatic as he might be deserved better

than what he was getting.

    Perhaps, thought Sam, his depression

was brought about by the last:

operative" instruction from the White

House: find something in the morals

area Hawkins can't deny. Check to see

if he was ever in the care of a

psychiatrist.

A psychiatrist! Jesust They never

learned.

    In the meantime, Sam had dispatched

a team of IG investigators to Saigon

to see if they could dig up a few

negative specifics. And he was off to

Dulles airport to catch a plane to Los

Angeles.

All of Hawkins's ex-wives lived within a

radius of thirty 16

    1

miles of each other, from Malibu to

Beverly Hills. They'd be better than

any psychiatrist. Christ! A

psychiatrist!

    At 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue,

Washington, D.C., they were all

novocained above the shoulders.

    17

    CHAPTER TWO

"My name is Lin Shoo," said the

uniformed Communist softly,

slant-eyeing the large, disheveled

American soldier who sat in a leather

chair, holding a glass of whiskey in

one hand and a well-chewed cigar in

the other. "I am commander of the

People's Police, Peking. And you are

under house arrest at this moment.

There is no point in being abusive,

these are merely formalities.'

    "Formalities for what?" MacKenzie

Hawkins shouted from his armchair the

only occidental piece of furniture in

the oriental house. He put his heavy

boot on a black lacquered table and

flung his hand over the leather back,

the lighted cigar dangerously close to

a silk screen room divider. "There

aren't any goddamned formalities

except through the diplomatic mission.

Go down there and make your

complaints. You'll probably have to

get in line."

Hawkins chuckled and drank from his

glass.

    "You have chosen to reside outside

the mission," continued the Chinese

named Lin Shoo, his eyes darting be-

tween the cigar and the screen.

"Therefore you are not technically

within United States territory. So you

are subject to the disciplines of the

People's Police. However, we know you

will not go anywhere, General. That is

why I say it is a formality."

    "What have you got out there?"

Hawkins waved his cigar toward the

thin, rectangular windows.

    "There are two patrols on each side

of your residence. Eight in all."

    "That's a big Sucking guard detail

for someone who's not going anywhere."

    "Small liberties. Photographically,

two is more desirable than one and

three is menacing."

18

    'You taking liberties?" Hawkins drew

on his cigar and again rested his hand

over the back of the leather chair.

The lighted butt was no more than an

inch from the silk.

    "The Ministry of Education has done

so, yes. You will admit, General, your

place of isolation is most pleasant,

is it not? This is a lovely house on

a lovely hill. So very peaceful, and

with a fine view." Lin Shoo walked

around the chair and unobtrusively

moved the panel of the silk screen

away from Hawkins's cigar. It was too

late; the heat of the butt had caused

a small circular burn in the fabric.

    "It's a high-rent district," replied

Hawkins. "Somebody in this people's

paradise, where nobody owns anything

but everyone owns everything, is

making a fast buck. Four hundred of

'em every month."

    "You were fortunate to find it.

Property can be purchased by

collectives. A collective is not

private ownership." The police officer

walked to the narrow opening that led

to the single sleeping room of the

house. It was dark, where sunlight

should have been streaming through the

wide window there was a blanket nailed

across the frame into the thin

surrounding wall. On the floor a

number of mats had been piled one on

top of another; wrappings from

American candy bars were scattered

about and there was a distinct odor of

whiskey.

"Why the photographs?"

    The Chinese turned from the

unpleasant sight. "To show the world

that we are treating you better than

you treated us. This house is not a

tiger cage in Saigon, nor is it a

dungeon in the shark-infested waters

of Holcotaz."

"Alcatraz. The Indians got it."

"I beg your pardon?"

    "Nothing. You're making a big splash

with this thing, aren't you?" .

    Lin Shoo was silent for a moment; it

was the pause before profundity.

"Should someone who has for years

publicly denounced the deeply felt

objectives of your beloved

motherland dynamite your Lin-Kolon

Memorial inside your Washington Square

within your state of Columbia, the

robed barbarians on your Court of

Supreme Justice would, no doubt, have

executed him by now." The Chinese

smiled and smoothed the tunic of his

Mao uni19

form. "We do not.behave in such

primitive ways. All life is precious.

Even a diseased dog, such as you."

"And-you gooksnever denounced anybody,

is that it?"

    "Our leaders reveal only truth. That

is common knowledge throughout the

world; the lessons of the infallible

chairman. Truth is not denunciation,

General. It is merely truth. All

knowing."

    ' Like my state of Columbia,"

muttered Hawkins, removing his foot

from the lacquered table. "Why the

hell did you pick me out? A lot of

people have done a lot of goddamned

denouncing. Why am I so special?"

    "Because they are not so famous. Or

infamous, if you wilW. Although I did

enjoy the film of your life. Very

arbsbc; a poem of violence.

"You saw that, huh?"

    "Privately. Certain portions were

extracted. Those showing the actor

portraying you murdering our heroic

youth. Very savage, General." The

Communist circled the black lacquered

table and smiled again. "Yes, you are

an infamous man. And now you have

insulted us by destroying a revered

monument

    "Come off it. I don't even know what

happened. I was drugged and you

goddamned well know it. I was with

your General Lu Sin. With his broads,

in hi* house."

    "You must give us our honor back

again, General Hawkins. Can't you see

that?" Lin Shoo spoke quietly, as

though Hawkins had not interrupted.

"It would be a simple matter for you

to render an apology. A ceremony has

been planned. With a small contingent

of the press in attendance. We have

written out the words for you."

    "Oh, troy!" Hawkins sprang out of

the chair, towering over the

policeman. "We're back to that againl

How many times do I have to tell you

basturds? Americans don't crawll In

any goddamned ceremony, with or

without the goddamned pressl Read that

straight, you puke-skinned dwarfl"

    "Do not upset yourself. You place

far too much emphasis on a mere

ceremonial function; you place

everyone all of us in most difficult

positions. A small ceremony; so

little, so simple

"Not to me it isn'tl I represent the

armed forces of the 20

United States and nothing's little or

simple to usl We don't trip easy, buddy

boy; we march straight to the drumsl"

"I beg your pardon?"

    Hawkins shrugged, a touch bewildered by

his own words. "Never mind. The answer's

no. You may scare the lace-pants boys

down at the mission, but you don't shake

me."

    "They appealed to you because they were

instructed to do so. Certainly that must

have occurred to you."

    "Double bullshit!" Hawkins walked around

to the fireplace, drank from his glass

and placed it on the mantel next to a

brightly colored box. "Those fags were

cooking up something with that group of

queens at State. Wait'll the White

House wait'll the Pentagon reads my

report. Oh, boy! You bowlegged runts will

hightail it to the mountains and then

we'll blow them upl" Hawkins grinned, his

eyes bright.

    "You are so abusive," said Lin Shoo

quietly, shaking his head sadly. He

picked up the brightly colored box next

to the general's glass. "Tsing Taow

firecrackers. The finest made in the

world. So loud, so bright with white

light when they go bang, bang, bang. Very

lovely to watch and to hear."

"Yeah," agreed Ha'wkins, slightly

confused by the change

    of subject. "Lu Sin gave 'em to me. We

shot off a motherk~ad

the other night. Before the Sucker

drugged me."

"Very beautiful, General Hawkins. They

are a fine gift."

"Christ knows he owed me something."

    "But do you not see?" continued the

police officer. "They sound

like explosives. Look like detonating am-

munition, but they are neither. They are

only show. Semblances of something else.

Real in themselves but only an illusion

of another reality. Not dangerous at

all."

"So?"

    "That is precisely what you are being

asked to give. The semblance, not the

reality. You have only to pretend. In a

short, simple ceremony with but a few

words that you know are only an illusion.

Not dangerous at all. And very polite."

    "Wrong-o!" roared Hawkins. "Everybody

knows what a firecracker is; nobody'll

know I'm pretending."

al

    "Between the two of us, I must

differ. It is nothing more than a

diplomatic ritual. Everyone will

understand, take my word for it."

    "Yeah? How the hell do you know

that? You re a Peking cop, not a

Kissing-ass."

    The Communist fingered the box of

firecrackers and sighed audibly. 'I

apologize for the minor deception,

General. I am not with the People's

Police. I am second vice-prefect for

the Ministry of Education. I am here

to make an appeal to you. An appeal to

your reason. However, the rest is

quite true. You are under house

arrest, and the patrols outside are

policemen."

    "I'll be goddamned! They sent me a

lace-pants." Hawkins grinned again.

"You boys are worried, real worried,

aren't you?"

    The Communist sighed once more.

"Yes. The idiots who started this

thing have been shipped to mining

collectives in.Outer Mongolia. It was

lunacy; although I'll grant them you

were a temptation, General Hawkins.

Have you any idea the volumes of

scurrilous attacks you've made on

every Marxist, Socialist, and, forgive

me, even vaguely democratically

oriented nation on the face of this

earth? The worst examples I should say

best examples of demagoguery!"

    "A lot of that crap was written by

the people who paid me to speak',"

said Hawkins, a bit reflectively. And

then he quickly added, "Not that I

didn't believe it! Goddamn, I

believe!"

    "You're impossible!" Lin Shoo

stamped his foot as a child might.

"You're as insane as Lu Sin and his

band of growling paper lions! May they

all crack many rocks and fornicate

with Mongolian sheep! You are simply

impossi

    Hawkins stared at the Communist both

at the furious expression on his face

and the brightly colored box of

firecrackers in his hand. He had made

a decision and both of them knew it.

    "I'm also something else, slant

eyes," said the lieutenant general,

approaching Lin Shoo.

    "No! No! No violence, you idiot " It

was too late for the Communist to

scream. Hawkins had grabbed the cloth

    ~9

of his tunic, pulled him swiftly off

his feet and chopped Lin Shoo beneath

the mandible.

    The vice-prefect of the Ministry of

Education slumped instantly into

unconsciousness.

    Hawkins grabbed the box of

firecrackers out of Lin Shoo's hand

and raced around the lacquered table

into the sleeping quarters. He grabbed

the blanket nailed across the window,

folded back a tiny section on the edge

and looked outside at the rear of the

house. There were the two policemen

chatting-calmly, their rifles at their

sides. Beyond them was the sloping

hill that led down to the village.

    Hawkins released the blanket and ran

back into the main room, dropping

immediately to his hands and knees and

scrambling obstacle-style toward the

front door. He stood up and silently

opened it a crack. The two flanking

policemen were about forty feet away

and were as relaxed as the troops in

the rear. What's more, they were

looking down the descending road,

their attention not on the house.

    MacKenzie took the brightly colored

box of firecrackers from under his

arm, ripped off the lightweight paper

and shook out the connecting strings

of cylinders. He wound two separate

strands together, twisted both fuses

into one, and removed his World War II

Zippo from his pocket.

    He stopped; he sucked his breath,

angry with himself. Then, holding the

strands of firecrackers at his side,

he walked casually past the windows

into the bedroom and removed his

holster and cartridge belt from

another nail in the thin wall. He

strapped the apparatus around his

waist, removed the Colt .45 and

checked the magazine. Satisfied, he

shoved the weapon into its leather

casing as he walked out of the

bedroom. He circled the armchair in

front of the Han Shu mantel, stepped

over the immobile Lin Shoo and

returned to the front door.

    He ignited the Zippo, and held the

flame beneath the twisted fuse, then

opened the door and threw the entwined

strands onto the grass beyond the

porch.

    Closing and bolting the door softly

and swiftly, Hawkins dragged a small

red lacquered chest from the foyer and

forced it against the thick, carved

panel. Then he raced 23

into the sleeping quarters and pulled

back a small section of the window

blanket and waited.

The explosions were even louder than

he remembered made so, he guessed,

from the combined strands bursting

against one another.

The guards at the rear of the house

were jolted out of their lethargy;

their weapons collided in midair as

each whipped his off the ground.

Rifles in waist-firing position, the

two men raced toward the front of the

house.

- The moment they were out of sight,

Hawkins yanked down the blanket,

crashed his foot into the thin strips

of wood and thinner panes of glass,

shattering the entire window. He

leaped through onto the grass and

started running toward the fields and

the sloping hill.

    Al

    CHAPTER THREE

At the base of the hill was the main

dirt road that circled the village.

Like spokes from a wheel, numerous

offshoots headed directly into the

small marketplace, in the center of

the town. A semipaved thoroughfare

branched outward tangentially from the

circling road and connected with a

paced highway about four miles ffi the

east. The American diplomatic mission

was twelve miles down that highway

within Peking proper.

    What he needed was a vehicle,

preferably an automm bile, but

automobiles were practically

nonexistent outside the highest

official circles. The People's Police

had automobiles, of course; it had

crossed his mind to double back around

the hill to find Lin Shoo's, but that

was too risky. Even if he Lund it and

stole it, it would be a marked

vehicle.

    Hawkins circled the village keeping

to the high ground above the road.

They would be coming after him. He

could stay in the hills indefinitely,

that didn't bother him. He had

bivouacked underground in the

mountains of Cong-Sol and Lai Tai in

Cambodia for months at a time; he

could live in the forests better than

most animals. Goddamn, he was a prol

    But it was also pointless. He had to

get to the mission and let the Free

World know what kind of enemy it was

sucking up to. Enough was enough,

goddamn itl They could send out radio

messages, barricade the whole complex,

and fight it out until the offshore

carriers sent in air strikes to

pinpoint pulverize, even if it meant

blowing up half of Peking. Then the

copters could come in and get them

out.

as

    Of course, the civilians would shit

in their pants, but he would control

them. Teach the fancy pants how to

fight. Fight! Not talk!

    MacKenzie stopped his fantasizing.

Below to the right, coming around the

bend in the road about a quarter of a

mile away was a lone motorcycle. On it

was a shee-san police official, a kind

of Chinese state trooper. The answer

to a prayer!

    Hawkins rose from the tall grass and

started scrambling down the hill. In

less than a minute he was at the edge

of the dirt border. The bike was still

around the curve out of sight, but he

heard it coming closer. He threw

himself down on the dirt in the middle

of the road, drawing his legs up to

appear smaller than he was, and lay

perfectly still.

    The motorcycle's engine roared as the

driver came around the curve, then

sputtered as it skidded to a stop.The

shee-san got off the bike and whipped

out the kickstand. Hawkins could hear

and feel the quick footsteps as the

trooper approached.

    The shee-san bent over him and

touched his shoulder, recoiling at the

recognition of the American uniform.

Mac moved. The shee-san shrieked.

    Five minutes later Hawkins had

stretched the shee-san's tunic and

pants over his rolled-up trousers and

shirt. He slipped the trooper's

goggles over his eyes and put on the.

ludicrously tiny visor hat, using the

chin strap to hold it in place, a

cloth pimple sitting on the crew-cut,

grayish black hair. Fortunately for

his sense of well-being, he had a

cigar. He chewed the end to its

desired juiciness and lighted up.

He was ready to ride.

    The diplomatic attache ran into the

director's office without saying a

word to the secretary or even knocking

at the door. The director was

threading his teeth with dental floss.

    "Excuse me, sir. I've just received

the instructions from Washingtonl I

knew you'd have~to read them!"

    The director of the diplomatic

mission, Peking, reached for the cable

and read it. His eyes widened and his

mouth 26

opened in astonishment. A long strand

of dental floss, caught in his teeth,

extended down to the desk.

    He saw the roadblock cutting off his

entry onto the Peking highway. It WAS

about three quarters of a mile down

the semipaved thoroughfare; a single

shee-san patrol car and a line of

troopers stretching across the road

was all he could distinguish through

the fogged-up goggles.

    As he drew nearer, he could see that

the guards were shouting to each

other. One trooper stepped in front of

the line and began waving his ride in

the air hysterically back and forth,

a signal for the approaching rider to

stop.

    There was only one thing for it,

thought Hawkins. If you're going to

buy a goddamned grave, buy it bigl Go

out with all weapons on repeat-fire,

blazing barrels of thunder arrd

lightning; go out with the screams of

the Commie bastards ringing in your

earsl

    Goddamnl He couldn't see for the

Bucking dust, and his goddamn foot

kept slipping off the tiny fucking gas

pedal.

    He slapped his hand to his holster

and pulled out the .45.

    He couldn't focus worth shit, but by

Christ, he could squeeze the trigger!

He did so repeatedly.

    To his astonishment the shee-san did

not fire back; instead they dove into

the mounds of dirt and sand, screaming

like hysterical piglets, scampering

into and over the mounds of dirt,

burying their asses from the firepower

of his single .45 weapon.

Goddamn! Disgracefull

    Unless his goggles were playing

tricks with the dirt and cigar smoke

and the onrushing blurs, even the

trooper in front an officer, by

Christ; he had to he even he didn't

have the balls to fight back.

An officer!

    MacKenzie kept the bike at

top-throttle and exhausted the clip of

the .45. He careened up and over a

mound of dirt and sand and cascaded

onto a sloping hill of grass. As the

bike was in midair he glimpsed the

blurs of screaming heads beneath him

and wished to hell he had more ummo.

He twisted the handlebars violently so

he could angle down and zoom

diagonally back toward the road.

27

    Goddamn! He hit the surface againl

He'd broken through the barricade! He

was barrel-assing onto the Peking

highwayl

    The eat concrete was a joy. The

spinning wheels of the motorcycle

hummed; the wind rushed against his

faces clear, intoxicating blasts of

clean, dustless air which forced the

smoke of his cigar into whirling

pockets around his ears. Even the

goggles were clear now.

    He took the next nine miles like a

star-spangled meteor through an

unknowing Chincom sky. Another mile

and he would turn into the northern

side streets of Peking. Goddamn! He

was going to make it! And then, by

Christ, the Commie bastards would find

out what an American counterstrike

wasl

    He raced the bike through the

crowded streets and careened off the

curb at the entrance to Glorious

Flower Square, the final stretch to

the mission which stood at the end of

the small plaza, fronting the street

in alabaster, Oriental splendor. There

were, as usual, crowds of PeWngers and

out-of-/owners milling about, waiting

to catch glimpses of the strange, huge

pink people that came and went through

the white steel doors inside the

medium^sized compound.

    It wasn't much of a compound at

that; there was no brick wall or high

metal fence surrounding the mission.

Only a thin latticework of decorative

wood, lacquered against the elements,

enclosing the clipped grass lawn that

fronted the steps.

    The protection was in the windows

and- doors: iron grillwork and steel.

    MacKenzie rewed the bike's engine to

maximum, figuring the noise would part

the throngs of onlookers.

It did.

The Chinese scattered as he raced down

the street.

    And Hawkins damn near fell off the

bike's saddle at what he saw in front

of him; what in a sense was rushing

toward him at goddamn near fifty miles

an hour on that short stretch of

pavement in Glorious Flower Square.

    There were three sets of wooden

barricades elongated horses in front

of the closed latticework gate1 Each

horizontal plank was a foot or so

above the other, forming a 28

receding escalator wall of thick

boards backed up by the delicate,

filigreed fence.

    Standing in a line at port-arms were

a dozen or so soldiers, flanked by two

officers, all staring straight ahead.

At him.

    This is it, thought MacKenzie,

nothing left but the gesture, the

moffo~the act itself.

Total defiance!

Goddamn! If he only had some ammo

leftl

    He crouched and headed the bike

right into the center of the

barricade; he twisted the bar

accelerator to the maximum and pressed

the foot choke all the way down.

    The speedometer's needle wavered in

a violence of its own as it quivered

and shot up swiftly- toward the end of

the dial; man and machine burst

through the air corridor like a

strange, huge bullet of flesh and

steel.

    Amid the screams of the hysterical

crowds and the scattering of the

panicked soldiers, Hawkins yanked the

handlebars furiously back and slapped

the weight of his body against the

rear of the saddle. The front wheel

rose off the ground like an abstract,

spinning phoenix followed by a mad

extension of tail and rider and

crashed into the upper section of the

barricade.

    There was a thunderous shattering of

wood and latticework as MacKenzie

Hawkins shot up, into and through the

tiers of obstructions, a maniacally

effective human cannonball that

dragged the rest of the weapon with

him.

    The bike plummeted down into the

path of washed pebbles that led to the

steps of the mission. As it did so,

MacKenzie was hurled forward,

somersaulting over the bars, rolling

on the tiny stones until he thudded

into the base of the short flight of

steps to the white steel door, the

cigar still gripped between his teeth.

    Any second now the Chincoms would

regroup, the fusillade would begin,

and the sharp chops of icelike pain

would commence, giving him, perhaps,

only seconds be" fore oblivion came.

    But the firing did not begin. Only

louder and louder screaming from the

crowds and the soldiers. Oriental

heads peered over the mass of

wreckage, above the shattered planks,

in front of the smashed latticework.

Most of the 29

soldiers who had thrown themselves on

the ground were now on their hands and

knees.

    Yet no one fired a weapon. Then

MacKenzie understood: he was,

technically, within U.S. territory. If

he was shot inside the compound it

might be construed as an execution on

American soil. It could become an

international incident. Goddamn! He

was protected by lace-pants

fol-de-rol! Diplomatic niceties were

keeping him alivel

    He scrambled to his feet, ran up the

steps to the white steel door and

began punching the bell and pounding

his hand on the metal panel.

There was no response.

    He banged louder and kept his free

hand on the bell. He yelled to those

inside and after what seemed like

minutes, the single rectangular slot

in the door was opened.

A pair of wide, frightened eyes peered

out.

    "For Christ's sake, it's Hawhnsl"

roared MacKenzie, putting his

screaming mouth inches in front of the

panicked set of eyes. "Open the

goddamned door, you son of a bitchl

What the hell are you doing?"

The eyes blinked, but the door did not

open.

    Hawkins yelled again, and again the

eyes blinked. After several seconds

the eyes were replaced by trembling

lips.

    'No one's home, sir," came the

quivering, unbelievable words.

"What?!"

"Sorry, General."

    The shaking lips were now replaced

by the rapid slamming of metal. The

slot was closed.

    MacKenzie stood there in temporary

shock. Then he started pounding once

again and yelling again and punching

the bell buttons so hard the Bakelite

cracked.

Nothing.

    He looked back at the crowds and the

soldiers, and became aware of the

screams and grins and wave after wave

of giggles.

    Hawkins jumped down the set of steps

and began running across the lawn in

front of the building. All the windows

were not only shut, but the iron inner

shutters had been closed behind the

grillwork. The whole god30

damn mission was sealed tight, an

enormous white, rectangular clam.

    He raced around the side. It was the

same everywhere: closed windows, iron

shutters, grillwork.

    He rounded the back lawn and ran to

the large rear entrance. He began

pounding the door and yelling louder

than he thought he had ever yelled in

his life.

    Finally the slot opened and another

set of eyes appeared less frightened

than those in front but nevertheless

wide and disturbed.

"Open this bucking door, goddamn ill"

    Once more lips appeared, and now

MacKenzie could see the gray

moustache. It was the ambassador.

    "Get away from here, Hawkins," said

the deep, anglicized voice, cultivated

in the Eastern Establishment. "You're

just not operative!"

And the slot was closed.

    MacKenzie stood there immobilized.

Time and space fused into nothingness.

He was vaguely aware that the crowds

and the soldiers had moved around the

latticework fence at the sides and the

rear of the mission.

    Without really thinking, he backed

away from the entrance and looked up

at the outside wall of the building

and at the roof.

    He could do it, using the grillwork

of the windows. He jumped to the first

window and climbed up the grillwork

until he reached the next protrusion

of crisscrossing bars.

    In several minutes he had scaled the

side of the building and pulled

himself over the edge of the sloping

tiled roof.

He trudged up to the apex and looked

around.

    The flagpole was centered in the

grass on the lawn to the left of the

gravel path. The gently waving cloth

of Old Glory undulated in the breeze

in isolated splendor.

    Lieutenant General MacKenzie Hawkins

tested the wind and then unzipped his

fly.

    3

    CHAPI`ERFOUR

Devereaux smiled at the doorman of the

Beverly Hills Hotel, then walked

around the huge automobile to the

driver's side, tipped the parking

attendant, and climbed in behind the

wheel, the glare of the sunlight

bouncing off the hood. It was all so

Southern California: doormen, parking

Attendants, silent tips, oversized

cars and blinding sunlight.

    As was the telephone conversation he

had held two hours ago with the first

Mrs. MacKenzie Hawkins.

    He had decided to begin logically,

piecing together a progressive

disintegration of the man. Surely a

pattern would emerge; it would be

easier to document this contemporary

version of the Rake's Progress if he

started with the subject's

introduction to the really corrupt

world: soft silks and money as opposed

to mere killing, torture, and West

Point arrogance.

    Regina Sommerville Hawkins was that

introduction.. According to the data

banks, Regina was Virginia Hunt

Country, spoiled-rich out of Foxcroft

and Finch. She had set her cotillion

bonnet for the trophy called Hawkins

in UL947, when the celebrated youthful

warrior of the Bulge had further

impressed the nation with dazzling

feats on the gridiron. Since Daddy

Sommerville owned most of Virginia

Beach, and Ginny was an authentic

Southern belle money and magnolia, not

just the fragrance the match was

easily arranged. The heroic

up-from-the-ranks West Pointer was

met, overwhelmed, and temporarily

subdued by the lilting drawl, large

breasts, and indigenous conveniences

of this soft but persistent daughter

of the Confederacy.

Daddy knew a lot of people in

Washington, so, com32

Lined with Hawkins's own talents and

track record, Regina expected to be a

general's wife within six months. A

year at best.

    In Washington. Or Newport News. Or

New York. Or perhaps lovely Hawaii.

With servants and uniforms and dances

and more servants and.. .

    However, Hawkins was peculiar, and

Daddy did not know that many people

who could curb his odd behavior. The

Hawk did not want the la-de-da life of

Washington Newport News, or New York.

He wanted to be with his troops. And

there was a congressional on his sheet

requests were not denied lightly.

Regina found herself in out-of-the-way

army camps where her husband furiously

trained disinterested draftees for a

war that wasn't. So she decided to

shed her trophy. Daddy did know enough

people to make that easy. Hawkins was

transferred to West Germany and

Regina's doctors made it clear she

could not take the climate. The

distance between them just made it

feasible to call the whole thing

quietly off.

    Now, nearly thirty years later,

Regina Sommerville Hawkins Clark

Madison Greenberg was living in a

suburb of Los Angeles called Tarzana

with her fourth husband, Emmanuel

Greenberg, motion picture producer. On

the phone two hours ago she had said

to Sam Devereaux:

    "Listen, lover, you want to talk

about Mac? I'll Bet the girls

together. We usually meet on

Thursdays, but what the hell is a

day?"

    So Sam wrote down the directions to

Tarzana and was now on his way in a

rented car to Regina's manse. The car

radio played Muddied Waters, which

seemed appropriate.

    He found the driveway of the

Greenberg residence and entered it,

ascending, he was sure, the final

crest of the hills. Halfway into the

property was an iron gate, operated

electrically; it swung open as he

approached.

    He parked in front of a four-car

garage. On the flat asphalt surface

there were two Cadillacs, a Silver

Cloud Rolls and, in rather obvious

counterpoint, a Maserati. Two

uniformed chauffeurs were talking

idly, leaning against the Rolls. Sam

got out of the car with his attache

case and closed the door. "I'm Mrs.

Greenberg's broker," he said to the

chauffeurs.

33

    "This is the place, man," laughed

the younger chauffeur. "Merrill,

Lynch, and The Girls. That's what they

ought to call it."

    "Maybe they will some day. Is that

the path to the door?" Sam gestured

toward a flagstone walk that seemed to

disappear into a short forest of

California fern and miniature orange

trees.

    "Yes, sir," said the older,

dignified chauffeur, as if it were

important to cut short the younger

man's informality. 'Jo the right.

You'll see it."

    Sam walked down the path to the

front door. He had never seen a pink

door before, but if he had to see one,

he knew it would be in Southern

California. He pushed the doorbell and

heard the chimes ring out the opening

notes of the Love Story theme. He

wondered if Regina knew the ending.

    The door opened and she stood in the

foyer, dressed in tight-fitting shorts

and an equally tight, translucent

shirt that made her huge breasts burst

forward in an absolutely challenging

fashion.

    Though in her forties, Regina was

dark haired, tanned, unlined, and

lovely, and she carried her frontage

with the assurance of youth.

    "You're the mayjor?" she asked, the

rank emerging in the low, slow, flat A

of the Hunt Country.

    "Major Sam Devereaux," he confirmed.

It was silly to state the name so

formally but his attention was on her

two titanic challenges.

    "Come on in. I reckon you figured

we'd all take offense at a uniform."

    "Something like that, I guess."

Devereaux smiled foolishly forced his

eyes away from the shirt and walked

into the foyer.

    The foyer was short; the entrance to

a huge sunken living room, the far

wall of which was nothing but glass.

Beyond the glass was a kidney-shaped

pool surrounded by a terrace of

Italian tile, bordered by an ornate

iron fence overlooking the valley.

    All this he noticed after, say,

fifteen seconds. The first quarter

minute was taken up observing three

additional pairs of breasts.

34

    Each pair was magnificent in its

individual style. Full and Round.

Narrow and Pointed. Sloping yet

Argumentative.

    They belonged in turn to Madge,

Lillian, and Anne; Regina Greenberg

made the introductions swiftly and

pleasantly. And Sam automatically

related the breasts the girls to the

data in his attache case.

Lillian was number three. Palo Alto,

California.

Madge was number two. Tuckahoe, New

York.

Anne was number four. Detroit,

Michigan.

A nice cross-section of Americana.

    Regina Ginny was obviously the

oldest, not so much in appearance as

in authority. For in truth, all the

girls were in that vague age range

between middle thirties and the next

decade a span Southern California was

expert in obscuring. And each was

dressed in sexy Southern California:

casual but minutely engineered for

that effect.

    MacKenzie Hawkins was a man whose

tastes and abilities were to be

envied.

    The courtesies were gotten over with

rapidly, courteously. Sam was offered

a drink, which he dared not refuse in

this company, and seated in a sunken

bean bag from which it was impossible

to rise. He managed to place the

attache case at his side, but

immediately realized that the contor-

tions required to reach over, pick it

up, and open it on his lap would tax

Plastic Man, so he hoped it would not

be necessary.

    "Well, here we all are," drawled

Regina Greenberg. "Hawkins's Harem, as

it were. What does tide Pentagon want?

Testimonials?"

    "There's one we'll all give without

reservation," said Lillian brightly.

"Enthusiastically," said Madge.

"Ooah," said Anne.

    "Yes, well. The general's abilities

are enormous," stammered Sam. "I

mean well, I didn't expect to meet you

all at once. Together. In a group."

    "Oh, we're a real sorority, Major."

Madge, Round and Full, sat in a bean

bag next to Sam and reached over,

touching his arm. "Ginny told you.

Hawkins s "

"Yes, I understood," said Devereaux,

swiftly interrupting. 35

    "Talk to one of us about Mac, you

talk to all of us," added

Lillian Narrow and Pointed from across

the room in a particularly mellifluous

voice.

    "That's right," cooed Anne Sloping

yet Argumentativc~ standing

outrageously in front of the center

pane of glass on the swimming pool

wall.

    "In the event we don't have a

quorum, I act as spokeswoman," drawled

Regina Greenberg from a jaguar-skin

couch against the right wall. "That's

because I was there first and have

seniority."

    "Not necessarily years, dear," said

Madge. "We won't let you malign

yourself."

    "It's difficult to know ho'w to

begin," said Sam, who nevertheless,

plunged into the difficulty. He

touched first gently, on the abstract

hardships of dealing with a highly

individualistic personality. He

slowly, gently explained that

MacKenzie Hawkins had involved his

government in a most delicate

situation for which a solution had to

be found. And although said government

was filled with undeniable and undying

gratitude for General Hawkins's

extraordinary contributions, it was

often necessary to study a man's

background to help him and his

government resolve delicate

situations. Frequently the partially

negative led to the positive, if only

to balance and accentuate the

affirmative.

    "So you want to screw him," recapped

Regina Greenberg. "It had to happen,

didn't it, girls?"

There was a chorus of yesses and

uh-huhs.

    Sam knew better than to offer a flat

denial, there was more intelligence or

perception in that room than might

have been evident at first. "Why do

you say that?" he asked Ginny.

    "Gawd Mayjorl" replied Titanic.

"Mac's been on a collision course with

the high-brass pricky-shits for yearsl

He sees through their manure piles.

That's why they like it when those

Northern liberals make him out a joke.

But Mac's no joker"

    "Nobody thinks he's funny right now,

Mrs. Greenberg. Let me assure you."

    "What's Mac done?" The question was

put defensively by Anne, still

silhouetted splendidly at the window.

36

l

    "He defaced " Sam stopped; bad

choice of word. "He destroyed a

national monument belonging to a gov-

ernment we're trying to maintain a

detente with. Like our Lincoln

Memorial.

    "\Vas he drunk?" asked Lillian, eyes

and narrow frontage leveled at Sam;

two sets of sharp artillery.

"He says he wasn't."

    "Then- he wasn't," stated Madge

positively from the bean bag beside

him.

    "Mac can drink a whole battalion

under a mess hall slop shoot." Gimpy

Greenberg's drawl was punctuated by

her affirmatively nodding head. "But

he never, never plays the whiskey game

to the disadvantage of that uniform."

    "He wouldn't put it into words,

Major," said Lillian, "but it was a

stronger rule than any oath he ever

took."

    "For two reasons," added Ginny. "He

surely didn't want to disgrace his

rank, but just as important, he didn't

like for the pricky~shits to laugh at

him because of booze."

    "So you see," stated Madge in the

bean bag, "Mac didn't do what they

said he did to the Lincoln Memorial.

He just wouldn't."

    Sam looked back and forth at the

girls. Not one of these ex-Mrs.

Hawkinses was going to help him; none

would utter a negative word about the

man.

WhyP

    He struggHed like hell to get out of

the bean bag and tried to assume the

stance of a cross-examining attorney.

A very soft, gentle attorney. He paced

slowly in front of the massive window.

Anne went to the bean bag.

    "Naturally," he began, smiling,

"these circumstances, this group here,

evoke several questions. Not that

you're under any obligation to answer,

but frankly, speaking personally, I

don't understand. Let me explain "

    "Let me answer," interrupted Regina.

"You can't figure out why Hawkins's

Harem protects its namesake. Right?"

"Right.

    "As spokeswoman," continued Ginny,

receiving nods of assent from the

others, "I'll be brief and to the

point. Mac Hawkins is one great guy in

bed and out, and don't snicker at the

bed because most marriages haven't got

it. 37

You can't live with the son of a

bitch, but that's not his fault.

    "Mac gave us something we'll never

forget because it's with us every day.

He taught us to break our molds.

Sounds simple, doesn't it?'Break your

mold.' But, lover, it sets you free.

'You're your own goddamned inventory,'

he used to say. 'There's nothing you

have to do and nothing you can't do;

use your inventory and work like

hell.'

    "Now, I don't think that all of us

believe that's holy writ. But by gawd,

he made each one of us try a lot

harder. He set us free before it was

chic and we haven't done badly.

So,~you see, there's not one of us if

Mac came knocking at the door who

wouldn't accommodate him. You dig?"

"I dig," replied Sam quietly.

    The telephone rang. Regina reached

behind the couch to the French phone

on the marble table. She turned to

Sam. "It's for you."

    Sam looked a bit startled. "I left

your number with the hotel but I

didn't expect. . ." He walked to the

table and took the phone.

    "He what?l" Blood drained from Sam's

face. He listened again. Jesus! He

didn'tI" And then in the weariness of

aftershock: "Yes, sir. I can see he

most certainly did.... I'll go back to

the hotel and await instructions.

Unless you'd rather turn this over to

someone else; my tour is up in a

month, sir. I see. Five days at the

outside, sir."

    He hung up and turned to Hawkins's

Harem. Those four magnificent pairs of

mammaries that both invited and defied

description.

    'We're not going to need you,

ladies. Although Mac Hawkins may."

    'I'm your only contact with

Sixteen-hundred, Major," said the

young lieutenant as he pace`}somewhat

childishly, thought Sam the plush

Beverly Hills Hotel room. "You can

refer to me as Lodestone. No names,

please."

    "Lieutenant Lodestone,

Sixteen-hundred. Has a nice ring to

it," said Devereaux, pouring himself

another bourbon.

"I'd go easy on the alcohol."

"Why don't you go to China instead? Of

me, that is." 38

"You do have a long, long flight."

"Not if you make it, I don't."

    "In a way, I wish I could. Do you

realize there are seven . hundred

million potential consumers over

there? I'd really like to get a

see-you shot of that market."

"A who?"

"Close-up look. A real peek-see."

"Ohh. C-U. Not see-you "

    "What an opportunity!" The lieutenant

stood by the hotel window, his hands

clasped behind his back. Caveat consumer.

    "Then go, for Christ's sake! In

thirty-two days I've got a permit to

get out of this Disneyland and I don't

want to trade my uniform in for a

Chinese smock!"

    "I'm afraid I can't, sir.

Sixteen-hundred needs pro-PR now. All

the other slambangs are gone. Some are

turning out a crackerjack house organ

at Dannemora.... Damn!" The lieutenant

turned from the window and walked to

the writing desk where there were a

half dozen photographs, five by seven.

"It's all here, Major. All you need.

They're a little hazy, but they show

Brand X, all right! He certainly can't

deny it now."

    Sam looked at the blurred but

definable telephotos from Peking. "He

almost reached, didn't he?"

    "DisgracefulI" The lieutenant winced

as he studied the photographs.

"There's nothing left to be said."

    "Except that he almost made it." Sam

crossed to an armchair and sat down

with his bourbon. The lieutenant

followed him.

    "Your head IG investigator in Saigon

will fly his reports directly to you

in Tokyo. Take them with you to

Peking. They've got a lot of real

dirt." The young officer smiled his

genuine smile. "Just in case you need

some final stickum for the coffin."

    "Gee, you're a nice kid. Ever meet

your father?" Sam drank a great deal

of his bourbon.

    "You mustn't personalize it, Major.

It's an objective operation and we

have the input. It's all part of the "

"Don't say again "

    ". . . game plan." Lodestone

swallowed the words. "Sorry. And

anyway, if you do personalize it, what

more do you 39

want? The man's a maniac. A dangerous,

egotistical madman who's interfering

violently with peaceful pursuits."

    "I'm a lawyer, Lieutenant, not an

avenging angel. Your maniac made

several contributions to other game

plans. He's got a lot of people in his

corner. I met with eight four this

afternoon." Sam looked at his glass.

where did the bourbon go?

"Not any more, he doesn't," said the

officer flatly.

"He doesn't what?"

"Whatever constituency he had will

disappear."

    "Constituency? a politician?" Sam

decided he needed another drink. He

couldn't follow this Buster Brown any

longer. So why not get really drunk?

    "He peed on the Stars and Stripesl

That's a Peoria no-nor"

"Did he really reach?"

    "We're sending you to China,"

continued Lodestone, overlooking the

question, "in the fastest way possible.

Phantom jet aircraft over the northern

route, stops in Juneau and the

Aleutians, into Tokyo. From there a

supply carrier to Peking. I've brought

all the papers you need from

Washington."

    Devereaux mumbled into his bourbon.

"I don't like moo goo gal pan and I

hate egg rolls...."

    "May I suggest you get some rest,

sir? It's almost twenty-three hundred

and we have to leave for the airbase at

oh four hundred. You take off at dawn."

    "Wish I'd said that, Lodestone. Nice

ring to it. Five hours. And you're down

the hall but not in here:'

"Sir?" The young man cocked his head.

    "I'm going to give you an order. Go

away. I don't want to see you until you

come to sew in my name tags."

"What?"

    "Get the hell out of here." And then

Sam remembered and his eyes though

slightly glazed were laughing. "You

know what you are, Lieutenant? You're

a pricky-shit. A real, honest-to-God

pricky-shit. Now I know what it means!"

Four hours.... He wondered.

It was worth a try. But first he needed

another drink.

:. He poured it and walked to the writing

desk and 40

laughed at the Peking telephotos. The

son of a bitch had flair, no question

about it. But he was not at the desk

to look at the photographs; he opened

the drawer and took out his notebook.

He turned the pages and did his best

to Ecus on his own handwriting. He

walked to the telephone by the bed,

dialed nine, and then the number on

the page.

    "Hello?" The voice was magnolia-soft

and Sam could actually smell the

oleander blossoms.

"Mrs. Greenberg? This is Sam Devereaux

"

    "Well, how're you?" Regina's

greeting was positively enthusiastic;

there was no attempt to conceal her

pleasure that the caller was a man.

"We were all wondering which one you'd

call. I'm really flattered, Mayjor! I

mean, actually, I'm the elder

stateswoman. I'm really touched."

    Her husband was probably out,

thought Sam through the bourbon,

warmed by the memory of her

challenging, translucent shirt.

    "That's very kind of you. You see,

in a little while I'm going to go on

a long, long trip. Over oceans and

mountains and. more oceans and islands

and..." Jesus! He hadn't figured out

how to put it; he hadn't really been

sure he could dial her number. Goddamn

bourbon fantasies! "Well, it's

sheecrit~ecret. Very covert. But I'm

going to talk to your namesake?"

    "Of cawsse, lover! And naturally,

you didn't get half a chaynce to ask

all those important government

questions. I understand, I really do."

"Well, several items came up, one in

particular "

    "It usually does. I do believe I

should do all I can to help the

government in its delicate situation.

You're at the Beverly Hills?"

"Yes, ma'm. Room eight twenty."

    "Wait a sec." She put her hand over

the receiver, but Sam could hear her

calling out. "Manng! There's a nation-

al emergency. I have to go to town."

    41

    1

    CHATTIER FIVE

"Major! Major Devereauxl Your phone is

off the hook. That s a no-no.

    An incessant, ridiculously loud

knocking accompanied Lodestone's nasal

screams.

    "What the gawd-almighty hell is

that?" asked Regina Greenberg, nudging

Sam under the covers. "It sounds like

an unoiled piston.

    Devereaux opened his eyes into the

visual abyss of a hangover. "That,

dear patron saint of Tarzana, is the

voice of the evil people. They surface

when the earth churns."

    "Do you know what time it is? Call

the hotel police, for heaven's sake."

    "No," said Sam, reluctantly getting

out of bed. "Because if I do, that

gentleman will call the joint chiefs

of staff. I think they're scared to

death of him. They're merely

professional killers; he's in

advertising."

    And before Devereaux could really

focus, hands had dressed him, cars had

driven him, men had yelled at him, and

he was strapped into an Air Force

Phantom jet.

    They all smiled. Everyone in China

smiled. With their lips more than

their eyes, thought Sam.

    He was met at the Peking airfield by

an American diplomatic vehicle,

escorted by two flanking Chinese army

cars and eight Chinese army officers.

All smiling; even the vehicles.

    The two nervous Americans that came

with the diplomatic car were attaches.

They were anxious to get back to the

mission; neither was comfortable

around the Chinese troops.

Nor did either attache care to discuss

very much of 42

anything except the weather, which was

dull and overcast. Whenever Sam

brought up the subject of MacKenzie

Hawkins_nd why not? he had relieved

himself on their roof their mouths

became taut and they shook their heads

in short, lateral jerks and pointed

their fingers below the windows at

various areas of the automobile. And

laughed at nothing.

    Finally Devereaux realized they were

convinced that the diplomatic car was

bugged. So Sam laughed, too. At

nothing.

    If the automobile was fitted with

electronic surveillance, and if

someone was listening, thought

Devereaux, that person was probably

conjuring up a picture of three adult

males passing dirty comics back and

forth.

    And if the ride from the airfield

seemed strange to Sam, his half-hour

meeting with the ambassador at the

diplomatic mission in Glorious Flower

Square was ludicrous.

    He was ushered into the building by

his cackling escorts, greeted solemnly

by a group of serious-faced Americans

who had gathered in the hallway like

onlookers in a zoological

laboratory unsure of their safety but

fascinated by the new animal brought

in for observatior~and propelled

quickly down a corridor to a large

door that was obviously the entrance

to the ambassador's office. Once

inside, the ambassador greeted him

with a rapid handshake, simultaneously

raising a finger over his slightly

quivering moustache. One of the

escorts removed a small metal device

about the size of a pack of cigarettes

and began waving it around the windows

as though blessing the panes of glass.

The ambassador watched the man.

"I can't be sure," whispered the

attache.

"Why not?" asked the diplomat.

    "The needle moved a touch, but it

could be the Joudspeakers in the

square."

    "Damn1 We have to get more

sophisticated scanners. Scramble a

memo to Washington." The ambassador

took Sam s elbow, leading him back to

the door. "Come with me, General."

"I'm a major."

"That's nice."

The ambassador propelled Sam out of the

office, across 43

the corridor to another door, which he

opened, and then preceded Devereaux

down a steep flight of stone steps

into a large basement. There was a

single light bulb on the wall; the

ambassador snapped it on and led Sam

past a number of wooden crates to

another door in the barely visible

wall. It was heavy and the diplomat

had to put his foot against the

surrounding cement in order to pull it

open.

    Inside was a long-out-of-use,

walk-in refrigerator, now serving as

a wine cellar.

    The ambassador entered and struck a

match. On one of the racks was a

candle, half burned down. The

ambassador held the flame to the wick,

and the light swelled ffickeringly

against the walls and the racks. The

wine was not the best observed

Devereaux silently.

    The ambassador reached out and

yanked Sam into the center of the

small enclosure and then pulled the

heavy door almost shut, but not

completely.

    His lean, aristocratic features

accentuated by the wavering flame of

the candle, the ambassador smiled

apologetically.

    "We may strike you as a touch

paranoid, but it's not the case at

all, I can assure you."

"Oh, no, sir. This is very cozy. And

quiet."

    Sam tried to return the ambassador's

smile. And for the next thirty minutes

he received his last instructions from

his government. It was an appropriate

place to get them: deep underground,

the surrounding earth inhabited by

worms that never saw the light of day.

    Armed with his briefcase and no

courage whatsoever, Devereaux walked

out the mission's white steel door, to

be greeted by a Chinese officer who

waved at him from the foot of the

path. Sam saw for the first time the

evidence of wreckage large splinters

of wood, several angle irons lying

about on the lawn.

    The officer stood outside the border

of the property and grinned a flat

grin. "My name is Lin Shoo, Major

Deveroxx. I will escort you to

Lieutenant General Hawkins. My car

should you please."

    Sam clinked into the back seat of

the army staff vehicle and settled

back, his case on his lap. As opposed

to the 44

nervous Americans, Lin Shoo was not at

all inhibited about talking. The

subject quickly became MacKenzie

Hawkins.

    "A highly volatile individual, Major

Deveroxx," said the Chinese, shaking

his head. "He is possessed by dragons."

"Has anyone tried reasoning with him?"

'1, myself. With great and charming

persuasion."

' But not with great or charming

success, I gather."

    "What can I tell you? He assaulted

me. It wasn't proper at all.'

    "And you want a full-scale trail

because of that? The ambassador said

you were adamant. A trial or a lot of

hazzerai."

"Hazzerai?"

"It means trouble. It's Jewish."

"You don't look Jewish...."

    "What about this trial?" interrupted

Sam. "Are the charges centered on

assault?"

    "Oh, no. That would not be

philosophically consistent. We expect

to suffer physically. Through struggle

and suf

- fering there is strength." Lin Shoo

smiled; Devereaux

- didn't know why. "The general will be

tried for crimes against the

motherland."

    "An extension of the original

charge," said Sam, making a quiet

statement.

- "Far more complex, however," replied

Lin Shoo, his smile fading into

resigned depression. "Willful

destruction

roof national shrines not unlike your

Linkolon Memorials. He escaped once,

you know. With a stolen truck he ran

into the statuary on Son Tai Square. He

is now charged with defacement of

venerated artistic craftsmanship the

statuary he ran into was sculptured

after the designs of the chairman's

wife. And there can be no

counterargument concerning drugs for

this. He was seen by too many

diplomatic people. He made great sums

of noise in Son Tail"

    "He'll claim extenuating

circumstances." No harm in testing,

thought Devereaux.

"As with assault, there is no such

thing."

    "I see." Sam didn't but there was no

point pursuing it. "What could he

draw?"

45

"How so? Draw? The sculpture?"

"Prison. What sort of prison sentence?

How long?"

"Roughly four thousand, seven hundred

and fifty years."

"What? You might as well execute him!"

    "Life is precious to the sons and

daughters of the motherland. Every

living thing is capable of

contribution. Even a vicious criminal

like your maniac imperialist general.

He could have many productive years in

Mongolia."

    "Now just hold on!" Devereaux

changed his position abruptly to look

Lin Shoo full in the face. He could

not be sure, but he thought he heard

a metallic click from the front seat.

Not unlike the of a pistol's safety

catch.

    He decided not to thinktabout it. It

was better that way. He returned his

attention to Lin Shoo.

    "That's crazy! You know that's just

plain dumb! What the hell are you

talking about? Four

thousand Mongolia?" Devereaux's

attache case fell out of his lap; he

heard again the metallic click. "I

mean, let's be reasonable.-. ."

Devereaux's words drifted off

nervously. He picked up the leather

case.

    '1hese are the legitimate penalties

for the crimes," said Lin Shoo. "No

foreign government has the right to

interfere with the internal discipline

of its host nation. It is

inconceivable. However, in this

particular case, perhaps, it is not

entirely unreasonable."

    Sam paused before speaking; he

watched the scowl on Lin Shoo's face

return slightly, ever so slightly, to

its previous polite, unhumorous smile.

"Do I detect the beginnings of an

out-of-court settlement?"

"How so? Out of court?"

"A compromise. Do we talk about a

compromise?"

    Lin Shoo now allowed the scowl to

float away. His smile came as close to

being genial as Devereaux could

imagine. "Please, yes. A compromise

would be enlightening. There is

strength, also, in enlightenment."

    "And maybe a little less than four

thousand years in Mongolia in the

compromise?"

    "Fraught with possibilities. Should

you suffled where others have not.

After all, it is to our mutual

advantage to reach a compromise."

46

    "I hope you know how right you are.

Hawkins is a national hero."

    "So was your Speeroo Agaroo, Major.

Your President said so himself."

"What can you offer? Dispense with the

trials"

    Lin Shoo dropped his smile, too

suddenly for comfort thought Sam.

    "We cannot do that. The trial has

been announced. Too many people in the

international community know of it."

    "You want to save face, or do you

want to sell gas?" Devereaux sat back;

the Chinese officer did want a com-

promise.

"A little of both is a compromise, is

it not?"

    "What's your little? In the event I

can get Hawkins to be reasonable.

    "A reduction of the sentence would

be one consideraffon." Lin Shoo's

smile returned

    "From four thousand to twenty-five

hundred years?" asked Devereaux.

"You're all heart. Let's start with

probation; I 11 concede acquittal.

"How so? Probation?"

    "I'll explain later; you'll like it.

Give me some real incentive to work on

Hawkins." Sam fingered the top of his

attache case, tapping his nails on the

leather. It was a silly thing that

usually split adversaries'

concentration and sometimes produced

a hasty concession.

    "A Chinese trial takes many forms.

Long, ornate, and quite ritualistic.

Or very short, swift, and devoid of

excess. Three months or three hours.

I can, perhaps, bring about the latter

"

    "That and probation, I'll buy," said

Sam quickly. "That's incentive enough

to make me want to work real hard.

You've got a deal."

"This probation. You will have to

define more legalistically."

    "Basically, you not only save face

and sell gas, but you can show how

tough you are and Stan be heroes in the

world press. All at the same time.

What could be better than that?"

    Lin Shoo smiled. Devereaux wondered

briefly if there wasn't more

understanding beyond that smile than

the Chinese cared to show. Then he

dismissed the thought; 47

Lin Shoo distracted him by asking a

question and answering it before Sam

could speak.

    'What could be better than that?

Having General Hawkins out of China.

Yes, that would be better."

    "What a coincidence. Because that's

one insignificant part of

probation."

"Really?" Lin Shoo looked straight

ahead.

    "You, I can handle," said Sam,

almost reflectively. "I've still got

to worry about Brand X."

    48

    CHAPTER Sew

The cell could be seen clearly through

a single pane of unidirectional glass

embedded in the heavy steel door.

There was a western-style bed, a

writing desk recessed overhead lights,

both a desk lamp and bedside light,

and a large rug on the floor. There

was an open door on the right wall

that led to a small bathroom, and a

horizontal clothes rack on the leR.

The room was no more than ten feet by

twelve feet, but all things

considered, far grander than Sam had

visualized.

The only thing missing was MacKenzie

Hawkins.

    "You see," said Lin Shoo, "how

considerate we are, how well appointed

are the general's accommodations?"

    "I'm impressed," replied Devereaux.

"Except I don't see the general."

    "Oh, he is there." The Chinese

smiled and spoke soRly. "He has his

little games. He hears the footsteps

and conceals himself on either side of

the door. Twice the guards were

alarmed and made ill-considered

entrances. Fortunately, there were

several to overcome the general's

strength. Now all the ships are

alerted. His meals are delivered

through a slot."

"He's still trying...." Sam chuckled.

"He's something."

    "He is many things," added Lin Shoo

enigmatically as he approached a

webbed circle beneath the

unidirectional glass and pushed a red

button. "General Hawkins? Please

General, show yourself. It is your

good and gracious friend, Lin Shoo. I

know you are beside the door General."

"Up your ass, slant eyes!"

    Lin Shoo released the button

momentarily and turned to Devereaux.

"He is not always the essence of

courtesy." 49

The Chinese returned to the speaker

and pushed the button again. "Please,

General, I have a countryman of yours

with me. A representative of your

government. From the armed forces of

your nation "

    "You better check her goddamned

purse! Maybe up her skirt! Her

lipstick might be a bomb!" came the

shout from the unseen general officer.

    Lin Shoo turned back to Devereaux in

bewilderment. Sam gently moved the

Chinese out of the way, pushed the

button himself, and yelled into the

speaker.

    "Get off it, you chickenfucker! Show

that hairy ass you call a face or I'll

open the slop-shoot and drop in that

bucking lipstick! I'll fray you, you

miserable son of a bitch!

Incidentally, Regina Greenberg says

hello."

    The immense head of MacKenzie

Hawkins slowly appeared in the pane of

unidirectional glass It merged from

the side, huge, crew-cut,

leather-lined. Mac's expression was

one of utter consternation. A

half-chewed cigar was gripped between

his teeth, beneath wide, bloodshot

eyes that betrayed disbelieving

curiosity.

    "How so? What do you say?" Lin

Shoo's controlled lips were parted in

astonishment.

    "It's a highly classified military

code," said Devereaux. "We only employ

it under extreme conditions."

    "I will not pursue the matter; it

would not be courteous. If you flip

the lever on the side of the glass,

General Hawkins will see you. When you

feel comfortable, I shall admit you.

However, I will remain outside,

please."

    Sam pushed the small handle on the

sides of the glass; there was a click.

The large, squinting face reacted with

instant hostility. Devereaux had the

feeling that Hawkins was observing

something very obscene but

unimportant: Sam, the military

accident.

    Devereaux nodded to Lin Shoo. The

Chinese reached out with both hands,

as if to pull with one and push with

the other, and unlatched the door. The

heavy steel panel opened; Sam walked

in.

    To an enormous fist that came

rushing toward him, on a direct

collision course with his left eye.

The impact came; the room, the world,

the galaxy spun out of orbit into the

50

    1

shimmering of a hundred thousand

splotches of white light.

    Sam felt the wet cloth over his face

before he felt the pain in his head,

especially his eye, and he thought

that was strange. He reached up,

pulled the cloth away and blinked. All

he saw at first was a white ceiling.

The center light hurt his head,

especially his left eye. He realized

he was on a bed, so he rolled over and

everything came back to him.

    Hawkins was at the writing desk,

papers and photographs scattered about

the top. The general was reading from

a sheaf of stapled papers.

    Devereaux did not have to move his

painful head farther to know that his

opened attache case was somewhere near

the general. Nevertheless, he did so

and saw it at Hawkins's feet. Open and

upside down. Empty. The contents in

front of the general.

    Sam cleared his throat. He could not

think of anything else to do. Hawkins

turned; his expression was not pleas-

ant. Somehow absent was that

welcoming, manly bond of recognition

between comrades-at-arms.

"You little pricky-shits have been

busy, haven't you?"

    Painfully, Devereaux swung his legs

over the side of the bed and touched

his left eye. He touched it gently,

mainly because he could barely see out

of it. "I may be a shit, General, but

I'm not so little, as one day I hope

to prove to you. Christ, I hurt."

    "You want to prove

something" Hawkins gestured at the

papers and allowed himself the inkling

of a cynical grin " to meP With what

you know about me? You've got moxie,

boy. I'll say that for you.''

    ' That phrase is about as

antediluvian as you are," muttered Sam

as he stood up. Unsteadily. 'You

enjoying the reading material?"

    "It's some goddamned recordl They'll

probably want to make another movie

about me."

    "Leavenworth Productions. Film

processed in the prison laundry. You

are a bonafide fruitcake." Devereaux

pointed to a blanket draped over the

door covering the 51

pane of unidirectional glass. "Is that

smart?" He gestured at the blanket.

    "It's not dumb. It confuses them. The

oriental mind has two very pronounced

pressure points: confusion and em-

barrassment." Hawkins's eyes were

level.

    The statement startled Sam. Perhaps it

was Hawkins's choice of words, or maybe

the quiet intelligence behind

- the voice. Whatever it was, it was

unexpected. "I mean it's a little

useless; the room is bugged. Bugged,

helll All they have to do is push a red

button and they can hear everything we

say."

    "Wrong, soldier," replied the general

as he got out of the chair. "If you are

a soldier and not a goddamn lacepants.

Come here." Hawkins walked over to the

blanket and folded back, first, a

corner on the right, then the opposite

section of the cloth on the left. In

both small areas were barely visible

holes-in the wall, now very visible

with wet toilet paper shoved into the

centers. Hawkins dropped the two

sections of the blanket and then

    pointed to six additional plugs of wet

toilet tissue two on each wall, upper

and lower and grinned his leather-lined

grin. "I've gone over this Lucking cell

palm-spread by palm-spread. I've

blocked out each mike, there aren't any

others. Naturally, I didn't touch 'em

before. See how careful the goddamned

monkeys were? Even got one right over

the pillow in case I talked in my

sleep. That was the toughest to spot."

    Grudgingly, Sam nodded his approval.

And then he thought of the obvious. "If

you have plugged every one, they'll

race in here and move us. You should

realize that."

    "You should think better. Electronic

surveillance in close areas is wired

terminally into a single unit. First,

they'll figure they've got a short in

the unit circuit, which will take 'em

an hour to trace if they don't have to

break down the walls and can do it with

sensors and that'll confuse 'em. Then,

if they rule out a short, they'll guess

I plugged 'em and that'll embarrass

'em. Confusion and embarrassment; the

pressure points. It'll take 'em another

hour to figure how to get us somewhere

else without admitting error. We've got

at least two hours. So you better do

some pretty fine explaining in that

time."

52

i

    Devereaux had the distinct feeling

that he had better be capable of some

pretty fine explaining. Hawkins was a

wily pro and Sam did not relish any

confrontation. Certainly not physical

or, he was beginning to suspect,

mental.

"Don't you want to hear about Regina

Greenberg?"

"I've read your notes. You've got

lousy handwriting."

    "I'm a lawyer; all lawyers have

lousy handwriting. It's part of the

bar exam. Also I didn't intend to have

them typed up."

    "I should hope not," said Hawkins.

"You've also got a dirty mind."

"You've got terrific taste."

"I don't discuss former wives."

"They've discussed you," countered

Sam.

    "I know the girls. You didn't get

anything you could use. Not from the

girls, you didn't. Anything else you

got is none of my business."

"Do I detect a moral position?"

    "In my own crude way. I got a little

class, boy." Hawkins pointed to the

desk; his arm, hand, and extended

finger all were very steady. "Now,

start explaining that stuff."

    "What's there to explain? You've

read it, you say. So do I have to tell

you that it represents an airtight

case of persona non "rata on one side,

and a large embarrassment for the

other? If I do, I just have."

Devereaux touched his eye; it hurt

like hell, so he sat down again on the

bed.

    "That stuff in Indochina," growled

Hawkins, walking to the desk and

picking up the stapled pages, "it's

written up like I was working for the

bucking gooks!"

    "I wouldn't go that far. It raises

certain questions as to your methods

of operation "

    "That's going that far, boy!"

interrupted the general. "I was either

working for 'em or working with troth

sides, or just pocketing half the

pouch money in Southeast Asia! Or I

was so dumb I didn't know what I was

doing at all!"

    'lAhh!" sang Sam in a lilting, false

tremolo. "Now we are beginning to

understand, said Alice to Cock Robin.

Amilitary, really military, man with

two Congressional Medals of Honor is a

dubious bet for traitor. But all that

combat, all those banging noises and

that scurrying behind the line and

capture and torture and primitive

means of 53

brutal surviva~the cumulative effect

of all that would certainly flip out

said hero right into laughing land.

Very sad, but the human psyche can

take only so much."

    "Horseshit!"roared Hawkins. "My

head's screwed on a hell of a lot

tighter than those Puckers who asked

for all this crapl"

    "Two points for the general," said

Devereaux, holding up his fingers in

the V sign. "I hereby state for the

record that the general's head is

screwed better than anyone at

Sixteen-hundred. And, I might add, so

is the general."

"What does that mean, boy?"

    "Oh, come on, Hawkins. You're

finished! How and why it happened, I

don't know. I just know that you got

in the way at a rotten time, you made

too much noise and you are expendable!

Not only expendable, but a goddamned

pawn that Sixteen-hundred's giving up

loud and clear. You're even an

example!"

"Horseshit, again! Wait'll the

Pentagon gets wind of this!"

    "They've it'~already got its

nostrils full. The brass noses are

colliding with each other, running to

the deodorant factories. You don't

exist, General! Except maybe as a

wayward memory." Sam got up from the

bed. The pain in the eye was spreading

throughout his head again.

    "You can't sell that and I won't buy

it," said Hawkins defensively, his

voice indicating a slightly diminished

confidence. "I've got friends. I've

got a career sheet that reads like a

recruiting poster. Goddamn it,

soldier, I'm a general officer who

came up from the ranks from the

Sucking mud in Belgium! They won't

treat me this way!"

    "I'm not a soldier. I'm a lawyer and

I'm telling you you've been treated

with several layers of forget-me gas.

Those telephotos from your buddies in

Peking sealed the whole ball of wax.

You've bubbled over."

"They've got to prove it!"

    "They've got that, too. I was given

it in a pitch-black wine cellar about

an hour ago. By a psychotic holding a

candle. A very solid citizen. They've

got you."

    Hawkins squinted his eyes and

removed the chewed unlit cigar from

his mouth. "How?"

    "'Medical records.' That's the hard

evidence. Psychiatric and physical.

'Stress collapse' is only the

beginning. 54

The Defense Department will issue a

statement that says, in essence, you

were purposely placed in ambivalent

situations so they could ascertain the

development. 'Schizoid progression,'

I think it's called. Conflicting

objectives like the Indochina stuff.

Also those pictures of you pissing on

the mission's roof have a very

complicated psychiatric explanation."

    "I've got a better one. I was

goddamned angry! Wait'll I give my

version.

    "You won't get a chance to tell it.

If the game plan becomes an issue, the

President plans to go on the air,

praise your past, show your current

medical records with heartbreaking

reluctance, of course and ask the

country to pray for you.

    "Couldn't happen." The general shook

his head confidentially. "No one

believes a president anymore."

    "Maybe not, but he's got the

buttons. Not his own, maybe, but

enough others. You'll be strapped down

in a Nike silo, if he says so." Sam

saw that there was a metal mirror in

the small cubicle that housed the

toilet. He walked toward the door.

    "But why should he do it? Why would

anyone let him do it?" Hawkins's cigar

was held limply in his hand.

    Devereaux looked at the size and hue

of the shiner over his left eye.

"Because we need gas," he replied.

    "Huh?" Hawkins dropped his cigar on

the rug. Obviously without thinking,

he stepped on it, grinding it into the

surface. Gas?

    "It's too complicated. Never mind."

Sam pressed the sensitive flesh around

his eye with his fingers. He hadn't

had a mouse in over fifteen years; he

wondered how long it would take for

the swelling to recede. "Just accept

the situation for what it is and make

the best deal you can. You haven't got

much choice."

"You mean I'm supposed to lie down and

take it?"

    Devereaux walked out of the toilet,

stopped and sighed. "I'd say the

immediate objective was to keep you

from lying down in Mongolia. For some

four thousand-plus years. If you

cooperate, maybe I can pull it off."

"Out of China?"

"Yes."

55

    "How much cooperation? With the

gooks and Washy ington?" Hawkins's

squint was very pronounced.

"A lot. All the way down the pike."

"Out of the army?"

"No point in staying. Is there,

really?"

"Goddamn!"

    "I agree. But where does it get you?

There's a big world out of that

uniform. Enjoy it."

- Hawkins crossed back to the desk in

angry silence. He picked up one of the

photographs, shrugged and dropped it.

He reached into his pocket for a fresh

cigar. "Goddamn boy, you're not

thinking again. You're a lawyer,

maybe, but like you say, you're no

soldier. A field commander sucks in a

hostile patrol, he doesn't feed it, he

cuts it down. Nobody's going to let me

enjoy. They'll put me in that Nike

silo you mentioned. To keep me from

talking."

    Devereaux exhaled a long breath

through his lips. "It's just possible

I can build a shield acceptable to all

parties. APrer you went down the pike

over here. Full confession, public

apology, the works."

"Goddamn!"

"Mongolia, General...."

    Hawkins bit into the cigar, the

bullet between his teeth, thought Sam.

"What's a 'shield'?"

    "Off the top of my head, I figure a

letter to the secretary of the army,

accompanied by a tape of your reading

it verified by voice print. In the

letter, and the tape, you state that

in moments of complete lucidity you're

aware of your illness et cetera, et

cetera."

Hawkins stared at Devereaux. "You're

out of your mind!"

"There are a lot of Nike silos in the

Dakotas."

"Jesus!"

    "It's not as bad as it sounds. The

letter and the tape will be buried in

the Pentagon. Used only if you

publicly make waves. Both to be

returned, say, in five years. How

about it?"

    Hawkins reached into his pocket for

a book of matches. He struck one and

a cloud of pungent smoke nearly fogged

out his face; but his voice was clear

behind it. "Down this 56 -

Chinese pike of yours, there's no talk

about that psychiatric bullshit. No

one tries to make me out a nut."

    "Hell, no. Nothing like that. Simple

fatigue." Devereaux paced back and

forth in the small enclosure as he so

often did in conference rooms, weaving

the fabric of defense. "A little

booze, maybe; that's sympathetic, even

kind of cute when the client's a

ballsy type." Sam stopped, clarifying

his thoughts. "The Chinese would

prefer an ideological approach; it'd

soften them up. You saw the light.

They've been generous to you, nice to

you. The People's regime is dandy. And

tolerant. You didn't realize that.

You're really sorry for all those

nasty things you've said for a quarter

of a century."

    "Goddamn! You make me bleed, boy!"

With a technique that escaped Sam,

Hawkins actually chewed on his cigar

as he roared. And then he removed it

and lowered his voice. "I know, I

know . The silos are Mongolia. Jesus!"

    Devereaux watched the man painfully.

He took several steps toward him and

spoke softly. "You've been squeezed,

General. By righteous pieces of

plastic; nobody knows that better than

I do. I've read your file and I agree

with maybe one-fiftieth of what you

stand for; in many ways I think you're

a menace. But one thing you're not is

a manipulator. And you're no joke.

Remember what you told the girls? You

said everyone's his own inventory.

That says a lot to me. So let me help

you. I'm no soldier, but I'm a damned

good lawyer."

    Hawkins turned away. In

embarrassment, thought Sam. When the

words came, there was a

defenselessness about them that made

him wince.

    "Don't know why I'm so concerned

about what anybody says or why I don't

settle for a silo or Mongolia. God-

damn, boy, I've spent thirty-some

years in this man's army. You take off

the uniform no matter what you put me

into I'm as naked as a plucked duck.

I only know the army; I don't know

anything else, not trained for

anything when you come right down to

it. Never spent any time with the

technological except little stuff in

G-two, things like that. Don't know

anything about fancy doings like

'negotiations.' All I know how to do

is fuck up and trap 57

pouch thieves those Indochina reports

are right about that: I outsmarted the

KGB, the CIA, the ARVN, and even the

sellouts on the Saigon general staff.

But that's different. I can handle

personnel, I suppose. But they always

gave me the misfits, the stockade

products, if they'd been civilians

they wouldn't be allowed on the

streets. I was always good with them.

I could control those devious

bastards, I could put myself in their

slimy shoes and use 'em, use their

goddamned angling. But there's nothing

I can do on the outside."

    "That doesn't sound like the man who

said everyone's his own inventory.

You're better than that."

    Hawkins turned and faced Sam. He

spoke slowly reflectively. "Shit, boy.

You know what? The only goddamned

thing I'm trained for is to be a

crook, maybe. And I'd probably fuck

that up because I don't give that much

of a damn about money."

    "You look for challenges. Talented

people always do. Monev s a

by-product; usually the challenge

there is in the amounts, what they

represent, not what they can

purchase."

    "I guess so." Hawkins took a deep

breath and stretched; his resignation

was coming into focus for him, thought

Devereaux. He walked past Sam

aimlessly, humming the opening notes

of Mairzy-Doats. Devereaux knew from

long experience with clients to let

the moment subside allow the client

time to fully accept the decision.

    "Wait a minute, boy. Wait a

minute ." Hawkins took the cigar out

of his mouth and leveled his eyes with

Sam. "Everybody wants my cooperation.

The Chinks, those assholes in

Washington probably a dozen gas

conglomerates. I mean they not only

want it, they need it. So much so

they'll fake records, build a case .

That ball of wax got out of control "

"Now, hold on. What we're faced with "

    "No, you hold on, boyrltm not going

to give you a hard time. I'll make you

a better deal than you thought possi-

ble." Hawkins shoved the cigar between

his teeth, his eyes alive, his voice

thoughtful yet intense. "I'll do

exactly say exactly, whatever you

bastards want me to say and do. Word

for word, gesture for gesture. I'll

kiss every butt on Son Tai Square, if

you want. But I want two things. Out

of 58

China and the army they go together.

And one thing more: three days in the

G-two files back in D.C. Just my own,

nobody else's. What the hell, I wrote

up the goddamned things! A last look

at my contributions, all the guards

you want. I'll be making my final

evaluations and additions. Standard

procedure for discharging intelligence

officers. How about it?"

Sam hesitated. "I don't know. That

stuffs classified "

    "Not to the officer who filed it!

Clandestine Operations Regulation

Seven Seven Five, Statute of

Amendments. Actually, he's reguired to

make his final evaluations."

"Are you sure?

"Never more sure of anything in my

life, boy."

    "Well, if it's standard "

"I just gave you the regulation! It's

military bible, boy!"

"Then I can't see any obstacles "

    "I want it in writing. In exchange

for that letter and tape that

certifies me so fatigued I eat lizard

shit. In fact, I'll make the ultimatum

D.C. issues me a written order to

comply with CO Beg Seven Seven Five

upon my return to the States, or Ill

opt for all the silos in Mongolial

I've still got a lot of supporters

back home. They may be a little

squirrelly, but they're also goddamned

noisy."

    MacKenzie Hawkins chuckled; his

cigar was a mangled pulp of itself. It

was Sam's turn to squint.

"What are you thinking of?"

    "Not a hell of a lot, boy. You just

reminded me of something. Everyone is

his own inventory. The sum of his

parts. There may be a big goddamned

world.out there. And a challenge or

two."

    59

    Part

    II

The

closely

held

corporati

on that

is, the

company

whose

investors

are few,

regardles

s of ca

Vitalizat

ion must

have at

its

financial

core men

of

generous

heart and

stout

courage,

who will

infuse

the

structure

with

their

dedicatio

n and

sense of

purpose.

Shepherd's Laws

of Economics:

    1900k

    CVI,

    Chapter

    38

    C~ERSElIEN

The People's trial

went brilliantly for

all concerned.

MacKenzie Hawkins was

the image of

converted, reformed

hostility; he was a

manly pussycat,

playing his role to

perfection. On his

arrival at Travis Air

Force Base in

California, he emerged

from the plane a stoic

figure and spoke

clearly into the

cameras, and at the

crowds of press and

lunatic Ringers;

charming the media and

defusing the

screeching

superpatriots.

    He stated simply that

there came a time when

old soldiers even

youngish old

soldiers should step

aside gracefully;

times changed and

values with them. What

was perfidy a decade

ago was, perhaps, a

proper course of

action today. The

military man, the

military mind was not

equipped nor should it

be trained for great

internationall issues.

It was enough that the

military man, a simple

warrior in his

nation's legions sic .

. . ibid . . . in

gloma transit . . .

MacKenzie

Hawkins adhere~to the

eternal truths as he

saw them.

It was all very

refreshing.

It was all very

heartfelt.

It was all bullshit.

And Mac Hawkins was

superb.

    It was remarked that

the man in the Oval

Office watched from

deep down in a sunken

armchair with his pet

150-pound dog, Python,

protectively on his

lap. He laughed and

clapped his hands over

Python's fur and

stamped his feet and

giggled and had a

wonderful time. His

family skipped in and

laughed and clapped

their hands and

giggled and stamped

their feet just like

daddy. They weren't

sure why daddy was so

happy, but it was the

best fun they'd had

since daddy shot that

awful little spaniel

in the stomach. 63

    Sam Devereaux watched the

transformaffon of MacKenzie Hawkins

from roaring bear to passive possum

with dubious awe. The Hawk had turned

into a soft-bellied mushybeak, and

what was basically lacking was the

motive. Not that Sam discounted the

specter of imprisonment Mongolia or

Leavenworth but once Hawkins had

agreed to the plea of guilty, the

public apology, the letter and

gratuitous photographs of his bowed

head during the hundred-year sentence

of probation, he could have merely

resumed his military bearing and let

whatever storms rage that might.

Instead, he went to extremes to still

any controversy. It seemed as though

he really wanted to fade away

(terrible phrase, thought Devereaux).

    Naturally, it crossed Sam's mind

that Hawkins's behavior was somehow

related to Washington's quid pro quo

regarding the G-2 files the CO

Regulation 775, and MacKenzie's access

to them. If so, it was an unnecessary

effort on the general's part; three

intelligence services had looked over

the files and found nothing to

compromise national security. By and

large the entries concerned old-hat

Saigon conspiracies, some ancient

European network speculations, and a

slew of conjectures, rumors' and

unsubstantiated

allegations dipsy-doodle nonsense.

    If Hawkins honestly believed he

could make a compromising dollar and

for what other purpose would he insist

on CO 775? from these out-of-date,

unconfirmed recordings, there was no

harm in it. What with inflation, the

reduced pension he would receive, and

the overall untouchability of his

status, things were going to be rough

enough. So nobody much cared what he

did with his old files. Besides, if

there was any resulting embarrassment

there was also the letter.

    "Goddamn, it's good to talk to you

again, young Ella.', MacKenzie's voice

was loud and enthusiastic over the

telephone, causing Sam to jerk the

instrument away from his ear. The

gesture was part audio-input, part raw

fear of association.

    Devereaux had left the Hawk over two

weeks ago in California, just after

the press conference at Travis. Sam 64

had flown back to Washington, his

discharge barely three days off, and he

had spent the time wrapping up any and

all desk matters that might

conceivably even barely

conceivably stand in the way of that

glorious hour.

    Hawkins wasn't a desk matter, but his

mere presence was an abstract threat.

On general principles.

    "Hello, Mac," said Sam cautiously.

They had dispensed with the military

titles at the beginning of the Peking

trial. "You in Washington?"

    "Where else, boy? Tomorrow I trek

over to G-two for my Seven Seven Five.

Didn't you know?"

    "I've been pretty busy. There's been

a lot to close out here. No reason for

anyone to tell me about your Seven

Seven Five."

    "I think there is," replied the Hawk.

"You're escorting me. I thought you

knew that."

    There was a sudden, huge lump in the

middle of Devereaux's stomach. He

absently opened his desk drawer and

reached for the Maalox as he spoke.

"Escorting you? Why do you need an

escort? Don't you know the address?

I'll give you the address, Mac, I've

got it right here. Don't go away.

Sergeant! Get me the address of G-two

Archives! Move your ass, Sergeant!"

    "Hold on, Sam," came the soothing

words of MacKenzie Hawkins. "It's just

military procedure, that's all. Nothing

to get uptight over. Anyway, I know the

address; you, should, too, boy and

that's a fact."

    "I don't want to escort you. I'm a

lousy escort! I said good-bye to you in

California."

"You can say hello again over dinner.

How about it?"

    Devereaux breathed deeply. He

swallowed the Maalox and waved away the

WAC who was his sergeant-secretary.

"Mac, I'm sorry, but I do have a number

of things to finish up. Maybe at the

end of the week; anytime actually the

day after tomorrow. At sixteen hundred

hours to be precise."

    "Well, Sam, I thought we ought to go

over the G-two routine for tomorrow

morning. I mean you have to be there,

son. It's in the orders. We wouldn't

want anything Sucked up over there,

would we? Jesus! They wouldn't let

either one of us out then."

65

    "Where do you want to have dinner?"

asked Devereaux. He grimaced. The

Maalox bottle was empty.

    You're escorting me. I thought you

knew that.... It's in the orders. We

wouldn't want anything fucked up over

there, would weP

    No, we certainly would not.

Devereaux shook his head. A couple in

the next booth were staring at him. He

stopped and grinned foolishly; the

couple whispered to each other and

looked away. Their reaction was clear:

You never knew who was being sentenced

next.

    A tall man came through the

curtained arch across the room. It was

Sam's turn to stare. In awe.

    It was the Hawk. He was sure of it.

But the tall man threading his way

politely through the crowded room bore

little resemblance to the disheveled,

cigar-chewing MacKenzie Hawkins who

had squinted at him through the glass

of a Peking cell. And even less to the

close-cropped Hawkins who stood ramrod

straight at all times and took each

step as though marching to the tune of

a thousand pipers against a strong

wind.

    To begin with there was the Van Dyke

beard. Granted it was new, but the

definition was clear and exceedingly

well groomed. As was the hair; it was

not only growing out, but it had been

shaped by tonsorial hands so that the

gray swept over the ears in waves.

Very, very distinguished. And the

eyes well, one could not really see

the eyes because they were covered by

tinted, tortoise-shell glasses, a very

light tint that was more academic, or

diplomatic, than mysterious.

    And the man's walk. Good God!

Hawkins's ramrod military posture had

been replaced by a tasteful, goddamn

it, elegant grace. There was a

softness about the whole bearing, a

kind of casual glide that was more

Palm Beach than Fort Benning.

    "I saw you watching me," said the

Hawk as he slid into the booth. "Not

bad, eh, boy? Not one of those pricky-

shits stopped me. How about that?"

"I'm astonished," answered Sam.

"You shouldn't be, son. First thing

you learn in inf~ltra

66 ~

tion is adaptability. Not just

terrain, but a good-sized accent on

local customs and behavior. It's a

form of psychowar.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

    "Behind the lines, Sam. This is

enemy territory, don't you know that?"

    By the time Mac Hawkins had

elegantly spooned his iced vichyssoise

he had reached the heart the core the

bombshell of his reason for dinner

with Sam. It was explosively capsuled

in a single name.

    Heseltine Brokemichael. Late Major

General of Command, Bangkok. Currently

in limbo, Washington, D.C.

    "Yes, Sam, old Brokey was with me in

Korea and points east and south. Damn

fine officer; a little hot-headed, but

then he always had to contend with

that stupid bastard cousin of his.

What's that idiotic name- of his?

Ethelred? Can you imagine? Two

Brokemichaels in the same goddamned

army, both with f eak namesl"

    "I'm not hungry any more," said

Devereaux quietly. The Hawk continued.

    "Yes, sir, you really laid the heavy

mortar on Brokey's career. He couldn't

get another star on his collar if he

bought all the astrologers in the

Pentagon. You see, they can never be

sure; one of the goddamned

Brokemichaels is a crook, but, of

course, you never proved that,

either."

    "They wouldn't let me!" Devereaux's

whisper carried farther than he cared

to think about. The couple in the next

booth stared again. Sam grinned again.

"I had the evidence; I built the case.

They made me drop it!"

    "And a good man was cut down just

when the joint chiefs were looking

kindly on him. I tell you, it's a

pity."

"Get off it, Mac. I had that bastard

cold- "

    "The wrong bastard, boy. And even

then you committed serious crimes to

get your so-called evidence."

    "I took a calculated risk because I

was damned angry. I paid for it with

two years of my life in that

cockadoodle uniform. And that's it. I

want out."

    "That's too bad. I mean, I'm sorry

to hear you say that because you may

have to spend a little more time over

at IG if I "

ff7

    "Hold it!" interrupted Devereaux in

a whisper that bordered a roar. "I'm

out the day after tomorrow! Nothing

nothing's going to change that!"

    "I certainly hope not. Let me

finish. You may have to spend time if

I can't talk old Brokey out of this

crazy idea of his. You see, those

charges against you in Bangkok weren't

actually dropped; they were sort of

suspended because of the complicated

circumstances, and what with all those

peace freaks screaming against the

military. Now, Brokey doesn't hold

anything against you, Sam, but he'd

really like to clarify his own status,

you can understand that. He figures

that if he resurrects those charges,

you can dig up the files and get the

right Brokemichae~you'd have to or be

on a rock pile and he'd have the JCS

smiling nicely,on him, just like they

used to. Wouldn't take more than, say,

six or seven months. A year at the

outside maybe eighteen months if the

trial was a long one, but you'd both

get what you want i'

    "I want out! That's all I want!" Sam

wrung his napkin so tightly it

squeaked. "I paid for my moral

indignation. It's past! ~

"Past for you, boy. Not old Brokey."

    "The facts are there. I made a

goddamned apology, it's in writing.

The day after tomorrow, after sixteen

hundred hours, I'll dictate a

statement to a civilian secretary

recapping the whole thing in

one-syllable words. I will not reopen

that case!"

    "You will if old Brokey pulls out a

certain Bangkok file and issues a

directive for your arrest. He is a

general officer, Sam. Even though he

may have pulled duty cleaning out the

Sucking high-brass latrines, for all

I know."

    Hawkins had pursed his lips, taking,

and shaking his head slowly; the wide,

innocent eyes behind the tinted

glasses conveyed anything but

innocence.

    "All right, Mac. Game time is over.

You said, if you couldn't talk

Brokemichael out of this nonsense. Can

you talk him out of it?"

    "Either talk him out of it, or

remove him from the scene for a couple

of days. Yes, I can do one or the

other. Once you've got that discharge,

boy, Brokey'd have a hell of a time

convincing anyone to go after you.

That paper's sort 68

    l

of a statute of limitations, you know.

But I don't have to tell you that."

    "No, you don't. Just tell me what

rotten thing you want from me."

    The Hawk removed his tinted glasses

and, elegantly, wiped the

non-prescription lenses as though he

were polishing jade. "Well, as a

matter of fact, I've been giving a lot

of thought to my immediate future. And

I think there's a place for you, but

I'm not sure."

    "Don't ever be. Next week I'll be

back at my desk in Boston with Aaron

Pinkus Associates, the best law firm

in the Bay State."

    "Well, you could take an extra few

weeks. Say a month, couldn't you?

Jesus, boy, it's been four years;

what's another month?"

    "Aaron Pinkus will one day be on the

Supreme Court. Every day with him is

an education and I'm not giving up

thirty years of paid education. What

do you mean; you think there's a place

for me? Doing what?"

    "I may need an attorney. I think

you're the best I ever met."

"I'm probably the only one you've ever

met "

    "But you've got a few weak spots,

young Ella," interrupted Hawkins,

replacing his tinted glasses. "I'm

sorry to say that, but it's a fact. So

I don't know whether to hire you or

not. I have to ponder some more about

you."

    "In the meantime, you'll keep

Brokemichael out of the picture?"

    "And you'll give some consideraton

to acting as my attorney? Just for a

couple of weeks? You see, I've got a

little money saved up "

    "I know exactly how much money

you've got," broke in Devereaux

sympathetically. "I had to. You want

advice for investments?"

"Sort of

    "Then without qualification I'll

help you. I mean that." Sam did. After

a lifetime of devotion, risk, and

service Mac had managed to amass the

sum total of fifty-od] thousand

dollars. No other assets whatsoever.

No houses real estate, stocks.

Nothing. That and a reduced pension

was all he had for the rest of his

life. "And if I can't give 69

you the advice I think you should

have, I'll find someone else who can."

"That's mighty touching, son."

    Was there a hint of glistening tear

in this tough oldline officer's eyes?

It was difficult to tell with the

tinted glasses.

    "It's the least I can do. It may

sound corny, but it's the least any

taxpayer can do for you. You've given

a lot, and you've been shafted by the

plastic men. I know that."

    'Well, boy," said Hawkins, inhaling

deeply, heroically, "everyone does

what he has to do in this world. At a

given moment of time~uch! This goddamn

faggot suit is tighter than a Memorial

Day uniform." The Hawk pulled out a

folded, faded magazine from his breast

pocket. The pages showing were

dog-eared and marked with red pencil.

"What's that?" asked Devereaux.

    "Oh, some Chincom propaganda the

slants left in my cell. It's the

standard Commie crap, misspelled

English and all. This is an article

that's supposed to show the kind of

injustice that's widespread in

organized religion. This here Catholic

pope has a first cousin kind of like

the Brokemichaels in a way, except

they don't have the same names but

they look alike. Actually they're

identical, except that this pope's

cousin grows a beard to hide the

likeness."

"I don't understand. Where's the

injustice?"

    "This cousin is a small-time singer

in a minor opera company and half the

time he's out of work. The Chincoms

make the obvious comparison. The

singer sings his heart out for the

people's culture and starves half to

death, while his pope cousin eats like

a guinea gourmet and steals from the

poor."

"It interested you so much you marked

it ups"

    "Hell, no, boy. I just picked out

the inaccuracies to show this priest

friend of mine. It may surprise you,

but I've been doing a little studying

about things I haven't thought much

about before. God, and the church, and

things like that . Don't you laugh,

now."

    Devereaux smiled gently. "I'd never

laugh at a thing like that. I don't

think it's anything to laugh at. A

man's 70

    religious thoughts are not only his

constitutional right, but

often his very real sustenance."

    "That's a mighty nice way to phrase it.

Real deep, Sam. By the way, just one

other thing about this Brokemichael

business. Tomorrow morning at G-two. Keep

your bucking mouth shut and do as I say."

    Hawkins was waiting under the canopy

when Sam pulled up to the curb in front

of the hotel. He held what looked like a

very expensive briefcase in one hand,

opened the car door with his other and

slid in. There was a broad grin on his

face.

"Godciamn! It's a beautiful morning!"

    It was not. It was cold and wet and the

skies promised a heavy rain.

"Your barometer's a little off."

    "Nonsense! The day like age depends on

how you feel, boy. And I feel just

grand!" Hawkins smoothed the lapels of

his tweed suit, adjusted the deep red

paisley tie over the modish striped

shirt, and ran his fingers delicately

over the hair-above his ears.

    "Glad you're in such good spirits," said

Sam, starting up the car and entering the

flow of traffic. "I don't want to dampen

them but you can't take a briefcase with

you. You can't remove any papers. Nothing

leaves the G-two offices."."

    Hawkins laughed. He pulled out a cigar

from his shirt pocket. "Oh, don't worry

your legal head about details," he said,

snipping off the end of the cigar with a

sterling silver clipper. "I've taken care

of all that."

    "There's nothing to take care oil I'm

responsible for you and I've got

twenty-four hours to keep my nose clean."

Devereaux took his hostility out on the

horn the sound was returned in good

measure by the surrounding vehicles.

    "Jesus, you're in a foul temper. You

just keep your eyes on the high ground,

don't concern yourself with the flanks."

    "Goddamn it, doesn't anybody speak

English anymore? What goddamned flanks?

What does that mean?"

    "It means what I said last night."

MacKenzie spoke as he lighted his cigar.

"Do as I say and don't make waves. By the

way, would you like to know the name of

the Ella in 71

    . . .

i

charge ,oftheG-two archives? Well, no

reason for you to know, but he's a

bright son of a bitch, a real genius.

Didn't know what I was doing for the

service when I got him out of that

prison camp west of Hanoi a few years

back. He's a Pointer, too. Can you

beat thatP Class of forty-seven. Same

as me. Goddamn! The coincidences in

this world "

    'No! . . . No, Mac! No! No, no, no! You

can't! I won't let you!" Sam attacked

the horn again. Viciously hammering on

it. At a crippled old lady who was

having a difficult hme crossing the

intersection. The poor, trembling

thing sank her head farther into her

quivering shoulders.

    "Regulation Seven Seven Five makes

it clear that a legal escort is just

that. An escort. Not an observer. He

takes the clandestine operations

officer to and from the place of

examination, but he's not permitted

inside the room. I guess there're a

lot of dishonest lawyers, Sam."

MacKenzie took a long, savoring intake

of cigar smoke.

    "There's another thing that's not

allowed in that room, you son of a

bitch!" Devereaux slammed his hand in

fury on the rim of the horn once more.

The crippled old lady was now splayed

out in the middle of the street. "And

that's a briefcase!"

    "It is, if the officer is making his

final contributions: Nobody can see those

but the ranking archivist of G-two.

It's classified material."

    "There's nothing in there!" yelled

Sam, pointing at his briefcase.

"How do you know? It's locked."

    Upon entering the offices of army

intelligence, Hawkins was escorted

quietly, professionally, to the

specific room selected for his 775, by

two flanking military police. Sam took

up the rear. It seemed to Devereaux as

formal an exercise as an execution,

except that Mac was loose and slightly

slouched in his modish tweed suit, not

ramrod at all. But once the four of

them were inside the room, Hawkins

straightened up and replaced his warm

civilian tones with the harsh bark of

a leather-lined general officer.. He

ordered the MPs to take Sam into the

next room and summon their superior.

The MP captains saluted, took

Devereaux by the elbows silently into

the adjacent room, 72

slammed the door, locked it, checked

the corridor, and walked in Wehrmacht

unison out into the hallway. They

locked that door,. too.

    He had a vague feeling-of deja vu;

then he remembered. He'd watched a

late night movie on television several

weeks ago. Seven Days in May. He

walked to the single window and looked

out. And down. Through the bars It was

four stories to the street. G-2 wasn't

taking any chances with legal escorts

from the inspector general's office,

he thought.

    There was the sound of voices from

the next room. And then overly

masculine laughter accompanied by

eruptions of profanity. Old

comrades-in-arms recalling the good

old days when everyone got his ass

shot off, except the generals. Sam sat

down in a chair and picked up a dog-

eared, worn-out copy of Let's Stamp

Out V.D. in G-2, and read.

    His reading which was actually

rather fascinating was suddenly

interrupted by the steady repetition

of another sound from the examination

room.

Therump-chump. Therump-chump.

Therump-chump.

    Devereaux swallowed several times,

annoyed with himself for leaving his

antacid tablets in the car. The sound

he was hearing could not be confused

with any other sound in his frame of

reference, no matter how hard he

tried. It was a Xerox machine

    Why would an examination room for

the processing of eyes-only classified

files have a Xerox machine?

On the other hand, why wouldn't it?

    The first question was infinitely

more logical. A Xerox machine was a

contradiction in spirit and in fact to

the purpose of Regulation 775.

    Sam went back to his reading, unable

to keep his mind even on the pictures.

    An hour and twenty minutes later the

therump-chumping stopped. Several

minutes after that a metallic crack of

a lock was heard and the door of the

examination room was opened. MacKenzie

emerged carrying his expensive brief-

case, now bulging and strapped

together with shining steel G-2 bands,

and a foot-long steel chain dangling

from the crossbar.

73

    "What the hell is that?" asked

Devereaux from the chair,

apprehensively and not at all kindly.

    "Nothing,".replied the Hawk casually.

"Just some Fleet-Pac-Com-Sat transfer

files."

"And what the hell is that?"

    "Majo?;"continued MacKenzie, raising

his voice, standing suddenly very

erect. "I present Brigadier General

Beryzfickoosh! Atten...hut!"

    Devereaux shot up from the chair and

snapped his hand in salute as a

barrel-cheated officer with twelve

rows of ribbons, an eye patch and, Sam

swore, a fright wig on his head,

walked swiftly into the room. The

salute was returned with a vibrating

flourish; the officer then extended a

large, muscular hand.

    "Hear you're up for discharge,

Major," said the general gruffly.

    "Yes, sir," answered Devereaux,

gripping the outstretched hand.

    At which instant Hawkins slapped the

briefcase chain over Sam's wrist,

securing the triple combination lock

between the links, and barked, "First

transfer completed, General!"

    "Confirmed, sir!" shot back the

general, still holding Devereaux's

hand in an iron grip, his one eye

staring at Sam. "Fleet-Pac-Com-Sat is

now in your custody, Major! Prepare

for second transfer!"

"For what, General?"

- "Say!" The general released Sam's

hand. "Aren't you the legal prick who

shafted old Brokey Brokemichael?"

    Devereaux's stomach was suddenly in

agony; perspiration formed instantly

on his forehead,' es the heavy brief

case pulled him halfway to the floor.

"There are two sides to that story,

sir."

    "Goddamned right!" shouted the

general. "Brokey's and some shit-ass

noncombatant's who should be on a

stockade rock pilel"

"Now, just a minute, Generals"

"What, soldier? You being

insubordinate?"

"No, sir. Not at all, sir. I would

just like to point

,,

out .

"Point out!? You point your ass in

the direction of that

    74

door an secure the transfer of

Fleet-Pac-Com-Sat, or I'll point you

right into a court-martial! For

insubordination and incompetence!"

    "Yes, sir! Right away, sirl" Sam

tried to salute but the chain and the

briefcase were too heavy so he made a

rapid about-face and headed for the

door, which was miraculously opened by

the two MP captains.

    The formalities at the entrance desk

were over with quickly. The steel G-2

bands securing the briefcase were some

kind of symbol of authority. Devereaux

signed the checkout book and the

miniature camera silently took his

photograph.

    Out on the street, Sam turned to the

Hawk. "That guy's crazy! Another ten

seconds he would have thrown me into

solitary! For what?"

    "Old Brokey's got a lot of friends,"

said MacKenzie. "Here, I'll drive."

    "Thanks." Devereaux reached

awkwardly into his pocket and gave

Hawkins the keys, his hand still

trembling. They walked to the parking

lot and got in the car.

    Fifteen minutes later, in the middle

of a Washington traffic jam, Sam's

nerves began to calm down. His panic

at being faced with a weird,

apoplectic general screwing up his

discharge at the last minute was

fading. But that concern was being

inexorably replaced with another very

genuine fear. Brought about partially

by the Hawk's silence.

    "Mac, now that this pile of

fleet-kumquats is in my custody, what

the hell am I supposed to do with

them? Where's this second transfer

taking place?"

"Don't you know?"

"Of course, not."

"The general thinks you do."

"Well, I don't!"

~ "You want to go back and ask him,

Sam? Personally, I don't recommend it.

Not with the way he feels about you.

Iesus! He might dig up all kinds of

very serious violations. Arid you just

got your picture taken. One thing

always leads to another, you know what

I mean? Like the domino theory. Your

trial could last for a year or two."

    "What the hell's in here, Hawkins?

Don't bullshit me! What is it?"

75

    "Sorry, Sam. I'm afraid I can't

discuss it. You understand, boy. It's

classified."

    Sam sat forward on the couch, his

arm stretched out over the coffee

table. MacKenzie manipulated the

hacksaw back and forth over the chain.

    "Once I get this goddamned chain

off, we can work on the lock," said

Mac comfortingly. "It would be easier

with a small blowtorch."

    "Not on my arteries, you son of a

bitch! And thanks for not telling me

you didn't have the combination."

    "Now, don't worry, I'll have it off

in ten or fifteen minutes. The steel's

a touch harder than I figured."

    An hour and fourteen minutes later

the last links were severed, leaving

one dangling chain and a triple

combination lock around Devereaux's

wrist.

    "I've got to get in touch with my

office," Sam said. "They'll expect me

to check in."

    "No, they won't. You're with me.

Covering my Seven Seven Five. That's

what the agreement states. One day

minimum, three days maximum."

"But we're not there."

"We went to lunch...." MacKenzie

cleared his throat.

"I should still telephone "

    "Goddamn, you've no faith in me at

all! Why the hell do you think I

waited until this morning before going

to G-two? You've got one day left and

I account for your time. You can't get

in trouble if you're not there."

"Of course not. No trouble just a

firing squad."

    "Nonsense." Hawkins got up from the

floor, carrying the freed briefcase to

the hotel writing desk. "You're safer

with me. I know those IG close-outs.

You think you're winding everything up

and some pricky-shit waltzes in and

tells you you're not going anywhere

until some brief is completed."

    Devereaux looked over at the

general, now snapping the G-2 bands

and opening the expensive briefcase.

There was logic in Mac's madness.

There was sure to be some

ball-breaking file or other that a

confused superior did not care to have

left in his lap. A memorandum could be

misplaced or not read. A

confrontation, even a discus76

sign, between legal officers not be

overlooked. Hawkins definitely had a

point: Sam was safer away from the

offlce.

    MacKenzie removed several hundred

Xeroxed pages and put them on the desk

beside the briefcase. Devereaux

pointed to them and spoke cautiously,

"That's all your Seven Seven Five?"

    "Well, not actually. A lot of it's

open stuff that's never been closed

out."

    Sam was suddenly more uncomfortable

than he had been for the past three

hours. "Wait a minute. You said back

at G-two that it was just raw material

on people you'd run across.

    "Or people other people ran across.

I added that, son, I really did. You

were just so upset you didn't listen."

    "Oh, Christ! You removed raw flies

on subjects that weren't yours?"

    "No, Sam," replied the Hawk as he

squared off some pages. "You did. It

says so right at the security desk.

Your signature."

    Devereaux sank back in the couch.

"You devious son of a bitch."

    "That kind of says it," agreed

Hawkins sadly. "There were times in

the field operating way the hell

behind the lines, of course when I

wondered how I could bring myself to

do the things I did. But then the

answer was always the same. 1 was

trained to survive, boy And survive I

do." The Hawk now had four piles of

Xeroxes neatly to the left of the

briefcase on the desk. He tapped his

fingers over them as if playing a

piano and then looked over at Sam

pensively. "I think you're going to do

real fine. You uphill accept the

temporary appointment as my attorney,

won't you? Won't be for long."

    "And it's a little more complicated

than investments, isn't it?" Devereaux

remained well back in the couch.

"A mite, I suspect."

    "And if I refuse I don't even have

to worry about Brokemichael. He's

minor. Now there's a small matter of

removing classified files from G-two.

No statute of limitations on that

little caper."

. "Don't imagine there is."

    77

    ,., . .

"What do you want me to do?"

    "Work up some contracts. Pretty simple

stuff, I should think. I'm forming a

company. A corporation, I guess you'd

call it."

    Sam inhaled deeply. "That's really kind

of amusing, if it weren't so sad.

Purpose and intent notwithstanding,

there s a not-so-minor item called

capitalization required when you form a

corporation. I know your finances. I

hate to disabuse you but you're not

exactly in the corporate assets league."

"No faith, that's your trouble. I expect

you'll change."

"And what does that cryptic remark

mean?"

    "It means I've got the assets figured

out to the dollar, that's what it

means." Hawkins planted his fingers over

the Xeroxes in an elongated press. As if

he had found the Lost Chord.

"What assets?"

"Forty million dollars."

    "Whatl" In his stunned disbelief, Sam

leaped up from the couch. The dangling

steel chain followed swiftly and in a

howling instant of pain, the bottom

links whipped .t across his eye.

His left eye.

Ille room went around and around.

    78

    CIIAPTER EIGHT

Devereaux ripped open the envelope the

instant he closed the hotel door. He

pulled out the rectangular slip of

heavy paper and stared at it.

    It was a cashier's check made out to

his name. The amount was for ten

thousand dollars.

It was absurd.

Everything was absurd; nothing made

any sense at all.

    He had been a civilian for exactly

one week. There had been no hitches

regarding his discharge; no

Brokemichael surfaced, and no

last-minute problems developed in the

office because he had not gone to the

office until an hour before his formal

separation from the army. And when he

arrived he not only had a patch over

his left eye, but a thick bandage

around his right wrist. From burns.

    He had moved out of his apartment,

sent his belongings to Boston, but did

not follow them because a devious son

of a bitch named MacKenzie Hawkins

stated that he needed "his attorney"

in New York. Therefore Sam had a

two-room suite at the Drake Hotel on

Park Avenue, reserved and paid for.

The suite was leased for a month

Hawkins thought it would be enough

time.

    For what? MacKenzie was not yet

ready to "spell it out." However, Sam

was not to worry; everything was "on

the expense account."

Whose expense account?

The corporation's.

What corporation?

The one Sam would soon be forming.

Absurd!

    Forty million dollars' worth of

delusions that screamed for a frontal

lobotomy.

79 i

    And now a cashier's check for ten

thousand dollars. Free and clear and

no receipt required.

    Ridiculous! Hawkins could not afford

it. Besides, he had gone too far.

People did not send other people

(especially lawyers) ten thousand

dollars without some kind of expla-

nation. It simply was not healthy.

    Sam walked over to the hotel

telephone, checked the confusing

litany on the pull-out tab beneath the

instrument, and placed a call to

MacKenzie.

    "Goddamn, boyt That's no way to

behave! I mean, you might at least say

thank you."

    "What the hell for? Accessory to

theft? Where did you get ten thousand

dollars?"

"Right out of the bank."

"Your savings?"

"That's right. Didn't steal from

anyone but myself."

"But why?"

    There was a slight pause in

Washington. "You used the word, son.

I believe you called it a retainer."

    There was a second pause. In New

York. "I think I said I was the only

lawyer I knew who had a retainer based

in the sort of blackmail that could

march me in front of a firing squad."

    "That's what you said. And I wanted

to correct that impression. I want you

to know I value your services. I

surely wouldn't want you to think I

didn't appreciate you."

    "Cut it out! You can't afford it and

I haven't done anything."

    "Well, boy, I believe I'm in a

better position to judge what I can

afford. And you did do something. You

got me out of China some four thousand

years before my parole was due."

"That's different. I mean "

    "And tomorrow's going to be your

first day of work," interrupted the

Hawk. "Not much, but a beginning."

    There was now a long pause in New

York. "Before you say anything, you

should understand that as a member of

the bar, I subscribe to a canon of

ethics that is very specific. I'll do

nothing to jeopardize my standing as

an attorney."

    Hawkins replied loudly, with no

pause whatsoever, "I should hope not!

Goddamn, boy, I don't want any

slippery shyster in my corporation.

Wouldn't look good on the stationery

"

    "Mac!" roared Devereaux in

exasperation. "You didn't have

stationery printed?"

"No. I just said that. But it's a hell

of an idea."

    Sam did his best to control himself.

"Please. Please. There's a law firm in

Boston and a very nice man who'll be

on the Supreme Court someday who

expects me back in a couple of weeks.

He wouldn't look kindly on my being

employed by somebody else during my

leave. And you said my work for you

would be finished in three or four

weeks. So no stationery."

"All right," agreed Hawkins sadly.

    "Now, what's on for tomorrow? I'll

charge you by the day and deduct it

from the ten thousand and return the

rest at the end of the month. From

Boston."

'Oh, don't worry about that."

    "I do worry. I should also tell you

that I'm not licensed to practice in

the state of New York. I may have to

pay outside attorney's'fees; depending

upon what you want done. I gather it

involves filing for this corporation

of yours." Devereaux lit a cigarette.

He was happy to see that his hands

were not shaking.

    "Not yet. We'll get to that in a

couple of days. Tomorrow I want you to

check out a man named Dellacroce.

Angelo Dellacroce. He lives in

Scarsdale. He's got several companies

in New York."

"What do you mean, 'check out'?"

    "Well, I understand he's had

business problems. I'd like to know

how serious they are. Or were. Sort of

find out what his current state of

well-being is."

" 'Well-being'?"

    "Yeah. In the sense of his being

around and not in jail, or anything

like that."

    Devereaux paused, then spoke calmly,

as if explaining to a child. "I'm a

lawyer, not a private investigator.

Lawyers only do what you're talking

about on television."

Again MacKenzie Hawkins replied quickly.

''I can't be81

lievethat. If somebody wants to become

part of a corporation, the attorney

for the company should find out if the

fellow's on the up-and-up, shouldn't

he?"

    "Well, it would depend on the degree

of participation, I suppose."

"It's considerable."

    "You mean this Angelo Dellacroce has

expressed interestP"

    "In a way, yes. But I wouldn't want

him to think I was being rude by

making inquiries, if you know what I

mean."

    Devereaux noticed that his hand now

trembled slightly. It was a bad sign;

better than a pained stomach but still

bad. "I've got that strange feeling

again. You're not telling me things

you should tell me."

"All in good time. Can you do what I

ask?"

    "Well, there's a firm-here in the

city that my office uses used to use,

anyway. Probably still does. They

might be able to help."

    "That's fine. You see them. But

don't forget, Sam, we've got a

lawyer-client relationship. That's

like a doctor or a priest or a good

whore; my name doesn't get mentioned."

"I could do without the last

reference," said Devereaux.

Damn it. His stomach growled. He hung

up.

    ':Angelo Dellacroce!" Jesse Barton,

senior partner, sonof-founder, Barton,

Barton and Whistlewhite, laughed.

"Sam, you've been away too long!"

"That bad?"

    "Let's put it this way. If our

mutual Boston friend and your

erstwhile employer I assume he's still

your employer Aaron Pinkus, thought

you were seriously considering

Dellacroce for some kind of money

deal, he'd call your mother."

"That bad?"

    "I'm not kidding. Aaron would

question your sand* and personally

remove your name from the office

door." Barton leaned forward.

"Dellacroce is Cosa Nostra with a

capital Mafia. He's so high in the

charity rackets the cardinal invites

him to the Alfred E. Smith dinner

every year. And naturally, he's

untouchable. He drives district

attorneys 82

and prosecutors right out of their

gourds. They can't get him, but not

for lack of trying."

    "Then Aaron mustn't learn of my very

innocent inquiry," replied Sam in

confidence.

    "Your indiscretion is safe with me.

Incidentally, is it an indiscretions

This party of yours, is he really that

naive?"

    Sam's stomach began to answer for

him. He spoke rapidly to cover the

sound. "In my judgment, yes. I'm

paying back a debt, Jesse. My client

saved my ass in Indochina."

"I see."

    "So he's important to me," continued

Sam. "And according to you he's naive.

About this Dellacroce."

    "Don't take my word for it," said

Barton, reaching for his telephone.

"Miss Dempsey, get me Phil Jensen

downtown, please." Jesse replaced the

receiver. "Jensen's second in command

at the prosecutor's office. Federal

district, not municipal. Dellacroce's

been a target over there ever since

Phil joined; that was damn near three

years ago. Jensen gave up an easy

sixty thou' to go after the evil

people."

''Commendable."

    "Bullshit. He wants to be a senator

or better. That's where the real money

is " The telephone rang. Barton picked

it up. "Thank you.... Hello, Phil?

Jesse. Phil, I've got an old friend

here; he's been away for a few years.

He was asking me about Angelo

Dellacrocc

    The explosion on the other end of

the line reverberated throughout the

office. Jesse winced. "No, for

Christ's sake, he's not involved with

him. Do you think I'm crazy?. . . I

told you he's been away; out of the

country, as a matter of fact." Jesse

listened for a moment and looked over

at Sam "Were you in northern Italy?.

. . Where, Phil?. . . Around Milan?"

    Devereaux shook his head. Barton

continued, one ear at the telephone,

his words directed at Sam

"Or Marseilles? . . . Or Ankara? . .

. What about Rashid?"

Devereaux kept shaking his head.

    "Algiers?. . . Were you in Algiers?.

. . No, Phil, you're way off. This is

very straight. I wouldn't be calling

you if it was anything else, now would

I?. . . Simple investment stuff, very

legitimate.... Yes, I know, Phil....

Phil says 83

-

those bastards will own Disneyland

next.... Come on, Phil, that's not

kosher; he'll simply walk away from

him. I just wanted to confine

Dellacroce's status.... Okay. All

right. I've got it. Thanks."

    Barton replaced the phone and leaned

back. "There you are.'

"I touched a raw nerve."

    "The rawest. Dellacroce not only

skipped free of an airtight indictment

last week, but because of a grand jury

leak, the prosecutor's office has to

issue a public apology. How does that

grab you?"

"I'm glad I'm not Jensen."

    "Jensen's not. His office will lay

off Dellacroce for a couple of months

then ring him in again. Won't do them

any good; Dellacroce's got his ass in

butter. He slides in and out of

courtrooms."

    "But my client should stay away."

Devereaux did not ask a question.

    "Several continents," replied Barton.

"Clothes don't make the man; his

investors do. Ask anyone from Biscayne

to San Clemente."

"Well, goddamn, isn't that

interesting? You just can't tell

    ^,,

    anymore, can your

    "Stay clear of him," said

Devereaux, shifting the hotel phone

and reaching for the glass of bourbon

on the other side of the desk. "He's

bad news and you don't want

. ,,

m near you.

"I see what you mean "

"I'd rather you said 'Yes, Sam, I'll

stay away from Angelo

Dellacroce.' That's what I'd like to

hear you say."

"See what you mean."

"You're not listening. When you pay a

lawyer a retainer

you listen to him. Now, repeat after

me: 'I will not go

near ' "

"I know you've had a hard day, but

you might put your

mind to the next order of business.

Just sort of think about it."

"I'm still thinking about Angelo

Dellacroce."

"That part's finished with "

"Glad to hear it."

" for the time being. Now, I want you

to begin roughing

84

.

    ,~

out a kind of standard corporation. A

real legal document that has blanks

for people putting in money."

    "People like Dellacroce?"

Devereaux's voice made clear his

position. - ~

Goddamn, forget about that guinea

bastard!"

    "From what I know about him I think

you should refer to him as the

Roman-blood-royal. But I'd rather you

never referred to him again. What kind

of corporation? If you want it filed

in New York, I'll have to bring in

another attorney. I told you that."

    "No, &~; bog!" Hawkins shouted the

words. "I don't want anyone else

involved! Just you!"

    "I made it very clear: I'm not

licensed to practice here. I can't

file in the state of New York."

    "Who said anything about filing? I

just want the papers.

    Sam was numb. He was not sure what

he was supposed to say; what he could

say. "Do you mean to tell me you

retained me for ten thousand dollars

to prepare legal papers you are not

going to execute strike that file?"

    "Didn't say I wouldn't sometime. I'm

just not going to worry about it now."

    "Then why get a lawyer until you

need one? And why the hell am I in New

York?"

    "Because I don't want you in

Washington. For your own good. And

when a man raises money for a

corporation, he's got to have real

legal-looking documents to give for

it. I reversed the order of your

questions."

    "I'm glad you told me. I won't

pursue either one. What kind of

corporation?"

"A regular one."

"There's no such thing. Every company

is different."

"The kind where profits are shared.

Among investors."

"In that they're all the same. Or

should be."

"That's the kind I want. No monkey

business."

    "Wait a minute." Devereaux put down

the phone and crossed to the chair

where he'd left his attache case. From

it he took out a yellow legal pad and

two pencils and returned to the desk.

"I'll need the specifics. I'm going to

ask you some questions so I can rough

out this not-to-befiled, unexecuted

legal document."

85

"Go ahead, boy."

"What's the title? The corporate

name."

    "I thought about that. What do you

think of the Shepherd Company?"

    "Not a hell of a lot. I don't know

what it means. Not that it makes any

difference. Call it anything you

like."

"I like the Shepherd Company."

"Fine." Sam wrote out the words.

"What's the address?"

"United Nations."

Devereaux looked at the telephone.

"What?"

"The address. Whatever the United

Nations building

.,.

IS.

"Why?"

"It's. . . symbolic."

"You can't use a symbolic address."

"Why not?"

"I forgot. You're not filing. All

right. The depository?

"Who?"

"The bank. Where the corporate funds

will be deposited."

    "Leave that blank. A couple of lines.

There'll be several banks."

    Sam's pencil involuntarily stopped.

He forced it onward. "What's the

purpose of the company?"

    There was a pause in Washington.

"Give me some legal-sounding choices."

    Now a longer pause in New York.

Devereaux's pencil really objected.

"Let's start with 'intent.'"

"Obviously, to make money."

... ~ A,,

rlowr "By having something people

will pay for." "Manufacturing?

Production of merchandise?" "No, not

really." "Marketing?" "That's nearer.

Keep going." "Where?" "Some more

words," replied Hawkins. "I'm not a

corporate attorney but if I remember

the books, a company's purpose its

motive for profit is in one form or

another of production, manufacturing,

marketing, acquisition, serviced "

"Hold it! That one."

86

"Services?"

"That's good, but I mean the one

before that."

Sam exhaled. "Acquisition?"

"That's it. Acquisition."

    "Acquiring at one price, disposing

at a second, higher price. You're in

brokerage?"

    "that s very good, Sam. That's

really using the old noodle.

    Devereaux pushed the pencil against

its inanimate will and wrote on the

pad. "If you're a broker, there's got

to be a product. Services or real

estate or merchandise "

    "Of a deeply religious nature,"

interrupted MacKenzie, his voice low

and solemn.

"What is?"

"The product."

    Sam inhaled; it was a long breath.

When he exhaled it was with a hum.

"Are you saying that you are forming

a company to broker the acquisition of

religious merchandise?"

"That'll do," answered Hawkins simply.

"Artifacts?"

"That's even better."

"For Christ's sake, what is?"

-"'Broker the acquisition of

religious artifacts.' Goddamn, boy.

PerfectI"

    Devereaux borrowed the standard New

York State forms for a limited

partnership agreement from Barton. It

was a relatively simple matter to

transcribe his notes into the

partnership forms and have the hotel

stenographer retype the pages as

though they had been dictated. Things

were looking up, thought Sam as he

scrutinized the finished product,

replete with its blank lines for

investors, depositories, amounts; and

the inane description of"brokering the

acquisition of religious artifacts."

    But it looked as legal as a chapter

in Blackstone. Yes, Sam mused as he

balanced the envelope containing the

gobbledygook he was about to mail to

MacKenzie Hawlcins. Things were

looking up. He'd be back in Boston

with Aaron Pinkus Associates in a few

days; his "legal" work for the Hawk

was finished. Altogether it had taken

him nine 87

.

days, some three weeks short of the

month Mac had figured.

    He had agreed to stay at the Drake a

day or two longer giving Mac

sufficient to approve of his labors.

There was no question that approval

would come, and it did.

    "My word, Sam, that's a mighty

impressive looking document," said the

Hawk over the telephone from

Washington. "I'm downright amazed you

were able to write it all up so

quickly."

    "There are certain guidelines to

follow; it wasn't that difficult."

"You're too modest, young-fella."

    "I'm anxious, that's what I am.

Anxious to get back to Boston

    "I can certainly understand that,"

broke in Hawkins without the

commensurate affirmative that would

have curtailed the sudden, growing

pain in Devereaux's stomach.

"Listen, Mac

    "I see you made me president of the

company. You didn't tell me that."

    "There were no other names. I asked

you about the corporate officers and

you said leave the lines blank."

    "What are those titles secretary and

treasurers Are they importantP"

"Not if you're not filing."

"Suppose someday I decided to?"

    "The standard procedure is to

combine the two. Most states require

a minimum of two general partners for

a limited partnership agreement."

"But I could have more if I wanted to,

couldn't I?"

"Certainly."

    "I just wanted to know what's right,

Sam. Not important. It's never going

to be filed. Just passes the time."

    Devereaux thought he detected a note

of melancholy in Hawkins's voice. Was

Mac beginning to come to grips with

his own fantasies? Did he begin to

understand that his irrational foray

into corporate legalities was simple

compensation for the absence of

command decision? Sam 88

began to relax. He actually felt sorry

for this old warhorse. Passes the time

was a euphemism for filling the days.

"I'm sure it does, General."

"Why, Sam, you haven't called me

general in weeks."

"Sorry. A slip."

    "I'll be in touch with you tomorrow,

boy. You've worked hard. Have a little

fun tonight. Remember, it's on the

expense account."

    "As to that ten thou'. It's very

generous of you but I don't want it.

I don't need it. I'll deduct whatever

legal expenses stenographer, supplies,

that kind of thing and return the

rest. Then there's an investment

counselor I *now in Washington "

    Devereaux stopped. He realized that

the click on the other end of the line

had terminated the conversation..

    There was no point in not having a

good time. He had spent enough

weekends in New York to know where the

action was: the singles' bars on Third

Avenue.

    Sam was spectacularly successful.

His catch was a nubile young thing who

had come out of Omaha, Nebrask~the

county seat of Henry Fonda and Marion

Brando to scale the Broadway heights.

She was terribly impressed with a

lawyer who did a lot of work for

Metro-Goldwyn-WarnerBrothers when he

wasn't handling contracts for Botvling

For Dollars and Masterpiece Theatre.

    Sam was impressed, too. All during

the night, throughout most of the next

morning, well into the following

afternoon and (with time out for food

and limited discussion) into the next

evening.

    It was 9:27 when the telephone rang,

9:29 when the nubile young thing spoke

sleepily. "Sam, the phone's on

.. ..

my sloe.

"You're very observant."

"Shall I get it?" she asked.

"Since it's on your side, I'd say

yes."

"You're sure?"

    Sam opened his eyes. The girl had

raised herself and was stretching;

the sheet had fallen away. "Make it

quick," Devereaux said.

"If you're sure."

89

    "I have no wife and my mother

doesn't know where I am and Aaron

Pinkus. wouldn't be mad. Get the

phone talk fast, and hang up."

    The girl reached for the instrument;

Sam reached for the girl.

    'there's a man with a raspy voice

who wants to talk to you. He says his

name is Angelo Dellacroce." She

handed Sam the receiver.

    "Hey, you!" The words spat from the

telephone. "You Samuel Deverooze,

sectatary-treasurer of this Shepherd

Company?"

    90

    CEDER

Former Lieutenant General MacKenzie

Hawkins, twice awarded the nation's

highest honor for extraordinary heroism

beyond the call of duty in deadly combat

against the enemy, cowered like a

frightened boy at the sight of former

Major Sam Devereaux, military accident.

    Hawkins could see Sam getting out of the

taxi at the entrance of the North Hampton

Golf Club. The brass lamps on top of the

stone posts flanking the drive were the

only source of light; it was a cold,

cloudy night and no moon could be seen.

The lamps, however, gave sufficient

illumination to reveal the anguished

expression on Devereaux's face.

    Sam was furious, MacKenzie realized

that. But, he thought to himself, he had

not actually lied. Not really. He never

told Devereaux he wouldn't approach Angelo

Dellacroce. Only that he had no reason to

do so when Sam pressed him on the point.

At that moment. Not later.

    The secretary-treasurer title was

something else. It looked terrific on the

partnership agreement: Samuel Devereaux,

Esq., Counselor-at-law, State 4-Ff, Drake

Hotel, New York, right above the line

reserved for the second most important

office in the Shepherd Company. It was for

Devereaux's own good; he'd understand that

soon enough. But at the moment Samuel

Devereaux, Esq., was mad as a caged bull

fenced off from heifers in heat.

    The Hawk had agreed to Dellacroce's

rendezvous. because it suited him. The

Italian was so concerned about

surveillance he had insisted on meeting

Mac in the middle of the fairway on hole

six at the North Hampton Golf Club between

the hours of midnight and one in the

morning. But if Hawkins had objected and

changed the location to 91

    ..

l

the Bell Telephone Company, Dellacroce

would have capitulated.

    For Dellacroce had no choice. Mac

had a folder on the Mafioso that would

have guaranteed a jail sentence worthy

of a court in the People's Republic.

    Still, a meeting at night in terrain

surrounded by thick woods and streams

and small lakes appealed to Hawkins.

He was at home in such territory. It

wasn't Cambodia or Laos, but he could

sort of keep his hand in, as it were.

    He flew up from Washington in the

afternoon and with false

identification rented a car and drove

out to North Hampton. As soon as it

was dark, he circled the golf club and

parked at the west perimeter.

Dellacroce had told him that the club

was closed for the evening and the

night watchman would be replaced by

one of his men.

    Which meant, of course, that

Dellacroce would double the patrols

everywhere, especially around the area

of fairway six.

    His pockets stuffed with coils of

thin rope and rolls of three-inch

adhesive, Hawkins employed an old Ho

Chiminh tactic that had served him

well in the past. He began his

commando assault at the farthest point

inside the hostile area and worked his

way toward the front.

    At 2300 the enemy patrols started to

man their emplacements within the

North Hampton Golf Club. There were

nine (a few more than Mac had

anticipated) spaced out in the rough

by the edge of the woods on both sides

of fairway six, the line of relay

extending back to the clubhouse and

the driveway.

    One by one, Hawkins immobilized

eight patrols; he removed all weapons,

bound them, taped their faces all

facial muscles, not just the

mouths and rendered them unconscious

with kai-sai chops at the base of the

skull. Then he worked his way back to

the ninth patrol who manned the

entrance.

    He saved for this man a strategy

that was particularly effective

against the Pathet Lao. For the guard

had to be able to talk.

    The man was exceedingly cooperative.

Especially after Mac had sliced his

trousers from crotch to cuff.

At ten minutes to midnight, Dellacroce's

huge black so

limousine drove swiftly through the

gates and up to the wide, pillared

porch. In the darkness the ninth

patrol, riveted to a pillar, spoke.

    "Everythings fine, Mr. Dellacroce.

All the boys are spread good, like you

said."

    The man's voice was a bit high and a

little strained, but Hawkins figured

rightly that Dellacroce had other

things on his mind.

    "Okay. Real good," was the raspy

reply as Dellacroce; got out of the

automobile, flanked by two heavyset

bodyguards who walked like gorillas

with their hands in their fur. "Rocco,

you stay here with Augie. You,

Fingers, you come with me. And, Meat,

you get the fuckin' car back in the

lot outta sight."

    Before Dellacroce and Fingers had

rounded the corner of the building,

the ninth patrol was kai-saied out of

commission. By the time Dellacroce and

Fingers had

    disappeared across the lawn, Rocco had

joined Angie in peaceful oblivion.

    The gentleman named Meat was

Hawkins's next dispatchee. It took

nearly five minutes, but only because

Meat was an experienced combat man. He

did not park the limousine at the edge

of the lot; instead, he had pulled to

a stop in the center. It was good

positioning, thought Mac. Meat could

observe all his flanks unencumbered by

visual shadings or sightline

obstructions. Meat was good.

But not good enough.

    MacKenzie scrambled diagonally out of

the parking area, over the first tee,

and left through the rough toward

fairway six. Since Dellacroce had made

it clear he would be alone, Hawkins

knew that Fingers would be hiding in

the darkness, no doubt at the edge of

the woods, and if he had a brain in

his head, across the fairway owthe

east side for a superior line of fire.

    But Fingers did not have such sawy.

He remained in the west rough, prone

in the underbrush, eliminating any

rear flank observation.

    Goddamn, thought MacKenzie, it was

not much fun taking an asshole like

Fingers.

Nevertheless, he took him. Silently.

In eleven seconds.

Leaving Angelo Dellacroce alone in the

middle of fair

93 '

way six, the lighted end of a cigar

protruding from -his fat mouth, his

squat body sagging at ease, his plump

hands clasped behind his back as

though waiting to be served a plate of

linguini in a slow trattoria.

    Three minutes later Devereaux's taxi

was heard on the deserted back road

fronting the golf club, and MacKenzie

waited behind the pillar.

    As Sam walked haltingly up the drive,

Hawkins decided not to tell him about

the immobilized patrols. It would

-only worry the ex-major; better to

let him think Dellacroce was true to

his word: he was alone on fairway six.

"Goddamn! Hello, Sam!"

    Devereaux threw himself to the

ground, hugging the gravel for dear

life. And then he looked up; MacKenzie

took out a small but powerful pencil

light from his pocket and flicked it

on.

    The ex-major was certainly angry His

face was kind of pinched and puffed,

as if it might explode right out of

his skin.

    "You unprincipled son of a bitch!"

Sam whispered, tiny and fear

intermeshed. "You lowlife! You're the

most devious, despicable form of

subhuman that ever lived! What the

hell have you done, you bustards"

    "Now, now' that's no way to talk.

Come on, get up; you look silly down

there all splayed out. . ." MacKenzie

reached for Devereaux's hand.

    "Don't touch me, you slug worm!

Fucking Mongolian sheep is too good

for you! I should have let Lin Shoo

pry out your fingernails, one by one,

for four thousand fucking years! Don't

touch me!" Sam staggered to his feet.

"Look, Major

    "Don't call me that! I don't own a

serial number and I don't want to be

addressed ever by anything remotely

military! I'm a lawyer; but I'm not

your goddamned lawyer! Where the hell

are we? How many 'torpedoes' have us

covered with guns?"

    MacKenzie grinned. "There's nobody

boy. Just Dellacroce standing out on

the fairway like a nice uncle at a

backyard pasta party."

    "I don't believe youl Do you know

what that gorilla told me on the

phone' when I said I wouldn't come out

here? 94

That goddamned hood told me my health

would take a sudden turn worsel That's

what he told mel"

    'Oh, don't pay any attention to that

sort of thing. Those fat slobs always

talk tough."

    "Horseshit!" Devereaux peered into

the darkness. '~at maniac said if I

was late he'd send a basket of fruit

to the hospital tomorrow! And if I

tried to leave town, some goon called

Meat would find me before the week was

upl"

    The Hawk shook his head. "Meat's

pretty good, but I think you could

take him. I'd put my money on you,

boy."

    "I don't want to take him or

anybody! And don't put any money on

me! You're never going to see me

again! I just wanted to get this over

with. I want to meet this Dellacroce;

tell him the whole thing's a crazy

mistaket I had some typing done for

you, and that's alll"

    "Now listen to me, son. You're

overreacting.. There's nothing to

worry about at all." Hawkins started

walking across the lawn. Devereaux

kept pace, his head snapping in the

direction of every noise. "Mr.

Dellacroce will be exceedingly

cooperative. And there'll be no more

tough talk, you'll see."

"What was that?" There was a squishing

sound.

    "Relax, All you? I think you stepped

on some dog turd. Do me a favor. Don't

start explaining anything untill I

talk with Dellaeroce, okay? It won't

take me more than three or four

minutes."

    "No! Absolutely no! I don't care to

have.a promising legal career cut

short in the middle of a fairway at

some Cosa Nostra golf courser These

people don't play gamest They use

bullets, and chains, and heavy cementl

And riversl What was that?" There was

a fluttering of wings in the dark

trees.

    "We alarmed a bird. Let's put it

this way. If you just keep your mouth

shut until I'm finished, 111 pay you

another ten thousand. Free and clear.

How about thatP"

    "You're a lunatic! No, again.

Because I can't spend it displacing

roots in a Boston cemetery! You could

offer ten million, the answer's still

nol"

'~at's not out of the question

    "For Christ's sake, have yourself

committed before somebody else doesl"

95

    "Then I'm afraid I'll have to put it

this way. You either shut up until my

business with Mr. Dellacroce is

finished, or tomorrow morning I call

the FBI and tell them there's an

ex-major walking around peddling

raw-file intelligence documents

he-illegally removed from the G-two

archives."

    "Oh, no you don't! Because I'll tell

the truth. I'll tell them how you

blackmailed me, then conned me, then

blackmailed me again. You'd get a

lighter prison sentence in PekingI"

    "It surely does get complicated,

doesn't it? I mean you'd be reopening

the Brokemichael business. How would

it look? A man violates the espionage

laws because he doesn't hke spending

a little extra time in the service of

his country. In a cushy job, not even

combat. Pretty weak blackmail, I'd

say."

"You unprtuc~pled "

    "I know, I know," said the Hawk

wearily. "You keep repeating yourself.

What you've got to understand is that

it doesn't make a whole lot of

difference to me. As you said, I've

been shafted. How much more shafting

can they do?"

    Hawkins kept walking. Devereaux

followed reluctantly, his eyes darting

everywhere, his nerves obviously

frayed; a series of whispered. squeaks

emerged from his throat until he found

the words. "Have you no decency, sir?

No sense of compassion? No love of

your fellow man within your heart?"

    "I surely do," said the Hawk. They

cut across the third tee onto fairway

six. "Now keep that eloquent tongue of

yours inactive for a while. It you

don't like the way things go, then

speak your piece. Can I be fairer than

that?" ~

    The overcast sky was thinning out;

intermittently the moon shone through.

And a hundred yards ahead they could

see the squat figure of Angelo

Dellacroce, his hands still clasped

behind his back, the lighted stub of

a cigar still in his mouth. ~

    "He must have ashes all over his

front," said Hawkins quietly. Then

louder, "Mr. Dellacroce?"

    There was a grunt from the obese

body in front of them. MacKenzie

flicked on his pencil light and held

it over his own head, spilling the

light on his longish steel-gray hair,

96

throwing shadows down across his

precisely barbered Van Dyke.

"You're making us a target!" whispered

Sam.

"Who's going to shoot?"

    They approached the Italian; Mac

extended his hand. Dellacroce made no

move to accept it. Hawkins spoke

quietly. "Even when I accepted gook

surrenders I got a handshake. Sort of

separates us from the animals."

    Reluctantly Dellacroce Dulled his

hand from behind his back and the two

shook. '~1 ain't no gook and this

ain't no surrender," said the raspy

voice.

    "Course it isn't," answered

MacKenzie brightly. "It's the

beginning of a profitable association.

By the way, this is my attorney and

good friend, Sam Devereaux "

"Mac!"

    "Shut up and shake hands," said

Hawkins sotto Face. "Goddamn, boys. I

said shake hands!"

    With even greater reluctance, the

two hands inched toward each other,

touched briefly and separated as

though the owners feared infection.

    "That's better," said the Hawk

enthusiastically. "Now we can talk."

    And MacKenzie did. He started by

listing the illegal activities~oth

foreign and domesti~of Angelo

Dellacroce. It took him two minutes.

    "Now, Mr. Dellacroce, the reason the

authorities can't catch up with you is

that they don't have access to a

single financial clearinghouse that

ties in specifically with all these

here sundry enterprises. I realize it

will sound strange to you, sir, but I

believe I have that acesss. There's a

bank in Geneva, Switzerland; the first

three numbers-on the account happen to

be seven, one, five. In this account

is something over sixty-two million

dollars "

"Basta! Basta!"

    " and the deposits were made

directly from such locales as I've

suggested. Now I guess you've studied

the new Swiss laws relative to such

accounts. They're tricky because fraud

in one country may not constitute

fraud in Geneva. But goddamn, would

you believe there's now a way for

Interpol to subpoena the records of

those accounts? All the international

police have to do is submit a

97 ,

copy of a payment to a specific

account that's been made by a

convicted narcotics dealer. And it

surely is wondrous good fortune on my

part to have in my possession Xeroxed

copies of quite a few such payments "

    "Basta! You shut up!" Dellacroce

roared. "Fingers! Manny! Carlo! Dino!

Get out here! Now!"

There were only the sounds of the

night in reply.

    "There's no one there. At least no

one that can hear you," said the Hawk

softly.

'What!? Fingers! Figlio delta

prwtftuta! Get out herel"

Nothing.

    "Now, you and I, Mr. Dellacroce, will

step away from my friend and attorney,

here, so we can talk real private

like." MacKenzie touched the Italian's

arm, which was instantly yanked away.

"Meat! Augie! Rocco! You hear me,

boys? Get out here!"

    "They're sleeping, too, sir," said

Hawkins kindly. "They won't wake up

for a couple of hours."

    Dellacroce whipped his head toward

Mac. "You got cops here? How many cops

you got?" The questions overlapped.

    "Nobody. Iust me and my good friend

and attorney "

"How many? Alone you couldn't!"

"Alone, I did," answered the Hawk.

"My best boys!"

    "I'd hate like hell to see your

support troops." MacKenzie chuckled.

"Now it's time for our private talk."

    The Hawk led Dellacroce thirty feet

away. He talked quietly for exactly

four minutes and thirty seconds.

    At which point a rasping,

ear-splitting scream shattered the

stillness of fairway six.

"Mannnnucagggiii'!"

    And Angelo Dellacroce fainted right

there on the manicured grass.

    MacKenzie bent over the man and

gently slapped him back into

consciousness.

    They talked once more with the Hawk

holding the obese Italian's neck as

though he were a medical corpsman.

The scream came again.

"Mannnnuaauggggiii'!"

And Dellacroce fainted again. 98

So the Hawk revived him again.

And they talked for two minutes more.

"Mannnnnnuaggggiiii'!"

    This time MacKenzie lowered the

man's head on the grass of fairway six

and got up. The moon had broken

through the night clouds, revealing a

stunned Sam staring at the sight of

the fallen Dellacroce. This was it,

thought the Hawk, as he walked slowly

toward Devereaux. There was no point

in procrastinating any longer. Sam

would have to be told. There was no

other way.

    "Well, Sam," began Mac with quiet

confidence in the intermittent

moonlight on fairway six, "it's a

pretty good start. Mr. Dellacroce was

eager to subscribe to the full amount

reserved for him. The Shepherd Company

has its first ten million dollars."

    Devereaux's knees buckled. The Hawk

rushed forward and caught him before

he hit the ground. The ground was not

hard but MacKenzie wanted Sam to know

he cared; it was always a good idea to

let one's superior-adjutant know the

commander was concerned for his

well-being. "Goddamn, son, you've got

to stop this kind of thing! You're

behaving no better than Mr.

Dellacroce! Now that's just not

proper; you're cut from a finer

tunicl"

    Sam's eyes were swimming around and

around in the moonlight on fairway

six. The words that emerged from his

trembling lips were by and large

incoherent, but several phrases were

repeated often enough to be under-

stood. "Secretary-treasurert.~h, my

God, I'm a sec'atarytreasurerl Ten

million dollars' worth of cement! I'm

in ten million dollars' worth of shit!

I'll he sunk in concrete pajamas! I'm

dead!"

    "Now, now, stop your wailin'. You're

a big lawyer, fella; you shouldn't act

like this."

    "I should never have met you, you

squirrelly bastard! That's the only

shouldn't of my lifer Oh, my God! That

killer passed out!"

"So did you. Almost. I caught you "

    "Shhh! Let's get out of here! I'll

send him a letter I'll get some

Bellevue stationery I'll certify you

a lunatic! It was all a lousy joker"

"Oh, Mr. Dellacroce knows better than

that, boy." Hawkins 99

patted Devereaux's cheek-with his

right hand while, with his left, he

kept an iron grip on the base of Sam's

skull inhibiting any movement above

the waist. "Dellacroce's a very

religious man, most of these Italian

fellas are; doesn't make any

difference what they do for a living.

That's separate. He knows I told him

the truth."

    "What the hell are you talking about?

What's religion got to do with

anything? Get off my neck!"

    "Religion helps a man recognize the

truth. He may not like it; his religion

may not like it, or even admit it is

the truth, but because he's

contemplated, the religious man can

separate what's real from what's

horseshit. You follow me?"

"Not for a goddamned second! My neck

hurtsl"

    "Sorry. I'll ease up, but it's time

we talk." MacKenzie removed his hand.

Instantly Devereaux bolted, but the.

Hawk merely rolled with him, pinning

him back to the earth. "I said we've

got to talk, boy. You're a reasonable

person; you can see the logic in

that."

    "The problem," whispered Sam,

straining on the ground, "is that

you're not reasonable or logical! Do you

know what you've done? Guys like

that " He gestured with his head;

somehow, he could not use his hands.

"They freeze people for welching on

their bookies! They think nothing

about paying for the biggest funeral

in town for a paisan who held out on a

skim! I.know. I'm from Boston."

    "You're overreacting again. Mr.

Dellacroce won't do anything like

that. He knows where he stands which

is roughly in twenty feet of lye if he

doesn't behave. That account in

Geneva. He stole from his own people."

    Grudgingly, suspiciously, Devereaux

stared at Mac in the moonlight.

"You're sure of that?"

    "It was all in the G-two files.

Trouble was nobody put it together. I

don't think they wanted to;-

Dellacroce's crowd are big Pentagon

supporters, what with government con-

tracts and union affiliations . Now,

will you listen to me?"

    With a reluctance born of fear, but

with an assent formed in necessity,

Sam nodded. The Hawk helped him up and

the two men walked into the rough off

fairway six. There was a large oak

tree whose leaves filtered the

moonlight. Sam sat down against the

trunk; Mac fell to 100

one knee in front of him, the line

officer clarifying orders at a fire

base.

    "Remember a couple of weeks ago my

telling you how I was looking into

things I hadn't thought much about

before? God and the church and things

hike."

    "I remember saying I wouldn't laugh

" Devereaux's reply was flat, wary. A

monotone.

    "That was very thoughtful, boy.

Well, I was doing some thinking, but

not quite in the way you maybe

considered. You and I know that

ninety-nine percent of all Commie

propaganda is horseshit; everybody

knows that. Ours is only say, fifty to

sixty percent, so we're way ahead on

that score. But that one percent of

the Bolshie feedback got me to

wondering. About this Catholic

situation. Not what people believe,

that's their business. But how the

organization operates. And it seemed

to me that these Vatican fellows got

such a good thing going they should

spread a little more around. I mean,

they got investments, son. When the

stock market goes up a couple of

points anywhere in the world, they

make zillions." v

"And if it goes down, they lose

zillions."

    "Not sol The brokers get 'em out in

time or they get canned from the

Knights of Malta. It's part of the ar-

rangement. And they can't get their

pictures taken with the pope.

"That is horseshit."

    "If it is, why do all the Catholic

brokers on Wall Street have all those

initials after their names. You know

of any college degrees that start with

the leper K? Malta, Columbus, Lourdes.

And the saints! Jesus! Knights of

Assisi, Knights of Peter, Matthew it

goes on for pages. It's kind of a

social order. The more a fellow on the

stock exchange does for the Vatican,

the better the K after his name. And

Wall Street's only one example. It's

the same all over the place."

    "I think you've been reading some

pretty strange books. The Ku Klux

Klanne'; maybe. Nineteen twenty

edition."

    "Hell, no. I don't cotton to that

shit. A man's got a right to believe

anything he likes. I'm only talking

about the financial part. Then there's

real estate. Do you know the sort of

real estate the Vatican boys have? I

swear they pick 101

up rent from the Ginza to the Gaza

strips and most places in between.

They own the prime properties in New

York Chicago, Hartford, Detroit 'most

every place where the micks, the wops,

the Polacks and all those kind of

people migrated. They always do it the

same way. They go in early before all

the ethnics get settled and buy up

land and build a big church.

Naturally, all these Ellis Islanders

are nervous being in a strange place

and all, so they build their houses

near the church. In a generation or so

their kids are lawyers and dentists

and own automobile dealerships. So

what do they do? They move out to the

suburbs and go to work where they once

lived, which is now the center of

town, the business district. And the

church property skyrockets! It's a

regular pattern, boy!"

    "I'm trying to find something

negative here and I can't," said Sam,

staring in the shadows at the excited

Hawkins. "What's wrong with the

pattern?"

    "I didn't say it was wrong. I said

it made for one hell of a centralized

portfolio."

"'Centralized portfolio'? You've got

a new vocabulary."

    "Like you said, I've been reading.

And not such strange books as you

might think. You see, Sam, the product

these Vatican boys manufacture that's

not meant disrespectfully, only in a

business sense doesn't change. It may

have to adjust a mite now and then,

take a tuck here or a nip there, but

the basic merchandise stays the same.

That reduces a major cost factor and

allows for a continuous profit figure

with no chance of negative entry "

"'Negative entry'?"

"That's an accounting term."

    "I know it's an accounting term. How

do you know don't tell me. Your

reading material."

"Maggie's drawers, son."

"What?"

    "Never mind. You're on target,

that's all. Now, you take an economic

situation where the stock exchanges

and the real estate markets hold firm,

and that means you got the banks,

because you control both money and

land. Prime economic resources. And

you add to that a product that

requires minimum assembly alterations

with maximum purchase growth hell,

boy, it's a worldwide gold mine." 102

    ..T

l

    "You have been reading. But if

you're right, why's there's so much

hassle over the parochial schools and

their costs?"

    "That's services Sam. That's an

entirely different entry column. I'm

talking about basic portfolios, not

annual operating expenditures; they

fluctuate with economic conditions.

Anyway, it's mostly blackmail."

"That's succinct. They wouldn't like

you in Boston."

    The Hawk shifted his weight and

spoke a little more softly, but with

no loss of emphasis. "You mentioned

before about something wrong. Well, I

don't like to mention it because it

only applies to the pricky-shit high

brass and not the troops, but there is

something that's got a bit of stink to

it."

"You found a moral position?"

    "Morality and economics should be

more related than they have been;

everybody knows that. You take this

political thing. Nobody's traded fire

power with the Reds any better'n I

have. Goddamn, nobody's going to bury

me! But it strikes me.that these

Catholic fellas in the Vatican and

that means all the powerful

dioceses use the Bolshie excuse a mite

too freely to oppose a lot Of reforms

that could make things easier for the

peasant slobs scratching a life out of

very tough ground."

    Devereaux eyed Hawkins skeptically.

"That position's a little dated. A

great many changes are taking place in

the Church. This new pope is opening

a lot of windows. Like John the

Twenty-third did."

    "Not quick enough, Sam. What the

Vatican brass needs is a good shake-up

in commandI" '

"You can't change a two-thousand-year

pattern over

.. ..

nlgflt .

    "Oh, I understand that," interrupted

the Hawk. "And I'm glad you brought up

this new pope. This Francesco. Because

he's a very popular fellow. Even those

who hate his guts for doing what he's

doing know he's the biggest asset

they've got in the whole damn church

that's not meant in a religious sense,

of course. I don't take positions that

way."

"What positions? What sense?"

'1his Francesco," continued Mac,

overlooking Devereaux's 103

questions, "is more than just the

pope, which is enough to begin with.

He's a beloved individual, you know

what I'm driving at?"

"I wish you wouldn't say that."

    "He's the sort of person every man

jack of a Catholic would really

sacrifice for, you see what I mean?"

"I don't like that phrase, either."

    The Hawk changed knees rapidly; it

was good to redistribute weight as

often as possible when in an immobile

position. "Do you know the estimated

total communicant membership of the

Catholic Church?"

"The what?"

    "How many Catholics there are in the

world? Never mind, 111 tell you. Four

hundred million. Now, taking the

median figure of one American

dollar setting a specific date for the

rate of exchange; some giving more,

most less that comes to four hundred

million dollars."

"What does?"

"The projected gross."

"What projected gross?"

    "Of the Shepherd Company's business

services. This here 'brokering the

acquisition of religious artifacts.'

It's a clear ratio of ten to one in

terms of capitalization, but naturally

the profit ratio, as opposed to the

gross figure, will be affected by the

necessary outlay for equipment and

support personnel."

"What the hell are you babbling

about?!"

"We're going to kidnap the pope, Sam."

"WhaotI"

    "I've got a trunkful of books, boy.

I've really-.been studying the

tactical problems and I think I've got

'em licked. You see, there's this

place called Chiesa di San Tommaso di

Villanova in Gandolfo pardon my lousy

Italian and the route from the Vatican

is over a kind of country thoroughfare

called the Via Appia Antica. It's the

road to this here Gandolf~Castel

Gandolfo, they call it. These

Italians, they never use one word when

they can use two."

"Whaant?!"

"Now, don't go overreacting. You'll

wake up Dellacroce." "Whaaet?"

"But first we have to corral the

remaining capitalization. 104

There's thirty million more coming. I

believe I've almost narrowed down the

three investors, but I've still got

some refining to do." The Hawk clapped

his hand over Devereaux's open mouth.

"Now, don't start that again. You keep

repeating yourself."

    Devereaux's eyes bulged above

MacKenzie's spread hand, but the rest

of his body was frozen. Sort of a form

of comatose shock, thought Hawkins.

He'd seen a lot of that kind of thing

when raw recruits got their first

taste of a fire fight. At least Sam

wasn't screaming;. Or struggling. He

was just plain still and kind of cold.

The Hawk continued; he had only a few

words left to say. The in-depth com-

mand analyses would come later. In a

way he was glad Devereaux~s

overreaction was so extreme. In his

enthusiasm he had nearly given Sam

some tactical ink rmation he was not

sure he wanted Devereaux to have.

    "I didn't choose you lightly. No

superior-adjutant is an easy choice

for a commander to make, for in many

ways the SA is an extension of

himself. You got it on merit, boy. I

don't say you're ideal, you've got

deficiencies. I've told you that. But

goddamn, your assets outpoint your

liabilities. I say that as an honest

friend as well as a superior officer.

    "Now, there'll be certain executive

orders that you'll be asked to carry

out, not always knowing precisely why

they're vital. You'll just have to

accept them. Command is a lonely

responsibility; there's not always the

time to share the reasons for one's

decisions. Ask any frontline officer

who sends a battalion into fire. But

you'll do splendidly I just know you

will. And if by any chance you're

tempted to question the orders of your

superior officer, or feel that you

cannot in conscience implement them,

I think you should know that our

investor, Angelo Dellacroce, believes

that you alone, as the attorney and

secretary-treasurer of the Shepherd

Company, compiled that list of his

illegal activities and furnished me

with them. I believe that's why he

didn't care to shake hands with you.

Coupled with your G-two espionage

violations, I'd say your position was

somewhat untenable. But if I were you

and had my druthers, I'd choose to

fight the government treason charges

rather than our investor, Mr.

Dellacroce. I think that 105

Mafia bastard would cut your balls

off, grind 'em up in a blender, and

serve 'em as a fancy pate at your

funeral. Like you said earlier, it'd

probably be an expensive funeral.

    There was no point in the Hawk

holding his hand over his

superior-adjutant's mouth any longer.

Sam had merfed and gleefed in a spasm

of panic and passed out cold.

    The moonlight, filtering through the

leaves of the large, sturdy oak in the

rough off fairway six, cut shafts of

yellow and white across Sam's young,

peaceful, unmistakably strong

features.

    Goddamn, thought MacKenzie, the

boy's going to be fine! He just needed

a little time to absorb the facts. Of

course, if a person didn't know any

better, he'd think the son of a bitch

was dead.

    106

    CHATTIER TEN

Sam Devereaux sank despondently into

the hotel chair and wished he were

dead.

    Well, not really, but it certainly

would solve a lot of problems. Of

course, it was entirely possible that

the state of his demise might come

about whether he desired it or not.

Which brought his eyes back to the

insane, unfired but filled-out limited

partnership agreement between the

Shepherd Company, MacKenzie Hawkins,

President, and the North Hampton

Corporation, Mrs. Angelo Dellacroce,

President, Depository the Great Bank

of Geneva, Switzerland. He held the

legal document in his hand and

wondered absently where his

fingernails had gone.

    Prominently on the first page,

directly under the title of president

and above the line reserved for the

secretarytreasurer, was his name.

    Mr. Samuel Devereaux,

Counselor-at-law, Suite BEE The Drake

Hotel, New York City.

    He speculated for a moment whether

he could alter the Drake's registry

and then abandoned the idea. What was

the point? On one flank (Hank?) was

the United States government with very

specific espionage laws, and on the

other was Angelo Dellacroce and his

guards-of-honor with their white ties

on white shirts and dark glasses and

black suits and very unspecific

methods of dealing with the likes

of"squeals" such as S. Devereaux,

counselor-at-law.

    Sam wondered what Aaron Pinkus would

do. Then he realized what Aaron would

do and abandoned that thought, too.

Pinkus would sit Shiva for him.

    He got out of the chair and wandered

aimlessly through the hotel suite.

What the hell was he going to do? What

in 107

God's name could he do? His gaze fell

on the unsigned, typewritten note on

the desk.

Copies of this limited partnership

agreement have

been sent by messenger to MacKenzie

Hawkins, E:squire, President, the

Shepherd Company, % The Watergate

Hotel, Wash. D.C. Instructions cabled:

Great Bank of Geneva. Funds transfer

awaits presence Sec.-Treas., Shep.

Co., Samuel Devereaux in Geneva.

He had been cabled internationally.

    In some marble banking hall in

Switzerland, a powerful broker of

international finance had no doubt

already listed him as the bona fide

overseer of the transfer of ten

million dollars into an account of a

nonfiled but- very much existing

company named Shepherd.

    That's what he was going to do

whether he liked it or not. It was

Geneva, or a lifetime of cracking

rocks at Leavenworth, or Dellacroce

justice feet-in~ement style.

Kidnap the pope!

    My Godl That's what the crazy

bastard said. He was going to Icidnap

the pope!

    All of Mac's other insanities paled

by any stretch of comparison! World

War Three might be more acceptable! A

simple war would be so much well,

simpler. Borders were defined,

objectives properly obscured,

ideologies flexible. A war was duck

soup compared to 400 million

hysterical Catholics, and heads of

state moaning and groaning their

obsequious platitudes, blaming every

conceivable inimical faction,

extremist or not (secretly glad to be

rid of the meddling nuisance in the

Vatican) and. . .

    My God! World War Three could be a

very logical consequence of Hawkins's

act!

    And with that realization Sam knew

what he had to do. He had to stop

MacKenzie. But he could not stop him

if he were in a maximum security cell

in Leavenworth; who would believe him?

And he certainly could not stop him if

he were at the bottom of one of the

deeper sections of the Hudson River,

probably upstate, courtesy of Angelo

Dellacroce; who would hear him?

108

    No, the only way he could push the

Hawk's insanity out of the realm of

reality was to find out how the hell

MacKenzie intended to pull off his

papal score. The most foolish thing

here would be to assume he couldn't do

it. The Hawk was no joke; anyone who

thought he was need only look at a

few~of Mac's accomplishments including

four extraordinary ex-wives who adored

him, and a little matter of an initial

capitalization of ten million dollars,

to say nothing of military exploits

spanning three decades and the same

number of wars.

    What the Hawk was bringing to the

profession of crime were all the

strategic resources, the finely honed

discipline, and the leadership of an

experienced general officer. MacKenzie

was starting at the top; no graduate

of the lineup he but instead' a

full-fledged criminal commander who

had already outsacked a Mafia don in

his own backyard.

    The son of a bitch had flare. Christ!

He had the balls of King Kong smashing

the concrete off the Empire State

Building as he climbed up the sides.

Kidnap the pope!

Who the hell would believe it?

Samuel Devereaux believed it, that's

who believed it.

What was left was for S. Devereaux,

counselor-at-law, ta. figure out how

to stop it. And stay both alive and

outside prison walls so doing. A vague

idea was coming into focus, but it was

still too blurred to make sense. Yet

there was a core of possibility within

the outlines.

    "Don't be too confident," said Sam

out loud. "You're dealing with a

living, legal, spinal meningitis!"

    But it was possible. He could pretend

to go along with MacKenzie (always

with great reluctance, to act

otherwise would be out of character),

gather in.the diseased money and, at

the last moment, convene the investors

and blow the whole operation out of

the sky. And to save his hide, there'd

be a lot of "in the case of my sudden

demise, my own attorneys are

instructed to publicly reveal..." any

number of things.

    Including the translation of

the-Shepherd Company's "brokering of

religious artifacts."

Who would believe it?

"Stop that!" Sam grabbed his wrist,

startled by the 109

sound of his own voice. He was further

startled by the sound of the

telephone. He raced to it like a man

facing execution rushing to hear what

the governor had to say.

    "Goddamn! This must be the attorney

and secretary and treasurer of the

Shepherd Company! With assets over ten

million dollars! How does that strike

you?"

"It's a leading question. I'll not

indulge."

    "You know something, boy? You must

be a pistol of a lawyer!"

    "Are you sure you want to talk over

the telephone?" asked Devereaux. "It's

been given a pretty good FCC rating

lately."

    "Oh, that's all right. We won't say

anything we shouldn t. At least, I

won't, and I hope to hell you know

better. I just wanted to tell you that

the additional copies of the part-

nership agreement are downstairs

waiting for you. I sent them up last

night with an old master sergeant I

used to know "

    "Good Cod, you had duplicates made?

You damn fool! Those copy places

usually keep a set! If they're

photostats there'll be negatives!"

    "Not where I was. Right down here in

the Watergate lobby there's a big

machine. You put in a quarter for each

page Jesus! You should have seen the

crowds gatherl They're a little jumpy

around here, aren't they? But nobody

saw anything. It was kind of weird.

Everybody staring; nobody saying

anything. Except two guys from the

Washington Post who came running in

from the street "

    "All rightl" interrupted Devereaux.

"The copies are downstairs. What the

hell am I supposed to do with them?"

    "Put 'em in your fancy briefcase,

the one I gave you. Take 'em to

Geneva. You won't need 'em in

Switzerland, of course, but there may

be one or two other stops on the way

back. Namely, London, that's pretty

definite. You'll be at the Savoy for

a day or two. Airline tickets and

everything will be at the hotel in

Geneva. When you're in London a

gentleman named Danf rth will call

you. You'll know what to do."

    "That's dirty pool. I won't know

what to do, I don't know what I'm

doing! You can't ~ just put me in this

crazy 110

situation and not tell me anything.

I'm carrying documentst My name is on

them! I'm involved with the transfer

of ten million dollars""

    "Now, calm down," said the Hawk with

gentle firmness. "Remember what I told

you: There'll be times when, as my

adjutant, you'll be asked to carry out

orders

    "Bul~htt!" roared Sam. "What am I

supposed to say to people?"

    "Well, what's bullshit to one man

may be sugar-coated wheat to another.

If anyone presses you, you're just

helping an old soldier who's quietly

raising a few dollars to spread

religious brotherhood."

'That's absurd," said Devereaux.

"That's the Shepherd Company," said

the Hawk.

    MacKenzie lifted up five specific

pages from the Xeroxed G-2 files

scattered over the hotel bed and took

them to the desk across the room. He

sat down, picked up a red crayon, and

proceeded to mark each copy on the top

left border. One through five.

    Goddamnl It was the sequence he had

been looking for, the pattern he knew

was there because a man can't resist

going back to his first method of

fortune building if the circumstances

appear right. And because time

minimizes the problems and pressures

a person felt decades ago, especially

if the profits remain.

    The cover intelligence out of Hanoi

three years ago had been confusing but

authentic. Authentic, that is, on the

bottom line, everything else was

distorted.

    An Englishman was making a killing

by brokering hardware and ammunition

to North Vietnam.

    No big deal, London did not frown on

trade to the Commie bloc, although

there were specific regulations as to

war machinery. But it was a period

during that screwed-up, half-assed

conflict when the boys in Hanoi and

Moscow and Peking were running slow on

the production lines. Money could be

made in large bundles by anyone who

could divert combat supplies into

North Vietnamese ports.

One Lord Sidney Danforth had done just

that.

    Buying in the United States, West

Germany, and France, he sailed under

Chilean flag ostensibly for ports in

the 111

new African countries. Except the

ships did not go anywhere near Africa.

They altered their courses in interna-

tional Pacific waters, sped north,

refueled in the Russian out-islands,

and headed south to Haiphong as

regulationbound trading vessels.

    G-2 could never prove Danforth's

involvement because the Communist

payments were made directly to the

Chilean companies and Danforth stayed

well out of sight. And Washington was

not about to provoke an incident.

Danforth was a powerful Englishman

with a lot of clout in the Foreign

Office. Nam wasn't worth it.

    What had intrigued MacKenzie,

however, were the two keys: Chilean

flag and African ports. They were

covers that had been used before.

Thirty years ago. During World War II.

    It was common knowledge in

intelligence circles that certain

South American companies with outside

financing had fed war machinery to the

Axis at enormous profit during the

early forties. In those hectic wartime

days the shipping destinations were

always Capetown and Port Elizabeth

because the manifest records in those

harbors were chaotic at best, but

usually nonexistent. Scores of ships

that were supposed to dock in South

Africa altered courses in the southern

Atlantic waters and headed into the

Mediterranean. To Italy, generally. .

    Was it possible that one Lord Sidney

Danforth had imitated his own

operations of three decades past?

    It was one thing to chisel a few

million out of Southeast Asia in the

seventies, something else again to

make a fortune out of the holocaust

that tested the courage of the British

Lion. A man could get his name taken

off the Buckingham Palace guest list

pretty quickly for something like

that.

    It was time for the Hawk to have a

transatlantic talk with Lord Sidney

Danforth, seventy-two-year-old

knighted paragon of British industry.

And just about the wealthiest man in

England.

    Goddamnl The Shepherd Company was

attracting some of the most

interesting investors.

    112

    CHAPlER ELEVEN

The Strand was crowded. It was shortly

past five o'clock; the legion of

office workers were heading home.

    Sam had arrived at Heathrow Airport

on the 3:40 flight from Geneva and had

wasted no time getting to the relaxed

comfort of a Savoy suite. He needed

it. Geneva had been a nightmare.

    He had realized that for any future

record, he had to convey a very

specific ignorance as to the

objectives of the Shepherd Company,

cloaking this lack of knowledge in

profound respect for the unnamed

principals involved; especially the

president, who was motivated by

deeplyfelt religious convictions.

    The Geneva bankers were, at first

impressed by his humility. My God, ten

million united States dollars and the

overseeing lawyer only smiled and

spoke convivial banalities, demurring

when pressed for identities, nodding

soulfully about religious brotherhood

when the staggering amount was brought

up. So they asked him out to lunch,

where there were a lot of winks and

drinks and offers of bedroom

gymnastics of an incredible variety.

This was, after all; Switzerland; a

buck was a buck and this hardnosed

approach was not to be confused with

yodeling and edelweiss and Heidi in

her pinafores. Gradually, thought

Devereaux, as the lunches evolved into

dinners, the Geneva bankers thought he

was either the dumbest attorney ever

to practice before the American bar or

the most implausibly secretive

middleman ever to cross their borders.

    He kept up the charade for three

days and nights, leaving behind a

half-dozen confused Swiss

burgomasters, tearfully frustrated

over unrequited confidences and terri-

113

bly sick to their stomachs after too

much industrial lubricant. And the

strain on Sam was unbearable. He had

reached the point where he could not

concentrate on anything but his own

rigid, blank smile and the necessary

quiet control of his fears. He was so

preoccupied with himself that when the

vice-president of the Great Bank of

Geneva saw him off at the airport,

Devereaux just smiled and said "Thank

you" when the banker threw up over his

raincoat.

    In his anxiety to get the hell out of

Geneva, he had left his shaving kit

behind, which explained why he was now

on The Strand looking for a drugstore.

He walked south for a block and a half,

opposite the Hippodrome, and went into

the Strand Chemists. His purchases made,

he headed back to the hotel,

anticipating a long, warm bath, a shave,

and a good dinner at the Savoy Grille.

    "Major Devereaux!" The voice was

enthusiastic, American, and feminine. It

came from a taxi which stopped in Savoy

Court.

    It was Sloping yet Argumentative, the

fourth Mrs. MacKenzie Hawkins, the

lovely lady named Anne. She

. hurled herself at Sam, encircling his

neck with her arms pressing her cheek

and various other parts against him.

    Instantly she withdrew and rather

awkwardly composed herself. "I'm awful

sorry. Gosh, that was real forward of

me. Please forgive me. It was just so

terrific to see a familiar face."

    "Nothing to apologize for," said Sam,

remembering that Sloping yet

Argumentative had appeared to him as the

most naive, as well as the youngest, of

the four wives. She had oohed a lot, if

he recalled correctly. "Are you staying

at the Savoy?"

    "Yes. I got in last night. I've never

been to England before, so I spent the

whole day just walking everywhere. Gosh,

my feet are yelling at me." She parted

her very expensive suede coat and

frowned at the lovely legs very much in

evidence below her short skirt.

- "Well, let's get you off them

quickly. Into the bar, I

mean."

    "I can't tell yout It's just so marry to

see someone you knowl"

114

"Are you here by yourself?" asked

Devereaux.

    "Oh yes. Don, he's my husband now is

so darned busy with his marinas and

restaurants and all those other things

that he just said to me last week in

LA, he said, 'Annie, honey, why don't

you get your pretty little ass out of

the way for a while? This is going to

be a heavy month.' Well, I thought of

Mexico and Palm Springs and all the

usual places, and then I figured,

damn! Annie, you've never been to

London. So off I flew." She nodded

brightly to the Savoy doorman and

continued as Sam gestured her through

the entrance into the lobby. "Don

thought I was crazy. I mean, who do I

know in England? But I think that was

part of it, you know? I wanted to go

someplace where there weren't all the

usual faces. Somewhere really differ-

ent."

"I hope I didn't spoil it."

"How?"

"Well, you said I was a familiar

face "

    "Oh, my, no! I said familiar, but I

didn't mean familiar: I mean, one

little short afternoon at Ginny's

isn't that kind of familiar."

    "I see what you mean. The lounge is

right up those stairs." Sam nodded

toward the steps on the left that led

to the Savoy's American Bar. But Anne

stopped, still holding onto his arm.

    "Major," she began haltingly, "my

feet are still screaming and my neck

is sore from looking up and my

shoulder's aching from this darned

purse strap. I'd really love to spend

a little time straightening myself

out."

    "Oh, sure," replied Devereaux. "I'm

being thoughtless. And stupid. As a

matter of fact I was going to do some,

er, straightening out myself. I left

my shaving gear in Switzerland." He

held up the bag from the Strand Chem-

ists.

"Well then, that's marvel"

"I'll call you in about an hour "

    "Why do that? Have you seen the size

of those johnnies upstairs? Wowl

They're bigger than some of Don's

ladies' rooms. In his restaurants, I

mean. There's plenty of room. And

those big, groovy towels. I swear

they're terry cloth sheets!" She

squeezed his arm and smiled

ingenuously.

115

"Well, it is solution "

"The only one. Come on, we'll get some

drinks from room service and really

relax." They started for the elevator

n

"It's very kind of you "

    "Kmd, hell! Ginny told us you called.

She positively forded it over us. Now

it's my turn. You were in Geneva?"

Sam stopped. "I said Switzerland "

"Isn't that Geneva?"

    Anne's suite was also on the Thames

side, also on the sixth Hoor, and

conveniently no more than fifty feet

down the corridor.from his.

    Su~itze7land. Isn't that Geneva?

Several thoughts crossed Devereaux's

mind, but he was entirely too exhausted

to dwell on them. And, for the first

time in days, entirely too relaxed to

let them interfere.

    The rooms were very like his own.

High ceilings with real moldings;

marvelous old furniture polished, func-

tionaWdesks and tables and pictures and

chairs and a sofa that would do credit

to Parke-Bernet; mantel clocks and

lamps that were neither nailed down nor

with imbedded plastic cards proclaiming

ownership; tall casement win-, cows,

flanked by regal drapes, that looked

out on the river with the lights of

small boats, the buildings beyond, and

especially Waterloo Bridge'

    He was in the sitting room, on the

pillowed sofa, with his shoes off and

a tall drink in his hand. The London

Philharmonic was on BBC1, playing a

Vivaldi concerto, and the warmth from

a heater filled the room with a

splendid comfort. Good things came to

the deserving, thought Sam.

    Anne came out of the bathroom and

stopped in the frame of the doorway.

Devereaux's glass was suddenly checked

on its way to his lips. She was

dressed if that was the word in a

translucent sheath that at once left

little to, yet completely provoked, the

imagination. Her Sloping yet

Argumentative breasts swelled to

blushing points beneath the soft,

single layer of fabric; her long,-

light-brown hair fell casually and

sensually over her shoul116

ders, framing her extraordinary

endowments. Her tapered legs were

outlined under the sheath.

    Without saying a word, she raised

her hand and beckoned him with her

finger. He rose from the sofa and

followed.

    Inside the huge, tiled bathroom, the

enormous Savoy tub was filled with

steaming water; several thousand bub-

bles gave off the scent of roses and

wet springtime. Anne reached up and

removed his tie, and then his shirt,

and then unstrapped his buckle,

unzipped his trousers and lowered them

to the floor. He kicked them free

himself.

    She placed her hands on both sides

of his waist and pulled down his

shorts, kneeling as she did so.

    He sat on the edge of the warm tub

while she pulled off his socks; and

she held his left arm as he slid over

the side, his body disappearing under

the steaming white bubbles.

    She stood up, undid a yellow bow at

her neck, and the sheath fell to the

floor on top of the thick white rug.

She was utterly magnificent.

And she got into the tub with Sam.

    "Do you want to go down to dinner?"

asked the girl from beneath the

covers.

"Sure," replied Devereaux from under

same.

    "Do you know we slept for over three

hours? It's nearly nine-thirty." She

stretched; Sam watched. "After we eat,

let's go to one of those pubs."

    "If you like," said Devereaux, still

watching her, his head on the pillow.

She was sitting up now, the sheet had

fallen to her waist. Sloping yet

Argumentative were challenging all

they surveyed.

    "Gosh," Anne spoke softly, a touch

awkwardly, as she turned and looked

down at Sam, who could barely see her

face. "I'm being real forward again."

"Friendly's a better word. I'm

friendly, too."

    "You know what Lmean." She bent over

him and kissed him on both eyes. "You

may have other plans; things you have

to do or something."

    "Things I want to do," interrupted

Devereaux warmly. "All plans are

completely flexible, subject only to

whim and pleasure."

117

"That sounds sexy as hell."

"I feel sexy as hell."

"Thank you."

    "Thank you." Sam reached above and

beyond her soft lovely back and pulled

the sheet over them.

    Ten minutes later (it was either ten

minutes or several hours, thought

Devereaux) they made the decision:

They really did need food, preceded,

of course, by short, smoky drams of

iced whiskey, which they had in the

sitting room, on the pillowed couch,

under two soft, enormous bath towels.

    "I think the word is 'sybaritic.'"

Sam adjusted the terry cloth over his

lap. BBC1 was now playing a Noel

Coward medley and the smoke from their

cigarettes drifted into the sprays of

warm orange light from the fireplace.

Only two lamps were turned on; the

room was dreamed of in a thousand

ballads.

    "Sybaritic has a selfish meaning,"

said the girl. "We share, that's not

selfish."

    Sam looked at her. Hawkins's fourth

wife was no idiot. How in hell did he

do it? Had he done it? "The way we

share, it's sybaritic, believe me."

    "If you want me to," she answered,

smiling and putting her glass down on

the coffee table.

"It s not important. Why don't we

dress and go eat.?"

    "All right. I'll just be a few

seconds." She saw his questioning

expression. "No, I will. I don't

dawdle for hours. Mac once said " She

stopped, embarrassed.

"It's okay,"-he said gently. 'I'd

really like to hear."

    "Well, he once said that if you try

to change the outside too much, you

can't help but mix up the inside. And

you shouldn't do that unless there's

a goddamned good reason. Or if you

really don't like yourself" She swung

her legs out from under her and rose

from the couch, holding the towel

around her body. "One, I don't see any

reason; and two, I kind of like me.

Mac taught me that, too. I like us."

    "So do I," said Devereaux. "When

you're finished, we'll go down to my

room and I'll change."

    "Good. I'll button your shirt and

tie your tie." She grinned and dashed

through the foyer door into the bed-

room. Devereaux got up naked, throwing

the long towel 118

over his shoulder, and went to the

side table where the bar was set up in

a silver tray. He poured q small

quantity of Scotch and thought about

Mac Hawkins's barroom philosophy.

    Change the outside too much you mix

up the inside. . It wasn't bad, all

things considered.

    The tiny white light shone between

the red and green bulbs on the small

panel beside Devereaux's door. Sam and

the girl saw it simultaneously as they

walked down the corridor and

approached his suite. It was the sign

that a message was at the front desk

for the guest. Devereaux swore under

his breath.

    Goddamn it! Geneva had not been

erased that quickly. Or so completely,

either. The least Hawkins could do was

to let him get a decent night's sleep!

    "One of those lights was on for me

this afternoon," said Anne. "I came

back to change my shoes and found it;

it means you have a phone call."

"Or a message."

    "Mine was a call. From Don in Santa

Monica. I finally got him back; you

know, it was only eight o'clock in the

morning in California."

"Nice of him to get up and phone."

    "Not so. My husband owns two things

in Santa Monica: a restaurant and a

girl. The restaurant's not open at

eight in the morning; forgive my

bitchiness. I think Don just wanted to

make sure I was really seven thousand

miles away." Anne smiled up at him

naively. He was not sure how to

respond' all things considered.

    "Seems like a lot of trouble for,

well, for checking up." Sam.snapped on

the light switch in his foyer. Beyond,

the sitting room lamps were on, as he

had left them five hours ago.

    "My husband suffers from a mental

illness peculiar to cheap strayers. As

a lawyer, I'm sure you're familiar

with it. He's paranoid about getting

caught. Not morally, you understand;

when he's juiced up, he flaunts that

part. Just financially; he's scared to

death some court will make him pay big

if I opt for out."

    They walked into his sitting room;

he wanted to say something but, again,

all things considered he was not 119

sure what it should be. He chose the

safest. "I think the man's out of his

mind." $'

    "You're sweet, but you didn't have

to say it. On the other hand, I

suppose it's the safest thing you

could say

    "Let's find another subject," he

interrupted quickly indicating the

couch and the coffee table with the

Savoysupplied newspapers on it. ' Sit

down and I'll be with you in a minute.

I haven't forgotten: You button the

shirt and tie the tie." Sam started

for the bedroom door.

"Aren't you going to call the desk?"

    "It can wait," he answered from the

bedroom. 1 have no intention of

letting anything interfere with a

quiet dinner. Or for that matter,

showing you a pub or two, if they're

still open when we're finished."

    You really should find out who's

trying to reach you. It could be

important."

    "You're important," shouted Sam,

removing a tan double-knit suit from

the awkward hanger in his suitcase.

    "It could be something vital," said

the girl from the sitting room.

    'You're vital," he replied,

selecting a red-striped shirt from the

next layer of clothes.

    I can't ever not answer a phone, or

check for messages, or call back even

a name I never heard of; that's being

too casual."

    "You're not a lawyer. Ever tried to

get a lawyer the day after you've

hired him? His secretary is trained to

lie with the conviction of Aimee

Semple McPherson."

    "Why?" Anne was now standing in the

bedroom doorway.

    "Well, he's got your money; he's

scrounging around for another fee.

What the hell, your case probably

entails an exchange of letters with

the opposing attorney, other

explanations notwithstanding. He

doesn't want complications."

    Anne approached him as he slipped on

the red-striped shirt. She

nonchalantly began buttoning it.

'You're a very cool Clyde. Here you

are in strange country "

    "Not so strange," he broke in,

smiling. "I've been here before. I'm

your tour guide, remember?"

120

.j

    "I mean, you've just come from

Geneva where you obviously had a bad

time "

'Not so bad. I survived."

" and now someone is desperately

trying to find you "

"What's desperate? I don't know

anybody so desperate."

    "For Christ's sakel" The girl yanked

his collar as she fastened it. "Things

like this make me nervous!"

"Why?"

"I feel responsible!"

    "You shouldn't." Devereaux was

fascinated. Anne was very serious. He

wondered....

And the telephone rang.

"Hello?"

    "Mr. Samuel Devereaux?" asked the

precise voice of a male Britisher.

"Yes, this is Sam Devereaux."

"I've been waiting for your call "

    "I just got in," interrupted Sam. "I

haven't checked my messages yet. Who

is this?"

"At the moment, merely a telephone

number."

    Devereaux paused, annoyed. "Then I

should tell you you would have waited

all night. I don't return calls to

telephone numbers."

    "Come, sir," was the agitated reply.

"You're not expecting any other caller

of consequence."

"That's a little presumptuous, I think

    "Think whatever you like, sir! I'm

in- a great hurry and quite put out

with you. Now, where do you wish to

meet?"

    "I don't know that I want to. Fuck

off, Basil, or whatever the hell your

name is."

    The pause was now on the other end

of the line. Sam could hear heavy

breathing. In seconds the telephone

number spoke. "For God's sake, have

pity on an old man. I've done you no

harm."

    Sam was suddenly touched. The voice

had cracked slightly; the man was

desperate. He remembered Hawkins's

last conversation. "Are you "

"No names, please!".

"All right. No names. Are you

recognizable?"

"Extremely. I thought you knew that."

"I didn't. So we meet someplace out

of the way."

    121

"Very much so. I thought you knew

that, too."

    "Stop saying that!" Devereaux was as

much annoyed with Hawkins as he was

with the Englishman on the telephone.

"Then you'd better choose it, unless

you want to come to the Savoy."

    "Impossible! That's kind of you. I

have several apartment buildings in

Belgravia. Ones the Empire Arms; do

you know it?

"I can find it."

    "Good. I'll be there. Flat four

seven. It will take me an hour to get

into London."

"Don't hurry. I don't want to meet in

an hour."

"Oh? At what time then?"

"When do the pubs close these days?"

"Midnight. A little over an hour."

"Shit!"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I'll see you at one o'clock."

    "Very well. The Empire security will

be alerted. Remember, no names. Just

flat four seven."

"Four seven."

"And, Devereaux. Bring the papers."

"What papers?"

    The pause was longer now, the

English breathing heavier. "That

goddamned agreement, you ass.

    The girl not only accepted the fact

that their dinner would be short and

that he had to leave the hotel, but

she seemed positively elated.

    Sam was wondering less and less. The

why escaped him, but the what was

becoming clearer. He agreed to have a

nightcap with her when he returned.

The hour was unimportant, Anne said;

she gave him a key.

    The taxi stopped at the curb in

front of the Empire Arms. At Sam's

mention of flat four seven, he was led

by a doorman in a series of swift,

secretive movements that took him

through service doors, a short back

staircase, a freight elevator, and the

delivery entrance of the flat.

    An ominous looking man with a north

country accent asked for

identification and then led Sam

through a pantry, a large living room,

a hallway, and finally to a small

dimly 122

lit library where a rather ugly little

old man sat in shadows by the window.

The door closed. Devereaux stood,

adjusting his eyes to the light and

the unattractive ancient in the

armchair.

"Mr. Devereaux naturally," said the

wrinkled old man.

"Yes. You must be the Danforth Hawkins

spoke of,"

    "Lord Sidney Danforth." The ugly

little person spat out the ugly words,

then suddenly his voice was syrup. "I

don't know how your employer pieced

together what he did, nor do I for a

moment admit anything; it's all so

preposterous. And so long ago.

Nevertheless, I am a good man, a

charitable man. Quite a wonderful man.

Give me the damned papers!"

"What?"

"The agreement, you insufferable

bastard!"

    Stunned, Sam reached into his breast

pocket where he had 4 folded copy of

the Shepherd Company's limited

partnership. He crossed to the ugly

little person and gave it to him.

Danforth swung out a portable desk

panel from somewhere at the side of

the armchair and snapped on a bright

worklight at the top of the board. He

grabbed the papers and started

scanning them.

    "Fine!" said Danforth, wheezing,

Sipping over the pages. "They say

absolutely nothing!" The little

Britisher reached for a pen and began

filling in the blank lines. When he

had finished, he refolded the papers

and handed them distastefully to

Devereaux. "Now, get out! I am a

marvelous man, a magnanimous provider,

a humble multimillionaire whom

everyone adores. I have richly

deserved the extraordinary honors

heaped upon my person. Everybody knows

that. And nobody, I repeat, nobody

could conceivably associate me with

such madness! I am only spreading

brotherhood do you understand me?

Brotherhood, I sayi"

"I don't understand anything," said

Sam.

    "Neither do I," replied Danforth.

"The transfer will be made in the

Cayman Islands. The bank is listed and

the ten million will be shifted within

forty-eight hours. Then I'm through

with you!"

"The Cayman Islands?"

"They're in the Caribbean, you ass."

    123

-

    CHAPTER TWELVE

He could see the tiny white light

shining fifty feet down the Savoy

corridor. He did not have to get any

closer to know it was the door to his

rooms; avoiding it was a second, very

good reason to let himself into Anne's

suite.

    "If that's not you, Sam, I've got

problems," she calledfrom the

bedroom.

"It's me. All your problems are happy

ones."

"I like those kind."

    Devereaux walked into the large

bedroom with the windows overlooking

the river. Anne was sitting-up, read-

ing a brightly colored paperback by

the light of the table lamp. "What's

that?" he asked. "It looks

impressive."

    "A marvelous history of Henry the

Eighth's wives. I got it at the Tower

this morning. That man was a monster!"

"Not really. A lot of his troubles

were geopolitical."

"In his crotch they were!"

    "That's more historically sound than

you may think. How about a drink?"

    "You've got to make a phone call

first. I promised; first thing you did

when you got back."

    The girl turned a page calmly. Sam

was not only astonished, he was

curious. "What did you say?"

    "MacKenzie called. All the way from

Washington." She turned another page.

    "MacKenzie?" Devereaux could not help

himself; he roared. "Just MacKenzie

called! You're sitting there like you

heard from room service and tell me

MacKenzie called. How do you know he

called? Did he call you?"

    "Really, Sam, stop being so uptight."

Cold as ice, she turned another

goddamned page. "It's not as though I

didn't know him. I mean, after all "

124

    "Oh, no! Spare me the odious

comparisons! I just want to know about

this extraordinary coincidence that

has you seven thousand miles from home

taking a telephone call from an

ax-husband who's calling Three

thousand miles from New York."

    "If you'll calm down, I'll tell you.

If you won't, I'm just going to keep

on reading."

    Devereaux thought about how much he

wanted a drink; but he suppressed his

anger and spoke quietly. ''I'm calm

and I would very much like to have you

speak. Please

..

spea<.

    Alne put the book down on her lap and

looked up at him. "To begin with, Mac

was every bit as uptight as you are

when I got on the line." .

"How did you get on the line?"

"Because I was worried.

"That's why, not how."

    "If you recall, and I think you will

if you try real hard, you left me at

the table downstairs. You were running

late and. I insisted. I told you I'd

sign the check and go upstairs. Am I

right so far?"

"I owe you for dinner. Go on."

    "A nice young man in white tie and

tails came to the table and said there

was an urgent transatlantic call for

you. Are they always so dressed up?"

"It's a Savoy custom. What did you

say?"

    "That you wouldn't be back until very

late; I wasn't sure of the time. He

seemed upset so I asked him if I could

help. He said the caller was a General

Hawkins from Washington, and I think

the rank and the city made him

nervous. Mac always does that; it gets

better telephone service. So I told

him not to worry about a thing. I'd

talk to the old fart. He liked that."

Anne returned to her book. "Now, go

call him. The number's on the desk in

the others room. It's also on the desk

in your place and also down

stairs. I'm very flattered that you

got it here first."

    It was possible, Sam reflected.

Unlikely but within the scope of

possibility, as certain radio waves

indicated the possibility of

additional civilizations in galactic

space. "What did Hawkins say? How was

he uptight?"

"Oh, just that I was here, I suppose,"

said the girl, 1a5

reluctantly taking her eyes off the

page. "He started swearing and yelling

and giving orders. I said 'Mac,' I

said, 'go wash your mouth out with

brown soap)' I always used to tell him

that. I mean he uses language we

stayed away from in Belle Isle.

Anyway, he calmed down and started to

laugh." Anne's eyes drifted upward, at

nothing. She was remembering, thought

Sam, and those memories were not cold

ones. "He asked me if I'd gotten rid

of the fancy gigolo waiter yet that's

what he calls Don and if not, why not.

And how you were such a nice fellow.

You know, Mac thinks a great deal of

you. Anyhow, it is very important that

you call him back. I said it'd be

awfully late; maybe not until three in

the morning. But he said that was all

right; it would only be ten o'clock in

Washington."

"Can't it wait until morning?"

    "No. Mac was very emphatic. He said

if you thought about putting it off I

should tell -you it had something to

do with an Italian gentleman who was

asking for you."

"Did he add that he was in the

undertaking business?"

    "No. But I think you should call

him. If you want privacy, you can use

the phone in the other room."

    "Goddamn, boy! Isn't it a real small

world! There you are halfway across

the globe and who do you run into but

little old Annie. Not that she's old,

you understand "

    "I understand," interrupted Sam,

"that you've got greetings for me from

Dellacroce. What did you tell your

deeply religious friend now? That I

crucified Jesus?"

    "Hell, no. That was just a little

psycho-prod, in case you were

reluctant to return my call. I haven't

even talked to Dellacroce. I don't

think he's in favor of any further

communications. Does that make you

feel better?"

    Devereaux lit a cigarette. It helped

cover the slight pain that was

developing in his stomach. "I'll tell

you the truth, Mac. It simply makes me

nervous that you called me at all. It

makes me feel that you are about to

say something that will not bring me

any closer to Boston, or my mother, or

my real employer, Aaron Pinkus; that's

the way your psych-prod makes me

feel."

    There was a long series of audible

tsks from MacKenzie Hawkins in

Washington. "You are a very suspicious

per126

son. It must be the lawyer in you. How

did everything go with Danforth'?"

    "He's a madman. He blows hot and

cold like a psycho. He also signed the

papers; he's in for ten million for

reasons I . can't possibly imagine.

The bank's in the Cayman Islands, which

is, I assume, the reason for your

telephone call."

"You mean you think I'd ask you to go

to the Caymans?"

"It crossed my mind."

    "I wouldn't do that. The Caymans

aren't any fun. Just dinky little hot

spots with lots of banks and

pricky-shit bankers. They're trying to

make the place into another

Switzerland.... No, I'll fly down

there myself and take care of it. And

you've got another ten thousand added

to your account. Thought you'd like to

kn~that."

    "Mac!" Devereaux's stomach

experienced a sharp, stinging

sensation. "You can't do that!"

    "It's easy, boy. You just make the

cashiers check out for deposit only."

    "That's not what I meant You have no

right putting money into my account)"

"The bank didn't argue "

    "The bank wouldn't argue! I argue! I

am arguing! Christ, don't~you

understand? It means you're paying

me!"

"One-tenth of one percent? Goddamn,

boy, I'm cheating

.,,

you!

    "I don't want to be paid! I don't

want anything to do with any money

from you! That makes me an accessory!"

    "I don't know anything about that,

but it's surely not right for one

person to call upon the time and the

talents of another person and not pay

him for it." Hawkins's voice had the

ring of a quiet evangelist.

    "Oh, shut up, you son of a bitch,"

said Devereaux, recognizing the

inevitability of defeat. "Outside of

Danforth, why did you call?"

    "Well, now that you mention it,

there's a fellow in West Berlin I'd

like you to talk with."

    "Wait. Don't tell me," interrupted

Sam wearily. '4The airline tickets and

the hotel reservations will be at the

Savoy desk before I can say kippered

herring."

"By morning, anyway."

127

    "Okay, Mac, I know when I'm hung." He

was getting in deeper. Somehow, some

way, sometime, Sam thought, hewould

have to climb out.

MacKenzie wrote out the figure

numerically.

$20,000,000.00

Then he wrote it in words:

Twenty million dollars.

    Strange, but it had no real effect on

him. It was merely a means, not an end

in itself. Although it had occurred to

him that he could easily call it an

economic day, wrap it up, and retire to

the south of France. Certainly, neither

Dellacroce nor Danforth would sue. Not

bloody likely. But that wasn't what it

was all about, the money was both a

conveyance and a by-product. And in its

way, a legitimate form of punishment.

The two marks deserved their losses.

    But time was running short and he

could not allow himself to get

sidetracked. Suminer was only a few

months away; there was an enormous

amount of work to do. The selection and

training of the support personnel would

be time-consuming. The leasing and

stocking of the maneuver site would be

difficult, especially the covert

purchasing of equipment. The maneuvers

themselves would take a number of

weeks. All told, there was a great deal

to accomplish in a short time. Because

of this it was a natural

    temptation to veer from the initial

strategy and go with less than the full

capitalization, but it would be wrong.

That's for sure. He had set the figure

of forty million not merely for the

nuinerical symmetry to the four hundred

million (although it certainly looked

proper on the limited partnership

agreement, in the blank lines he had

filled out), but because forty million

took care of everything, including

last-extremity contingencies.

    Otherwise known as quick-witted

evacuation of the fire base.

    It would have to be forty million. He

was just about ready for his third

investor.

Heinrich Koenig, Berlin.

Herr Koenig had not been easy. Whereas

Sidney Danford' 128

had overworked his modus operandi in

Chile, and whereas Angelo Dellacroce

had been just plain sloppy with regard

to his Mediterranean payments and

entirely too ostentatious in his manner

of living, Heinrich Koenig had made no

obvious errors, and lived the quiet

life of a country squire in a peaceful

rural town twenty-odd miles from

Berlin.

    But twenty-two years ago Koenig had

played an enormously dangerous game

brilliantly. A game that not only

netted him a fortune but also insured

the capitalization and ultimate success

of his various business enterprises.

    During the height of the Cold War,

Koenig was a double

agent-cum-blackmailer. He began by

secretly informing on single agents to

both sides, then extorting

cash financed through opposing

intelligence channels from those

seeking protection from exposure. Soon

he was issued exclusive international,

nontariff "franchises" for his new

companies from scores of countries

dependent upon the economic goodwill of

both giant factions. Finally, with the

grace of Mephistopheles, he forced

Washington, London, Berlin, Bonn, and

Moscow into declaring his companies

outside the regulatory legalities that

governed other industries. Koenig

accomplished this by explaining to each

that he would inform the others of its

past activities.

    And then, to the profound relief of

many governments, Koenig retired. He

had built his empire on the trampled

bodies deceased and paralyzed of half

the bureaucratic and industrial

population of Europe and America. He

had remained untouchable because of the

very real terror of chain

reaction-reprisal. What bureaucrat,

what undersecretary, what minister or

statesman (indeed, what head of a

government) would allow access to the

horrors of Pandora's box? So, in

retirement, Koenig remained as safe as

during his halcyon days of furious

activity.

    Fear was Koenig's clout. But there

was no fear or clout if a man didn't

give a good goddamn about reaction or

reprisals governmental, industrial, or

international.

- And naturally this was Hawkins's

weapon.

    For there was an international army

of victims,who would quick-march for

the kill if they thought they could 129

    I,'

do so with impunity, if everyone realized

his past sins were known to everybody

else. Complete disclosure was Mac's

threat.

    Koenig would certainly see the logic of

this approach; it was the absence of it

that had guaranteed his fortunes. He

surely could foretell the effects of

several hundred lengthy cablegrams sent

simultaneously to several hundred inhab-

itants of the corridors of power

throughout the world. Oh, yes! Koenig

would be convinced, the instant a barrage

of names, dates, and activities was

rattled off to him.

    MacKenzie picked up the raw-fle Xeroxes

from the bed, keeping the piles in

sequence, and carried them to the coffee

table in front of the couch. He sat dowry

and with the red crayon he began circling

two or three items on each page.

; Things were going beautifully. It

was all a question of

making a realistic appraisal of one's

capabilities and the

logistics available to complement those

abilities. Simple

inventory. He picked up the Xeroxes,

moved to the desk,

and arranged the papers properly in

front of the telephone. He was ready to

calmly, dispassionately recite a

record of international duplicity that

would cause Genghis

Khan to blush.

Heinrich Koenig would part with ten

million dollars.

    His eyes rimmed with black circles of

exhaustion

Devereaux went through customs at

Berlin's Templehof Airport, fully

prepared to have his forehead stamped by

the officiously barking neo-Nazi who

inspected his papers and luggage. Christ,

he thought, give a German a rubber stamp

and he went wild.

    At one point he stared in amazement at

the contents of his own suitcase.

Everything was folded neatly and arranged

tidily as though packed by Bergdorf

Goodman, and he simply did not pack

suitcases that way. Then through the fog

of dislocation, he remembered that Anne

had taken care of everything. She not

only had packed for him, she had also

accompanied him to the cashier's desk and

helped him settle his bill.

    She had done all this, reflected Sam,

because he was not in condition to do

much for himself. The insanity of his 130

predicament had led him into a battle

with a bottle of Scotch. He lost. The

only thing he did remember to do was

to airmail the goddamned limited

partnership agreement to Hawkins.

    Berlin's Kempinsky Hotel was a

Teutonic version of New York's

old~Sherry-Netherland with a slightly

harsher interior; the overstuffed

lobby chairs seemed cast more in

concrete than leather. Still, it

screamed money, polished dark wood,

arid terribly proper clerks Sam knew

hated his weak, democratically

oriented, and inferior guts.

    The front desk dispensed with him

efficiently and swiftly. He was

escorted by a disagreeable aging SS

Oberfuhrer who treated his suitcase as

though it contained bagels and lox.

Once inside the suite (it was

enormous; Mac Hawkins did send him

first class) the Oberfuhrer snapped up

the shades in the various rooms with

the authority of a Nan used to issuing

commands to a firing squad. Devereaux,

fearing for his life, grossly

overtipped him, saw him to the door as

if he were a visiting diplomat and bid

him a gracious auf Wiedersehen!

    He opened his suitcase. Anne had

possessed the foresight to wrap a full

bottle of Scotch in a Savoy towel. If

there was ever a time to ingest the

indigestible, it was now. Not much;

just enough to get the motor running.

    There was a knock on the door. Sam

was so startled he coughed a mouthful

of whiskey over the bed. He corked the

bottle and furiously looked for a

place to hide it.

    Under the pillow! Covered by the

bedspread! He stopped. What was he

doing? What the hell was the matter

with him? What was happening to him?

Goddamn you, MacKenzie Hawkins!

    He took a deep breath, and calmly

placed the bottle on the dresser top.

He took another deep breath, opened

the door, and promptly, involuntarily,

expelled every bit of air in his

lungs.

    Standing in the door frame was the

blonde Aphrodite from Palo Alto,

California, catalogued in his memory

as Narrow and Pointed. The third Mrs.

MacKenzie Hawkins. Lillian.

    "I knew it was you! I said to the

man at the desk that it had to be

you!"

131

    Sam was not sure why he had

catalogued Lillian as Narrow and

Pointed. "Narrow" did the lady an

injustice. Perhaps it was a relative

adjective, subject to the immediate

visual comparison to the other six.

    Devereaux was thinking these absurd

thoughts and he was aware staring like

a twelve-year-old at his first Art~sts

and Models magazine, while Lillian sat

across from him, explaining that she

had flown into Berlin three days ago

to attend a two-week course in gourmet

cooking.

    Of course, it was unbelievable.

After all, he was a skilled attorney.

He had analyzed scores of crime-ridden

mentalities, stripping away the layers

of fraud from sophisticated deceivers

on all levels of the social jungle. In

spite of his drained mind and body, he

was not a man to be conned easily and

he would let the third Mrs. MacKenzie

Hawkins know that in spades! He stared

at her harder then mentally shrugged.

What the hell!

    "So there we are, Sam. I may call

you Sam, mayn't 1? It's amazing what

an interest in really fine cooking can

lead to."

    "But entirely plausible, Lillian!

That's what makes coincidences

truly well, coincidental!" Sam laughed

quasihysterically, doing his best to

control his eyes. He was simply too

exhausted to be successful; he just

gave up and let his eyes roam freely.

    "And I can't think of a better way

to see Berlin. If we're lucky, we can

find an indoor tennis court! I hear

the hotel has a swimming pool; perhaps

a gymnasium " Lillian stopped and

Devereaux felt deprived; in his spent

condition he was enjoying the soft,

breathless, aural massage. "I may be

taking far too much for granted. Are

you traveling alone?"

He knew he shouldn't. He shouldn't.

"More alone than I've ever been in my

life."

    "Well, we certainly can't have that.

If you don't mind my saying so, you

look dreadfully tired. I think you've

been working half to deaths You really

need someone to look after you."

"I am only a warm shadow of my

substance...."

    "You poor lamb. Come over here and

let me rub your shoulder blades. It

does wonders, it really, really does."

32

~ '

    "I am a wasted vestige. I am filled

with vacuum and molten lead...."

    "You're exhausted, my lamb. That's

the good boy; stretch out and put

your head on Lilly's lap. Oh my, your

temples are so warm. And your neck

muscles are much too tense. There,

that's better; doesn't it feel

better?"

    It did. He could feel her nimble

fingers unbutton his shirt and the

gentle hands moving about his chest,

caressing his flesh with the touch of

angels. What the hell. He opened his

eyes, his sight was filled with the

unbearable loveliness of two

magnificent breasts inches above his

face.

    "Do you like hot tubs filled with

lots of soap bubbles that smell like

roses and springtime?" he whispered.

    "Not actually," she whispered back.

"I'm partial to warm showers.

Straight up, as it were."

Sam smiled.

    133

    .~

    CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The fragrance permeated the air around

him; he did not need to open his eyes to

know its source.

    If he was able to reconstruct the

previous evening with any accuracy and

the quiescence below his waist convinced

him that he could they had spent most of

the night in the Kempinsky shower.

    Sam opened his eyes. Lillian was

beside him, sitting up against the

pillows with a pair of horn-rimmed

glasses perched on her lovely upturned

nose. She was reading from an enormous

piece of frayed cardboard, the white

sheet covering her chest but not for an

instant obscuring the shafts beneath.

"Hello," he said quietly.

    ' Good morning!" She looked down at

him and positively beamed. "Do you know

what time it is?"

    The blonde creature was a healthy

type, he considered. It must be all that

California suriboarding, or perhaps

MacKenzie Hawkins had taught her to do

pushups. "My watch is under the covers

with my wrist. I do not know what time

it is."

    "It's twenty after ten. You slept for

eleven hours. How do you feel?"

    "Are you telling me we went to bed I

was asleep by eleven thirty last night?"

    "You could be heard at the Brandenburg

Gate. I kept shoving you to stop your

snoring. You were positively operatic.

How's your head?"

"Fairly secure, as a matter of fact. I

wonder why?"

    "All that steam. And exercise.

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

frustration. "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

the corners of Koenig's mouth.

    "I agree wholeheartedly," said

Devereaux, eagerly nodding his head.

"I'd throw it away if I were you."

    "You would like that? All of you.

You are all out to get me! My great

contributions that kept peace in the

world, enemies in constant touch, that

opened hot lines and.red lines and

blue lines between the great

powers these are forgotten. Now you

whisper behind my back. You tell lies

about nonexistent bank accounts, even

my humble places of residence. You

never concede that I earned every

deutschmark I possess! When I retired,

none of you could tolerate it; you did

not have me to kick around any longer!

And now this! The injustice!" 14

"Oh, I understand."

    "You understand nothing! Give me

something to write with, you idiot."

He farted and signed.

    142

    CHAPIER FOURTEEN

The bells of the Angelus pealed in

solemn, vibrant splendor. They echoed

throughout St. Peter's Square, floated

above Bernini's marble guardians, and

were heard in quiet celebration beyond

the (lame, deep in the Vatican gar-

dens. Seated on a bench of white

stone, looking up at the orange rays

of the descending sun, was a corpulent

man with a face best described as

having weathered seven decades

good-naturedly, if not always

peacefully. The face was full, but the

peasant quality of the.bone structure

under the folds of flesh would tend to

deny that the face was pampered. The

man's eyes were wide and large and

brown and soft; they held nearly equal

parts of strength, perception,

resignation, and amusement.

    He was dressed in the splendid white

robes of his office. The highest

office of the Holy Apostolic Catholic

Church, the descendent of Peter

himself, the Bishop of Rome, the

spiritual commander of 400 million

souls throughout the earth.

Pope Francesco I, the Vicar of Christ.

    Born Giovanni Bombalini in a small

village north of Padua in the first

years of the century. It was a birth

that was recorded sketchily, at best,

for the Bombalinis were not affluent.

Giovanni was delivered by a midwife

who, as often as not, forgot to report

the fruits of her labors (and her

patient's labors) to the village

clerk, secure in the knowledge that

the church would do something;

christenings made money. Actually

Giovanni Bombalini's emergence into

this world might never have been

legally recorded at all except that

his father had a wager with his cousin

Frescobaldi, three villages to the

north, that his second child would be

a male. Bornbalini Senior wanted to

143

    _

take no chances that his cousin

Frescobaldi would renege on the bet,

so he went to the village hall himself

to report the birth of a male child.

    As it happened, part of the wager

was that Frescobaldi's wife who was

expecting in the same month would not

give birth to a boy. But of course she

did, and the bet was canceled. This

child, Guido Frescobaldi, was born

according to the sketchy records two

days after his cousin, Giovanni.

    Early in his life Giovanni showed

signs of being different from the

other children of the village. To

begin with he did not care to learn

his catechism by verbal repetition, he

wanted to read it, then memorize it.

This upset the village priest for it

smacked of precociousness and somehow

was an affront to authority, but the

child would not be denied.

    The ways of Giovanni Bombalini were

indeed extraordinary. Although he

never shirked his labors in the

fields, he was rarely too tired to

stay up half the night reading

whatever he could get his hands on.

When he was twelve he discovered the

biblioteca in Padua, which was hardly

the library in Milan, nor Venice, nor

certainly Rome, but it was said by

those who knew Giovanni that he read

every book in Padua, then Milan, then

Venice. By which time his priest

recommended him to the holy fathers in

Rome.

    The church was Giovanni's answer to

a prayer. And as long as he prayed a

great dea~which was easier, though no

less time-consuming than laboring in

the fields he was allowed to read more

than he ever thought would be allowed

him.

    By the age of twenty-two, Giovanni

Bombalini was an ordained priest. Some

said the best-read priest in Rome an

erudite fantastico. But Giovanni did

not possess the properly stern visage

of a proper Vatican erudite; nor did

he assume the proper attitudes of

certainty with regard to everyday

truths. He was forever finding

exceptions and flexibilities in

liturgical history, pointing out (some

said mischievously) that the writings

of the church found their strength in

honest contradictions.

    At twenty-six Giovanni Bombalini was

a sharp pain in the large Vatican ass.

Aggravated further by his matured

appearance, which was the antithesis

of the gaunt, aca144

demic image so desired by Rome's

eruditi. He was, if anything, the

caricature of a field peasant from the

northern districts. Short of stature,

stocky, and wide of girth, he looked

like a farmhand more at home in the

goat stables than in the marble halls

of the various Vatican collegia. No

amount of theological erudition, or

good nature, or, indeed, deep belief

in his church could counteract the

combined aggravation of his mind and

appearance. So posts were found for

him in such unlikely locations as the

Gold Coast, Sierra Leone, Malta, and,

through an error Monte Carlo. An

exhausted Vatican dispatcher misread

the name Montes Claros and inserted

Monte Carlo no doubt because he had

never heard of Brazil's Montes

Claros and the fortunes of Giovanni

Bombalini turned.

    For into the cauldron of high stakes

and high emotions wandered the simple

looking priest with the bemused eyes,

gentle humor, and a head packed with

more knowledge than any twelve

international financiers put together.

He'd had little to do in the Gold

Coast, Sierra Leone, and Malta, so he

had occupied his time, when not

praying or teaching the natives, by

subscribing to scores of reading

services and adding to his already

extraordinary memory bank.

    It is common knowledge that people

who live with constant motion, and

high risk, and a great deal of

alcohol, occasionally need spiritual

consolation. So Father Bombalini began

to comfort a few stray lambs. And to

the amazement of these first few

strays, they found not so much a

simple priest who outlined penance,

but a most amusing fellow who could

discourse at length on almost any

subject: economic conditions of world

markets, historical precedents for

anticipated geopolitical events, and,

particularly,. food. (Here he favored

the more basic sauces, eschewing the

artifices of the often inappropriate

haste cuisine.)

    Before too many months had passed,

Father Bombalini was a regular guest

at many of the larger hotel suites and

great houses of the CBte d'Azur. This

rather odd-looking, rotund prelate was

a marvelous raconteur, and it always

made everyone feel better to have him

around before going out to

covet successfully his neighbor's

wife.

And a number of excessively large

contributions to the 145

.

church were made in Father Giovanni's

name. With increasing frequency.

    Rome could no longer overlook

Bombalini. The exchequers of the

Vatican treasury said so.

    The war found Monsignor Bombalini in

various Allied capitals and

occasionally attached to various

Allied armies. This was brought about

for two reasons. The first was his

adamant deposition to his superiors

that he could not remain neutral in

light of the known Hitlerian

objectives. He catalogued his thesis

with sixteen pages of historical,

theological, and liturgical

precendents, none but the Jesuits

could understand it, and they were on

his side. So Rome shut its eyes and

hoped for the best. The second reason

for his wartime travels was that the

international rich of Monte Carlo in

the thirties were now colonels and

generals and diplomats and

ambassadorial liaisons. They all

wanted him. There were so many

intra-Allied requests for his services

that in Washington, 1 Edgar Hoover

marked Bombalini's file: Highly

Suspect. May be a fairy.

    The postwar years were a time of

rapid acceleration up the Vatican

ladder for Cardinal Bombalini. Much of

his success was due to his close

friendship with Angelo Roncalli, with

whom he shared a number of unorthodox

views, as well as a penchant for

decent, but not necessarily exclusive,

wine and a good game of cards after

the evening prayers.

    As he sat on the white stone bench

in the Vatican gardens Giovanni

Bombalini Pope Francesco reflected

that he missed Roncalli. They had

accomplished much together; it had

been good. And the similarities of

their respective ascendencies to the

chair of St. Peter never ceased to

amuse him. Roncalli, John, would have

been amused, too; no doubt, was, of

course.

    They were both compromises offered

by the stern, orthodox constituencies

of the Curia to quiet the fires of

discontent within the global flock.

Neither compromise expected to reign

very long. But Roncalli had it easy;

he had only theological arguments and

undeveloped social reformers to

contend with. He didn't have damn fool

young priests who wanted to marry and

have children and, when of other

persuasions, run homosexual parishes"

Not 146

that any of these personally bothered

Giovanni; there was absolutely nothing

in theological law or dogma that

actually prohibited marriage and

offspring; and, as far as the other,

if love of fellow man did not surmount

biblical ambiguities, what had they

learned? But, Mother of God, the fuss

that was made!

    There was so much to do and the

doctors had made it clear that his

time was limited. It was the only

thing they were clear about, they

could isolate no specific illness, no

particular malady. They just conferred

and confirmed that his "vital signs"

were slowing down at an alarming rate.

He had demanded openness from them;

Mother of God, he had no feat of

death! He welcomed the rest. He and

Roncalli could plow the heavenly

vineyards together and take up their

baccarat again. At last count Roncalli

owed him something over six hundred

million fire.

    He had told the doctors that they

looked too long in their microscopes

and too little at the obvious. The ma-

chine was wearing out; it was as

simple as that. Whereupon they nodded

pontifically and uttered somberly

"Three months, four at the most, Holy

Father."

    Doctors. Basta! Veterinarians with

cagini in the Curia! Their bills were

outrageous! The goatherders of Padua

knew more about medicine; they had to.

    Francesco heard the footsteps behind

him and turned. Walking up the garden

path was a young papal aide whose name

escaped him. The youthful priest

carried a clipboard in his hand. There

was a painted crucifix on the

underside; it looked silly.

    "Your Holiness asked that we resolve

some minor matters before the vesper

hour."

"By all means, Father. What are they?"

    The aide rattled off a series of

inconsequential functions ceremonial

in nature, and Giovanni flattered the

young prelate by requesting his

opinion on most of them.

    "Then there is a request from an

American periodical, Viva Gourmet. I

would not mention it to the Holy

Father except that the inquiry was

accompanied by a strong recommendation

from the United States Armed Forces

Information Service."

"That is a most unusual combination, is

it not, Father?" 141

    1

"Yes, Your Holiness. Quite

incomprehensible."

"What was the request?"

    "They had the effrontery to ask the

Holy Father to submit to an interview

with a lady journalist regarding the

pontiffs favorite dishes."

"Why is that an effrontery?"

    The young prelate paused; he seemed

momentarily perplexed. Then he

continued with confidence. "Because

Cardinal Quartze said it was, Holy

Father."

    "Did the learned cardinal give his

reasons? Or, as usual did he commune

with God all by himself and simply

deliver the divine edict?" Francesco

tried not to overdo his perfectly

natural reaction to Ignatio Quartze.

The cardinal was a loathsome fellow in

just about every department. He was an

erudite aristocratico frbm a powerful

Italian-Swiss family, who had the

compassion of a disturbed cobra.

Looked like one, too, thought

Giovanni.

    "He did, Holy Father," replied the

priest. And the instant he spoke, the

aide was struck by a sudden embar-

rassment. "He he

    "May I suggest, Father," said the

pontiff with graceful understanding,

"that our splendidly berobed ca dinal

offered the opinion that the pope's

favorite dishes were less than

impressive?"

"I I

    "I see he did. Well, Father, it is

true that I subscribe to simpler

cooking than does our cardinal with

the unfortunate nasal drip, but it is

not due to lack of knowledge. Merely

lack of, perhaps, ostentation, not

that our cardinal who is afflicted

with that unfortunate eye that strays

to the right as he talks, is

ostentatious. I don't believe it ever

crossed his mind."

"No, of course not, Holy Father."

    "But I think that during these days

of high prices and widespread

unemployment, it might be a fine idea

for your pontiff to outline a number

of inexpensive, though I assure you,

quite excellent dishes. Who is this

journalist? A lady, you say? Don't

ever tell anyone I said it, Father,

but they are not the best cooks."

    "No, surely not, Your Holiness. The

nuns of Rome are strenuous

148

    "Galvanizing, Father. Positively

galvanizing! Who is the journalist

from this gourmet periodical?"

    "Her name is Lillian von Schnabe.

She is American from the state of

California, married to an older man,

a German immigrant who fled Hitler. As

coincidence would have it, she is

currently in Berlin."

    "I merely asked who she was, Father.

Not her biography. How do you know all

this?"

    "It was in the recommendation from

the United States Army Information

Service. The military think highly of

her, apparently."

    "More than apparently. So, her

husband fled Hitler? One does not turn

away from such compassionate women.

Coupled with the state of food

prices a number of inexpensive papal

dishes is called for. Set up an

appointment, Father. You may tell our

resplendent cardinal, who suffers from

the unfortunate affliction of a

high-decibeled wheeze that we truly

hope our decision is not an affront to

him. Viva Gourmet. The Lord God has

been good to me; it is a mark of

recognition. I wonder why its

correspondent is in -Berlin? There's

a monsignor in Bonn who makes an

excellent Sauerbraten."

    "I swear, you've got feathers in

your teeth!" said Lillian as Sam

walked into the room.

"It's better than chickenshit."

"What?"

    "My business contact had a strange

method of transpottation."

"What are you talking about?"

"I want to take a shower."

"Not with me, honey!"

    "I've never been so hungry in my

life. They wouldn't even stop for

a what the hell is it? A strudel.

Everything was ein, zwei, drei! Mach

schnell! Christ, I'm starved! They

really think they won the war!"

    Lillian backed away from him. "You

are the filthiest, most foul-smelling

man I've ever seen. I'm surprised they

let you in the lobby."

    "I think we goose-stepped." Sam

noticed a large white business

envelope on the bureau. "What's that?"

149

    "The front desk sent it up. They said

it was urgent and they weren't sure

you'd stop for messages." -

"I can only conclude your ex, the

fruitcake, has been

- busy." Devereaux picked up the

envelope. Inside were airline tickets

and a note. He didn't really have to

read the note; the airline tickets said

it all.

Algiers.

Then he read the note.

"No! Goddamn it no! That's less than an

hour from

... .

now!

"What is?" asked Lillian. "The plane?"

    "What plane? How the hell do you know

there's a plane?"

    "Because MacKenzie called. From

Washington. You can imagine his shock

when I answered "

    "Spare me your inventive details!"

roared Devereaux as he raced to the

telephone. "I've got several things to

say to that devious son of a bitchl Even

convicts get a day off! At least time

for a meal and a shower!"

    "You can't reach him now" said Lillian

quickly. "That was one of the reasons he

called. He'll be out for the rest of the

day."

    Sam turned menacingly. Then he stopped.

This girl could probably cut him in two.

"And I suppose he offered a suggestion

as to why I should be on that plane.

Once he got over the shock of hearing

your lovely voice, of course."

    Lillian looked puzzled. It crossed

Devereaux's mind that the puzzlement was

not entirely genuine. "Mac mentioned

something about a German named Koenig.

How anxious this Koenig was for you to

leave Berlin one way or the other."

    "The less controversial method being

Air France to Paris and from Paris to

Algiers?"

    "Yes, he did say that. Although not in

those exact words. He's terribly fond of

you, Sam. He speaks of you as a son. The

son he never had."

    "If there's a Jacob, I'm Esau.

Otherwise, I'm fucked as Absolom."

"Vulgarity isn't called for "

    "It's the only thing that is called

for! What the hell is in Algiers?"

150

    "A sheik named Azaz-Varak," answered

Lillian Hawkins von Schnabe.

    Hawkins left the Watergate in a

hurry. He had no desire to talk to

Sam; he had absolute faith in Lillian,

in all the girls, actually. They were

doing their jobs splendidly! Besides,

he was to meet with- an Israeli major

who, with any luck, could put the

final pieces of the puzzle together

for him. The puzzle being Sheik

Azaz-Varak. By the time Devereaux

reached Algiers a telephone call would

have to be made. The Hawk could not

make it without that final item which

would insure the last of the Shepherd

Company's capitalization.

    That Azaz-Varak was a thief on a

global scale was nothing new. During

the Second World War he sold oil at

outrageous prices to the Allies and

the Axis simultaneously, favoring only

those who paid instantly in cash. This

did not make him enemies, however;

instead, his policies engendered

respect, from Detroit to Essen.

    But the war was ancient history.

That war. It was Azaz-Varak's behavior

in a far more recent conflagration

that interested Hawkins: the Mideast

crisis.

Azaz-Varak was nowhere to be found.

    While oaths were hurled across the

lands of the Middle East, and the

world watched armies clash against

armies, and crisis-laden conferences

took place, and outrageous profits

were made, the greediest sheik of them

all claimed to have a case of shingles

and went to the Virgin Islands.

    Goddamn! It didn't make sense! So

MacKenzie went back into Azaz-Varak's

raw files and studied them with the

eye of a professional. He began to

find the pattern in the years between

1946 and 1948. Sheik Azaz-Varak had

apparently spent a considerable amount

of hme in Tel Aviv!

    According to the reports, his first

few trips were made quite openly. It

was supposed that Azaz-Varak sought

Israeli women for his harem.

Thereafter, however, Azaz-Varak con-

tinued to By into Tel Aviv, but not

openly; landing at night in outlying

private airfields that could

accommodate his most modern and

expensive private planes.

    More women') Hawkins had researched

exhaustively and was unable to unearth

the name of a single Israeli female

151

who ever went back to the sheikdom of

Azaz-Kuwait. Then, what had Azaz-Varak

been doing in the state of Israel? And

why had he traveled there so

frequently?

    MacKenzie's breakthrough came,

strangely enough, from information

supplied by naval intelligence On

island of St. Thomas, where Azaz-Varak

had fled during the Mideast war.

There, he tried to buy up more

property than anyone wished to sell.

Rebuffed, he became furious.

    The islanders had enough trouble.

They did not need Arabs with harems

and slaves. Jesust Slaves! The very

idea sent the bureau of tourism into

apoplexy; visions of all that kitchen

help in revolt were positively

nauseating. AzazVarak was

systematically prevented from buying

two buckets of sand. When it was

suspected he was trying to negotiate

through second and third parties,

covenants were included that would

have made Palm Beach green with envy

and the ACLU purple with rage. Simply

put: no Sucking Arabs could own,

lease, sublease, visit, or trespass.

    So in his frustration, the

acquisitive sheik angrily, and

hastily, brought in an American

holding company called the Buffalo

Corporation and tried to negotiate

through it. There were laws and St.

Thomas was a United States possession.

And it did not take much research on

Hawkins's part to uncover the fact

that the Buffalo Corporation address:

Albany Street, Buffalo, New York;

telephone: unlisted was a subsidiary

of an unknown company called

Pan-Friendship, main office: Beirut;

telephone: also unlisted.

    Subsequent overseas calls to several

Israeli clearinghouses made stunningly

clear what Azaz-Varak had been doing

during all those visits to the Jewish

homeland. He owned half the real

estate in Tel Aviv, much of it in the

poorer sections of town. The sheik was

a Tel Aviv slumlord.

    The Buffalo Corporation collected

rents from all over the city. And if

the Israeli major who was in ordnance

and supply confirmed a report the Hawk

had received from some old Cambodian

buddies in the CIA, the Buffalo

Corporation was also in another

business. One that held most

unfortunate implications for the owner

of said Buffalo 152

.,

Corporation, insofar as he was the

very Arab who scared hell out of the

realtors in St. Thomas.

    The report was simple; all MacKenzie

needed was one military official to

corroborate it. For the CIA boys

learned that a major expediter of

petrochemicals and fuel for the army

of Israel during the Mideast war was

a little-known American company called

the Buffalo Corporation.

    Sheik Azaz-Varak not only owned half

the real estate in Tel Aviv, but at

the height of the conflict, he fed the

Israeli war machine so the maniacs in

Cairo wouldn't damage his investments.

    It was the sort of information that

simply demanded a long-distance call,

thought MacKenzie Hawkins. To the

sheikdom of Azaz-Kuwait.

    Devereaux appreciated the sympathy

from the Air France stewardess, but he

would have appreciated food more.

There were no supplies in the galley

of the 727, a conditiion that would be

corrected in Paris. Apparently and

there was no way to be sure he

understood correctly the Boche

catering trucks that serviced Air

France had been tied up in a

Russian-induced traffic jam on the

autobahn, and what had been left in

the galley had been stolen by the

Czechoslovakian ground crew in Prague.

And besides, the food was better in

Paris.

    So Sam smoked cigarettes, caught

himself chewing bits of tobacco, and

tried to concentrate on the doings of

MacKenzie Hawkins. His seatmate was

some kind of Eastern religious,

perhaps a Sikh, with brown skin tinged

with gray, a very small black beard,

a purple turban, and darting eyes that

were as close as a human's could be to

those of a rat. It made thinking about

MacKenzie easier; there would be

little conversation on the trip to

Paris.

    Hawkins had raised his third ten

million. And now there was an Arabian

sheik who was the fourth and final

mark. Whatever it was that MacKenzie

had culled from the raw files had the

effect of thermonuclear blackmail.

Christ! Forty million!

What was he going to do with it? What

kind of "equip153

ment and support personnel" (whatever

the hell they were) could possibly

cost so much?

    Granted one did not kidnap a pope

with a dollar and a quarter in his

pocket, but was it necessary to cover

the Italian national debt to do it?

    One thing was certain. The Hawk's

plan for the kidnapping included the

exchange of extraordinary sums of mon-

ey. And whoever accepted such sums

were ipso facto accessories to the

most outrageous abduction in history!

It was another avenue he, Sam, could

explore. And a pretty good one at

that. If he could obtain the names of

even a few of Mac's suppliers, he

could scare them right out of the

picture. Certainly the Hawk was not

going to say to someone: Yes, I'll buy

that railroad Brain because I'm going

to kidnap this pope fellow and it'll

be a big help. No, that was hardly the

way of an experienced general officer

who had drugged half the pouch

couriers in Southeast Asia. But if he,

Sam, reached that same someone and

said: You know that train you're

sexing to that bearded idiotP It's

going to be used to kidnap the pope.

Have a good night's sleep well, that

was something else again. The train

would not be sold. And if he could

prevent a train from being sold,

perhaps he could prevent other

supplies from reaching the Hawk.

MacKenzie was army; lines of supply

were paramount to any operation.

Without them whole strategies were

altered, even abandoned. It was

military holy writ.

    Yes, resected Devereaux, gazing out

into the German twilight from the

hoodless Air France plane, it was a

very decent avenue to explore. Coupled

with his first consideration finding

out how the Hawk intended to pull off

the kidnapping, and the second

consideration finding out what

specific blackmailing material

MacKenzie held over his investors, the

suppliers were a third, powerful

ingredient. In preventive medicine.

    Sam closed his eyes, conjuring up

visions of long ago. He was in the

basement of his home in Quincy,

Massachusetts. On the huge table in

the center of his room was his set of

Lionel trains, going around and

around, weaving in and out of the

miniature shrubbery and over the tiny

154

bridges and through the toy tunnels.

But there was something strange about

the sight. Except for the engine and

the caboose, all the other vehicles

were marked identically: '

Refrigerator Car. Food."

    At Orly Airport, the passengers to

Algiers were told to remain on the

plane. For Devereaux nothing mattered

once he saw the white truck pull up

alongside the aircraft and men in

white coats transferring immaculate

steel containers into the galley. He

even smiled at Rat Eyes beside him,

noticing as he did so that his

seatmate's purple turban had slipped

somewhat over his brown forehead. Sam

might have said something he'd learned

long ago that even strangers

appreciated it when you told them

their zippers were open but since

several other turbaned acquaintances

who'd boarded at Orly had come up to

pay their respects and had said

nothing, Devereaux felt it wasn't his

place. Besides most of the other

purple turbans seemed a touch

lopsided. Perhaps it was a custom

indigenous to the particular religious

sect.

    Regardless, all Sam could think

about were the immaculate steel trays,

now securely in the Air France galley

broilers, sending out deliriously

inviting wafts of escalope de veau,

tournedos, sauce Bearrzaise, and, if

he was not mistaken, steak au poivre.

God was in his heaven and on Air

France as well. Good Lord! Devereaux

vaguely calculated the hours since

he'd eaten: It was nearing thirty-six.

    Unintelligible words droned over the

cabin loudspeakers, the 727 taxied out

onto the field. Two minutes later they

were airborne and the stewardesses

went about the business of

distributing the most meaningful

literature Sam could think of: menus.

    His order took up more time than

anyone else in thecabin. This was

partially due to the fact that he

salivated and had to swallow as he

spoke. There followed an agonizing

hour. Normally it was not agonizing to

Sam, for it was taken up with

cocktails. But today he could not

drink. His stomach was too empty.

    At length, dinner approached. The

stewardess went down the aisle

spreading the miniature tablecloths,

placing the napkin-enclosed

silverware, and reconfirming the

choice 155

of dinner wines. Sam could not help

himself, he kept craning his neck over

the edge of the seat. The scents from

the galley were driving him crazy.

Every odor was a banquet to his

nostrils; the juices ran down his

throat at each recognizable smell.

And naturally it had to happen.

    The weird looking Sikh beside him

lunged from his seat and unraveled his

purple turban. Out of the cloth fell

a large, lethal revolver. It crashed

to the deck of the aircraft Rat Eyes

lunged down, retrieved it, and

screamed.

'Aigee! Aiyeel Aigee! Al Fatah! Al

Fatah! Aigee!"

    It was the signal; a screeching

symphony of "Aiyees" and "Fatahs"

could be heard behind first class,

throughout the tube of the long

fuselage. From somewhere in his trou-

sers, Rat Eyes pulled out an extremely

long, murderous looking scimitar.

Sam stared numbly. In complete defeat.

    So the man wasn't a Sikh. He was an

Arab. A goddamn Bucking Palestinian

Arab.

What else?

    The stewardess now faced the

murderous blade, the barrel of the

huge pistol was jammed between her

breasts. She did her best, but the

terror could not be concealed.

    "On the wires! On the wires to your

captain!" screeched the Palestinian.

"This aircraft will proceed to

Algeria. This is the wishes of Al

Fatah! To Algiers! Only Algiers! Or

you will all die. Die! Die!"

    "Mais, out, monsieur," screamed the

stewardess. "The aircraft is

proceeding to Algiers! That is our

destination, monsieur!"

    The Arab was crestfallen. His wild,

piercing eyes became temporary pools

of dull mud, the frustration conveyed

by the tiny dots of questioning chaos

in the center of the mud.

    Then the eyes sprang back once more

to the vivid, cruel, violent

exuberance.

    He slashed the air with the huge

scimitar and waved the pistol

maniacally.

    His demonic, defiant screams were

worthy of shattering the high-altitude

glass, but fortunately did not.

"Aiyee! Aipee! Arafatt Hear the word

of Arafat! Jewish

    156

dogs and Christian pigs! There will

be no food or water until we land!

That is the word of Arafat!"

    Deep within the recesses of Sam's

subconscious a small voice

whispered: You're Ducked, babe.

    157

    CHAPItER FIFTEEN

The stage manager winced; two violins

and three horns went sour during the

crescendo of "Musetta's Waltz." The

act s finale was ruined. Again.

    He made a note for the conductor who

he could see was smiling blissfully,

unaware of the grating dissonance. It

was understandable: the man's hearing

wasn't so good anymore.

    As the stage manager looked out, he

saw that the spotlight operator had

dozed off again; or had gone to the

toilet. Again. The shaft of light was

angled down, immobile, into the pit on

a confused flautist instead of on

Mimi.

He made a note.

    On the stage itself was another

problem. Two problems. The swinging

gates into the cafe had been hung

upside down, the pointed tops inverted

so that they vee'd up from the floor,

providing the audience a clear view

behind the scenery where numerous bare

feet were being rubbed and not a few

extras scratched themselves in

boredom. The second problem was the

step unit on stage left; it had become

unhinged so that Rodolfo's leg

plummeted down into the open space

causing his tights to rip up to his

crotch.

The stage manager sighed and made two

more notes.

    Puccini's La Boherne was being given

its usual performance by the company.

Mannaggia!

    As he finished putting three

exclamation points after his

twenty-sixth note of the evening, the

assistant box-office manager

approached his lectern and handed him

a message.

It was for Guido Frescobaldi, and

because any distrac158

tion was preferable to watching the

remainder of the act the stage manager

unfolded the paper and read it.

    Instantly, involuntarily, he caught

his breath. Old Frescobaldi would have

a fit if it was possible for Guido to

have a fit. There was a newspaper

reporter in the audience who wanted to

meet with Frescobaldi after the

performance.

    The stage manager shook his head

sadly, recalling vividly Guido's tears

and protestations when the last (and

only) newspaper reporter interviewed

him. There were two reporters

actually: a man from Rome and a silent

Chinese colleague. Both Communists.

    It was not the interview that had

upset Frescobaldi, it was the article

that came out of it.

    Impoverished Opera Artist Struggles

for Peoples' Culture as Cousin, the

Pope, Lives in Indolent Luxury off the

Honest Sweat of Oppressed Workers!

    That had been for openers. The front

page headlined the story in the

Communist newspaper, Lo Popolo. The

article had gone on to say that

diligent investigative reporting on

the part of Lo Popolo's journalists

ever alert to the inequities of

capitalism's unholy alliance with

savage organized religion had

uncovered the crass injustice done to

this look-alike relative of the

world's most powerful and despotic

religious leader. How one Guido

Frescobaldi sacrificed for his art

while his cousin, Pope Francesco,

stole everyone blind. How Guido

contributed his great talent for the

good of the masses, never seeking

material rewards, satisfied only that

his contributions uplifted the spirit

of the people. So different from his

cousin, the pontiff, who contributed

nothing but new methods to extract

money from the frightened poor. Guido

Frescobaldi was the earthly saint; his

cousin the subterranean villain no

doubt with orgies in the catacombs,

surrounded by treasures.

    The stage manager did not know a

great deal about Guido's cousin, or

what he did in the catacombs, but he

did know Frescobaldi. And Lo Popolo's

reporter had etched a portrait that

was somewhat at variance to the Guido

they all knew. But it was this Guido

the world outside of Milan read about.

Lo Popolo stated in an editorial that

the 159

    .~

    l

shocking story was to be reprinted in

all the Socialist countries, including

China.

    Oh, how Frescobaldi had screamed!

His roars had been the protestations

of a thoroughly embarrassed man. The

stage manager hoped that he could

catch Guido during the act change and

give him the message, but it was not

always easy to find Guido during an

act change. And it was useless to put

the note in his dressing room for he

would never see it.

    For the role of Alcindoro was Guido

Frescobaldi's moment in the operatic

sun. It was his single triumph in a

lifetime devoted to his beloved

musica. It was proof that tenacity

really did overshadow talent.

    Guido was usually so moved by the

events on stage as well as his own

performance that he waddled in a

trance behind the scenery until the

confusion of an act change was over,

his eyes invariably moist, his head

held high in the knowledge that he had

given his all for the audience of La

Scala Minuscolo, the fifth-string

company of the worldrenowned opera

house. It was both a training ground

and a musical cemetery, allowing the

inexperienced to flutter their vocal

wings and the over-the-hill to stay

occupied until the Great Conductor

summoned them to that glorious

festival in the sky.

    The stage manager reread the note to

Guido. In the audience that night was

a lady journalist named Signora

Greenberg who wished to chat with

Frescobaldi. He had been recommended

to her by no less a distinguished

source than the United States Army

Information Seruizio. And the stage

manager knew why this Signora

Greenberg included the recommendation

in her note. Ever since the Communists

wrote that terrible article, Guido

refused to talk to anyone from the

newspapers. He had even grown a huge

walrus moustache and beard to lessen

the likeness between himself and the

pontiff.

    The Communists were stupid. Lo

Popolo, through habit, was always

picking a fight with the Vatican, but

they soon learned what everyone else

knew: Pope Francesco was not a man to

vilify. He was simply too nice a

fellow.

Guido Frescobaldi was a nice fellow,

too, thought the 160

stage manager. Many a late night they

had divided bottles of wine together;

a middle-aged signaler of cues and the

elder character actor who had given

his life for music.

    What a drama was in the real story

of Guido Frescobaldi! It was worthy of

Puccini, himself!

    To begin with, he lived only for his

beloved opera; all else was

inconsequential, necessary solely to

keep body and musical soul together.

He had been married years ago. And six

years later his wife had left him,

taking their six children with her

back to her native village near Padua

and the security of her father's not

immodest farm. Though Frescobaldi's

circumstances, which by tradition

meant the circumstances of his family,

had not been destitute. And if his own

income was currently less than

adequate for him, it was by choice not

necessity. The Frescobaldis were

actually quite well off; their

cousins, the Bombalinis, had been

sufficiently wealthy to allow their

third son, Giovanni, to enter the

church, and God knew that took a

little money.

    But Guido turned his back on all

things clerical mercantile, and

agricultural. He wanted only his

music, his opera. He badgered his

father and mother to send him to the

academy in Rome, where it was soon

discovered that Guido's passion far

outdistanced his talents.

    Frescobaldi had the Latin fire and

the soul, perhaps, but he also

possessed a rotten musical ear. And

Papa Frescobaldi was getting nervous;

so many Guido associated with were non

sono stabile they wore funny clothes.

    So at the age of twenty-two, Papa

told Guido to come home to the village

north of Padua. He had been studying

in Rome for eight years; no noticeable

progress had been made. No jobs at

least in music had been offered, no

musical future seemed to hold promise.

    Guido did not care, however. It was

the total immersion in things musical

that counted. Papa could not under-

stand. But Papa would no longer pay,

so Guido came home.

    The elder Frescobaldi told his son

to marry his nice village cousin, Rosa

Bombalini, who was having a little

trouble finding a husband, and Papa

would give Guido a 161

fonografo for a wedding present. Then

he could listen to all the music he

wished. Also, if he did not marry

Cousin Rosa, Papa would break his ass.

    So for six years, while his cousin

and brother-in-law Father Giovanni

Bombalini, studied in the Vatican and

was sent to strange places, Guido

Frescobaldi endured a forced marriage

to the three-hundred-pound bundle of

selfindulgent hysteria named Rosa.

    On the morning of his seventh

anniversary, he gave up. He awoke

screaming; he smashed windows, broke

furniture, threw pots of linguini

against the walls, and told Rosa that

she and her six children were the most

repulsive human beings he had ever

met.

Basta!

Enough was enough!

    Rosa gathered the children together

and fled to the village farm; and

Guido walked downtown to his father's

pasta shop, picked up a bowl of tomato

sauce, heaved it in Papa's face and

left Padua forever. For Milan.

    If the world would not let him be a

great operatic tenor, he at least

would be near great singers, great

music.

    He would clean toilets, sweep

stages, sew costumes, carry spears.

Anything.

He would make his life at La Scala!

    And so it had been for over forty

years with Frescobaldi. He had risen

slowly but happily from toilets to

brooms, from stitching to spears.

Finally he was awarded those first few

words on stage Not so much to sing,

Guido! More like talk, you seep and

the sheer openness of his emotion made

him an instant favorite of less

discriminating operagoers. Of La Scala

Minuscolo. Where the ticket scale was

lower.

    In his way Frescobaldi became a

beloved fixture as well as a devoted

participant. He was always available

to help in rehearsals, to cue, to

stand in, to recite, and his knowledge

was formidable.

    Only once in all the years did Guido

cause any trouble for anyone, and it

wasn't really his fault. That, of

course was the Lo Popolo attempt to

embarrass his cousin, the pope.

Luckily, the Communist writer had not

discovered Frescobaldi's early

marriage to the pontiffs sister. It

would 162

have been difficult for him, however,

because Rosa Bombalini had died of

overeating three decades ago.

    Hurriedly, the stage manager made

his way to Frescobaldi's dressing

room. He was too late. The lady

speaking to Guido surely was the

Signora Greenberg. She was very

American and, indeed, very well

endowed. Her Italian was a little

strange, however. Her words were drawn

out like yawns, but the lady did not

appear sleepy.

    "You see, Signore Frescobaldi, the

purpose will be to counteract those

nasty things the Communists wrote."

    "Oh, yes, please!" cried Guido

imploringly. "They were infamous!

There is no finer man in the world

than my dear cousin, 11 Papa. I weep

for the embarrassment I caused!"

"I'm sure he doesn't feel that way. He

speaks so well of

you.

    "Yes yes, he would," replied

Frescobaldi, the moisture clouding his

blinking eyes. "As children we would

play in the fields together, when our

families visited. Giovanni excuse me,

Pope Francesco was the best of all.

the brothers and cousins. He was a

good nutn even as a boy. Does that

make sense? And brains!"

    'He'll be happy to see you again,"

said the Signora. "We haven't

scheduled the exact time yet but he

hopes you'll meet with him for the

photographs.'

    Guido Frescobaldi could not help

himself. Although he lost not a dram

of dignity, he wept~uietly, without a

sound or a gesture. "He is such a kind

man. Did you know that when that

terrible magazine came out he sent me

a note, in his own hand. He wrote to

me: 'Guido, my cousin and dear friend

Why have you hidden yourself all these

years? When you come to Rome, please

call on me. We will play some bocce.

I put a course in the garden. Always,

my blessing, Giovanni.'" Frescobaldi

dabbed his eyes with the edge of the

makeup towel. "Not a hint of anger or

even displeasure. But of course I

would never disturb so great a

personage. Who am 1?"

    "He knew it wasn't your fault. You

understand that your cousin would

rather not have it known that we're

planning this anti-Communist story.

With politics the way they are

"Not a word!" interrupted Guido. "I say

nothing. I wait 163

only to hear from you and I shall come

to Rome. If need be and I am scheduled

to perform I shall allow my understudy

to take my place. The audiences may

throw vegetables, but for Francesco,

anything!"

"He'll be touched."

    "Did you know," said Frescobaldi,

leaning forward in the chair, lowering

his voice, "that under this moustache

of mine, the face is very like my

exalted cousin's?"

"You mean you really look alike?"

"It was ever so since we were

children."

    "It never would have crossed my

mind. But now that you mention it, I

do see a resemblance."

    The stage manager closed the door

silently. It had been partially open;

they had not seen him and there was no

point in interrupting. Guido might be

embarrassed; the dressing room was

small. So Frescobaldi was going to see

his cousin, the pope. Buenissimo!

Perhaps he might beseech the pontiff

to allocate some funds to La Scala

Minuscolo. They could use the money.

The singing was really terrible.

'Aigee! Al Fatah! Arafat!"

    The screaming Palestinian

revolutionaries dashed through the

exit doors and down the steps to the

concrete of Dar el Beida airport. They

hugged and kissed each other and

slashed at the night air with their

blades. One unfortunate had his finger

sliced off in the rejoicing, but it

did not cause much conern. Under the

leadership of Rat Eyes the group made

a dash for the fence that surrounded

the feld.

    No one tried to stop them. Indeed,

the searchlights were swung in their

direction to help them see their way

over the fence. The authorities

understood that it was desirable for

the idiots to leave the field this

way. If they walked into the terminal

and out through the doors, a large

degree of face would be lost. Besides,

the quicker they left the better. They

were doing nothing for the tourist

trade.

    The instant the final Palestinian

raced out of the aircraft Sam had

lurched into the Air France galley. To

no avail. In the midst of crisis, Air

France had kept its head and its 164

financial acumen. The gleaming mental

trays were in place for the next

contingent of passengers.

"I paid for some goddamned food!"

yelled Sam.

    "I'm sorry," said the stewardess,

smiling blankly. "Regulations prohibit

the serving of food after landing."

"For God's sake, we were hijacked!"

    "Your ticket reads Algiers. We are

in Algiers. On the ground. After

landing. There can be no food."

"That's inhuman!"

"That is Air Frawnce, monsieur."

    Devereaux staggered through the

Algerian customs. He held four

American five-dollar bills in his

hand, separated as though they were

playing cards. Each of the four

Algerian inspectors down the line took

one, smiled, and passed him on to the

next man. No luggage was opened; Sam

grabbed his suitcase off the conveyor

and looked frantically for the airport

restaurant.

It was closed. For a religious

holiday.

    The taxi ride from the airport to

the Aletti Hotel on Rue de l'Enur El

Khettabi did nothing to calm his

nerves or soothe his agonizingly empty

stomach. The vehicle was ancient, the

driver more so, and the road down into

the city steep and filled with winding

curves and hairpin turns.

    "Were terribly sorry, Monsieur

Devereaux," said the dark-skinned desk

clerk in overly precise English. "All

of Algiers is in a state of fasting

until the sun rises in the morning. It

is the will of Mohammed."

    Sam leaned over the marble counter

and lowered his voice to a whisper.

"Look, I respect everyone's right to

worship in his own way, but I haven't

eaten and I've got a little money "

    "Monsieur!" The clerk's eyes widened

in Algerian shock as he interrupted

and drew himself up to his full height

of roughly five feet. "The will of

Mohammed! The way of Allah!"

    "Good Lord! I don't believe my

eyes!" The shout came from across the

Aletti lobby. The light was dim, the

ceiling high. The figure was obscured

in shadows. The only thing Sam knew

was that the voice was deep and

feminine. And 165

deeply feminine. Perhaps he had heard

it before, he could not be sure. How

could he be sure of anything at that

moment in such an unlikely spot as an

Algerian hotel lobby during an

Algerian religious holiday in the last

stages of starvation. All was beyond

sureness.

    And then the figure walked through

the hazy pools of light, led by two

enormous breasts that cleaved the air

in majestic splendor.

    Full and Round. Naturally; why did

he even bother to act surprised? Ten

million thirty million, forty million

dollars no longer shocked him. Why

should the sight of Mrs. MacKenzie

Hawkins, number two?

    She pressed the cool, wet towel on

his forehead; he lay back on the bed.

Six hours ago she had taken off his

shoes and socks and shirt and told

him. to lie back and stop shaking. In

truth, she'd ordered him to stop

shaking. And while he was at it, to

stop babbling incoherently about crazy

things like Nazis and chicken

droppings and wildeyed Arabs who

wanted to blow up airplanes because

they flew where they were supposed to

fly. Such talk!

    But that had been six hours ago. And

during the interim she had taken his

mind off food, and MacKenzie Hawkins

and some sheik named Azaz-Varak,

and oh my Godl the kidnapping of the

pope!

    She had reduced the dimensions of

the whole insanity to the simpler

proportions of a terrifying nightmare.

    Her name was Madge; he had

remembered that. And she had sat next

to him on the bean bag in Regina

Greenberg's living room; and she had

reached over to touch him every time

she emphasized a point. He remembered

that distinctly because each time she

had leaned toward him, Full and Round

seemed to burst out of her peasant

blouse, as they seemed now about to

burst out of the silk shirt she wore.

    "Just a bit longer," she said in her

deep, somewhat breathless voice. "The

desk clerk promised you'd be the first

tray out of the kitchen. Now just

relax."

"Tell me again."

"About the food?"

166

    "No. About how come you're here in

Algiers. It'll take my mind off the

food."

    "Then you'll just start babbling again.

You simply won't believe me."

"Maybe I missed something "

, "You're teasing me," said Madge,

leaning over dangerously, adjusting the

towel. "All right. Short and to the

point. My

    late husband was the leading West

Coast-importer of African art. His

gallery was the largest in.California.

When he died he had over $100,000 fled

up in seventeenthcentury Musso-Grossai

statuary. What the hell am I going

- to do with five hundred statues of naked

pigmies? I mean really! You'd do just

what I'm doing. Try to stop the shipment

and get your money back! Algiers is the

clearing house for Musso-Grossai Now,

damn it! There you go again!"

    Devereaux could not help himself. Tears

of laughter rolled down his cheeks. "I'm

sorry. It's just that it's so much more

inventive than a sudden London vacation

from a philandering husband. Or a

gourmet school in Berlin. My God, it's

beautiful! Five hundred naked pigmies!

Did you think it up, or did Mac?"

    "You're too suspicious." Madge smiled

gently, knowingly, and lifted the towel

from his forehead. "That's no-way to

live. Here, I'll soak this with some

cool water. Breakfast should be here in

fifteen or twenty minutes." She rose

from the bed and looked over at the

window in silent thought. The orange

rays of the new day were streaming

through the window. '1he sun's up."

    Devereaux watched her; the dawn's light

washed over her striking features,

heightening the sheen of her auburn hair

and adding a soft, deep glow to her

face. It was not a young face but it had

something better than youth. An openness

that accepted the years and could laugh

gracefully at them. There was a

directness that touched Sam.

"You're a terrific looking person," he

said.

    "So are you," she replied quietly.

"You've got what an old friend of mine

used to call a face you'd like to know.

Your eyes level. My- friend used to say

'watch the eyes especially in a crowd;

see if they listen.' Actually, Mac said

167

. .. ~

it. A long time ago. I suppose that

sounds silly, eyes listening."

    "It doesn't sound silly at all. Eyes

do listen. I had a friend who used to

go to Washington cocktail parties,

he'd repeat the word 'hamburger' over

and over again just 'hamburger,'

nothing.else. He swore that ninety

percent of the time the people around

him would say things like, 'Very

interesting. I'll check the statistics

on that'; or 'Have you mentioned it to

the undersecretary?' He always knew

who'd say those things because their

eyes were moving so fast; you see, he

wasn't very important."

    Madge laughed softly; their eyes

locked and she smiled. "He sounds very

important to me."

"You're a nice person, too."

    "Yes, I try to be." She looked over

at the window again. "MacKenzie also

said that too many people run from

their perfectly natural inclination to

be concerned human beings. As if

concern was a sign of weakness. He

said: 'Goddamn Midgey, I'm concerned

and no son of a bitch better call me

weakl' And no one ever did."

    "I suppose being concerned is

another way of being nice," added

Devereaux, mulling over the latest

homily.

    "There's no better way," said Madge,

carrying the towel into the bathroom.

"I'll be out in a minute."

    She closed the door. Sam repeated

the words to himself: Too many people

run from their perfectly natural

inclination to be concerned human

beings. MacKenzie was a man of more

complications than Devereaux cared to

think about. At least, until breakfast

arrived.

    The bathroom door opened. Madge

stood in the door frame and smiled

deliberately, a sense of marvelous fun

in her eyes, very much aware of the

picture she presented. She no longer

wore her skirt. Instead her breasts

were now lovingly encased in an

ivory-colored brassiere made of webbed

lace. Below, her short slip

accentuated the curve of her hips and

bore witness to the soft white flesh

that touched and wanted to be

touched between her upper thighs.

    She walked around to the side of the

bed and took his immobile hand. She

sat down gracefully and leaned over,

168

her incredible spheres touching him,

sending electricity through him

causing him to suddenly inhale very

short breaths. She kissed him on the

lips. She pulled back and undid his

belt and with the swift, graceful

movements of a dancer, pulled down his

trousers.

"Why Major, you have been thinking

nice thoughts "

And the Algerian terrorist telephone

rang.

    The galaxy went out of whack again.

Sanity vanished in a sudden rush of

hysteria. Sweet reason and laced bras-

sieres and soft flesh were no more.

Instead, screams in Arabic, commands

that threatened unbelievable violence

should they be disobeyed.

    "If you'll stop yelling about pigs

and dogs and vultures for a second,

maybe I can figure out what you're

trying to say," said Sam, holding the

phone away from his ear. "All I said

was that I couldn't come down right

now."

"I am the emissary from Sheik

Azaz-Varak!"

"What the hell is that?"

"Dog!"

"It's a dog? You mean a puppy dog?"

    "Silencel Azaz-Varak is the god of

all khans! The possessor of the desert

winds, the eyes of the falcon, the

courage of all the lions of Judea, the

prince of thunder!"

    "Then what does he need me for?"

ventured Sam hesitantly, reluctantly

recognizing the name of the Hawk's

fourth mark. The final ten million.

Jesus! He thought about it now with no

more emphasis than ten boxes of Pop

Tarts!

    "Silence, dog! Or both your ears

will be cut from your head and placed

with hot irons up your unspeakable."

    "Now, goddamn it, that's not

friendly! You talk nicer or I'm going

to hang up; there's a lady here."

    "Please, Mr. Deveroo," said the

Arabic voice, suddenly quite gentle

with a trace of a whine. "In the name

of Allah, for the love of Allah, do

not be difficult. It will be my ears

in unspeakable places if you are

difficult. We must leave for Tizi Ouwu

immediately."

"Tizi who?"

"Ouzou, Mr. Deveroo."

"Ouzoo? Did you say Ouwo?" 69

i

    Suddenly, without any warning

whatsoever, the most unexpected thing Sam

could imagine happened. Madge grabbed the

telephone from him.

    "Give me that!" she ordered. "I know

Tizi Ouzou; my husband and I stayed there

once. It's a dreadful place, Listen

here, whoever you are, you'd better have

a damn good reason to ask my friend to go

to Tizi Ouzou. It's the godforsaken end

of nowhere! Without a decent hotel or

restaurant, to say nothing about toilet

facilities!"

    The girl held the phone to her ear,

nodding briefly every three or four

seconds. The whine on the line became

very audible.

"Really, Madge, I can handle

    4'Be quiet. This son of a bitch isn't

even Algerian . . . Yes. Yes.... All

right. Then we'll both be down!... Take

it or leave it, you desert gnat, that's

the only way it's going to be.... They're

your ears, sweetie.... And one -other

thing. The minute we get there, I want a

huge meal waiting for my friend here, do

you understand? . . . And no biscuits of

camel dung, either! All right. Five

minutes."

She hung up and smiled at Devereaux, who

was mostly

naked and completely pale. ;

"That was very generous of you, but it's

not necessary "

    "Don't be silly. You don't know these

people, I do. You have to be firm;

they're quite harmless, despite those

goddamned knives. Besides, do you think

I'd let you out of my sight for a minute?

After I've seen what nice thoughts you've

been thinking? And in your condition."

She leaned over and kissed him again.

"It's really very touching."

    Devereaux realized that in his weakened

condition he might be subject to

hallucinations; but he was not prepared

for the two robed Arabs that met them in

the Aletti lobby.

    Peter Lorre and Boris Karloff. Quite a

bit younger than the more recent

photographs Sam remembered, but other

wise unmistakable.

    The next twenty minutes were a blur. Yet

he had to be able to think clearly.

Azaz-Varak (whoever and wherever he was)

signified the last of the investors. He

had to begin putting together the pieces

of his counterstrategy.

170

    Peter Lorre sat in the front seat next

to Boris, who drove. The car sped

through the streets and careened

dangerously around the corners of early

morning Algiers. They were halfway up a

winding, steep hill when Devereaux

realized they were heading for Dar el

Beida airport.

"We going on a plane?" asked Sam

apprehensively.

    Madge answered beside him. "Oh sure,

sweetie. Tizi Onzou's like two hundred

miles east. You wouldn't want to drive.

Remember, I've levees there."

    Devereaux looked at her. He wondered,

and whispered, "I remember. What I can't

understand is why you're here. Do you

know what you're involved with? Do you

know what you're doing?"

'I'm trying to be helpful."

"So was Rose Mary Woods."

    The interior of the helicopter was only

slightly smaller than the main level of

Pennsylvania Station. Pillows were

everywhere and beside each seat was an

elaborate water pipe attached to the

wall with a kind of Bunsen burner

underneath it. An open galley was at the

rear.

And after three minutes in the air, Sam

was given the

    first sustenance he could recall. A small

cup of acrid, black liquid that vaguely

smelled of coffee, but more of bitter

licorice mixed with stale sardines.

    He drank it in one swallow, grimaced,

and looked at the tiny person wrapped in

sheets who had poured it for him. The

tiny person manipulated several wheels

around the water pipe in the wall and

held a match to the burner beneath. A

long rubber tube with a mouthpiece was

reeled from somewhere and held out for

Sam.

    He took it and wondered. It probably

would not do him any good, but on the

other hand it was something to put in

his mouth, and nothing of that nature at

this point could be any worse than the

numbed agony he was experiencing. He

inserted the mouthpiece between his

teeth and drew on it.

    It wasn't smoke exactly; it was more a

vapor. Sweet and pungent at the same

time. Really very pleasant. Actually

quite delightful. Rather diverting in

its way.

    He drew more heavily; and then more

rapidly; he looked across at Madge,

sitting opposite him in a bank of 171

pillows. "Would you mind, my dear?" he

heard himself saying calmly. "Please

remove all your clothes."

    "I'd go easy on that," replied the

girl in her most provocative,

breathless whisper.

    Was she whispering? Her voice seemed

to arrive at his ears on different

levels of sound.

    "Your blouse first, if you please."

Again he was not quite positive he had

said what he heard himself saying.

"Then perhaps if you would remove your

shirt while performing a small,

undulating dance. That would be very

accommodating."

"Put that damn thing down."

    "It's up?" He could actually smell

her perfume. And the pains were gone

from his stomach. Instead he could

feel a surging force of great strength

pulsating throughout his body. He was

capable of giant deeds; he was what

was it.P the possessor of the desert

winds. A prince of thunder, a hurler

of lightning. With the courage of all

the lions of Judea.

    "That's not a Lucky Strike you're

pulling-on. It's pure hashish."

    "Who. . . ?" The information reached

that small section of his brain that

was functioning. What the hey was he

doing? He spat out the mouthpiece and

tried to stabilize the aircraft; it

had to be the helicopter because

something was suddenly going around

and around. The lion of Judea was

shrinking. A mangy pussycat was taking

its place.

    And then he heard the whining words

of Peter Lorre, who had walked back

from the pilot's area. "We are on a

heading south-southeast of Tizi

Ouzou."

    "How come?" Madge was upset and did

not bother to conceal it. "You said

Tizi, not someplace else. I've got

friends on Rue Joucif, you fly! My

late husband did a lot of favors for

the Algerian government!"

    "A thousand nights of blissful

pardons, lady of Deveroo, but my

government is Azaz-Kuwait. My sheik is

the sheik of all sheiks, the god of

all khans, the eyes of the falcon, the

courage "

    "When you're caging mee, caking

meee, caging meeee!" Sam suddenly

found himself bursting forth in song;

at least, it sounded like him. It was

a song.

172

"Shut up, Majorl" shouted Madge.

'>4lon~alonnnnne on this night that

was meant for " "Will you be quietl"

yelled the girl.

"It seemed appropriate," mumbled Sam.

    "Where are we goingY' asked Madge of

the whining Arab, who was looking at

Devereaux as though the American

should be watched closely.

    "Seventy miles southeast of Tizi

Ouzou is a stretch of desert that is

traversed only by Bedouin tribes. It

is very remote and lends itself to

confidential rendezvous. An eagle's

tent has been spread for the sheik of

all sheiks, the god of all knans.

Azaz-Varak, the magnificent, is flying

in from his holiest of kingdoms to

meet with the unspeakable dog named

Deveroo."

"When I'm calling ynooo Deveroo ordy

ynoooo " "Will you shut up!"

    173

    CHATTIER SIXTEEN

There were maps everywhere, covering

the Watergate bed, spilling over the

coffee table, scattered about the

floor, propped up against the bureau

mirror, and draped over the hotel

sofa. There were gasoline road maps,

railroad maps, elevation charts,

geological and vegetation

carto-analyses; even aerial

photographs from sequential altitudes

of 50(}, 1,50O, 5,000 and finally

ZO,O(*i feet.

    These plus 363 ground-level

photographs of every inch of the

terrain under study.

Nothing could be left to change.

    Five minutes ago he had made his

final decision. The real estate broker

from the highly confidential, interna-

tional firm of Les Chateaux Suisse des

Grands Siecles would be arriving

imminently. Naturally, secretly; the

first law of Les Chateaux Suisse was

absolute secrecy.

    Mac had selected a remote chateau in

the canton of Valais, south of

Zermatt, in the countryside near

Champoluc. The surrounding lands two

hundred acres were in the

cartographical shadow of the

Matterhorn and were virtually

inaccessible.

    What was uppermost in his mind were

two factors. The first was terrain. It

would have to come as close as

possible to duplicating Ground Zero,

as Hawkins had decided to name it.

Every turn and curve and rise of the

road; each slope and hill that might

play a part in the approach to or the

escape from Ground Zero would have to

be simulated as precisely as possible.

Maneuvers were useless if the training

grounds did not reflect the combat

cone.

    The second factor was the

inaccessibility. His base of

operations, as Mac had come to think

of the leased property, had to be

completely concealed from the outlying

country 174

roads as well as from the air. The

area had to be one where huge pieces

of equipment could be hidden in

seconds; where a complement of at

least a dozen men could live and train

for a minimum of eight weeks.

    The chateau in question possessed

these specifics. it was not that far

from Zurich. The Shepherd Company's

capital would be transferred to

Zurich. Devereaux would have to see to

this centralization of finances. As

well as the vetting of the chateau's

lease.

    There was a discreet knock at the

hotel door. MacKenzie stepped

carefully over the maps and

photographs on the floor and went to

it. He stood close to the panel and

spoke.

    "Monsieur D'Artagnan?" Les Chateaux

Suisse used pseudonyms all the time.

    "Out, man general," was the quiet

reply Mom the corridor.

    Hawkins opened the door and a

middle-aged, nondescript, portly man

entered. Even his slightly waxed mous-

tache was nondescript, thought

MacKenzie. He'd be a tough fellow to

spot in a crowd; there was absolutely

nothing outstanding about him.

    "I see you have perused the

information we sent you," said

Monsieur D'Artagnan in an accent

formed west of Alsace-Lorraine. He was

obviously a man who wasted no time on

the amenities, and the Hawk was

grateful for that.

"Yes, I have. I've made my decision."

"Which property?"

"Chateau Machenfeld."

    "Ahh, Le Machenfeld! Magnifique

extraordinaire! What history has been

played on its rolling fields; what

battles won and lost in front of its

towering parapets of granite! And the

indoor plumbing has been kept most

functioningly modern. An exquisite

choice. I congratulate you. You and

your coterie of religious brothers

will be very happy." D'Artagnan

removed the fattest envelope Hawkins

had ever seen from his inner jacket

pocket. The highly secretive firm did

not carry briefcases, Mac remembered;

so much confidential information

crammed into one repository was too

dangerous. The brokers carried only

those papers of immediate concern.

175

.

"Are those the leasing arrangements?"

    "Out, men. All completed and ready

for your chosen and agreed-upon mark.

And the six months' deposit, of

course."

    "Well, before we get to that, let me

go over the conditions~'

"There are new ones, monsieur?"

    "loo. I just want to make sure you

understand the old ones."

    "But, my general, everything was

understood," said D'Artagnan, smiling.

"You dictated the specifications; I

transcribed them myself, as is our

policy, and you approved the

transcript. Here. See for yourself."

He handed Hawkins the papers. "I think

you know we would never alter our

clients' demands. We have only to fill

in the specific chateau and

cross-check to make sure the demands

are not in conflict with the owner's

conditions of lease. I have done so

with all potential locations; there

are no conflicts."

    MacKenzie took the papers and picked

his way between the maps and

photographs to the sofa. With one hand

he removed two huge elevation charts

and sat down.

    "I want to be positive that what I'm

reading is what I heard."

    "Ask any questions you wish. As is

the policy of Les Chateau Suisse des

Grands Siecles, each broker is com-

pletely familiar with all conditions.

And when our business is concluded the

papers are microfilmed and placed in

the company vaults in Geneva. We

suggest you make similar arrangements

with your copies. Untraceable."

    Hawkins read aloud. "Whereas the

party of the first part, hereafter

known as the lessee, takes possession

in-nomen-incognitum...." Mac's eyes

skimmed downward. "In the absence of.

. . communicatum-directorum between

the party of. . . and the party of. .

. Goddamn! You boys got your training

in clandestine operations.'

    D'Artagnan smiled; the waxed

moustache stretched a little. "Ask

your questions, monsieur."

And so it began.

    Les Chateaux Suisse des Grands

Siecles was nothing if not thorough

and speeific~in the language of a

lease that 176

would never from that moment on see the

light of day. To begin with all

identities were held sacrosanct, never

to be divulged to any individual,

organization, court, or government. No

law, national or international,

superseded the agreement; it was the

only law. Payments were made to the firm

either in cash or treasurer's checks; in

the case of the Shepherd Company, from

a Cayman Island depository.

    Whenever explanations of "source" were

desirable, they would be expedited where

necessary and in the interests of

controlling outside curiosity. In the

case of the Shepherd Company, the sole

explanation of"source" was a loose

federation of international

philanthropists interested in the study

and promulgation of an historic

religiosity.

    All supplies, equipment,

transportation, and services would be

expedited in complete confidentiality by

Les Chateaux Suisse des Grands Siecles

and consigned to branch offices in

Zermatt, Interlaken, Chamonix, or

Grenoble. Any and all deliveries of

consequence to Le Chateau Machenfeld

would be made between the hours of mid-

night and 4 A. M. Drivers, technicians,

and laborers, where possible, would be

from the ranks of the Shepherd Company's

brotherhood,. who would be sent down

from Le Machenfeld to the branch

offices. In the absence thereof, only

employees of Les Chateaux Suisse who had

no less than ten years acceptable

service with the firm would be assigned

the deliveries.

    All payments were to be made in

advance, based on book retail value,

with a surcharge of 40 percent for the

confidential services of Les Chateaux

Suisse.

"That's a lot of percent," said

MacKenzie.

    "It's a very wide boulevard," replied

D'Artagnan. "We don't avail ourselves to

those who drive in narrow streets. We

think our consultation fee is ample

proof of this."

    It was, thought the Hawk. The

"consultation fee" applied against

whatever lease was arrived at, if a

lease ureas signed was $500,000.

    "You do mighty fine work, Mr.

D'Artagnan," said Hawkins, taking up a

fountain pen.

    "You're in good hands. In a few days

you will, as it were, vanish from the

face of the earth."

177

. .

~ .~

    "Don't worry. Everybody I

know that's everybody will be

extremely grateful never to hear from

me again. Seems I generate

complications." The Hawk laughed

quietly to himself. He signed his

name: George Washington Rappaport.

    D'Artagnan left with MacKenzie's

treasurer's check drawn on the Cayman

Islands' Admiralty Bank. The amount

was for $1,495,000.

    The Hawk picked up a handful of

photographs and walked back to the

hotel sofa. As he sat down, however,

he knew he could not dwell on the

majesty of Machenfeld. There were

other immediate considerations.

Machenfe}d would be worthless without

the personnel to train within its

borders. But former Lieutenant General

MacKenzie Hawkins, twice winner of the

Congressional Medal of Honor, knew

where he was going and how to get

there. Ground Zero was several months

away. But the journey had begun.

    He wondered how Sam and Midgey were

doing. Goddamn, that boy was getting

around! .

    The helicopter descended, dropping

straight down and causing

torrential.clouds of sand to blast up

in increasingly furious layers from

the desert floor. So thick was the

enveloping storm that the only way Sam

knew they had landed was the jarring

thud of the undercarriage as it met

and was swallowed by the dunes.

    They had been in the air somewhat

longer than had been anticipated.

There had been a minor navigational

problem: The pilot was lost. It had to

be the pilot since it was unthinkable

to admit the possibility that the

eagle's tent of Azaz-Varak was in the

wrong place. But at last, they saw the

complex of canvas below.

    The sand settled and Peter Lorre

opened the hatch. The desert sun was

blinding. Sam held Madge's arm as they

stepped out of the aircraft, if the

sun was blinding, the sand was

boiling. "Where the fuel! are we?"

Payee!" '4igee!" 'ltigee!" 'perigee!

"

    The screams were everywhere, and

from everywhere there was rushing

movement. Turbaned Arabs, their sheets

flying in the wind like a hundred

white sails, raced out of 178

the various tents toward them. Peter

Lorreand Boris Karloff flanked Sam,

gripping his arms as if displaying an

animal carcass. Madge stood in front,

somewhat protectively thought Devereaux

uncomfortably, as though she were about

to give instructions to a slaughterhouse

butcher. The racing battalion of sheets

and turbans formed two single lines that

created a corridor leading slightly

uphill in the sand to the largest of the

tents, about fifty yards away.

    Peter Lorre's nasal shriek filled the

air 'perigee! The eye the falcon! The

hurler of lightning! The god of all

khans and the sheik of all sheiks!" He

turned to Sam and screamed even louder.

"Kneel! Unworthy white hyena!"

    "What2" Devereaux wasn't arguing; he

just thought the sand would melt his

trousers.

    "It is better to kneel," said the

deep-throated Boris Karloff, "than to

find yourself standing on stumps."

    The sand was, indeed, uncomfortable.

And Sam, in an instant of real human

concern, wondered what Madge was going

to do; she wore a very short skirt above

her desert boots. He squinted and looked

at her.

    He need not have indulged in human

concern, he thought. Madge was not

kneeling at all. Instead she had moved

slightly to the side and was standing

erect-. She was spectacular.

"Bitch," he whispered.

    "Keep your head," she answered quietly.

"That's meant figuratively I think."

    '14iyee! Behold the prince of thunder

and lightning!" shrieked Peter Lorre. ~

    There was movement at the tent at the

end of the corridor of abus and turbans.

Two minions swept back the front flap

and prostrated themselves on the ground,

their faces in the sand. From the

shadowed recesses emerged a man who was

a mayor disappointment, a walking

anticlimax, to the dramatic preparations

for his entrance.

    The prince of thunder and lightning was

a spindly little Arab. Peering out from

the shrouds was about the ugliest face

Devereaux had ever seen. Below the

outsized, narrow, hooked nose,

Azaz-Varak's lips were curled actually

curled so that his thick black moustache

seemed fused to his nostrils. The pallor

of his skin (what could be seen) was 179

.

    .

a sickly beige, which served to

emphasize the dark, deep circles under

his heavy-ridded eyes. '

    Azaz-Varak approached, lips

pressing, nostrils sniffing, head

bobbing. He looked only at Madge. When

he spoke there was a certain authority

in his whine.

    "The wives of the lion's lair, the

royal harem none understand the

awesome responsibilities that befall

my generous person. Would you like a

camel, lady?"

    Madge shook her head with a certain

authority of her own. Azaz-Varak

continued to stare.

"Two camels? The airplane?"

' "I'm in mourning," said Madge

respectfully but firmly. "My wealthy

sheik passed away just after the last

crescent moon. You know the rules."

    The heavy-ridded eyes of Azaz-Varak

were filled with disappointment, his

curled-up lips smacked twice as he

replied. "Ahh, it is the awesome

burdens of our faith. You have two

crescents of the calendar to survive.

May your sheik rest with Allah.

Perhaps you will visit my palaces when

your time has passed."

    "We'll see. Right now, my escort is

hungry. Allah wants him to protect me;

he can't do that if he faints."

    Azaz-Varak looked at Sam as though

studying the preslaughtered carcass.

"He has two functions, then. One:

worthy, one despicable. Come, dog. To

the eagle's tent."

    "That's where the food is, isn't

it?" Devereaux smiled his best, most

ingratiating smile as he scrambled to

his feet.

    "You will partake of my table when

our business is concluded. Pray to

Allah that it is finished before the

northern snows come to the desert. Did

you bring the unmentionable

agreement?"

    Devereaux nodded. "Did you bring any

hot corned beef?"

"Silence!" shrieked Peter Lorre.

    "Lady," said Azaz-Varak, addressing

Madge, "my servants will see to your

every wish. My palaces are lovely; you

would like them."

    "It's tempting. We'll see where I am

in a month or so." She winked at

Azaz-Varak. His lips went through a

series 180

    l

of wet pressings before he snapped his

fingers and proceeded toward the

eagle's tent.

    The minutes stretched into quarter

hours, those to the inevitable hour,

and then two more of them. Devereaux

honestly believed he had reached the

end. A promising legal career was

being snuffed out, starved out, in the

middle of some godforsaken stretch of

desert, seventy miles south of a

ridiculously named place called Tizi

Ouzou in North Africa.

    What made the ending so ludicrous

was the sight of Azaz-Varak poring

over each sentence of the Shepherd

Company's limited partnership papers,

with eight to ten screeching Arabs

looking over his shoulder, arguing

vehemently among themselves. Every

page was treated as though it were the

only page; every convoluted and

unnecessary legalism torn apart for a

meaning that was not there. Sam saw

clearly the terrible irony: the

esoteric legalistic nonsense that was

the essence of every lawyer's

livelihood was keeping him from his

own survival.

    An insane thought went through his

pained brain: if all legal documents

were written to be understood between

meals all meals postponed until said

understanding was clear the state of

justice would be on a much higher

plane. And most lawyers of his

acquaintance out of work.

    Every now and then one of

Azaz-Varak's ministers would carry

over a page and point to a particular

paragraph, asking him in excellent

English what it meant. Invariably

Devereaux would explain that it was a

standard clause

which invariably it was and not

important.

    If it was not important, why was the

language so confusing? Only

significant items were in confusing

words; otherwise there was no need for

the confusion.

    And, too, good things were stated

clearly; unworthy things were often

obscured. Did standard mean unwor thy?

And so it went. Until at one point Sam

screamed.

Nothing else; he simply screamed.

    Azaz-Varak and his gaggle of

ministers looked over at him. They

nodded as if to say, "Your point is

well taken." And then went back to

screaming at each other.

181

    At the instant the darkness started to

cloud his vision his last look at living

things, thought Sam, he heard the words,

whined by the sheik of sheiks.

    "The northern snows have reached the

desert, unspeakable one. These foul papers

are life camels' prints in storms of sand:

They are without meaning. Not any meaning

that would bring the wrath of Allah, or

certain international authorities. My

generous, all-knowing person has signed

them. Not that I subscribe to the

despicable suggestions made to my ear, but

only to help unite the world in love, you

hated dog."

    Azaz-Varak rose from the mountain of

pillows beneath him. He was escorted to a

screened-off section of the enormous tent

by several hunched-over ministers and

disappeared- beyond the silks.

    Peter Lorre came up to Sam, the limited

partnership agreement in his hands. He gave

it to Devereaux and whispered, "Put this in

your pocket. It is better that the eye of

the falcon not fall on it again."

"Is falcon edible?"

    Perplexed, the tiny Arab looked at Sam.

"Your eyeballs are swimming in their

sockets, Abdul Deveroo. Have the faith of

the Koran, first paragraph, book four."

"What the hell is that?" Sam could hardly

speak.

    "'The feasts were brought among the

unbelieving infidels and no longer were

they unbelieving.'"

"Does that mean we eat?"

    "It does. The god of all khans has ordered

his favorite: boiled testicle of camel

braised with the stomach of desert rat."

    '~igeeeeeel" Devereaux. blanched and

leaped up from the floor of the eagle's

tent. The spring had been sprung; there was

nothing left but self-annihilation. The end

was at hand; the forces of destruction

called for his finish in an explosion of

violence.

    So be it. He would meet it swiftly.

Surely. Without thought, only blinding

fury. He ran around the pillows and over

the rugs and out onto the sand. It was

sundown, his end would come with the orange

sun descending over the desert horizon.

Boiled testicles! Stomach of rat! - 182

.1

"Madge! Madge!"

    If he could only reach her! She

could bring back news of his demise to

his mother and Aaron Pinkus. Let them

know he died bravely.

"Madge! Where are you?!"

    When the words came he felt

stirrings of bewilderment that were

contradictory to the last thoughts of

those who were about to perish.

    "Hi, sweetie! Come on over. Look

what I've got here. It s a gas!

    Sam turned, his ankles deep in sand,

his caked lips trembling. Fifty yards

away a group of Arabs were gathered

around the front of the helicopter,

all peering into the pilot's cabin.

    In a trance of confusion, Devereaux

staggered toward the bewildering

sight. The Arabs squealed and grumbled

but let him through. He gripped the

ledge of the window and peered inside.

It was easy; the aircraft had sunk

into the dune upon landing.

    It was not his eyes, however, that

were assaulted. It was his ears.

    There was a continuous, deafening

crackle of static from the

helicopter's panel that filled the

small enclosure like jack hammers in

a wind tunnel. Madge was in the co-

pilot's seat, her blouse neckline

lowered another several buttons.

    Then he heard the words riding

through the static and Sam froze his

hunger and exhaustion replaced momen-

tarilv by a kind of hypnotic terror.

"Midgey! Midgey, girl! You still

there?"

    "Yes, Mac, still here. It's just

Sam. He's finished with

what's-his-name. '

"Goddamn! How is he?"

    "Hungry. He's a very hungry boy,"

said Madge, expertly manipulating

switches and dials on the radio panel.

    "There'll~be plenty of time for

rations later. An army travels on its

stomach, but first it's got to

evacuate the fire zone! Before it gets

its ass shot off! Does he have the

papers?"

"They're sticking out of his pocket "

"He's a fine young attorney, that boy!

He'll go far! Now, 183

get out of there, Midgey. Get him to

Dar el Beida and on that plane for

Zermatt. Confirm, and over and out!"

    "Roger~onfirm, Mac. Out." Madge

whipped through several dozen switches

as though she were a computer

programmer. She turned her face to

Devereaux and beamed. "You're going to

have a nice rest, Sam. Mac says you

really deserve a vacation."

"Who? Where. . . ?"

"Zermatt, sweetie. It's in

Switzerland."

    184

PART

    - III

The smooth-running

corporation is largely

dependent on its executive

personnel, whose

backgrounds and

allegiances are compatible

with the overall

objectives of the

structure and whose

identities can be sub-

merged to the corporate

image.

Shepherd's lows of Economics:

`~ Book CXIV Chapter 92

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

    ,

Cardinal Ignatio

Quartze, his thin,

aristocratic features

bespeaking generations

of noblesse oblige,

stormed across the

rugs of his Vatican

office to the large

balconied window

overlooking St.

Peter's Square. He

spoke in fury, his

lips compressed in

anger, his nasal voice

searing like the

screech of a bullet.

    "The Bombalini

peasant goes too far!

I tell you he is a

disgrace to the

college which God help

us al~elevated him!

    The cardinal's

audience was a plump,

boyish-looking priest

who sat, as

languorously as his

habit allowed, in a

purple velvet chair in

the center of the

room. His pink cheeks

and pursed, thick lips

bespoke, perhaps, a

less aristocratic

background than his

superior but not less

a love of luxury. His

speech was more a purr

than a voice.

    "He was and remains

only a compromise,

Cardinal. You were

assured his health

would not permit an

extended reign."

"Every day is an

extension beyond

endurance!"

    "He has certain . . .

humilities that serve

us. He has quieted

much hostile press.

The people look upon

him warmly; our

worldwide

contributions are

nearly as high as they

were with Roncalli."

    "Please! Not that

name! What good is a

treasury that expands

and contracts like a

thousand concertinas

because the Holy See

subsidizes everything

he can put his fat

peasant hands on! And

we don't need a

friendly press.

Division is far better

to solidify our own!

Nobody understands."

"Oh, but I do,

Cardinal. I really

do "

"Did you see him today?"

continued Quartze as

if the 187

    .~

l

priest had not spoken. "He openly

humiliated me! In audience! He

questioned my African allocations."

    "A patently obvious ploy to appease

that terrible black man. He's forever

complaining."

    "And afterward he tells jokes jokes,

mind you to the Vatican guard! And

waddles into the museum crowds and

eats an ice eats an ice mind

you offered by some Sicilian brood

mare! Next he'll drop lira in the

men's room and all the toilet seats

will be stolen, Such indignities! What

he does to the bones of St. Peter!

They will turn to dust!"

"It cannot be very long, my dear

Cardinal."

    "Long enough! He'll deplete the

treasury and fill the Curia with

wild-eyed radicals!>'

    "You are the next pontiff. The

negative reactions of the broad middle

hierarchy support you. They are

silent, but resentments run deep.'

    The cardinal paused, his mouth

curved slightly downward as he stared

out into the square, his jaw jutted

forward below the dark hollows of his

deep-set eyes. "I do believe we have

the delegates. Ronaldo, get me the

plans for my villa at San Vincente. It

calms my nerves to study them."

    "Of course," said the priest, rising

from the purple chair. "You must

remain calm. And when summer comes you

will be rid of the Bombalini peasant.

He will stay at Castel Gandolfo for at

least six weeks."

    "The plans, Ronaldo! I'm very upset.

Yet in the midst of chaos, I remain

the most controlled man in the

Vatican The plans, you transvestite!"

screamed the cardinal.

    The moment the papal aide with the

ever present clipboard left the room,

Pope Francesco I got out of the

elevated, high-backed, white velvet

chair (a repository that would have

frightened Saint Sebastian) and sat

next to the lady from Viva Gourmet on

the couch. He was struck immediately

by the beauty of her voice, it was

warm and lilting. Very lovely. It

befitted such a healthy looking woman.

    The aide had suggested that the

interview be limited to twenty

minutes. The pontiff had suggested

that it should 188

end when concluded. The lady

journalist had reddened slightly with

embarrassment, so Giovanni put her at

ease by switching to English and

asking her if she thought there was a

market for clipboards with crucifixes

painted on the undersides. She had

laughed while the aide, who did not

understand English, stood by the door,

the clipboard clutched to his breast

like a plastic stigmata.

    The aide would have to be replaced,

thought the pope. He was another young

prelate seduced by the pretensions of

Ignatio Quartze.The cardinal was too

obvious; he was moving his charges

into the papal apartments before the

papal funeral was arranged. But

Francesco had made up his mind. The

Church was not going to be left in the

pontifical hands of Ignatio Quartze.

To begin with, they held the chalice

at Mass as though wringing the neck of

a chicken.

    The interview with Viva Gour7net's

Lillian von Schnabe was productive and

pleasant. Giovanni expounded on two of

his favorite subjects: that good,

substantial meals could be created

from inexpensive stock and flavored

with simple, spiced sauces; and that

in these difficult days of high prices

it w,as a mark of distinction to say

nothing of Christian brotherhood to

share one's table with one's neighbor.

    Mrs. van Schnabe saw immediately

what he was trying to communicate. "Is

this a form of 'the loaves and the

fishes,' Your Holiness?"

    "Let us say He was not preaching to

the wealthier sections of Nazareth. A

number of His miracles were based in

sound psychological principles, my

dear. I open my basket of fruit, you

open your basket of pasta; we have

fruit and pasta. The simple addition

alone gives variety. Variety we

rightfully equate with more rather

than less."

"And the diet's improved," agreed

Lilhan, nodding.

    "Perfetto. You see? Two principios:

reduce the cost and share the supply."

"That sounds almost socialistic,

though, doesn't it?"

    "When stomachs are empty and prices

are high, labels are foolish. In the

Borsa Valo~the stock exchange, you

call it they are not prone to open

baskets; they sell them. It is fitting

that they do so, considering the

nature of their 189

labors. But I do not address such

people. They eat at the Grand Hotel,

on each other's expense accounts. I

believe that, too, is a derivative of

the 'loaves and fishes' principle."

    They discussed numerous recipes

based on the village dishes from the

pope's past. Giovanni could see that

the nice lady with the lovely voice

was impressed. He had done his

nutritional homework; carbohydrates,

proteins starch, calories, iron, and

all kinds of vitamins were to be found

in his recipes.

    Lillian filled half a notebook,

writing as rapidly as the pope spoke,

stopping him occasionally to clarify

a word or a phrase. After nearly an

hour had passed, she paused and asked

a question Giovanni did not

understand.

    "What about your own personal

requirements, Your Holiness? Are there

any restrictions or specific

necessities called for in the meals

brought to you?"

"she causal What do you mean?':

"We are what we eat, you know."

    "I sincerely hope not. I am in my

seventh decade, my dear. An excess of

onion or olive or pimento.... But such

information is not needed for your

article. People my age quite naturally

gravitate to and regulate their

personal needs in this area."

    Lillian put her pencil down. "I

didn't mean to pry, but you're so

fascinating a man and I am considered

one of the best nutritional experts in

America. I suppose I just wanted to

approve of the way your kitchen treats

you."

    Ahh, thought Giovanni Bombalini, how

many years it has been since a lovely

person of the opposite gender has been

concerned about him! He could not

remember, it was so long ago/

Pinched-faced nuns and officious

nurses, yes. But so attractive a lady,

with such a lovely voice....

    "Well, my dear, these outrageous

doctors do insist on certain

foods.-..."

Lillian picked up her pencil.

And they talked for another fifteen

minutes.

    At the end of which time there was a

knock on the door of the papal

apartment. Francesco rose from the

couch and returned to the elevated,

high-backed, white velvet chair

    190

    i

that belonged in one of those

Cinecitta biblical spectaculars.

    An agitated Cardinal Ignatio Quartze

stood in the doorway, a handkerchief

dabbing his aquiline nose, noises

emerging from his throat. "I am sorry

to interrupt, Holy Father," he said in

both Italian and high dudgeon, giving

the word "holy" a rather profane but

eminently courteous connotation, "but

I've just been informed that Your

Holi-ness has seen fit to disagree

with my instructions regarding the

convocation of the Bankers for

Christ."

    "'Disagree' is too strong a term. I

merely suggested that the convocation

committee reconsider. To occupy the

Sistine Chapel for two days at the

height of the spring tourist season

seems unwarranted."

    "If you will forgive my contrary

observation, the Sistine is the most

favored and frequented site we

possess. All convocations of merit

convene there."

    "Thus denying thousands every year of

its beauty. I'm not sure there's merit

in that."

    'We are not an amusement park, Pope

Francesco." Strange noises continued

to come from the area of the

cardinal's throat; he blew his nose

with aristocratic vigor.

    "I sometimes wonder," replied

Giovanni. "We sell such a diversity of

baubles everywhere. Did you know

there's a stand featuring rhinestone

rosary beads?"

    "Please, Your Holiness. The Bankers

for Christ. They expect the Sistine.

We are finalizing extremely important

matters.

    "Yes, my dear Cardinal, I received

the memorandum. 'Accruals for Jesus'

is somewhat labored, I think, but I

suppose these are certain tax

advantages." Giovanni's attention was

suddenly drawn to Lillian. She had

closed her notebook politely but

firmly; she was anxious co leave. Ahh,

it had been such a pleasant interlude!

Airy Quartze was not going to spoil

it; he could wait. He addressed the

attractive lady with the lovely voice.

In English, of course; a language only

barely understood by Quartze. "How

rude we are. Do forgive us. The

agitated cardinal with the propellers

in his nasal passages has once again

found my judgments lacking."

19

    "Then I would have to say his

Judgment left much to be desired,"

said Lillian, rising from the couch

and placing her notebook in her purse.

She looked into Giovanni's eyes and

spoke softly with feeling. "I suppose

this isn't a proper thing to say but

since I'm not Catholic, I'll say it

anyway. You're one of the most

attractive men I've ever met. I hope

you re not offended."

    Giovanni Bombalini, Pope Francesco,

Vicar of Christ felt the stirrings of

memories of fifty years ago. And they

were good. In- a profoundly sacred

sense for which he was grateful. "And

you, my dear, possess an honesty

-however erroneous your present

opinion that walks in the warm light

of God."

    "If I do, it's because I was taught

by someone quite like you, I think.

Although few would recognize the

similarity."

    "I am flattered. This someone, give

him the blessings of a

farmhand-priest."

    Lillian smiled. She started for the

door, where Quartze's handkerchief

fluttered a tattoo in front of his

agitated face and the sounds of mucus

still could be heard beyond his

aquiline nose and very thin lips. The

prelate sidestepped to let her pass,

doing his best to ignore her. So

Lillian paused briefly, forcing him to

look at her. When he did so, she

winked.

    As she closed the door the words from

Pope Francesco were clear and firm.

For in his anger, the pontiff raised

his voice, in English.

    "Talk to me not of the Sistine,

Ignatiot Instead, discuss these plans

I requested for your waterfront home

at Sam Vincentet What are 'security

arrangements'P They include a steam

bath)"

    Hawkins had reserved both seats in

the first-class section of the

Lufthansa 747. Since he needed elbow

room, there was no point in

inconveniencing a fellow passenger.

This way, he was able to place file

folders beside him for quick

referrals.

    He had specifically chosen the night

flight to Zurich. The travelers, by

and large, would be diplomats, bankers

or corporate executives used to

transatlantic flights; they 192

-

would use the night for sleep, not

socializing. He would have a minimum

of interruptions.

    For selections would have to be

made, offers of recruitment dispatched

immediately from Zurich.

    MacKenzie's briefcase contained

assorted personnel profles from which

he would choose his troops. They were

the last of the files he had Xeroxed

at the G-2 archives. Those fortunate

enough to be chosen would be his bri-

gade; his personal army that would be

privileged to engage, in the most

unusual maneuver in modern military

history.

    And each soldier would return from

the engagement one of the richest men

in his pelt of the world.

    For, where possible, they would be

from separate parts of the world. For

the inviolate condition of recruitment

was that none would ever acknowledge

the existence of the others once the

engagement was completed. It would be

better if they came from different

places.

    The dossiers in the Hawk's briefcase

were those of the most accomplished

double and triple agents in the U.S.

Army data banks. And there was a

common denominator running through

each file: All were in forced retire-

ment.

    The state of double and triple

agenting was at a low ebb. The experts

described in the dossiers had not had

really gainful employment - for some

time, and for such men inactivity was

anathema. It meant not only a loss of

prestige within the community of

international criminals, but also a

reduced scale of living.

    The prospects of $500,000 per man

would not be lightly dismissed. And

each potential recruit was worth it.

Each was the best at his specialty.

    It was all a question of logistics.

Think then outthink. Every function

handled by an expert, every move timed

to the split second.

    And that required a commander who

demanded flawless precision from his

troops. Who trained them to perform at

peak efficiency levels. Who did not

stint when it came to equipment and

simulation; who would duplicate as far

as technically possible the exact

conditions projected for the 193

.

    i

assault. In essence a general officer

the first rank. Himself. Goddamni

    Once the brigade was selected and

assembled, Mac would outline the basic

strategy. Then he would allow his

officers to offer suggestions and

refinements. A good commander always

listened to his subordinate officers

but, of course, reserved final

judgment for himself.

    The weeks of training would show

where the strengths and weaknesses

lay; the objective was merely to

eliminate all weakness.

    The fewer troops the better, but not

so few as to impair the efficiency of

the mission. Which was why there was

only one payment for each soldier:

$500,000. There would be no rewards if

they were caught. At least, not the

kind they were after. There would be

certain family allotments in the case

of capture. It was the sort of thing

all armies had learned to take for

granted. Men performed better under

combat conditions if their minds were

free of concern about their families.

It was a good thing, too. It was

another proof of separation between

the species.

    The Shepherd Company would bank

funds for denendents in advance of

Ground Zero; to be deducted, of

course, from all final payments upon

the successful completion of the

operation.

    Goddamn! He was not only pro, he was

a very "borough pro at that! If those

idiots in the Pentagon had turned over

the whole U. S. Army to him, they

would not be having all that trouble

with volunteer enlistments. The

Pentagon pricky-shits did not really

understand "the book." If a soldier

took the book for what it was and

didn't try to bend it politically, or

find ambiguities to hide behind well,

it was a goddamned good book. Flawed

but workable.

    He had no time to think about

pricky-shits. He had about refined his

brigade. The required areas of

expertise were seven: camouflage,

demolition, sedative medicines, native

orientation, aircraft technology,

escape cartography, and electronics.

    Seven experts. He had narrowed the

dossiers down to twelve. Before he

reached Zurich he knew he would have

the seven. It was just a question of

reading and rereading. He would send

out his offers from Zurich, not from

the 194

Chateau Machenfeld, nothing could be

traced to Machenfeld. He even had to

be careful in Zurich. Not with regard

to traces, however, he could handle

that problem. But he had to make damn

sure he didn't run into Sam Devereaux.

Sam was due within hours of his own

arrival, he wasn't ready for Sam's

kind of panic. He could handle that

problem better within the confines of

Machenfeld.

    But then, thought the Hawk, he

didn't really have anything to worry

about. Devereaux was the girl's prob-

lem and they had each and every

one carried out their assignments with

real know-how.

    Goddamn! They were splendid! A man

had to count himself fortunate,

indeed, to have such a quartet of fine

women behind him. "Behind every great

man..." they said. Behind him there

wasn't one fine lass, there were four.

    And a grander, more upstanding group

of girls there never were! Sam was a

lucky fellow and he didn't know it.

Hawkins made a mental note to tell him

when he saw Sam at Machenfeld.

Tomorrow, if the schedule held

    Devereaux walked down the station

platform looking for the correctly

numbered railway car. The task was

made difficult because he could not

stop belching. He had eaten his way

from Tizi-whatever-the-hell-it-was,

through Algiers, past Rome, into

Zurich. Madge had seen him off at Dar

el Beida airport admitting no more

during their good-byes than she had

saying hello in the Aletti Hotel room.

    But Sam had made up his mind not to

speculate any further about the girls.

Whatever propelled them to do what

they did for the Hawk could be left to

KrafEt-Ebing; he had other things to

concentrate on.

    The capitalization of forty million

dollars was committed. Hawkins now had

his marbles (no, he did not have his

marbles, but that was another

question), and he would start playing

the game. The-Hawk would begin his

final arrangements, make his

purchases, recruit his what was

its "support personnel."

Jesus! Support personnel!

195

So he could kidnap the popel

    Oh, my God! The whole world was an

enormous fruitcake!

    There was only one thing to bear in

mind, one objective to keep in focus:

How to stop MacKenzie Hawkins.

    Two objectives: Stay out of jail

himself. And out of the homicidal

clutches of the Mafia, the Peerage,

the Nazis and particularly those Arabs

who wanted to stuff his unmentionables

into unspeakables.

    He found his compartment, the sort

made famous by Rex Harrison and

Margaret Lockwood. Shadows and black

velvet collars and the incessant

therumping of the metal wheels against

the metal tracks below signifying the

inevitable approach of terror. And

large windows on the sliding doors,

with curtains suddenly drawn back

revealing the faces of evil.

    Night Train, Orient Express with

slow dissolves to hands inching into

folds of dark overcoats, ever so

slowly withdrawing the black steel of

murderous pistols. The train started.

~

    "Well, Ah declare! Ah said to

myself, Ah simply don't heleeve it!

It's the mayor! Right here in li'l ole

Zurich!"

    There was no reason to be the least

astonished. After all, Titan*s was on

schedule.

    Regina Sommerville Hawkins Clark

Madison Greenberg stood in the

corridor outside the railroad

compartment and spoke through the

wood-framed window. She slid the door

open and filled the small enclosure

with remembrances of magnolia

blossoms. Sam sat down calmly by the

window, amazed at his own casualness.

"Your timing's nothing short of

brilliant. The train rolls and so do

you. If I tried to get off at Lucerne

I have an idea you'd start screaming

'rape!' "

    "Why, what a peculiar thing to say.

I hope you haven't forgotten the

Beverly Hills Hotel; I never will."

    "My memories have no beginnings, no

middles, no ends. The world fornicates

in a thousand broken mirrors; we abuse

ourselves in the reflections of Sodom

and Gomorrah....

"Now, tell me why you just happen to

be in Zurich. At

    196

    i

    i

the Hauptbahnhof, on this particular

train, in this particular car.'

    "Oh, that's easy. Manny's shooting a

picture in Geneva. For UA. I think

it's so porn they had to make it

outside the States."

    "That's Geneva; this is Zurich. You

can do better than that. Let's have it

for Hawkins's Harem. A little imagina-

tion, please."

    "Honestly! Now you're downright

offensive!" Regina swept her vicuna

back and placed her hands defiantly on

her hips. Two cannons had Devereaux in

their sights. "I don't think you've

got a damn thing to complain about. We

root ourselves up out of very

comfortable circumstances; traipse all

over the world, subject ourselves to

every kind of inconvenience~rush,

rush, rush~heck on everything look

after you, body and soul make sure no

one hurts you see to your every

comfort . Oh, Lawdy, what more could

we do?! And for what? Abuse! Just

plain, big ale abuse!"

    Regina dropped her defiant pose and

began to cry. She opened her purse,

withdrew a Kleenex, and sat down

opposite Sam, dabbing her eyes.

A lost, hurt little girl.

"Hey, come on. That's not fair."

    As are most men, Sam was helpless

before a tearful woman.

    Regina sobbed; her chest throbbed.

Devereaux got out of his seat and

knelt in front of her. "It's okay.

It's all right. Don't cry, please."

    Between subsiding gasps, the girl

looked at him gratefully. "Then you

don't hate me? Say you don't hate me."

    "How could I hate you? You're

lovely and sweet and for Christ's

sake, please stop crying."

    She put her face next to his and her

lips against his ear. "I'm sorry. It's

just that I'm exhausted. The

pressure's been simply God-awful. I've

stayed by the telephone night and day,

always worryin' and, of course,

wonderin'. I really missed you."

    Ginny's coat was like a warm,

comforting blanket between them. The

huge, soft lapels came close to

enveloping 197

Devereaux's arms. She took both his

hands and guided them between the Aids

of thick fabric and placed them on the

softer, warmer, more comforting swells

of loveliness that were beneath the

silk of her blouse.

    "That's better. Stop crying now." It

was all he could think to say, so he

said it softly.

    She whispered into his ear, causing

all kinds of things to happen to his

metabolism. "Do you remember those

marvelous old English movies that took

place on trains like this?"

    "Sure. Rex Harrison saving Margaret

Lockwood from the evil Conrad Veidt "

    "I think you can slide the door

closed and lock it. And there are

curtains...."

    Devereaux rose from the floor. He

locked the door, closed the curtains,

then turned back to Regina. She had

removed her vicuna coat and spread it

invitingly over the soft seat of the

railroad compartment.

    Beneath them the therumping sounds

of the metal against metal signified

the inexorable journey, the beat

somehow sensual. Outside, the lovely

countryside of Switzerland whipped by,

bathed in a Swiss twilight.

    "How much time do we have before we

reach Zermatt?" he asked.

    "Enough," she replied, smiling. She

began unbuttoning her silk blouse.

"And we'll know. It's the last stop."

    198

    CHAPTER EIGHI`EE~

Hawkins registered at Zurich's Hotel

D'Accordwith a counterfeit passport.

He'd purchased it in Washington from

a CIA agent who realized the courts

would not let him write a book when he

retired; the man also offered a

selection of wigs and hidden cameras

but MacKenzie demurred. On settling

into the room, his first act was to go

right down to the lobby again and

negotiate with the head switchboard

operator: cash for cooperation. Since

the cash was one hundred dollars, it

was agreed that all his calls and

cablegrams would be routed through her

board.

    He returned to the room and spread

the seven dossiers (his final

selections) over the coffee table. He

was immensely pleased. These men were

the most devious, experienced provocateurs

in their feids. It was now merely a

question of enlisting them. And

MacKenzie knew he was an exceptionally

qualified recruiter.

    Four he knew he could reach by

phone. Three by cable. Admittedly, the

telephone contacts would be difficult,

for in no case would one call find the

expert in. But he would reach them by

using various codes from the past. One

call would be made to a Basque fishing

village on the Bay of Biscay; another

to a similar coastal town in Crete. A

third would be placed to Stockholm, to

the sister of the espionage expert who

was currently living as a minister of

the Scandinavian Baptist Church. The

fourth call would be to Marseilles

where the man sought was employed as

a tugboat pilot.

    And the geographical diversity' In

addition to those he could reach by

telephone (Biscay, Crete, Stockholm

and Marseilles), there were the

cablegrams: to Athens, Rome, 199

and Beirut What a spread! It was an

intelligence director's dream!

    MacKenzie took off his jacket, threw

it on the bed, and withdrew a fresh

cigar from his shirt pocket. He chewed

the end to its proper consistency and

lighted up. It was just nine-fifteen;

the afternoon train to Zermatt was at

fourfifteen.

    Seven hours. Now that was a good

omen if ever one existed! Seven hours

and seven subordinate officers to

recruit.

    He carried the three dossiers to the

desk and arranged the files in front

of the telephone.-The cablegrams would

be sent first.

    At precisely twenty-two minutes to

four the Hawk replaced the telephone

and made a red check mark on the

dossier titled Marseilles. It was the

last of the phone contacts; he needed

only two replies to the cables to

Athens and Beirut. Rome had responded

two hours ago. Rome had been out of

work longer than the others.

    The calls had gone smoothly. In each

case the initial conversations with

the middlemen and women had been

reserved, polite, general, almost

abstract. And with each MacKenzie

employed just the right words,

quietly, confidentially. Each expert

he had wanted to reach called him

back.

    There had been no hitches with

anyone. His proposals were couched in

the same universally understood lan-

guage; the term yellow mountain the

springboard. It was the highest score

an agent could make for himself. The

yellow mountain figure was a "five

hundred key" with advance funds banked

against contingencies. The security

controls included "inaccessible

clearinghouses" that maintained no

connections with international

regulatory agencies. The time factor

was between six and eight weeks,

depending on the "technological

refinements called for in the

sophisticated engineering process."

And finally, as leader, his own

background encompassed wholesale ser-

vice to entire governments in most

Southeast Asia, proof of which could

be confirmed by several accounts in

Geneva.

    He had done his research well. To a

man, they all needed to mine the

yellow mountain.

200

Hawkins got up from the desk and

stretched. It had been a long day and

it wasn't over yet. In twenty minutes

he would have to leave for the

railroad station. Between now and then

he would speak with the switchboard

operator and give her instructions for

those callers who might try to reach

him. The instructions be simple: he

had reserved the room for a week, he

would return to Zurich in three days.

The callers could contact him there,

or leave numbers where they could be

reached. MacKenzie did not want to

return to Zurich, but Athens and

Beirut were exceptional recruits.

The telephone rang. It was Athens.

Six minutes later Athens was in.

One more to go.

The Hawk moved his untouched luggage

to the door and repacked his

briefcase, leaving Beirut's dossier in

a separate, easily accessible spot. He

looked at his watch: three minutes to

four. There was no point in

procrastinating any longer. He had to

leave for the station. Returning to

the desk he dialed the switchboard

operator and told her he wanted to

leave a few simple instructions

The operator interrupted politely.

"Yes, of course, mein Herr. But may

I take them later? I was about to ring

your room. An overseas call has just

come in for you. Ftom Beirut."

Goddamn!

Sam opened his eyes. The sun was

streaming through the huge French

doors; the breeze billowed the drapes

of blue silk. He looked around the

room. The ceiling was at least twelve

feet high, the fluted columns in the

corners and the intricately carved

moldings of dark wood everywhere

bespoke the word ' chateau." It all

came into focus. He was in a place

called Chateau Machenfeld, somewhere

south of Zermatt. Outside the thick,

sculptured door of his room was a wide

hallway with Persian prayer rugs

scattered over a glistening dark

floor, and muted candelabra on the

walls. The hallway led to an enormous

winding staircase and a proliferation

of crystal chandeliers above a great

hall the size of a respectable

ballroom. There, among priceless

antiques and Renaissance portraits,

was the entrance 201

gigantic double doors of oak opening

on a set of marble steps that led to

a circular drive large enough to

handle a funeral for the chairman of

General Motors.

What had Hawkins done? How did he do

it? My God. Why? What was he going to

use such a place for?

Devereau-x~ looked at the sleeping

Regina, her dark brown hair lying in

waves over the pillow, her California-

tanned face half buried under the

eiderdown quilt. If she had any

answers, she wouldn't tell him. Of all

the girls, Ginny was the most

outrageously manipulative; she had

orchestrated him right down to the

moment of sleep. Partially, granted

only partially, because he was

fascinated by her. There was a will of

steel beneath the soft magnolia

exterior; she was a natural leader

who, as all natural leaders, took

delight in her leadership. She used

her gifts, mental and physical, with

imagination and boldness, and a

considerable dash of humor. She could

be the strong moral proselytizer one

moment, and the lost little girl in

the middle of burning Atlanta the

next. She was the laughing,

provocative siren in the plantation

moonlight, and with the flick of a

switch, a conspiratorial, whispering

Mata Hari giving orders to a

suspicious looking chauffeur in the

shadows of the Zermatt railroad

station.

"Mach Feldman's ass is in the bitter

seltzer!"

To the best of Sam's recollection

those had been the words Ginny had

whispered to the strange man in the

black beret, with the gold front

tooth, whose catlike eyes riveted

themselves to the front of her blouse.

"Mac's in felt!" had been the

whispered reply. "His sight's in an

auto bomb's flower pot!"

With that less-than-articulate

rejoinder, Ginny had nodded, grabbed

Devereaux's arm, and propelled him

into the Zermatt street.

"Carry your suitcase in your left

hand and whistle something. He'll turn

into an alley and we'll wait at the

corner for him to bring out the car."

"Why all the nonsense? The left hand.

The whistling

"Others are checking. To make sure

we're not being followed."

The Orient Express syndrome was being

somewhat

202 -

overdone, Sam had thought at the time,

but nonetheless he'd switched the

suitcase to his left hand and started

whistling.

"Not that, you ninny!"

`'What's the matter? It's some kind of

hymn "

"Over here it's called 'Deutschland

Uber Alles'!"

He'd switched to "Rock of Ages" as

another man, this one in a real Conrad

Veldt overcoat complete with velvet

lapels, came up to Regina and spoke

softly.

"Your warts are in the wagon."

"Mack Feldman's ass surely has sweet

shackles," she had answered quietly,

rapidly. And within seconds a long

black automobile raced out of the dark

alley and they had climbed in.

That was how the tortuous, two-hour

drive had begun. Miles of winding,

uphill roads cut out of the Swiss

mountains and forests, intermittently

illuminated by the eerie wash of

moonlight. Until they reached some

kind of massive gate that wasn't a

gate; it was an honest-to-god

portcullis. In front of a moat.

A real moat! With heavy planks and

the sounds of water below. Then

another winding, uphill road that

ended in the enormous circular drive

in front of the largest country house

Sam had seen since he toured

Fontainebleau with the Quincy Boy

Scouts. And even Fontainebleau didn't

have parapets. This place did,

certainly high and definitely stone,

with the sort of cutout patterns one

associated with Ivanhoe.

Quite a place, Chateau Machenfeld.

And he had only seen it at night. He

wasn't sure he wanted to see it in

daylight. There was something

frightening about the mere thought of

such a massive edifice when related to

one MacKenzie Hawkins.

But where did the chateau fit in?

What was it for? If it was going to be

the son of a bitch's command post, why

didn't he just rent Fenway Park and be

done with it? It had to take an army

of minions to keep the place running;

minions talked. Ask anyone at

Nuremberg or in-Sirica's courtroom.

But Regina wouldn't talk. (Of

course, she wasn't a minion; in no way

did the word ft.1 Yet he had tried.

All 203

the way down from Zurich well, perhaps

not every moment and half the night in

Machenfeld perhaps less than half he

had done his best to get her to tell

him what she knew.

They had sparred verbally, each

talking obliquely, neither coming to

grips with any positive statements

that could lead to any real

conclusions. She admitte~she had no

choice that all the girls had agreed

to turn up in the right places at the

right times so that he, Sam, would

have company and not be led into

temptations that could be debilitating

on such a long business trip. And have

someone trustworthy to take messages

for him. And watch out for him. And

where the goddamned cotton-pickin'

hell was the harm in that? Where was

he going to find such a concerned

group of ladies who had his best

interests at heart? And kept him on

schedule?

Did she know what the business trip

was about?

Lawdy, no! She never asked. None of

the girls asked.

Why not?

Landsakes, honey! The Hawk told them

not to.

Couldn't any of them draw . . .

certain inferences? I mean, my God,

his itinerary wasn't exactly that of

a New England shoe salesman.

Honeychile! When they were married

to the Hawk individually, of

course he was always involved with

topsecret army things they all knew

they shouldn't ask questions about.

He wasn't in the army now!

Well-live-and-die-in-Dixie! That's the

army's fault!

And so it went.

And then he began to understand.

Regina was no patsy. None of the girls

was. Fall guy was not in their

collective vocabulary. If Ginny, or

Lillian, or Madge, or Anne knew

anything concrete they weren't about

to say so. If they perceived a lack of

complete integrity, each put on blind-

ers, and her own particular activity

remained unrelated to any larger

action. None certainly would discuss

anything with him.

There was another problem in the

midst of the Hawk's insanity: Sam

genuinely liked the girls. Whatever

the whack-a-doo furies were that drove

them to do MacKenzie's

bidding, each was her own person, each an

individual, each God help him had an

honesty he found refreshing. So, if he did

spell out what he knew, the instant he did

so they were accessories. To a conspiracy.

It didn't take a lawyer know that. What

was he thinking about; he was a lawyer.

As of this. . . point in time. . . each

girl was clean. Maybe not like a hound's

tooth; maybe not even like a wing's

bridgework, but legally it could be argued

that each had operated in a vacuum. There

was no conspiracy under the circumstances.

Thank you, Mr. Defense Attorney. The

bench suggests that you reclaim your

tuition from law school.

Sam got out of the ridiculously

oversized, canopied bed as quietly as

possible. He saw his shorts halfway across

the room toward the French doors, which

was where he was heading, anyway, and

briefly wondered why they were so far

from,the bed. Then he remembered, and he

smiled.

But this was morning, a new day, and

things were going to be different. Ginny

had given him one specific to hang onto:

Hawkins would arrive by late afternoon or

early evening. He would use the time until

then to learn whatever he could about

Chateau Machenfeld. Or more precisely,

what the Hawk was planning for Chateau

Machenfeld as it related to one Pope

Francesco, Vicar of Christ.

It was time for him to mount his own

counterstrategy. Hawkins was good, no

question about it. But he, Sam Devereaux

from the Eastern Establishment's Quinces

Boston axis, wasn't so bad, either.

Confidence! Mac had it;

so did he.

As he put on his shorts, the obvious

first move in his counterstrategy came

into focus. It wasn't just obvious, it was

blatant; bells rang! Such an extraordinary

place (mansion, estate, compound, small

country) as Machenfeld would demand an

unending series of supplies to keep it

functioning. And suppliers were like

minions, they could see, and hear, and

bear witness. The Hawk's proclivity for

massiveness could be the most vulnerable

aspect of his plans. Sam had considered

disrupting Mac's supply lines as one of

his options, from a military point of

view, but he 205

had no idea how positively logical it was.

It might be all he needed.

He'd circulate rumors as massively

dangerous, as gigantically outrageous, as

the sight of Machenfeld itself. He'd start

with the servants, then the suppliers,

then everyone else who came near the

chateau until a state of isolation was

brought about and he could come to grips

with a deserted Hawkins and what the hell

was that noise?

He walked rapidly to the French doors

and through them to the small balcony

beyond. It overlooked the rear of Chateau

Machenfeld. He assumed it was the rear;

there was no circular drive below.

Instead, there were gardens in spring

bloom, with "raveled paths and latticed

arbors and scores of small fishponds

carved out of rock. Beyond the gardens

were green fields that merged into

greener, darker forests, and in the

distance were the majestic Alps.

The noise continued, spoiling the view.

He could not, at first, determine where it

came from, and so he squinted in the

sunlight. And instantly wished to hell he

hadn't. Because he could now see what was

making the noise.

One, two, three. . . five, six. . .

eight, nine! Nine assorted insanely

assorted vehicles were slowly going down

a dirt road that bordered the fields,

progressing south toward the surrounding

forests.

There were two long black limousines, a

huge earthmoving bulldozer, an outsized

tractor with pronged forks in front, and

five goddamn it, yes, five motorcycles!

It didn't take a lot of imagination to

get the picture. The Hawk was about to

enter maneuvers! He had bought himself his

own personal papal motorcade! Plus equip-

ment that could shove the ground around

into any design he liked: The route of

said papal motorcade!

But he hadn't even arrived at

Machenfeld! How the hell was he able

to and what the hell was that?

In his anger and confusion, Devereaux

gripped the balcony, shaking his head in

frustrated bewilderment. His eyes were

arrested by an extraordinary sight fifty

yards away.

Within a kind of patio, outside a pair

of open doors that looked like the

entrance to some sort of enormous kitchen,

stood a large man wearing a chefs hat, who

was 206

-

in the process of checking off items

from a thick sheaf of papers in his

hands. In front of the man was a

mountain of crates and cartons and

boxes that must have reached the

height of fifteen feet!

Lines of supply, shit!

There wasn't anything left in Europe

for Hawkins to buy. There was enough

food down there to eliminate half the

famine on the Ganges! The son of a

bitch had requisitioned enough rations

for an army, goddamn it, an army

setting out on a two-year bivouac!

Limousines, motorcycles, bulldozers,

tractors, food for the entire Lost

Battalion! Sam's counterstrategy move

number one was shot to hell by a

parade of nine idiotically assorted

vehicles and some gasping eccentric in

a chefs hat.

The only state of isolation in the

foreseeable future was from any and

all lines of supply. They were totally

unnecessary.

That left the minions. The dozen or

so servants that had to be around to

keep Machenfeld afloat. Kitchens, gar-

dens, fields (that probably meant

barns, maybe livestock), and at least

thirty to forty rooms with cleaning

and waxing and polishing and dusting.

Christ! There had to be a staff of

twenty!

He'd begin right away. Perhaps with

the drivers of the nine vehicles;

convince them to get the damn things

off the chateau's grounds before it

was too late. Then he'd rapidly go

from one group of servants to another.

Let them know in ominous terms, which

meant legal terms, that if they knew

what was good for them they'd get the

hell out of Machenfeld before all the

agents of-Interpol descended.

All the food in Switzerland wouldn't

do the Hawk any good if there was no

one on the premises. To run the

premises. And a few well-chosen words

to those manning the vehicles, words

like "international violations," "per-

sonal accountability," and "life

imprisonment," would surely cause that

stream of motorcycles and limousines

and trucks to barrel-ass back over the

moat into safer territory.

Sam was so preoccupied with his new

strategy that he wasn't really aware

that his undershorts kept sagging,

causing him to hold them 'up with a

free hand. He was 207

forced to be aware of it now because

as he gripped the railing his shorts

had plummeted down to his ankles.

Swiftly, he retrieved his modesty,

noting with a degree of

self-satisfaction that the games with

Ginny Greenberg must have be'en pretty

damned exciting indeed. But it was no

time for pleasant reminiscence, there

was work to do. His watch read nearly

eleven; he hadn't realized he'd slept

so long the games were not only

exciting, but exhausting. He had

barely five or six hours to get

everybody out. Such a large staff of

servants probably had lots of personal

belongings. That would mean

transportation, perhaps more

complicated than he had considered.

But one thing had to be clear: when

the minions left the grounds of

Machenfeld, they were not to return.

For any reason. Anything less would

weaken his basic premise: Machenfeld

was a threat to everyone who remained,

therefore no one was to do so.

Evacuation!

The chateau was to be deserted!

Then what the hell was MacKenzie going

to do?

Stew in his cigar juice, that's what

he was going to do! It was merely a

question of logistics and execution.

Goddamn! Logistics and execution! He

was beginning to think like the Hawk!

And have the confidence of the Hawk!

Be bold! Be outrageous! Take fate by

the balls and . . .

Shitl Before anything could happen,

he had to get dressed. He raced

through the French doors into the

room. Ginny stirred and moaned a

little and then buried her head

farther into the eiderdown quilt. He

stepped out of the torn underwear, and

crossed quietly to his suitcase which

was on an overstuffed armchair against

the velourcovered wall.

It was empty.

There wasn't a goddamn thing in his

suitcase.

He looked around for the closet.

Closets. There were four.

Empty. Except for Ginny's dresses.

Shit!

He ran as quietly as possible to the

sculptured door and opened it.

Sitting across the wide hallway was the

black beret with '208

the gold front tooth and catlike eyes

which were now focused on Sam's lower

extremities. In the confusion that,

perhaps, was understandable. The sneer

was not.

"Where are my clothes!?" whispered

Devereaux,-partially closing the door,

leaning against it.

"In the tauntree, mein Herr,"

replied the black beret in an accent

formed in some Swiss canton run by

Hermann Goring.

"Everything?"

"Courtesy of Chateau Machenfeld. All

was dirty."

"That's ridiculous!" Sam tried to

keep his voice low. He did not want to

wake Ginny. "Nobody asked me "

"You were asleep, mein Herr,"

interrupted the black beret, grinning

suggestively, his gold tooth gleaming.

"You were very tired."

"Well, now I'm very angry! I want my

clothes back. Right away!"

"I cannot do that."

"Why not?"

"It is the launtree's day off."

"What? Then why did you take them?"

"I told you, mein Herr. They were

dirty."

Sam stared at the catlike eyes

across the hallway. They had narrowed

ominously; ~ and the gold tooth was no

longer seen because the grin had

disappeared, replaced by an adamant

mouth. Sam closed the door. He had to

think. Quickly. As Mac would say, he

had to weigh his options. And he had

to get out.

He did not consider himself a

brawler, yet he was not a physical

coward. He was a pretty big fellow,

and regardless of what Lillian said in

Berlin, he was in fair shape. Still,

all things considered it was a good

guess that the black-berated maniac

across the hall could beat the shit

out of him. Even naked, he could not

leave by the stairs.

Option One considered and rejected.

That left the windows, more

specifically the small balcony beyond

the French doors. He grabbed his

shorts off the floor, put them on,

held them up, and walked silently

outside. The room was three stories

off the ground, but directly below was

another balcony. With sheets, or

drapes, tied together he could make it

with reasonable safety.

209

Option Two was feasible.

He went back inside and studied the

drapes. As his mother in Quincy would

say, they were spring drapes. Silk,

billowy, not strong. Option Two was

fading. Then he looked at the bed

sheets, ignoring the inviting sight of

Regina who was now more outside the

eiderdown quilt than under. If the

sheets were combined with the drapes,

this would probably hold him. Option

Two was reemerging.

Battle dress.

That was a problem. There was nothing

but dresses.

So, assuming Option Two succeeded

and he reached the ground, he had

Options Three and Four to consider.

And as he considered them there was a

sinking feeling in his stomach. He

could race around Machenfeld in

underwear that kept falling down to

his ankles or he could put on one of

Ginny's Balenciaga prints and hope the

zipper held.

A man running around spreading

alarms in disheveled underwear, or a

Paris original, was not likely to be

taken too seriously. There might even

be Options Five and Six to contend

with: be locked up, or be raped.

Shit!

He had to keep his head; he had to

get hold of himself and think things

out. Slowly. He could not allow a

minor item like clothing to stand in

the way of evacuation. What could the

Hawk do? What was that goddamned term

he used so frequently?

Support personnel! That was it!

Sam raced back out on the balcony.

The man in the chefs hat was still

checking off items on his list. It'd

probably take him a week.

"Psssst! Psssst!" Devereaux leaned

over the railing, remembering at the

last instant not to let go of the

underwear. "Hey you!" he whispered

loudly.

The man looked up, startled at

first, then smiled broadly. 'huh!

Bonjour, monsieur! (ha Ha?" he

shouted.

Sam held his finger to his lips.

"Shhh!" He gestured for the chef to

come closer.

He did so, carrying his papers,

making a last notation as he walked.

"Oui monsieur?"

"I'm being held prisoner!" whispered

Devereaux with solemn urgency and much

authority. "They've taken my

    210

clothes. I need clothes. And when I

get down I want you to get everyone

who works here into the kitchen; I've

got some very important things to say.

I'm a lawyer. Avocat." The man in the

chef's hat cocked his head. "ye ne

comprends pas, monsieur Desirez-vous

le petit d~jeuner?"

"Who.7 No. I want clothes. See? All

I've got is this, these." Sam

stretched his torn undershorts so they

could be seen between the rails; then

he pointed to his legs. "I need pants,

trousers! Right away. Please!"

The expression on the man's face

changed from bewilderment to

suspicion. Perhaps even distaste

mingled with hostility. "Vos

sous-vetements vent tres jolts," he

said shaking his head, turning back

toward the patio and the crates of

food.

"Wait! Wait a minute!"

"The chef is French, mein Herr, but

not that French." The voice came from

below, from the balcony directly

underneath. The speaker was an

immense, bald man with shoulders

nearly as wide as the depth of the

ruling. "He thinks you are making a

most peculiar offer. I can assure you

he's not interested."

"Who the hell are you?"

'My name is unimportant. I leave the

chateau when the new master of

Machenfeld arrives. Until then his

every instruction is my command. His

instructions do not include your

clothing."

Devereaux had an overpowering urge

to let his shorts fall and copy

Hawkins's action on the roof of the

diplomatic mission in Peking, but he

controlled himself. The man on the

balcony below was huge. And obviously

couldn't take a joke. So instead he

leaned over and whispered the words

conspiratorially.

"Hell Hitler, you fuckerI"

The man's arm shot forward; his

heels clucked like the bolt of a

rifle. ''lawohl! Sieg hell!"

"Oh, shit!" Sam turned and walked

back into the room. In exasperation,

he kicked offhis shorts. Then he

absently studied them as they lay on

the floor. Perhaps it was the angle of

the fabric, he was not sure. But

suddenly they looked strange.

He bent down and picked them up. all

Christ! What games?

The elastic waist had been cut

deliberately in three places! The

incisions were incisions, not tears.

There were no loose threads or

stretched cloth. Someone had taken a

sharp instrument and sliced the

goddamn things! On purpose.

Immobilizing him by the simplest

method possible!

"Lawdy! What's all that shoutin'

about?" Regina Greenberg yawned and

stretched, modestly pulling the

eiderdown quilt over her enormous

breasts.

"You bitch," said Devereaux in quiet

anger. "You devious bitchI"

"What's the matter, honeychile?"

"Don't 'honeychile' me, you Southern

retardant! I can't get out of herel"

Ginny blinked and yawned again. She

spoke with calm authority. "You know,

Mac once said something that's been a

comfort to me all through the years.

He said, when the mortars are falling

all around you and things look

terrible,

and, believe me, there were times when

the world looked pretty terrible to

me he said, think of the good things

you've done, the accomplishments, the

contributions. Don't ponder your

mistakes or your sorrows; that only

puts you in a depressed state of mind.

And a depressed state of mind is not

equipped to take advantage of that one

moment that could arise and save- your

ass. It's all a question of mental

attitudes."

"What the hell has that bullshit got

to do with the fact that I don't have

any clothes?"

"Not an awful lot, I guess. It's

just that you sounded so depressed.

That's no way to face the Hawk."

Devereaux started to answer blindly,

angrily. Then he stopped, looked at

the sincerity in Ginny's eyes and

began again. "Wait a minute. 'Face the

Hawk.' You mean you want me to fight

him? Stop him?"

"That's your decision, Sam. I only

want what's best for everyone.

"Will you help me?"

Ginny was pensive for a moment, then

replied firmly. "No, I won't do that.

Not in the way you're thinking. I owe

MacKenzie too much.'

212

1 ''-l

"Lady!" burst out Devereaux. "Do you

have any idea what that lunatic is up

to?"

Mrs. Hawkins number one looked at

him with an expression of suddenly

imposed innocence. "A lieutenant

doesn't question a general officer,

Major. He can't be expected to

understand the intricacies of command

"

"Then what the hell are we talking

about?"

"You're a smart fellow. The Hawk

wouldn't have promoted you if you

werent. I just want him to have the

finest advice he can get. So he can do

whatever it is he wants to do the best

way possible." Ginny rolled over under

the eiderdown quilt. "I'm really very

sleepy."

And Devereaux saw them on the

bedside table next to her head.

A pair of scissors.

    ala

    CHAPTER NINETEEN

"Sorry about the clothes," said the

Hawk in the huge drawing room. Sam

glared and retied the curtain sash he

used as a belt around the eiderdown

quilt. "You'd think the laundry would

have more than one key, wouldn't you?

These big fancy places don't trust

anyone; shows the kind of house guests

they must be used to, I suppose."

"Oh, shut- up,t' mumbled Devereaux,

who found it necessary to double-loop

the sash because the silk kept

slipping. "The laundress will be here

in the morning, I presume."

"I'm sure of it. She's one of the

few who go home at night. To the

village. That'll change, of course;

there'll be a lot of changes."

"Just tell me there'll be one change

and I'll go back and have dinner with

Azaz-Varak."

"Come on now, Sam, you've.got a

one-track mind. Let's get on to other

things. You sure you don't want a

shirt and a pair of trousers? just

take me a minute to go upstairs...."

Hawkins made a gesture past a dozen or

so overstuffed, antimacassared

armchairs toward the great hall.

"Nol I don't want anything from

you! I take that back. I do want

something. I want you to call off this

crazy business and let me go home!"

MacKenzie bit off the chewed end of

his cigar, spitting it between the

feet of a suit of armor. "You uphill

go home, I promise you that. The

minute you centralize the company

finances and make a few deposits that

can be tapped under certain

conditions, I'll drive you to the

airport myself. That's the word of a

general officer."

214

of'

"It's the reasoning of a brain

soaked in linseed oil! Do you have any

idea what you're asking me to do?

That's not chopped liver you're

talking about, it's forty million dol-

lars. I'm marked for life! They'll

have a record sheet on me in every

Interpol headquarters and police

station in the civilized worldl You

don't put your name on forty million

dollars' worth of bank transfers and

expect to go back to a normal law

practice. Word gets out."

"That's not so, and you know it. All

that Swiss banking stuff is

confidential."

Devereaux looked around to make sure

no one else was within hearing. "Even

if it's supposed to be, it's not going

to be once a . . . certain attempt is

made to snatch a. . . certain person

in Rome! And that's all it will be! An

attempt! You'll have your ass in a

net, and every contact you've made

since China will be put under a

microscope and my name will surface

and so will forty Sucking million

dollars in Zurich and that's the

baligame!"

"Now, goddamn, boy, we've been over

that! Your job's finished now. Or will

be soon's you take care of the money.

You don't have to be involved anymore.

And you're clean, son. You're a

hundred percent Clorox!"

"I'm not." Devereaux choked as he

whispered and clutched the eiderdown

quilt. "I just told you: The minute

you're nailed, I'm nailed!"

"For what? Say you happened to be

right which I don't for a second

consider remotely possible what can

they nail you for? Banking funds for

an old soldier who told you he was

raising money to support an

organization dedicated to spreading

religious brotherhood? Let me ask you

a question, Mr. Attorney. Could you,

under oath, testify to any

wrongdoing?"

"You're insane!" broke in Sam,

stumbling slightly as he stepped

forward. "You told me! You're going to

kidnap " Devereaux stopped and made

charade-like gestures that included

hauling a body over his shoulder and

the sign of the cross.

"Well, hell, boy, there are oaths

and there are oaths! Be reasonable.

Anyway, that's hearsay. Not

admissible."

Sam closed his eyes; he began to

understand what 215

martyrdom was all about. He continued,

his whisper strained but controlled.

"I walked out of those archives with

that Sucking briefcase chained to my

wristl"

- "Outside of that," mumbled

MacKenzie. "Anyhow, that's army stuff;

neither of us has much use for the

army. Anything else?"

Devereaux thought.

"Circumstantially, it's the mother-

loving end. There hasn't been a single

aboveboard transaction."

"That's subjective," said Hawkins,

shaking his head, confirming his own

judgment. "There's been no violence;

no one's lied. No theft, no collusion.

Everything voluntary. And if the

particular methods seem unusual,

that's the prerogative of every

individual investor, as long as he

doesn't infringe on the rights of

others." Mac paused and held Sam's

eyes. 'There's something else, too.

You said yourself that a lawyer's

first responsibility was to his client

not abstract moral dilemmas."

"I said that?"

"You surely did."

"That's not bad "

"It's goddamned eloquent, that's

what it is. You've got a silver tongue

in your head, young man."

Sam stared back at the Hawk, trying

to see beneath his guile. But it

wasn't guile; he meant what he said.

And since personal sincerity was the

momentary leveler, Devereaux decided

to be personally sincere.

"Listen to me," he said quietly.

"Say you go through with this this

insanity, because that's what it is,

you know. Say you really do it. You

actually kidnap the pope and get away

with it. Even for a few days. Do you

know what might happen? What you could

trigger?"

"Surely do. Four hundred million

green samolians from four hundred

million howling mackerel snappers. No

offense intended, just a harmless

phrase."

"No, you gung-ho son of a bitch!

There'd be international revulsion!

And recrimination. And then mainly ac-

cusations! Governments would point

their fingers at other governments!

Presidents and chairmen and prime

ministers would use blue lines and red

lines and then very hot lines. And

before you know it, some asshole

recites a code 816 i

from a tiny black box in a briefcase

because he didn't like what some other

asshole said. Jesus, Mact You could

start World War Three!"

"Goddamn! Is that what you've been

thinking about?"

"It's what I've tried not to think

about."

Hawkins threw his cigar into the

cavern that was the Machenfeld

fireplace and stood arms akimbo, a

flame dying in his eyes. "Sam, boy,

you couldn't be farther from the

truth. You know, son, war isn't what

it used to be. Hasn't any spirit to it

anymore. Bugles and drums, and men

caring for men, and hating an enemy

because he can hurt the things yop

love. That's all gone now. Now it's

buttons and shifty-eyed politicians

who blink a lot and wave their hands

without meaning very much. I hate war.

I never thought I'd hear myself say

it, but I'm saying it and learning it

now. I'd never allow a war."

Devereaux bored into the Hawk's eyes

he would not let MacKenzie look away.

"Why should I believe that? Everything

you've done reeks of con. Immense con.

Why should a war stop you?"

"Because, young man," replied

Hawkins quietly, returning Sam's stare

in full measure., "I just told you the

truth."

"All right. Suppose you provoke one

without meaning to?

"Goddard! Now you're pushing me too

far!" MacKenzie strode from the

fireplace to a second suit of armor to

the right of the mantel. The face

piece was open so he slammed it

shut-"I put in damned near forty years

and got Sucked by the plastic merit

Your Words, boy! Now, I don't feel

sorry for myself because I knew what

I was doing and was accountable for my

actions! But, goddamn, don't,ask me to

feel sorry for them or be accountable

for their stupidity!"

So much for personal sincerity,

thought Devereaux. Like Options One,

Two, Three, and Four in the morning,

it was shot to hell. This time in a

burst of self-righteousness. There was

nothing for it but to find another

way. One would present itself, Sam was

convinced of that. The Hawk had a way

to go before the pontiff of the

Catholic Church blessed the edelweiss

at Machenfeld. Something would turn

up; and Option Seven Options Five and

Six 217

    ,

    1

happily avoided was coming into focus.

For the moment he had to calm

MacKenzie down and under no circum-

stances lose his confidence. And then

Mac did have a point. A legal point.

He, Sam, was clean. Legally clean.

In every other way the mud was an inch

thick, but in evidentiary considera-

tions, he was not a good case for any

prosecutor.

"Okay, Mac, I'm not going to fight

you. You were screwed and I did say

it, and I believe you. You hate war.

Maybe that's good enough. I don't know

anymore. Personally, I just want to go

back home to Quincy, and if I read

about you in the papers, I'll remember

the words of a scarred but honest

warrior spoken in this room."

"A tongue of silver, boy! I admire

that."

"As long as it's not a head of lead,

I'll accept that. Do you have the

papers for the Zurich bank?"

"Don't you want to hear the amount

I've. . . accrued for your

participation? How do you like that

'accrued'? I'm a corporate president,

you know;'we don't fuck around with

second-rate vocabularies."

"I'm impressed. What's the entry

figure?"

"The what?"

"The accrual, that's the noun root

of the verb 'to accrue.' "

"Smartass shavetail. What do you say

to a half a million dollars?"

Sam could not say anything. He was

numb. He saw his hand move in

astonishment, and he watched it with

a certain fascination, not sure if the

appendage belonged to him. It must

have; when he thought about jiggling

the fingers, they jiggled.

A half a million dollars.

What was there to think about? It

was as insane as everything else.

Including the fact that he was not

indictable.

It was Monopoly time. Let's buy

Boardwalk and Park Place.

Stop. Co To Jail.

Why worry?

It didn't do any good anyway.

"That's reasonable severance pay," Sam

said. ale

"That's all you've got to says With

what I banked t'or you in New- York,

you can hire that Jewish fella and

he'll be happy to take the job."

MacKenzie was the injured party. He

obviously expected Devereaux to

practice a little bit of his

well-advertised overreaction.

"Let's say I'll erupt with

enthusiasm when I'm looking at those

figures in a bank book in Boston with

my mother sitting across the room

complaining about the new management

at the Copley Plaza. Okay'?"

"Do you know something?" said

Hawkins, his eyes squinting. "You're

kind of weird."

"I'm. kind of. . ." Devereaux did not

finish the sentence. There was no

point.

There was the abrupt, episodic

clicking of high heels. Regina

Greenberg walked through the cathedral

arch into the drawing room. She was

dressed in a beige pants suit, the

rather severe jacket buttoned over

Titanics. She looked, well, rather

efficient, thought Sam. She smiled

briefly and addressed Hawkins.

"I've met with the staff. Five will

stay. Three couldn't; they'd have to

live in the village and I explained

that wasn't acceptable."

"I hope they weren't hurt."

Ginny laughed confidently "Hardly. I

spoke to each individually, and gave

all three two months' wages."

"The rest understand the

conditions?" MacKenzie reached into

his pocket for a fresh cigar.

"And their bonuses," said Ginny.

"Minimum three months. All with

families to explain that they've been

hired for resident staff work in

France for the duration. No questions

are to be asked."

"No different from overseas duty,"

commented the Hawk, nodding his head.

"And the money's a hell of a lot

better than combat pay without a

weapon in sight."

"The logistics are in your favor,

too," continued Ginny. "Only two of

the five are married. Not too happily,

I gather. They won't miss, or be

missed."

"Well have to get women, though,"

countered MacKenzie, ''for R and R.

I'll scout the grounds later; spec out

tent arrangements far enough away from

the maneuvers, of course. And the

counselor here is going into Zurich to

219

    i

take care of several financial items

for me. What do you think, Sam? How

long do you figure it will be before

you're finished''

Devereaux had to force himself to

consider the Hawk's question. He was

stunned by the obvious control

MacKenzie wielded over Ginny.

According to the data banks, she had

divorced MacKenzie over twenty years

ago; yet here she was deferring to him

like a schoolgirl with a crush on her

teacher.

"What did you say?" Sam knew the

question but wanted a few seconds to

evaluate.

"How long will Zurich take?"

"A day. Maybe a day and a half, with

no hitches. A lot will depend on the

account clearances. I think the trans-

fers are coded through Geneva, but I

may be wrong about that."

"Can 'hitches' be eliminated with a

little honey in the pot?"

"Probably. Relinquishing-of-interest

could apply. The time period's minor

but the,sums aren't. The depositories

would pick up several thousand on

paper. That might act as a general

incentive."

"Goddamn, son, you hear yourself?

You hear how good you are?"

"Elementary bookkeeping. A trial

lawyer figures litigation with banks

is prime-meat. They've got more ways

to lie to themselves and everybody

else~than anyone since tribes started

to barter. A decent attorney simply

picks the lies he knows will suit him

best."

"You hear that, Ginny? Isn't that boy

something?!"

"You're mighty impressive, Sam; I've

got to admit it. And, Mac, since the

mayjor here's got everything under

control, maybe I could go up to Zurich

with him and kind of keep him

company."

"Why, that's a splendid ideal Don't

know why I didn't think of it."

"I can't imagine how it escaped

you," said Devereaux quietly. "You're

all heart."

From all points of the compass the

Hawk's subordinate officers arrived.

They were met at the Zermatt railroad

    220

    1

station by the bereted, gold-toothed,

cat-eyed chauffeur whose name was

Rudolph. And Rudolph had a hectic two

days.

Crete showed up first, without

incident. That is, he managed to cross

international boundaries under the

scrutiny of very professional

authorities without incident (but with

a forged passport) and got as far as

the Zermatt station, where his

troubles erupted. For Rudolph refused

to acknowledge Crete to be Crete in

spite of the proper identity markings

on his clothing, and consequently

would not let him into his Italian

taxi.

Because, for reasons that escaped

Hawkins, none of the G-2 data bank

entries on Crete had established the

fact that he was Black. Yet there it

was. Crete was a brilliant

aeronautical engineer, a Soviet

sympathizer as long as the Huskies

paid him, a defected espionage agent

complete with a doctor's degree and

very black skin. Rudolph was totally

bewildered, so MacKenzie had to use

some very harsh language over the

telephone with Rudolph, and finally

the berated maniac let the schwarzer

in the back seat of his car.

Marseilles and Stockholm were next.

They flew in together out of Paris

because they met each other on the

previous night at Les Calavados on the

Boulevard George Cinque and renewed an

old acquaintanceship that went back to

the days when both were making money

from the Allies and the Axis. They

were delighted to discover that they

were both on a trip to the same yellow

mountain in Zermatt. Rudolph had no

trouble with Stockholm and Marseilles

because they spotted him before he

spotted them and they criticized him

for his stupidity at being obvious.

Beirut did not take the train from

Zurich; he hired an ambulance,

instead. He had his reasons; they went

back to several contraband run-ins

with the Zurich police. So he flew

into Geneva, drove a rented car in the

name of a socially elite transvestite,

dropped it in Lausanne, contacted

l'Hopital des Deux Enfants in Montreux

and leased the ambulance, ordering it

to transport him as a coronary wishing

to spend his last days in Zermatt. He

timed everything to the Zurich train

however and all would have 221

-1,

gone smoothly except for Rudolph.

Unfortunately, Rudolph had a flat tire

on the back roads of Machenfeld, and in

his subsequent haste to reach the

Bahnhoff on time he had a minor

collision in the railroad station's

parking lot. With the ambulance.

Therefore it was difficult for

Rudolph to identify the highly agitated

coronary patient, who climbed out of

the rear door yelling about imbeciles,

with the figure whose markings

identified him as Beirut.

But Rudolph-was beginning to shrug

more and more. The master of

Machenfeld, he was beginning to

suspect, was not all there in the head.

And neither were the people he was sent

up to Zermatt to meet.

And the lovely lady of his late-night

dreams, the beautifully breasted

fraulein, had left the chateau for

several days. Things were not the same.

Rome and Rudolph got along

splendidly. Rome lost his luggage on

the train. The combined chaos of

finding his three suitcases and his

contact from the chateau proved a

strain nearly too much for Rome.

Rudolph sympathized and allowed him to

sit in the front seat on the trip to

the chateau.

Biscay was extremely secretive. Once

he displayed the coded identification

(a pair of white gloves with black

roses stitched on the back) Biscay

excused himself to go to the men's room

and disappeared through a window. After

a half hour, Rudolph's impatience

turned to curiosity and the curiosity,

in turn, became panic when he

discovered the men's room empty. He

tried to remain inconspicuous as he

looked in nooks and crannies and

luggage bins. Biscay followed him

discreetly. And it was only after

Rudolph called Machenfeld in panic that

Biscay, listening from an adjacent

booth, decided that his contact was

authentic.

Biscay sat in the back seat, and

Rudolph did not say a single word all

the way to Machenfeld.

The last to arrive was Athens. If

Biscay was suspicious, Athens was

paranoid. To begin with, he pulled the

emergency cord on the train, stopping

it in the freight yards just outside

the station. Conductors and engineers

ran through the cars looking for the

emergency, while Athens

- 222-

jumped off and raced over the tracks

to the platform, where he concealed

himself behind a concrete pillar. It

was not difficult for Athens to spot

Rudolph.

The train finally proceeded into the

station. Rudolph examined all the

disembarking passengers; Athens could

see his anxiety. When there was no one

left on the platform railroad

personnel, Athens approached Rudolph

from the rear and tapped him on the

shoulder. As he did so, he displayed

his identification (a red ascot) and

gestured for Rudolph to follow him.

At which point, Athens raced back to

the end of the platform, jumped down

onto the tracks and started running

toward the freight yard. He soon

outdistanced Rudolph and started a

series of l-See-You's between the

immobile cars.

Five minutes later a distraught

Rudolph was being comforted by the

energetic Athens as they walked out of

the freight yards toward the taxi.

And as MacKenzie Hawkins watched the

car approach from the ramparts of

Machenfeld, he congratulated himself

once more on his professionalism.

Seventy-two hours had passed since he

had begun making his coded contacts

from the D'Accord; and in that

seventy-two hours every one of his

subordinate officers was physically on

the premises.

Goddamn!

Based on the accepted principle that

larceny goes a long way in the banking

business, Sam's trip to Zurich more

specifically his trip to the Stasts

Bank to centralize the Shepherd

Company's capital was so successful so

rapidly that he would be able to catch

the early afternoon train back to

Zermatt. And since Regina Greenberg

was out shopping, he left a message

for her at the Hotel.D'Accord: Have

gone bowling. Will be home late.

He wanted those hours on the train

by himself; to think, to refine. For

Option Seven was becoming more sharply

defined as the hours passed. Due

mainly to the papers he carried out of

the bank given him by a perspiring

trust officer who was considerably

richer than he was before he'd met

Sam.

age

l

Among the fourteen documents, four

pertained to the account transfers

from Geneva, the CaymanIslands, Ber-

lin, and Algiers minus accrued

interest, of course, one listed the

total assets of the Shepherd Company,

with its bond of confidentiality, its

codes of release and the account

number, one was in the name of the

family Devereaux (Sam did not explain

it and the banker had asked no

questions, treating the item as though

it did not exist); and eight separate

documents defined eight separate

trusts.

One of these accounts was larger

than the others and within it were

four individual sets of figures. . .

obviously meant for four individuals.

It did not take much reflection on

Devereaux's part to identify them:

Mrs. Hawkinses one, two, three, and

four.

That left seven trusts, each with an

identical maximum figure.

Seven.

The Hawk's support personnel.

MacKenzie had recruited seven men to

kidnap the pope. (Sam couldn't imagine

that any were women, the Hawk's four

ex-wives were capable of anything

calling for feminine skills.) These

seven were his what was its

subordinate officers. MacKenzie had

allowed that his subordinate officers

would be arriving at Machenfeld

shortly.

"What do you mean 'subordinate

officers'?" Devereaux had asked.

"The troops, son, the troops!" the

Hawk had replied, the flame reignited

in his eyes.

"What do you mean 'shortly'?"

"We're on blue alert, boy. That

means all posts are manned, contact

expected from here on in."

"Like in a few days?"

"Maybe sooner, depending on enemy

counterpersonnel blockades. Our troops

will have to cross hostile territory

on their way to base camp."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Nothing you have to be concerned

with. Just bring back that money stuff

from Zurich. Before I give my first

briefing on the mission, I want my

subordinate officers to see for

themselves just how thoroughly command

center has taken care of their

interests. It'll give 'em a real sense

224

of purpose, of comradeship; it

emanates from the top, you know. It

always has."

That other reason why Option Seven

was coming into focus. Bring back that

money stuff...before I give my first

briefing . . . command center has

taken care Of their interests.

The Hawk's troops had been recruited

without knowing precisely what the war

was all about. Militarily speaking

there was nothing unusual in that, but

considering the enormity of the

projected enemy s resources namely,

the whole world a few well-chosen

words like, "Do you realize what this

maniac intends to do? Kidnap the

pope!" and "You're dealing with a

certified mental case!" and "Your

commander is a fruitcake!" and "This

lunatic shot the jade balls off a

Chinese monument." things like that

could very well make the support

personnel look to other fields of

endeavor.

It was a question of timing. And

psychology. If Sam read him correctly,

Hawkins was going to hit his

subordinate officers with a

double-barreled salvo: a highly

technical, strategically "feasible"

description of the abduction, and bona

fide documents from the Staats Bank du

Zurich that guaranteed each man a

fortune, regardless of outcome! It

would be a tough act to cripple, but

that's what Option Seven was all

about.

Sam would reach the subordinate

officersQrst. He would shoot

offcannons of doubt regarding the

Hawk's fundamental sanity. There was

nothing more frightening to criminal

underlings than the possibility that

their employers were unbalanced. Lack

of balance meant lack of judgment, no

matter how well disguised. And lack of

judgment could spell

ten-to-twenty-to-life; in this case,

probably a long rope and a blindfold.

Even the criminal element in Europe

had to have heard of the paranoid

general who was thrown out of China.

It wasn't that long ago. And when he

had finished this part of his oral

summation, Sam would place his high

card on the table.

High? There were none higher. It was

irresistible.

For on the train to Zermatt be would

go through the documents from the

Stasts Bank du Zurich, specifically

225

l

the trust accounts, and write out all

the numbers and the sequential codes

of release, and put them on seven

pieces of paper.

He would give each man a card with

the information written on it. Each

could leave Chateau Machenfeld without

so much as sitting through a meal,

head for Zurich and claim his monetl

Each subordinate officer would make

a fortune! For doing absolutely

nothing. Irresistible!

~ Giovanni Bombalini, Vicar of Christ,

walked out into his beloved garden to

be alone. He did not wish to see

anyone or talk with anyone. He was

angry with the world, his world, and

when one was angry it was always best

to meditate.

He sighed. If he was to be truthful

with himself he had to admit he was

angry with God. It was so senseless!

He raised his eyes to the afternoon

sky and a single word emerged

plaintively from his lips.

"Why?" .

He lowered his head and continued

down the path. The sprays of lilies

were in spring bloom, greeting life.

As he was about to leave it.

The doctors had just delivered their

collective report. His vital signs

were diminishing with increased

acceleration. He had no more than six

or seven weeks.

Death itself was easy. Good heavens,

it was a relief! Life was the

struggle. But struggle or no, he had

not consolidated the necessary forces

to carry on his and Roncalli's work.

He needed more time; he needed the

authority of the office to bring

divergent factions closer together.

Why could not God understand that?

Eh, my beloved Lord? Why? Just a

little more time?-l promise not to

lose my temper. Nor will I insult the

nasal-toned pardon, most Holy

Father the cardinal or his band of

antediluvian thieves. Six months would

do nicely. Then I shall rest in the

arms of Christ with grateful devotion.

Five months, perhaps? Much could be

accomplished in five months....

Giovanni tried with all his heart to

perceive a heavenly 226

response. If there was one, it was too

weak to get through his vital signs.

Perhaps, dear Father, if you would

speak to the Holy Virgin? She might

find more eloquent words to convey my

supplication. It is said that women

are more persuasive in these

matters....

Still nothing. Just a minor pain in

his knees which meant the weight was

hard on his old bones and he should

sit for a while. What was it that

lovely giornalista had said? There

were certain exercises

Basta! All he needed was to collapse

doing push-pulls. Ignatio Quartze

would roll his body under the bed and

they would not find him for a week. In

the meantime, Quartze would pack the

Curia.

The pontiff reached his favorite

white bench and lowered himself on the

cool stone. A breeze came from the

garden walls, fluttering the leaves of

the tree above him. Was it a sign? It

was refreshing. Then the breeze

stopped; the still air returned and

the fluttering of leaves was replaced

by footsteps clattering over the path.

It was the new papal aide. A young

Black priest from the diocese of New

York City, a brilliant student who had

done much good work in the Harlem

districts. Francesco had sought out

just such a deserving young

prelate over considerable opposition.

It was a small part of a large design.

"Your Holiness?"

"Yes, my son. You look agitated.

What's the matter?"

'1 think I did something quite

wrong. I was bewildered and you

weren't in your rooms and there didn't

seem to be anything else to do. I'm

very sorry."

"Well, now, we won't know the extent

of this calamity until you describe

it. You didn't, by any chance, find

Cardinal Quartze in my closet and call

the guards?"

The Black priest smiled. Ignatio had

made clear his disapproval of the

aide's appointment. Francesco took

every opportunity to lessen the

insult.

"No, Your Holiness. I heard your

private telephone ringing. The one in

the drawer of your bedside table; it

just kept ringing."

    227

    l

"It would, my son," interrupted the

pontiff. "It is not connected to the

Vatican switchboard. A minor indulgence.

So you answered it. Who was calling? Only

a few old friends and an associate or two

of long standing have the number. There

is no great harm in what you did. Who was

it?"

"A monsignor in Washington, Holy

Father. He was very upset "

"Ahh, Monsignor Patrick Dennis

O'Gilligan! Yes, he calls frequently. We

play chess together long distance."

"He was very excited and he thought I

was you. He didn't give me a chance to

speak. He rattled on so fast I couldn't

stop him."

"Yes, that sounds like Paddy; he's had

his problems. The Berrigans again? Those

two keep busy "

"NQ, Holy Father. Much worse. The

President called him. Something about the

confidence of the confessional, and

whether it was admissible. He wants to

convert, Holy Father!"

"she cosa? Madre di Dio!"

"It gets worse, Your Holiness. Sixteen

White House aides want to fad Jesus right

away. Under certain conditions of Vatican

privilege and something called Christian

immunity."

Giovanni sighed. There was so much to do.

- Four months, Oh, Lord?

    Is

    !

    CHATTIER I1VENIY

The unfamiliar faces had one thing in

common, thought Sam. Very muscular

bodies. As though each enjoyed the

outdoors, kept in trim by moving rocks

under the eyes at. penitentiary

guards. And speaking of eyes, that was

and other thing in common. All their

eyes seemed a little sleepy at first,

the lids half closed. But it was only

appearance. On closer examination the

eyes could be seen spinning in their

sockets like pinballs caught between

magnets, very little went unobserved.

There was a tall, blond man who

looked like he jumped out of a

television commercial for Scandinavian

cigars, a Black who nodded silently a

great deal and spoke an English

refined in university lecture rooms,

another darkskinned fellow with

distinctly sharp, northern features

whose accent was like all those people

in formal clothes at the Savoy; two

Frenchmen who had something to do with

boats; a long-haired man in very tight

trousers who strutted when he walked

like a tango dancer, aware of his ass

unmistakably Italian; and finally, a

rather wild-eyed Greek who wore a red

kerchief and kept telling jokes no one

quite understood.

There was a soft-spoken politeness

among them that was positively

unctuous, complemented by manners that

seemed born of breeding and wealth,

were it not for the shifty eyes. They

certainly were very much at home in

the huge drawing room of Chateau

Machenfeld, where the Hawk had

everyone gather before the late

dinner.

Gathered, but in the interests of

international security, not

introduced. No names were used.

Sam had returned to the chateau at

seven. It would have been an hour

earlier but he had to walk the last

three 229

miles because no taxi out of Zermatt

was allowed to travel beyond certain

zones and Rudolph was nowhere to be

found. When Sam called information for

Machenfeld's telephone number, he

discovered there was no such place.

It all might have taken the heart

out of him, but Option Seven kept him

going. He knew when a case was won.

MacKenzie had greeted him with mixed

feelings. The Hawk was pleased that he

had brought back the financial papers

so promptly, but felt that his

treatment of Regina was most

ungentlemanly. She was a fine girl,

and now Sam could not properly say

good-bye to her.

Why not?

Because her luggage had been sent to

the airport. Ginny was on her way back

to California, with a stop in Rome to

look at the museums.

So much for Ginny, thought

Devereaux. He was a little sad, but

there was Option Seven to think about.

And he began to think the timing was

perfect.

MacKenzie told him that there would

be no business discussed the first

evening. Just social chitchat and

strolls through the gardens and

cocktails and dinner and brandy. Why?

Because the troops would like a

chance, he believed to size each other

up, check their rooms for bugs, oil

their weapons, and generally assure

themselves that Machenfeld was no

Interpol trap. Sam could expect to

hear noises during the night; most of

the men would carry out their own

surveillance, and that was good

because they would undoubtedly run

into one another and realize further

that everything was on the up-and-up.

In the morning, when all were

refreshed, the Hawk would hold his

first briefing. Before he did that,

however he would certainly take the

time to say good-bye to Sam. He was

going to miss his~young friend, no

question about it. But the word of a

general officer was his bond; it was

the glue that held his battalions

together.

Devereaux's work was finished.

Rudolph would drive him into Zermatt,

where'd he'd take the morning train to

Zurich and the late-afternoon flight

to New York.

There was one thing Sam should be

aware of, however, just in case he

became nervous or was afflicted with

hypertension. For the next month or

so, several associates 230

of the Shepherd Company's first

investor, Mr. Dellacroce, would stay

in close touch with him. Their names

were Fingers and Meat, Hawkins

believed; it was just a temporary

arrangement, no offense intended.

Yes. Sam understood. There was no

point in MacKenzie being redundant.

Devereaux had terminated the

conversation, he would shave and

shower the sweat of three mountain

miles off him, and return for

cocktails.

In his room, Sam found the scissors

Ginny had used on his underwear and

cut out seven strips of paper five

inches long, one inch wide. He wrote

out the identical message on each.

Vitally important you meet with me

in my room third floor, rear of house,

last door in the north hallway on the

right. 2:00 A.M. sharp. Your life

depends on it. I am a friend. Remember

two o'clock this morning!

He folded the strips of paper neatly

so they fit into the palm of his hand

and put them in his jacket pocket. He

then removed the seven index cards

from his briefcase, the ones with the

account numbers and sequential

codes-ofrelease written on them and

put them in his trousers pocket. They

were his high cards. Irresistibly

He returned to the drawing room

downstairs and put to use all the

social graces a fine Boston upbringing

provided. He shook hands with the men.

And passed each his message.

By one thirty in the morning he was

ready. The Italian came first, his

hands encased in sheer, skintight

black gloves, his feet laced in

ballet-like slippers with ridged

rubber soles. And then, one by one,

the rest showed up in apparel not much

different. There was a proliferation

of gloves, and soft shoes or sneakers,

and black sweaters, and narrow

trousers with thick belts holding

thicker knives, and small holsters

with single straps across small

pistols, and in several cases coils of

wire.

Altogether a very professional group

of psychopaths, thought Sam, as he

told them with quiet, not completely

heartfelt authority to relax and get

comfortable, and smoke if they wished.

231

I .

Since they all were relaxed, and

most smoking already, he wasn't sure

it was a good opening. But the best

summations were those that built from

quiet even awkward beginnings.

So he began. Softly, at first.

Starting with a man as a tribal being,

looking to the heavens for meaning

beyond his daily battle for survival,

finding solace in that which he could

not really comprehend, because there

was comfort in primitive faith. There

was structure, an organization to

natural phenomena, and that meant

there had to be a force, a mind, a

profound all-knowing intelligence that

conceived the whole. Yet could never

be truly understood.

There was beauty in that lack of

understanding, for men strove beyond

themselves for the all-seeing,

all-knowing force that created the

earth, created them, knew them loved

them.

Without this search, man was an

animal. With it he reached out, and

compassion became a part of him.

Sam explained that symbols and

titles were not important in

themselves, for correlations could be

drawn between all religions. The

essence was the differentiation

between good and evil. But symbols and

titles held mystical meaning, and

profound comfort, for millions ev-

erywhere. Faith. The poor and the

oppressed prayed to them, held them in

reverence and hope. And for millions

these symbols were the warm light in

their unceasing winters of darkness.

Devereaux paused. It was the moment

for a crescendo.

'Gentlemen, facing you is a crime of

such monstrous porportions, a crime of

such profound evil a crime which

cannot possibly succeed and can only

lead each of you to your death, or to

a life endured, not lived, in a brutal

prison cell. For within the walls of

this chateau is a man who would rob

you of your most priceless

possessions! Yourfreedom! Your very

lives! For he conceives the impos-

sible. In his unbalanced woefully

unbalanced mind he is convinced he can

overcome the swift and terrible reac-

tion, the vengeance, of the entire

world! He expects to lead you into the

gaping jaws of oblivion. He intends to

kidnap the pontiff of the Catholic

Church! He is, in a word, insane!"

    232

    I

Sam stopped. He bored his eyes into

the face of each man. Cigarettes were

suspended in midair, mouths were open

in disbelief, eyelids were stretched,

stares conveying a paralysis born of

shock.

He had them! The jury was in the

palm of his hand! The phrases had come

out like thunder!

It was time for his high cards.

Those irresistible figures and

sequential code words that would make

each man in the room rich. Very, very

rich. For doing nothing but avoiding

the risk of oblivion.

' Gentlemen, I realize the state of

shock you're in and it pains me to see

it. It pains me to have caused it. As

that great Roman, Marcus Aurelius,

observed: We must all do what we have

to do, at the moment fate demands that

we do it. But as the Indian prophet,

Baga Nishyad, also observed: Buckets

filled with tears can be spread over

grain and the rice will grow like

jewels. I do not have jewels,

gentlemen, but I do have riches for

each of you. Deserved rewards. Sums of

money that will lessen your pain, and

send you back to the lands of your

choice, to live in freedom, freedom

from fear, from oblivion. And from

want. Here. I pass among you these

small index cards. Each is a passport

to your personal nirvanas. Let me

explain."

And Sam did.

And the seven subordinate officers

studied the cards, glancing at one

another as they did so.

"Do you speak French?" asked one of

the Frenchmen.

Devereaux laughed a touch too gaily

he felt. "Not really."

"Thank you," said the Frenchman,

turning to the others. "Vous parley loos

fran~aisi"

To a man they nodded affirmatively.

So they all began speaking French.

Quietly. Rapidly. Until seven heads

nodded once again affirmatively. Sam

was touched; he knew they were trying

to find a way to thank him.

Which was why he was bewildered when

two of the men suddenly approached and

grabbed him, spun him around, and

began wrapping his wrists in wire.

    1 ~

"What the hell are you doing?" he

yelled. "What are you doing to my

hands? And what the hell is that?"

He gestured his head at the red

kerchief the Greek had whipped from

his neck and was now twirling.

- 'And what the hell are they?!"

He referred to a number of metallic

cracks that sounded strangely like

weapons being inspected.

"We have that compassion you spoke

of, monsieur," said the Frenchman. "We

offer a man the choice of a blindfold

before we execute him."

"What!?"

"Be brave, signore," said the

Italian. "We all know this business.

We accept the odds or we do not play."

"Ya," added the Viking. "It is a

game. Some yin. Some lose. You lost."

"Whaaat?!"

'wake him dawn to the patio," said

the second Frenchman. "We'll tell the

staff it's target practice."

"Mac! Maac! Maaac!" He was led down

the hallway. Several pairs of hands

clapped themselves over his mouth he

bit them. "For Christ's sake! Hawkins'

Where the fuck

a,.. .

are your!

Again the hands clamped over his

face. The cordon marched with

precision down the hallway toward the

magnificent winding staircase.

Devereaux again forced his mouth open

and bit furiously at the flesh around

his teeth; hands and arms whipped back

momentarily. It was enough for Sam to

kick out behind him and for an instant

free himself.

He raced and plunged bodily down the

curving steps, tumbling over and over

as he fell.

"Hawkins! You son of a hitch, get

out here! These maniacs want to shoot

me!"

He bounced over the treads, careened

against the wall and plummeted

shoulders over backside down into the

last straightaway. His shouts were

progressively blurred, but the overall

meaning was unmistakable.

"Shit-kickers! Blindfolds ouch!

Pistols! Goddamn you oh ohh .

Hawkins! Uhu! Jesus my head!"

He reached the bottom of the staircase,

a disheveled 234

heap. The Hawk strode through the

cathedral arch from the drawing room,

a cigar clenched between his teeth,

several folded maps in his hand. He

looked at Sam on the Roorand then up

at the band of subordinate officers..

'Coddamn, boy! This changes

everything!"

Once again his clothes were taken.

Only now there weren't even any

dresses in the closet. His meals were

brought up by Rudolph.

The Hawk explained that it had taken

a command counterdecision to save his

life; and the troops did not like it

one bit.

"For a fact, I nearly had a mutiny

on my hands before the brigade set its

colors," Hawkins had told him the next

morning.

"Set its what? Never mind, don't tell

me."

"I mean it, son. I had to take stern

measures and let them know right off

that in matters of extreme prejudice,

no authority regardless of

consensus exceeded that of a field

general. It was touch and go for a

while, but I've handled the roughest

in my day. Those pups, good as they

are, Weren't any match. It's in the

eves, boy. Always the eyes.

"I don't understand," Devereaux had

moaned sincerely. "I spelled

everything out beautifully. I

unraveled the whole ball of wax. The

background, the motive. Jesusl Even

the money! I had them!"

"You had nothing," the Hawk replied

concisely. "You made two big mistakes.

To begin with, you assumed that such

a group of men, such a fine contingent

of officers, would accept money

surreptitiously, without earning it

"Get off it!" Devereaux had roared

his interruption. "You can't sell that

honor-among-thieves bullshit because

I won't buy it!"

"I think you're misjudging, boy, but

if that's the way you see it, there's

your second mistake to consider."

"What mistake?"

"One of the oldest traps in Interpol

is to set up a hot bank account and

send someone after it. I'm surprised

you didn't know that. You set up seven

all at once."

    235

    .~.

    l

Sam had retreated under the

eiderdown quilt and pulled it over his

head. Unfortunately, he could not

block out MacKenzie's words.

"You know, Sam, life is a series of

compartments, some related to each

other, most separate. But every once

in a while these parallel

compartments, as I call them, have to

acknowledge one another's existence.

Now, you saved my life in Peking. You

brought to bear your skills and your

experience and kept me from that

oblivion I hear you talked about. And

last night, here in Switzerland, I

saved your life. Using what skills and

experience I have. We're even. Our

compartments in this area aren't

parallel anymore. So don't Suck son.

I can't be responsible. And that's the

word of a general officer."

By the end of two weeks, Sam was

sure he'd lose what was left of his

sanity. The mere thought of clothes

drove him mad. Throughout his! life

clothes were an accepted part of

living sometimes pleasant, even

ego-fulfilling but they had not been

a subject he ever dwelled on for any

length of time.

That's a nice jacket; the price is

okay. Get it. Shirts? His mother said

he should get shirts. What's wrong

with Filene's? So I'm a lawyer. Okay,

1 Press. Shirts and gray flannels.

Socks? His bureau drawer somehow

always had socks in it. And shorts and

handkerchiefs. A suit was a pretty big

occasion, the few times in his adult

life when he went out and bought one.

Still, he'd never been tempted to have

one tailor-made. And in the goddamned

army, his civilian jackets and

trousers were on hand only because

they meant a change from the goddamned

uniform. No. Clothes had never been a

major factor in ho life.

They were now.

But necessity~art of which was not

losing one's sanity was the mother of

invention. And truer words were never

said. So Sam began to invent, and the

thesis of his invention was that he

was undergoing a sincere change of

position..

It had to be gradual, based on

available alternatives. Since he was

so completely, intrinsically, legally

enmeshed in the Shepherd Company's

operations and since all ave836

nues of separation had been blocked,

what was the point of fighting any

longer? Life was compartmentalized;

and he was locked into a big vault

named MacKenzie Hawkins which also

held some forty million dollars, which

was a lot of chopped liver.

Maybe, just maybe, his negative

approach was selfdefeating, 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 abler. . . 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 excit-

ing "

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 heartl What the hell were you

talking~about? This cancer stuff."

- 237

"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-thebarrel-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 print-

out 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 a3s

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 contribu-

tions. 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 con239

.

    1

spirators to know he got preferential

treatment to the tune of a half

million."

"My Godl" 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 Jesust 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 Fir 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 Linda 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.

240

"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

skulledabit 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."

-

    241

    ClIAPI`ER 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 AmeicanNegro from Crete was

IVoir; of course. The Viking from

Stockhohn, Cris; the Frenchman from

Biscay was Bled, while his countryman

from Marsilles was Vert the

dark-skinned non-Black from Beirut was

Bran; Rome was Orange; and t'inally,

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 cvntorm 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.

242

i

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

vonSehnabe. 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 speciBc 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. 243

~ For the recompense involved,.! 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 bandolieracross

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 244

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. Grisand Bleu

assured them the camouflage would be

undetectable.

Coddamn, thought MacKenzie as he

snapped the stopwatch at the end of

the maneuver's Phase Eight. Twentyone

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, did 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, 245

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 execu-

tion of Phase Five was just plain

sloppyl Take out that radio equipment!

Go over your moves! Captain Orangel

Yours was the most serious lapse of

ail!"

"she cost 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!

"Now, as to this latrine rumor that

some of you are unhappy over Phase

Eight, the escape routes to Zaragolo;

that a few of you figure we should

have two copters at Ground Zero. Well,

let me tell you, there's no contingen-

cy for radar, gentlemen. One small

bird with Italian air force markings,

flying low, can get through. Two

choppers would be picked up on a

scanner. I don't think any of you

cotton to having your asses a thousand

feet in the air surrounded by the

whole guinea air force. No offense,

Captain Orange.'

The captains looked at each other.

They'd obviously discussed Phase Eight

among themselves, and since the small

helicopter at target center was

lifting out only the Hawk, the pope,

and the two pilots, they had grumbled.

But the commander painted a convincing

picture. The escape routes on the

ground had been exhaustively analyzed

by Gris and Bleu, who were not only

the best in the 246

business, but who would be using them

as well. It was conceivable that the

ground was safer.

"We withdraw our objections," said

Captain Vert.

'Good," said MacKenzie. "Now let's

concentrate on "

It was as far as he got. For in the

distance, across the south field,

running through the grass was the

figure of Sam Devereaux in sweat

pants, shouting at the top of his

lungs.

"One, two, three, fourl What do we

like ~ jog for? Good health, good

health! Five, six, seven, eightl Get

the weight! Out of the freight! Four,

three, two, one! Jogging is a lot

offun!"

"Mon Dies!" cried Captain Bleu. "The

so*-headed one never stopst He has

carried on so for five days nowl"

"Before we rise in the morning!"

added Gris. "During rest periods,

whenever there is a peaceful moment he

is below the windows, shouting."

The other captains joined in a

chorus of agreement. They had accepted

the general's decision not to shoot

the idiot, even grudgingly allowed

that there was no harm in letting the

fool out of the room to exercise as

long as two guards from the Machenfeld

staff were assigned to him. The

jackass wasn't going anywhere; not in

sweat pants, with no top, over a high

barbed-wire fence that led only to

impenetrable Swiss mountain forests.

But they had drawn the line regarding

the clown's participation in Ground

Zero.

So here he was, trying to impress

them with his training. A pathetically

poor athlete who cannot make the team,

but will not stop tryin

"All right. All right," sathe Hawk,

suppressing a laugh. "I'll talk to him

again, make him quiet down. He's just

doing it for your benefit, you know.

He really wants to join the big

fellas."

He was driving them all crazy, and

he knew it. Of course there were times

when he thought he might collapse from

exhaustion, but the knowledge that his

grotesqueries were having their

desired erect kept him going. Everyone

avoided him, some actually ran at the

sight of 247

...

him. His insane behavior had become an

irritating, aggravating joke. Already

three dogs which had appeared out of

nowhere to guard him were taken from

the corridor outside his room to the

staff quarters below because of their

incessant barking. And he made it a

point to run by the staff area

repeatedly. The hounds, themselves

weary of being screamed at for their

perfectly natural reactions, now

merely raised their heads and stared

with hatred at him from behind the

gates as he passed by.

As did the staff and MacKenzie's

officers. Sam was a loud nuisance, a

joke that had worn thin. What was

happening, of course, was that he was

being taken for granted. And in a few

days he would take advantage of that

scorn.

Although he was not allowed to eat

with Mac and his band of psychopaths,

the Hawk was considerate enough to

continue visiting him every day in the

late afternoon when Sam was brought

back to his room and the sweat pants

removed. Devereaux understood. Hawkins

needed a sounding board for his

enthusiasms. And, bragging, he dropped

the information that he and his men

would be away for a day or two to

execute a surveillance check of Ground

Zero. They would then return for any

last-minute alterations of strategy.

But Sam shouldn't be concerned. He

would not be lonely at Machenfeld.

What with the guards, and the dogs,

and the staff.

Sam smiled. For when the Hawk and

his freaks left the chateau, it was

his own personal Ground Zero. He had

begun to prime his guards, the

wild-eyed Rudolph and some obvious

killer with no name. He had convinced

Rudolph and No Name on several

occasions to sit in the middle of a

field as he ran around it. It was not

difficult they were grateful to be

stationary. They simply sat in the

grass with two ominous looking pistols

trained on him as he jogged and

intermittently stopped to perform

calisthenics. On each occasion he had

gradually widened the distance between

him and his guards so that this

afternoon he was nearly 250 yards away

from them.

The army had taught him sornethirq;

about small weap248

ons,heknew that there was no handgun that

was any damned good beyond thirty yards.

Not in terms of accuracy, scatter shot

was something else, but he had to take

some chances. Stopping the Hawk was the

kind of objective that in war made heroes

of unheroic soldiers. What had MacKenzie

saidP "It's commitment. Nothing takes its

place. All the ammo in the world can't be

a substitute...."

Sam was committed. The prospects of

World War Ill loomed larger every day.

His plan was simple. . . and relatively

safe. He had been tempted to give it an

option number, but his options had not

been noticeably successful so he decided

against it. He would Jog here in the

south field, as he was doing now where

the bordering forest was thickest and the

grass higher than in the other pastures.

He would widen the distance between

himself and the guards as he had done

this afternoon and institute intermittent

calisthenics. Among them pushups. Which

naturally brought him close to the

ground, below the [ever of the grass.

At the proper moment, he would crawl

away as fast as he could toward the

forest, then race to the fence. However,

when he reached the fence, he would not

climb it. Instead, he would remove the

sweat pants properly

    torn and throw them over. And then, if

all went as it should, if Rudolph and No

Name were racing in several directionss

at once, he would scream as though

severely

- ~ hurt and get the hell out of the area.

Into the thickest woods.

Rudolph and No Name would naturally run

to the spot at the fence, see the sweat

pants on the other side, and undoubtedly

take the appropriate actions: One would

go over the fence, while the other raced

hack to the chateau for the dogs.

At which point Sam would wait until he

heard the barking. Then he would return

to Machenfeld, go in through the door,

steal clothes and a weapon. From that

point to an automobile in the circular

drive, and a pistol to threaten the

gatekeeper, had to be clear sailing.

It had to bel

What could go wrong?

249

The Hawk wasn't the only one capable of

strategies. He'd learn not to mess with

a Boston lawyer who worked for Aaron

Pinkus!

The shouts interrupted his thoughts. He

was within sight of the maneuver area,

he could see the strange looking road

signs and the vehicles. Rudolph and No

Name were yelling at him to come back.

Naturally, he would oblige; he was not

permitted to observe maneuvers.

"Sorry fellas!" he yelled breathlessly

as he reversed direction, his legs

pounding the soft earth. "Let's head

down to the gate and back and call it a

days"

Rudolph and No Name grimaced and got up

from the grass. Rudolph gave him a

finger; No Name a thumb to the teeth.

Sam made it a point every afternoon to

end his jagging with a run down to the

main gate. It was a good idea to study

the premises as thoroughly as possible

in anticipation of his escape. It was

conceivable that he might have to

operate the mechanism himself, depending

upon the state of panic at the moment.

If it was maximum (as MacKenzie ; would

say) the gate might even be left open.

He contemplated this possibility as his

feet clattered over the boards on the

moat, when suddenly his musings were

replaced by a feeling of discomfort. For

down at the gate a long, black limousine

was being admitted with much bowing-and

obsequious grinning on the part of the

gatekeeper. And when he heard the words

shouted from the driver's seat as the

automobile was expertly whipped out of

the gate area toward him, he froze and

instantly considered drowning himself in

the Machenfeld moat.

"I don't believe it!" yelled Lillian

Hawkins van Schnabe at the wheel. ' Sam

Devereaux in sweat pants! God almighty,

you took my advice. You're toning up

that wreck of a vessel you live in!"

And if he considered drowning himself

at Lillian's words, the next voice he

heard drove him to the railing.

"You surely look better than you did in

London!" shouted Anne from Santa Monica,

Mrs. Hawkins number four Sloping yet

Argumentative. 'Your little trip must

have ;done you a world of good!"

aso -

    CHAPTER

Devereaux's escape plan did not become

unglued as had Options One through

Fvur. Neither was it bypassed as

Options Five and Six had been. Nor had

it exploded in a torrent of abuse as

was the fate of Option Seven. It was,

however, postponed.

He suddenly had two additional

guards to contend with, one of whom

was as much a shock to the Hawk as

both were to Sam. MacKenzie admitted

it. Casually, without letting it upset

his schedule; merely using the reality

to bolster his overall

strength turning a liability into an

asset.

"Annie's got a problem, counselor,"

the Hawk said back in Devereaux's

room. "I think you might give it some

legal thought. Do something about it

when this is over."

"All problems pale into

insignificances '

"Not hers. You see, Annie's

family the whole goddamn t:amilv spent

more time in prison than out of it.

Mother, father, brothers she was the

only girl they had record sheets that

took up most of the precinct files in

Detroit."

"I never came across any of that.

It's not in the data banks." Devereaux

was momentarily sidetracked from his

own concerns. MacKenzie wasn't trying

to con him now. There was no fire in

the eyes, only sadness. Truth. But

there hadn't been any mention of a

criminal record in Anne s dossier. If

he remembered correctly, shed been

listed as the only daughter of two

obscure Michigan school teachers who

wrote poetry in medieval French.

Parents deceased.

"Course not," said the Hawk. "I

changed all that for the army. And

everybody else, mainly her. It was a

big hangup for the girl; it was

holding her back., MacKenzie 251

    i

    1

lowered his voice as if the words were

painful, but

nevertheless a reality that could not be

brushed aside.

"Annie was a hooker. She fell into poor

ways very artifi-

cial ways for her when she was growing

up. She worked

the streets. She didn't know any better

then. She had no

home life, most of the time no home.

When she wasn't

hooking she'd spend her time in

libraries, looking at all

the pretty magazines, imagining what it

would be like to

live decent. She was constantly trying

to improve herself,

you know. She never stops reading, even

now, always after

bettering herself. Because underneath

there's a very fine

person. There always was."

Sam's memory went back to the Savoy.

Anne in bed

with a huge, glossy paperback of The

Wives of Henry Vlll

on her lap. Then later, the words spoken

with such

conviction in the foyer doorway as she

was about to get

dressed. Words that meant a great deal

to her. Devereaux

looked up at the Hawk and repeated them

quietly. "'Don't

change the outside too much or you'll

mess up the inside.'

She said you told her that."

MacKenzie seemed embarrassed. It was

obvious he had

not forgotten. "She had problems. Like I

just said, under-

neath there was a very fine person she

didn't recognize. r

Hell, I did. Anybody would."

"What's her legal problem?" Sam asked.

"This goddamned gigolo-waiter husband of

hers. She's

stuck with that fucker for six years;

helped him go from a

hot-pants beach boy to owning a couple

of restaurants. She

built those restaurants. She's damned

proud of them! And

she likes the life. Overlooking the

water, all those boats,

nice people. She lives descent now, and

she did it."

"So?"

"He wants her out. He's got himself

another woman and

he doesn't want any lip from Annie. A

quiet divorce and

just get the hell out."

"She doesn't want the divorce?"

"That's immaterial. She doesn't want to

lose the restau-

rantsl It's principle, Sam. They

represent everything she's

worked for."

"He can't simply take them. There's the

property set-

258

tlement to consider, and California laws

are rough as hell." "So's he. He went

back to Detroit and dug up her police

record.'

Sam paused. "That's a legal problem,"

he said.

"You's work on it?"

"There's not much I can do here.

It's a confrontation problem, big

attack variety. Fire fi:'r fire, dig

up counteraccusations." Devereaux

snapped both his finger~the legal

wunderkind making a brilliant

decision. "Tell you what. Let me out

of here and I'll fly straight to

Californial I'll hire one of the best

LA private detectives like on

television and really go after this

prick!'

"Good thinking, boy," replied the

Hawk, clucking his tongue in respect.

"I like that aggressive tone; you bear

it in mind for later. Say, in a month

or two."

"Why not now? I could "

"I'm afraid you can't. That's out of

the question. You're here for the

duration. Talk with Annie, though.

Learn what you can. Maybe Lillian can

help; she's a resourceful filly."

With these words MacKenzie dispensed

with his liability and gained an

asset: Sam now had two additional

people to keep an eye on him. He might

outwit Rudolph and No Name; the girls

were something else again.

Within hours after their arrival,

however, it was apparent to Sam that

Lillian would have very little time to

pay attention to him. In her usual

forthright manner she plunged into

furious activity, commandeering two of

the Machenfeld staff to help her. The

work began first thing in the morning

when the brigade went out for

maneuvers.

Upstairs. In the top floor rooms and

on the ramparts of the chateau.

There was the banging of hammers and

the whirring of saws and the cracking

of plaster. Furniture was carried up

and down the long winding staircase;

those pieces too large or too awkward

were raised and lowered by putties and

ropes over the outside walls. Scores

of potted plants and bushes and small

trees were placed. around the

battlements seen from the ground by

Sam for he was not permitted above the

third floor. Paints and brushes and

253

panels of wood were transported daily

by Lillian and her two helpers and

when Sam could no longer politely

ignore her labors, he asked her what

she was doing.

"A little arranging, that's all," she

replied.

Finally, crates of crushed stone and

washed gravel were hoisted up the

walls, accompanied by several concrete

benches and (if Sam was not mistaken,

and being from Boston he was not) a

marble prayer stall.

It was suddenly very clear to

Devereaux exactly what Lillian was

doing. She was turning the top floor

and the ramparts of Chateau Machenfeld

into a full-fledged papal residence!

Complete with apartments and gardens

and prayer stallsl

Oh, my God! A papal residence!

Anne, on the other hand, spent most

of her time with Sam. Since MacKenzie

had deemed it improper for the girls

to eat at the officers' mess it was

diversionary for women to break bread

with a strike force prior to

combat Anne and Lillian were assigned

their meals in Devereaux's room, Sam

under the eiderdown quilt,~ of course.

But Lillian was rarely there; she

spent most of her time

upstairs arranging.

So Sam and Anne were thrown

together. On a surprisingly platonic

basis. True, he made no pass, but she

made no offer either. It was as though

both understood the insanity whirling

around them, neither wanting the other

to be involved, each, in a very real

sense, protecting the other. And the

more they talked together, the more

Sam began to understand what MacKenzie

meant about Anne. She was the most

genuine, guileless person he had ever

met in his life. All the girls were

devoid of artifice, but there was

something different about Annie.

Whereas the others had reached certain

plateaus conscious of their worth,

Annie was not satisfied. There was

about her a delightfully irreverent

sense of purpose that proclaimed for

all the world to hear that she could

expand, could experience but good

heavens! one did not have to be gloomy

about- it.

Devereaux recognized his imminent

danger: he could get really

sidetracked. He began to think that he

had been looking for this girl for

about fifteen years.

254

And he couldn't think about that.

Another plan had come into focus. One

he knew would work.

-The very day Hawkins and his

brigade of banana cap" tains took off

for Ground Zerol

The last sweet and sour strains of

the orchestra filled the theater.

Guido Frescobaldi took his curtain

calls, wiping a tear from his eyes. He

had to shed his art and think of

things plenipotentiary now. He had to

hurry to his dressing room and lock up

his makeup box.

The call had come! He was going to

Romel He was going to be embraced by

his beloved cousin, the most beloved

of all popes, Giovanni Bombalini,

Francesco, Vicar of Christ! Ohh! Such

blessings had come to himl To be

reunited after all these years!

But he could say nothing. Absolutely

nothing. That was part of the

arrangements. It was the way

Bombalini Madre di Cristo Pope

Francesco wished it, and one did not

question the ways of so munificent a

pontiff. But Guido did wonder just a

little bit. Why did Giovanni insist

that he tell the management that small

lie that he was going to visit family

in Padua, not Rome? Even his friend,

the stage manager, had winked when he

told him.

"Perhaps you might ask your family

to pray to Saint Peter for a little

sacred fire, Guido. The box office has

not been good this season."

What did the stage manager know? And

when did he know it?

It was not like the Giovanni of old

to be secretive. And yet who was he,

Frescobaldi, to doubt the wisdom of

his beloved cousin, the pope.

Guido reached his small dressing

room and.began to take off his

costume. As he did so his eyes fell on

his Sunday church suit, pressed and

hanging neatly in the center of the

wall. He was going to wear it on the

train to Rome. And he suddenly felt

very ungrateful and ashamed of

himself.

Giovanni was being so good to him.

How could he even think a compromising

thought?

The lady journalist who was bringing

them together had ass

asked for all his measurements. Every

last one. When he asked why, she told

him. And he had wept.

Giovanni was buying him a new suit.

The Hawk and his subordinate

officers from Rome. The final check of

Ground Zero had gone off without a

hitch; no alterations were required.

Further, all intelligence data had

been gathered and processed. Using

basic surveillance techniques employed

in hostile territories, Hawkins had

donned an enemy uniform (in this case

a black suit and a clerical collar)

and obtained a Vatican pass, and

identification that certified him to

be a Jesuit doing an efficiency study

for the treasury. He had free access

to all calendars and personnel

schedules. From apartments to

barracks.

They all confimned the Hawk's

projections.

The pope would leave for Castel

Gandolfo on the same day he had chosen

for the past two years. He was an

organized man; time was to be

allocated properly with regard to

needs and functions.. Castel Gandolfo

expected him, and he would be there.

The pope would use the same modest

motorcade he had employed previously.

He was not a wasteful or pretentious

man. One motorcycle point with two

front and rear flanks. Basic. The

limousines were restricted to two: his

own, in which his most personal aides

accompanied him; and a second, for

secretaries and lesser prelates, who

carried his current working papers.

The route of the motorcade was the

scenic road he had spoken of with

feeling whenever he mentioned

Gandolfo: the beautiful Via Appia

Antica, with its rolling Ells and

remnants of ancient Rome along the

way.

Via Appia Antica. Ground Zero.

The two Lear jets had been delivered

to Zaragolo. It was an airfield for

the rich. The small Fiat sedan, which

was the diversion equipment for the

Turk privates, had been purchased by

Captain Noir, in the name of the

Ethiopian embassy. It was parked in an

all-night garage next to a police

station where the crime rate was at a

minimum.

as6

GuidoFrescobaldi was on his way to

Rome. Regina would handle him. She'd

put him up at a pensrone she rented

called The Doge, on the Via Due

Macelli, right near the Spanish Steps,

and take good care of the old man

until the morning of the assault.` And

first thing that morning she'd load

him up with a thiopental solution that

would keep him on a harmless high for

damn near twelve hours.

The Hawk planned to pick Guido up in

the Fiat on his way to Ground Zero. Of

course, Regina would have him properly

dressed by then, with a very large

overcoat that covered his fancy

clothes. Skirts, really.

There was only one last item to take

care of. The two limousines used in

maneuvers had to be driven to a place

called Valtournanche, several miles

northwest of the Alpine town of

Champoluc. To a little-used private

airfield frequented by the jetsetters

heading for their ski.chalets. The

limousines were a natural. They were

registered to nonexistent Greeks, and

the Swiss never bothered Greeks who

could afford such automobiles.

Lillian could take care of the

transfer. Oversee it, actually. She

could use the two men who had helped

her shape up the pope's BOQ. Once the

cars were in position they could

vanish along with Lillian. Mac, of

course, would give them bonuses.

He'd get rid of Rudolph, too, and

that psycho, what'shis-name, the

minute they were back from Ground Zero

and the pope was safely secretly in

his quarters. The chef had to stay;

what the hell, even if he did find out

who he was cooking for, he was a

French Huguenot wanted by the police

in sixteen countries.

That left Anne. And Sam, of course.

He could handle Sam. Sam was so

lashed to that loaded howitzer he was

part of the casing. But he couldn't

figure out Annie. What was the girl up

to? Why wouldn't she leave? Why had

she used his own oath against him?

"You gave your solemn word that if

ever any of us came to you. in need,

you'd never abandon us. You'd never

allow an injustice to be done if you

could prevent it. I'm here. I'm in

need, and an injustice has been done.

I've nowhere else to go. Please let me

stay."

t57

Well, of course, he had to. After

all, it was-the word of a general

officer.

But who's Could it he Sam?

Coddarnn!

So he would die in Gandolfo. It

could be worse, thought Giovanni

Bombalini, gazing out the windows of

his study. A half century ago all he

had to look forward to was a gravesite

in the Gold Coast, preceded by a long,

drawnout Last Rites ceremony delivered

half in Latin, half in Kwa with swarms

of flies circling hs head. Gandolfo

certainly held advantages over that

exit.

He would be able to work better,

too, at Gandolfo, use the weeks left

to straighten out his own affairs,

which were minimal, and do his best to

set a course tor the immediate future

of the Church. He would bring with him

several hundred analyses of the most

powerful dioceses throughout the world

and issue scores of promotions;

balancing, but balancing in favor of

younger, more vigorous perspectives.

Which often had nothing to do with

youth.

He had to keep reminding himself

that the intractable old guard was not

to be scorned, and should not be. The

old war-horses had gone through

ecclesiastical battles unknown to the

vast majority of those who screamed

for reform and change. It was not easy

to alter the philosophies of a

lifetime. But the Jine old war-horses

knew when to step aside and graze in

the pastures, ready with an

affectionate eye to offer advice when

asked, compassion regardless. The

others the Ignatio Quartzes of the

world needed a push.

Pope Francesco decided that among

his last acts would be a little

pushing. It would take the form of a

Last Rites Dissertation to be read to

the Curia after his death, and then

made public. It was a bit

presumptuous, he supposed, but if God

did not want him to complete it, He

could always summon him at His will.

He had begun the dissertation,

dictating to the young Black priest.

And he had sent a papal memorandum to

every office in the Vatican appointing

his young aide as executor of his

personal effects in the event he was

called by the arms of Christ.

ass

Giovanni was told that Ignatio

Quartze threw up for nearly an hour

after receiving the papal

instruction. It must have wrecked

havoc with the cardinal's nasal pas-

sages.

"Your Holiness?" The young Black

aide came through the door of the

bedroom carrying a suitcase. "I can't

find the miniature chessboard'. It's

not in the drawer with the

telephone."

Giovanni thought for a moment, then

coughed an embarrassed laugh. "I'm

afraid it's in the bathroom, Father.

Since Monsignor O'Gilligan solved his

conversion problems by explaining

penance, he's been an absolute terror

in his moves. Concentration was

required."

"Yes, sir." The young priest smiled

as he put down the suitcase. "I'll

put it in the vestment trunk."

"Are we about packed? I say 'we,'

but you've done the work."

"Almost, Holy Father. The pills and

the tonics will stay in my

briefcase."

"A little fine brandy could do just

as well."

"I have that, too, Your Holiness."

"You are truly a man of God, my son."

    259

CHAPItERTVIENIY THREE

RIGIRATII COSTRUZIONE!

The large metal sign was secured to the

center of the wooden barrier which

stretched across the width of the back

country road. - -

It looked very official, right down to

the last tiny red reflector, and the

imposing insignia of Rome's municipal

government. It also officially closed off

a section of the Via Appia Antica to all

approaching vehicles, offering instead a

detour cut out of the forest down the

Appian hill. And since this particular

stretch of the Appian road was the

narrowest on the entire route, there was

no feasible alternative to the detour if

the vehicles in question were larger than

the smallest Fiat. Not even the size of

the Fiat sedan which the Hawk had driven

out of the garage next to the police

station and which now lay overturned at

the bottom of the hill.

Any larger automobile would not have room

to turn around. To reverse direction a

driver would have to steer his car

backward for the better part of a mile,

over countless potholes and around

numerous blind curves. Of course the same

driver might opt for negotiating the wide

expanses of fields that regularly

interrupted the Appian forests, but they

were filled with rocks and mounds and

intermittent stone walls, some built in

ancient times. The fields were not only

treacherous, but it was against the law to

drive on them.

These thoughts went through Captain

Noir's head, his black face powdered under

the stocking mask, as he lay motionless in

the bushes off the side of the road beyond

the barrier. He had heard the sounds of

the motorcycles in the distance.

260

All was ready.

Ground Zero had arrived.

The location was perfect. Only trees

and fields hills the general had

planned well. The abduction could

probably be carried out on this

isolated stretch of road without the

detour but in some ways the detour was

the most important aspect of Ground

Zero. The vehicles could turn around

by inches but they wouldn't. They

would use the detour.

Still, in case they didn t, Captain

Noir held in his hand a piercing,

high-frequency whistle. Its use meant

that Plan Able, Phase One, Positions

One through Three were aborted,

instantly implementing Plan Baker,

Phase Double Zero, Positions One

Hundred One through One Hundred Ten:

abduction farther up the Appia.

Down the road beyond the barrier,

the blue helmet with the white cross

enameled on the steel stood out like

an enormous jewel in the Italian

sunlight. It was on the head of the

motorcycle patrolman in front of the

papal column; the Vatican point, as

the general termed him. The uniformed

officer was traveling at medium speed,

any faster on the old road would be

uncomfortable for those in the

limousines.

The patrolman spotted the barrier

with the large official sign and drove

up to it. Captain Noir held his

breath. The officer jumped off his

motorcycle, kicked out the stand, and

walked up to the obstruction. He

raised his eyebrows in bewilderment,

looked beyond the barricade for signs

of construction and grumbled

unintelligibly.

He turned and held up his hands. The

lead automobile had reached a point

approximately a hundred feet from the

barrier.

The patrolman returned to his idling

bike, mounted, swung the bars, drove

swiftly to the lead limousine, and

spoke excitedly to those inside.

The rear door opened, a priest in a

black cassock got out. He and the

patrolman walked back toward the

barrier, their attention on the

sloping road down the Appian hill. --I

There was rapid, indistinguishable

chatter between them; and then a

series of gestures that conveyed only

indeci

'- 261

sign. The priest turned, picked up the

cloth of his cassock, and trotted back

past the lead car to the papal

limousine.

Captain Noir could not see too well,

but the slight Appian breeze carried

the sounds of more excited chatter.

Noir swallowed and gripped the

high-frequency whistle in his hand.

Then to his great relief he heard

laughter. And the priest returned to

the lead car, nodded his head,

gesturing to the left at the

patrolman, and climbed back into the

limousine.

An adventurous decision had just

been made; the general knew his enemy.

The motorcade turned left down the

hill, led by the patrolman. All the

vehicles entered cautiously, at very

slow speeds, and when the two rear

motorcycles reached the first curve on

the slope, Noir got out of the grass

and raced to the barrier, pulling it

across the opening of the detour. He

ripped off the top sign revealing the

second:

DINAMITE! FERMAI PERICOLOI

He had done it! By God, he'd done

it! He had escaped Flynn Machenfeld

and was on his way to Rome, and if

everything held firm, no one would

know he was gone until morning! Then

it would be too late! The Hawk would

be on his way to Ground Zero!

There was no way they could know he

was gone. Unless they broke down the

door to his room, which was highly

unlikely under the circumstances. Anne

wasn't talking to hire; she'd stamped

off to her room in the south wing. He

had provoked an argument that could be

heard on the peaks of the Matterhorn,

eliciting language from her she must

have learnedirom her felonious family.

Rudolph and No Name wanted

absolutely nothing to do with him.

Especially proximity. After the battle

with Anne he had proceeded to complain

to his guards of sudden, agonizing

pains in his groin. He had doubled up

and screamed.

"Oh, Jesus! It's Kuwaiti

encephalitis! I saw it in the Algerian

desert five weeks ago! Oh, my God! I

caught it! The testicles swell like

basketballs, but heavier! I've got to

have a doctor! Get me a doctor!"

262

"No doctor. No outside

communications until master of

Machenfeld returns." Rudolph was

stern.

"Then you better watch it!" Sam

continued. "It's highly contagious!"

Whereupon he had fainted, clutching

himself through the sweat pants.

Panicked, No Name and Rudolph moved

back swiftly against the wall in the

drawing room. Revived but in agony,

Sam crawled out of the room and up the

staircase. To meet h* Maker in peace,

and with enormous testicles.

Rudolph and No Name stayed well

behind until Sam reached h* room and

closed the door. When he opened the

door for one last time he saw that his

guards were far down-the hallway with

double handkerchiefs fled around

theirfaces, aerosol cans of

disinfectant billowing clouds of spray

around them.

The coast was clear! For a

beautiful, foolproof exitirom

Machenfeld.

Lillian and two of the staff were

driving the limousines to an airfield

somewhere south. He'd overheard the

Hawk explaining the route to Mrs.

Hawkins number three; the trip was

four hours long and it was vital that

she position the vehicles on a mad by

the west highway of the airfield.

An airfield!

That meant airplanes! And

airplanesilew to Rome! And even if

they didn't or wouldn't there were

telephones! And radios!

His new plan had jelled instantly.

He would be inside the trunk of the

second limousine, the one being driven

by a member of the chateau staff. It

had been a simple matter to jam the

lock of the vehicle's trunk while he

had been saying good-bye to Lillian,

helping her with the suitcases.

As soon as h* guards disappeared in

the cloud of disinfectant, Sam tied

three blankets together, scaled down

to the ground from the balcony, raced

to the limousine in the drive, and

crawled into the trunk.

Once inside' he wrapped the blankets

around h* upper body, grateful he

still had h* sweat pants, and waited.

He was counting on nature to provide

him with a shortcut to his objective

and he was not disappointed.

The limousines sped through the gate

and the trip had

    263

    l

    l

begun. After three and a half hours of

bouncing, plunging, climbing, and

racing through the Swiss mountains,

Sam heard the rapid blasts of the

limousine's horn. Within seconds

there'd been a corresponding reply in

the distance, from the lead

automobile, and the car slowed down

and stopped. The driver got out

quickly. Devereaux could hear the

footsteps outside the trunk. And then

he'd heard the unmistakable muted

splashing.

He opened the trunk, climbed

silently out, and hit the urinating

Swiss with a jack handle.

Before a half minute had passed,

Devereaux had removed the man's

trousers, jacket, shirt, and shoes.

Pulling on the trousers and the

jacket enough to obscure him in the

night darkness he had raced around to

the door and leaped into the driver's

seat, tapping the horn twice as a

signal to resume the trip.

Lillian honked back, and started

offimmediately.

The airfield at Valtournanche

(that's what the sign had said) did

present a minor problem, but it was

more than compensated for by the

extraordinary sum of money Sam found

in the jacket he had taken from the

Swiss. Five thousand dollars,

American! The Hawk must have given the

staff member a bonus!

It automatically gave birth to

another, incredible plan! A

magnificent finale!

He could stop the Hawk without the

police! Without the authorities! Stop

him cold, dismantle Ground Zero and

disperse the brigade all at the same

time! With no Bring squads or hangmen

or life imprisonment in the offing! It

was perfect. Beyond error.

There was a curve in the road on the

west border of the airfield. Sam

slowed his limousine, and the instant

LiUian's vehicle rounded the turn, he

stopped the cat; turned of the

ignition, grabbed the shirt and the

shoes, jumped out, and raced into the

woods.

He waited in the darkness for the

inevitable. Lillian's automobile could

be heard in reverse gear. She and her

escort got out and ran back to the

abandoned second car.

"Isn't that the limit!" Lillian was

angry. "The ungrateful worm chickened

out at the last moment! And after Mac

gave him all that money. WeU, it

doesn't surprise me. His neck

    264

muscles had no tone; it's always a

sign of weakness. Come on! Get in!

We're almost there."

An hour later Devereaux, dressed in

a leather jacket and baggy trousers

oddly too large for his frame, was

counting out $2,500 to a stunned pilot

in a Valtournanche hangar, the fee for

a rushed, unscheduled light to Rome.

Sam had chosen a man quite a bit

smaller than himself, with no apparent

muscle tone whatsoever. Pilots who

took this kind of employment were not

generally considered to be of the

highest moral character. He didn't

care to be rolled and dropped off into

an Alpine mountain pass.

But he had made it! They were

airborne! They'd reach Rome well

before dawn. And then he, Sam

Devereaux, the finest young attorney

in Boston, would deliver the best

summation of his career.

Captains Gris and Bleu, dressed in

tight-fitting police uniforms, stood

erect and motionless behind the trunks

of two Appian maples on opposite sides

of the winding road motionless except

for their right hands, which they

flexed at their sides, thumbs

caressing the short hollow needles

that protruded from the inverted

rings.

As the commander had predicted, the

two motorcycles at either side of the

papal limousine had dropped back and

now rode parallel in front of the

bikes flanking the rear. And again, as

the commander had projected, the noise

was deafening.

One by one the vehicles passed. As

the final two patrolmen came between

the two maple trees, Gris and Bleu

leaped out, hammerlocked both men with

their left arms, and each plunged a

small needle into his man's neck.

Within seconds the patrolmen were

limp.

Gris and Bleu lowered the

motorcycles~between their legs and

dragged each body off into the

underbrush. Together they entered the

woods and raced diagonally downhill

through the tangled foliage to

position themselves for their next

assignment. Secreted in these posi-

tions were the cassocks they would

slip over their uniforms.

ads

Captains Orange and Vert lay on

their stomachs across from one another

hidden by the tall weeds. Their posts

were at the start of the second curve

on the descending side road. Through

the dense reeds they saw and smiled as

they did so that the two final

motorcycles failed to appear. The

other team of patrolmen struggled to

keep their bikes upright, riding

behind the second limousine.

Captain Orange crossed himself as

the pontiffs vehicle passed.

Captain Vert spat. It was long past

time for the Church to install a

French pope; the Italians were pigs

about that.

The papal car turned into the final

downhill curve. Orange and Vert sprang

up and out and executed the practiced

maneuvers with lightning-swift

dispatch against the motorcycle

escorts.

The patrolmen collapsed; the papal

limousine was entering the turn at the

base of the Appian hill. There were

only seconds remaining before the

detonations of Phase Four, the smoke

bombs from the overturned Fiat. Orange

and Vert ran to their next

assignments the most prestigious of

all: Phase Seven. Phases Five and Six,

the destruction of the communications

equipment and the sedation of the

papal entourage, would be occurring

any second.

Phase Seven was the zenith of Ground

Zero: the exchange of the popes. Guido

Frescobaldi for Giovanni Bombalini.

The explosions from the Fiat were

positively frightening; the screams of

the hysterical Turks terrifying. The

Hawk grinned in appreciation. Goddamn!

What a beautiful sight! All that smoke

and noise and well, the screams were

overdone.

The motorcade stopped in shock,

agitated voices swelling. One

motorcycle and two limousines in an

isolated back country road bordered by

a steep hill on the south side and a

tall, thick forest on the north.

Optimum, observed the Hawk, holding

a weaving Guido Frescobaldi in the

bushes.

Captain Noir reached his post and

signaled Captains Rouge and Brun; they

were strung out at ten-yard intera66

vals, prepared for the moment to

implement Phase Five: the destruction

of all communications equipment.

It came.

The single Vatican policeman jumped

off his motorcycle and ran toward the

smoking Fiat with the trapped, scream-

ing passengers. Every door of both

limousines was swung open. The drivers

and the priests screamed and waved

their hands and shouted orders at

everyone and no one, then ran toward

the overturned car.

Now!

Dressed as priests, Noir, Rouge, and

Brun dashed from their hidden

recesses. Brun and Rouge plunged into

the front seat of the first limousine,

ripping out every wire in sight. Noir

raced to the second automobile, the

papal car, and dove through the open

door toward the equipment.

Suddenly a hand lashed out over the

seat, followed by an arm extending

from a white cassock. But the hand and

the arm were not white. They were

black!

And the grip that held Noir's

neck accompanied by the swift, hard

rabbit punches that hammered his

head was a street tactic Noir knew

well. It was indigenous to a plot of

turf called Harlem!

Noir wrenched his aching, pounding

head and was suddenly, astoundingly,

face to face with a brother!

A brother in the honkey white robes of

the Church!

It went against Noir's grain to

coldcock a brother, but there was

nothing for it. The Catholic kid was

good, but he hadn't taken advanced

training above 138th Street and

Amsterdam. Noir twisted his thumb and

forefinger into the sensitive flesh,

the Black priest screamed and released

Noir s head as Noir yanked him halfway

over the seat. He sighed as he chopped

the Catholic kid at the base of the

skull. He immediately went about his

business, ripping wires and smashing

dials. The fat old honkey in white

robes~the man, himself, figured

Noir leaned forward and pulled the kid

into the back seat, cradling the kid's

head as if the kid was really hurt.

"He'll be okay, pops. I don't know

how you boys do it. I swear I don't!

The Baptists got his turf tied up in

ribbons. They've got rhythm! Course,

you ve got the cops...."

267

Son of a bitch! What the hell else

could go wrong? What other delays were

concealed in the blinding sunlight of

Rorr~e's Leonardo da Vinci Airport? It

was a nightmare being played out in

the bright morning without benefit of

sleep!

The goddamned, dwarf son of a bitch

of a pilot from Valtournanche insisted

that his aircraft be cleared by the

narcotic inspectors! Nobody gave a

damn if a plane flew in six vaults of

stolen gold, or undeclared diamonds,

or eyes-only defense plans for all of

NATO, as long as there wasn't a joint

on board! No amount of protesting on

Sam's part made any diffemace

whatsoever Well, yes it did. It caused

him to be stripped and searched.

''Per favom, signom. Where is your

underwear? Where did you leave

its Search the plane again!"

"That's crazy!" screamed Devemaux.

"How could a pair of shorts -

"she cosa?" inquired the capitano

suspiciously.

"Shorts!" Sam outlined a pair of

briefs. "Whem could I hide . . ."

'Ah haaa," interrupted the

capitally. "The mountain Swiss wear

long underwear. With pockets. And

flaps. And many buttons. Buttons are

hollow."

"I'm not Swiss! I'm American!"

The capitano's eyebrows shot up as

he loweKd his voice. 'Ah haaa Mafia;

SignOKP

And so it went until Sam had

dispensed ten one-hundred-dollar

American bids, which happened to

coincide with the end of the

capitano's shift, whereupon Sam was

released.

"Where can I get a taxi?"

"Have your money exchanged first,

signom. No taxi has change for

American one-hundred-doUar bills."

"I don't have any hundreds left. Only

five hundreds."

"Then they will cad the police. For

certainly such money cannot possibly

be authentic. You will need lim."

- Oh, my God, the police! thought Sam.

The police and hysterical taxi drivers

were the last thing he wanted. They

definitely were not part of hs grand

finale to thwart the Hawk.

And so he spent the better part of an

hour in the 268

exchange line only to be told by the

lady with a moustache that bills of such

denominations had to be examined by

spectographs.

"Thank you, signore," said the face of

fur finally. "We have processed these

under four different machines. They are

very nice. Here is your fire. Do you

have an empty suitcase?"

It was 9:45. Still time! A taxi into

Rome took about an hour when one

considered the traffic, and then perhaps

a half hour to get to the southern

outskirts where he could pick up the Via

Appia.

The ride down the Appia couldn't be

more than twenty minutes or so. He would

recognize the signs he had seen during

maneuvers, he was sure of that. He'd

reach Ground Zero with at least a tray

hour to spare!

-He'd stop the Hawk, prevent World War

111, eliminate

the specter of life imprisonment, and

go home to Boston

with a real Swiss bank account!

Goddamn! If he had two cigars, he'd

smoke them both at the same time!

He ran across the terminal to the

doors under the signs that read Taxi in

three languages. He raced breathlessly

onto the concrete.

Up and down the whole area were

hundreds of immobile dories fined with

luggage. Groups of men were gathered in

the street, close to riot.

Sam approached a tourist. "What's going

on?"

"Goldanged guinea bastards called a

cab strikel" Sam backed away. He had

several million fire stuffed in his

pockets like football pads. There had to

be somebody in one of the parking lots

with an automobile.

He found him. At twenty minutes past

eleven. And offered money. The faster he

drove the more thousands of fire he

would get. The man agreed.

11:32! He would make ill

He had to!

It was the summation of his life!

Why was he kidding himself? It was his

life.

Gris and Bleu pulled at the clerical

ropes around their cassocks. They were

on their knees, concealed by the 269

dense underbrush and cascading

branches at the base of the hill by

the edge of the old road. Both were

prepared to spring through the foliage

to execute Phase Six, the

immobilization of the moto'rcade. The

overturned Fiat was directly in front

of them, the smoke billowing

everywhere, the five papal aides, the

two chauffeurs and the remaining

patrolman all making genuine attempts

to reach the screaming Turks.

The numbers presented no problem.

Once Gris and Bleu joined the

smoke-engulfed melee, they would work

swiftly, their church habits adding to

the confusion. It would be a simple

matter to incapacitate one adversary,

then another. Rouge would join them on

the west flank, intercepting anyone

who might discover the conspiracy

prematurely, and make a dash for the

limousines.

Now!

Gris and Bleu lunged out of the

brush into the confusion of smoke,

screams, and flailing arms, their wide

cassocks billowing, rings at the

ready.

One by one the members of the papal

entourage collapsed to the ground,

beatific smiles on their peaceful

faces.

"Tie them! Give me some coral"

yelled Gris to the Turks as the three

"victims" crawled out of the windows

and from under the car.

"Not tight, you maniacs!" added Bleu

harshly. "Remember what the commander

said!"

"Man Dies!" roared Bleu suddenly,

grabbing Gris's shoulder, pointing to

the ground beyond the rising smoke.

"Qu'est-ce que c'est pa?"

In the middle of the road, halfway

to the limousines, lay Rouge flat on

his back, one arm raised, the wrist

bent, as though frozen in

mid-pirouette. The stocking mask could

not disguise the expression of

Olympian repose underneath. In the

confusion, he had tripped over his

cassock, plunging his needle into his

stomach.

"Quick!" yelled Gris. "The antidote!

The general thinks of everything!"

"He has to," said Bleu.

"Now!" ordered the Hark, holding

Guido Frescobaldi, who had suddenly

raised his voice- in song.

270

Across the dirt road, Mac could see

(grange crossing himself as he leaped

out of the bushes toward the papal

limousine. It was wasted motion, he

thought; the pope was not going to

attempt any escape. He had helped his

aide down on the seat and was getting

out of the car, his face wrathful.

The Hawk took Frescobaldi by the

hand, and led him toward the

limousine.

"I bid you good day, sir," said the

Hawk to the pope. It was a proper

military salutation for a surrender.

'lAnimale!" roared the pontiff in a

roll of thunder that reverberated

throughout the Appian forests and

hills. "Uccisore! Assassino!"

"What's that?"

''Basta!" The thunder cracked again.

And the lightning was in Francesco's

eyes; the eyes of a giant in the body

of a mortal. "Take my life! You kill

my beloved children! The children of

God! You slay the innocent)! Send me

to Jesus! Kill me, too! And may God

have mercy on your soul!"

"Oh, for Chri for heaven's sake, shut

up! Nobody's going to kill anybody."

"I see what I see! The children of God

are slain!"

"That's plain horseshit! Nobody's

hurt, and nobody's going to get hurt."

"They are all morto," said

Frances'co, with less conviction, his

eyes darting everywhere in

bewilderment.

"No more than you are. We wouldn't be

tying them up if they were, would we?

Orange! Over here!"

"Sl, Generate." Orange came around

the hood of the limousine, crossing

himself repeatedly.

'tGet that colored boy out of the

car. Must be a house guest of the pope

here."

"That man is a priest. My personal

aide!'

"You don't say? Must be a fine lad

with the choirs. Easy, Orange," said

MacKenzie as the Italian pulled the

unconscious Black prelate from the

automobile. "Put him in the brush and

loosen that big robe. It's too damn

hot for

~ ,,

ponchos.

"You mean," asked Giovanni

incredulously, "they're all alive?"

"Certainly, they're alive," replied

MacKenzie, signaling

    271

Vert to prepare Frescobaldi for the

exchange; the pope's double sat

serene.

--"I don't believe you! You've

murdered them!" roared the pope

suddenly.

"Will you keep quiet!" The Hawk did

not ask a question. ' Listen to me. I

don't know how you handle your

command, but I assume you can tell if

a soldier's alive or not.

"she coca?. ."

"Captain Gris!" yelled MacKenzie to

the masked Scandinavian tying up a

priest by the hubcaps of the first

limousine. "Lift that man up and bring

him here, please."

Gris complied. MacKenzie took the

pontiffss right hand.

"Here! Put your fingers on the side

of the throat next to the collar bone.

Now, see? Do you get pulse?"

The pope's eyes narrowed, his

concentration on the touch. 'The

heart . Yes. You speak the truth. The

others? They are the same? The hearts

beat?"

1 gave you my word," said the Hawk

sternly. "1 must reprimand you, sir.

Opposing commands do not lie when

capture is secure. We're not animals,

sir. But we haven't much time." The

Hawk gestured for Vert to bring

over-the narcotized Frescobaldi. "I'm

afraid we'll have to change some of

your clothes. I'll have to " ~

MacKenzie stopped. Pope Francesco

was staring at Frescobaldi. It was the

first moment he had taken cognizance

of the singer who was clean shaven and

now, without his moustache, looked

more like Giovanni Bombalini than did

Bombalini himself.

"Guido! It is Guido Frescobaldi!"

The pontiff's Voice could have been

heard in the Bay of Naples, so loud

was his roar. "Guido, my own flesh! My

blood! It- is Guidol Madre di Dio! You

are a part of this this heresy?!"

Signore Guido Frescobaldi smiled.

"she gelida . . . marina . . . a rigido

esanime . . . ah, la-la . . .14-laaa.

. ~ ."

"It's him, all right, but he's been

a little out of things since this

morning. And will be for a while

longer. Come on, now. We've got to get

some of that hardware off you and on

him. Captain Orange? Captain Vert?

Give Mr. Francesco a hand."

an

"Them!" The Hawk spoke in the tones

of a victorious general officer. He

held the grinning GuidoFrescobaldi by

the shoulders, admiring the final

result. "He looks real fine, doesn't

he?"

Francesco, transfixed, could not

help himself. "Jesus et Spiritus

Sanctus. The ugly Frescobaldi is

myself. It is a miracle of God."

"Two like-spits in the gunnery pool,

Mr. Pope!"

The pontiff was barely audible. "You

put . . . Frescobaldi . . . in the

chair of St. Peter?"

"For about two hours with luck by my

calculations."

"But Why?"

"Nothing personal. I^understand

you're a very nice fellow."

"But why? In the name of God, why?

That is no answer."

"Didn't expect it to be," replied

the Hawk. "I just don't want you

screaming your head off. You've got a

mighty loud voice.

"Then I shall be screaming my head

out if you do not tell me....

Aiyeeeee! ...'

"All right! All right! We're

kidnapping you. Holding you for

ransom. You'll be fine no harm will

come to you and that's the word of a

general officer."."

The conference was interrupted by

Captain Gris and Bleu, who raced up

and snapped to attention.

"The area is secured, General," barked

Gris.

"All sedations are completed," added

Bleu. "We are prepared to move."

"Good! Let's move then. Troops!

Evacuate the area! Prepare to execute

escape procedures! By your numbers!

Move!"

As if on cue, the sounds of the

revving helicopter could be heard from

the camouflaged area fifty yards away

from the center of Ground Zero.

And then there was another sound.

From the road at the top of the Appian

hill: A car screeching to a halt.

"Stop!" came a plaintive wail from

the woods. "For Christ's sake, stop!"

"What2"

"Mon Dieu!"

273

"she rosa?!"

"I say!"

"Tokig!"

"Bakasi!"

"Shit!"

Sam stumbled down the old dirt road on

the hill. He came racing around the last

curve and fell to one knee.

Giovanni Bombalini watched in

astonishment; automatically he gave the

kneeling figure his rather confused

benediction, ' Dens et f glib"

"Will you shut up!" MacKenzie glared at

Francesco. "Goddamn, Sam! What the hell

are you doing here? You're supposed to be

sick as a dog "

"Listen to me, everybody!" broke in Sam.

"Everyone gather aroundI" He struggled to

his feet; the captains stood where they

were, their faces betraying a certain

insensitivity. "Escape! Run for your

lives! Leave this man alone.! It's a trap!

Machenfeld has fallen! It happened last

night! Hundreds of Interpol police are

swarming..." Sam's jaw was suddenly a

gaping orifice as he stared at the Hawk.

"What did you says"

"You're a real pistol, son. I respect

your moxie, like I said before. But I

can't say you have much respect for my

know-how." MacKenzie snapped one of the

straps that crisscrossed his chest over

his field jacket. It was attached to a

large leather case that was lashed over

his hip. "No assault operation ever stays

out of contact with its command center.

Not since 1971, anyway. Hell, I used to

patch relays from Ly Sol in Cambodia right

straght down to the Mekong units."

"What2"

"Tri-arced, high-frequency radio contact,

boy. Set a schedule and receive-send

simultaneously. You're dated, Sam! As of

an hour ago the only thing swarming around

Machenfeld were butterflies. I don't know

how you did it, but you're mighty lucky

you got here alone.... Come to think of

it, you'd he a damned fool to get here any

other way. All right, men! Resume Phase

Eight! Come on, Sam. You re going for a

ride. And I tell you this now, boy. Any

more trouble and I'm going to open a door

at two thousand feet and you can fly by

yourself"

274 -'

"Mac, you can't! Think of World War

Threel"

"Think of a nice free-fall without a

parachute straight into a plate of

spaghetti!"

And then there was another sound. A

frightening one. From the top of the

hill. From the road again.

The captains and the Turks froze.

The Hawk whipped his head around and

up toward the Via Appia.

The pontiff said one word.

"Carabinieri."

The whining, jarring, two-note

scream of the Italian state police

sirens could be heard in the distance.

Drawing nearer.

"Goddamn! How?! What the hell

happened? Sam, you didn't!"

'My God, no! I didn't! I wouldn't!"

"I think there is a miscalculation,

signore," said Pope Francesco softly.

'What? What mother what

miscalculation?"

"The motorcade was to stop at the

small village well, not so much a

village of Tuscabondo. It is a mile or

so past the deviazone, your detour."

"Jesus!"

"He can be merciful, Signore

Generale."

"Those bastards will be swarming the

hills, the fields. Goddamn!"

"And the air, Generale," said

Captain Orange excitedly, breaking out

in a sweat under his mask. 'The

carabinieri have fleets of elicotteri.

They are the pozzi of the skyl"

    "Jesus H. Christ!" -.

"Figlio di Santa Maria Figlio di

Dio He is the way, Generale."

"I told you to shut up. Men! Check

your maps! Quickly! Gris and Bleu,

evaluate escape routes E-Eight and E-

Twelve. Our previous routes were

faster but more exposed. Deliver your

decision in one minute! Orange and

Vert. Give me Frescobaldi! Join the

others! Sam, you stay here!"

The screams of the sirens were

nearer, almost at the intercept point

of the Appia. Frescobaldi, weaving in

MacKenzie's grip, sang louder.

Is

"Signora." Giovanni Bombalini took a step

toward MacKenzie. "You speak of the word

of a general. You have great sincerity

when you say it."

"What? Yes, of course. You're not much

different, I suspect. Command's a big

responsibility."

"Indeed it is. And truth is

responsibility's right arm." The pope

looked once more at the unconscious

figures of his motorcade, each body

comfortably stretched out, none harmed.

"And compassion, naturally."

The Hawk was barely listening. He was

holding Frescobaldi, keeping an alert eye

on a stunned Sam Devereaux, and watching

Captains Gris and Bleu make their final

evaluations over the maps. "What are you

talking about?

'You say you have no wish to inflict harm

on my person.

"Of course not. Wouldn't get much ransom

for a corpse. Well, maybe with your people

"

"And Frescobaldi is as strong as an ox,"

said the pope, as much to himself as to

MacKenzie, while studying the

half-conscious Guido. "He always was.

Signore Generale if I said I would go with

you without interference, perhaps even in

the spirit of cooperation, would you grant

me a small request? As one commander to

another?"

The Hawk squinted at the pontiff.

"What is it?"

"A brief note, only several words in

English to be left with my aide. I would

want you to read it, of course."

MacKenzie took out a combat pad from his

field jacket, ripped off a page, unclipped

the waterproof pencil and handed both to

Francesco. "You've got fifteen seconds."

The pope put the paper against the

limousine and wrote swiBly. He gave the

page back to the Hawk.

I am safe. With GodEs blessing I shall

reach you as

the chess-playing O'Gilligan reaches me.

    Honkes' .

"If it's a code, it's pretty piss-poor.

Go ahead, put it in the colored fella's

pocket. I like that part that says you're

safe." ~-

276

Giovanni ran to the figure of his papal

aide, stuffed the note under his cassock

and returned to the Hawk. "Now, Signore

Generale, you waste time."

'What?"

"Put Frescobaldi in the limousine!

Hurry! Inside is a briefcase. With my

pills. Get it, please."

"What?"

"You would last five minutes in the

Curia! Where is the elicottero'?"

"The copter?"

"Yes."

"Over there. In a clearing."

Captain Gris and Bleu had completed

their swift conference. Gris called out.

' We have briefed the men General. We

go! We meet at Zaragolo!"

"Zaragolo!" said the pontiff. "The

airport at Monti Prenestini?"

"Yes," answered the Hawk, staring with

sudden concentration on Pope Francesco.

"What about it?"

"Tell them to stay north of Rocco

Priora! There are battalions of police

in Rocca Priora."

"That's east of Frascati "

Yes!"

"You heard him, Captains! Outflank

Rocco Priora! Now, scramble!" roared the

Hawk.

No!" screamed Sam, backing away on the

road, looking up at the hill.

Everybody's crazy! You're out of your

minds! I'm going to stop you. All of

you!"

Young man!" Giovanni stood erect and

addressed Sam pontifically. 'Will you

please be quiet and do as the general

says?!"

Noir emerged from the clearing. "The

bird's ready, General! We've got a clean

lift-off area."

'We've also got an extra passenger. Get

the counselor, Captain. You might show

him a needle, if you can manage

"With real pleasure," said Noir.

One dosage, Captain!"

-"Shit!"

And so Giovanni Bombalini, the Holy

Father of the Catholic Church, and

MacKenzie Hawkins, two-time win277

nerof the Congressional Medal of Honor,

put Guido Frescobaldi into the papal

limousine and ran like hell through the

Appian forest to the helicopter.

It was difficult for Francesco. The

pontiff swore mildly at Sebastian, the

patron saint of athletes, and finally.in

desperation pulled up the skirts of his

habit, displaying rather thick peasant

legs, and damn near beat MacKenzie to

the aircraft.

The Lear jet soared above Zaragolo's

cloud cover, Captain Noir at the

controls, Captain Rouge in the

co-pilot's seat. The Hawk and the pope

sat in the forward section, across from

one another, each by a window.

Bewildered, MacKenzie glanced over at

Francesco. He knew from long years of

experience that when command was

stymied, the best thing to do was to do

nothing, unless the combat at hand

required immediate counterstrike.

Such was not the case now. The problem

was that Francesco did- not behave like

any enemy the Hawk had ever fought.

Goddamnt

There he sat, his heavy robes

unbuttoned down to his undershirt, his

shoes off, and his hands folded casually

across his wide girth, looking out the

Lear's window like some kind of happy

delicatessen proprietor on his first

airplane ride. It was amazing. And

confusing.

Goddamnt

Why?

MacKenzie realized that there was no

point in wearing his stocking mask any

longer. The others had to, for their own

protection, but for him it made no

difference.

He removed it with a grateful sigh.

Francesco looked over at him, not

unpleasantly. The pope nodded his head,

as if to say, Nice to meet you face to

face.

Goddamn!

MacKenzie reached into his pocket for

a cigar. He lifted one out, bit off the

end, and pulled out a book of matches.

"Per fawre?" Francesco was leaning

toward him.

"What?"

"A cigar, Signore Generale. For me. Do

you mind?"

    278

. .

.

"Oh, no, not at all. Here you are."

Hawkins extracted a second cigar from

the pack and handed it to the pontiff.

And then, as an afterthought, reached

into his other pocket for the clipper.

But it was too late.

Francesco had bitten off the end,

spat it out somehow without

offense taken the matches from Mac's

hand, and struck one.

Pope Fraucesco, the Vicar of Christ,

lighted up. And as the circles of

aromatic smoke rose above his head,

the pontiff sat back in the seat,

crossed his legs under his habit, and

enjoyed the scenery below.

"Craze," Francesco said.

"Prego," replied MacKenzie.

    279

1

    PART

I' ~

The ultimate success of any

corporation is dependent

upon its major product~or

service. It is imperative

that the projected consumer

be convinced through

aggressive public reIations

techniques that the

product, or service, is

essential to his very

existence, if possible.

Shepherd's Laws of Economics:

Book CCCXXI, Chapter 173

CHAPTER I1VENTY-I?OUR

Sam sat in the

cushioned, wrought

iron chair at the

northwest corner of

the Machenfeld

gardens. Anne had

picked the spot after

careful deliberation;

it was the area of the

gardens that provided

the best view of the

Matterhorn whose peak

could be seen in the

distance.

It had been three

weeks now since the

awful thing:

Ground Zero.

The captains and the

Turks had departed tor

unknown parts of the

world, never to be

heard from again. The

staff had been reduced

to one cook, who

helped Anne and Sam

with the housecleaning

and the gardens.

MacKenzie was not very

good at either chore,

but he did take turns

driving into the

village for the

newspapers. Too, he

checked daily with the

high-priced doctor he

had flown in from New

York, just in case.

The doctor, a

specialist in internal

medicine, had no idea

why he was being paid

such extraordinary

sums of money to do

absolutely nothing but

live lavishly in a

lakeside residence,

and so in the spirit

of the AMA he accepted

the unreported cash

and did not complain.

Francesco (Sam could

not bring himself to

say pope) had settled

comfortably into the

sealed-off top-floor

apartments and could

be seen daily walking

on the ramparts

through his rooftop

gardens.

MacKenzie had really

done it! He had won

the biggest military

ol>jective of his

career.

And he was currently,

through a convoluted

series of

extraordinarily

complex, untraceable

conduits, making his

ransom demands of the

Vatican.

Ultrahigh-frerluency

radio codes arcing

from the Alps to

Beirut to Algiers;

relayed by 283

desert and ocean towers from

Marseilles, to Paris, to Milan, and on

to Rome.

According to the schedules he had

imposed, the Vatican reply was to be

radioed out of Rome and relayed from

Beirut by 5 P.M.

MacKenzie had left Machenfeld to

drive to the isolated transmission

center a lone cabin high in the upper

Alps, in which was installed the

finest, most sophisticated radio

equipment obtainable. It had been

delivered to Machenfeld by Les Chateau

Suisse but put into operation by the

Hawk himself. No one but MacKenzie

knew the location of the mountain

retreat.

Oh, my God! Five o'clock this

afternoon! Sam forced his thoughts

away from the awful thing.

There was movement up at the

chateau. Anne had walked out the

terrace door carrying the usual large,

glossy picture book under her arm and

a silver tray with glasses on it in

her hands. She started across the lawn

to the gardens. Her walk was firm,

feminine; a graceful, natural dancer

oblivious to the subtle rhythms

inherent in her grace. Her light brown

hair fell casually, framing the clear

pink skin of her lovely face. Her

wide, bright blue eyes reflected

whatever light they faced.

He had learned something from all

the girls, thou-glut Devereaux.

Something different and individually

their own gifts to him. And if a

normal life was ever to return

he would be grateful for their

gifts.

But perhaps he had learned the most

important thing from Anne: Try for

improvement but don't deny what's

past.

There was laughter on the lawn. Anne

was looking up at the ramparts where

Francesco, dressed in a colorful she

sweater, was leaning over the parapet.

It had become their private game,

Anne's and Francesco's. Whenever the

Hawk was out of sight they held

conversations. And Sam was

sure because Anne would not deny

it that she had made numerous trips up

to his private apartments bringing him

glasses of chianti, which was

specifically forbidden from his diet.

Anne and Francesco had become good

friends.

284

Several minutes later that judgment

was confirmed. Anne placed the silver

tray with the drinks on the table next

to Sam. Her eyes were smiling.

'Did you know, Sam, that Jesus was a

very practical, down-to-earth person.

When he washed Mary Magdalene's feet,

He was letting everybody know she was

a human being. Maybe a very fine one,

in spite of what she sed to do. And

that people shouldn't throw rocks at

her because maybe their feet weren't

so clean, either."

MacKenzie climbed the final

precipice by means of an Alpine hook.

The last two hundred yards of the

spiraling summit road were too deep

with mountain snow for the motorcycle,

so it was faster to make the final

ascent directly. It was eleven minutes

to five, Zurich time.

The signals would commence in eleven

minutes. From Beirut. They would be

repeated after an interval of five

minutes, to double-check for decoding

errors. At the end of the second

series he would confirm reception by

transmitting the air-clearance code to

the relay in Beirut: four dashes,

repeated twice.

Once inside, the Hawk started the

generators and watched with

satisfaction as the myriad wheels spun

with a smooth whirring sound within

the casing, and the dials began

registering output.

When the two green lights went on,

signifying maximum performance, he

plugged in the single electric heater,

feeling the warmth of the glowing

coils. He reached over to the powerful

shortwave equipment, flipped on the

receiving switches and turned the

amplifier spools to high volume. Three

minutes to go.

He walked to the wall. Slowly he

began to turn a handle, hearing the

gears mesh. Outside, beyond the iron

grillwork of the tiny window, he could

see a webbed disc swing out and up on

its track.

He returned to the radio receiving

panel and revolved the parallel

megacycle and tetracycle dials with

delicate precision. The voices of a

dozen languages emerged from the

amplifiers. When the needles were in

the exact parallel cycle points there

was silence. One minute to go.

285

MacKenzie took out a cigar from his

pocket and lighted up. He inhaled with

real contentment and blew out the

smoke in ring after ring.

Suddenly the signals were there.

Four short, highpitched dashes;

repeated once. The channel was

cleared.

He picked up a pencil, his hand

poised above a page of notepaper,

prepared to write out the code as it

was beamed from Beirut.

The message terminated, the Hawk had

five minutes to decode. To convert the

signals into numbers, then transfer

the numbers into letters and the

letters into words.

When he had finished, he stared in

disbelief at the Vatican reply.

It was impossible!

Obviously, he had made several

errors in receiving the Beirut

transmission.

The signals began again.

The Hawk started writing on a fresh

page of notepaper. Carefully.

Precisely.

The transmission ended as it began:

four dashes, repeated once.

MacKenzie put the decoding schedule

in front of him. He believed he had

memorized it thoroughly, but this was

no time to make a mistake. He

cross-checked every dot, every dash.

Every word.

There were no errors.

The unbelievable had happened.

Relative to the insane request

regarding the contri

bution of four hundred million

American dollars, by

assessing worldwide dioceses on the

basis of one

dollar per communicant, the treasury

of the Holy See

is in no position to consider such a

request. Or any

request at all for this particular

charity. The Holy

Father is in excellent health and

sends his blessings in

the name of the Father, the Son, and

the Holy Spirit.

Ignatio Quartze,

Cardinal Omnipitum,

Keeper of the Vatican Treasury as6

The Shepherd Company suspended

operations.

MacKenzie Hawkins walked the grounds

of Chateau Machenfeld, smoking his

cigars, staring blankly at the

infinite beauty of the Alps.

Sam made an accounting of the

corporation's monetary assets,

exclusive of the properties and

equipment. Of the original

capitalization of $40,000,000, there

remained $12,810,431.02.

Plus a contingency expense fund of

$150,000, which had not been touched.

Not bad at all. Especially since the

investors, to a panicked vulture,

refused reimbursement. They wanted

nothing whatsoever to do with the

Shepherd Company or any of its

management personnel. None would even

bother to file for tax losses as long

as Shepherd's corporate executives

promised on the Bible, Burke's

Peerage, Mein Kampf, and the

Koran never to get in touch with him

again.

And Francesco, now sporting a

Tyrolean hat along with his favorite

ski sweater, was allowed out of the

top-floor apartments. For the sake of

everybody's sanity, it was agreed to

refer to him as Zio Francesco,

somebody's uncle.

Since he showed no inclination to go

anywhere or do anything other than

enjoy the company, Zio Francesco

roamed freely. There was someone

always nearby, but not to prevent

escape; for assistance. He was, after

all, in his seventies.

The cook was especially taken with

him, for he spent long periods in the

kitchen, helping with the sauces, and

every once in a while asking

permission to fix a particular dish.

He made one request of the Hawk. The

Hawk refused it.

No! Absolutely no! Zio could not

telephone his apartment in the

Vatican! It made no difference

whatsoever that his telephone was

private or unlisted or concealed in

the drawer of his bedside tablet

Telephone calls could be traced.

Not if they were radioed, insisted

Francesco. The Hawk had impressed them

all, frequently, by telling them about

,287

his complicated methods of

communicating with Rome. Of course, a

simple telephone call would not have

to be nearly so complex. One little

relay, perhaps.

No! All that spaghetti had gone to

Zio's head. His brain was soft.

The Hawk's was softer, perhaps,

suggested Francesco. What progress was

the general making? Were not matters

at a stalemate? Had not Cardinal

Quartze outflanked him?

How could a telephone call change

that?

How could it make things any worse?

persisted Francesco. The Hawk could be

at the radio, his hand on a switch,

prepared to break the connection

should Zio say anything improper. Was

it not more advantageous to the

general for at least two people to

know he was alive? That the deception

was truly a deception? There certainly

was nothing to lose, for the Hawk had

already lost. And possibly there was

something to gain. Perhaps four hun-

dred million American dollars.

Besides, Guido needed help. This was

no criticism of his cousin, who was

not only strong as a bull but a most

gentle and thoughtful person. But he

was new at the job and would certainly

listen to his cousin Giovanni Bom-

balini. Helped, of course, by

Giovanni's personal aide, the young

American priest from Harlem.

The situation might not be remedied

overnight for there were matters of

health and logistics to be considered.

But when all was said and done, what

alternative did the Hawk have?

He obviously had none. And so

MacKenzie came down from the Alpine

cabin one afternoon carrying three

canvaswrapped cartons of radio

equipment and proceeded to install the

instruments in a Machenfeld bedroom.

When all was completed, the Hawk

issued an irrevocable command.-Only he

and Zio Francesco were allowed inside

during radio transmissions.

That was fine with Anne and Sam.

They had no desire to be there. The

cook thought everybody was crazy and

went back to the kitchen.

And at least twice a week from then

on very late at night the huge disk

antenna was wheeled out and raised

above the battlements. Neither Sam nor

Anne knew what 288

was being said or whether anything was

being accomplished, but often when

they sat in the gardens to talk and

look at the glorious Swiss moon, they

heard great peals of laughter from the

upstairs room. The Hawk and the pope

were like small boys thoroughly

enjoying a new game.

A secret game, played in their

personal clubhouse.

Sam sat in the garden absently

looking at his copy of the London

Times. Life at Chateau Machenfeld had

become routinized. For instance, every

morning one of them would drive into

the village to pick up the newspapers.

Coffee in the gardens with the

newspapers was a wonderful way to

start the day. The world was such an

unholy mess; life was so peaceful at

Machenfeld.

The Hawk, having discovered the

existence of riding trails on the

property, purchased several fine

horses and rode frequently, sometimes

for hours at a time. He'd found

something he'd been looking for,

thought Sam.

Francesco discovered oil painting.

He would trek over the fields in his

Tyrolean hat with Anne or the cook,

set up his easel and paints, and

render for posterity his impressions

of the Alpine splendors. That is, when

he wasn't in the kitchen, or teaching

Anne to play chess, or debating

always pleasantly with Sam over points

of law.

There was one thing about Francesco

that nobody talked about, but all knew

had something to do with his attitude.

Francesco had not been a well man when

he was taken out of the Appian hills.

Not well at all. It was the reason Mac

had insisted on the availability of

the New York specialist.

But as the weeks went by, Francesco

seemed to improve in the Alpine air.

Would it have been the same,

otherwise?

No one, of course, would speculate,

but Francesco had said something at

dinner one evening that registered on

them all.

'Those doctors. I shall outlive

every one of theml They would have had

me buried a month ago."

The Hawk responded with a coughing

fit.

And Sam? What of him?

Whatever it was, he knew that it

included Anne.

He looked at her now in the late morning

sun, sitting in 289

the chair reading the newspaper, the

ever present book on the table beside

her. A Pictorial History, of

Switzerland was the title today.

She was so lovely so

gloriously herself. She'd help him

became a better lawyer, by making the

law seem not so important.

Now he began to think about other

things.

Like reading quietly. Understanding.

Evaluating.

Like Judge Devereaux.

Oh, Boston was going to like Anne!

His mother would like her, too. And

Aaron Pinkus. Aaron would approve

wholeheartedly.

If Judge Devereaux ever got back to

Boston.

He'd think about that tomorrow.

"Sam'?" said Anne, looking over at

him.

"What'?"

"Did you read this article in the

Tribune?"

"What articled I haven't seen the

Tribune."

"llere." She pointed but did not

give him the paper. She was engrossed.

"It's about the Catholic Church. All

kinds of things. The pope has called

a Fifth Ecumenical Council. And

there's an announcement that a hundred

and sixtythree opera companies are

being subsidized, to elevate the

spirit of creativity. And a famous

cardinal my God, Sam it's that

Igllatio Q''artze! The one Mac yells

about.''

"What about him?''

"It seems he's retiring to some

villa called San Vincente. Something

to do with papal disputes over Vatican

allocations. Isn't that strange?"

Devereaux was silent for several

moments before he replied. "I think

our friends have been very busy up on

the ramparts."

In the distance were the sounds of

galloping hooves. Seconds later

MacKenzie Hawkins emerged on the dirt

road from beyond the trees and the

fields where only weeks ago maneuvers

were held. He reined in his horse and

trotted up to the northwest corner of

the gardens.

"Goddamn! Isn't it a glorious day?

You can see the peak of the

Matterhorn!"

There was the music of a triangle

calming from the other direction.

MacKenzie waved; Devereaux and Anne

turned 280

and saw Francesco on the terrace

outside the kitche door, the

triangle and the silver bar in his

hands. He w dressed in a large

apron, the Tyrolean hat firmly on h

head.

Zio Francesco called out.

"Lunch, everybody! The s''eciale

di giorno is fantast co!"

"I'm hungry as a horse!" roared

back the Hawk as patted his mount.

"What've you got, Zio?"

Francesco raised his voice to the

Alpine hills. And the, was music in

his words.

"My dear friends. It's Ling'`ini

Bo7nbalini!

    291

    ,.,

    LUDLUM

- ON

LUDLUM

Few writers have skyrocketed to popularity

with the speed of Robert Ludlum, with each

succeeding thriller becoming a bigger

bestseller. The key to his success may lie

in John Leonard's comment in The New York

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thriller writers combined."

Some people claim Ludlum has secret

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stories. In one, an early book, a lrey

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this fact proved to be correct. Other

people suspect Ludlum was an agent himself

during the years prior to his career as a

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ranging from Tiparillos to Tuna Helper.

During his "voice" period, Ludlum's wife

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he tells it, "there was this product

called Plunge. All I had to do was read

, ., ~1'

.~

three words: Plunge works fast. In spite

of my off-ean delivery, they used my

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commercials. The money from this put one

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Although none of Ludlum's novels draws

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techniques he learned in the theater.

Ludlum says, "tt theater man knows that

he must involve the audienc He

understands structure more than anyone

else I} lo~cal evolving of one event

into another event will out losing the

audience's attention. Because if you lo;

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night."

Ludlum admits, "I write primarily as an

entertains But I find that whether

you're writing comically

dramatically, you write from a point of

view of som thing that disturbs or

outrages you. And that's what do. I

admit to being outraged mostly by the

abu: of power by the fanatics. The

extremes bother me, rig or left." Yet he

adds, "I disapprove of violence, that

why I show pain for what it is. When my

characte get hit, they hurt. They don't

jump back into actic like John Wayne."

All of this and Moroccan be found in the

publishr work of Robert Ludlum. Since

his first novel, TH SCARLATTI

INHERITANCE, he has amassed ~ enviable

record of success: THE OSTERMAN WEE!

END, THE MATLOCK PAPERS, THE RHINt MANN

EXCHANGE, THE GEMINI CONTENT ERS; more

recently, THE CHANCELLOR MAN' SCRIPT,

THE HOLCROFT COVENANT, TO MATARESE

CIRCLE and THE BOURNS; IDE! TITY. His

latest bestseller, THE PARSIFAL MC SAIC,

will be published in paperback by Barton

1983~

.

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