The Road to Gandolfo (8 page)

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 grata
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 fucking 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
both
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!”

“
Ahh!”
sang Sam in a lilting, false tremolo. “Now we are beginning to understand, said Alice to Cock Robin. A military, 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
brutal survival—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 fuckers who asked for all this crap!”

“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’s
—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 fucking 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.
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.”

“How much cooperation? With the gooks
and
Washington?” 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. After 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
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. Goddamn, 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
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. Money’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, boy! I’m not going to give you a hard time. I’ll make you a better deal than you thought possible.” 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
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 stuff’s classified—–”

“Not to the officer who filed it! Clandestine Operations, Regulation Seven Seven Five, Statute of Amendments. Actually, he’s
required
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 Reg Seven Seven Five upon my return to the States, or I’ll opt for all the silos in Mongolia! 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.