The Road to Gandolfo (10 page)

“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-odd 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
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 old-line 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—–
Ouch!
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 up?”

“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
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 fucking 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.

“
Goddamn!
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 of! 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.

“Je
sus
, you’re in a foul temper. You just keep your eyes on the high ground, don’t concern yourself with the flanks.”

“God
damn
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 fella in
charge of the G-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 that? 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 time 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,
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
déjà 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 dogeared, 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 briefcase, now bulging and strapped together with shining steel G-2 bands, and a foot-long steel chain dangling from the crossbar.

“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?”

“
Major
,” 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-chested 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, as the heavy briefcase 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 pile!”

“Now, just a minute, General—–”

“
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
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, sir!” 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. Je
sus
! He might dig up all kinds of very serious violations. And 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
?”

“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
.”