The Road to Omaha (13 page)

The challenge in question was outsized in bulk but not too sizable in the brain department. Following a damn good workout with a man no more than half his age, the Hawk prevailed by ducking twice in rapid succession and sending rigid, pointed fingers into the middle of the enemy scout’s stomach; he knew it would work by smelling the hostile’s breath. Up came an excess of Indian food from the scout’s throat; a hammerlock forcing the huge enemy head down toward his embarrassing accident did the rest.

“Your name, rank, and serial number,
soldier
!”

“Wadda ya talkin’?” belched the hostile, referred to as the ox by Thunder Head’s security.

“I’ll settle for your name and who you work for.
Now
!”

“I got no name and I don’t work for nobody.”

“
Down
you go.”

“Holy shit, have a heart!”

“Why? You tried to rip it out of my chest. Into the mess you go, soldier.”

“It smells so
bad
!”

“Not as bad as what I smell around all four of you clowns. Give me what I want, prisoner!”

“It’s
wet
 … Okay,
okay
! They call me the Shovel.”

“I’ll accept a
nom de guerre
. Who’s your commander?”

“Wadda ya
talkin’
?”

“Who do you work for?”

“Wadda ya now,
nuts
?”

“All right, soldier, lose the rest of your stomach! You like our grub? Have it again, you old redskin lover!”

“
Jeez
, you got it
yourself
! I didn’t have to say nothin’. Redskins!”

“Come again, grunt?”

“He played for ’em! The
Redskins
 … Lemme up, for Christ’s sake!”

“
Played
for …? I need more, you latrine-cleaner! What kind of hot air are you trying to peddle?”

“You’re
closer
, real close! They couldn’t put nuthin’ in the air while he was around. He didn’t need no defense hulks, he just broke right through and nailed the quarters from Namath on down! The Hebrew Hercules, maybe …?”

“Quarters—? Namath?
Redskins
?… Christ on a surfboard, football! And Hercules?… There was only one linebacker like that in NFL history. Hymie the Hurricane!”

“I didn’t say
nuthin
’!
You
said it.”

“You haven’t the vaguest idea what I said, soldier.” The Hawk spoke softly, rapidly, as he released the bull of a man while swiftly manipulating the ropes that secured him to the tree. “The Golden Goldfarb,” he continued hoarsely under his breath. “I
recruited
the son of a bitch when I was posted at the Pentagon!”

“You
what
?”

“You never heard that, Shovel—
believe
me, you never heard it!… I’ve got to get out of here, pronto. I’ll send someone back for you idiots, but
you
, you never told me
anything
, you understand?”

“I didn’t! But I’m also happy to oblige, Mr. Big Indian Chief.”

“That’s a small accomplishment, son, we’re on to bigger things. We just struck the gusher by rattling the biggest exposed nerve in Dizzy City!… The Golden Goldfarb,
wadda ya know? Right now, I need a goddamned attorney-of-record fast, and I know exactly where that ungrateful asshole
is
!”

Vincent Mangecavallo, director of the Central Intelligence Agency, stared at the secure telephone in his outstretched hand as though the instrument were the inanimate embodiment, of a communicable disease. When the hysterical voice on the line paused for breath, the DCI yanked the phone to his ear and mouth and spoke quietly but grimly. “You listen to me, you pinstriped baked apple. I’m doing the best I can with talent your crowd only
pays
for but wouldn’t know how to talk to, much less let into your la-di-da country clubs. You wanna take
over
? Be my guest, and I’ll laugh like a goosed fruit when you get drowned in a vat of minestrone.… You wanna know something else, you lockjawed cannoli?” Mangecavallo suddenly, briefly stopped, then resumed speaking in a much softer, friendlier voice. “Who’s kidding who? We all may be drowning in that barrel of soup. So far, all we got is zilch. That Court’s as clean as my mother’s thoughts—and no cracks from the Whiffenpoof group, thank you very much.”

“Sorry I blew up, old fellow,” said the Secretary of State, on the other end of the line. “But surely you can understand the extraordinary disadvantages we face in the upcoming summit. My
God
, think of the embarrassment! How can the President negotiate from a position of strength, with the full authority of his office, if the Court even thinks of permitting a totally unknown,
tiny
tribe of Indians to cripple our first line of defense? The sky’s where it’s at, you know, old boy!”

“Yeah, I figured,
bambino vecchio
.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It’s Guinea-speak for something I never could understand with your types. How can a little kid be old?”

“Well, the tie, you see. The old schools, old bonds, the symbols, I suppose. Therefore, the ‘old boys.’ Quite simple, really.”

“Maybe like
vecchia maledizione di famiglia
, huh?”

“Well, I got the ‘familiar’ part, and I imagine in a broad
sense there’s a correlation. It’s a rather lovely foreign phrase.”

“We don’t think so. You get killed for it.”

“I
beg
your pardon—”

“No matter, I just wanted a couple of moments to think.”

“
I
do that all the time. Tangential intrusions.”

“Yeah, sure, so let’s intrude on this summit problem. Number one, can the Big Man call it off because he’s got the flu—or maybe shingles—hey,
they’re
rough, how about it?”

“Terrible image, Vincent. No way.”

“His wife has a stroke? I can arrange it.”

“Again, no, old sport. He’d have to rise above personal tragedy and perform heroically—that’s
bible
.”

“Then we’re in the minestrone.… Whoa,
whoa
, I think I got it! If the Court’s debate goes public, suppose the Big Fella says he
supports
the right of what do you call it—petition?”

“You’re bonkers!”

“Who?”

“Insane! On what possible basis could he endorse such a position? This isn’t merely pro choice or against it, it’s
real
. You can’t tab votes on this, you have to take a stand—and the only stand he can take pits him against the constitutional balances of power. He’s embroiled in a battle between the Executive and the Judicial. Everybody loses!”

“
Boy
, you got a lot of big words, baked apple. I don’t mean he ‘endorses,’ I mean he ‘supports’ the public debate, in the sense that he looks after the little people—like the Commies used to do but never did—and, anyway, he knows he’s got twenty-two other SAC bases in the country, and eleven or twelve outside. So what’s his problem?”

“Roughly
seventy billion
dollars’ worth of equipment in Omaha he can’t move out!”

“So who knows that?”

“The General Accounting Office.”

“Now we’re getting down to the marbles. We can shut those guys up. I can arrange it.”

“You’re relatively new in this town, Vincent. By the
time your enforcers are in place, the leaks will have begun, the seventy billion instantly escalated to well over a hundred, and any attempt to suppress even the rumors, those figures will reach nine hundred billion, making the Savings and Loan fiasco petty cash. By that time, since there’s obviously a healthy grain of validity in that malodorous brief, we’d all be prosecuted under the laws of Congress for covering up something we had absolutely nothing to do with over a hundred years ago for the sake of political advantage. Furthermore, despite the fact that this is the most intelligent course of action we professionals could take, we’d not only be facing fines and imprisonment, but they’d also take away our limousines.”

“
Basta
!” yelled Mangecavallo, switching the phone to his other, less-abused ear. “This is
nuthouse
time!”

“Welcome to the real world of Washington, Vincent.… Are you absolutely certain there’s nothing, shall we say, ‘convincing,’ on any of those six idiots on the Court? What about the black fellow? He’s always struck me as quite uppity.”

“He would and you would, but he’s probably the cleanest and the brightest.”

“You don’t say?”

“And the
paisan’s
right behind him, if he’s your next in line for heavy objective thinking.”

“Actually, he was—nothing personal, you understand, I love opera.”

“Nothing personal, and opera loves you, especially Signor Pagliacci.”

“Ah, yes, all those Vikings.”

“Yeah, Vikings.… And speaking of thunder—”

“Were we?”

“You were.… We’re still waiting for word on that Chief Crazy Ass who calls himself Thunder Head. Once we got him, he could be our way out of this whole mess.”

“Really? How?”

“Because as the principal, what do you call it, the plaintiff, he has to show up in the big Court with his attorneys for all arguments. That’s mandatory.”

“Well, of course he does, but how would that change anything?”

“Suppose—just
suppose
—this big
scungilli
shows up like a total psychiatric outpatient screaming that the whole scam is a
joke
? That he doctored all those historical records to make some kind of radical statement. How about that,
huh
?”

“It’s absolutely brilliant, Vincent!… But how can you possibly
do
that?”

“I can arrange it. I got a few medical types on a special payroll. Like with chemicals not exactly approved by the FDA, okay?”

“
Magnificent
! Why are you holding back?”

“I got to
find
the son of a bitch!… 
Hold
it, baked apple, I’ll call you back. My other subterranean line is blinking.”

“Please do so, old boy.”

“
Basta
with the old
bambino
crap!” The honorable director of the Central Intelligence Agency broke off one line and admitted the second call with a touch of two buttons. “Yeah, what is it?”

“I realize that I should not call you directly, but I felt that in light of the information, you would not accept it from anyone but myself.”

“Who
is
this?”

“Goldfarb.”

“Hymie the
Hurricane
? Lemme tell you, pal, you were the
greatest
—”

“Stop it, silly boy, I’m in a different business.”

“Sure,
sure
, but do you remember the Super Bowl of ’73, when
you
—”

“I was there,
pal
, so naturally I remember. However, right now we have a situation that you should be apprised of before you make any moves.… Thunder Head got out of our net.”

“What?”

“I’ve spoken to each member of my
very
expensive unit, for which you will be billed via the sleazy motel in Virginia Beach, and their unanimous conclusion may appear difficult to accept, but from everything I’ve heard, it’s as good as any.”

“What are you
talkin’
?”

“This Thunder Head is, in actuality, the living person of
Bigfoot, the supposedly mythical creature that roams the Canadian forests, but who is very much a human being.”

“
What
?”

“The only other explanation is that he’s the
yeti
, the Abominable Snowman of the Himalayas, who has crossed continents to put a curse on the government of the United States.… Have a nice day.”

General MacKenzie Hawkins, his shoulders stooped, and dressed in a rumpled, nondescript gray gabardine suit, walked through Boston’s Logan Airport looking for a men’s room. Finding one, he rushed inside with his oversized flight bag, placed it on the floor, and checked his appearance in the long mirror running the length of the sinks, where two uniformed airline personnel washed their hands at each end. Not bad, he thought, except for the color of the wig; it was a mite too red and a touch too long in the back. The thin steel-rimmed glasses, however, were splendid; sloping downward over his aquiline nose, they gave him the appearance of a distracted academic, a pointy-headed thinker who could never find a latrine in a crowded airport with the cool efficiency of a trained military man. And “military,” or specifically the lack of same, was the linchpin of the Hawk’s current strategy. All traces of his background had to be buried; the city of Boston was pointy-head territory, everyone knew that, and he had to meld in for the next twelve hours or so, enough time to reconnoiter and study Sam Devereaux in his own environment.

Sam seemed to have some minor objections to their getting
together, and as much as it pained Mac, it was entirely possible that he might have to take Devereaux by force. Time was of the essence now, and the Hawk needed Sam’s legal credentials just as soon as possible; no hour could be wasted, although several might be used up convincing the attorney to join forces in a holy cause.… Strike the word “holy,” thought the general; it could revive memories best left forgotten.