The Road to Omaha (55 page)

“The word won’t get back, Commander,” said Hawkins, turning away from the window. “At least not for the next twenty-four hours, and I’m sure you can arrange for a private jet to fly me to Fort Benning first thing in the morning.”

“Twenty-four
hours
?” exclaimed Jennifer. “You can’t possibly guarantee that. Those actors may be lunatics, but they
are
covert operations professionals.”

“Let me explain, Miss Redwing. My adjutants, Desis One and Two, are in radio contact with me.… Sir Henry Sutton and the so-called Suicidal Six are currently closing up Joseph’s Restaurant on Dartmouth Street, well oiled and in great spirits. My adjutants will drive them—not to the hotel—but up to the ski lodge, where they’ll remain for the day recovering. And when they’ve just about got their heads in place, Desi Two, who’s not only a fine mechanic but also, I’m informed by Desi the First, an accomplished cook, will lace their chow with a sauce comprised of tomatoes, tequila, gin, brandy, pharmaceutical grain alcohol, and a liquid sedative of indeterminate potency that will provide us with Miss Redwing’s guarantee. We may possibly have
more
than twenty-four hours, perhaps nearer a week, if it’d do us any good.”

“Really, General,” countered the daughter of the Wopotamis, “even men crippled by drugs and alcohol—especially trained military personnel—find enough lucid moments to use the telephone.”

“The telephone won’t be working—wires down, struck by lightning during the storm.”

“What storm?” asked Aaron.

“The storm that whipped up after they all fell into their sacks for some heavy snoring.”

“When they wake up they’ll climb into the limo and get the hell out of there,” offered Devereaux.

“Rack and pinion steering will have been broken as a result of the rough country terrain.”

“They’ll think they’ve been kidnapped and take appropriate measures, physical measures!” said Pinkus.

“There’s some chance of that but not much. D-One will explain to them that you, Commander, in your wisdom, thought it might be wiser if the group slept off tonight’s festivities at your vacation home rather than risking any embarrassment at the hotel.”

“What
about
the hotel, Mac?” said Sam anxiously. “Brokemichael and his crowd will be checking in with the unit for progress reports, if nothing else.”

“Little Joseph’s covering the phones in the middle suite as we speak.”

“What the hell’s he going to
say
?” persisted Devereaux. “ ‘Hi, I’m the Suicidal Seventh and the rest of the boys are bombed out of their skulls at Joe’s Bar’?”

“No, Sam, he’s going to make it clear that he’s been hired only to take messages and that his temporary employers were called out on business. Nothing more.”

“You seem to have thought everything through,” conceded Aaron, nodding. “Quite remarkable.”

“Second nature, Commander. These kinds of counterinsurgency tactics are kindergarten stuff.”

“Oh, no, Mac, you
forgot
something.” Devereaux smiled a lawyer’s smile of sardonic triumph. “These days all the limousines have telephones.”

“Good thinking, son, but Desi the First thought of that a couple of hours ago—”

“Don’t tell me he’s going to snap off the antenna. That would be a little obvious, wouldn’t it?”

“No need to. Hooksett, New Hampshire’s out of the cellular range; the tower up there isn’t completed. Desi-Two found out the hard way; he told us he had to drive twenty minutes down the highway to make contact with D-One in Boston the night before last—to tell him exactly where the lodge was.”

“Any other objections, Counselor?” asked Redwing.

“Something terrible is going to happen,” squeaked Sam in a strained, piping voice. “It always does when he thinks things
through
!”

The Rockwell jet soared over the Appalachian mountains preparing for its descent into the Fort Benning area, specifically a private airfield twelve miles north of the army base. The single passenger on board was the Hawk, once again dressed in his nondescript gray suit, wearing his steel-rimmed glasses, and with his gray, bristled brush-cut hair covered by his dull red wig now trimmed to perfection by Erin Lafferty. The former general had been on the telephone in Swampscott from roughly four o’clock in the morning until five-thirty making his arrangements. The
first call he placed was to Heseltine Brokemichael, who was only ecstatic in any attempt whatsoever to “screw the bejesus” out of his loathsome cousin, Ethelred. Seventeen calls later, all placed and received on the beach house lines, paved the way for a certain magazine writer whose current research involved post-Soviet breakup military adjustment to be admitted onto the base. At 0800 Brigadier General Ethelred Brokemichael, whose cover was Base Public Relations, had been alerted by Pentagon Public Relations to expect this
very
influential journalist and to act as his escort throughout the army complex. For Brokey the Deuce it was a relatively routine assignment that made good use of his minor theatrical talents, which, naturally, he did not consider minor at all. At ten hundred hours, Ethelred Brokemichael hung up his office phone, having instructed his WAC aide to show in the writer. The brigadier was fully prepared to repeat a PR performance he had done so successfully for a number of years.

What he was not prepared for was the sight of the large, somewhat stooped, bespectacled, red-haired elderly man, who walked shyly through his office door, profusely thanking the female sergeant who held it open for him. There was something vaguely familiar about the man, an aura, perhaps, that belied the image of solicitous courtesy; there was even an abstract sound of distant thunder—heard only by Brokey the Deuce, but it was distinctly there.
What was it about this oddball character who might have walked right out of the movie
Great Expectations,
a large, awkward, downtrodden accounts clerk trying to assuage the old lady … or was he mixing the role up with that tall fellow on stage in
Nicholas Nickleby?

“It’s very kind of you to spare your valuable time for my modest research, General,” said the journalist in a quiet if somewhat hoarse voice.

“It’s, my job,” said Brokemichael, flashing a sudden grin he felt would do justice to Kirk Douglas. “We are the armed servants of the people and want them to fully understand our contributions to the defense of our country and the peace of the world.… Please, sit down.”

“That’s a wonderful and moving statement.” The redheaded writer sat down in front of the desk, pulled out a
notepad and a ballpoint pen and proceeded to scribble a few words. “Do you mind if I quote you? I’ll ascribe it to an ‘authoritative source’ if you prefer.”

“Certainly not—I mean, you may certainly ascribe it to me.”
This was the very influential journalist who had Pentagon PR running around in circles to accommodate him. Why? This aging, gravel-voiced oddball was a certified civilian in awe of a uniform. The morning would be a snap
. “We in the army don’t hide behind secondary, unnamed sources, Mr.… Mr.—”

“Harrison, General. Lex Harrison.”

“Rex
Harrison
…?”

“No, Alexander Harrison. My parents nicknamed me ‘Lex’ many years ago, and my by-lines have always been under that name.”

“Oh, yes, of course—it’s just kind of a jolt, if you know what I mean … I mean,
Rex Harrison.
”

“Yes, Mr. Harrison used to get quite a kick out of the similarity. He once asked me if we could change places—he’d write an article and I’d go on for him as Henry Higgins. An untimely death; he was a lovely man.”

“You
knew
Rex Harrison?”

“Through mutual friends—”

“Mutual
friends
?”

“New York and L.A. are actually small towns if you’re a writer or an actor … but my publishers aren’t interested in me and my Polo Lounge drinking companions, General.”

“
Polo
Lounge …?”

“It’s a watering hole favored by the rich and famous and everyone else in L.A. who wants to be.… Now back to my publishers, they’re interested in the military and how it’s reacting to the economies being imposed. May we start the interview?”

“Sure, yes … of
course
. I’ll tell you anything you like, it’s just that I’ve always had a tremendous interest in the theater and movies … and even television.”

“My writing and performing friends would put television first, General. It’s what they call ‘survival money.’ You can’t make a living on the stage, and films are too few and far between.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that from—well, never mind—but this is real inside stuff from someone who really knows!”

“I haven’t betrayed any secrets, take my word for it,” said the journalist. “Even Greg, Mitch, and Michael admit it.”

“Oh, my
God
 … naturally!”
No wonder Pentagon PR considered this old hoarse-voiced reporter very influential. He had obviously been around for years, and hobnobbed with famous people whom the Pentagon were always trying to cultivate for their TV commercials. Christ! Rex Harrison, Greg, Mitch, and Michael—he knew everybody
! “I frequently fly to … L.A.… Mr. Harrison. Perhaps we might get together sometime … at the Polo Lounge.”

“Why not? I’m out there half the time, the other half in New York, but to tell you the truth, the action’s on the Coast. When you’re out there, just go to the Po-Lounge and tell Gus the bartender that you’re looking for me. I always check in with him whether I’m staying at the Beverly Hills or not. That’s how people know I’m in town—like Paul … Newman, that is, and Joanne, and the Pecks, Mitchum, Caine, and even a few newcomers like the Toms—Selleck and Cruise—and Meryl and Bruce—the good people.”

“The
good
people …?”

“Well, you know, the real ones, the guys and girls I get along with—”

“I’d
love
to
meet
them!” interrupted Brokemichael, his eyes two large white saucers with flashing brown cup rings. “I can arrange my schedule
any
time!”

“Hey, whoa, General, whoa,” said the old reporter huskily. “These people are pros in the business. They’ve been around the block, and don’t necessarily like side streets to amateurville.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, an
interest
in the movies or television or whatever isn’t exactly being a member of the fraternity, if you see what I mean. Hell, everybody wants to meet these faces—sometimes they call themselves ‘faces,’ as though it’s an insult to themselves—but underneath they’re real people who know what goes with the territory, but put limits on the land grabs.”

“What does
that
mean?”

“In short words, you’re not a pro, General, you’re a
fan
—and that they can get on any street corner, more than they can handle. Pros don’t socialize with fans, they tolerate ’em.… May we get back to the interview, please?”

“Well, yes, of
course
,” cried the frustrated Brokemichael, “but I think—I know damned
well
—that you’re underestimating my commitment to the performing arts!”

“Oh, was your mother an actress in a community theater, or did your father act in a high school play?”

“Neither one, although my mother always
wanted
to be an actress but her parents told her it would send her to hell, so she mimicked a lot.… My father was a colonel—
goddamn
, I’ve outranked that son of a bitch!… But I’ve got the theatrical bloodline from my mother—I really
love
the theater and good films and TV—especially the old movies. I feel electricity when I watch a show that moves me, really moves me. I cry, I laugh, I’m every
one
of those characters on the stage or on the screen. It’s my alter
life
!”

“I’m afraid that’s a fantasizing amateur’s reaction,” said the gruff-voiced journalist, returning to his notebook.

“Oh, you
think
so?” protested Brokemichael, his own voice strained, cracked with emotion. “Then let me
tell
you something—can we go off the record, no pen, no notebook—everything confidential?”

“Why not? I’m only here to get the overall military picture—”

“Be quiet!” whispered Brokey the Deuce, rising behind his desk, then crouching, slithering toward the door, listening as if playing a role in Bertolt Brecht’s
Threepenny Opera
. “I command the most elite acting repertory company in the annals of military history! I’ve trained them, guided them, brought them to the zenith of their talents, so that now they’re considered a world-class, antiterrorist unit that succeeds where everyone else fails! I ask you, is that
amateurville
?”

“Now, General, they’re soldiers, trained for that sort of thing—”

“No, they’re
not
!” exploded Brokemichael, his whisper growing into a near-hiss. “They’re actors, real professional
actors
! When they enlisted as a group, I saw the opportunities right away. Who better to infiltrate and pull the plugs behind enemy lines than men trained to impersonate other people? And what better than a unit of actors familiar with one another’s work, a
repertory
company capable of playing off one another to give the illusion of spontaneity, of naturalism—
reality
?… clandestine operations, Mr. Harrison. They were born to it and
I
made it possible!”

The journalist’s reaction was that of a curmudgeon grudgingly acknowledging a valid point where he had thought none existed. “Well, I’ll be damned …! That’s one hell of a concept, General—I might even go so far as to say it’s brilliant.”

“Not exactly amateurville, is it? These days everyone wants their services. Even now, at this moment, they’re on assignment for one of the most powerful men in the country.”

“Oh?” The man called Harrison frowned questioningly, a slight cynical smile shaping his lips. “Then they’re not on the premises, so I can’t meet them … and we
are
off the record so I can’t write about them?”

“My God, way off the record, not a word!”

“Then, frankly, General, speaking as a reporter, I have only one source—you. No editor alive would accept a single source, and my friends in the Polo Lounge would laugh through their oat bran eggs Benedict, saying it would make a hell of a screenplay if it were true—which it would if it was.”