«In the military, sir,» said Brokemichael firmly and standing tall, «we do not permit code words that connote ethnic slurs. This nation’s outstanding Italian-American citizenry, the sons and daughters of Leonardo Michelangelo and Rocco Machiavelli, are to be treated with the greatest respect for their contributions. The Capones and the Valachis were aberrations.»
«I’ll go to Mass tomorrow and light a candle on your behalf for your survival should you meet the sons and daughters of the last two mentioned. In the meantime, what do we do right now?»
«I think we should have a conversation with our redheaded priest.»
«Good point. Let’s go.»
«Not yet!» came the deep, harsh voice behind them. «Glad you could make it, gentlemen,» continued the Hawk, coming around the trunk of the maple tree, his trimmed red wig catching the filtered light from the leaves. «Good to see you again, Brokey … and you, sir, I assume, are Commander Y. It’s a distinct pleasure to meet you, whoever you are.»
As much as his fear would permit, Warren Pease, Secretary of State, was pleased with himself, even impressed. When he had seen that priest swearing at a cabdriver over a fare outside the Hay-Adams hotel, he was struck with an inspiration—he would go to the rendezvous as a man of the cloth! If he did not like what he saw or heard, he could walk away with impunity. After all, nobody gets rough with a priest or a minister in public, it simply was not proper, and more to the point, drew attention.
And, of course, not to go to the rendezvous would be crazy in spite of what he told that dreadful admiral who was forever submitting expense vouchers for places he never went, to see people he never saw on State Department business that did not exist. Pease had soundly berated him over the phone, not to rectify the admiral’s abuses, but to learn how much he really knew … and how he knew it. The answers to both questions were minimal, confused, and disturbing enough to convince Warren to clear the evening’s calendar and procure a clerical collar and rabat. He had a black suit for state funerals and the inspired reddish toupee completed his outfit.
As he now walked among the crowds at the Lincoln Memorial, the admiral’s words rang in his ears.
«Mr. Secretary, I’ve been asked by an old comrade of many years to relay a message to you, a message that could lead to the solution of your most pressing problem—a crisis was the way he described it.»
«What are you talking about? The Department of State has scores of crises every day, and as my time is the most valuable in Washington, I’ll thank you to be specific.»
«I’m afraid I can’t be specific. My old comrade made it clear that it was beyond my clearance, way beyond.»
«That doesn’t tell me anything. Be clearer, sailor.»
«He said it had something to do with a group of original Americans—whatever that means—and certain military installations, whatever they are.»
«Oh, my God! What else did he say?»
«He was very top-max, but he said there was a solution that could weather-wax your skis.»
«Could weather my who?»
«Skis… Frankly, Mr. Secretary, I’m not into winter sports, but militarily speaking, I must assume that the code reference means you can reach your objective far more quickly by meeting with him as soon as possible, which is basically his message.»
«What’s his name, Admiral?»
«To reveal that would implicate me in a situation I have nothing to do with. I’m only a conduit, Mr. Secretary, nothing more. He could have chosen a dozen other ex-militaries, and I wish he had.»
«And I could choose to question a large percentage of your expense vouchers and the propriety of those cozy trips you take on diplomatic aircraft! How does that grab you, sailor?»
«I’m only delivering a message, Mr. Secretary, I’m not involved!»
«Not involved, huh? That’s what you say, but why should I believe you? Maybe you’re a part of this evil, malicious conspiracy.»
«What conspiracy, for Christ’s sake?»
«Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’d like nothing better than for me to spell out the whole horrible mess so you can write a book, like all those fine, selfless public servants who were unjustly indicted for doing nothing more than anyone else would do while giving up their stock options by coming down here.»
«I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!»
«The name, sailor, the name!»
«So you can write a book and put me in it? No way!»
«Well, since you’ve wasted my time this long, you might as well deliver the rest of your rotten message. Where and when does this unnamed monster think I’ll meet him?» The admiral had told him. «Good, fine! I’ve already forgotten whatever you said. Now, shove it, sailor, and never call me again unless it’s to tell me you’re resigning from your consultant’s contract!»
«Hey, come on, Mr. Secretary, I don’t want any trouble, honest to God!… Look, I’ll talk to the Prez’s buddy, Subagaloo, and he’ll tell you—»
«To Arnold! No, don’t talk to Arnold, never talk to Arnold! He’ll put you on a list, he’ll have you on a list—a list, a list, a horrible, intolerable list!»
«Are you all right, Mr. Secretary?»
«I’m fine, I’m fine, I really will be fine, but do not do and never do call Arnold Subagaloo. He’ll get you on his list, his list, a fretful, dreadful, executionary list!… Over and out, sailor, or whatever you stupid soldiers say!»
He had told off that awful leech, all right, mused Pease, smiling sweetly at an overly made-up little old lady who looked adoringly at him as he approached the maple tree. The rendezvous had to be the tree up ahead, he thought. It was hardly an inspired location, and Warren wondered why MacKenzie Hawkins, a.k.a. Chief Thunder Head of the nefarious Wopotamis, had chosen it. The light was poor, but perhaps that was good, and there were crowds barely a hundred feet away … that wasn’t bad either; there was protection in numbers. Of course, the maniac Hawkins was taking these precautions for his own safekeeping, not for the benefit of the Secretary of State. He undoubtedly thought the government would have troops throughout the area hoping to capture him, but that kind of show of force was the last thing all the President’s men wanted. It would be terrible PR if the media found out they had set a trap for a two-time winner of the Congressional Medal of Honor. Pease squinted in the dim light under the tree and looked at his watch; he was nearly thirty minutes early. Good, fine; he would walk off to the side and wait—and watch. He rounded the trunk, then stopped, annoyed to see that the little old lady with the garishly rouged cheeks was waiting for him.
«Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,» she said in a high-pitched, tremulous voice, standing in front of him under the overhanging maple blocking his way.
«Yes, well … vox populi and all that sort of thing. Some of you aren’t perfect, but that’s the way it goes—»
«I’d like to confess, Father. I must confess!»
«That’s probably very commendable, but I don’t think this is the place for it. Besides, I’m in a hurry.»
«The Bible says that in the eyes of the Lord a desert can be the House of God if a sinner’s spirit wills it.»
«Hogwash aside, I told you I’m in a hurry.»
«And I’m telling you to get your ass behind the tree.»