Well, they hadn’t figured on Samuel Lansing Devereaux, attorney of consequence, avenger of the mistreated, and the scourge of corruptors everywhere! And he had learned from a master—a misguided, antediluvian master, to be sure—but nevertheless a master! Of lies and theft and trickery, all those fine attributes that made him the Soldier of the Century! Sam would use every devious device, every nefarious deception he had learned from the Hawk to spread the truth and free his comrades. Not only free his comrades but save his country from the grip of the insidious manipulators. Not only free his comrades and save his country, but bring the glorious Sunrise Jennifer Redwing permanently into his life! He’d do it all with a voice tape securely locked in a finger-sealed plastic bag he had found in the Birnbaum kitchen that was now in his deepest pocket. Coughing and swallowing seawater, Devereaux struggled with all his strength against the tide and the chopping waves toward the beach. He had to prime the inventive part of his brain and, as Mac had frequently made clear, be prepared to instantly create whatever fiction he could think of to support the false facts. Like: «Wow, am I glad to be on land! My boat capsized!»
«Hey, there, mister!» cried the teenage girl who had run down from the house to greet him at the water’s edge. «I’ll bet you’re glad you got here, on land, I mean. Did your boat capsize in the squall?»
«Yes … well, yes it did. Pretty rough out there.»
«Not if you’ve got a decent keel. Or if you’re a pot, just get to marker seven.»
«Young lady, I’m not in the habit of smoking such substances.»
«What?»
«Simply put, I don’t use pot, as you call it.»
«Pot …? You mean ‘grass’? Nobody I go out with does, either! I meant ‘pot’ like in pot-sailor. You know, engines and oil leaks that mess up the water.»
«Oh, of course! I’m just a little disoriented from the swim.» Sam rose unsteadily to his feet, his right hand checking his trouser pocket. The sealed tape was there. «As it happens, I’m in a great hurry—»
«I’ll bet,» interrupted the girl. «You want to call your marina or the C.G. or probably your insurance company. You can use our phone.»
«Aren’t you a bit too trusting?» asked Devereaux, the attorney in him demanding the question. «I’m a stranger washed up on your beach.»
«And my older brother is the wrestling champ of New England. There he is!»
«Oh?» Sam raised his eyes to the house. Walking down the beach steps was a handsome, crew-cut gorilla whose muscular arms were inordinately long, rather near or below his knees. «Fine-looking young man.»
«Oh, sure, all the girls are crazy about him, but wait’ll they find out!»
«Find out?» Devereaux had the sinking feeling that some terribly intimate family secret was about to be divulged. «Some people are merely different, my dear, but we’re all God’s children, as the prophets say. Be tolerant.»
«Why? He wants to be a lawyer! I mean, is that nerdsville to the max, or what?»
«To the max,» muttered Sam as the champion wrestler of New England approached. «Sorry to bother you,» said Devereaux. «My heel—keel—wasn’t decent enough and I capsized.»
«Probably winded into a forced jibe,» said the young man pleasantly, «and it’s also probably your first boat.»
«How did you know?»
«Pretty obvious. Long pants, oxford shirt, black socks, and one brown leather loafer—how that stayed on, darned if I know.»
Devereaux looked down at his feet. Indeed, the wrestler was right, he had only one shoe. «I guess it was foolish of me, I should have worn sneakers.»
«Topsiders, mister,» corrected the girl.
«Naturally, I forgot, and it was my first boat.»
«Sail?» asked the young man.
«Yes, sail—two sails, one big one and small one in front.»
«Oh, wow,» said the teenage sister. «It sure was his first boat, Boomer!»
«Be tolerant, kid. Everybody has a first boat. I had to swim out and get you in your first Comet at marker three, remember?»
«You big sludge, you promised—»
«Cool it… Come on in, mister. You can dry off and use the phone.»
«Actually, I’m in a terrible hurry… Frankly, I have to reach the authorities on a very urgent matter, and the phone won’t help. I have to be there in person.»
«Are you a narc?» asked the young man sharply. «You sure as hell aren’t a sailor.»
«No, I’m not a narc. I’m simply a man with information that’s needed urgently.»
«Do you have identification—»
«Is that necessary? I’ll pay you for getting me where I have to go.»
«Definitely identification. I’m pre-law at Tufts and it goes with Initial Procedures One. Who are you?»
«All right, all right!» Sam reached into his drenched, buttoned rear left pocket and managed to extricate his wet, swollen wallet. It was not likely that the dragnet for him had gone public; the dirty bastards in Washington would be too cautious for that. «Here’s my driver’s license,» he added, suctioning out the plastic card from its slot and handing it to the wrestler.
«Devereaux!» cried the young man. «You’re Samuel Devereaux!»
«It’s been broadcast then?» said Sam, holding his breath, trying desperately to invent a fiction according to the Hawk. «Then I must explain to you the other side of the story and you must listen to me.»
«I don’t know about any broadcasting, sir, but I’ll listen to anything you say! You’re the guy who got those rotten judges thrown out. You’re a legend—kind of a new legend—for all of us going into law. I mean, you built the malfeasance charges against those judicial creeps like they were textbook cases! And every one held up to the last indictment!»
«Well, I was kind of pissed off—»
«Sis, hold the fort,» broke in the future attorney, grinning broadly. «When Mom and Dad get back, tell ’em I’m driving a man who’s going to be on the Supreme Court someday to wherever he wants to go.»
«The FBI would probably be best,» suggested Sam quickly. «Do you know where the local office is?»
«There’s one in Cape Ann. They’re in the papers a lot—you know, the narc boats.»
«How long will it take to get there?»
«No more than ten or fifteen minutes.»
«Let’s go!»
«Are you sure you don’t want to go into the house and get into some dry clothes? My father’s kind of skinny like you.»
«There’s no time. The issues at stake are momentous, believe me!»
«Oh, boy, let’s take off! The Jeep’s in front.»
«Nerdsville,» said the teenage girl.
«Ahchoo!»
«Bless ya,» said Tadeusz Mikulski, Special Agent, Federal Bureau of Investigation, his flat voice and dour expression conveying far less than a benediction. In truth, as he studied the strange figure seated in front of his desk, a man with one shoe who was obviously under severe stress and whose wet clothes were making puddles on his floor, Agent Mikulski reminded himself that his retirement was only eight months, four days, and six hours away, not that he was counting. «Okay, Mr. Deverooox,» he continued, looking down at the various soaked articles of identification extracted from the subject’s wallet. «Let’s start again.»