«An item or two I haven’t mentioned.»
«What?»
«Look, you three are the lawyers, I’m not, and Washington isn’t Boston, where Mr. Pinkus’s corned beef and cabbage have a positive effect on the police department. In D.C., when you request blue-coat protection, you’d better show justifiable cause. Hell, those jackets can’t handle what they’ve got.»
«And ‘justifiable cause’ would naturally entail naming names in the highest places,» broke in Jenny, «and even if we got another copy of the tape, we wouldn’t dare play it for evidence.»
«Why not?» exclaimed Devereaux furiously. «I’m damn sick and tired of pussyfooting around! Public trusts have been violated, laws broken—why the hell not?»
«The paws of the cat were created for a purpose, Sam,» said Pinkus.
«Oh, that’s all I need. My boss, the Punjabi prophet from the Himalayas! Would you mind coming off the mountain and explaining that, Aaron?»
«You’re upset, my darling—»
«Tell me something I don’t know!… Maybe it was ten miles and that storm was really closer to a hurricane—say force ninety-nine, or whatever they call it.»
«I’m trying to tell you,» said Pinkus, his voice calm, his electric eyes on Devereaux, «that a quiet approach to catch a quarry is usually more effective than setting off alarms.»
«I’ll put it another way,» added Cyrus. «No precinct in Washington—tape or no tape—is going to take on someone like the Secretary of State.»
«He’s in a funny house!»
«All the more reason for State to maintain an equilibrium,» said the mercenary-chemist. «Believe me, I know.»
«It’s all corruption!» roared Sam.
«Only a few,» insisted Jennifer. «The vast majority are overworked, underpaid, dedicated bureaucrats—bureaucrats in the best sense, men and women who try their best to sort out the problems of their myriad departments brought on by politicians waffling for votes. It ain’t easy, darling.»
Devereaux unclasped his hand from Redwing’s, brought it to his forehead, and leaned back on the couch. «All right,» he said wearily. «I’m the dumbest kid on the block. People do terrible things and everybody shuts up; accountability’s out the window!»
«Not true, Sam,» corrected Aaron. «You’d never build a case that way, I know you. You’d cover every escape route before you made either your initial presentation to a jury or whatever subsequent counterarguments. That’s why you’re the finest attorney in my firm—when you’re all together.»
«All right, all right. We’re clowns in a three-ring circus tomorrow!… What were the items you hadn’t mentioned, Cyrus?»
«Bulletproof jackets and steel helmets under your headgear,» replied the mercenary as if he had just enumerated the ingredients for chocolate chip cookies.
«What?»
«You heard me. We’re talking hardball now, Counselor. There are more billions—yes, billions—riding on your appearance tomorrow afternoon than you can conjure in your out-of-orbit imagination.»
«¡Caramba!» yelled Desi the Second. «Don’ he talk good!»
«Shaddaup! We could be muerto!»
«H’ye don’t care! Ees right!»
«So I agree wid chu, so wad? So we’re loco!»
«Iss in the Romany tarot cards, my frenz!» shouted Roman Z, twirling in place, his flowing blue sash over his orange shirt covering the withdrawal of his long-bladed knife. «The blade of the Romany will cut the throats of any who attack our holy cause—whatever it iss.»
«Hey, come on, Cyrus!» roared Devereaux. «Under these circumstances, I will not permit Jenny or Aaron to be any part of it!»
«You don’t speak for me!» cried the Aphrodite of Sam’s dreams.
«Nor me, young man!» said Pinkus, getting up from the couch. «You forget, I was on Omaha Beach. I may not have been significant, but I’ve still got the shrapnel as proof of my efforts. It was, indeed, a holy cause then, and there’s a distinct parallel here. When men deny by force the rights of others, the only result is tyranny. And I will not tolerate that for this country of ours!»
«Ahchoo, ahchoo, ahchoo!»
30
5:45 A.M. As dawn broke over the Washington skyline, a russet mantle in the making, the silent marble halls of the Supreme Court came quietly alive as teams of cleaning women pushed their maintenance carts from one doorway to another. The tiers of trays held new boxed soap, fresh towels, tissue replacements, and, in front of each dolly, a suspended plastic trash bag for yesterday’s refuse.
One cart, however, differed from all the others in the magnificent structure dedicated to laws of God and nation. So did the elderly gray-haired lady pushing it; she was distinctly different from her counterparts throughout the building. Upon closer examination, her gray locks were perfectly coiffed, her blue eye shadow subtly apparent, and by mistake she wore a diamond and emerald bracelet around her wrist that was in value many times the annual salary of the other ladies. She also wore a large plastic label clipped to the pocket of her uniform that read: Temporary. Cleared.
What made her cart different was the suspended plastic bag designed for refuse. It was full before she reached the first office on her assigned route—an office she disdained to enter as her mumbled words confirmed while she passed the door.
«Escremento!… Vincenzo, you pazzo. My best and most loved child of my dearest sister should be in hospital for dementi. I could buy every statue in dissa whole building!… So why do I do?… Because my beloved nephew means my no-good husband don’ have to work. Mannaggia … Oh, here it is, the closet. Bene! I leave everything here, go home, watch a little TV, then with the girls a little shopping. Molto bene!»
8:15 A.M. Four nondescript brown and black automobiles pulled up swiftly on First Street near the corner of Capitol Street. Three dark-suited men got out of each, their brows furrowed, all eyes robotically centered; they were the «gunslingers» hired for a job, and to fail meant going back to the most menial of their former union tasks—a fate worse than death. Twelve dedicated professionals, who had no idea what they were dedicated to, except that the two men in the photographs they carried in their pockets must never enter the Supreme Court across the street. No sweat. Nobody ever found Jimmy Hoffa.
9:12 A.M. Two vehicles with government license plates parked briefly in front of the Supreme Court. Under the instruction of the Attorney General, the eight men who emerged were to take into custody two individuals wanted for outrageous crimes against the country. Each FBI agent had a photograph of the former and thoroughly discredited General MacKenzie Hawkins and his accomplice, an underworld lawyer named Samuel Lansing Devereaux still wanted for treasonous activities during his tour of duty in the last days of the Vietnam action. There was no statute of limitation on his crimes. He had impugned the reputations of his superiors while profiting from their disgrace. Federal agents hated guys like that—how did they do it?