«I know,» acknowledged the Hawk. «I heard everything you all said for the past twenty minutes, taking a few moments off to bring Colonel Cyrus another bottle of vodka on the beach… Those actor types really blew him into space, didn’t they?»
«Your disinformation, General?» pressed Aaron.
«Well, I haven’t actually worked it out yet, but the route’s as clear as an oil slick in new-fallen snow… Brokey the Deuce.»
«Who?»
«What?»
«I think I know,» said Jennifer. «Brokemichael—not the Indian Affairs Heseltine, but the one who runs those faces on the table from Fort Benning. Ethelred.»
«The lady’s right. Ethelred Brokemichael was about the poorest excuse for a West Pointer that ever was. He never should have been in the army, but it was on both sides of their families, you know, sons of army brothers. The crazy thing is that Ethelred was actually a more imaginative officer than Heseltine, but he had a weakness. He saw too many movies where generals lived like kings and he tried it on a general’s salary, which doesn’t allow for castles.»
«Then I was right,» said Devereaux. «He was making bucks out of the Triangle.»
«Sure, you were, Sam, but he was no mastermind criminal; he was more of an unconscious middleman than anything else. It was like he was in a movie, being paid personal homage by a lot of people he couldn’t understand but did minor favors for.»
«He pocketed the loot, Mac.»
«Some, not a hell of a bundle and nowheres near what you claimed. If the army could have proved that, he’d have been out on his duff. He gave a lot of it to the orphanages and the refugee camps. That’s on the record and it’s what saved his tail. There were others who did much worse.»
«That’s hardly exculpatory,» said Pinkus.
«I guess not, but, like Sam says, who’s running in the angel sweepstakes?» The Hawk paused and walked to a beach front window in his camouflage skivvies. «Besides, it’s history, and I know Brokey the Deuce. He doesn’t think too much of me, because I knew Heseltine better and they didn’t get along, but we talk… And we will talk and I’ll goddamned well find out who’s behind this whole fandango or the Deuce will be hung out to dry in public, and he can kiss his gold braid good-bye.»
«You’re forgetting a negative or two, General,» interrupted Aaron. «To begin with, when word gets back that this ‘Suicidal Six’ has failed, I’m sure Brokemichael will be placed beyond your reach, beyond anyone’s, for the simple reason that through him the name of the high-ranking official who commandeered Air Force Two might surface.»
«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.