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Synopsis
General MacKenzie Hawkins is a living military legend, a hero and a rogue. Sam Devereaux is a bright young ex-Harvard lawyer, now in the army, and he can't wait to get out. When the Hawk gets kicked out of the army for conduct unbecoming to an officer, his options are limited - but not for long. He has a plan, a plan so ambitious it will shock the world and make him a very rich man. He is going to get $400 million - a dollar from every Catholic in the world. And he's going to do it by kidnapping the Pope ...
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About the Author
Robert Ludlum launched his career as a bestselling writer with THE SCARLATTI INHERITANCE in 1971, the first of a string of international bestsellers. There are more than 300 million copies of his books in print and they have been translated in 32 languages.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter One
"That son of a bitch!" Brigadier General Arnold Symington brought the paperweight down on the thick layer of glass on his Pentagon desk. The glass shattered; fragments shot through the air in all directions. "He couldn't!"
"He did, sir," replied the frightened lieutenant, shielding his eyes from the office shrapnel. "The Chinese are very upset. The premier himself dictated the complaint to the diplomatic mission. They're running editorials in the Red Star and broadcasting them over Radio Peking."
"How the hell can they?" Symington removed a piece of glass from is little finger. "What the hell are they saying? 'We interrupt this program to announce that the American military representative, General MacKenzie Hawkins, shot the balls off a ten-foot jade statue in Son Tai Square'?—Bullshit! Peking wouldn't allow that; it's too goddamned undignified."
"They're phrasing it a bit differently, sir. They say he destroyed an historic monument of precious stone in the Forbidden City. They say it's as though someone blew up the Lincoln Memorial."
"It's a different kind of statue! Lincoln's got clothes on; his balls don't show! It's not the same!"
"Nevertheless, the White House thinks the parallel is justified, sir. The President wants Hawkins removed. More than removed, actually; he wants him cashiered. Court-martial and all. Publicly."
"Oh, for Christ's sake, that's out of the question." Symington leaned back in his chair and breathed deeply, trying to control himself. He reached out for the report on his desk. "We'll transfer him. With a reprimand. We'll send transcripts of the—censure, we'll call it a censure—to Peking."
"That's not strong enough, sir. The State Department made it clear. The President concurs. We have trade agreements pending—"
"For Christ's sake, Lieutenant!" interrupted the brigadier. "Will someone tell that spinning top in the Oval Office that he can't have it on all points of the compass! Mac Hawkins was selected. From twenty-seven candidates. I remember exactly what the President said. Exactly. 'That mother's perfect!' That's what he said."
"That's inoperative now, sir. He feels the trade agreements take precedent over prior considerations." The lieutenant was beginning to perspire.
"You bastards kill me," said Symington, lowering his voice ominously. "You really frost my apricots. How do you figure to do that? Make it 'inoperative,' I mean. Hawkins may be a sharp pain in your diplomatic ass right now, but that doesn't wash away what was operative. He was a fucking teen-age hero at the Battle of the Bulge and West Point football; and if they gave medals for what he did in Southeast Asia, even Mac Hawkins isn't strong enough to wear all that hardware! He makes John Wayne look like a pansy! He's real; that's why that Oval Yo-yo picked him!"
"I really think the office of the presidency—regardless of what you may think of the man—as commander in chief he—"
"Horse—shit!" The brigadier general roared again, separating the words in equal emphasis, giving the crudity of his oath the sound of a military cadence. "I'm simply explaining to you—in the strongest terms I know—that you don't publicly court-martial a MacKenzie Hawkins to satisfy a Peking complaint, no matter how many goddamned trade agreements are floating round. Do you know why, Lieutenant?"
The young officer replied softly, sure of his accuracy. "Because he would make an issue of it. Publicly."
"Bing-go." Symington's comment sprang out in a high-pitched monotone. "The Hawkinses of this country have a constituency, Lieutenant. That's precisely why our commander in chief picked him! He's a political palliative. And if you don't think Mac Hawkins knows it, well—you didn't have to recruit him. I did."
"We are prepared for that reaction, General." The lieutenant's words were barely audible.
The brigadier leaned forward, careful not to put his elbows in the shattered glass. "I didn't get that."
"The State Department anticipated a hard-line counter-thrust. Therefore we must institute an aggressive counteraction to that thrust. The White House regrets the necessity but at this point in time recognizes the crisis quotient."
"That's what I thought I was going to get." Symington's words were less audible than the lieutenant's. "Spell it out. How are you doing to ream him?"
The lieutenant hesitated. "Forgive me, sir, but the object is not to—ream General Hawkins. We are in a provocatively delicate position. The People's Republic demands satisfaction. Rightly so; it was a crude, vulgar act on General Hawkins's part. Yet he refuses to make a public apology."
Symington looked at the report still in his right hand. "Does it say why in here?"
"General Hawkins claims it was a trap. His statement's on page three."
The brigadier flipped to the page and read. The lieutenant drew out a handkerchief and blotted his chin. Symington put down the report carefully on the shattered glass and looked up.
"If what Mac says is true, it was a trap. Broadcast his side of the story."
"He has no side, General. He was drunk."
"Mac says drugged. Not drunk, Lieutenant."
"They were drinking, sir."
"And he was drugged. I'd guess Hawkins would know the difference. I've seem him sweat sour mash."
"He does not deny the charge, however."
"He denies the responsibility of his actions. Hawkins was the finest intelligence strategist in Indochina. He's drugged couriers and pouch men in Cambodia, Laos, both Vietnams, and probably across the Manchurian borders. He knows the goddamned difference."
"I'm afraid his knowing it doesn't make any difference, sir. The crisis quotient demands our acceding to Peking's wishes. The trade agreements are paramount. Frankly, sir, we need gas."
"Jesus! I figured that was one thing you had."
The lieutenant replaced the handkerchief in his pocket and smiled wanly. "The levity is called for, I realize that. However, we have just ten days to bring everything into focus; to make our inputs and come up with a positive print."
Symington stared at the young officer; his expression that of a grown man about to cry. "What does that mean?"
"It's a harsh thing to say, but General Hawkins has placed his own interests above those of his duty. We'll have to make an example. For everybody's sake."
"An example? For wanting the truth out?"
"There's a higher duty, General."
"I know," said the brigadier wearily. "To the—trade agreements. To the gas."
"Quite frankly, yes. There are times when symbols have to be traded off for pragmatic objectives. Team players understand."
"All right. But Mac won't lie down and play busted symbol for you. So what's the--input?"
"The inspector general," said the lieutenant, as an obnoxious student might, holding up a severed tapeworm in Biology I. "We're running an in-depth data trace on him. We know he was involved in questionable activities in Indochina. We have reason to believe he violated international codes of conduct."
"You bet your ass he did! He was one of the best!"
"There's no statute on those codes. The IG specialists have caseloads going back much further than General Hawkins's ex-officio activities." The lieutenant smiled. It was a genuine smile; he was a happy person.
"So you're going to hang him with clandestine operations that half the joint chiefs and most of the CIA know would bring him a truckload of citations—if they could talk about them. You bastards kill me." Symington nodded his head, agreeing with himself.
"Perhaps you could save us time, General. Can you provide us with some specifics?"
"Oh, no! You want to crucify the son of a bitch, you build your own cross!"
"You do understand the situation, don't you, sir?"
The brigadier moved his chair back and kicked fragments of glass from under his feet. "I'll tell you something," he said. "I haven't understood anything since nineteen forty-five." He glared at the young officer. "I know you're with Sixteen-hundred, but are you regular army?"
"No, sir. Reserve status, temporary assignment. I'm on a leave of absence from Y, J and B. To put out fires before they burn up the flagpoles, as it were."
"Y, J and B. I don't know that division."
"Not a division, sir. Youngblood, Jakel, and Blowe, in Los Angeles. We're the top ad agency on the Coast."
General Arnold Symington's face slowly took on the expression of a distressed basset hound. "The uniform looks real nice, Lieutenant." The brigadier paused, the shook his head. "Nineteen forty-five," he said.
Major Sam Devereaux, field investigator for the Office of the Inspector General, looked across the room at the calendar on his wall. He got up from the chair behind his desk, walked over to it, and Xed the day's date. One month and three days and he would be a civilian again,.
Not that he was ever a soldier. Not really; certainly not spiritually. He was a military accident. A fracture compounded by a huge mistake that resulted in an extension of his tour of service. It had been a simple choice of alternative: Reenlistment or Leavenworth.
Sam was a lawyer, a damn fine attorney specializing in criminal law. Years ago he had held a series of Selective Se...
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- PublisherCHARNWOOD (LARGE PRINT)
- Publication date1983
- ISBN 10 0708981542
- ISBN 13 9780708981542
- BindingHardcover
- Number of pages416
- Rating
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