The Road to Omaha
For Henry Sutton
Godfather, wonderful actor,
superb friend, and a great human being
PREFACE
A number of years ago, the undersigned wrote a novel entitled The Road to Gandolfo. It was based on a staggering premise, an earthshaking concept that should have possessed the thunder of the ages … and you don’t hardly come upon them things no more. It was to be a tale told by demons, the legions of Satan marching out of hell to commit a heinous crime that would outrage the world, a mortal blow to all men and women of faith regardless of their specific religion, for it would show how vulnerable are the great spiritual leaders of our times. Stripped to its essentials, the story dealt with the kidnapping of Rome’s Pontiff, a true man of God and of ordinary people everywhere, Pope Francesco the First.
Are you with me? I mean, it’s really heavy, isn’t it? It should have been, but it wasn’t… Something happened. Poor Fool, the novelist, peeked around the edges, glimpsed the flip side of the coin, and to his eternal condemnation he began to giggle. That’s no way to treat a staggering premise, a magnificent obsession! (Not too shabby a title, by the way.) Unfortunately, Poor Fool could not help himself; he began to think, which is always dangerous for a storyteller. The what-if syndrome came into play.
What if the instigator of this horrible crime wasn’t actually a bad fellow, but in fiction’s reality, a genuine military legend whom the politicians crippled because he vociferously objected to their hypocrisies … and what if the beloved Pope wasn’t actually averse to being kidnapped, as long as his look-alike cousin, a none too bright spear carrier from La Scala Opera, took his place, and the true Pontiff could run the immense responsibilities of the Holy See by remote, without the debilitating agenda of Vatican politics and the endless procession of blessings administered to supplicants expecting to buy their way into Heaven by way of the collection plate? Now there was another story.
I can hear you, I can hear you! He sold himself down his own river of betrayal (I’ve frequently wondered what river the bromide refers to. The Styx, the Nile, the Amazon? Certainly not the Colorado; you’d get hung up on the white-water rocks.)
Well, maybe I did, and maybe I didn’t. I only know that during the intervening years since Gandolfo, a number of readers have asked me by letter, telephone, and outright threats of bodily harm, «Whatever happened to those clowns?» (The perpetrators, not the willing victim.)
In all honesty, those «clowns» were waiting for another staggering premise. And late one night a year ago, the squirrelliest of my insignificant muses shrieked, «By Jove, you’ve got it!» (I’m quite sure she stole the line.)
At any rate, whereas Poor Fool took certain liberties in the areas of religion and economics in The Road to Gandolfo, he hereby freely admits having taken similar liberties in this current scholarly tome with respect to the laws and the courts of the land.
Then again, who doesn’t? Of course, not my attorney or your attorney, but certainly everybody else’s!
The accurate novelization of authentic undocumented history of questionable origin demands that the muse must forego certain ingrained disciplines in the search for improbable truths. And definitely where Blackstone is concerned.
Yet never fear, the moral is here:
Stay out of a courtroom unless you can buy the judge. Or, if in the unlikely event you could, hire my lawyer, which you can’t because he’s all tied up keeping me out of jail.
So, to my many friends who are attorneys (they’re either attorneys, actors, or homicidal killers—is there a running connection?), skip over the finer points of law that are neither fine nor very pointed. However, they may well be inaccurately accurate.
—RL
What Robert Ludlum is too modest to say is that when The Road to Gandolfo was published under his own name, it immediately became an international best-seller in eighteen different countries.
Readers were delighted to discover that his gift for comedy matched his talent for writing entertaining yet meaningful thrillers.
The Publisher
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
MacKenzie Lochinvar Hawkins—Former general of the army, former by request of the White House, the Pentagon, the State Department, and most of Washington. Twice decorated with the Congressional Medal of Honor. A.k.a. Madman Mac the Hawk.
Samuel Lansing Devereaux—Brilliant young attorney, Harvard Law School, U.S. Army (reluctantly), lawyer for the Hawk in China (disastrously).
Sunrise Jennifer Redwing—Also an attorney, also brilliant, outrageously gorgeous, and a fiercely loyal daughter of the Wopotami Indian nation.
Aaron Pinkus—Soft-spoken giant of Boston law circles, the consummate attorney-statesman who happens to be Sam Devereaux’s employer (unfortunately).
Desi Arnaz I—An impoverished miscreant from Puerto Rico who falls under the Hawk’s spell, and who one day may be the director of the Central Intelligence Agency.
Desi Arnaz II—See above. Less of a leader but a mechanical genius, such as in hot-wiring cars, picking locks, fixing ski lifts, and turning pesto sauce into an anesthetic.
Vincent Mangecavallo—The real director of the CIA, courtesy of the Mafia dons from Palermo to Brooklyn. Any administration’s secret weapon.
Warren Pease—Secretary of State. Every administration’s malfunctioning weapon, but a former prep school «roomie» of the President.
Cyrus M—A black mercenary with a doctorate in chemistry. Screwed by Washington, and a gradual convert to the Hawk’s sense of justice.
Roman Z—A Serbo-Croatian Gypsy who was a cell mate of the above. In chaos he finds total delight, as long as he has an unfair advantage.
Sir Henry Irving Sutton—One of the theater’s finest character actors, and, by happenstance, a hero of World War II’s North African campaign, because «there were no lousy directors to warp my performance.»
Hyman Goldfarb—The greatest linebacker ever to have graced the football fields of the NFL. In his postprofessional days, he was calamitously recruited by the Hawk.
«Suicidal Six»
Duke
Dustin Professional actors who have joined the army and are
Marlon considered the finest antiterrorist unit ever produced
Sir Larry by the military. They have never fired a shot.
Sly
Telly
Fawning Hill Country Club Members
Bricky Fine fellows from the right schools and
Doozie the right clubs who passionately support
Froggie the interests of the country—as long
Moose as theirs comes first, way first.
Smythie
Johnny Calfnose—Information officer of the Wopotami tribe; he picks up a phone and usually lies. He also still owes Sunrise Jennifer bail money. What more can be said?
Arnold Subagaloo—White House Chief of Staff. He flies off the handle (free on government aircraft) whenever anyone mentions that he’s not the President. What more can anyone say?