«Because he will continue to hold over your head—and, by extension, mine, as your only employer since law school—your participation in this crime of the ages.»
«You didn’t walk out of the data banks with over two thousand top-secret intelligence files, I did.»
«That seemingly ominous act sinks to the level of complete insignificance compared to the evidence you’ve been trying to tear off your walls… But since you mention it, was there any point to the theft of those files?»
«Forty million points,» answered Devereaux. «How do you think that diabolical general from the River Styx raised his capital?»
«Blackmail …?»
«From the Cosa Nostra to some Brits who weren’t exactly in line for the Victoria Cross; from former Nazis whose respectability was up to their thighs in chickenshit, to Arab sheiks who made money by protecting their Israeli investments. He refined the whole sticky ball of wax and made me go after them.»
«Good God, your mother said those were all your delusions! Killers on a golf course, Germans in chicken farms … Arabs in the desert. They were real.»
«Sometimes, not often, I have a martini I shouldn’t have.»
«She also mentioned that… And Hawkins unearthed these scoundrels from the intelligence files and forced them to capitulate to his demands?»
«How low can you get—»
«How ingenious can a man be?»
«Where’s your moral armor, Aaron?»
«Certainly not for the benefit of scoundrels, Sam.»
«Then in support of the evidence you’ve seen on my walls?»
«Definitely not!»
«So where do you stand?»
«One has nothing to do with the other. There’s no linkage.»
«Not if you were me, Counselor.»
Aaron Pinkus took several deep breaths in silence while placing his ten fingers across his forehead, his head bowed. «For every impossible problem there must be an eventual solution, either in this life or in the hereafter.»
«I prefer the former, if you don’t mind, Aaron.»
«I tend to agree,» said the elderly attorney. «Therefore, we will, as you expressed in your own singular vernacular, get off our asses and charge ahead.»
«To what?»
«To our mutual confrontation with General MacKenzie Hawkins.»
«You’d do that?»
«I have a vested interest, Sammy. You might even say a potentially disastrous one. Furthermore, I should like to bring to your attention a truism of our profession, true because of its validity… A lawyer who represents himself has a fool for a client. Your General Hawkins may possess an extraordinary military mind, with all its brilliant eccentricities, but, I modestly submit, he has not matched his skills against those of Aaron Pinkus.»
The befeathered Chief Thunder Head of the Wopotamis spat out his mutilated cigar and returned to the interior of his huge tepee, where, in addition to the expected American Indian artifacts, such as ersatz scalps lining the walls, he had installed a waterbed and various electronic equipment that would make the Pentagon proud—had made the Pentagon proud, before it was stolen. Sighing audibly, in both sadness and anger, Thunder Head carefully removed his awesome tribal headdress, dropping it on the dirt floor. He reached into a buckskin satchel and pulled out a fresh cigar of indeterminate make and limited quality; he shoved it into his mouth and proceeded to mangle a good two inches of the end until his teeth were stained. He crossed to the waterbed, lowered himself down on its instantly rolling swells, and immediately lost his balance, falling backward, as the cellular telephone inside his beaded tribal tunic erupted. The ringing persisted as he thrashed about, trying to calm the rough waters beneath him, finally succeeding by pushing himself forward and planting his boots firmly on the dirt. Angrily he yanked out the phone and spoke harshly. «What is it? I’m in powwow!»
«Come on, Chief, the only powwows around here are when the kids hear their dogs bark.»
«You never know who’s calling, son.»
«I didn’t know anyone else had the number.»
«Always operate on the assumption that the enemy can scan and lock into a frequency.»
«What …?»
«Just stay alert, boy. Now, what is it?»
«You know that English couple who were here yesterday asking for you, the ones we played dumb Injun for?»
«What about ’em?»
«They’re back, but with a couple of associates. One looks like his keeper doesn’t know he’s missing from his cage, the other sniffs a lot—he’s got either a bad cold or a couple of very inflamed nostrils.»
«They must have smelled something.»
«Not with his honker—»
«I don’t mean the support troops, I mean the English types. That legal idiot of yours, Charlie Redwing, must have tipped them off to something.»
«Hey, come on, T.H., except for falling off that lousy horse, he was terrific. They didn’t learn bean one about you, and that fancy lady kept looking at his jockstrap—»
«Loincloth, son, loincloth. Maybe it was the horse.»
«Maybe it was the loincloth,» suggested the caller, as Thunder Head, caught in a rolling vinyl wave, was thrown back on the waterbed.
«Augh!»
«Hey, our legal eagle may really have something, huh? I guess you agree.»
«I agreed to nothing! My BOQ accoutrements here are loused up—»
«You designed them, T.H.»
«And I’d advise you to cut the familiarity, boy! You’re a low-life enlisted man and you will address me as Chief!»
«Fine, Chiefy-baby, then you can drive into town and get your own rotten cigars—»
«I didn’t redress you that severely, son, I just want to maintain a logical order of command. All I’m saying is that support troops are not called up for such R and R as ‘loincloths,’ do I make myself clear?»
«Maybe… So what do you figure? What they smelled, I mean.»
«Not what they smelled, young man, but what someone else smelled that called for auxiliary support. Those Brits didn’t reassault by themselves, they were ordered back by a combat officer who wanted a reassessment. It’s as clear as Porkchop Hill.»
«Porkchops …?»
«Where are they now, boy?»
«At the souvenir lean-to. They’re buying up a load of stuff and being very friendly, even the ox. Incidentally, the girls—excuse me, the squaws—are happy as hell. We just got in a new supply from Taiwan.»
Thunder Head frowned, lit his cigar, and spoke. «Stay on the line, I’ve got to think.» Several quarts of smoke fogged the tepee when, finally, the Hawk resumed speaking. «Pretty soon the Brits will bring up my name.»
«I guess they will.»
«So, have one of our downtrodden brethren tell them my tepee is roughly two hundred running antelope strides above the north pasture, past the buffalo mating ground, by the great oaks, where the eagles lay their precious eggs. It’s an isolated place, so I can commune with the gods of the forest and contemplate. Got it?»
«I can’t understand a word you just said. We’ve got a few cows but no buffalo, and I’ve never seen an eagle except in the Omaha zoo.»
«You’ll admit there’s a forest.»
«Well, woods, maybe, but I don’t remember any great big trees.»
«Damn it, son, just get ’em up into those woods, okay?»
«Which of the paths? They’re all clear, but some are better than others. It’s been a lousy tourist season—»