7
General MacKenzie Hawkins, his shoulders stooped, and dressed in a rumpled, nondescript gray gabardine suit, walked through Boston’s Logan Airport looking for a men’s room. Finding one, he rushed inside with his oversized flight bag, placed it on the floor, and checked his appearance in the long mirror running the length of the sinks, where two uniformed airline personnel washed their hands at each end. Not bad, he thought, except for the color of the wig; it was a mite too red and a touch too long in the back. The thin steel-rimmed glasses, however, were splendid; sloping downward over his aquiline nose, they gave him the appearance of a distracted academic, a pointy-headed thinker who could never find a latrine in a crowded airport with the cool efficiency of a trained military man. And «military,» or specifically the lack of same, was the linchpin of the Hawk’s current strategy. All traces of his background had to be buried; the city of Boston was pointy-head territory, everyone knew that, and he had to meld in for the next twelve hours or so, enough time to reconnoiter and study Sam Devereaux in his own environment.
Sam seemed to have some minor objections to their getting together, and as much as it pained Mac, it was entirely possible that he might have to take Devereaux by force. Time was of the essence now, and the Hawk needed Sam’s legal credentials just as soon as possible; no hour could be wasted, although several might be used up convincing the attorney to join forces in a holy cause… Strike the word «holy,» thought the general; it could revive memories best left forgotten.
Mac washed his hands, then proceeded to remove his glasses and dab water on his face, careful not to disturb the reddish wig, which was also a touch loose. He had a tube of scalp adhesive in his flight bag, and when he checked into a hotel …
All thoughts of the inadequate wig instantly vanished as the Hawk felt the presence of a nearby body. He rose from the sink to find a uniformed man standing beside him, his ugly grin revealing that several of his teeth were missing. A short glance to his right revealed a second man in uniform shoving a couple of rubber doorstoppers under the door of the men’s room. Further swift appraisal of both men disclosed the obvious: the only airline they could possibly be associated with had neither aircraft nor passengers, only getaway cars and mugging marks.
«You got yourself a liddle agua refreshment, hey man?» said the first grinning hostile, in a pronounced Hispanic accent, confidently smoothing his dark hair, which flared from the sides of the visor of his officer’s hat. «You know, is good for you to splash a liddle agua on the face after a long flight, h’ain’t it?»
«Oh, yeah, man!» cried the second hostile, approaching, his officer’s hat improperly askew. «Is better than shoving your head into a toilet, right, man?»
«Is there a point to these remarks?» asked the former general of the army, alternately staring at both men, appalled at the sloppy open collars of their shirts beneath their tunics of authority.
«Well, is not such a good idea to put your head in a toilet, h’okay?»
«I must agree with you there,» replied the Hawk, suddenly considering that which he actually considered impossible. «You’re not by any chance advance combat intelligence, are you?»
«We got enough brains—and kindness—not to let you put your head in a toilet, which would not be so intelligent, right?»
«I didn’t think so. The man who’s expecting me wouldn’t consider recruiting battle scouts like you. I taught him better than that.»
«Hey, man!» said the second improperly dressed impersonator of an officer, as he edged himself to the Hawk’s opposite flank. «You trying to insult us? Maybe you don’t like the way we talk—we’re not good enough for you?»
«Get this straight, soldados estúpidos! Never in all my years have I ever let a man’s race, religion, or the color of his flesh have a goddamned thing to do with my appraisal of his qualifications. I’ve promoted more Coloreds and Chinks and Spanish-speaking personnel to the officer corps than most anyone in my position—not because they were Coloreds or Chinks or Spies, but because they were better than their competition! Is that clear?… You’re just not in their ranks. You’re pissants.»
«I think that’s enough conversation, man,» interrupted the first hostile, his grin disappearing as he withdrew a long-bladed knife from under his jacket. «Popguns make too much noise—just hand over your wallet, your watch, and anything else us Spanish-speaking Spies might consider valuable.»
«You’ve got balls, I’ll say that for you,» said MacKenzie Hawkins. «But tell me, why should I?»
«This!» yelled the grinless man, snapping the knife up in front of the Hawk’s face.
«You’ve got to be kidding!» With that expression of bewilderment, the Hawk spun in place, gripping the wrist holding the knife and wrenching it counterclockwise with such force the weapon was instantly dropped while he crashed his left elbow up into the throat of the man behind him, rendering him sufficiently dazed to administer a chi sai chop to his forehead. He then immediately returned to the thug with missing teeth who was on the floor holding his painfully injured hand. «All right, you jackasses, that’s a short lesson in counterinsurgency.»
«What … man?» mumbled the conscious hostile on the floor, trying to reach for the hunting knife, which Hawkins pinned to the tiles with a stomping foot. «H’okay, I got no leverage,» admitted the perpetrator. «So I go back to a cell, what else is new, huh, man?»
«Just hold it, amigo zonzo,» said the Hawk, squinting and thinking rapidly, «maybe you can be better than that. For a fact, your tactics weren’t bad, just poorly executed. I liked the uniforms and the doorstoppers, that showed imagination under these flexible rules of engagement. What you didn’t have was your follow-up strategy—the what-ifs in the event the enemy counters with a sidewinder you hadn’t considered. You simply didn’t project your analysis properly, son!… And for another fact, I’m going to need support adjutants who’ve faced fire. Maybe with a little discipline I can use you. You got a vehicle?»
«A what?»
«A car, an automobile, a means of conveyance that isn’t necessarily registered to a person living or dead who could be traced by a license plate.»
«Well, we got a chopped-up h’Oldsmobile from the Midwest that’s still registered to a big shot who don’t know he’s got a duplicado with a very old Mazda engine.»
«Perfect. We ride, caballeros! And with thirty minutes’ worth of training and a couple of haircuts, you’ve got yourselves temporary, respectable employment that pays handsomely… I do like the uniforms—very imaginative and extremely useful.»
«You’re one loco, mister.»
«Not at all, son, not at all. I’ve always believed in doing my best for the disenfranchised—which is at the heart of my current pursuits… Come along now, fall to, and stand up straight, boy, I want perfect posture from both of you! Help me get your comrade off the floor, and let’s roll!»
Devereaux’s head slowly emerged from the right panel of the heavy glistening double doors that led to the exclusive penthouse offices of Aaron Pinkus Associates. Furtively, he peered first to his right, then to his left, repeated the exercise, and nodded. Instantly, two heavyset men in brown suits walked out into the corridor and faced the elevators at the end of the hallway, sufficiently apart to allow Sam to walk between them.