Free The Road to Gandolfo by Robert Ludlum Page A

matches. He struck one and a cloud of pungent smoke nearly fogged out his face; but his voice was clear behind it. “Down thisChinese pike of yours, there’s no talk about that psychiatric bullshit. No one tries to make me out a nut.”
    “Hell, no. Nothing like that. Simple fatigue.” Devereaux paced back and forth in the small enclosure as he so often did in conference rooms, weaving the fabric of defense. “A little booze, maybe; that’s sympathetic, even kind of cute when the client’s a ballsy type.” Sam stopped, clarifying his thoughts. “The Chinese would prefer an ideological approach; it’d soften them up. You saw the light. They’ve been generous to you, nice to you. The People’s regime is dandy.
And
tolerant. You didn’t realize that. You’re really sorry for all those nasty things you’ve said for a quarter of a century.”
    “Goddamn! You make me
bleed
, boy!” With a technique that escaped Sam, Hawkins actually chewed on his cigar as he roared. And then he removed it and lowered his voice. “I know, I know—. The silos are Mongolia.
Jesus!
”
    Devereaux watched the man—painfully. He took several steps toward him and spoke softly. “You’ve been squeezed, General. By righteous pieces of plastic; nobody knows that better than I do. I’ve read your file and I agree with maybe one-fiftieth of what you stand for; in many ways I think you’re a menace. But one thing you’re not is a manipulator. And you’re no joke. Remember what you told the girls? You said everyone’s his own inventory. That says a lot to me. So let me help you. I’m no soldier, but I’m a damned good lawyer.”
    Hawkins turned away. In embarrassment, thought Sam. When the words came, there was a defenselessness about them that made him wince.
    “Don’t know why I’m so concerned about what anybody says—or why I don’t settle for a silo
or
Mongolia. Goddamn, boy, I’ve spent thirty-some years in this man’s army. You take off the uniform—no matter what you put me into—I’m as naked as a plucked duck. I only
know
the army; I don’t know anything else, not trained for anything when you come right down to it. Never spent any time with the technological—except little stuff in G-two, things like that. Don’t know anything about fancy doings like ‘negotiations.’ All I know how to do is fuck up and trappouch thieves—those Indochina reports are right about that: I outsmarted the KGB, the CIA, the ARVN, and even the sellouts on the Saigon general staff. But that’s different. I can handle personnel, I suppose. But they always gave me the misfits, the stockade products; if they’d been civilians they wouldn’t be allowed on the streets. I was always good with them. I could control those devious bastards; I could put myself in their slimy shoes and
use
’em,
use
their goddamned angling. But there’s nothing I can do on the outside.”
    “That doesn’t sound like the man who said everyone’s his own inventory. You’re better than that.”
    Hawkins turned and faced Sam. He spoke slowly, reflectively. “Shit, boy. You know what? The only goddamned thing I’m trained for is to be a crook, maybe. And I’d probably fuck that up because I don’t give that much of a damn about money.”
    “You look for challenges. Talented people always do. Money’s a by-product; usually the challenge there is in the amounts, what they represent, not what they can purchase.”
    “I guess so.” Hawkins took a deep breath and stretched; his resignation was coming into focus for him, thought Devereaux. He walked past Sam aimlessly, humming the opening notes of
Mairzy-Doats
. Devereaux knew from long experience with clients to let the moment subside, allow the client time to fully accept the decision.
    “Wait a minute, boy.
Wait
a minute—.” Hawkins took the cigar out of his mouth and leveled his eyes with Sam. “Everybody wants my cooperation. The Chinks, those assholes in Washington—probably a dozen gas