Trevayne (3 page)

“He’s
out.
”

“It wouldn’t hurt to establish a minor friendship. If you’re offended, think of the Senate.”

Allen’s wrinkled frown dissolved. He looked almost appreciatively at the presidential aide. “I see what you mean.”

“Of course, it will raise my price considerably.”

“I thought you believed in what you’re doing.”

“I believe in protecting my flanks. The best protection is to make you pay.”

“You’re an obnoxious man.”

“I’m also very talented.”

Andrew Trevayne ran the twin hulls of the catamaran before the wind, catching the fast current into the shore. He stretched his long legs against a connecting spar and reached over the tiller to make an additional wake in the stern flow. No reason, just a movement, a meaningless gesture. The water was warm; his hand felt as though it was being propelled through a tepid, viscous film.

Just as he was being propelled—inexorably propelled—into an enigma that was not of his choosing. Yet the final decision would be his, and he knew what his choice would be.

That was the most irritating aspect; he understood the furies that propelled him, and he disliked himself for even contemplating submission to them. He had put them behind him.

Long ago.

The cat was within a hundred yards of the Connecticut shoreline when the wind abruptly shifted—as winds do when buffeted against solid ground from open water. Trevayne swung his legs over the starboard hull and pulled the mainsheet taut as the small craft swerved and lurched to the right toward the dock.

Trevayne was a large man. Not immense, just larger than most men, with the kind of supple coordination that bespoke of a far more active youth than he ever bothered to reminisce about. He remembered reading an article in
Newsweek
, surprised at the descriptions of his former playing-field prowess. They’d been greatly exaggerated, as all such descriptions were in such articles. He’d been good, but not that good. He always had the feeling that he
looked
better than he was, or his efforts camouflaged his shortcomings.

But he knew he was a good sailor. Maybe more than good.

The rest was meaningless to him. It always had been, except for the instant of competition.

There would be intolerable competition facing him now. If he made the decision. The kind of competition that allowed no quarter, that involved strategies not listed in any rulebook. He was good at those strategies, too. But not from participation; that was important, immeasurably important to him.

Understand them, be capable of maneuver, even skirt the edges, but never participate. Instead, use the knowledge to gain the advantage. Use it without mercy, without quarter.

Andrew kept a small pad fastened to a steel plate on the deck next to the tiller. Attached to the plate was a thin rust-proof chain that housed a waterproof casing with a ball-point pen. He said these were for recording times, markers, wind velocities—whatever. Actually, the pad and pen were for jotting down stray thoughts, ideas, memoranda for himself.

Sometimes things … just “things” that seemed clearer to him while on the water.

Which was why he was upset when he looked down at the pad now. He had written one word. Written it unconsciously, without realizing it.

Boston
.

He ripped off the page, crumpled it with far more intensity than the action called for, and threw it into the sound.

Goddamn! Goddamn it! he thought. No!

The catamaran pulled into the slip, and Trevayne reached over the side and held the edge of the dock with his right hand. With his left he pulled the release sheet, and the sail fluttered as it buckled. He secured the boat and stood up, pulling down the rest of the canvas, rolling it around the horizontal mast as he did so. In less than four minutes he had dismantled the tiller, stowed the jacket, lashed the sail, and tied off the boat at four corners.

He looked up beyond the stone wall of the terrace to the wood and glass structure that jutted from the edge of the hill. It never ceased to excite him. Not the material possession; that wasn’t important any longer. But that it had all come out the way he and Phyl planned it.

They had done it together; that fact was very important.
It might never make up for other things, perhaps. Sadder things. But it helped.

He walked to the stone path by the boathouse and started up the steep incline to the terrace. He could always tell what kind of shape he was in by the time he reached midpoint of the climb. If he was out of breath, or his legs ached, he would silently vow to eat less or exercise more. He was pleased to find that there was little discomfort now. Or perhaps his mind was too preoccupied to relate the stress.

No, he was feeling pretty good, he thought. The week away from the office, the continuous salt air, the pleasantly energetic end of the summer months; he was feeling fine.

And then he remembered the pad and the unconsciously—subconsciously—written word.
Boston
.

He didn’t really feel fine at all.

He rounded the last steps to the flagstone terrace and saw that his wife was lying back in a deck chair, her eyes open, staring out at the water, seeing nothing he would see. He always felt a slight ache when he watched her like that. The ache of sad, painful memories.

Because of
Boston
, goddamn it.

He realized that his sneakers had covered the sound of his steps; he didn’t want to startle her.

“Hi,” he said softly.

“Oh?” Phyllis blinked. “Have a good sail, darling?”

“Fine. Good sleep?” Trevayne crossed over to her and kissed her lightly on her forehead.

“Great while it lasted. It was interrupted.”

“Oh? I thought the kids drove Lillian into town.”

“It wasn’t the kids. Or Lillian.”

“You sound ominous.” Trevayne reached into a large rectangular cooler on the patio table and withdrew a can of beer.

“Not ominous. But I am curious.”

“What are you talking about?” He ripped off the flip-top on the can and drank.

“Franklyn Baldwin telephoned.… Why haven’t you returned his calls?”

Trevayne held the beer next to his lips and looked at
his wife. “Haven’t I seen that bathing suit on someone else?”

“Yes, and I thank you for the compliment—intended or not—and I’d still like to know why you haven’t called him.”

“I’m trying to avoid him.”

“I thought you liked him.”

“I do. Immensely. All the more reason to avoid him. He’s going to ask me for something, and I’m going to refuse him. At least, I think he’ll ask me, and I want to refuse him.”

“What?”

Trevayne walked absently to the stone wall bordering the terrace and rested the beer can on the edge. “Baldwin wants to recruit me. That’s the rumor; I think it’s called a ‘trial balloon.’ He heads up that commission on defense spending. They’re forming a subcommittee to make what they politely phrase an ‘in-depth study’ of Pentagon relationships.”

“What does that mean?”

“Four or five companies—conglomerates, really—are responsible for seventy-odd percent of the defense budget. In one way or another. There’s no effective control any longer. This subcommittee’s supposed to be an investigative arm of the Defense Commission. They’re looking for a chairman.”

“And you’re it?”

“I don’t want to be
it
. I’m happy where I am. What I’m doing now is positive; chairing that committee would be the most negative thing I can think of. Whoever takes the job will be a national pariah … if he only half works at it.”

“Why?”

“Because the Pentagon’s a mess. It’s no secret; read the papers. Any day. It’s not even subtle.”

“Then why would anyone be a pariah for trying to fix it? I understand making enemies, not a national pariah.”

Trevayne laughed gently as he carried the beer over to a chair next to his wife and sat down. “I love you for your New England simplicity. Along with the bathing suit.”

“You’re pacing too much. Your thinking-feet are working overtime, darling.”

“No, they’re not; I’m not interested.”

“Then answer the question. Why a national pariah?”

“Because the mess is too ingrained. And widespread. To be at all effective, that subcommittee’s going to have to call a lot of people a lot of names. Fundamentally act on a large premise of fear. When you start talking about monopolies, you’re not just talking about influential men shuffling around stock issues. You’re threatening thousands and thousands of jobs. Ultimately, that’s any monopoly’s hold, from top to bottom. You exchange one liability for another. It may be necessary, but you cause a lot of pain.”

“My God,” said Phyllis, sitting up. “You’ve done a lot of thinking.”

“Thinking, yes. Not doing.” Andrew bounced out of the chair and walked to the table, extinguishing his cigarette in an ashtray. “Frankly, I was surprised the whole idea got this far. These things—in-depth studies, investigations, call them whatever you want—are usually proposed loudly and disposed of quietly. In the Senate cloakroom or the House dining room. This time it’s different. I wonder why.”

“Ask Frank Baldwin.”

“I’d rather not.”

“You should. You owe him that, Andy. Why do you think he chose you?”

Trevayne crossed back to the terrace wall and looked out over the Long Island Sound. “I’m qualified; Frank knows that. I’ve dealt with those government-contract boys; I’ve been critical in print about the overruns, the openend agreements. He knows that, too. I’ve even been angry, but that goes back a long time ago.… Mainly, I think, because he knows how much I despise the manipulators. They’ve ruined a lot of good men, one especially. Remember?” Trevayne turned and looked at his wife. “They can’t touch me now. I haven’t a thing to lose but time.”

“I think you’ve just about convinced yourself.”

Trevayne lit a second cigarette and leaned against the
ledge, his arms folded in front of him. He continued to stare at Phyllis. “I know. That’s why I’m avoiding Frank Baldwin.”

Trevayne pushed the omelet around the plate, not really interested in it. Franklyn Baldwin sat opposite him in the bank’s executive dining room. The old gentleman was speaking intensely.

“The job’s going to get done, Andrew; you know that. Nothing’s going to prevent it. I just want the best man to do it. And I think you’re the best man. I might add, the commission’s voice was unanimous.”

“What makes you so sure the job’ll get done? I’m not. The Senate’s always yelling about economies; it’s a hell of an issue, and always will be. That is, until a highway project or an aircraft plant is closed down in some district. Then suddenly the shouting stops.”

“Not this time. It’s beyond cynicism now. I wouldn’t have become involved if I thought otherwise.”

“You’re expressing an opinion. There has to be something else, Frank.”

Baldwin removed his steel-rimmed glasses and laid them beside his plate. He blinked several times and gracefully massaged the bridge of his patrician nose. He smiled a half-smile, half-sadly. “There is. You’re very perceptive.… Call it the legacy of two old men whose lives—and the lives of their families for a number of generations—have been made most pleasantly productive in this country of ours. I daresay we’ve contributed, but the rewards have been more than ample. That’s the best way I can put it.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Of course not. I’ll clarify. William Hill and I have known each other since childhood.”

“Ambassador Hill?”

“Yes.… I won’t bore you with the eccentricities of our relationship—not today. Suffice it to say, we can’t possibly stay around too many more years; not sure that I’d want to.… This Defense Commission, the subcommittee—they’re our ideas. We intend to see them become working realities. That much we can guarantee; in
our different ways we’re powerful enough to do that. And to use that dreadful term, sufficiently ‘respectable.’ ”

“What do you think you’ll gain?”

“The truth. The extent of the truth as we believe it to be. This country has the right to know that, no matter how much it may hurt. To cure any disease, a correct diagnosis has to be made. Not indiscriminate labels hung by self-righteous zealots, nor vindictive charges hurled by malcontents.… The truth, Andrew. Merely the truth. That gift will be ours, Billy’s and mine. Perhaps our last.”

Trevayne had the desire to move, to be physically in motion. The old gentleman opposite him was succeeding in doing exactly what he thought he’d do. The walls were closing in, the corridor defined.

“Why can this subcommittee do what you say? Others have tried; they failed.”

“Because, through you, it will be both apolitical and in no way self-seeking.” Baldwin replaced his glasses; the magnification of his old eyes hypnotized Trevayne. “Those are the necessary factors. You’re neither Republican nor Democrat, liberal nor conservative. Both parties have tried to recruit you, and you’ve refused both. You’re a contradiction in this age of nomenclature. You have nothing to gain or lose. You’ll be believed. That’s the important thing.… We’ve become a polarized people, slotted into intransigent, conflicting positions. We desperately need to believe once again in objective truth.”

“If I accept, the Pentagon and everyone connected with it will run to the hills—or their public relations’ mimeographs. That’s what they usually do. How are you going to prevent this?”

“The President. He has assured us; he’s a good man, Andrew.”

“And I’m responsible to no one?”

“Not even me. Only yourself.”

“I hire my own staff; no outside personnel decisions?”

“Give me a list of those you want. I’ll have it cleared.”

“I call it as I find it. I get the cooperation I deem necessary.” Trevayne didn’t ask these last questions, he made statements which, nevertheless, anticipated answers.

“Total. That I’ll guarantee. That I can promise you.”

“I don’t want the job.”

“But you’ll take it.” Another statement, this time from Franklyn Baldwin.

“I told Phyllis. You’re persuasive, Frank. That’s why I was avoiding you.”