Trevayne (51 page)

The word would be passed throughout every post, airfield, training center, and naval station in the world. No identification yet, only the alert. The advance cue that a name would be forthcoming, and that name was the man Genessee Industries and the Pentagon wanted as President. Schedules with proper allocations of space and time should be prepared, allowing for indoctrination courses for all officers and enlisted men and women. Under the heading of “Current Affairs,” of course. Separate facilities for regular and reserve personnel, as approaches would vary considerably.

It could be done. None of the uniformed services wanted to slide back to the days before Genessee Industries was such a large part of its line of supply.

And when the order came to release the name, Xeroxes and printing presses and mimeograph machines in all parts of the earth where the American serviceman was stationed or at sea would be activated around the clock. From Fort Dix, New Jersey, to Bangkok, Thailand; from Newport News to Gibraltar.

The military could deliver over four million votes.

Lester Cooper wondered if it would come to that. Would it really be Andrew Trevayne?

And why?

It would have been comforting to call Robert Webster and find out what he knew; that wasn’t possible now. The man from Aaron Green had made it clear.

Webster was frozen out.

Of course, no one was to be told anything yet. But Bobby Webster wasn’t even to be
talked
to. About
anything
. Cooper wasn’t to initiate or accept any communications whatsoever from Webster.

He wondered what Webster had done.

It didn’t matter. He wasn’t even curious any longer, if the truth were known. He just wanted his part over with so he could come back to Rutland and spend the days at peace.

No more subtleties.

He just didn’t care; he’d do the job for Green—he owed him that. Owed it to Genessee Industries and all his memories, his ambitions.

He even owed it to Paul Bonner, the poor son-of-a-bitch. Bonner was a sacrifice, a necessary casualty, as he understood it.

His only hope was, of all things, executive clemency.

From President Trevayne.

Wasn’t that ironic?

The goddamn subtleties.…

“Mr. Trevayne?”

“Yes.”

“Bob Webster here. How are you?”

“Fine. And you?”

“A little shook up, I’m afraid. I think I led you into a rotten situation, a very bad scene.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Before we go into it, I’ve got to make one thing clear; I mean, I have to
emphasize
it … 
I’m
the one responsible. Nobody else. Do you understand?”

“I do.… I think I do.”

“Good. That’s damned important.”

“Now I’m sure I do. What is it?”

“Your visit to Greenwich. To De Spadante the other day. You were seen.”

“Oh?… Is that a problem?”

“There’s more, but that’s primarily it.”

“Why’s it so serious? We didn’t advertise, that’s true; on the other hand, we didn’t try to hide it.”

“You didn’t mention it to the papers, though.”

“I didn’t think it was necessary. The office put out a short statement that violence wasn’t the answer to anything. That’s what they carried. Sam Vicarson issued it; I approved it. There’s still nothing to hide.”

“Perhaps I’m not making myself clear. It looks as though you and De Spadante held a secret meeting.… There were photographs taken.”

“What? Where? I don’t remember any photographer. Of course, there were a lot of people in the parking lot.…”

“Not in the parking lot. Inside the room.”

“Inside the room? What the hell … Oh? Oh, good God! Jujubes.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing.… What about the photographs?”

“They’re damaging. I saw a copy. Two copies, actually. You and De Spadante looked like you were engrossed in heavy conversation.”

“We were. Where did you see them?”

“Rod Bruce. He’s the one who’s got them.”

“Who from?”

“We don’t know. He won’t reveal his sources; we’ve tried before. He’s planning to release everything tomorrow. He’s threatened to make sure you’re linked to De Spadante. And that’s bad for Bonner, incidentally.”

“Well … what do you want me to do? Obviously you’ve got something in mind.”

“As we see it, the only way to deflate the story is for you to speak first. Issue a statement that De Spadante wanted to see you; you saw him two days before he was killed. You wanted the information public for Major Bonner’s sake.… Make up whatever you like about what was said. We’ve checked the room; there weren’t any bugs.”

“I’m not sure I understand. What’s Bruce’s point? How does Paul fit in?”

“I
told
you.… Sorry, it’s been a rotten morning over here.… Bruce thinks it’s another hook into Paul Bonner. If you and De Spadante were still talking to each other … it’s not very likely he was out to kill you a week ago as Bonner claims.”

“I see.… All right, I’ll issue a statement. And I’ll take care of Bruce.”

Trevayne held down the button for several seconds, released it, and dialed a number. “Sam Vicarson, please. Mr. Trevayne calling.… Sam, it’s time for Bruce. No, not you. Me.… Find out where he is and call me back. I’m home.… No, I won’t reconsider. Call me as soon as you can. I want to see him this afternoon.”

Trevayne replaced the phone on the bedside table and looked over at his wife, who was in her slip by the dresser, putting the final touches on her makeup. She watched him in the mirror.

“I got the gist of that. Something tells me our day off, antique-wandering, just got postponed.”

“Nope. Fifteen or twenty minutes, that’s all. You can wait in the car.”

Phyllis walked over to the bed and laughed as she pointed her finger at the rumpled blankets and sheets. “I’ve heard that before. You’re a beast, Mr. Trevayne—you dash home from the office, ravish an unsullied maiden, of indeterminate years—plying her with promises; then, the minute your lusts are satisfied and you have a nap, you start telephoning.…”

Andrew pulled her down on his lap, feigning a melodramatic grab for her breasts. He touched them, caressed them alternately as she kissed his ear. Their laughter subsided as he gently rolled her off his legs back onto the bed.

“Oh, Andy, we can’t.”

“We certainly can. It’ll take Sam the better part of an hour.” He stood and unbuckled his trousers as Phyllis pulled up the sheet, flipping over a side, waiting for him.

“You’re incorrigible. And I love it.… Who are you going to see?”

“A nasty little man named Roderick Bruce,” he answered as he removed his shirt and shorts and got into the bed.

“The newspaperman?”

“He wouldn’t approve of us.”

*   *   *

Bobby Webster folded his arms in front of him on the desk. He lowered his head and closed his eyes and knew he was very close to tears. He’d locked his office door; no one could barge in on him. Half-consciously he wondered why the tears did not come. The semiconscious answer was so appalling he rejected it. He’d lost the ability to cry … to cry out.

Reductio ad manipulatem
.

Was there such a phrase? There should be. The years of contrivance; the untold, unremembered, unaccounted for—hundreds, thousands?—plots and counterplots.

Will it work?

That was all that mattered.

The human factor was only an
X
or a
Y
, to be considered or discarded as the case may be. Certainly not taken for more than that, more than part of a formula.

Even himself.

Bobby Webster felt the welling of tears in his eyes. He was going to cry. Uncontrollably.

It was time to go home.

Trevayne walked down the thickly carpeted hallway to the short flight of steps underneath the small sign printed in Old English: “The Penthouse; Roderick Bruce.”

He climbed the five steps, approached the door, and pushed the button, causing inordinately loud chimes to be heard beyond the black-enameled entrance with the shiny brass hardware. He could hear muffled voices inside; one was agitated. Roderick Bruce.

The door was opened, and a large black maid in a starched white uniform stood imposingly, forbiddingly in the small foyer. She blocked any view beyond her.

“Yes?” she asked in a lilting dialect formed somewhere in the Caribbean.

“Mr. Bruce, please.”

“Is he expecting you?”

“He’ll want to see me.”

“I’m sorry. Please leave your name; he’ll be in touch with you.”

“My name is Andrew Trevayne, and I’m not leaving until I see Mr. Bruce.”

The maid started to close the door; Trevayne was about to shout when suddenly Roderick Bruce darted into view like a tiny ferret from a hidden nest. He’d been listening from a doorway several yards away.

“It’s all right, Julia!” The huge maid gave Trevayne the benefit of a last, unpleasant look, turned, and walked rapidly down the hall out of sight. “She’s Haitian, you know. Her six brothers are all Ton Ton Macoute. It’s a cruel streak that runs in the family.… What do you want, Trevayne?”

“To see you.”

“How did you get up here? The doorman didn’t ring through.”

“He thinks I’m seeing another tenant. Don’t bother to trace it down; my office arranged it. The other party doesn’t know anything.”

“The last time we talked, you threatened me, if I remember correctly. In your office. Now, you come to my office, to me; and you don’t look so menacing. Am I to assume you’re here to make a trade? Because I’m not sure I’m interested.”

“I don’t feel menacing; I feel sad. But you’re right. I’m here to make a trade.… Your kind of trade, Bruce.”

“You don’t have anything I want; why should I listen?”

Trevayne watched the little man with the small, deepset eyes and the confident, tiny mouth pursed in satisfaction. Andy felt sick to his stomach as he said the name quietly.

“Alexander Coffey.”

Roderick Bruce stood there motionless. His tight jaw slackened, his lips parted, and his face lost all poise of arrogance.

It seemed preposterous.

It
was
preposterous.

And the most preposterous aspect of it was that no one wanted anything—except his commitment. That had been made totally clear; no one expected him to change one word of the subcommittee report. It was anticipated that he would complete it, present copies to the President, the Congress, and the Defense Allocations Commission and be thanked by a grateful government. Nothing altered, nothing compromised.

Chapter closed.

Another chapter about to begin.

It didn’t seem to matter that the report was viciously uncompromising; he hadn’t concealed the fact. It had even been suggested that the more severe the judgments, the greater stature it lent his proposed candidacy.

Candidacy
.

A candidate for the nomination of President of the United States.

Preposterous
.

But it wasn’t preposterous at all, they’d insisted. It was the logical decision of an extraordinary man who’d spent five months, when the report was finished, making an independent study of the country’s most massively complicated problem. It was time for an extraordinary man unwedded to political harems; the nation cried out for an individual dramatically separated from the intransient positions of doctrinaire politics. It needed a healer; but more than just a healer. It demanded a man who was capable of facing a giant challenge, of assembling the facts and weeding the truth from myriad deceits.

That was his track record, they’d told him.

At first, he thought Mitchell Armbruster was mad, desperately trying to flatter with such excess that his words nullified his intent. But Armbruster had been firm. The
senior Senator from California readily admitted that the idea seemed grotesque to him too when first proposed by a nucleus of the National Committee, but the longer he had thought of it, the more plausible it had become—for men of his political inclinations. The President, whom he supported more than he opposed, was not of his party; Armbruster’s party had no viable prospects, only pretenders. They were tired men, familiar men, men like himself who’d had their chance at the brass ring and failed to grasp it. Or younger ones who were too brash, too irreverent to appeal to the classic middle. The middle American really didn’t want to “rap” or be “right on.”

Andrew Trevayne could cross the lines, fill the vacuum. There was nothing preposterous about that; it was eminently practical. It was political—within the craft of the possible that was politics. This was the National Committee’s argument. It was sound.

But what of the report? The findings and judgments of the subcommittee weren’t compiled in such a way as to win partisan support. And there would be no alterations made for any reasons; he was adamant about that.

So he should be, had been Armbruster’s unexpected reply. The report of the Defense Allocations subcommittee was just that. A report. It was to be filed with the proper committees in the Senate and the House and, of course, the President. Its recommendations would be weighed by both the legislative and the executive; the prosecutable data handed directly to the Justice Department, and where indictments were called for, they would follow.

And Genessee Industries?

The major conclusion of the subcommittee report branded the company as a government unto itself, with powers political and economic that were unacceptable in a democracy. What of this judgment? What of the men responsible? What of men like Ian Hamilton who controlled, and men like Mitchell Armbruster who benefited?

The Senator from California had smiled sadly and restated the assurance of indictments where they were called for. He did not believe he had committed illegal
acts. We were still a nation of laws, not insupportable speculations. He would stand on his record.

As for Genessee Industries, neither the Senate, the House, nor the President would settle for less than complete reforms. Obviously, they were mandatory. Genessee Industries was in large measure dependent on government purchases. If the company had abused the resultant privileges to the degree Trevayne believed, it would be severely curtailed until those reforms were instituted.