Trevayne (6 page)

“Thanks, I appreciate it.”

De Spadante’s chauffeur opened the back door, and the two men got in.

“Where are you staying?”

“The Hilton.”

“Fine. Just down the street. I’m at the Sheraton.”

Trevayne saw that the interior of the Cadillac was appointed with a telephone, miniature bar, television set, and a back-seat stereo cassette machine. Mario de Spadante had, indeed, come a long way since the New Haven days.

“Quite a car.”

“You press buttons and dancing girls come out of the dashboard. Frankly, it’s too ostentatious for my taste. I called it my car, but it’s not. It belongs to a cousin.”

“You have a lot of cousins.”

“Big family.… Don’t misunderstand the term. I’m a construction boy from New Haven who made good.” De Spadante laughed his soft, infectious laugh. “Family! What they
print
about me! Holy Christ! They should be writing movies. I don’t say there’s no mafiosi; I’m not that dumb, but I wouldn’t know one if I fell over him.”

“They have to sell papers.” It was the only thing Trevayne could think of saying.

“Yeah, sure. You know, I got a younger brother, about your age. Even
him
. He comes up to me and says ‘What about it, Mario? Is it true?’ … ‘What about what?’ I ask. ‘You know me, Augie. You know me forty-two years. I got it so easy? I don’t have to spend ten hours a day cutting costs, fighting the unions, trying to get paid on time?’ … Hah! If I was what they say, I’d pick up a phone and scare the bejesus out of them. As it is, I go to the banks with my tail between my guinea ass and plead.”

“You look like you’re surviving.”

Mario de Spadante laughed once more and winked his innocent, conspiratorial wink, as he had done on the plane. “Right on, Mr. Trevayne. I survive. It’s not easy, but with the grace of God and a lot of hard work, I manage.… Your foundation got business in Washington?”

“No. I’m here on another matter, just meeting some people.”

“That’s Washington. Greatest little meeting place in
the Western Hemisphere. And you know something? Whenever anyone says he’s ‘just meeting people,’ that’s the sign not to ask who he’s meeting.”

Andrew Trevayne just smiled.

“You still live in Connecticut?” asked De Spadante.

“Yes. Outside of Greenwich.”

“Nice terriitory. I’m doing some residential work down there. Near the sound.”

“I’m on the sound. South shore.”

“Maybe we’ll get together sometime. Maybe I can sell you a wing on your house.”

“You can try.”

Trevayne walked through the arch into the lounge and looked around at the various people seated in the soft easy chairs and low couches. A headwaiter, dressed in a tuxedo, approached.

“May I help you, sir?”

“Yes. I’m to meet a Mr. Webster here. I don’t know if he made a reservation.”

“Oh, yes. You’re Mr. Trevayne.”

“That’s right.”

“Mr. Webster telephoned that he’d be a few minutes late. I’ll show you to a table.”

“Thank you.”

The tuxedoed waiter led Trevayne to a far corner of the lounge that was conspicuous by its lack of customers. It seemed as if this particular location was roped by an invisible cordon to isolate it. Webster had requested such a table, and his position guaranteed it. Trevayne ordered a drink and let his memory wander back to his days in the State Department.

They had been challenging, exciting, almost as stimulating as the early years with the companies. Primarily because few people believed he could accomplish the major assignment given him. It had been to coordinate trade agreements with several eastern satellite countries—guaranteeing the business sectors of each country the most favorable conditions possible—without upsetting political balances. It hadn’t been difficult. He remembered that at the very first conference he had disarmed both sides by
suggesting that the U.S. State Department and its Communist counterpart hold an international press conference in one room categorically rejecting everything the other side stood for, while in the next room the businessmen negotiated their agreements.

The ploy had its effect; the laughter had been sincere, and the tone set for future meetings. Whenever the negotiations got heated, someone would playfully suggest that his adversary belonged in that “other room”—with the propagandists.

He had enjoyed his Washington days. There had been the exhilaration of knowing he was close to corridors of real power, that his judgments were listened to by men of great commitments. And they
were
men of commitment, regardless of their individual political affiliations.

“Mr. Trevayne?”

“Mr. Webster?” Trevayne stood up and shook the hand of the presidential assistant. He saw that Webster was about his own age, perhaps a year or two younger, a pleasant-looking man.

“Sorry as hell to be late. There was a flap over tomorrow’s schedule. The President told the four of us to lock ourselves in a room and not come out till we got it in order.”

“I gather that was accomplished.” Trevayne sat down as Webster did the same.

“Damned if I know.” Webster laughed, flagging a waiter. “I got you cleared for eleven-fifteen and let the rest of them figure out the afternoon.” He gave his order and collapsed back into the chair, sighing audibly. “What’s a nice Ohio farmboy like me doing a job like this?”

“I’d say it was a quite a leap.”

“It was. I think they got the names mixed up. My wife keeps telling me there’s a guy named Webster wandering around the streets of Akron wondering why he spent all that money for campaign contributions.”

“It’s possible,” replied Trevayne, knowing well that Webster’s appointment was no mistake. He had been a bright young man who had risen rapidly in Ohio State House politics, credited with keeping the governorship in
the President’s column. Franklyn Baldwin had told Trevayne that Webster was a man to watch.

“Did you have a good flight?”

“Yes, thanks. Much smoother than your afternoon, I think.”

“I’m sure of that.” The waiter returned with Webster’s drink; the two men remained silent until he left. “Have you talked with anyone but Baldwin?”

“No, I haven’t. Frank suggested that I don’t.”

“The Danforth people have no idea?”

“There wasn’t any point. Even if Frank hadn’t cautioned me, nothing’s definite yet.”

“It is as far as we’re concerned. The President’s delighted. He’ll tell you that himself.”

“There’s still the Senate hearing. They may have different ideas.”

“On what possible grounds? You’re houndstooth material. The only thing they might spring on you is your favorable press in Soviet publications.”

“My what?”

“They like you over at Tass.”

“I wasn’t aware of it.”

“It doesn’t matter. They like Henry Ford, too. And you were doing a job for State.”

“I have no intention of defending myself against something like that.”

“I said it doesn’t matter.”

“I would hope not.… However, there
is
something else, from my point of view. I’ve got to have certain … well, I guess you’d call them understandings. They’ve got to be clear.”

“What do you mean?”

“Basically, two things. I mentioned them to Baldwin. Cooperation, and no interference. Both are equally important to me. I can’t do the job without them. I’m not even sure I can do it
with
them; without them, impossible.”

“You won’t have any trouble there. That’s a condition anyone would make.”

“Easily made, difficult to get. Remember, I worked in this town once.”

“I don’t follow you. How could anyone interfere?”

“Let’s start with the word ‘classified.’ Then jump to ‘restricted.’ Along with which can be found ‘secret,’ ‘top-secret,’ even ‘priority.’ ”

“Oh, hell, you’re cleared for all that.”

“I want it spelled out up front. I insist on it.”

“Then ask for it. You’ll get it.… Unless you’ve managed to fool everyone, your dossier’s a study in respectability; they’d let you carry around the little black box.”

“No, thanks. It can stay right where it is.”

“It will.… Now, I wanted to brief you on tomorrow.”

Robert Webster spelled out the routine for a White House audience, and Trevayne realized how little had changed since his past appearances. The arrival time half an hour to forty-five minutes before admittance to the Oval Room; the specific entrance to be used; the pass supplied by Webster; the suggestion that Trevayne carry no metallic objects larger than a key ring; the realization that the meeting was restricted to just so many minutes and might well be cut short—if the Chief Executive had said what he wanted to say or heard what he wanted to hear. If time could be saved, it should be.

Trevayne nodded his understanding and approval.

Their business nearly finished, Webster ordered a second and final drink. “I promised you on the phone a couple of explanations; I’m flattered you haven’t pressed me for them.”

“They weren’t important, and I assumed the President would answer the one uppermost in my mind.”

“That being … why he wants to see you tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“It’s all related. It’s why you have my private number and why you and I will make arrangements so that you’ll be able to reach me anytime of day or night, no matter where I am, here or overseas.”

“Is that necessary?”

“I’m not sure. But it’s the way the President wants it. I’m not going to argue.”

“Neither am I.”

“The President naturally wants to convey his support for the subcommittee, and his personal endorsement of you. That’s primary. And there’s another aspect—I’ll put
it in my words, not his; if I make a mistake, it’s
my
mistake, not his.”

Trevayne watched Webster carefully. “But you’ve discussed what you’re about to tell me, so the variation would be minor.”

“Naturally. Don’t look so concerned; it’s for your benefit.… The President has been through the political wars, Trevayne. He’s a savvy old duck. The State machine, the House, the Senate—he’s been where the action is, and he knows what you’re going to face. He’s made a lot of friends and I’m sure that slate is balanced by an equal number of enemies. Of course, his office removes him from those battles now, but it also allows him certain latitudes, certain pressure points. He wants you to know they’re at your disposal.”

“I appreciate it.”

“But there’s a catch. You’re never to try to reach him by yourself. I’m your sole contact, your only bridge to him.”

“It would never occur to me to try to reach him personally.”

“And I’m sure it never occurred to you that the official weight of the presidency was behind you in the most practical way. Namely, at the moment you may need it.”

“No, I guess it didn’t. I’m a corporation man; I’m used to the structures. I see what you mean. I
do
appreciate it.”

“But he’s never to be mentioned, you understand that.” Webster’s statement was spoken firmly. He wanted no room for doubt.

“I understand.”

“Good. If lie brings it up tomorrow, just tell him we’ve discussed everything. Even if he doesn’t, you might volunteer that you’re aware of his offer; you’re grateful, or however you want to put it.”

Webster finished his drink and stood up. “Wow! It’s not even ten-thirty yet. I’ll be home before eleven; my wife won’t believe it. See you tomorrow.” Webster reached down to shake Trevayne’s hand.

“Fine. Good night.”

Trevayne watched the younger man dodge between the armchairs, making his way rapidly toward the arch. Webster was filled with that particular energy which was at once the fuel he needed and the sustenance he took from his work. The exhilaration syndrome, Trevayne reflected. This was the town for it; it was never really the same anywhere else. There were semblances of it in the arts, or in advertising, but the rates of failure were too pronounced in those fields—there was always an underlying sense of fear. Not in Washington. You were either in or out. If you were in, you were on top. If you were at the White House, you were standing on the summit.

The electorate got a lot of talent for the money it paid, Trevayne had long ago decided. All in exchange for the syndrome.

He looked at his watch; it was too early to try to sleep, and he didn’t feel like reading. He’d go up to his room and call Phyllis and then look at the newspaper. Perhaps there was a movie on television.

He signed the check and started out, feeling his coat pocket to make sure the room key was there. He walked through the arch and turned left toward the bank of elevators. As he passed the newsstand he saw two men in neat, pressed suits watching him from the counter. They started toward him, and when he stopped in front of the first elevator, they approached.

The man on the right spoke, while taking a small black identification case from his pocket. The other man also removed his identification.

“Mr. Trevayne?”

“Yes?”

“Secret Service, White House detail,” said the agent softly. “May we speak with you over here, sir?” He indicated an area away from the elevators.

“Of course.”

The second man held his case forward. “Would you mind confirming, Mr. Trevayne? I’m going outside for a minute.”

Trevayne checked the photograph against the man’s face. It was authentic, and he nodded. The agent turned and walked away.

“What is this?”

“I’d like to wait until my partner returns, sir. He’ll make sure everything’s clear. Would you care for a cigarette?”

“No, thank you. But I would like to know what this is all about.”

“The President would like to see you tonight.”

The brown Secret Service car was parked at the side entrance of the hotel. The two agents rushed Trevayne down the steps while the driver held the rear door open. They sped off down the street, turning south on Nebraska Avenue.

“We’re not going to the White House, Mr. Trevayne. The President’s in Georgetown. His schedule is such that it’s more convenient this way.”

After several minutes the car bounced along the narrow cobblestone streets that marked the residential area. Trevayne saw that they were heading east toward the section with the large, five-story townhouses, rebuilt remnants of a gracious era. They drove up in front of a particularly wide brownstone structure with many windows and sculptured trees on the sidewalk. The Secret Sevice man on the curb side got out, signaling Trevayne to do the same. There were two other plainclothesmen at the front door, and the minute they recognized their fellow agent, they nodded to each other and removed their hands from their pockets.