«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 he 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.»
5
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.
The man who first had spoken to Trevayne in the hotel led him inside through the hallway to a tiny elevator at the end of the corridor. They entered; the agent pulled the brass grille shut and pushed the automatic button: four.
«Close quarters in here,» said Trevayne.
«The Ambassador says his grandchildren play in it for hours when they visit. I think it’s really a kiddie elevator.»
«The Ambassador?»
«Ambassador Hill. William Hill. This is his house.»
Trevayne pictured the man. William Hill was in his seventies now. A wealthy eastern industrialist, friend-to-Presidents, roving diplomat, war hero. «Big Billy Hill» was the irreverent nickname given by Time magazine to the articulate, soft-spoken gentleman.
The elevator stopped, and the two men got out. There was another hallway and another plainclothesman in front of another door. As Trevayne and the agent approached him, the man unobtrusively withdrew a small object from his pocket, slightly larger than a pack of cigarettes, and made several crisscross motions in Trevayne’s direction.
«Like being given a benediction, isn’t it?» said the agent. «Consider yourself blessed.»
«What is it?»
«A scanner. Routine, don’t be insulted. Come on.» The man with the tiny machine opened the door for them.
The room beyond the door was an immense library-study. The bookcases were floor-to-ceiling, the Oriental carpets thick, the furniture heavy wood and masculine. The lighting was indirect from a half-dozen lamps. There were several leather armchairs and a large mahogany table which served as the desk. Behind the table sat Ambassador William Hill. In an armchair to the right sat the President of the United States.
«Mr. President. Mr. Ambassador… Mr. Trevayne.» The Secret Service man turned and walked out, closing the door behind him.
Hill and the President rose as Trevayne approached the latter, gripping the hand extended to him. «Mr. President.»
«Mr. Trevayne, good of you to come. I hope I didn’t inconvenience you.»
«Not at all, sir.»
«You know Mr. Hill?»
Trevayne and the Ambassador shook hands. «A pleasure, sir.»
«I doubt it, at this hour,» William Hill laughed, coming around the table. «Let me get you a drink, Trevayne. Nothing in the Constitution says you have to be abstemious during any meeting called after six o’clock.»
«I wasn’t aware that there were any strictures before six, either,» said the President.
«Oh, I’m sure there are some eighteenth-century phrases which might apply. What’ll you have, Trevayne?» asked the old gentleman.
Trevayne told him, realizing that the two men were trying to put him at ease. The President gestured for him to sit down and Hill brought him his glass.
«We met once before, but I don’t suppose you recall, Mr. Trevayne.»
«Of course, I do, Mr. President. It was four years ago, I think.»
«That’s right. I was in the Senate, and you had done a remarkable job for State. I heard about your opening remarks at the trade conference. Did you know that the then-Secretary of State was very annoyed with you?»
«I heard rumors. He never said anything to me, though.»
«How could he?» interjected Hill. «You got the job done. He’d boxed himself into a corner.»
«That’s what made it so amusing,» added the President.
«At the time, it seemed the only way to thaw the freeze,» said Trevayne.
«Excellent work. Excellent.» The President leaned forward in the armchair, looking at Trevayne. «I meant what I said about inconveniencing you this evening. I know we’ll meet again in the morning, but I felt tonight was important. I won’t waste words; I’m sure you’d like to get back to your hotel.»
«No hurry, sir.»
«That’s kind of you.» The Chief Executive smiled. «I know you met with Bobby Webster. How did it go?»