«Nobody elected me to anything! I’m not beholden, and you know damn well I’m not! I don’t want it to concern me.»
«But you know it does. Don’t answer me now. Think… Please, talk to your wife. I can postpone the hearing for several days—on illness.»
«It won’t do any good, Mr. President. I want out.»
«Think about it. I ask you to give me a few hours. The office asks you that. Speaking as a man and not as your President, however, I must tell you that I’m pleading. The lines are drawn now. We can’t turn back. But as a man, I’ll understand your refusal… My greatest sympathy and well-wishes to your wife… Good night, Andrew.»
Trevayne heard the click of the disconnection and slowly replaced the telephone. He reached into his shirt pocket for his cigarettes, and extracting one, lit it with the all-maroon matches labeled «The Plaza.» There wasn’t much to think about. He wasn’t about to change his mind for the tactics of a very persuasive President.
He was Andrew Trevayne. Every once in a while he had to remind himself of that. He didn’t need anyone. Not even the President of the United States.
«Andy?»
Trevayne looked over at the bed. His wife’s head was propped sideways against the pillow, and her eyes were open.
«Yes, darling?» He got out of the chair and walked rapidly to the bedside. His wife was only half-conscious.
«I heard. I heard what you said.»
«Just don’t worry about a thing. The doctor’ll be back in the morning; we’ll head up to Barnegat first thing. You’re fine. Sleep now.»
«Andy?»
«What, sweetheart?»
«He wants you to stay, doesn’t he?»
«It doesn’t make any difference what he wants.»
«He’s right. Don’t you see that? If you quit … they’ve beaten you.»
Phyllis Trevayne shut her eyes deliberately. Andrew felt deeply for the pained expression on her exhausted face. Then he realized as he watched his wife that her pain was mixed with something else.
With loathing. With anger.
Walter Madison closed the door of his study and turned the brass knob, locking himself in. He’d gotten the call from Trevayne at the restaurant, and in spite of his panic, had followed Andy’s instructions. He’d reached the Plaza security man and made sure no police report would be filed. Trevayne was adamant that Phyllis be spared—the family, the children, spared—any press coverage of the assault. Phyllis couldn’t help with descriptions of either the man or the event; everything had been blurred for her, incoherent.
The Plaza security man had read something else into Madison’s instructions—the explicit instructions of the powerful attorney for the more powerful Andrew Trevayne—and didn’t bother disguising his interpretation. For several minutes Madison had considered offering the man money, but the lawyer in him prevented that; retired police officers adding to their pensions in stylish hotels had a proclivity for stretching out such understandings.
Better the man believe what he wanted to believe. There was nothing criminal involved, so long as the hotel property was paid for.
Madison sat down at his desk; he saw that both his hands shook. Thank God his wife was asleep. Asleep or passed out, what difference?
He tried to understand, tried to put everything into perspective, into some kind of order.
It had begun three weeks ago, with one of the most lucrative offers of his career. A silent retainer, conceived and executed in confidence. With him alone, unrelated to his partners or his firm. It wasn’t an unusual practice, although he had entered into very few such agreements. Too often they weren’t worth the strain—or the secrecy.
This agreement was. Seventy-five thousand dollars a year. Untaxable, untraceable. Paid out of Paris into a Zurich account. Length of contract: forty-eight months. Three hundred thousand dollars.
Nor was there any attempt to hide the reasons behind the offer.
Andrew Trevayne.
He, Walter Madison, was Trevayne’s attorney; he had been for over a decade.
The conflict—so far—was minor. As Trevayne’s lawyer he was to advise his new clients of any startling or extraordinary information related to Andrew and this proposed subcommittee—which wasn’t even in existence as yet. And there was no guarantee that Andrew would advise him.
That was understood.
The risk was undertaken solely by the clients; they understood that.
It was entirely possible that no conflict would ever arise. Even if it did, whatever information he might transmit could be unearthed from a dozen sources. And in his bracket, it would take him a considerable length of time to bank three hundred thousand dollars.
But his agreement tolerated nothing in the area of what happened that evening at the Plaza.
Nothing!
To associate him with such an act was beyond imagination.
He unlocked the top drawer of his desk and withdrew a small leather notebook. He thumbed to the letter «K» and wrote the number on a scratch pad.
He picked up his telephone and dialed.
«Senator? Walter Madison…»
A few minutes later the attorney’s hands stopped trembling.
There was no connection between his new clients and the events of the evening at the Plaza Hotel.
The Senator had been horrified. And frightened.
7
The closed hearing comprised eight senators, as diversified as possible within the opposing camps, and the candidate for confirmation, Andrew Trevayne.
Trevayne took his seat, Walter Madison beside him, and looked up at the raised platform. On the platform was the usual long table with the necessary number of chairs, microphones in their places in front of each chair, and the flag of the United States centered against the wall. A small desk with a stenotype machine was below the platform on the main level.
Men were standing around in groups talking with one another, gesturing with quiet intensity. The clock reached two-thirty, and the groups began to disperse. An elderly man Trevayne recognized as the senior Senator from Nebraska—or was it Wyoming—climbed the three steps of the platform and walked to one of the two center chairs. His name was Gillette. He reached over for a gavel and lightly tapped it.
«May we clear the room, please?»
It was the sign for those not part of the hearing to leave quickly. Last-second instructions were given and received, and Trevayne was aware that he was the object of a great many looks. A youngish man dressed in a sober, dark suit approached the table and put an ashtray in front of Trevayne. He smiled awkwardly, as if he wished he could say something. It was a curious moment.
The panel of senators began assembling; cordialities were exchanged. Trevayne saw that the smiles were abrupt, artificial; a taut atmosphere prevailed. It was emphasized by an incident that would have gone unnoticed under more relaxed conditions. Senator Alan Knapp, mid-forties, straight black hair combed carefully back from his wide forehead, pressed the button on his microphone and blew through the meshed globe. The amplified rush of air caused a number of the panel to react sharply. They looked—apprehensively, perhaps—at their colleague. It might have been Knapp’s reputation for uncompromising investigation, even rudeness, that made the reactions so totally serious. Another curious moment.
Old Senator Gillette—Wyoming? No, it was Nebraska, thought Trevayne—perceived the tension and rapidly, softly tapped the gavel. He cleared his throat and assumed the responsibility of the chair.