A mile or so from Gillette’s property was one of those small offshoots of the Potomac which infiltrate the Virginia woods. A short, metal-ribbed bridge spanned the water and dipped sharply to the right before the Fairfax entrance. The Senator’s car was at midpoint when another automobile came careening up from the other side approaching the bridge, its headlights at high beam, its speed enormous. Gillette’s driver had no choice on the narrow bridge but to hug the right rail so as to avoid a direct collision. The opposing car skidded in its turn, and the chauffeur, again with no alternative but head-on impact, accelerated instantly, trying to race through the gap left by the onrushing car’s skid. He managed the maneuver, and once over the planked entrance, hit the steep decline and slammed on his brakes. The LTD swerved to the left and descended sideways down the short, steep hill. Old Gillette was thrown bodily into the right window structure, crashing his head on the metal door frame with such force that the doctor said death was instantaneous.
The second automobile sped over the bridge and left the scene. The chauffeur could give no description of it; he’d been blinded by the lights, and his concentration was on survival.
The time of the accident was put at 9:55.
Andrew read the account in the Washington Post over breakfast in their suite. He read it several times, trying to find a false note, a variation not heard on the previous night’s newscasts.
There was none. Except the drive to the Senate Office Building, the forgotten briefcase.
His eyes kept pivoting on the estimated time of the tragedy: 9:55.
Twenty minutes after someone—who?—had placed a «do-not-disturb» on his hotel telephone.
And why had it been done? For what purpose?
It certainly was no guarantee that he wouldn’t hear of the accident. He or Phyllis might have had the radio or the television set on; they usually did, at least the radio.
Why, then?
Why would anyone want him incommunicado from 9:35 to—when did Madison get through—11:15. Nearly two hours.
Unless it was a mistake at the switchboard; that was entirely possible.
And he didn’t believe it for a minute.
«I still can’t get over it,» said Phyllis, coming out of the bedroom. «It’s scary! What are you going to do?»
«I don’t know. I suppose I should call Webster and tell him about our conversation. How the old boy wanted me out.»
«No! Why should you?»
«Because it happened. Also, on another level, Gillette may have said something to the others, told them he was going to put me on the spit. I’d hate to find myself confirming a conversation like that without volunteering it first.»
«I think you ought to wait. On both levels, thank you… You don’t deserve being pilloried. I think that’s what someone called it. You believe you’re right; you said so last night.»
Trevayne drank his coffee, buying a few seconds of time before answering his wife. He wanted above all else to keep his suspicions from her. She accepted Gillette’s death as «scary» but nevertheless an accident; there was no reason to think otherwise. He wanted to keep it that way.
«Webster may agree with you; so might the President. But to keep it straight, I want them to know.»
The President of the United States did, indeed, agree with Phyllis Trevayne. He instructed Webster to tell Andrew to say nothing unless the matter came up from other quarters, and even then, to be vague about specific aspects of his talk with Gillette until subsequent contact with the White House.
Webster also informed Trevayne that Ambassador Hill’s considered opinion was that the old Senator was merely testing him. Big Billy had known the cantankerous war horse for years; it was a personal tactic. Hill doubted that Gillette would have reconvened the hearing. He simply would have let the candidate «stew,» and if Trevayne stuck to his guns, let the confirmation stand.
It was a complicated rationalization.
And Trevayne didn’t believe it for a minute, either.
Phyllis had promised herself a look at the NASA exhibition at the Smithsonian, and so, White House guard intact, she left Andrew at the hotel. The truth was that she realized he’d be on the telephone constantly; she knew he preferred being alone during such times.
Trevayne showered and dressed and had a fourth cup of coffee. It was nearly ten-thirty, and he’d promised to call Walter Madison before noon. He wasn’t sure what he was going to say to him. He would tell him about the ride around the block; Walter should know about it in the event the hearing was reopened. It had crossed his mind to mention it during their tense conversation eleven hours ago. But everything had been so confused, the attorney inexplicably so agitated, that he decided not to complicate the already complex state of things. He recognized Madison’s semihysteria and thought he knew what brought it about: a terrible afternoon in the Senate chamber; the return home to an ill wife—ill in the sense that he wasn’t there to help her stay sober; and finally the bizarre account of the tragedy on a back-country Fairfax bridge. Even brilliant, sophisticated Manhattan lawyers had their thresholds of pressure.
He’d wait until noon before calling; everyone’s head would be clearer then.
There was a knock at the hotel door; Trevayne looked again at his watch. It was probably maid service.
He opened the door and was greeted by the polite, formal smile of an Army officer, a major in a creased uniform with gleaming brass and three rows of ribbons.
«Mr. Trevayne?»
«Yes?»
«Major Paul Bonner, Department of Defense. I suppose you’ve been briefed; nice to meet you.» The Major held out his hand, and Trevayne, by reflex, shook it.
«No, Major, I haven’t been briefed.»
«Oh… That’s a hell of a beginning. I’m your man Friday; at least until your office and staff are set up.»
«Really? Well, come on in. I wasn’t aware I was in business yet.»
Bonner walked into the room with the assurance of a man used to command. He was, perhaps, in his late thirties or early forties, with close-cropped hair and the complexion of a man often outdoors.
«You’re in business, all right. You want it; I get it… Whatever. Those are my orders.» He threw his hat on a chair and faced Trevayne with an infectious grin. «I understand you’re happily married; maybe more to the point, your wife’s here in Washington with you. So that rules out one area… You’re rich as Croesus, so there’s nothing to be gained by offering you a boat ride on the Potomac; you probably own the river. Also, you’ve worked for State, so I can’t intrigue you with D.C. gossip. You probably know more than I do… So what’s left? I drink; I assume you do, too. You sail; I try. I ski very well. You’re at best on the intermediate slope; no sense in flying us to Gstaad… So we find you a nice set of offices and start hiring.»
«Major, you overwhelm me,» said Trevayne, closing the door and approaching the officer.
«Good. I’m on target.»
«You sound as though you’d read a biography I haven’t written.»
«You didn’t; ‘Big Uncle’ wrote it. And you bet your life I read it. You’re high-priority material.»
«Also, you sound as if you didn’t approve; am I correct about that, too?»
Bonner stopped smiling for the briefest of moments. «You may be, Mr. Trevayne. It wouldn’t be fair for me to say it, though. I’ve heard only one side of the story.»
«I see.» Trevayne walked to the breakfast table and indicated the coffee.
«Thanks. It’s too early for a drink.»
«I’ve got that too, if you like.»
«Coffee’s fine.»
Trevayne poured a cup, and Bonner crossed to the table and took it. No sugar, no cream.