«That’s incredible. And you think it would have worked?»
«Have you ever seen civilians standing around on a street corner watching a hearse go by? It’s the ultimate identification… What I just described would have turned the stomachs of eight to ten million people on the scenes, and another hundred million through the media. A mass burial rite.»
«It couldn’t have been done. It would have been prevented. There’s the police, national guard …»
«Logistics, again, Mr. Trevayne. Diversionary tactics; surprise, silence. The quiet grouping of personnel and equipment, say, on a Sunday morning or early Monday—minimum-police-activity hours. The execution of the maneuver so precisely timed that it could be accomplished in less than forty-five minutes in each city… Only thirty-odd thousand men—women, too, probably. You had damn near a half-million in the Washington march alone.»
«It’s chilling.» Trevayne was not smiling; he also was aware that Bonner had used the word «you» for the first time. Trevayne’s position had been clear on Indochina, and the soldier wanted him to know he knew it.
«That’s the point.»
«Not only the maneuver, but that you could conceive of it.»
«I’m a professional soldier. It’s my job to conceive strategies. And once having conceived them, also to create countermeasures.»
«You’ve created one for this?»
«Definitely. It’s not very pleasant, but unavoidable. It’s reduced to swift retaliation; immediate and complete suppression. Confrontation by force and superior weaponry so as to establish military supremacy. Suspension of all news media. Replace one idea with another. Fast.»
«And spill a considerable amount of blood.»
«Unavoidable.» Bonner looked up and grinned. «It’s only a game, Mr. Trevayne.»
«I’d rather not play.»
Bonner looked at his watch. «Gosh! It’s almost four o’clock. We’d better check out those last two addresses, or they’ll be locked up.»
Trevayne got out of his chair just a little bit numbed. Major Paul Bonner had spent the last few minutes telling him something. Spelling out the harsh reality that Washington was inhabited by many Paul Bonners. Men who were committed—rightfully, justifiably, by their lights—to the promulgation of their authority and influence. Professional soldiers who were capable of outthinking their opponents because they were equally capable of thinking for them. Generous, too; tolerant of the hazy, muddled thinking of their soft civilian counterparts. Secure in the knowledge that in this era of potential holocaust there was no room for the indecisive or undecided. The protection of the nation was directly related to the enormity and effectiveness of its strike force. For such men as Bonner it was inconceivable that any should stand in the way of this goal. That they could not tolerate.
And it seemed incongruous that Major Bonner could say so ingenuously: Gosh! It’s almost four o’clock. And not a little frightening.
The Potomac Towers provided its own reason for being selected, unrelated to the view of the river. Bonner accepted it. The other suites all had the normal five offices and a waiting room; the Towers included an additional kitchenette and a study. The latter was designed for quiet reading or conferences, even overnight accommodations by way of a huge leather couch in the main office. The Potomac Towers had been leased for an engineering crash program and outfitted to accommodate the pressurized schedule. It was ideal for Trevayne’s purposes, and Bonner made the requisition, relieved that the tour was finished.
The two men returned to Trevayne’s hotel.
«Would you care to come up for a drink?» asked Trevayne, getting out of the Army vehicle with the insignia on both doors that allowed for parking just about anywhere.
«Thanks, but I’d better report in. There are probably a dozen generals walking in and out of the men’s room, watching my office, waiting for me.» Bonner’s face lit up, his eyes smiling; he was pleased with the image he’d just created. Trevayne understood. The Young Turk enjoyed the position he was in—a position undoubtedly assigned for reasons Bonner didn’t like, and now, perhaps, could be turned on his superiors.
Trevayne wondered what those reasons were.
«Well, have fun. Ten in the morning?»
«Right on. I’ll alert security; that list of yours will be cleared. If there are any real problems, I’ll call you myself. You’ll want others, though. I’ll set up interviews.»
Bonner looked at Andrew and laughed. «Your interviews, massa.»
«Fine. And thanks.» Trevayne watched the Army car start up and enter the congested flow of Washington’s five-thirty traffic.
The hotel desk informed Trevayne that Mrs. Trevayne had picked up their messages at precisely five-ten. The elevator operator tipped three fingers to his visor and said, «Good evening,» addressing him by name. The first guard, seated in a chair by the row of elevators on the ninth floor, smiled; the second guard, standing in the corridor several yards from his door, nodded his head in recognition. Trevayne had the feeling that he’d just passed through a hall of mirrors, his image reflected a thousandfold, but not necessarily for him. For the benefit of others.
«Hello, Phyl?» Trevayne closed the door and heard his wife speaking on the telephone in the bedroom.
«Be with you in a sec,» she called out.
He took off his jacket, unloosened his tie, and went to the bar, where he poured himself a glass of ice water. Phyllis came out of the bedroom, and Trevayne saw a trace of concern in her eyes, beyond the smile.
«Who was that?»
«Lillian.» She referred to their housekeeper, cook, aide-for-all-seasons at High Barnegat. «She had some electrical trouble; it’ll be all right. The repairmen said they’d be out soon.»
They kissed their customary kiss, but Trevayne was hardly aware of it. «What do you mean, trouble?»
«Half the lights went out. The north side. She wouldn’t have known except for the radio; it went off.»
«Didn’t it go right back on again?»
«I guess not. It’s all right, the men are coming.»
«Phyl, we have an auxiliary generator. It cuts in when a circuit breaker fails.»
«Darling, you don’t expect us to know about those things. The men’ll fix it… How did everything go? Where did you go, incidentally?»
It was possible, Trevayne supposed, for there to be an electrical malfunction at Barnegat, but unlikely. Barnegat’s entire electrical system was designed by Phyllis’ brother; a labor of love and enormous sophistication. He’d call his brother-in-law later; ask him, jokingly perhaps, to check into it.
«Where did I go?… all over town with a nice young fellow whose late-night reading is restricted to Clausewitz.»
«Who?»
«The science of … military supremacy will do.»
«That must have been rewarding.»
«‘Enlightening’ would be more accurate… We settled on the offices. Guess what? They’re on the river.»