«Maybe your father can point out … things like that. If he backs them up with facts, they’ll have to listen.»
«Oh, sure. They’ll listen. And nod; and say he’s sure a great guy. Then there’ll be other committees to look into his committee, and then a committee to look into them. That’s the way it’ll be; it’s the way it always is. In the meantime, nothing changes. Don’t you see, Mom? The people up there have to change first.»
Phyllis watched her daughter’s excited expression. «That’s very cynical,» she said simply.
«I guess it is. But I’ve got an idea you and Dad don’t feel so differently.»
«What?»
«Well, it seems to me everything’s kind of … impermanent. I mean, Lillian’s not here, this house isn’t exactly the kind of place Dad digs …»
«There are good reasons for the house; there aren’t many available. And Dad hates hotels, you know that.» Phyllis spoke rapidly, offhandedly. She didn’t care to spell out the fact that the small guest cottage in the back was ideally situated for the two Secret Service men assigned to them. The «1600 Patrol» was the name she’d read on a memorandum from Robert Webster.
«You said the place was only half-furnished …»
«We haven’t had time.»
«… you’re still lecturing up in Bridgeport.»
«I made the commitment; it was near home.»
«You even said you weren’t sure of your schedule.»
«Darling, you’re taking isolated, disconnected statements and making them support a preconceived judgment.»
«Come on, Mother, you’re not building a case against somebody’s footnotes.»
«I might as well be. I’ve seen an awful lot just as misleading. And extraneous… What your father’s doing is very important to him. He’s made some agonizing decisions; they weren’t easy, and they hurt. I don’t like to hear you imply that he’s not serious. Or part of a sham.»
«Oh, wow! I’m sending out the wrong vibes.» Pam rose from the edge of the bed and stammered, embarrassed that she’d so obviously upset her mother. «I’m not saying that, Mom. I’d never say that about Dad. Or you. I mean, you level.»
«Then I misunderstood you.» Phyllis walked aimlessly back to the bureau. She was annoyed with herself; there was no reason to pick at Pam for saying what men—and women—far more knowledgeable than her daughter were saying all over Washington. Not the sham; the aspect of futility.
The waste. And Andrew hated waste.
Nothing would change. That’s what they were saying.
«I just meant that Dad maybe wasn’t sure, that’s all …»
«Of course,» said Phyllis turning, showing her daughter an understanding smile. «And you may be right … about the difficulty of changing things. But I think we ought to give him a crack at it, don’t you?»
The daughter, relieved by her mother’s smile, returned one of her own. «Gosh, yes. I mean, he might switch the whole Navy around, make it a sailing fleet.»
«The ecologists would approve. Go on, now, get those dishes out. When Steve arrives, he’ll be hungry.»
«He’s always hungry.» Pam went to the door.
«Speaking of your father, where is the elusive man? He conveniently disappears when chores are in order.»
«He’s out back. He was looking at that oversized doll house in the south forty. And that nutty driveway that looks like someone goofed with a cement mixer.»
«‘Monticellino,’ dear.»
«Mom, what does that mean?»
«Monticello got pregnant, I guess.»
«Oh, wow!»
Trevayne closed the door on the small guest cottage, satisfied once again that the equipment for the 1600 Patrol had been properly installed and was functioning. There were two speakers that picked up any sound from the main-house hallway and living room as soon as a switch underneath the living-room rug was stepped on. He had done so, and he’d just heard the front door open and a brief conversation between his daughter and a postman, followed by Pam’s shouting to Phyllis that a special delivery had arrived. Further, he’d placed a book on the ledge of an open window in the downstairs rec room—so that it horizontally broke the vertical space—and noted, again with satisfaction, that a high, piercing hum was emanating from a third speaker beneath a numbered panel when he’d entered the cottage. Every room in the main house had a number that corresponded with one on the panel. No object or person could cross a window space without activating the electronic scanner.
He’d asked the two Secret Service men to wait in their car up the street during the day while the children were down for the weekend. Andy suspected that they had additional materials in their automobiles that were somehow connected with the guest-cottage equipment, but he didn’t inquire. He’d find a way to tell the kids about the 1600 Patrol, but he didn’t want them alarmed; under no circumstances were they to learn of the reasons for the protection. The two agents had worked out their own schedules with alternate men, and were sympathetic.
His agreement with Robert Webster—with the President—was simple enough. His wife was to be given around-the-clock safety surveillance; he learned that «safety surveillance» was the term, not «protection.» For some reason the former gave «wider latitude» and was more acceptable to the Justice Department. His two children were to receive «spot-check surveillance» on a daily basis provided by local authorities through federal request. The schools were to be informed of the «routine» exercise and asked to cooperate.
It was agreed that Trevayne himself would be allocated the minimum «safety surveillance.» A personal assault against him was considered unlikely, and he refused any formal association with Justice on the basis of conceivable conflict. Bobby Webster told him the President had laughed when informed that he objected to the «wider-latitude» phrase employed by the Justice Department.
A previous Attorney General named Mitchell had left his mark indelibly on such manipulative language.
Trevayne heard the sound of a horn and looked up. The station wagon, driven by his son, had gone partially beyond the entrance and was now in reverse, preparing to turn into the driveway. The back was filled practically to the roof, and Andy wondered how Steve could use the rear-view mirror.
The boy drove to the front path and accurately judged the parallel positioning of the tailgate so the unloading would be made easier. He climbed out of the front seat, and Andy realized—somewhat ruefully, but with amusement—that his son’s long hair was now shaped almost biblically.
«Hi, Dad,» said Steve, smiling, his shirt overlapping his flared trousers, his shoulders equal in height to the roof of the station wagon. «How’s the nemesis of the incredible?»
«The who of the what?» asked Andy, shaking his son’s hand.
«That’s what the Times said.»
«They exaggerate.»
The house was «organized»—far more than Andy thought possible by late afternoon. He and his son had unloaded the wagon and then stood around in their shirtsleeves, awaiting the next command from Phyllis, who had them shuffle furniture as though it were chess pieces. Steve announced that the hourly charges of the new moving company of Trevayne and Trevayne were going up rapidly, with double wages every time a heavy piece was moved back into a previous position. At one point he whistled loudly and stated with equal fervor that it was a union break for a can of beer.
His father, who had been relegated to vice-president by a unanimous vote of one, thought his shop steward a cunning negotiator. The beer break came between one couch and two armchairs—all out of place. For them to get back in position, the can of beer was a small additional price.