Trevayne gathered the papers together and stood up. He signaled the clerk through the glass panel and reached into his pocket.
Out on the street he considered going to a pay phone and calling William Hill. He had to see Hill about another «project,» one that dealt with naval intelligence and might surface in a matter of days, perhaps hours, because of Trevayne. It was why he’d driven out to Georgetown earlier; it was not the sort of conversation one had on the telephone.
The Navy Department had been authorized to equip four atomic submarines with the most sophisticated electronic intelligence instruments available, the equipment to be installed within twelve months of authorization. The due date had long since passed; two of the electronics firms contracted had declared bankruptcy; the four submarines were still in dry dock, essentially inoperable.
During his staff’s preliminary work an angry lieutenant commander, one of the four submarine skippers, had openly criticized the operation. Word of the naval officer’s complaints to an official audience had reached an aggressive Washington newsman named Roderick Bruce, who threatened to break the story in print. The Central Intelligence. Agency and the Navy Department were in panic, genuine panic. Making public the undersea electronic installations was dangerous in itself; acknowledging the foulups compounded that danger, and admitting the current inoperability of the ships was an open invitation for Russian and Chinese saber-rattling.
It was a sensitive situation, and Trevayne’s subcommittee was being blamed for creating risks far greater than any good it might achieve.
Trevayne knew that sooner or later the specter of «dangerous intrusion» would be raised. He had prepared himself for it, made clear his fundamental opposition to burying incompetence—or worse—under the label of «classified, top secret.»
For such labels were too easily come by; even if sincerely arrived at, they were only judgments, singular positions.
There were other judgments, opposing positions. And he would not back off unless those opinions were analyzed as well. Once he did, once he retreated, his subcommittee would be emasculated. He could not allow that precedent.
And there was a side issue—unprovable, only rumor, but in line with everything they were learning.
Genessee Industries once again.
The back-room legal talk was that Genessee was preparing to submit bids to take over the electronics installation of the submarines. The gossip was that Genessee had brought about the bankruptcies; had created sufficient subcontracting problems for the remaining two, that their agreements with the Navy Department were as good as void.
Trevayne walked into a drugstore, to the telephone booth, and dialed Hill’s number.
The Ambassador, of course, would see him immediately.
«To begin with, the CIA’s assumption that the Russians and the Chinese are oblivious to the situation is ridiculous. Those submarines have been beached in New London for months; simple observation tells them their conditions.»
«Then I’m right to press it?»
«I’d say so,» answered Hill behind the mahogany table which served as his desk. «I’d also suggest that you give the Agency and the Navy the courtesy of talking to this newsman, this Bruce fellow; see if you can’t get him to ease up a bit. Their fears are real to them, if only for their own skins.»
«I’ve no objection to that. I just don’t want to be put in the position of taking my staff off a project.»
«I don’t think you should… I don’t think you will.»
«Thank you.»
William Hill leaned back in his chair. His advice dispensed with, he wanted to chat. «Tell me, Trevayne. It’s been two months. What do you think?»
«It’s crazy. I know that’s a frivolous word, but at this point it’s the most descriptive. The economics of the biggest corporation in the world are run by lunatics… Or, perhaps, that’s the image that’s meant to be projected.»
«I assume you refer to the aspect of … ‘you’ll-have-to-check-with-someone-else.’»
«Exactly. Nobody makes a decision—»
«Responsibility’s to be avoided at all costs,» interrupted Hill with a benign smile. «Not much different from the outside. Each to his own level of incompetence.»
«I’ll accept that in the private sector. It’s a form of survival-waste, if there’s such a term. But it’s controllable, when control is wanted. But that’s private, not public money… Down here that theory shouldn’t prove out. This is civil service. Given a period of time—say, enough so as to be in a decision-making position—a man’s security is automatic. The games aren’t necessary. Or they shouldn’t be.»
«You’re oversimplifying.»
«I know, but it’s a starting point.» Trevayne recalled with amusement that he used his son’s words.
«There are formidable pressures on people in this town. The results often lead to ostracism, which can be as important as security to all but the strongest. Scores of departments, including the Pentagon, demand commitments in the name of national interest; manufacturers demand the contracts and send highly paid lobbyists to get them; organized labor plays them all off against each other and threatens with strikes and votes. Finally, the senators and congressmen—their districts cry out for the economic benefits derived from the whole bundle… Where do you find the independent, or incorruptible, man within such a system?»
Trevayne saw that Big Billy Hill was staring at the wall. Staring at nothing anyone else would see. The Ambassador had not asked the question of his guest, but of himself. William Hill was ultimately, after a long life, a profound cynic.
«The answer to that, Mr. Ambassador, lies somewhere between our being a nation of laws, and the checks and balances of a relatively free society.»
Hill laughed. It was the tired laugh of an old man who still possessed his juices. «Words, Trevayne, words. You throw in the Malthusian law of economics—which can be reduced to the human condition of wanting more, to somebody else’s less—and the pot goes to the man who has raised the biggest bet … or bank. That’s what our friends in the Soviet Union have found out; why the primary theories of Marx and Engels won’t wash. You can’t change the human condition.»
«I don’t agree; not about the Russians, the human condition. It changes constantly. We’ve seen that over and over again, especially in times of crisis.»
«Certainly, crisis. That’s fear. Collective fear. The member subordinates his individual wants to tribal survival. Why do you think our socialist co-earthlings continually cry ‘emergency’? They’ve learned that much… They’ve also learned that you can’t project crises ad infinitum; that’s against the human condition, too.»
«Then I’d go back to the checks and balances … and a free society. You see, I really do believe it all works.»
Hill leaned forward in his chair, putting his elbows on the table. He looked at Trevayne, and there was humor in his eyes. «Now I know why Frank Baldwin’s on your side. You’re like him in several ways.»
«I’m flattered, but I never thought there was any similarity …»
«Oh, but there is. You know, Frank Baldwin and I often talk as we’re talking now. For hours. We sit in one of our clubs, or in our libraries … surrounded by all this.» Hill gestured with his right hand, including—somewhat derisively—the entire room. «There we are, two old men sitting around making pronouncements. Reaching for our very expensive brandies; servants checking out of the corners of their eyes to see if we’re in need of anything. Comfort the prime consideration for our tired, breathing … rich corpses. And there we sit, dividing up the planet; each trying to convince the other what this part of the world will do and that part won’t do… That’s what it all comes down to, you know. Anticipate the opposing interests; motives are no problem any longer. Just modus vivendis. The whats and hows; not the whys.»