«Tribal survival.»
«Precisely… And Frank Baldwin, the toughest of the money lenders, a man whose signature can bankrupt small nations, tells me as you tell me now that underneath the frantic deceits—this global mendacity—there’s a workable solution. And I tell him there isn’t; not in his sense of the word. Nothing that can be set on a permanent course.»
«There’ll always be change, granted. But I side with him; there has to be a solution.»
«The solution, Trevayne, is in the ever-present search for one. Cycles of build-up and retreat. That’s your solution. Paratus, paratus.»
«I thought you said that sort of thing was against the human condition; nations couldn’t project crises ad infinitum.»
«Not inconsistent. Relief is constantly setting in. It’s in the retreats. They’re the breathing spells.»
«That’s too dangerous; there has to be a better way.»
«Not in this world. We’ve gone beyond that.»
«I disagree again. We’ve just arrived at the point where it’s mandatory.»
«All right. Let’s take your present bailiwick. You’ve seen enough; how are you going to implement your checks and balances? Your problems aren’t unlike the larger sphere of interacting nations; very similar in many ways. Where do you begin?»
«By finding a pattern. A pattern with designs common to all the rest; as near as possible, at any rate.»
«The Controller General’s done that, and so we formed the Defense Allocations Commission. The United Nations did the same, and we got the Security Council. The crises still exist; nothing much has changed.»
«We have to keep looking—»
«The solution, then,» interrupted Hill with a small triumphant smile, «is in the search. You see what I mean now? As long as the search goes on, we can breathe.»
Trevayne shifted his position in the soft leather armchair. It was the same chair, he reflected, in which he had sat during the hastily summoned conference ten weeks ago. «I can’t accept that, Mr. Ambassador. It’s too impermanent, too subject to miscalculation. There’s better machinery than half-constructed scaffolds. We’ll find it.»
«I repeat. Where do you begin?»
«I’ve begun… I meant what I said about finding a pattern. A single enterprise, large enough to require enormous funding; complex enough to involve scores, hundreds of contractors and subcontractors. A project which reaches into a dozen states for its components… I’ve found it.»
William Hill brought the thin fingers of his right hand to his chin. He kept his eyes on Trevayne. «Is your point to concentrate on one venture; to make an example?» The tone of Hill’s voice was unmistakably that of disappointment.
«Yes. Assistants will continue with the other work; there’ll be no loss of continuity. But my four top men and I are concentrating on one corporation.»
Hill spoke quietly. «I’ve heard the rumors. Perhaps you’ll find your enemy.»
Trevayne lit a cigarette, watching the butane flame of his lighter reduce itself to a tiny yellow ball through the loss of fuel. «Mr. Ambassador, we’re going to need help.»
«Why?» Hill began doodling on a notepad. The scratches of the pencil were deliberate, controlled—and angry.
«Because a pattern is emerging that disturbs us very much. Let me put it this way: the clearer that pattern becomes, the more difficult it is to get specific information; we think we’ve nailed something, it eludes us. Explanations deteriorate to … what did you say a few minutes ago? ‘Words.’ ‘Check here,’ ‘check there,’ ‘check somewhere else.’ Specifics must be avoided at all costs, apparently.»
«You must be dealing with a very diversified, spread-out organization.» Hill spoke in a monotone.
«It has a subsidiary complex—to use one of my staff’s phrases—that is ‘goddamned unbelievable.’ The major plants are centralized on the West Coast, but the Chicago offices run its administration. Its dictatorship is enormous and—»
«Read like a cross section of the West Point-Annapolis honor rolls.» Hill interrupted rapidly, quietly, the humor fading from his eyes.
«I was going to include a number of highly placed—or once highly placed—residents of Washington. A few former senators and representatives, three or four cabinet appointments—going back over the years, of course.»
William Hill picked up the notepad on which he’d been scratching, and put down his pencil.
«It strikes me, Trevayne, that you’re taking on the Pentagon, both houses of Congress, a hundred different industries, organized labor, and a few state governments thrown into the bargain.»
Hill turned the pad around toward Trevayne.
On it, hundreds of tiny lines converged to spell out two words. «Genessee Industries.»
16
His name was Roderick Bruce, and its sound was as intelligently contrived as the man. An ear-catching, theatrical name; a fast tongue; and a hard stare were the extensions of his reporting personality.
He was syndicated in 891 papers across the country, had a standard lecture fee of three thousand dollars, which he invariably—publicly—donated to diverse charities, and, most surprising, was very much liked by his peers.
The reason for his popularity within the fourth estate was easily explained, however. Rod Bruce—of the «Washington-New York media axis»—never forgot that he was born Roger Brewster of Erie, Pennsylvania, and among his journalistic brothers, was generous and always humorous in a self-deprecating way about his public image.
In short, Rod was a nice guy.
Except when it came to his sources of information and the intensity of his curiosity.
He guarded the first zealously and was relentless in the second.
Andrew Trevayne had learned this much about Bruce and looked forward to meeting him. The columnist was perfectly willing to discuss the story of the four inoperable atomic submarines. But he’d made it clear that the subcommittee chairman would have to present an incredibly strong argument for the newsman to suppress the story. It was scheduled for release in three days.
And in what seemed an unusual courtesy, considering the situation, Bruce suggested that he come to Trevayne’s suite at the Potomac Towers at ten in the morning.
When Trevayne saw the columnist enter his outer office, he was surprised by Bruce’s appearance. Not the face; the face was familiar through years of newspaper photographs accompanying the man’s columns—sharp features, deep-set eyes, longish hair before it was stylish. But his size. Roderick Bruce was a very short man, and this characteristic was accentuated by his clothes. Dark, conservative; seemingly overpressed. He looked like a little boy all dressed up for a Sunday-morning church service in a Norman Rockwell Saturday Evening Post cover. The longish hair being the one aspect of allowed independence, a little boy’s independence, in a newspaperman well into his fifties.
Bruce followed the secretary through the door and extended his hand to Trevayne. Andrew was almost embarrassed to stand up and come around the desk. Bruce seemed actually shorter, smaller, at close proximity. But Roderick Bruce was no amateur at first meetings on a professional basis. He smiled as he gripped Trevayne’s hand firmly.
«Don’t let my size fool you; I’m wearing my elevator shoes… Nice to meet you, Trevayne.»
In this brief salutation Bruce took care of two objectives. He humorously smoothed the awkward, obviously unmentionable aspect of his size, and by the use of Trevayne’s single last name, let Andy know they were on equal footing.