«We don’t know yet. Could be just about anything,» answered Robert Webster from across the room. «Our guess is Bonner; we calculated that possibility when we put him on.»
«You calculated it. We didn’t want any part of it.»
«We know what we’re doing.»
«I’d feel better if you could convince me. I don’t like the possibility that everyone’s expendable.»
«Don’t be ridiculous. Tell Bonner his old friend Bruce may be stalking him again, to be careful.» Webster approached Cooper; there was a hint of a smile on his lips. «But don’t lay it on too thick. We wouldn’t want him overly careful; just tell him. He’s aware of Trevayne’s surveillance; don’t let somebody else tell him first.»
«I understand… However, I think you people should find a way to force Bruce out of this. He shouldn’t be anywhere near it.»
«That’ll come in time.»
«It should be now. The longer you wait, the greater the risk. Trevayne’s going after Genessee.»
«That’s exactly why we’re not making any sudden moves. Especially not now. Trevayne won’t get anywhere. Roger Brewster might.»
17
Andrew Trevayne looked out the window at the rolling Potomac. Brown leaves now, brackish water; Saturday-afternoon football games, pro contests on Sunday. Congress filled the newspapers with more talk than achievement; middle autumn in Washington.
The meeting had gone well, his nucleus had confidentially compiled enough data to justify personal confrontations with a number of Genessee Industries’ top management.
Especially one man. James Goddard. The one man at Genessee Industries who had the answers. San Francisco.
That was the next stop.
It had been a singularly effective effort on everyone’s part, made more difficult by the unorthodox methods Andy had called for. Very little of the work was done in the offices, almost all of it accomplished in the basement recreation room of his rented house in Tawning Spring. And those involved were limited to Alan Martin, Michael Ryan, John Larch, and the irrepressible Sam Vicarson.
He initially conceived of these methods, this secrecy, for very uncomplicated reasons. When the last responses came in from Genessee plants and contractors across the country, the volume was enormous. File cabinets were filled in a matter of several weeks. Then as these reports proved consistently unsatisfactory and additional requests were sent to the company’s offices, Trevayne realized that Genessee was going to crowd out everything else they were working on. Simple collating between the voluminous replies became a major complication, brought about by evasive responses.
Andrew found himself obsessed with the tactics of Genessee Industries. The only way to untangle the mess was to take each strand of the web and follow it through the myriad patterns to its source, adding up the misinformation and those responsible as one went along. It was a complex, gargantuan task, and it seemed logical to move this one area of the subcommittee’s work to a single place, a comfortable environment conducive to late hours and long weekends.
From this unsophisticated reasoning, another, more concerning motive surfaced that further justified the move. Interference. Ryan and Larch were approached—indirectly, with extreme subtlety—and asked about the subcommittee’s inquiries at Genessee. Veiled hints of payment were dropped; humorous allusions to Caribbean holidays made.
Only nobody was kidding. Ryan and Larch understood that.
Beyond these two half-explored contacts three other incidents occurred in which Genessee figured—again subtly, indirectly, in shadow conversation.
Sam Vicarson was invited to the country club at Chevy Chase by an apartment neighbor. What began as a small cocktail party for semi-acquaintances rapidly accelerated into a drinking bout of fairly hardcore dimensions. Acquaintances were suddenly close friends; a number of friends quickly developed enmities. The evening became alcoholically electric, and Sam Vicarson found himself on the golf course with the wife of a minor congressman from California.
As he related the story to Trevayne, and admittedly there were gaps brought on by the liquor, the young, ebullient lawyer and the girl commandeered a golf cart, drove several hundred yards, when the vehicle stopped, its charge diminished. The wife became frightened; it was a potentially bad scene, and she’d been the instigator, making it clear she was attracted to Sam. The two of them started back toward the clubhouse, when they were confronted by the Congressman and an unknown friend.
What followed was ugly, swift, and made indelible by the husband’s final words. The Congressman was drunk to the edge of incoherence; he slapped his wife across the mouth and lurched at Vicarson. Sam stepped back, defending himself as best he could against the husband’s onslaught, when the unknown man interceded, pinning the Congressman’s arms and pushing him to the ground.
The stranger kept ordering the subdued man to be quiet, that he was making a fool of himself.
At which point the minor Congressman from California made a futile attempt to lunge upward, to free himself, then screamed at his subduer.
«Take your goddamn Palo Alto out of my life!»
The wife raced across the lawn toward the parking lot.
The unknown man lashed the back of his hand against the Congressman’s mouth, pulled him to his feet, and shoved him after the girl.
Sam Vicarson had stood on the grass, aware through the liquor that in some strange, inexplicable way, a setup had just been aborted.
Palo Alto. Genessee Industries.
Trevayne agreed, knowing beyond a doubt that the young lawyer would be more circumspect in the future about invitations from neighbors.
The second incident was told to Trevayne by his own secretary. The girl was going through the last stages of a soured engagement. When, contrary to their agreed-upon separation, the ex-fiancé asked to move in again, she couldn’t understand, the relationship was dead, amicably finished.
He said he needed to come back—just for a few days.
For appearances.
And if anyone ever inquired, she should remember he asked her a lot of questions.
Which he wouldn’t ask. He didn’t give a damn; he was getting out of Washington and just needed a few recommendations. Thanks to her, he got them.
On the day he left for Chicago and a new job, he phoned Trevayne’s secretary.
«Tell your boss a lot of people on Nebraska Avenue are interested in G.I.C. They’re very uptight.»
And so she told him.
G.I.C. Genessee Industries Corporation.
The third and last incident that he knew about reached Trevayne through Franklyn Baldwin, the New York banker who’d recruited him.
Baldwin came to Washington for a granddaughter’s wedding. The girl was being married to an Englishman, an attaché at the British embassy with a viscount somewhere in his family background. As Baldwin phrased it, «The dullest damned reception in nuptial history. Times don’t change: tell an American mother her daughter’s found a title, and she doesn’t plan a wedding, she mounts a funereal coronation.»
This introduction from Baldwin was his way of telling Trevayne that he’d left the reception the minute he received a likely invitation to do so. It came from an old friend, a retired diplomat who suggested they plead geriatric exhaustion and head for one of Virginia’s better watering spots.
They did so. To the home of a mutual friend, a rear admiral, also retired, who, to Baldwin’s surprise, expected them.
At first Baldwin said, he’d been delighted by the playful conspiracy of two old cronies; made him feel as though they were all youngsters again, ingenuously avoiding tiresome duties.