As the visit lengthened, however, Baldwin became upset. A supposedly pleasant get-together wasn’t pleasant at all. The Admiral initiated the unpleasantness by referring to Roderick Bruce’s article about the beached atomic submarines. From that point it was a short leap to Trevayne’s understanding of military—especially Navy Department—problems: he obviously had none.
Finally, Baldwin continued, he found himself in a heated argument; after all, the Defense Commission was his responsibility. Trevayne’s approval had been unanimous, not only within the commission itself, but with the President and the Senate as well. Those approvals stood; the military—including the Navy Department—had better damn well accept the fact.
However, the Admiral wouldn’t. As Baldwin was leaving, the old Navy hand suggested that yesterday’s approval might turn into today’s revulsion. Especially if Trevayne continued to harass one of the great institutions—«institutions, mind you»—upon which the nation in large measure depended—«depended, goddamn it, that’s what he said!»
That institution was Genessee Industries.
As Andrew continued to stare at the river, he reflected that these five fragments—the two guarded contacts with Ryan and Larch, Sam Vicarson in Chevy Chase, his secretary, and Franklyn Baldwin—these were what he knew about. How many others were there that he was not aware of? The subcommittee staff numbered twenty-one; had others been reached? Were there variations on the theme of interference that would remain silent?
He couldn’t possibly hold a «team meeting» and ask; not only was such a tactic abhorrent to him, but it wouldn’t work. If anyone had been contacted and hadn’t spoken of it, he wasn’t going to do so now. The delay would appear incriminating.
And if, in the remote but possible chance there was an informer inside the subcommittee, the information he carried back would be worthless. For until this afternoon the vital papers concerning Genessee Industries had been kept in Tawning Spring.
The office files on Genessee—all the pertinent ones—were clearly marked in plastic tape: «Status—Current. Complete. Satisfactory.» Several which were minor Genessee transactions had another tape: «Status—Current. Pending.» These were unimportant.
The coding of «Satisfactory» was not born of suspicion; instead, it was simply more convenient. Since only five people—the top four men and Trevayne—would have reason to use these files, each knew what the term meant. If anyone else, for any reason, came across them, there was no necessity for elaborate explanations.
«Satisfactory» was sufficient.
Andrew left the window and returned to his desk, where the three looseleaf notebooks were piled on top of one another. The Genessee notebooks, the partially unraveled threads of the web; a small clearing inside a labyrinth of very warped mirrors. He wondered where the hell they would lead?
He also wondered what a man like Roderick Bruce—Roger Brewster—would do if they were in his possession?
Roderick Bruce, diminutive slayer of dragons.
Yet he hadn’t slain him. In spite of the columnist’s threats, he’d been extraordinarily gentle about Andy’s part of the submarine story.
No reasons given; none asked for.
There’d even been a kind of compliment:
The tough, unresponsive chairman of the subcommittee remains unreachable by panicked high personnel of the intelligence departments. He leaves media relations to others—which may not be smart, but that kind of brightness isn’t required in his job. All they can do is dump him, and they probably will. Is that what he wants?
Trevayne wondered why Bruce had decided not to expose his «plea for suppression.» Not that it mattered. He didn’t give a goddamn about Roderick Bruce or his readership. He wouldn’t have called Bruce back under any conditions. Whatever Paul Bonner stood for—and Christ knew it was ponderously antediluvian—the man was authentic. His beliefs were profoundly arrived-at concerns, not unthinking, blunt reactions to change. The Bonners of this world had to be convinced, not sacrificed as goats in ideological skirmishes.
Above all, convinced.
Trevayne picked up the top notebook, the plastic tape on the right-hand corner imprinted with the Roman numeral I. It constituted his immediate itinerary; the first stop, San Francisco.
Routine. Nothing vital.
That’s the way it was arranged. That’s the way it was described. The subcommittee chairman was merely making a personal tour of West Coast companies—a number of them. If concerned executives took the trouble to check—and it was certain they would—they’d be relieved to learn that Andrew Trevayne was dropping in on a dozen or so firms. Nothing much of any depth could be accomplished with such a schedule.
It was even suggested off-handedly to several that the subcommittee chairman wasn’t averse to a game of golf or a couple of sets of tennis—weather permitting.
The climate of his tour was therefore established. There were rumors of an early demise of the subcommittee; that Trevayne’s cross-country trip was a kind of farewell appearance, a symbolic finish to an impossible production.
That was fine; that was the way he wanted it.
It wouldn’t be possible if a Roderick Bruce had access to the Genessee notebooks.
God forbid that should ever be the case! What had to be avoided at all costs now were blanket accusations, inclusive condemnations. It was far too complicated for simple conclusions.
The telephone interrupted his meandering thoughts. It was after five; he’d let everyone go early—five o’clock was early at the Potomac Towers. He was alone.
«Hello?»
«Andy? Paul Bonner.»
«You’re psychic. I was just thinking about you.»
«Nice thoughts, I hope.»
«Not particularly. How’ve you been? Haven’t seen you in a couple of weeks.»
«I’ve been out of town. In Georgia. Every six months or so the brass sends me down to Benning to run around obstacle courses, stay in shape. Or that’s what they think.»
«Probably nothing to do with it. They figure to beat out your hostilities, or give the Washington ladies a breather.»
«Better than cold baths. What are you doing tonight?»
«I’m meeting Phyl for dinner at L’Avion. Care to join us?»
«Sure. If I’m not intruding.»
«Not at all. Forty-five minutes?»
«Good. It’ll give us a chance to go over this crazy tour of yours.»
«What?»
«I’m back as your major-domo, massa. Whatever you want, snap your fingers or whistle; I’ll scurry around and get it for you.»
«I didn’t know,» said Trevayne hesitantly.
«I just got the orders. I understand we’ll be hitting the links and a few tennis courts. You’ve loosened up.»
«Sounds that way. See you at L’Avion.»
Trevayne replaced the phone and looked at the Genessee notebook in his left hand.
No request had been made of the Defense Department for a military aide. As a matter of fact, the Pentagon had not been apprised of the trip.
At least not by his office.
18
Mario de Spadante stepped off the second-floor escalator at the San Francisco Airport and headed for the observation lounge. His gait was fast, remarkably agile for a man of his girth. He dodged and overtook passengers and clerks; he was impatient with a black porter who blocked his path with an unwieldy luggage dolly. He pushed open the glass door of the lounge and rapidly walked past the hostess, acknowledging her unspoken question with a gesture of his hand. His party was already seated; they were expecting him, two men at a corner table.