«If you don’t mind my saying so, Mr. de Spadante, I think you’re unnecessarily agitated.»
«I do mind your saying it, Mr. Goddard. I mind very much, because I think you’re a fucking idiot.» De Spadante’s voice remained gentle, only the rasp slightly more pronounced than usual. He turned to the other man, an older man somewhere in his sixties, stylishly tailored. A man named Allen. «Has Webster been in touch?»
«I haven’t seen him or spoken with him since New York. Months ago, before Baldwin approached this Trevayne. We should have killed it then.»
«The big machers didn’t listen, because your suggestion was not only dumb but also hopeless. I took other measures; everything was under control—including emergency procedures. That is, it was until now.» De Spadante reverted his look to Goddard. Goddard’s cherubic face was still flushed with anger over the Italian’s insult. Goddard was middle-aged, middle-fat, and middle brow, the essence of the pressurized corporate executive, which he was—for Genessee Industries. De Spadante purposely did not speak. He just stared at Goddard. It was the executive’s turn, and he knew it.
«Trevayne gets in tomorrow morning, around ten-thirty. We’ve scheduled lunch.»
«I hope you eat well.»
«We have no reason to think the conference is anything more than what we’ve been told: a friendly meeting. One of many. He’s scheduled conferences with half a dozen companies within a few hundred miles, all within several days.»
«You kill me, Mr. Just-a-Minute. I mean, I’d be rolling on the floor laughing, except for the pain… ‘No reason to think’! You’re beautiful! Like the kids say … very heavy, man.»
«You’re offensive, Mr. De Spadante.» Goddard withdrew a handkerchief and blotted his chin.
«Don’t talk to me ‘offensive.’ There’s nothing more offensive on this earth than stupidity. Except maybe conceited stupidity.» De Spadante spoke to Allen while his eyes remained on Goddard. «Where did you high types come up with this capo-zuccone?»
«He’s not stupid, Mario,» replied Allen softly. «Goddard was the best cost accountant G.I.C. ever had. He’s shaped the company’s economic policies for the past five years.»
«A bookkeeper! A lousy bookkeeper who sweats on his chin! I know the type.»
«I have no intention of taking your abuse any longer.» Goddard moved his chair back, prepared to stand. However, Mario de Spadante’s hand shot out, and with the grip of a man who was no stranger to hard work and coarse methods, he held the arm. The chair rocked to a stop as Goddard’s legs went tense.
«You sit. You stay. We have problems bigger than your intentions… Or mine, Mr. Bookkeeper.»
«Why are you so sure?» asked Allen.
«I’ll tell you. And maybe you’ll understand some of my agitation. Also my anger… For weeks all we’ve heard is that everything’s just fine. No real problems; a number of items had to get straightened out, but they were taken care of. Then we get word that even the major questions are marked ‘satisfactory.’ Complete, finished, kaput … clear sailing. I even bought it myself.» De Spadante released the chair but held the men with his eyes darting back and forth between them without shifting his head. «Only except a couple of very curious fellows in New York decide to run a check. They’re a little nervous, because they’re paid to solve problems. When they don’t see any problems, they look for them; they figure it’s better than missing them because of an oversight… They take five—just five—very, very important inquiries which have been returned. All five have been accepted as satisfactory—we’re told. They send supplementary information to Trevayne’s office. Nothing that couldn’t be explained but, by God, explanations were called for!… Do I have to tell you what happened?»
Goddard, who’d been holding his handkerchief in his hand, brought it once again to his chin. His look betrayed his fear. He spoke three words quietly, tensely. «Reverse double entries.»
«If that fancy language means the office files were dummies, you’re right on, Mr. Bookkeeper.»
Allen leaned forward in his chair. «Is that what you mean, Goddard?»
«In essence, yes. Only I jumped a step. It would depend on whether the status of the office files was returned to ‘pending.’»
«They weren’t,» said Mario de Spadante.
«Then there’s a second set of files.»
«Very good. Even us tontos figured that one out.»
«But where?» asked Allen, his composure losing some of its confidence.
«What difference does it make? You’re not going to change what’s in them.»
«It would be a great help to know, however,» added Goddard, no longer hostile; instead, very much afraid.
«You should have thought about such things these last couple of months, instead of sitting with your thumb up your ass figuring you’re so smart. ‘Friendly meetings.’»
«We had no cause …»
«Oh, shut up! Your chin’s all wet… A lot of people may have to hang. But there are a lot of other people we won’t let that happen to. We’ve still got certain emergency procedures. We did our work.» Suddenly, with great but silent intensity, Mario de Spadante clenched his fist and grimaced.
«What is it?» The man named Allen stared at the Italian apprehensively.
«That son-of-a-bitch Trevayne!» De Spadante whispered hoarsely. «The Honorable—so fucking honorable—Undersecretary! Mr. Clorox!… That bastard’s as dirty as any pig in the cesspool. I hadn’t figured on it.»
Major Paul Bonner watched Trevayne from across the aisle. Bonner had the window seat on the right side of the 707; Trevayne, flanked by Alan Martin and Sam Vicarson, sat directly opposite. The three of them were engrossed in a document.
Beavers, thought Bonner. Earnest, intense, chipping away at a thousand barks so the trees would fall and the streams would be dammed. Natural progression thwarted? Trevayne would call it something like ecological balance.
Horseshit.
It was far more important that the fields below be irrigated than a few earnest beavers survive. The beavers wanted to parch the land, to sacrifice the crops in the name of concerns only beavers cared about. There were other concerns, frightening ones that the smaller animals would never understand. Only the lions understood; they had to, because they were the leaders. The leaders stalked all areas of the forests and the jungles; they knew who the predators were. The beavers didn’t.
Paul Bonner knew this jungle; had crawled on his bleeding stomach over the incredibly infested, ever-moving slime. He’d come face to face with the eyes, the commitment of pure hate. Had recognized the fact that he must kill the possessor of the hatred, put out the eyes. Or be killed.
His enemy.
Their enemy.
What the hell did the beavers know?
He saw that Trevayne and his two assistants began putting their papers back into their briefcases. They’d be in San Francisco soon; the «fasten-your-seat-belts» light was on, the no-smoking sign as well. Another five minutes.
And then what?
His orders were less specific, vaguer than they had been before. Conversely, the atmosphere around Defense—that part of it dealing with Trevayne—was infinitely tauter. After his dinner with Andy and Phyllis, General Cooper had interrogated him as though he were a Charleysan guerilla with American dog tags around his neck. The Brigadier was damned near apoplectic.
Why hadn’t Trevayne alerted Defense about this tour? What was the exact itinerary? Why so many stops, so many different conferences? Were they a smoke screen?