«You’re pacing too much. Your thinking-feet are working overtime, darling.»
«No, they’re not; I’m not interested.»
«Then answer the question. Why a national pariah?»
«Because the mess is too ingrained. And widespread. To be at all effective, that subcommittee’s going to have to call a lot of people a lot of names. Fundamentally act on a large premise of fear. When you start talking about monopolies, you’re not just talking about influential men shuffling around stock issues. You’re threatening thousands and thousands of jobs. Ultimately, that’s any monopoly’s hold, from top to bottom. You exchange one liability for another. It may be necessary, but you cause a lot of pain.»
«My God,» said Phyllis, sitting up. «You’ve done a lot of thinking.»
«Thinking, yes. Not doing.» Andrew bounced out of the chair and walked to the table, extinguishing his cigarette in an ashtray. «Frankly, I was surprised the whole idea got this far. These things—in-depth studies, investigations, call them whatever you want—are usually proposed loudly and disposed of quietly. In the Senate cloakroom or the House dining room. This time it’s different. I wonder why.»
«Ask Frank Baldwin.»
«I’d rather not.»
«You should. You owe him that, Andy. Why do you think he chose you?»
Trevayne crossed back to the terrace wall and looked out over the Long Island Sound. «I’m qualified; Frank knows that. I’ve dealt with those government-contract boys; I’ve been critical in print about the overruns, the openend agreements. He knows that, too. I’ve even been angry, but that goes back a long time ago… Mainly, I think, because he knows how much I despise the manipulators. They’ve ruined a lot of good men, one especially. Remember?» Trevayne turned and looked at his wife. «They can’t touch me now. I haven’t a thing to lose but time.»
«I think you’ve just about convinced yourself.»
Trevayne lit a second cigarette and leaned against the ledge, his arms folded in front of him. He continued to stare at Phyllis. «I know. That’s why I’m avoiding Frank Baldwin.»
Trevayne pushed the omelet around the plate, not really interested in it. Franklyn Baldwin sat opposite him in the bank’s executive dining room. The old gentleman was speaking intensely.
«The job’s going to get done, Andrew; you know that. Nothing’s going to prevent it. I just want the best man to do it. And I think you’re the best man. I might add, the commission’s voice was unanimous.»
«What makes you so sure the job’ll get done? I’m not. The Senate’s always yelling about economies; it’s a hell of an issue, and always will be. That is, until a highway project or an aircraft plant is closed down in some district. Then suddenly the shouting stops.»
«Not this time. It’s beyond cynicism now. I wouldn’t have become involved if I thought otherwise.»
«You’re expressing an opinion. There has to be something else, Frank.»
Baldwin removed his steel-rimmed glasses and laid them beside his plate. He blinked several times and gracefully massaged the bridge of his patrician nose. He smiled a half-smile, half-sadly. «There is. You’re very perceptive… Call it the legacy of two old men whose lives—and the lives of their families for a number of generations—have been made most pleasantly productive in this country of ours. I daresay we’ve contributed, but the rewards have been more than ample. That’s the best way I can put it.»
«I’m afraid I don’t understand.»
«Of course not. I’ll clarify. William Hill and I have known each other since childhood.»
«Ambassador Hill?»
«Yes… I won’t bore you with the eccentricities of our relationship—not today. Suffice it to say, we can’t possibly stay around too many more years; not sure that I’d want to… This Defense Commission, the subcommittee—they’re our ideas. We intend to see them become working realities. That much we can guarantee; in our different ways we’re powerful enough to do that. And to use that dreadful term, sufficiently ‘respectable.’»
«What do you think you’ll gain?»
«The truth. The extent of the truth as we believe it to be. This country has the right to know that, no matter how much it may hurt. To cure any disease, a correct diagnosis has to be made. Not indiscriminate labels hung by self-righteous zealots, nor vindictive charges hurled by malcontents… The truth, Andrew. Merely the truth. That gift will be ours, Billy’s and mine. Perhaps our last.»
Trevayne had the desire to move, to be physically in motion. The old gentleman opposite him was succeeding in doing exactly what he thought he’d do. The walls were closing in, the corridor defined.
«Why can this subcommittee do what you say? Others have tried; they failed.»
«Because, through you, it will be both apolitical and in no way self-seeking.» Baldwin replaced his glasses; the magnification of his old eyes hypnotized Trevayne. «Those are the necessary factors. You’re neither Republican nor Democrat, liberal nor conservative. Both parties have tried to recruit you, and you’ve refused both. You’re a contradiction in this age of nomenclature. You have nothing to gain or lose. You’ll be believed. That’s the important thing… We’ve become a polarized people, slotted into intransigent, conflicting positions. We desperately need to believe once again in objective truth.»
«If I accept, the Pentagon and everyone connected with it will run to the hills—or their public relations’ mimeographs. That’s what they usually do. How are you going to prevent this?»
«The President. He has assured us; he’s a good man, Andrew.»
«And I’m responsible to no one?»
«Not even me. Only yourself.»
«I hire my own staff; no outside personnel decisions?»
«Give me a list of those you want. I’ll have it cleared.»
«I call it as I find it. I get the cooperation I deem necessary.» Trevayne didn’t ask these last questions, he made statements which, nevertheless, anticipated answers.
«Total. That I’ll guarantee. That I can promise you.»
«I don’t want the job.»
«But you’ll take it.» Another statement, this time from Franklyn Baldwin.
«I told Phyllis. You’re persuasive, Frank. That’s why I was avoiding you.»
«No man can avoid what he’s meant to do. At the moment he’s meant to do it. Do you know where I got that?»
«Sounds Hebraic.»
«No… But close. Mediterranean. Marcus Aurelius. Have you met many bankers who’ve read Aurelius?»
«Hundreds. They think he’s a mutual fund.»
3
Steven Trevayne looked at the expressionless mannequins clad in tweed jackets and varying shades of gray flannel slacks. The subdued lighting of the College Shoppe was appropriate for the quietly wealthy image sought after by the residents of Greenwich, Connecticut. Steven looked down at his own Levi’s, soiled sneakers, and then noticed that one of the buttons on his old corduroy jacket was about to fall off.
He consulted his watch and was annoyed. It was nearly time. He’d told his sister that he’d drive her and her friends back to Barnegat, but he’d stipulated that they were to meet him by eight-thirty. He had to pick up his date over on Cos Cob by nine-fifteen. He was going to be late.
He wished to hell his sister hadn’t picked this particular night to have an all-girl gathering at home, or at least not to have promised rides for everyone. His sister wasn’t allowed to drive at night—an edict Steven Trevayne thought was ridiculous; she was seventeen—so when these occasions arose, he was elected.
If he refused, his father might just find that all their cars were in use and he’d be without wheels.