He was the keystone … a keystone.
But he also knew that underneath the attention they gave him, the respect they surfacely rendered, there was a certain contempt. The contempt associated with a man who could only propose, never dispose.
A «bookkeeper.»
But this bookkeeper wasn’t for hanging.
Goddard signaled a cab, and as it pulled up to the curb he made his own decision. He’d return to his office and remove a number of highly confidential papers. He would carefully put them at the bottom of his briefcase and take them home.
Numbers. His numbers. Genessee’s numbers. Not names.
He knew how to deal with numbers.
A man had to protect himself. Perhaps against names.
Andrew Trevayne jumped out of the cab and walked into the hotel lobby. He’d promised Sam Vicarson he’d meet him in Vicarson’s room. But before he did, he knew it was time to talk to Bonner. Regardless of what was learned from Sam and Alan and Mike Ryan, he had to get on Pace’s Lear jet tonight and go to Washington.
And depending on what was learned from his three aides about Manolo, Jamison, and Studebaker, he might well go from Washington to New York and on to Chicago.
Mitchell Armbruster. Aaron Green. Ian Hamilton.
Either way, it was time to use Paul Bonner.
Bonner was waiting for him in the cocktail lounge. The meeting would be brief.
Trevayne was of two minds. He knew he had to do what he was doing; by using Paul Bonner, Washington would be convinced of the «legitimacy» of his temporarily abandoning his subcommittee, but there was another aspect.
He was actively, willfully engaging in much the same type of manipulation he’d been recruited to expose—calculated deception. The difference, he rationalized, was the absence of financial profit, and for a while he accepted this rationalization as fundamentally justifiable. But there were other «profits,» equally important rewards. He didn’t need money… Was he somehow applying the intensity others used for making money to reach something else?
He couldn’t dwell on it; the decision had been made.
He was going to relive—for the record—one of the most difficult periods of his life. It would give flexibility to time.
Six years ago Phyllis had entered the hospital for an exploratory. It was before mammography had been perfected, and she had developed lumps on her breasts. He had been beside himself, trying his best to be outwardly confident, knowing the children suspected something far more serious than what they’d been told—perceiving his anguish.
Now, six years later, Paul Bonner was to be given a current variation of the incident. An unspecific account, clouded with doubt and filled with apprehension. And a request: would Paul sit in on the upcoming subcommittee conferences with two subcontractors of General Motors and Lockheed? They were in Denver the next few days. The conferences needed the «weight» of his, Bonner’s, inclusion. San Vicarson was simply too young, Alan Martin seemingly too lacking in authority. The aides would fill him in.
So that he, Andrew Trevayne, could get home to his wife.
Phyllis was entering a private hospital Friday afternoon. No one knew anything about the exploratory other than Sam and Alan. Even the two men from 1600 who stayed on the Barnegat property knew only that Phyllis was going for a checkup. One way or the other Trevayne would return to Denver on Monday.
When the drinks were finished, Andy found it difficult to look at Paul Bonner. The Major was so genuinely concerned for him, he agreed to do anything, take whatever worries he could from Andy’s mind.
Oh, God! thought Trevayne. In this nation of labels this man is my enemy. Yet look at his eyes! They’re frightened—for me.
Paul Bonner walked slowly down the hotel corridor to his room. He unlocked the door, entered, and slammed it shut. He swung it with such force that two paintings—poor reproductions selected by a tasteless Boise management—vibrated on the wall. He crossed to his bureau, where there was the ever-present bottle of bourbon, and poured himself a large drink.
He poured himself another and drank it rapidly.
It was entirely possible, he reflected, that he might just stay in his room the remainder of the day, order another bottle, and get quietly, thoroughly drunk.
But then, that would preclude the charade. He’d be too hungover in the morning for his meeting with Alan Martin and Sam Vicarson, during which time they were to give him the background on the subcontractors in Denver.
Horseshit!
The beavers were so inept. And the head beaver was playing a dirty game—a very personally dirty game—of dam building. He hadn’t thought Andrew Trevayne could roll in that kind of filth. Even the possessors of hatred—they might use their women to run guns and contraband, alert the jungles, smuggle narcotics, but they wouldn’t use them this way. They wouldn’t trade in painfully intimate confidences. There was no dignity in that, no essential strength.
Bonner carried his glass to his bed, sat down, and reached for the hotel telephone. He gave the operator the private Washington number of Brigadier General Lester Cooper.
It took Major Bonner less than a minute to get to the basic information.
«… the cover is his wife. He says he’s flying east to be with her. She’s supposed to enter a quote—private hospital—unquote; cancer exploratory. It’s a lie.»
«Are you sure?»
«Damned near positive,» answered Bonner, swallowing the remainder of the bourbon in his glass.
«Why? That’s pretty hairy.»
«Because it follows!» Bonner realized he spoke too sharply to his superior; he couldn’t help himself. His anger with Trevayne was too personal. «Alan Martin disappeared for a day and a half; Vicarson was gone for two. No explanation given, just subcommittee business. Then this afternoon, who the hell do I run into. In Boise… Mike Ryan. Something’s going on, General. It stinks.»
Brigadier General Cooper paused before speaking. His fear carried over the wire. «We can’t afford to be mistaken, Bonner.»
«For God’s sake, General, I’m an experienced man; I’ve interrogated the best of them. Trevayne’s learning, I’m sorry to say, but he’s still a bad liar. It hurt him to look at me.»
«We’ve got to find out where the other three were… I’ll put out tracers with the airlines. We’ve got to know.»
«Let me do that, General.» Bonner didn’t want the Pentagon amateurs coming on the scene. «There are only half a dozen lines coming in here. I’ll find out where they flew in from.»
«Call me as soon as you learn something. This is priority, Major. In the meantime, I’ll put surveillance on his wife. To be sure; in case he shows up.»
«You’re wasting your time, sir. She’s a cooperative girl. The ‘1600’ team will vouch that she’s going for a checkup. Trevayne’s a rotten liar, but I’m sure he’s methodical about this sort of thing. He’s in new territory now; he’ll be thorough.»
22
Sam Vicarson leaned against the writing desk as Trevayne settled into an armchair.
«All right, Counselor,» said Andrew, looking up, «why the private conference? What’s the matter?»
«Joshua Studebaker made a mistake forty years ago. They’re making him pay for it. He thinks thirty years of judicial decisions will go out the window if he’s called. As he put it, the source of his decisions would become suspect in every court in the land.»
Trevayne whistled softly. «What did he do? Shoot Lincoln?»
«Worse. He was a Communist. Not the radical-chic variety, but a real card-carrying, cell-organized, Kremlin-instructed Marxist… The country’s first black judge west of the Rocky Mountains spent five years—again, as he put it—in dimly lit rooms preparing cases for his practicing colleagues that tied up the courts with manipulative language. For the cause.»