But when Bonner asked for the key, the laconic clerk handed it to him without question.
Inside Vicarson’s room he started with the bureau drawers. There was nothing in them, and Bonner smiled; Sam was young. He lived out of a suitcase and a closet.
The suitcase was filled with unlaundered shirts, socks, and underwear. Vicarson was not only young but sloppy, thought Bonner.
He closed the suitcase, lifted it off the bed, and since the desk was nearest, he sat down at it and opened the single top drawer. Stationery had been used, not the envelopes. He picked up the wastebasket and removed two pages of crumpled paper.
One had figures with dollar signs, and Bonner recognized the information as pertinent to a Lockheed subcontractor he’d heard them all talking about.
The other had numbers also, but not dollars. Times. And several notations: «7:30-8:00 Dls.; 10:00-11:30 S.A. Qu.; Data—Grn. N.Y.»
Bonner looked at the paper. The «7:30-8:00» was Trevayne’s arrival time; he’d learned that from Ada Traffic Control. The «10:00-11:30 S.A. Qu.» was indecipherable. So, too, was the last line «Data—Grn. N.Y.» He took out his ball-point pen and copied the words onto a fresh page, folded it, and put it in his pocket.
He recrumpled the stationery, threw it in the wastebasket, and put the receptacle back on the floor.
In Vicarson’s closet he separated the trousers from the jackets and began going through the pockets. He found it in the breast pocket of the second jacket. It was a precisely folded, precisely lettered note from a small appointments book, and it was between several baggage claim-checks. It was the sort of reminder a bright but often careless man might jot down because the information seemed so vital. It read: «Armbruster. $178 Mill. Duplications. No Defense request. Six-month time lapse. Guarantees confirmed by J.G.’s top acct, L.R. Paid L.R. $300. L.R. offers add’l. data on Pasadena, Bellstar, etc. Price—4 figures.»
Bonner stared at the note, his anger rising. Had Sam Vicarson met «L.R.» in a crowded, dimly lit San Francisco cellar with a heavy odor of «hash» and a bartender only too willing to exchange large bills for smaller ones? Had Sam been told he could make whatever notes he wished as long as he didn’t ask «L.R.» to write anything? Had «L.R.» fed Vicarson that garbage about a blown-out stomach and a justifiable eagerness to steal from whoever was an accessible mark? Sam was not only young and sloppy, he was also naïve and an amateur. He paid for conjectures, for lies, and then forgot to destroy his notes. Bonner had burned his own notebook. It was so easy to forget—if one was an inept beaver.
The Major instantly made up his mind to carry out his threat; he’d find «L.R.» and blow out the rest of his stomach.
Later.
Now he had to reach Trevayne. Andrew had to understand that the sewer rats, the double-a’s, dealt in lies. Lies and half-lies were their merchandise. Find opponents and feed them—scraps, fragments, appetizers. Always with the promise of vital, explosive information to follow.
Better, create opponents.
Trevayne wasn’t standing by a possibly diseased wife—such a cheap, undistinguished artifice; he was in Washington seeing the Senator from California. Armbruster was a good man, a friend to Genessee, a powerful friend. But he was a senator. Senators were easily frightened. They pretended not to be, but they always were.
Bonner put Vicarson’s note in his pocket and left the room. Down in the lobby he returned the key to the front desk and went to a pay phone; he couldn’t use the telephone in his room—hotels recorded numbers. He called the airport and asked for Operations.
The stand-by fighter jet from Air Force, Billings, Montana, was to be prepared immediately. Flight plan, straight through to Andrews Field, Virginia. Priority clearance, Defense Department.
As he started for the elevator to go to his room, pack, and check out, Paul Bonner had two reasons to reach Trevayne. One professional, the other personal.
Trevayne had involved himself and his goddamned subcommittee in a witch hunt that had to stop now. They were playing games they didn’t understand. They didn’t know the jungles. Beavers never did.
The other reason was the very personal lie.
That was sickening.
27
Phyllis Trevayne sat in the chair and listened to her husband as he paced the private hospital room. «It sounds like an extraordinary monopoly, complete with state and federal protection.»
«Not just protection, Phyl. Participation. The active participation of the legislative and the judicial. That makes it more than a monopoly. It’s some kind of giant cartel without definition.»
«I don’t understand. That’s semantics.»
«Not when the election of a senior senator from the country’s most populous state is one result. Or when a decision rendered by an eminent jurist is a Justice Department compromise. That decision—even if eventually appealed and overturned—will cost millions … billions, before it gets through the courts.»
«What will you learn from these last two? This Green and Ian Hamilton?»
«Probably more of the same. At different levels. Armbruster used the term ‘funnel,’ referring to the Genessee appropriations. I think it also applies to Aaron Green. Green’s the funnel in which enormous sums of house money are poured, and he allocates it. Year after year… Hamilton’s the one that scares me. He’s been a presidential adviser for years.»
Phyllis heard the fear in her husband’s voice. He had walked to the window by the bed and leaned against the sill, his face next to the glass. Outside, the late-afternoon sky was overcast; there would be snow flurries by nightfall.
«It seems to me you should be careful before you make assumptions.»
Andy looked over at his wife and smiled with affection, with relief. «If you knew how many times I’ve reminded myself of that; it’s the toughest part.»
«I should think it would be.»
The telephone rang on the night table. Phyllis went to it. Andy remained by the window. The patrol from 1600 knew he was there, and the doctor. No one else.
«Certainly, Johnny,» said Phyllis as she handed the telephone to her husband. «It’s John Sprague.»
Trevayne pushed himself away from the window. John Sprague, M.D., F.A.C.S., was an across-the-street boyhood friend from Boston. He was now as close a friend as he had been then. And their family physician.
«Yes, Johnny?»
«I don’t know how far you want to go with this Hasty Pudding stuff, but the switchboard says there’s a call for you. If you’re not here, the call’s supposed to be given to Phyl’s doctor. I can handle it, Andy.»
«Who is it?»
«Man named Vicarson.»
«God, isn’t he something?»
«He may be. He’s also got the price of a toll call.»
«I know. Denver. Can you have it switched here, or shall I go down to the board?»
«Please! With the contributions you make, my partners would fire me. Hang up. It’ll ring in a couple of seconds.»
«It’s nice to know big shots.»
«It’s better to know money. Hang up, Croesus.»
Trevayne pressed down on the telephone button while holding the instrument in his hand. He turned to Phyllis. «It’s Sam Vicarson. I didn’t tell him I was coming here. I was to call him later, after his meetings. He’s in Denver now. I didn’t think he’d be finished by now.» Andy spoke disjointedly, and his wife realized that he was troubled.
The telephone rang; the sound was short, merely a signal.
«Sam?»
«Mr. Trevayne, I took a chance you might have driven over there; the airport said the Lear was going to Westchester.»