The key to these successes was in the ability to move quickly and commit vast sums. Sums not hampered by political considerations.
Sums allocated by the judgment of an elite corps of wise men, good men, men dedicated to the promise of America.
An America for all, not a few.
It was simply the method.
«This country was founded as a republic, Mr. Trevayne,» said Hamilton, sitting down on the sofa opposite Andrew. «Democracy is an abstraction… One definition of ‘republic’ is a state governed by those entitled to vote, to shape its policies. Not blanketly franchised. Now, of course, no one would conceive of implementing this definition. But to borrow in principle—if only slightly, temporarily—has historical precedence… The times we live in call for it.»
«I see.» Trevayne had to ask the question, if only to hear how Hamilton dodged it. «Don’t you run the risk of those entitled to shape policy … wanting to make sure the trains-run-on-time? Of seeking final solutions?»
«Never.» Hamilton answered with quiet sincerity. «Because there’s no motive. No such dark ambitions… You said something earlier that impressed me, Trevayne. You said you came to me because—as yourself—I had neither financial need nor vengeance to carry out… Of course, we never know the other fellow’s problems, but you happen to be right. My needs are satisfied, my vengeances minor. You and I, no political comets, proven in the marketplace, thinkers who can be decisive, concerned for the less fortunate. We are the aristocracy that must run the republic. The time will shortly be upon us when we either accept the responsibility, or there’ll be no republic.»
«The rule of benevolent monarchy.»
«Oh, no, not monarchy. Aristocracy. And not attained through bloodlines.»
«Does the President know about this?»
Hamilton hesitated. «No, he does not. He’s not even aware of the hundreds of problems we’ve solved for him. They just disappear… We are always at his disposal. In the most positive sense, I should add.»
Trevayne rose from his chair. It was time to leave, time to think. «You’ve been candid, and I appreciate it, Mr. Hamilton.»
«I’ve also been most general. I trust you appreciate that, too. No names, no specifics, only generalizations with examples … of corporate responsibility.»
«Which means if I allude to this conversation you would …»
«What conversation, Mr. Trevayne?»
«Yes, of course.»
«You do see the good? The extraordinary possibilities?»
«They’re remarkable. But you never know the other fellow’s problems. Isn’t that what you said?»
Trevayne drove down the snow-banked roads out of Evanston. He drove slowly, letting the infrequent Sunday drivers pass him, not thinking of the speed or his destination. Thinking only of the unbelievable information he’d learned.
A council of the elite.
The United States of Genessee Industries.
PART 3
35
Robert Webster walked out the east White House portico toward the staff parking area. He’d excused himself from the press conference briefing, leaving his suggestions—mostly anticipated questions—with one of the other aides. He had no time for protective presidential routines; he had far more important problems to control. To orchestrate, really.
The leak to Roderick Bruce would result in damaging rumors circulated throughout every important office—Senate, House, Justice, Defense—and then exploding into headlines. The sort of headlines that would destroy the effectiveness of any subcommittee chairman and reduce a subcommittee itself to rubble.
Webster was pleased with himself. The solution for Mario de Spadante led directly to the elimination of Trevayne. With amazing clarity. The only extra bonus needed was throwing Paul Bonner to Roderick Bruce.
The rest was already established as much as was necessary. The close working relationship between De Spadante and Trevayne. De Spadante’s meeting Trevayne late at night in Connecticut when the subcommittee chairman was supposed to be away on subcommittee business. Trevayne’s first trip to Washington with Mario as traveling companion. The limousine ride from Dulles Airport to the Hilton. Trevayne and De Spadante together in Georgetown at the home of a less-than-welcomed attaché of the French government, a man known to be involved with the American underworld.
It was all that was needed.
Andrew Trevayne and Mario de Spadante.
Corruption.
When De Spadante was murdered in New Haven, his death would be attributed to a Mafia war. But it would be in print and on the news programs that Trevayne had been at his hospital bedside a week before the murder.
Corruption.
It was all going to be all right, thought Webster, as he turned left up Pennsylvania Avenue. De Spadante would be eliminated, and Trevayne effectively removed from Washington.
Trevayne and De Spadante had become too unpredictable. Trevayne could no longer be trusted to go through him to the President. Trevayne had covered extraordinary ground—from Houston to Seattle—yet the only request he’d made was for information about De Spadante. Nothing else. That was too dangerous. Ultimately Trevayne could be killed, if need be, but that could backfire into a full-scale investigation. They weren’t ready for that.
De Spadante, on the other hand, had to be killed. He’d gone too far, infiltrated too deeply. Webster had brought the mafioso into the Genessee picture originally—and solely—to solve waterfront problems easily controlled by Mafia commands. Then De Spadante had seen the enormous possibilities of aiding powerful men in high federal places. He didn’t let go.
But De Spadante had to be eliminated by his own. Not by elements outside his world; that could prove disastrous. He had to be murdered by other De Spadantes.
Willie Gallabretto understood. The Gallabretto family—both blood and organizational—was getting fed up with the muscle theatrics of its Connecticut relative. The Gallabrettos were the new breed; the slim, conservatively groomed college graduates who had no use either for the Old World tactics of their forebears or the pampered, long-haired dropouts of the «now» generation.
They fell beautifully in between, within the borders of respectability—almost Middle America respectability. If it were not for their names, they’d be farther up a hundred thousand corporate ladders.
Webster turned right on 27th Street and watched the numbers of the buildings. He was looking for 112.
Roderick Bruce’s apartment house.
Paul Bonner stared alternately at the letter and at the Captain from the Provost Marshal’s office who’d delivered it. The Captain leaned nonchalantly against the door of Bonner’s office.
«What the hell is this, Captain? One lousy fucking joke?»
«No joke, Major. You’re confined to BOQ, Arlington, until further notice. You’re being tried for murder in the first degree.»
«I’m what?»
«The state of Connecticut filed charges. The prosecution has accepted our responsibility for your detention. That’s a break. Whatever the verdict, the Army then faces a five-million-dollar suit from the family of the deceased, one August de Spadante… We’ll settle; no one’s worth five million bucks.»