«It’s all right, Julia!» The huge maid gave Trevayne the benefit of a last, unpleasant look, turned, and walked rapidly down the hall out of sight. «She’s Haitian, you know. Her six brothers are all Ton Ton Macoute. It’s a cruel streak that runs in the family… What do you want, Trevayne?»
«To see you.»
«How did you get up here? The doorman didn’t ring through.»
«He thinks I’m seeing another tenant. Don’t bother to trace it down; my office arranged it. The other party doesn’t know anything.»
«The last time we talked, you threatened me, if I remember correctly. In your office. Now, you come to my office, to me; and you don’t look so menacing. Am I to assume you’re here to make a trade? Because I’m not sure I’m interested.»
«I don’t feel menacing; I feel sad. But you’re right. I’m here to make a trade… Your kind of trade, Bruce.»
«You don’t have anything I want; why should I listen?»
Trevayne watched the little man with the small, deepset eyes and the confident, tiny mouth pursed in satisfaction. Andy felt sick to his stomach as he said the name quietly.
«Alexander Coffey.»
Roderick Bruce stood there motionless. His tight jaw slackened, his lips parted, and his face lost all poise of arrogance.
PART 4
42
It seemed preposterous.
It was preposterous.
And the most preposterous aspect of it was that no one wanted anything—except his commitment. That had been made totally clear; no one expected him to change one word of the subcommittee report. It was anticipated that he would complete it, present copies to the President, the Congress, and the Defense Allocations Commission and be thanked by a grateful government. Nothing altered, nothing compromised.
Chapter closed.
Another chapter about to begin.
It didn’t seem to matter that the report was viciously uncompromising; he hadn’t concealed the fact. It had even been suggested that the more severe the judgments, the greater stature it lent his proposed candidacy.
Candidacy. A candidate for the nomination of President of the United States. Preposterous.
But it wasn’t preposterous at all, they’d insisted. It was the logical decision of an extraordinary man who’d spent five months, when the report was finished, making an independent study of the country’s most massively complicated problem. It was time for an extraordinary man unwedded to political harems; the nation cried out for an individual dramatically separated from the intransient positions of doctrinaire politics. It needed a healer; but more than just a healer. It demanded a man who was capable of facing a giant challenge, of assembling the facts and weeding the truth from myriad deceits.
That was his track record, they’d told him.
At first, he thought Mitchell Armbruster was mad, desperately trying to flatter with such excess that his words nullified his intent. But Armbruster had been firm. The senior Senator from California readily admitted that the idea seemed grotesque to him too when first proposed by a nucleus of the National Committee, but the longer he had thought of it, the more plausible it had become—for men of his political inclinations. The President, whom he supported more than he opposed, was not of his party; Armbruster’s party had no viable prospects, only pretenders. They were tired men, familiar men, men like himself who’d had their chance at the brass ring and failed to grasp it. Or younger ones who were too brash, too irreverent to appeal to the classic middle. The middle American really didn’t want to «rap» or be «right on.»
Andrew Trevayne could cross the lines, fill the vacuum. There was nothing preposterous about that; it was eminently practical. It was political—within the craft of the possible that was politics. This was the National Committee’s argument. It was sound.
But what of the report? The findings and judgments of the subcommittee weren’t compiled in such a way as to win partisan support. And there would be no alterations made for any reasons; he was adamant about that.
So he should be, had been Armbruster’s unexpected reply. The report of the Defense Allocations subcommittee was just that. A report. It was to be filed with the proper committees in the Senate and the House and, of course, the President. Its recommendations would be weighed by both the legislative and the executive; the prosecutable data handed directly to the Justice Department, and where indictments were called for, they would follow.
And Genessee Industries?
The major conclusion of the subcommittee report branded the company as a government unto itself, with powers political and economic that were unacceptable in a democracy. What of this judgment? What of the men responsible? What of men like Ian Hamilton who controlled, and men like Mitchell Armbruster who benefited?
The Senator from California had smiled sadly and restated the assurance of indictments where they were called for. He did not believe he had committed illegal acts. We were still a nation of laws, not insupportable speculations. He would stand on his record.
As for Genessee Industries, neither the Senate, the House, nor the President would settle for less than complete reforms. Obviously, they were mandatory. Genessee Industries was in large measure dependent on government purchases. If the company had abused the resultant privileges to the degree Trevayne believed, it would be severely curtailed until those reforms were instituted.
Andrew should sleep on the idea; say nothing, do nothing. It might all dissolve. Often these conjectures were mere flurries, political desperations. But the Senator, speaking for himself, had come to believe it made great sense.
There would be other conversations. Other meetings.
And there were.
The first took place at the Villa d’Este in Georgetown. In a private room on the sixth floor. Seven men had gathered together—all of the same party, with the exception of Senator Alan Knapp. Senator Alton Weeks of the Eastern Shore of Maryland—still wearing the blazer Trevayne remembered from the closed Senate hearing—took command.
«This is merely exploratory, gentlemen; I, for one, will need considerable enlightenment… Senator Knapp, who is with us out of a bipartisan spirit, has asked that he be allowed to speak and then leave. His remarks will be confidential, of course.»
Knapp leaned forward on the huge banquetlike table, his palms pressed down on the damask cloth. «Thank you, Senator… Gentlemen, my good friend and colleague from across the aisle, Mitchell Armbruster»—Knapp smiled a short noncommittal smile at Armbruster, who was at his side—«told me of this meeting in response to a query of mine. As I’m sure you realize, the cloakroom has been alive with quiet rumors that a very dramatic announcement might be forthcoming. When I learned further the nature of this announcement, I felt that you should be aware of a little drama going on over in our section. Because, gentlemen, there’s been an unexpected turn of events that might have bearing on your discussion this evening. I tell you not only in a bipartisan spirit, but because I share with you the concern with the direction this country takes, especially in these times… The President very likely will not seek a second term.»
There was silence around the table. Slowly, without emphasis, but with consciousness, each man looked at Andrew Trevayne.
Shortly thereafter Knapp left the private room, and the process of dissecting Andrew began.
It lasted nearly five hours.
The second meeting was shorter. Barely an hour and a half, but infinitely more extraordinary to Trevayne. In attendance was the junior Senator from Connecticut, an old-middle-aged man from West Hartford whose record was lackluster but whose appetites were reputed to be varied. He’d come to the meeting to announce his retirement; he was going back into private life. His reasons were bluntly financial. He’d been offered the presidency of a large insurance firm, and it wasn’t fair to his family to refuse.