Trevayne Read online

  “He probably won’t. Just take a leave of absence.”

  “No foundation the size of Danforth would accept a leave for that length of time. Especially not for a job like this. They’re all in trouble.”

  “I don’t follow you.…”

  “You think they’re immune?” asked Allen, interrupting. “They need friends in your town. Not enemies.… What’s the procedure? If Baldwin has made the offer. If Trevayne accepts?”

  The waiter returned with the drinks and both men fell silent. He left, and Webster answered.

  “The conditions are that whoever the commission selects receives the President’s approval and is subject to a closed hearing with a bipartisan committee in the Senate.”

  “All right, all right.” Allen raised his glass and swallowed a large portion of his drink. “Let’s work from there; we can do something there. We’ll disqualify him at the hearing.”

  The younger man looked puzzled. “Why? What’s the point? Someone’s going to chair that subcommittee. I gather this Trevayne’s at least a reasonable man.”

  “You gather!” Allen finished his drink rapidly. “Just what have you gathered? What do you know about Trevayne?”

  “What I’ve read. I did my research. He and his brother-in-law—the brother’s an electronics engineer—started a small company dealing in aerospace research and manufacturing in New Haven in the middle fifties. They hit the motherlode seven or eight years later; they were both millionaires by the time they were thirty-five. The brother-in-law designed, while Trevayne sold the hell out of the products. He cornered half the early NASA contracts and set up subsidiaries all over the Atlantic seaboard. Trevayne pulled out when he was thirty-seven and took on a job with the State Department. Incidentally, he did a whale of a job for State.” Webster raised his glass, looking over the rim at Allen. The young man expected to be complimented on his knowledge.

  Instead, Allen dismissed his companion’s words. “Shit. Time-magazine material. What’s important is that Trevayne’s an original.… He doesn’t cooperate. We know; we tried reaching him years ago.”

  “Oh?” Webster put his glass down. “I didn’t realize … Oh, Christ. Then he knows?”

  “Not a great deal; perhaps enough. We’re not sure. But you still miss the point, Mr. Webster. It seems to me that you’ve missed the point from the beginning.… We don’t want him chairing that goddamned subcommittee. We don’t want him or anyone like him! That kind of choice is unthinkable.”

  “What can you do about that?”

  “Force him out … if he’s actually accepted. The backup will be the Senate hearing. We’ll make damn sure he’s rejected.”

  “Say you succeed, then what?”

  “We’ll nominate our own man. What should have been done in the first place.” Allen signaled the waiter, gesturing at both glasses.

  “Mr. Allen, why didn’t you stop him? If you were in a position to do that, why didn’t you? You said you heard the rumors about Trevayne; that was the time to step in.”

  Allen avoided Webster’s look. He drained the ice water in his glass, and when he spoke, his voice had the sound of a man trying very hard to maintain his authority; with lessening success. “Frank Baldwin, that’s why. Frank Baldwin and that senile son-of-a-bitch Hill.”

  “The Ambassador?”

  “The goddamned Ambassador-at-large with his goddamned embassy in the White House.… Big Billy Hill! Baldwin and Hill; they’re the relics behind this bullshit. Hill has been circling like a hawk for the last two or three years. He talked Baldwin into the Defense Commission. Between them they picked Trevayne.… Baldwin put up his name; who the hell could argue?… But you should have told us it was final. If we’d been certain, we could have prevented it.”

  Webster watched Allen closely. When he replied, there was a hardness he hadn’t displayed before. “And I think you’re lying. Somebody else blew it; you or one of the other so-called specialists. First, you thought this investigation would burn itself out in the forming, be killed in committee.… You were wrong. And then it was too late. Trevayne surfaced, and you couldn’t stop it. You’re not even sure you can stop him now. That’s why you wanted to see me.… So let’s dispense with this crap about my being late and missing the point, shall we?”

  “You watch your tongue, young man. Just remember who I represent.” The statement was made without commensurate strength.

  “And you remember that you’re talking to a man personally appointed by the President of the United States. You may not like it, but that’s why you came to me. Now, what is it? What do you want?”

  Allen exhaled slowly, as if to rid himself of anger. “Some of us are more alarmed than others …”

  “You’re one of them,” interjected Webster quietly.

  “Yes.… Trevayne’s a complicated man. One-part boy genius of industry—which means he knows his way around the board rooms; one-part skeptic—he doesn’t subscribe to certain realities.”

  “Seems to me those assets go together.”

  “Only when a man’s dealing from strength.”

  “Get to the point. What’s Trevayne’s strength?”

  “Let’s say he never needed assistance.”

  “Let’s say he refused it.”

  “All right, all right. That’s valid.”

  “You said you tried reaching him.”

  “Yes. When I was with … Never mind. It was the early sixties; we were consolidating then and thought he might be a valuable addition to our … community. We even offered to guarantee the NASA contracts.”

  “Sweet Jesus! And he turned you down.” Webster made a pronouncement, not an inquiry.

  “He strung us along for a while, then realized he could get the contracts without us. As soon as he knew that, he told us to go to hell. Actually, he went a lot further. He told me to tell my people to get out of the space program, get out of the government money. He threatened to go to the Attorney General.”

  Bobby Webster absently picked up his fork and slowly made indentations on the tablecloth. “Suppose it had been the other way around? Suppose he had needed you? Would he have joined your ‘community’?”

  “That’s what we don’t know. Some of the others think so. But they didn’t talk to him; I did. I was the intermediary. I was the only one he really had.… I never used names, never said who my people were.”

  “But you believe the fact that they were was enough? For him.”

  “The unanswerable question. He threatened us after he got his; he was sure he didn’t need anyone but himself, his brother-in-law, and his goddamned company in New Haven. We simply can’t afford to take the chance now. We can’t allow him to chair that subcommittee.… He’s unpredictable.”

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Take every reasonable risk to get close to Trevayne. The optimum would be for you to be his White House connection. Is that possible?”

  Bobby Webster paused, then answered firmly. “Yes. The President brought me into the session on the subcommittee. It was a classified meeting; no notes, no transcripts. There was only one other aide; no competition. I’ll work it out.”

  “You understand, it may not be necessary. Certain preventive measures will be taken. If they’re effective, Trevayne will be out of the picture.”

  “I can help you there.”

  “How?”

  “Mario de Spadante.”

  “No! Absolutely no! We’ve told you before, we don’t want any part of him.”

  “He’s been helpful to you people. In more ways than you realize. Or want to acknowledge.”

  “He’s out.”

  “It wouldn’t hurt to establish a minor friendship. If you’re offended, think of the Senate.”

  Allen’s wrinkled frown dissolved. He looked almost appreciatively at the presidential aide. “I see what you mean.”

  “Of course, it will raise my price considerably.”

  “I thought you believed in what you’re doing.”
r />   “I believe in protecting my flanks. The best protection is to make you pay.”

  “You’re an obnoxious man.”

  “I’m also very talented.”

  2

  Andrew Trevayne ran the twin hulls of the catamaran before the wind, catching the fast current into the shore. He stretched his long legs against a connecting spar and reached over the tiller to make an additional wake in the stern flow. No reason, just a movement, a meaningless gesture. The water was warm; his hand felt as though it was being propelled through a tepid, viscous film.

  Just as he was being propelled—inexorably propelled—into an enigma that was not of his choosing. Yet the final decision would be his, and he knew what his choice would be.

  That was the most irritating aspect; he understood the furies that propelled him, and he disliked himself for even contemplating submission to them. He had put them behind him.

  Long ago.

  The cat was within a hundred yards of the Connecticut shoreline when the wind abruptly shifted—as winds do when buffeted against solid ground from open water. Trevayne swung his legs over the starboard hull and pulled the mainsheet taut as the small craft swerved and lurched to the right toward the dock.

  Trevayne was a large man. Not immense, just larger than most men, with the kind of supple coordination that bespoke of a far more active youth than he ever bothered to reminisce about. He remembered reading an article in Newsweek, surprised at the descriptions of his former playing-field prowess. They’d been greatly exaggerated, as all such descriptions were in such articles. He’d been good, but not that good. He always had the feeling that he looked better than he was, or his efforts camouflaged his shortcomings.

  But he knew he was a good sailor. Maybe more than good.

  The rest was meaningless to him. It always had been, except for the instant of competition.

  There would be intolerable competition facing him now. If he made the decision. The kind of competition that allowed no quarter, that involved strategies not listed in any rulebook. He was good at those strategies, too. But not from participation; that was important, immeasurably important to him.

  Understand them, be capable of maneuver, even skirt the edges, but never participate. Instead, use the knowledge to gain the advantage. Use it without mercy, without quarter.

  Andrew kept a small pad fastened to a steel plate on the deck next to the tiller. Attached to the plate was a thin rust-proof chain that housed a waterproof casing with a ball-point pen. He said these were for recording times, markers, wind velocities—whatever. Actually, the pad and pen were for jotting down stray thoughts, ideas, memoranda for himself.

  Sometimes things … just “things” that seemed clearer to him while on the water.

  Which was why he was upset when he looked down at the pad now. He had written one word. Written it unconsciously, without realizing it.

  Boston.

  He ripped off the page, crumpled it with far more intensity than the action called for, and threw it into the sound.

  Goddamn! Goddamn it! he thought. No!

  The catamaran pulled into the slip, and Trevayne reached over the side and held the edge of the dock with his right hand. With his left he pulled the release sheet, and the sail fluttered as it buckled. He secured the boat and stood up, pulling down the rest of the canvas, rolling it around the horizontal mast as he did so. In less than four minutes he had dismantled the tiller, stowed the jacket, lashed the sail, and tied off the boat at four corners.

  He looked up beyond the stone wall of the terrace to the wood and glass structure that jutted from the edge of the hill. It never ceased to excite him. Not the material possession; that wasn’t important any longer. But that it had all come out the way he and Phyl planned it.

  They had done it together; that fact was very important. It might never make up for other things, perhaps. Sadder things. But it helped.

  He walked to the stone path by the boathouse and started up the steep incline to the terrace. He could always tell what kind of shape he was in by the time he reached midpoint of the climb. If he was out of breath, or his legs ached, he would silently vow to eat less or exercise more. He was pleased to find that there was little discomfort now. Or perhaps his mind was too preoccupied to relate the stress.

  No, he was feeling pretty good, he thought. The week away from the office, the continuous salt air, the pleasantly energetic end of the summer months; he was feeling fine.

  And then he remembered the pad and the unconsciously—subconsciously—written word. Boston.

  He didn’t really feel fine at all.

  He rounded the last steps to the flagstone terrace and saw that his wife was lying back in a deck chair, her eyes open, staring out at the water, seeing nothing he would see. He always felt a slight ache when he watched her like that. The ache of sad, painful memories.

  Because of Boston, goddamn it.

  He realized that his sneakers had covered the sound of his steps; he didn’t want to startle her.

  “Hi,” he said softly.

  “Oh?” Phyllis blinked. “Have a good sail, darling?”

  “Fine. Good sleep?” Trevayne crossed over to her and kissed her lightly on her forehead.

  “Great while it lasted. It was interrupted.”

  “Oh? I thought the kids drove Lillian into town.”

  “It wasn’t the kids. Or Lillian.”

  “You sound ominous.” Trevayne reached into a large rectangular cooler on the patio table and withdrew a can of beer.

  “Not ominous. But I am curious.”

  “What are you talking about?” He ripped off the flip-top on the can and drank.

  “Franklyn Baldwin telephoned.… Why haven’t you returned his calls?”

  Trevayne held the beer next to his lips and looked at his wife. “Haven’t I seen that bathing suit on someone else?”

  “Yes, and I thank you for the compliment—intended or not—and I’d still like to know why you haven’t called him.”

  “I’m trying to avoid him.”

  “I thought you liked him.”

  “I do. Immensely. All the more reason to avoid him. He’s going to ask me for something, and I’m going to refuse him. At least, I think he’ll ask me, and I want to refuse him.”

  “What?”

  Trevayne walked absently to the stone wall bordering the terrace and rested the beer can on the edge. “Baldwin wants to recruit me. That’s the rumor; I think it’s called a ‘trial balloon.’ He heads up that commission on defense spending. They’re forming a subcommittee to make what they politely phrase an ‘in-depth study’ of Pentagon relationships.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Four or five companies—conglomerates, really—are responsible for seventy-odd percent of the defense budget. In one way or another. There’s no effective control any longer. This subcommittee’s supposed to be an investigative arm of the Defense Commission. They’re looking for a chairman.”

  “And you’re it?”

  “I don’t want to be it. I’m happy where I am. What I’m doing now is positive; chairing that committee would be the most negative thing I can think of. Whoever takes the job will be a national pariah … if he only half works at it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the Pentagon’s a mess. It’s no secret; read the papers. Any day. It’s not even subtle.”

  “Then why would anyone be a pariah for trying to fix it? I understand making enemies, not a national pariah.”

  Trevayne laughed gently as he carried the beer over to a chair next to his wife and sat down. “I love you for your New England simplicity. Along with the bathing suit.”

  “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.”