Scruff

by Robert Ludlum

  On Rhode Island Avenue he’d noticed a gray Pontiac sedan maneuver into a parking space half a block behind him—heard the Pontiac’s rear tires scraping the curb.

  Twenty minutes later, as he had walked to the front door of Hill’s Georgetown house, he had heard the bells of a knife-sharpening truck, a small van driving slowly down the cobblestone street soliciting business from the uniformed maids. He had smiled, thinking the sight an anachronism, a throwback to his teen-age Boston memories.

  Then he saw it again; there was the gray Pontiac. It was behind the slow-moving van, its driver obviously annoyed; the street was narrow, and the small truck was not accommodating. The Pontiac was unable to pass.

  As Trevayne reached the top of the Capitol’s steps he made a mental note to check with Webster at the White House. Perhaps Webster had assigned separate guards for him, although such precautions were unnecessary. Not that he was brave; he was simply too well known a figure now, and he rarely traveled alone. This afternoon was an exception.

  He turned on the last step and looked down at the street. The gray Pontiac wasn’t in sight, but there were dozens of automobiles—some parked, with drivers inside, some moving slowly past. Any one of them might have been radioed from Georgetown.

  He entered the building and went immediately to the information desk. It was almost four o’clock, and he was expected at the office of National District Statistics before the end of the day. He wasn’t sure what the N.D.S. information would prove, if, indeed, he could extract any information to begin with, but it was another alley, another possible connection between seemingly unrelated facts.

  National District Statistics was a computerized laboratory that more logically should have been housed at Treasury. That it wasn’t was merely another inconsistency in this town of contradictions, thought Trevayne. National District Statistics kept up-to-the-month records of regional employment directly affected by government projects. It duplicated the work of a dozen other offices but was somewhat different in the sense that its information was general; “projects” included everything from partial payment of state highways to federal participation in school construction. From aircraft factories to the renovation of park areas. In other words, it was a catch-all for explaining the allocation of tax money, and as such was used incessantly, prodigiously, by politicians justifying their existences. The figures could, of course, be broken down into categories, if one preferred, but that was rarely the case. The totals were always more impressive than their collective parts.

  As he neared the N.D.S. door, Trevayne reconsidered the logic of its location; it was, after all, quite proper that N.D.S. be close to the offices of those who needed it most.

  In essence, why he was there.

  Trevayne put the papers down on the table. It was a few minutes after five, and he’d been reading in the small cubicle for nearly an hour. He rubbed his eyes and saw that one of the minor custodians was looking through the glass-paneled door; it was past closing, and the clerk was anxious to shut the office and leave. Trevayne would give him a ten-dollar bill for the delay.

  It was a ludicrous exchange. Information involving—at a rough estimate—two hundred and thirty million for the gratuity of ten dollars.

  But there it was—two increases of 148 million and 82 million respectively. Each increase predominantly the result of defense contracts—coded as “DF” in the schedules; both “unexpected,” if Trevayne’s newspaper reading was accurate. Sudden windfalls for each constituency.

  Yet both had been predicted with incredible accuracy by the two candidates running for reelection in their respective states.

  California and Maryland.

  Senators Armbruster and Weeks. The short, compact pipe-smoking Armbruster. And Alton Weeks, the polished aristocrat from Maryland’s Eastern Shore.

  Armbruster had faced a tough challenger for his incumbency. Northern California’s unemployment was dangerously, if temporarily, high, and the polls indicated that his opponent’s attacks on Armbruster’s failure to garner government contracts were having an effect on the voters. Armbruster, in the last days of the campaign, suddenly injected a subtle note that probably turned the election in his favor. He insinuated that he was in the process of obtaining defense money in the neighborhood of one hundred and fifty million. A figure which even the state economists admitted was sufficient to prime the pumps of the state’s northern recovery.

  Weeks: also an incumbent, but faced not so much by competition as by a campaign deficit. Money was tight in the Maryland coffers, and the prestigious Weeks family reluctant to underwrite the entirety. According to the Baltimore Sun, Alton Weeks met privately with a number of Maryland’s leading business figures and told them Washington’s purse strings were loosening. They could be assured of a minimum of eighty million directed into Maryland’s industrial economy.… Weeks’s campaign resources were suddenly substantial.

  Yet the election of both senators had taken place six months prior to each allocation. And although it was possible that both men had been huddling with defense appropriations, it wasn’t logical that they could have been so precise as to the amounts. Not unless arrangements were made; arrangements more concerned with politics than with national security.

  And both senators dealt with the same Defense contractor.

  Genessee Industries.

  Armbruster funded developments in Genessee’s new high-altitude Norad interceptors, a questionable project from the outset.

  Weeks had managed to finance an equally suspect undertaking with a Maryland subsidiary of Genessee’s. A coastal radar network improvement “justified” by two isolated aircraft penetrating the coastal screen several years ago.

  Trevayne gathered the papers together and stood up. He signaled the clerk through the glass panel and reached into his pocket.

  Out on the street he considered going to a pay phone and calling William Hill. He had to see Hill about another “project,” one that dealt with naval intelligence and might surface in a matter of days, perhaps hours, because of Trevayne. It was why he’d driven out to Georgetown earlier; it was not the sort of conversation one had on the telephone.

  The Navy Department had been authorized to equip four atomic submarines with the most sophisticated electronic intelligence instruments available, the equipment to be installed within twelve months of authorization. The due date had long since passed; two of the electronics firms contracted had declared bankruptcy; the four submarines were still in dry dock, essentially inoperable.

  During his staff’s preliminary work an angry lieutenant commander, one of the four submarine skippers, had openly criticized the operation. Word of the naval officer’s complaints to an official audience had reached an aggressive Washington newsman named Roderick Bruce, who threatened to break the story in print. The Central Intelligence. Agency and the Navy Department were in panic, genuine panic. Making public the undersea electronic installations was dangerous in itself; acknowledging the foulups compounded that danger, and admitting the current inoperability of the ships was an open invitation for Russian and Chinese saber-rattling.

  It was a sensitive situation, and Trevayne’s subcommittee was being blamed for creating risks far greater than any good it might achieve.

  Trevayne knew that sooner or later the specter of “dangerous intrusion” would be raised. He had prepared himself for it, made clear his fundamental opposition to burying incompetence—or worse—under the label of “classified, top secret.”

  For such labels were too easily come by; even if sincerely arrived at, they were only judgments, singular positions.

  There were other judgments, opposing positions. And he would not back off unless those opinions were analyzed as well. Once he did, once he retreated, his subcommittee would be emasculated. He could not allow that precedent.

  And there was a side issue—unprovable, only rumor, but in line with everything they were learning.

  Genessee Industries once again.

  The bac
k-room legal talk was that Genessee was preparing to submit bids to take over the electronics installation of the submarines. The gossip was that Genessee had brought about the bankruptcies; had created sufficient subcontracting problems for the remaining two, that their agreements with the Navy Department were as good as void.

  Trevayne walked into a drugstore, to the telephone booth, and dialed Hill’s number.

  The Ambassador, of course, would see him immediately.

  “To begin with, the CIA’s assumption that the Russians and the Chinese are oblivious to the situation is ridiculous. Those submarines have been beached in New London for months; simple observation tells them their conditions.”

  “Then I’m right to press it?”

  “I’d say so,” answered Hill behind the mahogany table which served as his desk. “I’d also suggest that you give the Agency and the Navy the courtesy of talking to this newsman, this Bruce fellow; see if you can’t get him to ease up a bit. Their fears are real to them, if only for their own skins.”

  “I’ve no objection to that. I just don’t want to be put in the position of taking my staff off a project.”

  “I don’t think you should.… I don’t think you will.”

  “Thank you.”

  William Hill leaned back in his chair. His advice dispensed with, he wanted to chat. “Tell me, Trevayne. It’s been two months. What do you think?”

  “It’s crazy. I know that’s a frivolous word, but at this point it’s the most descriptive. The economics of the biggest corporation in the world are run by lunatics.… Or, perhaps, that’s the image that’s meant to be projected.”

  “I assume you refer to the aspect of … ‘you’ll-have-to-check-with-someone-else.’ ”

  “Exactly. Nobody makes a decision—”

  “Responsibility’s to be avoided at all costs,” interrupted Hill with a benign smile. “Not much different from the outside. Each to his own level of incompetence.”

  “I’ll accept that in the private sector. It’s a form of survival-waste, if there’s such a term. But it’s controllable, when control is wanted. But that’s private, not public money.… Down here that theory shouldn’t prove out. This is civil service. Given a period of time—say, enough so as to be in a decision-making position—a man’s security is automatic. The games aren’t necessary. Or they shouldn’t be.”

  “You’re oversimplifying.”

  “I know, but it’s a starting point.” Trevayne recalled with amusement that he used his son’s words.

  “There are formidable pressures on people in this town. The results often lead to ostracism, which can be as important as security to all but the strongest. Scores of departments, including the Pentagon, demand commitments in the name of national interest; manufacturers demand the contracts and send highly paid lobbyists to get them; organized labor plays them all off against each other and threatens with strikes and votes. Finally, the senators and congressmen—their districts cry out for the economic benefits derived from the whole bundle.… Where do you find the independent, or incorruptible, man within such a system?”

  Trevayne saw that Big Billy Hill was staring at the wall. Staring at nothing anyone else would see. The Ambassador had not asked the question of his guest, but of himself. William Hill was ultimately, after a long life, a profound cynic.

  “The answer to that, Mr. Ambassador, lies somewhere between our being a nation of laws, and the checks and balances of a relatively free society.”

  Hill laughed. It was the tired laugh of an old man who still possessed his juices. “Words, Trevayne, words. You throw in the Malthusian law of economics—which can be reduced to the human condition of wanting more, to somebody else’s less—and the pot goes to the man who has raised the biggest bet … or bank. That’s what our friends in the Soviet Union have found out; why the primary theories of Marx and Engels won’t wash. You can’t change the human condition.”

  “I don’t agree; not about the Russians, the human condition. It changes constantly. We’ve seen that over and over again, especially in times of crisis.”

  “Certainly, crisis. That’s fear. Collective fear. The member subordinates his individual wants to tribal survival. Why do you think our socialist co-earthlings continually cry ‘emergency’? They’ve learned that much.… They’ve also learned that you can’t project crises ad infinitum; that’s against the human condition, too.”

  “Then I’d go back to the checks and balances … and a free society. You see, I really do believe it all works.”

  Hill leaned forward in his chair, putting his elbows on the table. He looked at Trevayne, and there was humor in his eyes. “Now I know why Frank Baldwin’s on your side. You’re like him in several ways.”

  “I’m flattered, but I never thought there was any similarity …”

  “Oh, but there is. You know, Frank Baldwin and I often talk as we’re talking now. For hours. We sit in one of our clubs, or in our libraries … surrounded by all this.” Hill gestured with his right hand, including—somewhat derisively—the entire room. “There we are, two old men sitting around making pronouncements. Reaching for our very expensive brandies; servants checking out of the corners of their eyes to see if we’re in need of anything. Comfort the prime consideration for our tired, breathing … rich corpses. And there we sit, dividing up the planet; each trying to convince the other what this part of the world will do and that part won’t do.… That’s what it all comes down to, you know. Anticipate the opposing interests; motives are no problem any longer. Just modus vivendis. The whats and hows; not the whys.”

  “Tribal survival.”

  “Precisely.… And Frank Baldwin, the toughest of the money lenders, a man whose signature can bankrupt small nations, tells me as you tell me now that underneath the frantic deceits—this global mendacity—there’s a workable solution. And I tell him there isn’t; not in his sense of the word. Nothing that can be set on a permanent course.”

  “There’ll always be change, granted. But I side with him; there has to be a solution.”

  “The solution, Trevayne, is in the ever-present search for one. Cycles of build-up and retreat. That’s your solution. Paratus, paratus.”

  “I thought you said that sort of thing was against the human condition; nations couldn’t project crises ad infinitum.”

  “Not inconsistent. Relief is constantly setting in. It’s in the retreats. They’re the breathing spells.”

  “That’s too dangerous; there has to be a better way.”

  “Not in this world. We’ve gone beyond that.”

  “I disagree again. We’ve just arrived at the point where it’s mandatory.”

  “All right. Let’s take your present bailiwick. You’ve seen enough; how are you going to implement your checks and balances? Your problems aren’t unlike the larger sphere of interacting nations; very similar in many ways. Where do you begin?”

  “By finding a pattern. A pattern with designs common to all the rest; as near as possible, at any rate.”

  “The Controller General’s done that, and so we formed the Defense Allocations Commission. The United Nations did the same, and we got the Security Council. The crises still exist; nothing much has changed.”

  “We have to keep looking—”

  “The solution, then,” interrupted Hill with a small triumphant smile, “is in the search. You see what I mean now? As long as the search goes on, we can breathe.”

  Trevayne shifted his position in the soft leather armchair. It was the same chair, he reflected, in which he had sat during the hastily summoned conference ten weeks ago. “I can’t accept that, Mr. Ambassador. It’s too impermanent, too subject to miscalculation. There’s better machinery than half-constructed scaffolds. We’ll find it.”

  “I repeat. Where do you begin?”

  “I’ve begun.… I meant what I said about finding a pattern. A single enterprise, large enough to require enormous funding; complex enough to involve scores, hundreds of contractors an
d subcontractors. A project which reaches into a dozen states for its components.… I’ve found it.”

  William Hill brought the thin fingers of his right hand to his chin. He kept his eyes on Trevayne. “Is your point to concentrate on one venture; to make an example?” The tone of Hill’s voice was unmistakably that of disappointment.

  “Yes. Assistants will continue with the other work; there’ll be no loss of continuity. But my four top men and I are concentrating on one corporation.”

  Hill spoke quietly. “I’ve heard the rumors. Perhaps you’ll find your enemy.”

  Trevayne lit a cigarette, watching the butane flame of his lighter reduce itself to a tiny yellow ball through the loss of fuel. “Mr. Ambassador, we’re going to need help.”

  “Why?” Hill began doodling on a notepad. The scratches of the pencil were deliberate, controlled—and angry.

  “Because a pattern is emerging that disturbs us very much. Let me put it this way: the clearer that pattern becomes, the more difficult it is to get specific information; we think we’ve nailed something, it eludes us. Explanations deteriorate to … what did you say a few minutes ago? ‘Words.’ ‘Check here,’ ‘check there,’ ‘check somewhere else.’ Specifics must be avoided at all costs, apparently.”

  “You must be dealing with a very diversified, spread-out organization.” Hill spoke in a monotone.

  “It has a subsidiary complex—to use one of my staff’s phrases—that is ‘goddamned unbelievable.’ The major plants are centralized on the West Coast, but the Chicago offices run its administration. Its dictatorship is enormous and—”

  “Read like a cross section of the West Point-Annapolis honor rolls.” Hill interrupted rapidly, quietly, the humor fading from his eyes.

  “I was going to include a number of highly placed—or once highly placed—residents of Washington. A few former senators and representatives, three or four cabinet appointments—going back over the years, of course.”

  William Hill picked up the notepad on which he’d been scratching, and put down his pencil.