Scruff

by Robert Ludlum

  “It strikes me, Trevayne, that you’re taking on the Pentagon, both houses of Congress, a hundred different industries, organized labor, and a few state governments thrown into the bargain.”

  Hill turned the pad around toward Trevayne.

  On it, hundreds of tiny lines converged to spell out two words. “Genessee Industries.”

  16

  His name was Roderick Bruce, and its sound was as intelligently contrived as the man. An ear-catching, theatrical name; a fast tongue; and a hard stare were the extensions of his reporting personality.

  He was syndicated in 891 papers across the country, had a standard lecture fee of three thousand dollars, which he invariably—publicly—donated to diverse charities, and, most surprising, was very much liked by his peers.

  The reason for his popularity within the fourth estate was easily explained, however. Rod Bruce—of the “Washington-New York media axis”—never forgot that he was born Roger Brewster of Erie, Pennsylvania, and among his journalistic brothers, was generous and always humorous in a self-deprecating way about his public image.

  In short, Rod was a nice guy.

  Except when it came to his sources of information and the intensity of his curiosity.

  He guarded the first zealously and was relentless in the second.

  Andrew Trevayne had learned this much about Bruce and looked forward to meeting him. The columnist was perfectly willing to discuss the story of the four inoperable atomic submarines. But he’d made it clear that the subcommittee chairman would have to present an incredibly strong argument for the newsman to suppress the story. It was scheduled for release in three days.

  And in what seemed an unusual courtesy, considering the situation, Bruce suggested that he come to Trevayne’s suite at the Potomac Towers at ten in the morning.

  When Trevayne saw the columnist enter his outer office, he was surprised by Bruce’s appearance. Not the face; the face was familiar through years of newspaper photographs accompanying the man’s columns—sharp features, deep-set eyes, longish hair before it was stylish. But his size. Roderick Bruce was a very short man, and this characteristic was accentuated by his clothes. Dark, conservative; seemingly overpressed. He looked like a little boy all dressed up for a Sunday-morning church service in a Norman Rockwell Saturday Evening Post cover. The longish hair being the one aspect of allowed independence, a little boy’s independence, in a newspaperman well into his fifties.

  Bruce followed the secretary through the door and extended his hand to Trevayne. Andrew was almost embarrassed to stand up and come around the desk. Bruce seemed actually shorter, smaller, at close proximity. But Roderick Bruce was no amateur at first meetings on a professional basis. He smiled as he gripped Trevayne’s hand firmly.

  “Don’t let my size fool you; I’m wearing my elevator shoes.… Nice to meet you, Trevayne.”

  In this brief salutation Bruce took care of two objectives. He humorously smoothed the awkward, obviously unmentionable aspect of his size, and by the use of Trevayne’s single last name, let Andy know they were on equal footing.

  “Thank you. Please, sit down.” Trevayne looked over at his secretary as she started out. “Hold my calls, will you, Marge? And close the door, please.” He returned to his chair as Roderick Bruce sat down in front of the desk.

  “These offices are certainly off the beaten track, aren’t they?”

  “I apologize; I hope the trip wasn’t inconvenient. I’d have been happy to meet you in town; it’s why I suggested lunch.”

  “No trouble. I wanted to scout this place for myself; a lot of people are talking about it. Funny, I don’t see any racks or whips or iron maidens.”

  “We keep that equipment locked up in a back room. More centralized that way.”

  “Good answer; I’ll use it.” Bruce took out a small notebook—a very small notebook, as if scaled to his size—and jotted down several words as Trevayne laughed. “You never can tell when a good direct quote will come in handy.”

  “It wasn’t particularly good.”

  “All right, then, humanizing. A lot of Kennedy’s quips were just as much humanizing as they were bright, you know.”

  “Which one?’

  “Jack’s. Bobby’s were labored, thought out. Jack was instinctively human … and humorous in a vulnerable way.”

  “I’m in good company.”

  “Not bad. But you’re not running for anything, so it doesn’t matter, does it?”

  “You took out the notebook, I didn’t.”

  “And it’s going to stay out, Mr. Trevayne.… Shall we talk about four submarines, each costing roughly one hundred and eighty million apiece, currently boondoggled in dry dock? Seven hundred and twenty million dollars’ worth of nothing.… You know it, I know it. Why shouldn’t the people who paid for it know also?”

  “Perhaps they should.”

  Bruce hadn’t expected Trevayne’s reply. He shifted his position in the chair and crossed his short legs. Andy wondered for a second if the newsman’s feet were touching the floor.

  “That’s very good, too. I won’t bother to write it down, because I’ll remember it.” Bruce folded the flap of his tiny notebook. “Then I assume you have no objection to my story.”

  “To be perfectly frank with you, I have no objections at all. Others have; I don’t.”

  “Then why did you want to see me?”

  “To … plead their case, I guess.”

  “I’ve turned them down. Why wouldn’t I turn you down?”

  “Because I’m a disinterested party; I can objectify. I think you have sound reasons for making public a very expensive fiasco, and if I were you, I’d probably release it without hesitation. On the other hand, I don’t have your experience. I wouldn’t know where to draw the line between a necessary reporting of incompetence and invading the areas of national security. I might shed light on that part.”

  “Oh, come on, Trevayne.” Roderick Bruce uncrossed his legs in annoyance. “I’ve heard that argument, and it won’t wash!”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “For reasons more valid than you’d ever suspect.”

  “If that’s the case, Mr. Bruce,” said Trevayne, taking out a pack of cigarettes, “you should have accepted my offer of lunch. We could have spent the rest of the meal in pleasant conversation. You don’t know it, but I’m an avid reader of yours. Cigarette?”

  Roderick Bruce stared at Trevayne, his lower lip fallen from his mouth. Since he did not reach for a cigarette, Trevayne shook one out for himself and leaned back in his chair while lighting it.

  “Jesus! You mean it,” said Bruce quietly.

  “I certainly do. I … suspect … the valid reasons you refer to cover the areas of security. If so, and I know damned well you didn’t get where you are by lying in these matters, I can’t offer any further argument.”

  “But my breaking it isn’t going to help you, is it?”

  “No, it’s not. It’ll be one bitch of a hindrance, to tell you the truth. But that’s my problem, not yours.”

  Bruce leaned slightly forward, his miniature frame somewhat ludicrous in the large leather chair. “You don’t have to have a problem.… And I don’t care if the room is bugged.”

  “If it’s what?” Trevayne sat up.

  “I don’t care if we’re taped; I gather we’re not. I’ll trade you off, Trevayne.… No hindrance from me; no problems with the New London mess. Simple trade. I’ll even give you a selection.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “We’ll start with yesterday.” Bruce lifted the right flap of his coat jacket and slowly reinserted his notebook. He did so stylistically, as if the action were symbolic of confidence. He held his gold pencil in his hands and revolved both ends between his fingers. “You spent an hour and twenty minutes at National District Statistics yesterday; from shortly after four to past closing. You requested the volumes for the states of California and Maryland for the periods covering the
past eighteen months. Now, given time, my office could easily go through the books and probably find what you were researching, but let’s face it, there are several thousand pages and a couple of hundred thousand insertions. What interests me is that you did the legwork yourself. Not a secretary, not even an aide. You were playing close poker. What did you get?”

  Trevayne tried to absorb Bruce’s words, the implications behind his words.

  “You were the gray Pontiac. You followed me in a gray Pontiac.”

  “Wrong, but interesting.”

  “You were on Rhode Island Avenue, and then you were in Georgetown. Behind a knife-sharpening truck.”

  “Sorry. Wrong again. If I want you followed, you’ll never know it. What did you go after at N.D.S.? That’s selection one. If it’s worth it, I’ll kill the sub story.”

  Trevayne’s mind was still on the Pontiac. He’d call Webster at the White House as soon as he got rid of Bruce.… He’d nearly forgotten about the Pontiac.

  “No deal, Bruce. It’s not worth it, anyway. It was background.”

  “All right, I’ll put my staff on the N.D.S. books. We’ll find it.… Selection two. This is rougher. There’s a rumor that six weeks ago, after your somewhat spectacular appearance at the Senate hearing, you met with the old boy from Nebraska a few hours before the Fairfax accident; that you had harsh words. Is it true, and what was the substance?”

  “The only person who could have heard that conversation was a man named Miller … Laurence Miller, as I recall. The chauffeur. Ask him. He’s told you this much, why not the rest?”

  “He’s loyal to the old man. He was also taken care of with a bequest. He won’t say; claims he never listened to back-seat talk. There was too much of it.”

  “No deal again. It was an honorable disagreement. If Miller tells you anything else, I’d question it if I were you.”

  “You’re not me.… One more selection; your last, Trevayne. If you cop out, I’ll be a big hindrance. I may even mention your attempt to ‘plead the case’ for suppression. How about that?”

  “You’re a revolting little man. I don’t think I’ll read your column anymore.”

  “Your words.”

  “Followed by others; out of context.”

  “Tell me about Bonner.”

  “Paul Bonner?” Trevayne had an uncomfortable feeling that Roderick Bruce’s last selection was the real reason he was there. Not that the first two choices were innocuous—they weren’t, they were unacceptable—but the newsman’s voice betrayed a degree of intensity absent from his other questions; his threat more direct.

  “Major Paul Bonner, no-middle-initial, serial number 158-3288; Special Forces, Intelligence Section, currently attached to Department of Defense. Recalled from Indochina, nineteen seventy after spending three months’ isolation in a military stockade—officer’s quarters, of course—awaiting court-martial. No interviews permitted; no information available. Except a happy little descriptive phrase coined by a general in Eye Corps: the ‘killer from Saigon.’ That’s the Bonner I’m referring to, Mr. Trevayne. And if you’re the avid reader of my work you say you are, you know I’ve stated that the mad Major should be locked up in Leavenworth, not walking the streets.”

  “I must have missed that day’s paper.”

  “Those days. What’s Bonner’s function? Why was he assigned to you? Did you know him before? Did you request him?”

  “You talk awfully fast.”

  “I’m awfully interested.”

  “Taking your questions in order—if I can; Bonner’s merely a liaison with Defense. If I need something he gets it. Those are his words, incidentally, and he’s been damned efficient. I have no idea why he was assigned to me; I’m also aware that he’s not particularly happy with the job. I didn’t know him, so obviously I couldn’t have requested him.”

  “Okay.” Bruce kept his eyes on Trevayne. He made small rapid vertical motions with his gold pencil against the air, against nothing. Again it was a gesture, an irritating one. “That checks out; that’s programmed. Now … do you believe it?”

  “Believe what?”

  “That the ‘killer from Saigon’ is simply a messenger boy? You really believe that?”

  “Of course I do. He’s been very helpful. These offices, arranging transportation, reservations all over the country. Whatever his opinions, they have no bearing on what he does around here.”

  “You mentioned your staff. Did he help you assemble it?”

  “Of course not.” Trevayne found himself raising his voice. His anger, he realized, was triggered because in the beginning Paul Bonner had tried to help him ‘assemble’ a staff. “To anticipate you, Major Bonner holds convictions which differ considerably from my own. We both understand that; neither expects to convert the other. Regardless, I trust him. Not that there’s any reason to use the term; he’s not involved with our work.”

  “I’d say he’s very much involved. He’s in a position to know what you’re doing. Who you’re talking to, which companies you’re looking into—”

  “That kind of information is hardly classified, Mr. Bruce,” interrupted Trevayne. “Frankly, I’m not sure what you’re driving at.”

  “It’s obvious. If you’re investigating a gang of thieves, you don’t rely on one of the biggest crooks in town to help you out.”

  Trevayne recalled Walter Madison’s initial reaction to Bonner. The attorney had observed that Defense wasn’t practicing much subtlety. “I think I can relieve your anxiety, Mr. Bruce. Major Bonner is in no way responsible for any decisions here. We don’t discuss our progress with him—except in the most general terms and if I’m not mistaken, usually with humor. He simply takes care of routine details; and as a matter of fact, far less so than at the beginning. My secretary has assumed most of those responsibilities and calls on Bonner only when she has problems. Defense is quite good at securing a difficult airlines reservation or locating a corporation man whose company has a Pentagon contract. I repeat he’s been very helpful.”

  “You’ll grant his being here on these premises is unusual.”

  “The military is not famous for its sensitivity, Mr. Bruce. I think that’s perhaps a good thing.… Look, we’re dealing with Defense economies; we need a liaison. Why the Army assigned Bonner, I can’t presume to say. But it did, and he’s been satisfactory. I won’t say he’s been inspired; I don’t think he has much use for us. However, he’s a good soldier. I believe he’d carry out whatever assignments given him, regardless of his personal feelings.”

  “Nicely said.”

  “There’s no other way to say it.”

  “You’re telling me he doesn’t try to represent the Pentagon viewpoint?”

  “On the few occasions when I’ve asked his opinion, he very much represents the military point of view. I’d be alarmed if he didn’t. Wouldn’t you be?… If you’re attempting to unearth some kind of conspiracy, you’re not going to find it. Using your own logic Mr. Bruce, we were aware of Bonner’s reputation. Or became aware of it. Naturally, we were concerned. Those concerns proved unwarranted.”

  “You’re not giving me what I want, Trevayne.”

  “It seems to me you want a headline for your column that says Bonner’s impeding the subcommittee’s progress. That he’s been assigned here so he can transmit classified information to his superiors. I told you, I’ve read your by-line, Bruce. It was a nice try, very logical. But it’s not true. It’s too goddamned obvious, and you know it.”

  “What are some of his opinions? I might settle for that. What’s he said that represents the ‘military point of view’?”

  Trevayne watched the diminutive columnist. He was becoming edgy, he was nervous now, as if he sensed he was about to lose something he wanted desperately. Andy recalled Paul Bonner’s harrowing counterstrategy against the hypothetical peace march—the troops, the swift repression—and knew this was the sort of thing Roderick Bruce wanted to print.

  “You’re paranoid. You’re will
ing to settle for just about anything that colors Bonner dirty, aren’t you?”

  “You got it, Trevayne. Because he is dirty. He’s a mad dog who should have been gassed three years ago.”

  “That’s a pretty strong indictment. If you feel that way, you’ve got the audience; tell them … if you can back it up.”

  “They cover for that son-of-a-bitch. They all cover for him. Up and down the line he’s sacred territory. Even with those who hate his guts—from the Mekong to Danang—no one’ll say a word. That bothers me. I’d think it would bother you, too.”

  “I don’t have your information. I’ve got enough problems without creating more from half-truths or half-lies. Put plainly, I’m not that interested in Major Bonner.”

  “Maybe you should be.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Think about something else, too. I’ll give you a couple of days. You’ve had conversations with Bonner; he spent a weekend with you in Connecticut. Call me and tell me about them. What he’s said to you may seem inconsequential. But coupled with what I’ve got could be important. You might be doing yourself and the country considerable service.”

  Trevayne rose from the chair, looking down at the small reporter. “Take your Gestapo tactics somewhere else, Mr. Bruce. No sale here.”

  Roderick Bruce knew through experience the disadvantages of standing up. He remained seated, fingering his gold pencil. “Don’t make an enemy of me, Trevayne. That’s foolish. I can shape that submarine story in such a way as to make you untouchable. People’ll run from you. Maybe worse; maybe they’ll just be laughing.”

  “Get out of here before I throw you out.”

  “Intimidating the press, Mr. Chairman? Threatening physical violence on a man of my size?”

  “Describe it any way you like. Just get out,” said Trevayne calmly.

  Roderick Bruce rose slowly, replacing the gold pencil in his breast pocket. “A couple of days, Trevayne. I’ll expect your call. You’re upset now, but things will clear up for you. You’ll see.”

  Trevayne watched the little-boy/old-man walk firmly with his short strides toward the office door. Bruce didn’t look back; he grasped the knob, pulled the door, and walked out. The heavy door banged against a chair in its backward path and vibrated slightly.