Scruff

by Robert Ludlum

  “What about Genessee Industries?”

  “It’s the goddamned key!” Armbruster whipped his head around and stared at Andy. “It’s the funnel.… It’s accepted; what more can I tell you? It’s the watering hole we constantly replenish, it never runs dry.… It’s got Mother, God, Country, Liberal, Conservative, Republican, Democrat, Bullmoose, and so help me Christ, the Communes, all wrapped into one! It’s the answer to every political animal’s hunger.… And the strangest thing of all is that it does a good job. That’s what’s remarkable.”

  “I don’t think you settle for that, Senator.”

  “Of course I don’t, young man!… I’ve got two more years to go; I won’t run again. I’ll be sixty-nine years old, that’s enough.… Then, perhaps, I’ll sit back and wonder.”

  “With a Genessee directorship?”

  “Probably. Why not?”

  Trevayne leaned his back against the railing and took out his cigarettes. Armbruster lit one for him. “Thank you.… Let me try to put this into perspective, Senator.”

  “Do more than that, Trevayne. Drop it from your schedule. Go after the profiteers; what you and your subcommittee should be doing. Genessee doesn’t qualify. It may be too big, but it produces. It’s borne scrutiny well.”

  It was Trevayne’s turn to laugh, and he did. Out loud and derisively. “It’s borne scrutiny because it’s too damned big, too complicated to scrutinize! And you know it as well as I know what’s happening in … what did you say?—‘every agency in Washington.’ That flag won’t get up the pole, Senator. Genessee Industries, the ‘watering hole,’ is the fifty-first state. The difference being that the other fifty are beholden to it. Obligated, I think, in a very dangerous way.”

  “That’s overstating the case.”

  “It’s understating it. Genessee has no constitution, no two-party system, no checks and balances.… What I want to know from you, Senator, is who are the princes? Who rules this self-contained, self-sufficient, ever-expanding kingdom? And I don’t refer to the corporate structure.”

  “I don’t know that anybody … rules. Other than its management.”

  “Which management? I’ve met them; even the money man, Goddard. I don’t believe it.”

  “Its board of directors.”

  “That’s too easy. They’re place cards at a dinner table.”

  “Then I can’t answer you. Not ‘won’t,’ ‘can’t.’ ”

  “Are you implying that it just grew—a Topsy?”

  “That may be more accurate than you realize.”

  “Who speaks for Genessee to the Senate?”

  “Oh, Lord, scores of people. There are a dozen committees in which Genessee figures. It’s the predominant factor in the aircraft lobby.”

  “Aaron Green?”

  “I’ve met Green, of course. Can’t say I know him.”

  “Isn’t he the real account man?”

  “He owns an advertising agency, if that’s what you mean. Along with ten or twenty other companies.”

  “It wasn’t a pun, Senator. The accounts I refer to go beyond advertising, although they may be considered part of it.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “We’ve established that Aaron Green administers between seven and twelve million a year—conceivably more—for the purposes of convincing the Washington bureaucracy of the patriotic validity of Genessee Industries and—”

  “All registered—”

  “Most buried. Anyone with that kind of fiscal responsibility generally has the authority that goes with it.”

  “You’re speculating.”

  “I certainly am. Over unbelievable amounts of petty cash. Year after year.… Does Green hold the reins?”

  “Goddamn, son, you’re looking for villains! ‘Account men,’ ‘rulers,’ ‘kingdoms,’ ‘holding reins’.… ‘Fifty-first state’!” Armbruster tapped his pipe violently against the railing, clearing out the bowl. Several specks of burning tobacco fell on the back of the Senator’s hand, which shook in anger, but Armbruster did not seem to feel the pain. “Listen to me. For all my political life I’ve clashed with the big boys! I naven’t shrunk. Read over some of those speeches I’ve made at conventions! I’ve set policy! If you recall, a whole goddamn contingent of right-wingers walked out on me—walked out—in the fifty convention! I didn’t waver; I was right!”

  “I remember. You were quite a hero.”

  “I was right! That’s the important thing.… But I was also wrong. You didn’t expect me to say that, did you? I’ll tell you where I was wrong. I didn’t try to understand; I didn’t try hard enough to get to the roots of their thinking, their fears. I didn’t try to use the powers of reason. I just condemned. I found my villains, raised my sword of wrath, and smote the hordes of Lucifer.… Some awfully good men went out of the hall that day. They never came back.”

  “Are you drawing a parallel?”

  “Of course I am, young man. You think you’ve found your villain, your emissary from Lucifer. Your villain is a concept—bigness. And you’re prepared to impale anyone who accepts any aspect of it with your sword of wrath.… And that could be a tragic error.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Genessee Industries has been responsible for a great deal of social good. Very progressive accomplishments. Did you know, for example, that there are drug clinics, day-care centers, mobile medical units in the hearts of some of California’s worst ghetto areas, thanks to Genessee? A retraining center for ex-convicts in Cape Mendocino that’s considered a model rehabilitation operation? Genessee financing, Mr. Trevayne. There’s even the Armbruster Research Cancer Clinic in San Jose. Yes, my name, Trevayne; I convinced Genessee to donate the land and much of the equipment.… Lower your sword, young man.”

  Trevayne turned away, just enough to avoid having to look at Mitchell Armbruster. To avoid watching a man who’d traded the voting strength of millions for tax-deductible marbles.

  “Then there’s no harm in bringing it all out in the open. Let the country know how it’s twice blessed. It gets Genessee’s superior products as well as its charity.”

  “You do that, and they’ll phase out the programs.”

  “Why? For being publicly thanked?”

  “You know as well as I do that whenever the business community takes on these projects it reserves the right to release only the information it wishes. They’d be swamped.”

  “They’d be suspect.”

  “Whatever. The losers are in the ghettos, the barrios. Do you want to be responsible?”

  “For God’s sake, Senator, I want someone to be responsible!”

  “Not everyone’s as fortunate as you, Trevayne. We can’t all sit in our lofty perches and look down with such impunity—and, I suspect, no little disdain—at the struggle beneath us. Most of us join in that struggle and do the best we can. For others as well as ourselves.”

  “Senator, I’m not going to argue utilitarian philosophy with you. You’re a debater, I’m not. Maybe we have no quarrel. I don’t know. You said your term expires in two years; I’ve got about two months. Our report will be finished by then. For what it’s worth, I think you’ve accommodated in good faith; you’ve contributed a great deal of good to a great many people. You may be on the side of the angels, while I’m the one making pacts with Lucifer. Maybe.”

  “We all of us do what we can. The best way we can.”

  “Again, maybe. Don’t interfere with my two months, and I’ll do my damnedest not to create any problems for your two years. A simple accommodation, Senator.”

  Trevayne’s Lear jet climbed rapidly to its cruising altitude of thirty-eight thousand feet. He’d be landing at Westchester airport in a little over an hour. He had decided to surprise Phyllis at the Darien Hospital. He needed the rest, needed the comfort of her gentle humor, her essential reasonableness. And, too, he wanted to allay her fears; she’d been afraid but was too unselfish to burden him.

  Then tomorrow morning or afternoon or evening t
here was Aaron Green.

  Four down, two to go.

  Aaron Green, New York.

  Ian Hamilton, Chicago.

  26

  Major Paul Bonner found himself actually issuing orders to Brigadier General Lester Cooper. Orders to use only the best CID undercover men and have them span out through Pasadena, Houston, and Seattle. To reach Genessee or Bellstar personnel substantively related to any of the issues raised at the San Francisco conference. In Houston, since it was already established that Ryan hadn’t gone to the labs, the agents should check with NASA high-level personnel. There had to be any number who knew Ryan; perhaps leads could be unearthed.

  Bonner even suggested covers for the agents to use. The men should state that the subcommittee had received threatening communications—letters, telephone calls, et cetera.

  It was the sort of cover that led easily into expansive conversations. Civilians were always eager to help the military when it was protecting someone. The mere confidence broke down reticence, especially when the inquiries had nothing to do with them.

  Something was bound to turn up.

  And if and when it did, Bonner asked the General to please alert him before taking action, before confronting anyone. He knew Andrew Trevayne better than Cooper did, better than anybody at Defense. He might have suggestions.

  The Brigadier was delighted to share his responsibility with the Young Turk.

  The last request Bonner made of his superior officer was to have a fighter jet sent down from the Air Force base at Billings, Montana.

  If it became necessary, he was going to follow Andrew Trevayne.

  It would become necessary if he could learn who Trevayne had gone to see. That he’d left for Washington, Bonner knew; the Lear flight plan had been filed with Ada County Traffic Control.

  But who in Washington?

  There was a chance of finding out, but it would have to wait until morning. He was having breakfast with Alan and Sam; he wondered if Mike Ryan would be there. After breakfast Martin and Vicarson had a final short meeting in Boise; they were all meeting at the airport for a noon plane to Denver.

  During that hour or two, Major Paul Bonner would do some reconnoitering.

  Paul watched Alan Martin and Sam Vicarson leave the hotel dining room, off to their final Boise conference.

  He waited until they’d gone through the dining-room door, then rapidly left the table and followed them into the lobby. Martin stopped at the newsstand, while Vicarson went to the information desk. Bonner kept his back to them, pretending to look over the “Nightly Entertainment” case. Thirty seconds later Vicarson joined Martin at the newsstand, and the two men walked toward the front entrance. Bonner went to the lobby window and watched them get into a cab.

  He’d try Vicarson’s room first. Sam seemed closer to Trevayne—or at least the one Andy delegated more authority to. If the front desk balked, he’d give a simple explanation that Sam forgot important papers. The clerk was the one on duty when they’d checked in together. If the clerk proved difficult, Bonner would produce several plastic identifications that would scare the hell out of him.

  But when Bonner asked for the key, the laconic clerk handed it to him without question.

  Inside Vicarson’s room he started with the bureau drawers. There was nothing in them, and Bonner smiled; Sam was young. He lived out of a suitcase and a closet.

  The suitcase was filled with unlaundered shirts, socks, and underwear. Vicarson was not only young but sloppy, thought Bonner.

  He closed the suitcase, lifted it off the bed, and since the desk was nearest, he sat down at it and opened the single top drawer. Stationery had been used, not the envelopes. He picked up the wastebasket and removed two pages of crumpled paper.

  One had figures with dollar signs, and Bonner recognized the information as pertinent to a Lockheed subcontractor he’d heard them all talking about.

  The other had numbers also, but not dollars. Times. And several notations: “7:30-8:00 Dls.; 10:00-11:30 S.A. Qu.; Data—Grn. N.Y.”

  Bonner looked at the paper. The “7:30-8:00” was Trevayne’s arrival time; he’d learned that from Ada Traffic Control. The “10:00-11:30 S.A. Qu.” was indecipherable. So, too, was the last line “Data—Grn. N.Y.” He took out his ball-point pen and copied the words onto a fresh page, folded it, and put it in his pocket.

  He recrumpled the stationery, threw it in the wastebasket, and put the receptacle back on the floor.

  In Vicarson’s closet he separated the trousers from the jackets and began going through the pockets. He found it in the breast pocket of the second jacket. It was a precisely folded, precisely lettered note from a small appointments book, and it was between several baggage claim-checks. It was the sort of reminder a bright but often careless man might jot down because the information seemed so vital. It read: “Armbruster. $178 Mill. Duplications. No Defense request. Six-month time lapse. Guarantees confirmed by J.G.’s top acct, L.R. Paid L.R. $300. L.R. offers add’l. data on Pasadena, Bellstar, etc. Price—4 figures.”

  Bonner stared at the note, his anger rising. Had Sam Vicarson met “L.R.” in a crowded, dimly lit San Francisco cellar with a heavy odor of “hash” and a bartender only too willing to exchange large bills for smaller ones? Had Sam been told he could make whatever notes he wished as long as he didn’t ask “L.R.” to write anything? Had “L.R.” fed Vicarson that garbage about a blown-out stomach and a justifiable eagerness to steal from whoever was an accessible mark? Sam was not only young and sloppy, he was also naïve and an amateur. He paid for conjectures, for lies, and then forgot to destroy his notes. Bonner had burned his own notebook. It was so easy to forget—if one was an inept beaver.

  The Major instantly made up his mind to carry out his threat; he’d find “L.R.” and blow out the rest of his stomach.

  Later.

  Now he had to reach Trevayne. Andrew had to understand that the sewer rats, the double-a’s, dealt in lies. Lies and half-lies were their merchandise. Find opponents and feed them—scraps, fragments, appetizers. Always with the promise of vital, explosive information to follow.

  Better, create opponents.

  Trevayne wasn’t standing by a possibly diseased wife—such a cheap, undistinguished artifice; he was in Washington seeing the Senator from California. Armbruster was a good man, a friend to Genessee, a powerful friend. But he was a senator. Senators were easily frightened. They pretended not to be, but they always were.

  Bonner put Vicarson’s note in his pocket and left the room. Down in the lobby he returned the key to the front desk and went to a pay phone; he couldn’t use the telephone in his room—hotels recorded numbers. He called the airport and asked for Operations.

  The stand-by fighter jet from Air Force, Billings, Montana, was to be prepared immediately. Flight plan, straight through to Andrews Field, Virginia. Priority clearance, Defense Department.

  As he started for the elevator to go to his room, pack, and check out, Paul Bonner had two reasons to reach Trevayne. One professional, the other personal.

  Trevayne had involved himself and his goddamned subcommittee in a witch hunt that had to stop now. They were playing games they didn’t understand. They didn’t know the jungles. Beavers never did.

  The other reason was the very personal lie.

  That was sickening.

  27

  Phyllis Trevayne sat in the chair and listened to her husband as he paced the private hospital room. “It sounds like an extraordinary monopoly, complete with state and federal protection.”

  “Not just protection, Phyl. Participation. The active participation of the legislative and the judicial. That makes it more than a monopoly. It’s some kind of giant cartel without definition.”

  “I don’t understand. That’s semantics.”

  “Not when the election of a senior senator from the country’s most populous state is one result. Or when a decision rendered by an eminent jurist is a Justice Department compromise. That decision—even if even
tually appealed and overturned—will cost millions … billions, before it gets through the courts.”

  “What will you learn from these last two? This Green and Ian Hamilton?”

  “Probably more of the same. At different levels. Armbruster used the term ‘funnel,’ referring to the Genessee appropriations. I think it also applies to Aaron Green. Green’s the funnel in which enormous sums of house money are poured, and he allocates it. Year after year.… Hamilton’s the one that scares me. He’s been a presidential adviser for years.”

  Phyllis heard the fear in her husband’s voice. He had walked to the window by the bed and leaned against the sill, his face next to the glass. Outside, the late-afternoon sky was overcast; there would be snow flurries by nightfall.

  “It seems to me you should be careful before you make assumptions.”

  Andy looked over at his wife and smiled with affection, with relief. “If you knew how many times I’ve reminded myself of that; it’s the toughest part.”

  “I should think it would be.”

  The telephone rang on the night table. Phyllis went to it. Andy remained by the window. The patrol from 1600 knew he was there, and the doctor. No one else.

  “Certainly, Johnny,” said Phyllis as she handed the telephone to her husband. “It’s John Sprague.”

  Trevayne pushed himself away from the window. John Sprague, M.D., F.A.C.S., was an across-the-street boyhood friend from Boston. He was now as close a friend as he had been then. And their family physician.

  “Yes, Johnny?”

  “I don’t know how far you want to go with this Hasty Pudding stuff, but the switchboard says there’s a call for you. If you’re not here, the call’s supposed to be given to Phyl’s doctor. I can handle it, Andy.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Man named Vicarson.”

  “God, isn’t he something?”

  “He may be. He’s also got the price of a toll call.”

  “I know. Denver. Can you have it switched here, or shall I go down to the board?”