Scruff

by Robert Ludlum

  Every complex industry had to include budgeting projections for all contractual obligations. But Genessee’s master tape differed from the control data tapes of other corporations in a profound way.

  For the commitments of others were generally public knowledge, while Genessee Industries’ master tape included thousands of unannounced commitments. And each December brought new surprises seen by less than a dozen pairs of eyes. They spelled out a major portion of the military armaments program of the United States for the next five years. Pentagon commitments that neither the Congress nor the President knew existed. But they existed as surely as the steel and the politicians could be tempered.

  Since the master tape was processed on the basis of five-year data—each December brought a fresh fifth year and constantly swelling information for the years preceding. Nothing was ever deleted, only added.

  It was Goddard’s function as the financial keystone of Genessee Industries to absorb and coordinate the massive influx of listed and unlisted—old and new—material with respect to changing market conditions; to allocate financing to the divisions as necessary; and to distribute contractual workloads among the plants—always operating on the assumption that 120 percent of capacity was the median. Sufficient for optimum local employment statistics, yet not excessive to the point of affording unions undue strength. Seventy percent of that capacity was convertible without profit concern; to be given or taken away as the children behaved.

  And James Goddard knew that it was his ability, not the computers’, that reduced the incredible mass into workable figures. He separated, isolated, appropriated; his eyes scanned the sheets and with the surefootedness of a large but supple cat he made his swift notations and shifted millions as though he were testing branches, prepared for the unexpected fall but always ready for that last step, that final inch that meant he could leap for the profit-kill.

  There was no one like him. He was an artist with figures. Numbers were his friends; they didn’t betray him, and he could make them do his bidding.

  People betrayed him.

  MEMORANDUM: Mr. James Goddard, Pres., San Francisco Division

  There is a problem that I believe imperatively warrants your attention.

  L.R

  L.R. Louis Riggs. The Vietnam veteran Genessee had hired a year ago. A bright young man, unusually quick and decisive. He was quiet, but not without emotions, not without loyalty; that had been proven to Goddard.

  Riggs had been wounded in the service. He was a hero and a fine young American; not an obscene ass or an indolent, drug-taking hippie the way most of the youth were today.

  Lou Riggs had told him that something was going on he should be aware of. Riggs had been approached by one of Trevayne’s assistants and offered a bribe to confirm information damaging to Genessee—especially to him as president of the San Francisco Division. Naturally, Riggs refused. Then, several days later, a man who identified himself as an Army officer attached to the Department of Defense threatened him—actually threatened him—to disclose private company records that bore specifically on Mr. Goddard’s reputation. He also refused, and if Mr. Goddard recalled, Lou Riggs had sent a previous memo requesting a meeting—Mr. Goddard didn’t recall; there were so damned many memos. However, when Lou Riggs read in the newspaper that this same Army officer was the one involved with that killing in Connecticut, on Andrew Trevayne’s property, he knew he had to see Mr. Goddard immediately.

  Goddard wasn’t sure what was going on, but the outlines of a conspiracy were there. A conspiracy against him. Possibly being made between Trevayne and the Pentagon. Why else would D.O.D. send an interrogation officer to back up one of Trevayne’s assistants? And why had that same officer killed De Spadante’s brother?

  Why had Mario de Spadante been killed?

  It seemed logical that De Spadante was trying to get off his own hook.

  Some might be hanged so that others—higher up—would not have to hang.

  De Spadante had said that. But perhaps De Spadante wasn’t as “high up” as he thought he was. Perhaps the Pentagon considered him too much a liability—God knew he was an undesirable fellow.

  Whatever. James Goddard, the “bookkeeper,” had made up his mind. It was the moment to act, not reflect any longer. He needed only the most damaging of all information.

  There would be approximately eleven thousand cards measuring three by seven inches. Cards with strange square perforations; cards that weren’t to be folded, spindled, or mutilated. He had measured several thousand identically shaped cards, and found that eleven thousand would require four briefcases. He had them in the trunk of his car.

  The computer itself was another matter. It was huge and required two men to operate. For security purposes the men had to be across the room from each other and punch simultaneously separate codes on the keys for it to function. The codes of each man were changed daily, and the two codes were kept in separate offices. The division president’s and the comptroller’s.

  It hadn’t been difficult for Goddard to get the second code for the twenty-four-hour period beginning Sunday morning. He’d simply walked into the comptroller’s office and said innocently that he thought they’d been given identical code schedules by mistake. Equally innocently the comptroller withdrew his from the safe, and they matched figures. Instantly it was obvious that Goddard had been wrong; the codes were different. But within that instant James Goddard’s eyes riveted on the Sunday figures. He committed them to memory.

  Numbers were his only friends.

  Still there was the physical aspect of the machine itself. He needed one other person who would be willing to spend nearly six hours in the basement computer room; someone whom he could trust, who realized that his actions were for the benefit of Genessee Industries, perhaps for the nation itself.

  He’d been astonished when the man he’d selected had made a financial demand, but then, as he pointed out, it could be considered a promotion, an overdue promotion. Before he realized it, Goddard had hired a special assistant at an increase of ten thousand dollars a year.

  It didn’t matter. What mattered was this day’s business, this day’s decision.

  He approached the gate and slowed down his car. The guard, recognizing first the automobile and then the driver, snapped a firm two fingers to his cap.

  “Good morning, Mr. Goddard. No Sunday off for the front office, eh, sir?”

  Goddard didn’t like the man’s informality. It was out of place. However, there was no time for reprimands.

  “No, I have work to do. And, guard, I’ve asked Mr. Riggs to come in this morning. There’s no need to check him out with security. Tell him to report directly to my office.”

  “Mr. Riggs, sir?”

  “You should know him. He was wounded fighting for our country, protecting us, mister!”

  “Yes, sir. Riggs, sir.” The guard wrote the name on his clipboard rapidly.

  “He drives a small sports car,” added Goddard as an afterthought. “Just wave him through. His initials are on the door panel. L.R.”

  46

  Sam Vicarson sank into the down-filled cushion of the velvet sofa and found his knees disconcertingly parallel with his shoulders. Andrew Trevayne sat at the room-service table and sipped coffee from a Limoges cup imprinted with the words “Waldorf Towers, New York.” He was reading from a very thick red leather notebook.

  “Jesus!” said Vicarson.

  “What?”

  “No wonder so many uptight conferences take place in these rooms. Once you sit down, you can’t get up; you might as well talk.”

  Trevayne smiled and went back to his reading. Sam stretched his legs, only to find the position less comfortable. With considerable effort he got up and wandered about the room looking at the various prints on the velour-covered walls and finally out the windows, thirty-five stories above Park Avenue and Fiftieth Street. Trevayne made a notation on a piece of paper, closed the red leather notebook, and looked at his watch.

>   “They’re five minutes late. I wonder if that’s a good sign in politics,” said Andrew.

  “I’d be just as happy if they never showed up,” replied Sam, without answering the question. “I feel outclassed. Christ. Ian Hamilton. He wrote the book.”

  “Not any book I’d run out to buy.”

  “You don’t have to; you don’t sell legal services, Mr. Trevayne. This guy does. He walks with kings, and he threw away the common touch a long time ago. I don’t think he had much use for it anyway.”

  “Very accurate. You read the report.”

  “I didn’t have to. What did his kid say? That his old man does his thing because he figures no one else can do it as well. Anywheres near as well.”

  The chimes could be heard in the hotel suite’s foyer. Vicarson involuntarily patted down his perpetually rumpled hair and buttoned his jacket. “I’ll get the door. Maybe they’ll think I’m the butler; that’d be fine.”

  The first ten minutes were like an eighteenth-century pavane, thought Trevayne. Slow, graceful, assured; essentially chartered, fundamentally ancient. Sam Vicarson was doing very well, Andy considered, watching the youthful attorney parry Aaron Green’s thrusts of solicitousness, which barely concealed his annoyance. Green was angry that Vicarson was present; Hamilton barely acknowledged Sam’s presence. For Hamilton, thought Trevayne, it was a time for giants; a subordinate was relegated to his properly unimportant status.

  “I think you should realize, Trevayne, when your friends on the National Committee made their choice known to us, we were bitterly disappointed,” said Ian Hamilton.

  “ ‘Shocked’ is more accurate,” added Green in his deep, resonant voice.

  “Yes,” said Andy flatly. “I’d like to discuss your reaction. It’s one of the things I’m interested in. Except they’re not my friends.… I was wondering if they were yours, frankly.”

  Hamilton smiled. The anglicized attorney crossed his legs and folded his arms, sinking back into the soft cushions of the velvet sofa—the picture of elegance. Aaron Green had a hard-backed armchair next to Trevayne. Sam Vicarson sat slightly outside the triangle, at Andy’s right but not in line with Trevayne’s view of Hamilton. Even the seating arrangements seemed orchestrated to Andy. And then he realized that Sam had accomplished it; Sam Vicarson had indicated the places for each of them to sit. Sam was better than he thought he was, mused Trevayne.

  “If you’re considering the possibility that you are our choice,” said Hamilton, still smiling benignly, “I think I can disabuse you.”

  “How?”

  “Quite simply, we favor the President. A perusal of our … combined contributions, both financial and otherwise, will substantiate that fact.”

  “Then I wouldn’t have your support under any conditions.”

  “I should think not, speaking candidly,” replied Hamilton.

  Suddenly Andrew got out of his chair and returned Hamilton’s noningratiating smile. “Then, gentlemen, I’ve made a mistake, and I apologize. I’m wasting your time.”

  The abruptness of Trevayne’s move startled the others, including Sam Vicarson. Hamilton was the first to recover.

  “Come, Mr. Trevayne, let’s not play those games, which, if I remember correctly, you detest so.… Circumstances dictate that we meet with you. Please sit down.”

  Andrew did so. “What are those circumstances?”

  Aaron Green spoke. “The President does not intend to seek a second term.”

  “He might change his mind,” said Trevayne.

  “He can’t,” said Hamilton. “He wouldn’t live it out. I tell you this in the strictest confidence.”

  Andrew was stunned. “I didn’t know that. I thought it was a personal choice.”

  “What’s more personal?” asked Green.

  “You know what I mean.… That’s terrible.”

  “So … we meet.” Green ended the topic of the President’s health. “Circumstances dictate.”

  Trevayne was still thinking of the ill man in the White House while Hamilton continued.

  “As I say, we were disappointed. Not that the idea of your candidacy is without merit; it’s not. But, frankly, all things considered, we favor the President’s party.”

  “That’s a non sequitur. Why should my candidacy concern you at all, then? The opposition has good men.”

  “It has the President’s men,” interrupted Green.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The President”—Hamilton paused, choosing his words carefully—“as any man who has completed half a job that will be judged by history, is vitally concerned that his programs be continued. He will dictate the choice of his successor. He’ll pick one of two men because they will consent to his dictates. The Vice President or the Governor of New York. In conscience, we cannot support either. Neither has the strength of his own convictions; only the President’s. They can’t win, and they shouldn’t.”

  “A lesson. A lesson was learned,” said Green, sitting forward, his hands poised pontifically. “In sixty-eight, Hubert didn’t lose to Nixon because he was the lesser man, or because of money, or the issues. He lost the election with four words whined into the television after his nomination. ‘Thank you, Mr. President.’ He never washed away those four words.”

  Trevayne reached into his pocket for a cigarette, lighting it while no one spoke. “So you’ve concluded that the President will ensure the defeat of his own party.”

  “Precisely,” replied Hamilton. “That is our dilemma. One man’s vanity. The opposition has only to mount an attractive candidate, accentuate his strength of character—his independence, if you will—and the nationwide gossip will take care of the rest. The electorate has a visceral instinct about puppets.”

  “Then you think I have a legitimate chance?”

  “Reluctantly,” answered Green. “You haven’t much competition. Who else is there? In the Senate, the party has old men who tremble as I do, or loud-mouthed brats who soil their bell-bottom trousers. Only Knapp has possibilities, but he’s so obnoxious he’d be buried. The House is filled with nonentities. A few big governors might give you a run, but they carry the urban messes on their backs.… Yes, Mr. Andrew Trevayne; Mr. Undersecretary in State Department, Mr. Millionaire, Mr. Foundation President, Mr. Subcommittee Chairman. You’ve got a lot of marbles.… You could fall down on the issue of elective office, but you would get picked right up again on comparisons. The National Committee boys knew what they were doing when they pulled your name out. They don’t like losers.”

  “And neither do we,” concluded Ian Hamilton. “So whether we like it or not, you’re a political reality.”

  Trevayne once again got up, breaking the triangle. He walked to the room-service table, picked up the thick red leather notebook, and returned, standing several feet behind his chair. “I’m not sure your assessment is accurate, gentlemen, but it’s as good a springboard as any I can think of for what I have to say.… This is the subcommittee report. It will be delivered to the Defense Commission, the President, and the designated congressional committees in five days. The report itself has been boiled down to six hundred and fifty pages, with four volumes of subsequent documentations. Of the report, over three hundred pages are devoted to Genessee Industries. And two volumes of documentation.… Now, I understand your ‘bitter disappointment’ at the prospect of my candidacy. I don’t like you; I don’t approve of what you’ve done, and I intend to see you put out of business. Simple? Capisce? As one of your departed colleagues might have said.”

  “He was no part of us!” interrupted Aaron Green angrily.

  “You allowed him; it’s the same thing.”

  “What’s your point? I believe I smell a compromise,” said Hamilton.

  “You do. But not your kind of compromise; you don’t come out with anything. Except, perhaps, the comfort of knowing you can spend the rest of your lives outside the courts—and outside the country.”

  “What?” Hamilton’s complacency wa
s replaced with his first hint of anger.

  “You are a ridiculous man, Mr. Subcommittee!” added Green.

  “Not really. But the word ‘ridiculous’ is well chosen, if not correctly applied.” Trevayne walked back to the linen-covered table and threw the notebook carelessly on top.

  Hamilton spoke firmly. “Let’s talk sense, Trevayne. Your report is damaging; we won’t bother to deny it. However, it is—or certainly must be—riddled with speculations, inconclusive conjectures. Do you think for one minute we’re not prepared for that?”

  “No. I’m sure you are.”

  “You realize, of course, that the worst you portend for us are accusations, vehemently denied. Months, years, perhaps a decade in the courts?”

  “That’s entirely possible.”

  “Then why should we even consider you a threat? Are you prepared for our counterattack? Are you willing to spend years of your life defending yourself in the libel courts?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Then we are at an impasse. We might as well accommodate each other. After all, our objectives are identical. The good of the United States.”

  “Our definitions differ.”

  “That’s impossible,” said Green.

  “That’s why we differ. You conceive of no other absolutes but your own.”

  Hamilton shrugged elegantly and raised both his hands in a gesture of compromise. “We are prepared to discuss these definitions—”

  “I’m not,” replied Andrew standing. “I’m weary of your definitions, your ersatz elitist logic; those tiring conclusions that give you the right to implement only your own objectives. You don’t have that right; you’re stealing it. And I’m crying ‘thieves!’—loud and repeatedly.”

  “Who will listen?” shouted Green. “Who will listen to a man propelled by a vengeance twenty years old?”

  “What did you say?”