Had he really been so naïve, so much the innocent, to have been used so completely? Had his confrontation with Ian Hamilton and Aaron Green been no more than an indulgence—on their part? A sham.
No, that wasn’t so. It couldn’t be.
Hamilton and Green were frightened men. Hamilton and Green called the shots for Genessee Industries and Genessee ran the Pentagon.
A equals B equals C.
A equals C.
If he, as President could control Ian Hamilton and Aaron Green—make them bend to his demands—then it was only logical that he could control the Pentagon. The means of that control would be in the dismembering of Genessee Industries, cutting the monolith down to size.
He had stated that clearly as his prime objective.
Yet, if Paul Bonner was to be believed—and why not? He couldn’t have invented the scenario—Lester Cooper and his colleagues were throwing the full weight of the Pentagon behind his proposed candidacy.
And since their military opinion was formed in the conglomerate thought process of Genessee Industries, their support had to be directed—at least endorsed—by Ian Hamilton and Aaron Green.
A equals B.
Why, then? Why would Brigadier General Lester Cooper and his legion of brass willingly oversee the burial of their own strength? Why would they be ordered to?
A equals C.
It was one thing for Hamilton and Green to fade out—they had no choice—it was something else altogether for them to turn and instruct the Pentagon to support the candidate who was admittedly destroying them.
Yet apparently they had done just that.
Unless that support was ordered before the Waldorf confrontation.
Ordered and put into action before his threats ended the stately pavane high up in the Waldorf Towers.
In which case, Andrew realized that he was not what he thought he was. He wasn’t the strong alternative, the man good political men had turned to; he wasn’t the considered choice of seasoned professionals who looked into their smoke-filled crystal balls and determined him fit.
He was the candidate of Genessee Industries, personally selected by Ian Hamilton and Aaron Green. And all their talk of bitter disappointment was just that, talk.
Christ, the irony of it! The subtlety!
And the conclusion to be drawn; that was the most frightening part of the whole charade.
It mattered not one whit who held the office of the presidency. It mattered only that no one made waves through which the good ship Genessee could not navigate.
He had provided just that.
He had delivered just that.
Four hours ago he had delivered an extraordinary report, made more extraordinary by the fact that vital, incriminating evidence had been withheld.
Oh, Christ! What the hell had he done?
He saw the outlines of the twin steel-and-brick structure of the Potomac Towers in the distance. Perhaps a half-mile away. He began walking faster, then faster still. He looked up and down the avenue for a taxi, but there were none. He wanted to get to his office quickly now. He wanted to find out the truth; he had to find out.
There was only one way to do it.
Brigadier General Lester Cooper.
* * *
Sam Vicarson was pacing up and down outside the subcommittee’s offices when Andrew emerged from the elevator into the corridor.
“Good God, am I glad to see you! I called Arlington and left messages at half a dozen places.”
“What’s the matter?”
“We better go inside so you can sit down.”
“Oh, Jesus! Phyllis—”
“No, sir, I’m sorry … I mean, I’m sorry if I made you … it’s not Mrs. Trevayne.”
“Let’s go inside.”
Vicarson closed the door of Trevayne’s office and waited until Andy took off his overcoat and threw it on the couch. He began slowly, as if trying to recall the exact words he should repeat.
“The chief of the White House staff telephoned about forty-five minutes ago. Something happened this morning—it hasn’t been released to the press yet, at least it hadn’t been a half-hour ago—that caused the President to make a decision you should be aware of.… He temporarily exercised executive privilege and had the copies of the subcommittee’s report impounded.”
“What?”
“He had them intercepted at all four destinations—the Defense Commission, the Attorney General’s office, and the offices of the chairmen of the Senate and House committees; that’s Appropriations and Armed Services.… He’s talked to the four principals personally, and they’ve accepted his explanation.”
“What is it?”
“Robert Webster—you remember, the White House—”
“I remember.”
“He was killed this morning. I mean, he was murdered. Shot in his Akron hotel room.… A maid who was in the hallway gave the police a description of two men she saw running out of the room, and someone at the hotel had the presence of mind to call the White House. I mean, Webster was a hometown boy who made good and all that.… The White House went to work. Got the papers and the wire services to keep it quiet for a few hours.…”
“Why?”
“The description of the killers. It fit two men the White House had under surveillance.… That’s not right. They had Webster under surveillance, and spotted them following Webster.”
“I don’t understand you, Sam.”
“The two men were from Mario De Spadante’s organization.… As I said, White House security went to work. Did you know that every conversation on every 1600 telephone, including the kitchen, is automatically put on a microtape and housed in the communications room; checked out, discarded, or kept every six months?”
“It doesn’t surprise me.”
“I think it would have surprised Webster. 1600 said it isn’t common knowledge. But they had to tell us.”
“What’s your point? Why was the report impounded?”
“Bobby Webster was up to his ass with De Spadante. He was a paid informer. He’s the one who removed the men in Darien. According to one conversation, you asked Webster for material on De Spadante.”
“Yes. When we were in San Francisco; Webster never delivered.”
“Regardless, the President thinks Webster was killed because De Spadante’s men believe he was working with you. That he chickened and gave you the information that got De Spadante killed.… The assumption is that they cornered Bobby in the hotel room, forced him to tell them what was in the report, and when he couldn’t, or didn’t, they shot him.”
“And if the report involves De Spadante, his loyalists will go after me next?”
“Yes, sir. The President was concerned that if any details of the report were leaked, you might become a target. No one wanted to alarm you, but a security detail picked you up in Arlington. Or they were supposed to.”
Trevayne thought of the automobile behind his taxi; the brown sedan that had held up traffic. His brow creased in doubt; he looked at Sam. “Just how long is this solicitous concern for me supposed to last?”
“Apparently until they catch the men who killed Webster. De Spadante’s loyalists.”
Trevayne sat down behind his desk and reached into his pocket for a cigarette. He had the feeling that he was careening around a steep downhill curve, struggling to hold a wheel nearly out of control.
Was it possible? Was it possible, when he let the sunlight come into the dark corridors of his mind, that he was right, after all?
“As Paul Bonner would say,” said Trevayne softly, “ ‘horseshit.’ ”
“Why? The concerns seem legitimate to me, sir.”
“I hope you’re right. I pray you’re right. Because if you’re wrong, Sam, a dying man is trying to protect his place in history.”
Vicarson understood; and the look on his face showed that his understanding was the most serious comprehension he’d ever experienced. “Do you think the President is … Genessee Industrie
s?”
“Get General Cooper on the phone.”
49
Brigadier General Lester Cooper sat in front of Andrew Trevayne’s desk. He was exhausted—with the fatigue of a man who’d reached the limits of his ability to cope.
“Everything I’ve done, I consider it a privilege to have been in my province to accomplish, Mr. Chairman.”
“There’s no necessity for that title, General. The name’s ‘Andy,’ or ‘Andrew,’ or ‘Mr. Trevayne,’ if you insist. I respect you enormously; I’d consider it a privilege if you’d be less formal.”
“That’s kind of you; I’d prefer the formality. You’ve manifestly accused me of dereliction, conspiracy, and disregard of my oath.…”
“Goddamn it, no, General. I did not use those words. I wouldn’t use them.… I think you’ve operated in an impossible position. You have a hostile electorate that begrudges you every dollar of your budget. You have an Army that demands attention. You have to reconcile those two extremes in an area I know very well. Supply!… I’m only asking you if you made the very same compromises I would have made! That’s neither dereliction nor conspiracy, General. That’s goddamn common sense! If you didn’t make them, that would be a violation of your oath.”
It was working, thought Trevayne with sad feelings of misgiving. The General was being primed. He stared at Trevayne, his look one of supplication.
“Yes.… There’s really nowhere to turn, you know. You know, of course. I mean, after all, you of all people …”
“Why me?”
“Well, if you are what they say you are …”
“What is that?”
“You understand.… You wouldn’t be where you are if you didn’t. We’re all aware of that.… I mean, you’ll have our complete, enthusiastic endorsement. It’s far-reaching, but, of course, you know that.…”
“Endorsement for what?”
“Please, Mr. Trevayne.… Are you testing me? Why is that necessary?”
“Perhaps it is. Maybe you’re not good enough!”
“That’s not right! You shouldn’t say that! I’ve done everything—”
“For whom? For me?”
“I’ve done everything I was told to do. The logistics have gone out.”
“Where?”
“Everywhere! In every port, on every base. Every airfield. We’ve covered every spot on earth!… Only the name. Only the name has to be supplied.”
“And what is that name?”
“Yours … yours, for God’s sake! What do you want from me?”
“Who gave you those orders?”
“What do you mean—”
“Who gave you the orders to put out my name?” Trevayne slapped the flat of his hand on his desk, flesh against hard wood, the sound sharp and distracting.
“I’m … I’m …”
“I asked you who?”
“The man from … the man from …”
“Who?”
“Green.”
“Who’s Green?”
“You know! … Genessee. Genessee Industries.” Brigadier General Cooper slumped in his seat, breathing hard.
But Trevayne hadn’t finished. He leaned across the desk. “How long ago? Were you in time, General? Were you on schedule? How long ago?”
“Oh, my God!… What are you?”
“How long ago?”
“A week, ten days.… What are you?”
“Your best friend! The man that gets you what you want! Would you like to believe that?”
“I don’t know what to believe.… You people … you people drain me.”
“None of that, General.… I asked you if you were on schedule.”
“Oh, Jesus!”
“What were the other schedules, General? Were you on schedule with everyone else?”
“Stop it! Stop it!”
“Answer me.”
“How do I know? Ask them!”
“Who?”
“I don’t know!”
“Green?”
“Yes. Ask him!”
“Hamilton?”
“Yes, of course.”
“What can they guarantee?”
“Everything! You know that!”
“Spell it out, you latrine private!”
“You can’t say that. You have no right!”
“Spell it out.”
“It will be what you need. The unions. Management.… All the psychological profiles in every section of the country … we’ve got them in Army computers.… We’ll act in concert.”
“Oh, my God.… Does the President know?”
“Certainly not from us.”
“And nobody’s countermanded those orders within the last five days?”
“Of course not!”
Trevayne suddenly lowered his voice as he sat back in his chair. “Are you sure, General?”
“Yes!”
Trevayne brought both his hands to his face and breathed into his palms. He had the feeling that he’d spun wildly off that long, steep downhill curve and was plunging uncontrollably into the turbulent waters below.
Why should there always be the sea?
“Thank you, General Cooper,” said Trevayne gently. “I think we’ve finished.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I meant what I said. I respect you. I don’t know that I would have if it hadn’t been for Paul Bonner.… You’ve heard of Major Bonner, General? I believe we’ve discussed him.… Now, I’m going to offer you some unsolicited advice. Get out, Cooper. Get out quickly.”
Brigadier General Lester Cooper, his eyes bloodshot, looked at the civilian who covered his face with his hands.
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s come to my attention that you anticipate retiring soon.… May I respectfully suggest that you formally write that letter of resignation first thing tomorrow morning?”
Cooper started to speak and then stopped. Andrew Trevayne took his hands away from his face and looked into the General’s tired eyes. The officer made a last West Point gasp at control, but it couldn’t work.
“You’re not … you haven’t … Am I free?”
“Yes.… Christ knows you deserve it.”
“I hope so. Thank you, Mr. Chairman.”
Sam Vicarson watched the General walk out of Trevayne’s office. It was nearly six-thirty. Andrew had timed the meeting with Cooper to begin after five; no one but the three of them would be in the subcommittee’s office, and Sam could bar any late visitors or staff members who might unexpectedly show up.
The Brigadier General looked at Vicarson, but there was no recognition in his eyes, no sense of contact. Cooper stood motionless for several moments, his vacant, absently hostile expression concentrated on the young attorney. And then he did a strange—for Sam, a strangely terrible—thing. He stood erect and brought his right hand up to his visor and held it in a salute. He held his right hand in place until Sam Vicarson acknowledged by nodding his head silently. Only then did the General lower his hand, turn, and go out the door.
Sam walked quickly into Trevayne’s office. The chairman of the subcommittee for the Defense Allocations Commission looked as exhausted as the decorated legend he had just confronted. Andrew was slumped back in his swivel chair, his chin resting in the palm of his right hand, his elbow on the arm of the chair. His eyes were closed.
“That must have been something,” said Sam quietly. “I thought for a few minutes I should call for an ambulance. You should have seen Cooper outside. He looked as though he’d run head-on into a tank.”
“Don’t sound so satisfied,” replied Trevayne, his eyes still shut. “There’s nothing to gloat over.… I think we owe a lot to Cooper, to all the Coopers. We ask them to accomplish the impossible; give them no training—training, hell, we don’t even warn them—on how to handle the political messiahs we force them to deal with. Finally we hold them up to ridicule when they try to cope.” Trevayne opened his eyes and looked up at Sam. “Doesn’t that strike you as un
fair?”
“I’m afraid it doesn’t, sir,” answered Vicarson, only slightly mitigating his refusal to agree. “Men like Cooper—men who get that high—can find plenty of soap boxes, a lot of free time on television and radio on which to complain. At least, they can try that before going with Genessee Industries.”
“Sam, Sam …” said Trevayne wearily. “You wouldn’t ‘yes’ me if my sanity depended on it. I suppose that’s an asset.”
“Sure, I would. I may need a job someday.”
“I doubt it.” Trevayne got out of his chair, walked in front of his desk, and leaned back on the edge. “Do you realize what they’ve done, Sam? They’ve structured my so-called candidacy in such a way that to win means I win, as their candidate. Cooper was the proof of that.”
“So what? You didn’t ask for it.”
“But I would have accepted it. Knowingly, consciously, I tacitly became an intrinsic part of the corruption I’ve claimed to be against.… To smite Lucifer is to smite myself.”
“What?”
“Nothing. A little excess employed by Armbruster.… Do you see, now? Caesar’s wife, Sam. The Calpurnia complex. If elected—or even halfway into the campaign—I couldn’t turn on Genessee Industries because I’m as guilty as it is. If I try before the election, I guarantee my loss; if after, I erode the public’s confidence in me. They have the ammunition to cripple me: the amended report; they waded me out. It was extraordinary strategy.… Thanks to Paul Bonner and a confused, overextended brigadier general, I found out before it was too late.”
“Why did they do it? Why did they pick you?”
“For the simplest of all reasons, Sam. The twentieth-century motif. They had no choice. No alternative.… I was out to destroy Genessee Industries. And I could do it.”
Vicarson stared down at the floor. “Oh, Jesus,” he said softly. “I didn’t understand.… What are you going to do?”
Trevayne pushed himself off the edge of the desk. “What I should have kept my mind on in the first place. Rip out Genessee.… Root by goddamn root!”
“That blows your candidacy.”
“It certainly does.”
“I’m sorry about that.”
Andy stopped on his way back to the chair. He turned and looked in Sam’s direction, but not at Sam. He looked beyond him to the windows, to the descending darkness that soon would be night in Washington, D.C. “Isn’t it remarkable? I’m sorry, too. Genuinely sorry. How easily we convince ourselves.… How much easier still are we mistaken.”
Scruff Page 45
