Trevayne

by Robert Ludlum

  What followed frightened Trevayne more than he thought possible. Emphasized by Hamilton’s quiet benevolence. The lawyer would not deal in specifics, but what he described in generous abstractions was a government potentially more powerful than the nation in which it was housed.

  Genessee Industries was far more than “an instrument.” It was—or was intended to become—a council of the elite. Through its mammoth resources those privileged to execute Genessee’s policies would be capable of rushing in where national problems were critical—before those problems disintegrated into chaos. This capability was, of course, years off; but in lesser examples Genessee had already proven itself, justified the considered projections of its architects. There were unemployment areas pulled out of the doldrums by Genessee; labor disputes settled reasonably in scores of strike-bound plants; companies saved from bankruptcy, resurrected by Genessee management. These were essentially economic problems; there were other kinds. In science, the Genessee laboratories were working on major socioscientific studies that would be invaluable in the areas of ecology, pollution. Inner-city disease crises had been averted with Genessee medical units, and medical research itself was of primary interest to the company. And the military. It must always be closely watched, controlled, a true servant; but Genessee had made possible certain necessary armaments which had resulted in saving thousands upon thousands of lives. The military was beholden to Genessee. It would remain so.

  The key to these successes was in the ability to move quickly and commit vast sums. Sums not hampered by political considerations.

  Sums allocated by the judgment of an elite corps of wise men, good men, men dedicated to the promise of America.

  An America for all, not a few.

  It was simply the method.

  “This country was founded as a republic, Mr. Trevayne,” said Hamilton, sitting down on the sofa opposite Andrew. “Democracy is an abstraction.… One definition of ‘republic’ is a state governed by those entitled to vote, to shape its policies. Not blanketly franchised. Now, of course, no one would conceive of implementing this definition. But to borrow in principle—if only slightly, temporarily—has historical precedence.… The times we live in call for it.”

  “I see.” Trevayne had to ask the question, if only to hear how Hamilton dodged it. “Don’t you run the risk of those entitled to shape policy … wanting to make sure the trains-run-on-time? Of seeking final solutions?”

  “Never.” Hamilton answered with quiet sincerity. “Because there’s no motive. No such dark ambitions.… You said something earlier that impressed me, Trevayne. You said you came to me because—as yourself—I had neither financial need nor vengeance to carry out.… Of course, we never know the other fellow’s problems, but you happen to be right. My needs are satisfied, my vengeances minor. You and I, no political comets, proven in the marketplace, thinkers who can be decisive, concerned for the less fortunate. We are the aristocracy that must run the republic. The time will shortly be upon us when we either accept the responsibility, or there’ll be no republic.”

  “The rule of benevolent monarchy.”

  “Oh, no, not monarchy. Aristocracy. And not attained through bloodlines.”

  “Does the President know about this?”

  Hamilton hesitated. “No, he does not. He’s not even aware of the hundreds of problems we’ve solved for him. They just disappear.… We are always at his disposal. In the most positive sense, I should add.”

  Trevayne rose from his chair. It was time to leave, time to think. “You’ve been candid, and I appreciate it, Mr. Hamilton.”

  “I’ve also been most general. I trust you appreciate that, too. No names, no specifics, only generalizations with examples … of corporate responsibility.”

  “Which means if I allude to this conversation you would …”

  “What conversation, Mr. Trevayne?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “You do see the good? The extraordinary possibilities?”

  “They’re remarkable. But you never know the other fellow’s problems. Isn’t that what you said?”

  Trevayne drove down the snow-banked roads out of Evanston. He drove slowly, letting the infrequent Sunday drivers pass him, not thinking of the speed or his destination. Thinking only of the unbelievable information he’d learned.

  A council of the elite.

  The United States of Genessee Industries.

  PART 3

  35

  Robert Webster walked out the east White House portico toward the staff parking area. He’d excused himself from the press conference briefing, leaving his suggestions—mostly anticipated questions—with one of the other aides. He had no time for protective presidential routines; he had far more important problems to control. To orchestrate, really.

  The leak to Roderick Bruce would result in damaging rumors circulated throughout every important office—Senate, House, Justice, Defense—and then exploding into headlines. The sort of headlines that would destroy the effectiveness of any subcommittee chairman and reduce a subcommittee itself to rubble.

  Webster was pleased with himself. The solution for Mario de Spadante led directly to the elimination of Trevayne. With amazing clarity. The only extra bonus needed was throwing Paul Bonner to Roderick Bruce.

  The rest was already established as much as was necessary. The close working relationship between De Spadante and Trevayne. De Spadante’s meeting Trevayne late at night in Connecticut when the subcommittee chairman was supposed to be away on subcommittee business. Trevayne’s first trip to Washington with Mario as traveling companion. The limousine ride from Dulles Airport to the Hilton. Trevayne and De Spadante together in Georgetown at the home of a less-than-welcomed attaché of the French government, a man known to be involved with the American underworld.

  It was all that was needed.

  Andrew Trevayne and Mario de Spadante.

  Corruption.

  When De Spadante was murdered in New Haven, his death would be attributed to a Mafia war. But it would be in print and on the news programs that Trevayne had been at his hospital bedside a week before the murder.

  Corruption.

  It was all going to be all right, thought Webster, as he turned left up Pennsylvania Avenue. De Spadante would be eliminated, and Trevayne effectively removed from Washington.

  Trevayne and De Spadante had become too unpredictable. Trevayne could no longer be trusted to go through him to the President. Trevayne had covered extraordinary ground—from Houston to Seattle—yet the only request he’d made was for information about De Spadante. Nothing else. That was too dangerous. Ultimately Trevayne could be killed, if need be, but that could backfire into a full-scale investigation. They weren’t ready for that.

  De Spadante, on the other hand, had to be killed. He’d gone too far, infiltrated too deeply. Webster had brought the mafioso into the Genessee picture originally—and solely—to solve waterfront problems easily controlled by Mafia commands. Then De Spadante had seen the enormous possibilities of aiding powerful men in high federal places. He didn’t let go.

  But De Spadante had to be eliminated by his own. Not by elements outside his world; that could prove disastrous. He had to be murdered by other De Spadantes.

  Willie Gallabretto understood. The Gallabretto family—both blood and organizational—was getting fed up with the muscle theatrics of its Connecticut relative. The Gallabrettos were the new breed; the slim, conservatively groomed college graduates who had no use either for the Old World tactics of their forebears or the pampered, long-haired dropouts of the “now” generation.

  They fell beautifully in between, within the borders of respectability—almost Middle America respectability. If it were not for their names, they’d be farther up a hundred thousand corporate ladders.

  Webster turned right on 27th Street and watched the numbers of the buildings. He was looking for 112.

  Roderick Bruce’s apartment house.

  Paul Bonner stared alternat
ely at the letter and at the Captain from the Provost Marshal’s office who’d delivered it. The Captain leaned nonchalantly against the door of Bonner’s office.

  “What the hell is this, Captain? One lousy fucking joke?”

  “No joke, Major. You’re confined to BOQ, Arlington, until further notice. You’re being tried for murder in the first degree.”

  “I’m what?”

  “The state of Connecticut filed charges. The prosecution has accepted our responsibility for your detention. That’s a break. Whatever the verdict, the Army then faces a five-million-dollar suit from the family of the deceased, one August de Spadante.… We’ll settle; no one’s worth five million bucks.”

  “Settle? Murder? Those sons-of-bitches were gunning for Trevayne! What was I supposed to do? Let them kill him!”

  “Major, have you got one shred of evidence that August de Spadante was there to do injury? Even in a hostile frame of mind?… Because if you do, you’d better let us have it; we can’t find it.”

  “You’re funny. He was armed, ready to fire.”

  “Your word. It was dark out; no weapon was found.”

  “Then it was stolen.”

  “Prove it.”

  “Two Secret Service men from ‘sixteen hundred’ were deliberately removed—contrary to orders. In Darien. At the hospital. I was shot at, driving into the Barnegat property. I rendered the man unconscious and took his weapon.”

  The Captain pushed himself away from the door and approached Bonner’s desk. “We read that in your report. The man you say fired at you claims he didn’t own a gun. You jumped him.”

  “And took his piece; I can prove that! I gave it to Trevayne.”

  “You gave a gun to Trevayne. An unregistered handgun with no other fingerprints on it but his and yours.”

  “Where the hell did I get it, then?”

  “Good question. The injured party says it’s not his. I understand you have quite a collection.”

  “Horseshit!”

  “And no Secret Service men were removed from Darien, because they weren’t scheduled to be there.”

  “Double horseshit! Check the rosters!”

  “We have. The Trevayne detachment was recalled to the White House for further assignment. Its duties were assumed by local authorities through the office of the County Sheriff, Fairfield, Connecticut.”

  “That’s a lie! I called them in; through 1600.” Bonner rose from his chair.

  “A mistake at Security Control, maybe. No lie. Take it up with Robert Webster at 1600. Presidential Assistant Webster, I should add. He said he was sure his office advised Trevayne of the switch. Although it wasn’t required to.”

  “Then where were the locals?”

  “In a patrol car in the parking lot.”

  “I didn’t see them!”

  “Did you look?”

  Bonner thought for a moment. He remembered the sign in the hospital driveway directing automobiles to the rear parking area. “No, I didn’t.… If they were there, they were out of position!”

  “No question about it. Sloppy work. But then, those cops aren’t 1600.”

  “You’re telling me I misinterpreted everything that happened. The patrol, the shots. That hood with a gun … Goddamn it, Captain, I don’t make mistakes like that!”

  “That’s the opinion of the prosecution, too. You don’t make mistakes like that. You tell lies.”

  “I’d go easy if I were you, Captain. Don’t let this brace fool you.”

  “Get off it, Major! I’m defending you! And one of the tougher aspects of that defense is your reputation for unprovoked assault. A proclivity, in the field, for unjustifiable homicide. You’re not going to do yourself any good if you beat me up.”

  Bonner took a deep breath. “Trevayne will back me up; he’ll straighten it out. He was right there.”

  “Did he hear any threats? Did he see any gestures—even at a distance—that could be interpreted as hostility?”

  Bonner paused. “No.”

  “What about the housekeeper?”

  “No, again.… Except she held my neck together; Trevayne put a tourniquet around my arm.”

  “That’s no good. Mario de Spadante claims self-defense. You held a weapon on him. According to him, you pistol-whipped his head.”

  “After he tore me apart with those iron-spiked knuckles.”

  “He admits the knuckles. It’s a fifty-dollar fine.… Did either of the other two, the deceased and the one you ‘chopped,’ did they initiate any assaults?” The Captain watched Bonner carefully.

  “No.”

  “You’re sure we couldn’t find anything?”

  “No.”

  “Thanks for that. A lie wouldn’t hold up under diagrams. They’ve got us with the first man. His injuries were caused by an attack from the rear. A lie would finish you.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  “Have you talked to Cooper? General Cooper?”

  “We’ve got his deposition. He claims he gave you authorization for a plane in from Boise, Idaho, but had no knowledge of your trip to Connecticut. The operations officer at Andrews said you told him you had Cooper’s authorization. Conflict there. Cooper also says you failed to phone in a progress report.”

  “For Christ’s sake, I was being ripped apart.”

  The Captain moved away from Bonner’s desk. He spoke with his back to Paul. “Major, I’m going to ask you a question, but before I do, I want you to know that I won’t use the answer unless I think it’ll do us some good. Even then, you could stop me. Fair enough?”

  “Go ahead.”

  The Captain turned and looked at Bonner. “Did you have some kind of an agreement with Trevayne and De Spadante? Have you been taken? Squeezed out after delivering something you can’t admit to?”

  “You’re way off, Captain.”

  “Then what was De Spadante doing there?”

  “I told you. A job on Trevayne. I’m not wrong about that.”

  “Are you sure?… Trevayne was supposed to be in Denver, in conferences. That’s an established fact. No reason for anyone to think otherwise—unless he was told. What was he doing back in Connecticut, unless it was to meet De Spadante?”

  “Seeing his wife at the hospital.”

  “Now you’re way off, Major. We ran confidential interrogations all day long. With every technician at that hospital. There were no tests run on Mrs. Trevayne. It was a setup.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “I think Trevayne came back to see De Spadante, and you bungled into the biggest mistake of your career.”

  Roderick Bruce, watchdog of Washington—once little Roger Brewster of Erie, Pennsylvania—pulled the page out of his typewriter and got out of his specially constructed chair. The messenger from the paper was waiting in the kitchen.

  He placed the page at the bottom of several others and leaned back to read.

  His quest was about over. Major Paul Bonner wouldn’t survive the week.

  And that was justice.

  Chalk one up for Alex. Dear, gentle Alex.

  Bruce read each page slowly, savoring the knifelike words. It was the sort of story every newspaperman dreamed of: the reporting of terrible events he’d forecast; reporting them before anyone else did—substantiating them with irrefutable proof.

  Sweet, lonely Alex. Bewildered Alex, who cared only for his precious remnants of antiquity. And him, of course. He cared about Rod Bruce.

  Had cared.

  He’d always called him Roger, not Rod, or Roderick. Alex always said it made him feel closer to call him by his right name. “Roger,” he said, was a beautiful name, soft and sensitive.

  Bruce reached the last page of his copy:

  … and whatever the speculations on August de Spadante’s background—and they are only speculations—he was a good husband; a father of five innocent children who, today, weep without comprehension over his casket. August de Spadante served with distinc
tion in the armed forces. He carried shrapnel wounds from Korea to his death.

  The tragedy—there is no other word but “tragedy”—is that too often the citizen soldier, men like August de Spadante, serve in blood-soaked battles created (created, mind you) by ambitious, rank-conscious, half-crazed military butchers who feed on war, demand war, plunge us into war for their own obsessions.

  Such a man, such a butcher, plunged a knife, drove it deeply into the back (back, mind you) of August de Spadante, waiting in darkness, on an errand of mercy.

  This killer, this Paul Bonner, is no stranger to wanton murder, as readers of this column have surmised. But he’s been protected; perhaps he was protecting others.

  Are we as citizens going to allow the United States Army to harbor hired killers, killers let loose to make their own decisions as to who will live and who will die?

  Bruce smiled as he clipped the pages together. He got up and stretched his five-foot-three-inch body. He went to his desk, took a manila envelope from a drawer, and placed the pages within it. He sealed the envelope and stamped both sides with his usual rubber stamp: “Roderick Bruce Copy—Special: City Desk.”

  He had started for the kitchen door when his eyes caught sight of the Chinese box in his walled bookcase. He stopped and crossed to it, putting the envelope down and reaching into his pocket for his key chain. He removed the box, inserted a tiny key into its lock and opened the lid.

  Alex’s letters.

  All addressed to Roger Brewster and sent to a special general-delivery number in the large overburdened downtown Washington Post Office.

  He had to be careful. They both had to be careful, but he had to be more careful than Alex.

  Alex, young enough to be his son—his daughter. Only neither son nor daughter, but lover. Passionate, understanding, teaching Roger Brewster to vent the pent-up physical emotions of a lifetime. His first love.

  Alex was an ex-graduate student, a young genius whose expertise in Far East languages and cultures led to scholarship after scholarship, and a doctoral thesis from the University of Chicago. He had been sent to Washington on a grant to evaluate Oriental artifacts willed to the Smithsonian.