How many slightly altered check-outs had there been? How many times had he managed those invaluable extra minutes in which startling information would come over the Teletype—information he’d use but be perfectly capable of proving he could not have received.
The Operator.
Everything slightly altered. For Genessee Industries.
No more. The Operator was out of business.
He sped off down Pennsylvania Avenue, oblivious to the car, a gray Pontiac, that took up the position behind him.
Inside the gray Pontiac, the driver turned to his companion.
“He’s going too fast. He’s liable to get a ticket.”
“Don’t lose him.”
“Why not? It doesn’t make any difference.”
“Because Gallabretto said so! That makes the difference. Every minute we know where he is, who he meets.”
“It’s all a lot of shit. There’s no contract till he gets to Ohio. To Akron, Ohio. Pick him up easy there.”
“If Willie Gallabretto says we stay on, we stay on. I used to work for Gallabretto’s uncle. Look what happened to him.”
Ambassador William Hill paused in front of a framed, autographed cartoon on the wall of his study. It depicted a spindly-legged “Big Billy” as a puppeteer holding strings tied to small recognizable models of past presidents and secretaries of state. The puppeteer was smiling, pleased that the puppets were dancing to the tune of his choice, the written notes of which were ballooned above his head.
“Did you know, Mr. President, that it was a full year after this abomination appeared that I learned the music was ‘Ring-Around-the-Rosy’?”
The President laughed from across the room, seated in the heavy leather armchair that was his usual spot when visiting the Ambassador. “Your artist friend wasn’t very kind to the rest of us. He added injury to insult. If I remember correctly, the last line of that ditty is ‘all fall down.’ ”
“It was years ago. You weren’t even in the Senate then. He wouldn’t have dared to include you anyway.” Hill walked over to the chair opposite the President and sat down. “If I remember correctly, this is where Trevayne was seated when last here. Perhaps I’ll have some psychic flashes.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t in this chair? I wasn’t with you then.”
“No, I recall. As most people who’ve been here with the two of us, he avoided that chair. Afraid of being presumptuous, I think.”
“He may be overcoming his shyness …” The telephone rang on Hill’s table-desk, cutting the President’s words short.
“Very well, Mr. Smythe. I’ll tell him. Thank you.”
“Jack Smythe?” asked the President.
“Yes. Robert Webster and his wife left on the Cleveland flight. Everything’s fine. That was the message.”
“Good.”
“May I ask what it means?”
“Certainly. Surveillance showed that Bobby’s been followed since leaving the White House gate two nights ago. I was worried about him. And curious, of course.”
“So was somebody else.”
“Probably for the same reason. Intelligence identified one of the men as a small-time leg-man, a ‘shadow,’ I think we called it in comic-book jargon.… He didn’t have any more to report than our people did. Webster didn’t meet with anyone, see anyone, but the movers.”
“Telephone?”
“Airline reservations and a brother in Cleveland who’ll drive Bobby and his wife down to Akron.… Oh, and a Chinese restaurant. Not a very good one.”
“Probably filled with Chinamen.” Hill laughed softly as he returned to the chair. “He knows nothing about the Trevayne situation?”
“I don’t know. All I know is, he’s running. Maybe he told the truth. He said he strayed too far from the barnyard, that it all became too much.”
“I don’t believe it.” Hill leaned his gaunt frame forward on the chair. “What about Trevayne? Would you like me to bring him in for a chat?”
“Oh, Billy! You and your goddamn puppet strings. I come over for a quiet chat, a restful drink, and you keep bringing up business.”
“I think this business is extremely important, Mr. President. Even vital. Shall I call him in?”
“No. Not yet. I want to see how far he’ll go, how bad the fever’s got him.”
44
“When did they approach you?” asked Phyllis Trevayne, absently poking one of the huge logs in the High Barnegat fireplace.
“A little over three weeks ago,” replied Andy, sitting on the couch. He could see the wince of hurt around her eyes. “I should have told you, but I didn’t want you concerned. Armbruster said it might only be a … political desperation.”
“You took them seriously?”
“Not at first; of course not. I practically threw Armbruster out of my office, accused him of all kinds of things. He said he was speaking for a caucus in the National Committee; that he was initially opposed to the idea and still not convinced … but coming around.”
Phyllis hung the poker on the fireplace brick and turned to Trevayne. “I think it’s crazy. It’s a blatant device having something to do with the subcommittee, and I’m surprised you went this far.”
“The only reason I went this far is that no one yet has hinted that I alter the report.… That’s what intrigued me. I suppose I couldn’t believe it. I’ve been waiting for someone, anyone, to bring up the slightest suggestion … and I was going to burn them. But no one has.”
“Did you bring it up?”
“Continuously. I told Senator Weeks that he was liable to be embarrassed. He looked down his patrician nose and said he was perfectly capable”—here Andy mimicked the Eastern Shore politician—“of answering any questions the subcommittee might raise, but that was another matter. No part of the issue at hand.”
“Brave fellow.… But even so, why you? Why you at this particular time?”
“It’s not very flattering, but there doesn’t seem to be anyone else. At least that’s what their polls tell them. ‘No viable contenders on the political horizon’ was the way they put it. The heavyweights are worn out, and the young ones are lightweights. Or they wear their pants too tight or they’re Jewish or Latin or black or some goddamn thing that makes them unacceptable to our democratized election process.… As Paul Bonner would say, ‘Horseshit!’ ”
Phyllis walked-wandered back to the couch, stopping along the way to take a cigarette from a box on the coffee table. Andy lit it for her.
“That’s unfortunately perceptive.” She sat down next to her husband.
“What?”
“They’re right. I was trying to think who they had.”
“I didn’t know you were an authority.”
“Don’t kid yourself, Mr.… What did that dreadful man call you?… Mr. Arrogance.… I haven’t missed an election in years.”
Trevayne laughed. “The seer of High Barnegat. We’ll rent you to Nick the Greek.”
“No, really. I have a system. It works. Take the name of a candidate and put the word ‘President’ in front. It either sounds real, you know, all right; or it doesn’t. The only time I had trouble was in sixty-eight. It didn’t sound right with either one.”
“A general consensus …”
“Of course, it’s a little more difficult when there’s an incumbent; then you have to split hairs. Which brings to mind, the man in there now sounds pretty okay.… I thought you liked him.”
“He’s not going to run again.”
Phyllis’ controlled expression changed. She looked at Andy and spoke quietly, urgently. “You didn’t tell me that.”
“There are several things I haven’t—”
“You should have told me that first.”
Trevayne understood. The game was no longer a game. “I’m sorry. I was taking things in order of sequence.”
“Try in order of importance.”
“All right.”
“You’re not a politician; you’re a businessman.”
�
��I’m neither, really. My business interests are secure but peripheral. For the past five years I’ve worked for the State Department and one of the largest foundations in the world. If you want to categorize me, I’d go under the label of … ‘public service,’ I suppose.”
“No! You’re rationalizing.”
“Hey, Phyl.… We’re talking, not fighting.”
“Talking? No. Andy, you’ve been talking. For weeks; with other people, not with me.”
“I told you. It was too loose, too speculative to raise hopes. Or doubts.”
“And now it isn’t?”
“I’m not sure. I just know it’s time we talked about it.… I gather I’ve lost your vote.”
“You certainly have.”
“Make a hell of a story. Probably the first time in history.”
“Andy, be serious. You’re not … not …” Phyllis stammered, unsure of the words but certain of her feelings.
“Not presidential timber,” added Trevayne gently.
“I didn’t say that; I don’t mean that. You’re not a … political animal.”
“I’m told that’s a plus for our side. I’m still not sure what it means.”
“You’re not that kind of extrovert. You’re not the sort of man who goes through crowds shaking hands, or makes a dozen speeches a day, or calls governors and congressmen by their first names when you don’t know them. You’re not comfortable doing those things, and that’s what candidates do!”
“I’ve thought about … those things, and you’re right, I don’t like them. But maybe they’re necessary; perhaps by doing them you prove something quite apart from position papers and executive decisions. It’s a form of stamina. Truman said that.”
“My God,” said Phyllis softly, making no attempt to hide her fear. “You are serious.”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you.… I’ll know more on Monday. On Monday I’m meeting with Green and Hamilton. On Monday it could all blow up.”
“You need their support? Do you want it?” The questions were asked with distaste.
“They wouldn’t support me in a race with Mao Tsetung.… No, Phyl, I’m going to find out how good I really am.”
“I’ll pass that.… Let’s stick to why Andy Trevayne suddenly thinks he’s in the race for such a position.”
“Can’t you say the word, Phyl? It’s called the presidency.”
“No, I won’t say it. It scares me.”
“You don’t want me to go any further then.”
“I don’t understand. Why would you want to?… You don’t have those kind of demons, Andy; that kind of vanity. You have money, and money attracts flattery, but you’re too realistic, too aware. I just can’t believe it.”
“Neither could I when I first realized I was paying attention.” Trevayne laughed, more to himself than for his wife’s benefit, and put his feet on the coffee table. “I listened to Armbruster, went to the meetings, because I thought all the conversation was leading up to one thing—the report. And I was angry, angry as hell. Then I understood that wasn’t the case. These were professionals, not frightened men caught with their fingers in the till. They’re the talent hunters; I can’t object to that. When the companies were growing, I spent months scouting corporations here and abroad luring away the best brain power I could buy. I still keep it in mind. Whenever I meet someone I think might be an asset, I make a mental note to call your brother.… These men are doing the same thing I was … am still doing. Only on a larger scale, with far greater complications. And if in the first few weeks or months I fall on my face, they’ll pull the rug out so fast I’ll have mat burns. But I’m beginning to think it’s important to give those first few months a try.”
“You haven’t explained why.”
Trevayne withdrew his feet from the small table and stood up. He thrust his hands in his trousers pockets and walked on the patterns of the living-room rug, absently placing his feet at specific intervals as a small boy on a sidewalk playing step-on-a-crack. “You really want the nitty-gritty, don’t you?”
“Shouldn’t I? I love you. I love the life we have, the lives our children have; I think everything is being threatened, and I’m scared to death.”
Andy looked down at his wife, his expression kind but his eyes remote, seeing her, yet not focusing sharply. “I am, too, I think.… Why?… All right, the ‘why.’ Because the truth might be that I can. I’m not kidding myself; I’m no genius. At least, I don’t feel like one—whatever way a genius is supposed to feel. But I don’t think the presidency requires genius. I think it does require the ability to absorb quickly, act decisively—not always impartially—and accept extraordinary pressure. Perhaps, above all, to listen. To distinguish between the legitimate cries for help and the hypocrisy. I think I can handle almost everything but the pressure—I don’t know about that; not to the degree that’s required.… But if I can prove to myself that I can jump that hurdle—and one other—I think I want to get into the fight. Because any country that allows a Genessee Industries needs all the help it can get. Frank Baldwin quoted something I made a joke of when he first approached me. He said no man can avoid what he’s supposed to do when the time comes for him to do it. I think that’s pretentious as hell, and not necessarily accurate. But if through a series of accidents the political cupboard is damned near empty and a good man is going to make it bare by leaving—and the king-makers think, for their own reasons, that I can cut it—I’m not sure I’ve got a choice. I’m not sure we’ve got a choice, Phyl.”
Phyllis Trevayne watched her husband carefully; coldly, perhaps. “Why have you chosen … no, that’s not right; why have you let this party choose you, and not the other? If the President isn’t going to run for a second term—”
“For practical reasons,” interrupted Andy. “I don’t think it makes a whit of difference which banner a man runs under anymore. Both parties are splintered. It’s the man that counts, not the bromides of Republican or Democratic philosophy—they’re meaningless now.… The President will wait until the last possible minute before announcing his withdrawal; he’s got too many bills in Congress. I’ll need that time. If only to find out I’m not wanted.”
Phyllis remained staring at her husband, without discernible reaction. “You’re willing to expose yourself—and us—to that kind of agony, knowing that it might be a complete waste?”
Trevayne was by the side brick wall of the outsized fireplace. He leaned his back against it and returned his wife’s look. “I’d like your permission to.… For the first time in my life, I’m aware of a threat to everything I think I believe in. It’s got nothing to do with parades and flags and enemies—no easy heroes and villains. It’s a gradual but certain erosion of choice. Bonner uses the word a lot, ‘programmed.’ Though I don’t think he really knows what it means, what its implications are.… But it’s happening, Phyl. The men behind Genessee Industries want to run the country because they’re convinced they know better than the voter on Main Street, and they have the power to convey their ideas into the system. And there are hundreds like them in corporate board rooms everywhere. Sooner or later they’ll get together, and instead of being a legitimate part of the system, they’ll be the system.… I don’t agree with that. I’m not sure yet what I do agree with, but I don’t agree with that. We’re ten steps away from our own particular police state, and I want people to know it.”
Trevayne pushed himself off the brick wall and walked back to the couch. He smiled at Phyllis, a little embarrassed, and slumped down beside her.
“That’s quite a speech,” she said softly.
“Sorry.… I didn’t mean it to be.”
She reached over and took his hand. “An awful thing just happened.”
“What?”
“I just put that frightening title before your name, and it didn’t sound at all unreal.”
“If I were you, I wouldn’t start redecorating the East Room.… I may freeze in my first Senate speech, and it’s back to
the coupons.”
Phyllis released his hand, astonished. “Good God, you’ve been busy! Do tell. In case I should order new Christmas cards or something. What Senate?”
45
James Goddard backed his car out of the sloping driveway and started off down the road. It was a clear Sunday morning, the air cold, the winds swirling out of the Palo Alto hills, chilling everything in front of them. It was a day meant for decisions; Goddard had made his.
He would finalize it, organize its implementation within an hour or two.
Actually, the decision had been made for him. They were going to let him hang, and James Goddard had promised himself that he wasn’t for hanging. No matter the promises, regardless of the guarantees that he knew would be offered. He wasn’t going to allow it. He wasn’t going to let them solve their problems by having the accusing arrow settle in his direction; accepting the responsibility in exchange for the transfer of money into a coded Swiss bank account. That would be too easy.
He had nearly made that mistake himself—without any settlement. His preoccupation with past history—Genessee history—had blinded him to the fact that he was using his own figures, his own intricate manipulations. There was another way, a better way.
Someone else’s figures. Financial projections that couldn’t possibly be his.
It was December 15. In forty-six days it would be January 31, the end of the fiscal year. All plants, divisions, departments, and assembly control offices of Genessee Industries had to have their year-end reports in by that date. Submitted in final form to his office.
They were simple P-and-L statements with lengthy addenda of required purchases and payroll adjustments. The thousands upon thousands of figures were fed into computer banks where necessary alterations and imbalances were spotted and taped out for correction.
They were balanced against the master tape of the previous year’s budgets.
Simple arithmetic that leaped into the economic stratosphere of billions.
The master tape.
The master plan.
Every year the master tape was sent to the comptroller’s office in San Francisco and kept in the Genessee vaults. It arrived sometime during the second week in December, on a private plane from Chicago. Always accompanied by a president of one division or another, and armed guards.
Trevayne Page 42
