Trevayne (16 page)

“Unavoidable.” Bonner looked up and grinned. “It’s only a game, Mr. Trevayne.”

“I’d rather not play.”

Bonner looked at his watch. “Gosh! It’s almost four o’clock. We’d better check out those last two addresses, or they’ll be locked up.”

Trevayne got out of his chair just a little bit numbed. Major Paul Bonner had spent the last few minutes telling him something. Spelling out the harsh reality that Washington was inhabited by many Paul Bonners. Men who were committed—rightfully, justifiably, by their lights—to the promulgation of their authority and influence. Professional soldiers who were capable of outthinking their opponents because they were equally capable of thinking
for
them. Generous, too; tolerant of the hazy, muddled thinking of their soft civilian counterparts. Secure in the knowledge that in this era of potential holocaust there was no room for the indecisive or undecided. The protection of the nation was directly related to the enormity and effectiveness of its strike force. For such men as Bonner it was inconceivable that any should stand in the way of this goal. That they could not tolerate.

And it seemed incongruous that Major Bonner could say so ingenuously:
Gosh! It’s almost four o’clock
. And not a little frightening.

The Potomac Towers provided its own reason for being selected, unrelated to the view of the river. Bonner accepted it. The other suites all had the normal five offices and a waiting room; the Towers included an additional kitchenette and a study. The latter was designed for quiet reading or conferences, even overnight accommodations by way of a huge leather couch in the main office. The Potomac Towers had been leased for an engineering crash program and outfitted to accommodate the pressurized schedule. It was ideal for Trevayne’s purposes, and Bonner made the requisition, relieved that the tour was finished.

The two men returned to Trevayne’s hotel.

“Would you care to come up for a drink?” asked Trevayne, getting out of the Army vehicle with the insignia on both doors that allowed for parking just about anywhere.

“Thanks, but I’d better report in. There are probably a dozen generals walking in and out of the men’s room, watching my office, waiting for me.” Bonner’s face lit up, his eyes smiling; he was pleased with the image he’d just created. Trevayne understood. The Young Turk enjoyed the position he was in—a position undoubtedly assigned for reasons Bonner didn’t like, and now, perhaps, could be turned on his superiors.

Trevayne wondered what those reasons were.

“Well, have fun. Ten in the morning?”

“Right on. I’ll alert security; that list of yours will be cleared. If there are any real problems, I’ll call you myself. You’ll want others, though. I’ll set up interviews.”

Bonner looked at Andrew and laughed. “
Your
interviews, massa.”

“Fine. And thanks.” Trevayne watched the Army car start up and enter the congested flow of Washington’s five-thirty traffic.

The hotel desk informed Trevayne that Mrs. Trevayne had picked up their messages at precisely five-ten. The elevator operator tipped three fingers to his visor and said, “Good evening,” addressing him by name. The first guard, seated in a chair by the row of elevators on the ninth floor, smiled; the second guard, standing in the corridor several yards from his door, nodded his head in recognition. Trevayne had the feeling that he’d just passed through a hall of mirrors, his image reflected a thousandfold, but not necessarily for him. For the benefit of others.

“Hello, Phyl?” Trevayne closed the door and heard his wife speaking on the telephone in the bedroom.

“Be with you in a sec,” she called out.

He took off his jacket, unloosened his tie, and went to the bar, where he poured himself a glass of ice water. Phyllis came out of the bedroom, and Trevayne saw a trace of concern in her eyes, beyond the smile.

“Who was that?”

“Lillian.” She referred to their housekeeper, cook, aide-for-all-seasons at High Barnegat. “She had some electrical trouble; it’ll be all right. The repairmen said they’d be out soon.”

They kissed their customary kiss, but Trevayne was hardly aware of it. “What do you mean, trouble?”

“Half the lights went out. The north side. She wouldn’t have known except for the radio; it went off.”

“Didn’t it go right back on again?”

“I guess not. It’s all right, the men are coming.”

“Phyl, we have an auxiliary generator. It cuts in when a circuit breaker fails.”

“Darling, you don’t expect us to know about
those
things. The men’ll fix it.… How did everything go? Where
did
you go, incidentally?”

It was possible, Trevayne supposed, for there to be an electrical malfunction at Barnegat, but unlikely. Barnegat’s entire electrical system was designed by Phyllis’
brother; a labor of love and enormous sophistication. He’d call his brother-in-law later; ask him, jokingly perhaps, to check into it.

“Where did I go?… all over town with a nice young fellow whose late-night reading is restricted to Clausewitz.”

“Who?”

“The science of … military supremacy will do.”

“That must have been rewarding.”

“ ‘Enlightening’ would be more accurate.… We settled on the offices. Guess what? They’re on the river.”

“How did you manage that?”

“I didn’t. They were just available.”

“You haven’t heard anything, then? About the hearing, the confirmation?”

“Nope. At least, not so far. The desk said you stopped for the messages. Did Walter call?”

“Oh, they’re on the table. Sorry. I saw Lillian’s and forgot.”

Trevayne went to the coffee table and picked up the notes. There were an even dozen, mostly friends, a few quite close, others vaguely remembered. There was no message from Madison. But there was one from a “Mr. de Spadante.”

“That’s funny. A call here from De Spadante.”

“I saw the name; I didn’t recognize it.”

“Met him on the plane. He goes back to early New Haven. He’s in construction.”

“And probably wants to take you to lunch. After all, you’re a bulletin.”

“I think, under the circumstances, I won’t return the call.… Oh, the Jansens phoned. We haven’t seen them in almost two years.”

“They’re nice. Let’s suggest dinner tomorrow or Saturday, if they’re free.”

“Okay. I’m going to shower and change. If Walter calls and I’m in the john, get me, will you, please?”

“Sure.” Phyllis absently took the remainder of her husband’s ice water from the bar and drank it. She walked to the couch and sat down, reaching for the messages. Several names were completely unfamiliar to her; business friends of Andy’s, she presumed. The rest only peripherally
recognizable, except for the Jansens and two others, the Fergusons and the Priors. Old Washington cronies from the State Department days.

She heard the shower running and considered the fact that she, too, would have to dress when Andy was finished. They’d accepted a dinner invitation over in Arlington—a duty call, as Andy termed it. The husband was an attaché at the French embassy, a man who years ago had helped him during the conferences in Czechoslovakia.

The Washington carousel had begun, she reflected. God, how she hated it!

The telephone rang, and for a second Phyllis hoped it was Walter Madison and that he had to meet with Andy, thus canceling the Arlington dinner.

No, she thought further; that would be worse. Quickly called meetings were always terrible in Washington.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Andrew Trevayne, if you’d be so kind.” The voice was a touch raspy, but soft, polite.

“I’m sorry, he’s in the shower. Who’s calling, please?”

“Is this Mrs. Trevayne?”

“Yes.”

“I haven’t had the pleasure; my name is De Spadante. Mario de Spadante. I’ve known your husband, not well, of course, for a number of years. We met again yesterday, on the plane.”

Phyllis remembered that Andy had said he wouldn’t return De Spadante’s call. “Then I’m doubly sorry. He’s way behind schedule, Mr. de Spadante. I’m not sure he’ll be able to call you back right away.”

“Perhaps I’ll leave a number anyway, if it’s not too much trouble. He may want to reach me. You see, Mrs. Trevayne, I was to be at the Devereaux’s over in Arlington,
too
. I’ve done some work for Air France. Your husband might prefer that I find an excuse and not be there.”

“Why in heaven’s name would he do that?”

“I read in the papers about his subcommittee.… Tell him, please, that since I got into Dulles Airport I’ve been followed. Whoever it is knows he drove into town with me.”

*   *   *

“What does he mean, he was followed? Why does your driving into town with him have any bearing on anything?” Phyllis spoke to her husband as he came out of the bathroom.

“It shouldn’t—my driving in with him; he offered me a lift. If he says he was followed, he’s probably right. And used to it. He’s supposed to be in the rackets.”

“At Air France?”

Trevayne laughed. “No. He’s a builder. He’s probably involved with air-terminal construction. Where’s the number?”

“I wrote it on the blotter. I’ll get it.”

“Never mind.” Trevayne, in undershirt and shorts, walked into the living room to the white desk with the green hotel blotter. He picked up the telephone and slowly dialed as he deciphered his wife’s hastily scribbled numbers. “Is this a nine or a seven?” he asked her as she came through the door.

“A seven; there was no nine.… What are you going to say?”

“Straighten him out. I don’t give a damn if he rents the rooms next door. Or takes pictures of me on May Day.… I don’t play those games, and he’s got a hell of a nerve thinking I do.… Mr. de Spadante, please.”

Trevayne calmly but with obvious irritation informed De Spadante of his feelings and suffered through the Italian’s obsequious apologies. The conversation lasted a little over two minutes, and when Trevayne hung up he had the distinct feeling that Mario de Spadante had enjoyed their dialogue.

Which was precisely the case.

Two miles away from Trevayne’s hotel, in the Northwest section of Washington, De Spadante’s dark-blue Cadillac was parked in front of an old Victorian house. The house, as the street—the area itself—had seen better, more affluent times. Yet there was a grandeur; decaying, perhaps, but still being clung to in spite of the declining values. The inhabitants of this particular section fell into roughly three categories: the dying elders whose memories or lack of money prevented their moving away; the
youngish couples—usually early-rung-on-the-government-ladder—who could lease a fair amount of space for comparatively little rent; and finally—in sociological conflict—a scattering of subculture youth enclaves, groups of young nomads wandering into sanctuaries. The wail of Far Eastern sitars, the hollow vibrations of Hindu woodwinds continued long into the morning; for there was no day or night, only gray darkness and the moans of very personal survival.

Hard drugs.

The suppliers and the supplied.

The old Victorian house beyond De Spadante’s Cadillac was recently taken over by a cousin, another cousin whose influence was felt in Washington’s Police Department. The house was a substation in the subculture, a minor command post for narcotics distribution. De Spadante had stopped off with some colleagues to inspect the real-estate investment.

He sat in a room with no windows, the indirect lighting illuminating the psychedelic posters on the walls, covering the cracks. Except for one other person, he was alone. He replaced the telephone in its cradle and leaned back in his chair behind a filthy table.

“He’s edgy; he just told me off. That’s good.”

“It would have been better if you goddamn fools had let things take their course! That hearing would have been reconvened and the confirmation withdrawn. Trevayne would have been out!”

“You don’t think; that’s your problem. You look for quick solutions; that’s very dumb. It’s especially dumb right now.”

“You’re wrong, Mario!” said Robert Webster, spitting out the words, the muscles in his neck tense. “You didn’t solve anything, you only gave us a potentially dangerous complication. And a crude one!”

“Don’t talk to me
crude!
I laid out two hundred thousand up in Greenwich; another five for the Plaza!”

“Also crude,” blistered Webster. “Crude and unnecessary. Your out-of-date waterfront tactics damn near exploded in our faces! You watch your step.”

The Italian leaped out of the chair. “Don’t you tell
me, Webster! One of these days you pricks will kiss my ass for what I got on him!”

“For God’s sake, lower your voice. And don’t use my name. The biggest mistake we ever made was getting mixed up with you! Allen’s right about that. They all are!”

“I didn’t ask for any engraved invitation, Bobby. And you didn’t get my name out of no telephone book. You came to me, baby! You needed help, and I gave it to you.… I’ve been helping you for a long time now. So don’t talk to me like that.”

Webster’s expression betrayed his reluctant acceptance of De Spadante’s words. The mafioso had been helpful, helpful in ways few others dared to be. And he, Bobby Webster, had called upon him more than anyone else. The day had long since come and gone when Mario de Spadante could be so easily dismissed. It reduced itself to controlling him.

“Don’t you understand? We wanted Trevayne out. A reconvened hearing would have accomplished that.”

“You think so? Well, you’re wrong, Mr. Lace Pants. I talked to Madison last night; I told him to call me from the airport before he boarded. I figured
someone
ought to know what Trevayne was doing.”

The unexpected information caused Webster to check his hostility, replace it with a concern he hadn’t anticipated.

“What did Madison say?”

“That’s different, huh? None of you smart asses thought of it, huh?”

“What did he say?”

De Spadante sat down again. “The esteemed attorney was very uptight. He sounded like he was going to head home and climb into a bottle with that lush wife of his.”

“What did he
say?
”

“Trevayne figured that panel of senators for what it was—a big roomful of loaded dice; he made that clear. And Madison made no bones that he sweated out the confirmation—not Trevayne, he didn’t sweat piss—
Madison
sweated. For a very goddamn good reason. Trevayne told him if those bastards turned him down he wasn’t leaving town quietly. He was going to call in the newspapers,
television; he had a lot of things he wanted to say. Madison didn’t guess any of it was too good.”