Trevayne (2 page)

High Barnegat.

Eight acres of ocean property with nearly a half-mile bordering directly on the sound. Most of the acreage was wild, allowed to grow unhampered, untamed. What seemed contradictory in spirit was the compound—the house and grounds seventy yards up from the central beach. The long rambling house was contemporary in design, great expanses of glass encased in wood looking out over the water. The lawns were deep green and thick, manicured and broken up by flagstone paths and a large terrace directly above the boathouse.

It was late August, the best part of the summer at High Barnegat. The water was as warm as it would ever be; the winds came off the sound in gusts which made the sailing more exciting—or hazardous—depending on one’s point of view; the foliage was at its fullest green. In late August a sense of calm replaced the hectic weeks of summer fun. The season was nearly over. Men thought once again of normal weekends and five full days of business; women began the agonizing process of selection and purchase that signaled the start of the new school year.

Minds and motives were slowly changing gears. Frivolity
was ebbing; there were more serious things to consider.

And the steady flow of house guests diminished at High Barnegat.

It was four-thirty in the afternoon, and Phyllis Trevayne reclined in a lounge chair on the terrace, letting the warm sun wash over her body. She thought, with a degree of satisfaction, that her daughter’s bathing suit fitted her rather comfortably. Since she was forty-two and her daughter seventeen, satisfaction could have turned into minor triumph if she allowed herself to dwell on it. But she couldn’t because her thoughts kept returning to the telephone, to the call from New York for Andrew. She had answered on the terrace phone, because the cook was still in town with the children and her husband was still a small white sail far out on the water. She’d nearly let the phone ring unanswered, but only very good friends and very important—her husband preferred the word “necessary”—business associates had the High Barnegat number.

“Hello, Mrs. Trevayne?” had asked the deep voice on the other end of the line.

“Yes?”

“Frank Baldwin here. How are you, Phyllis?”

“Fine, just fine, Mr. Baldwin. And you?” Phyllis Trevayne had known Franklyn Baldwin for several years, but she still couldn’t bring herself to call the old gentleman by his first name. Baldwin was the last of a dying breed, one of the original giants of New York banking.

“I’d be a lot better if I knew why your husband hasn’t returned my calls. Is he all right? Not that I’m so important, God knows, but he’s not ill, is he?”

“Oh, no. Not at all. He’s been away from the office over a week now. He hasn’t taken any messages. I’m really to blame; I wanted him to rest.”

“My wife used to cover for me that way, too, young lady. Instinctively. Jumped right into the breach, and always with the right words.”

Phyllis Trevayne laughed pleasantly, aware of the compliment. “Really, it’s true, Mr. Baldwin. Right now the only reason I know he’s not working is that I can see the sail of the catamaran a mile or so off-shore.”

“A cat! God! I forget how young you are! In my day no one your age ever got so damned rich. Not by themselves.”

“We’re lucky. We never forget it.” Phyllis Trevayne’s voice spoke the truth.

“That’s a very nice thing to say, young lady.” Franklyn Baldwin also spoke the truth, and he wanted her to know that. “Well, when Captain Ahab bounds ashore, do ask him to call me, will you, please? It’s really most urgent.”

“I certainly shall.”

“Good-bye, my dear.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Baldwin.”

But her husband
had
been in touch with his office daily. He’d returned dozens of calls to far less important people than Franklyn Baldwin. Besides which, Andrew liked Baldwin: he’d said so a number of times. He’d gone to Baldwin on many occasions for guidance in the tangled webs of international finance.

Her husband owed a great deal to the banker, and now the old gentleman needed him. Why hadn’t Andrew returned the calls? It simply wasn’t like him.

The restaurant was small, seating no more than forty people, and situated on Thirty-eighth Street between Park and Madison avenues. Its clientele was generally from the ranks of the approaching-middleage executives with suddenly more money than they’d ever made before and a desire, a need, perhaps, to hold on to their younger outlooks. The food was only fair, its prices high, and the drinks were expensive. However, the bar area was wide, and the rich paneling reflected the soft, indirect lighting. The effect was a throwback to all those collegiate spots from the fifties that these drinkers remembered with such comfort.

It was designed precisely with that in mind.

Considering this, and he always considered it, the manager was slightly surprised to see a short, well-dressed man in his early sixties walk hesitantly through the door. The man looked around, adjusting his eyes to the dim light. The manager approached him.

“A table, sir?”

“No.… Yes, I’m meeting someone.… Never mind, thank you. We have one.”

The well-dressed man spotted the person he was looking for at a table in the rear. He walked abruptly away from the manager and sidled awkwardly past the crowded chairs.

The manager recalled the man at the rear table. He’d insisted on that particular table.

The elderly man sat down. “It might have been better to meet someplace other than a restaurant.”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Allen. No one you know comes here.”

“I certainly hope you’re right.”

A waiter approached, and the order was given for drinks.

“I’m not so sure
you
should be concerned,” said the younger man. “It strikes me that I’m the one taking the risk, not you.”

“You’ll be taken care of; you know that. Let’s not waste time. Where do things stand?”

“The commission has unanimously approved Andrew Trevayne.”

“He won’t take it.”

“The feeling is that he will. Baldwin’s to make the offer; he may have done so already.”

“If he has, then you’re
late.
” The old man creased the flesh around his eyes and stared at the tablecloth. “We heard the rumors; we assumed they were a smokescreen. We relied on you.” He looked up at Webster. “It was our understanding that you would confirm the identity before any final action was taken.”

“I couldn’t control it; no one at the White House could. That commission’s off-limits. I was lucky to zero in on the name at all.”

“We’ll come back to that. Why do they think Trevayne will accept? Why should he? His Danforth Foundation is damn near as big as Ford or Rockefeller. Why would he give it up?” Allen asked.

“He probably won’t. Just take a leave of absence.”

“No foundation the size of Danforth would accept a
leave for that length of time. Especially not for a job like this. They’re
all
in trouble.”

“I don’t follow you.…”

“You think they’re immune?” asked Allen, interrupting. “They need friends in your town. Not enemies.… What’s the procedure? If Baldwin
has
made the offer. If Trevayne accepts?”

The waiter returned with the drinks and both men fell silent. He left, and Webster answered.

“The conditions are that whoever the commission selects receives the President’s approval and is subject to a closed hearing with a bipartisan committee in the Senate.”

“All right, all right.” Allen raised his glass and swallowed a large portion of his drink. “Let’s work from there; we can do something there. We’ll disqualify him at the hearing.”

The younger man looked puzzled. “Why? What’s the point?
Someone’s
going to chair that subcommittee. I gather this Trevayne’s at least a reasonable man.”

“You gather!” Allen finished his drink rapidly. “Just what
have
you gathered? What do you know about Trevayne?”

“What I’ve read. I did my research. He and his brother-in-law—the brother’s an electronics engineer—started a small company dealing in aerospace research and manufacturing in New Haven in the middle fifties. They hit the motherlode seven or eight years later; they were both millionaires by the time they were thirty-five. The brother-in-law designed, while Trevayne sold the hell out of the products. He cornered half the early NASA contracts and set up subsidiaries all over the Atlantic seaboard. Trevayne pulled out when he was thirty-seven and took on a job with the State Department. Incidentally, he did a whale of a job for State.” Webster raised his glass, looking over the rim at Allen. The young man expected to be complimented on his knowledge.

Instead, Allen dismissed his companion’s words. “Shit.
Time
-magazine material. What’s important is that Trevayne’s an original.… He doesn’t cooperate. We know; we tried reaching him years ago.”

“Oh?” Webster put his glass down. “I didn’t realize … Oh, Christ. Then he knows?”

“Not a great deal; perhaps enough. We’re not sure. But you still miss the point, Mr.
Webster
. It seems to me that you’ve missed the point from the beginning.… We don’t
want
him chairing that goddamned subcommittee. We don’t want him or anyone
like
him! That kind of choice is unthinkable.”

“What can you do about that?”

“Force him out … if he’s actually accepted. The backup will be the Senate hearing. We’ll make damn sure he’s rejected.”

“Say you succeed, then what?”

“We’ll nominate our own man. What should have been done in the first place.” Allen signaled the waiter, gesturing at both glasses.

“Mr. Allen, why didn’t you stop him? If you were in a position to do that, why didn’t you? You said you heard the rumors about Trevayne; that was the time to step in.”

Allen avoided Webster’s look. He drained the ice water in his glass, and when he spoke, his voice had the sound of a man trying very hard to maintain his authority; with lessening success. “Frank Baldwin, that’s why. Frank Baldwin and that senile son-of-a-bitch Hill.”

“The Ambassador?”

“The goddamned Ambassador-at-large with his goddamned embassy in the White House.… Big Billy Hill! Baldwin and Hill; they’re the relics behind this bullshit. Hill has been circling like a hawk for the last two or three years. He talked Baldwin into the Defense Commission. Between them they picked Trevayne.… Baldwin put up his name; who the hell could argue?… But
you
should have told us it was final. If we’d been certain, we could have prevented it.”

Webster watched Allen closely. When he replied, there was a hardness he hadn’t displayed before. “And I think you’re lying. Somebody else blew it; you or one of the other so-called specialists. First, you thought this investigation would burn itself out in the forming, be killed in committee.… You were wrong. And then it was too late. Trevayne surfaced, and you couldn’t stop it. You’re not even sure you can stop him now. That’s why you wanted to see me.… So let’s dispense with this crap about my being late and missing the point, shall we?”

“You watch your tongue, young man. Just remember who I represent.” The statement was made without commensurate strength.

“And you remember that you’re talking to a man personally appointed by the President of the United States. You may not like it, but that’s why you came to me. Now, what is it? What do you want?”

Allen exhaled slowly, as if to rid himself of anger. “Some of us are more alarmed than others …”

“You’re one of them,” interjected Webster quietly.

“Yes.… Trevayne’s a complicated man. One-part boy genius of industry—which means he knows his way around the board rooms; one-part skeptic—he doesn’t subscribe to certain realities.”

“Seems to me those assets go together.”

“Only when a man’s dealing from strength.”

“Get to the point. What’s Trevayne’s strength?”

“Let’s say he never needed assistance.”

“Let’s say he refused it.”

“All right, all right. That’s valid.”

“You said you tried reaching him.”

“Yes. When I was with … Never mind. It was the early sixties; we were consolidating then and thought he might be a valuable addition to our … community. We even offered to guarantee the NASA contracts.”

“Sweet Jesus! And he turned you down.” Webster made a pronouncement, not an inquiry.

“He strung us along for a while, then realized he could get the contracts without us. As soon as he knew that, he told us to go to hell. Actually, he went a lot further. He told me to tell my people to get out of the space program, get out of the government money. He threatened to go to the Attorney General.”

Bobby Webster absently picked up his fork and slowly made indentations on the tablecloth. “Suppose it had been the other way around? Suppose he
had
needed you? Would he have joined your ‘community’?”

“That’s what we don’t know. Some of the others think so. But they didn’t talk to him; I did. I was the intermediary. I was the only one he really had.… I never used names, never said who my people were.”

“But you believe the fact that they
were
was enough? For him.”

“The unanswerable question. He threatened us after he got
his
; he was sure he didn’t need anyone but himself, his brother-in-law, and his goddamned company in New Haven. We simply can’t afford to take the chance now. We can’t allow him to chair that subcommittee.… He’s unpredictable.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Take every reasonable risk to get close to Trevayne. The optimum would be for you to be his White House connection. Is that possible?”

Bobby Webster paused, then answered firmly. “Yes. The President brought me into the session on the subcommittee. It was a classified meeting; no notes, no transcripts. There was only one other aide; no competition. I’ll work it out.”

“You understand, it may not be necessary. Certain preventive measures will be taken. If they’re effective, Trevayne will be out of the picture.”

“I can help you there.”

“How?”

“Mario de Spadante.”

“No! Absolutely no! We’ve told you before, we don’t want any part of him.”

“He’s been helpful to you people. In more ways than you realize. Or want to acknowledge.”