Trevayne (23 page)

“Jesus! You mean it,” said Bruce quietly.

“I certainly do. I … suspect … the valid reasons you refer to cover the areas of security. If so, and I know damned well you didn’t get where you are by lying in these matters, I can’t offer any further argument.”

“But my breaking it isn’t going to help you, is it?”

“No, it’s not. It’ll be one bitch of a hindrance, to tell you the truth. But that’s my problem, not yours.”

Bruce leaned slightly forward, his miniature frame somewhat ludicrous in the large leather chair. “You don’t have to have a problem.… And I don’t
care
if the room is bugged.”

“If it’s what?” Trevayne sat up.

“I don’t care if we’re taped; I gather we’re not. I’ll trade you off, Trevayne.… No hindrance from me; no problems with the New London mess. Simple trade. I’ll even give you a selection.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“We’ll start with yesterday.” Bruce lifted the right flap of his coat jacket and slowly reinserted his notebook. He did so stylistically, as if the action were symbolic of confidence. He held his gold pencil in his hands and revolved both ends between his fingers. “You spent an hour and twenty minutes at National District Statistics yesterday; from shortly after four to past closing. You requested the volumes for the states of California and Maryland for the periods covering the past eighteen months. Now, given time, my office could easily go through the
books and probably find what you were researching, but let’s face it, there are several thousand pages and a couple of hundred thousand insertions. What interests me is that you did the legwork yourself. Not a secretary, not even an aide. You were playing close poker. What did you get?”

Trevayne tried to absorb Bruce’s words, the implications behind his words.

“You were the gray Pontiac. You followed me in a gray Pontiac.”

“Wrong, but interesting.”

“You were on Rhode Island Avenue, and then you were in Georgetown. Behind a knife-sharpening truck.”

“Sorry. Wrong again. If I want you followed, you’ll never know it. What did you go after at N.D.S.? That’s selection one. If it’s worth it, I’ll kill the sub story.”

Trevayne’s mind was still on the Pontiac. He’d call Webster at the White House as soon as he got rid of Bruce.… He’d nearly forgotten about the Pontiac.

“No deal, Bruce. It’s not worth it, anyway. It was background.”

“All right, I’ll put my staff on the N.D.S. books. We’ll find it.… Selection two. This is rougher. There’s a rumor that six weeks ago, after your somewhat spectacular appearance at the Senate hearing, you met with the old boy from Nebraska a few hours before the Fairfax accident; that you had harsh words. Is it true, and what was the substance?”

“The only person who could have heard that conversation was a man named Miller … Laurence Miller, as I recall. The chauffeur. Ask him. He’s told you this much, why not the rest?”

“He’s loyal to the old man. He was also taken care of with a bequest. He won’t say; claims he never listened to back-seat talk. There was too much of it.”

“No deal again. It was an honorable disagreement. If Miller tells you anything else, I’d question it if I were you.”

“You’re not me.… One more selection; your last, Trevayne. If you cop out, I’ll be a big hindrance. I may even mention your attempt to ‘plead the case’ for suppression. How about that?”

“You’re a revolting little man. I don’t think I’ll read your column anymore.”

“Your words.”

“Followed by others; out of context.”

“Tell me about Bonner.”

“Paul Bonner?” Trevayne had an uncomfortable feeling that Roderick Bruce’s last
selection
was the real reason he was there. Not that the first two choices were innocuous—they weren’t, they were unacceptable—but the newsman’s voice betrayed a degree of intensity absent from his other questions; his threat more direct.

“Major Paul Bonner, no-middle-initial, serial number 158-3288; Special Forces, Intelligence Section, currently attached to Department of Defense. Recalled from Indochina, nineteen seventy after spending three months’ isolation in a military stockade—officer’s quarters, of course—awaiting court-martial. No interviews permitted; no information available. Except a happy little descriptive phrase coined by a general in Eye Corps: the ‘killer from Saigon.’ That’s the Bonner I’m referring to, Mr. Trevayne. And if you’re the avid reader of my work you say you are, you know I’ve stated that the mad Major should be locked up in Leavenworth, not walking the streets.”

“I must have missed that day’s paper.”

“
Those
days. What’s Bonner’s function? Why was he assigned to you? Did you know him before? Did you request him?”

“You talk awfully fast.”

“I’m awfully interested.”

“Taking your questions in order—if I can; Bonner’s merely a liaison with Defense. If I need something he gets it. Those are his words, incidentally, and he’s been damned efficient. I have no idea why he was assigned to me; I’m also aware that he’s not particularly happy with the job. I didn’t know him, so obviously I couldn’t have requested him.”

“Okay.” Bruce kept his eyes on Trevayne. He made small rapid vertical motions with his gold pencil against the air, against nothing. Again it was a gesture, an irritating one. “That checks out; that’s programmed. Now … do you believe it?”

“Believe what?”

“That the ‘killer from Saigon’ is simply a messenger boy? You really believe that?”

“Of course I do. He’s been very helpful. These offices, arranging transportation, reservations all over the country. Whatever his opinions, they have no bearing on what he does around here.”

“You mentioned your staff. Did he help you assemble it?”

“Of course not.” Trevayne found himself raising his voice. His anger, he realized, was triggered because in the beginning Paul Bonner had tried to help him ‘assemble’ a staff. “To anticipate you, Major Bonner holds convictions which differ considerably from my own. We both understand that; neither expects to convert the other. Regardless, I trust him. Not that there’s any reason to use the term; he’s not involved with our work.”

“I’d say he’s very much involved. He’s in a position to know what you’re doing. Who you’re talking to, which companies you’re looking into—”

“That kind of information is hardly classified, Mr. Bruce,” interrupted Trevayne. “Frankly, I’m not sure what you’re driving at.”

“It’s obvious. If you’re investigating a gang of thieves, you don’t rely on one of the biggest crooks in town to help you out.”

Trevayne recalled Walter Madison’s initial reaction to Bonner. The attorney had observed that Defense wasn’t practicing much subtlety. “I think I can relieve your anxiety, Mr. Bruce. Major Bonner is in no way responsible for any decisions here. We don’t discuss our progress with him—except in the most general terms and if I’m not mistaken, usually with humor. He simply takes care of routine details; and as a matter of fact, far less so than at the beginning. My secretary has assumed most of those responsibilities and calls on Bonner only when she has problems. Defense is quite good at securing a difficult airlines reservation or locating a corporation man whose company has a Pentagon contract. I repeat he’s been very helpful.”

“You’ll grant his being here on these premises is unusual.”

“The military is not famous for its sensitivity, Mr. Bruce. I think that’s perhaps a good thing.… Look, we’re dealing with Defense economies; we need a liaison. Why the Army assigned Bonner, I can’t presume to say. But it did, and he’s been satisfactory. I won’t say he’s been inspired; I don’t think he has much use for us. However, he’s a good soldier. I believe he’d carry out whatever assignments given him, regardless of his personal feelings.”

“Nicely said.”

“There’s no other way to say it.”

“You’re telling me he doesn’t try to represent the Pentagon viewpoint?”

“On the few occasions when I’ve asked his opinion, he very
much
represents the military point of view. I’d be alarmed if he didn’t. Wouldn’t you be?… If you’re attempting to unearth some kind of conspiracy, you’re not going to find it. Using your own logic Mr. Bruce, we were aware of Bonner’s reputation. Or became aware of it. Naturally, we were concerned. Those concerns proved unwarranted.”

“You’re not giving me what I want, Trevayne.”

“It seems to me you want a headline for your column that says Bonner’s impeding the subcommittee’s progress. That he’s been assigned here so he can transmit classified information to his superiors. I told you, I’ve read your by-line, Bruce. It was a nice try, very logical. But it’s not true. It’s too goddamned obvious, and you know it.”

“What are some of his opinions? I might settle for that. What’s he said that represents the ‘military point of view’?”

Trevayne watched the diminutive columnist. He was becoming edgy, he was nervous now, as if he sensed he was about to lose something he wanted desperately. Andy recalled Paul Bonner’s harrowing counterstrategy against the hypothetical peace march—the troops, the swift repression—and knew this was the sort of thing Roderick Bruce wanted to print.

“You’re paranoid. You’re willing to settle for just about anything that colors Bonner dirty, aren’t you?”

“You got it, Trevayne. Because he
is
dirty. He’s a mad dog who should have been gassed three years ago.”

“That’s a pretty strong indictment. If you feel that way, you’ve got the audience; tell them … if you can back it up.”

“They cover for that son-of-a-bitch. They
all
cover for him. Up and down the line he’s sacred territory. Even with those who hate his guts—from the Mekong to Danang—no one’ll say a word. That bothers me. I’d think it would bother you, too.”

“I don’t have your information. I’ve got enough problems without creating more from half-truths or half-lies. Put plainly, I’m not that interested in Major Bonner.”

“Maybe you should be.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Think about something else, too. I’ll give you a couple of days. You’ve had conversations with Bonner; he spent a weekend with you in Connecticut. Call me and tell me about them. What he’s said to you may seem inconsequential. But coupled with what I’ve got could be important. You might be doing yourself and the country considerable service.”

Trevayne rose from the chair, looking down at the small reporter. “Take your Gestapo tactics somewhere else, Mr. Bruce. No sale here.”

Roderick Bruce knew through experience the disadvantages of standing up. He remained seated, fingering his gold pencil. “Don’t make an enemy of me, Trevayne. That’s foolish. I can shape that submarine story in such a way as to make you untouchable. People’ll run from you. Maybe worse; maybe they’ll just be laughing.”

“Get out of here before I throw you out.”

“Intimidating the press, Mr. Chairman? Threatening physical violence on a man of my size?”

“Describe it any way you like. Just get out,” said Trevayne calmly.

Roderick Bruce rose slowly, replacing the gold pencil in his breast pocket. “A couple of days, Trevayne. I’ll expect your call. You’re upset now, but things will clear up for you. You’ll see.”

Trevayne watched the little-boy/old-man walk firmly
with his short strides toward the office door. Bruce didn’t look back; he grasped the knob, pulled the door, and walked out. The heavy door banged against a chair in its backward path and vibrated slightly.

Brigadier General Lester Cooper slammed his fist on the long briefing table. His face was flushed, the veins in his neck pronounced.

“That little
bastard
. That goddamned pygmy
prick!
What the hell is he after?”

“We don’t know yet. Could be just about anything,” answered Robert Webster from across the room. “Our guess is Bonner; we calculated that possibility when we put him on.”

“
You
calculated it. We didn’t want any part of it.”

“We know what we’re doing.”

“I’d feel better if you could convince
me
. I don’t like the possibility that everyone’s expendable.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Tell Bonner his old friend Bruce may be stalking him again, to be careful.” Webster approached Cooper; there was a hint of a smile on his lips. “But don’t lay it on too thick. We wouldn’t want him overly careful; just tell him. He’s aware of Trevayne’s surveillance; don’t let somebody else tell him first.”

“I understand.… However, I think you people should find a way to force Bruce out of this. He shouldn’t be anywhere near it.”

“That’ll come in time.”

“It should be
now
. The longer you wait, the greater the risk. Trevayne’s going after Genessee.”

“That’s exactly why we’re not making any sudden moves. Especially not now. Trevayne won’t get anywhere. Roger Brewster might.”

Andrew Trevayne looked out the window at the rolling Potomac. Brown leaves now, brackish water; Saturday-afternoon football games, pro contests on Sunday. Congress filled the newspapers with more talk than achievement; middle autumn in Washington.

The meeting had gone well, his nucleus had confidentially compiled enough data to justify personal confrontations with a number of Genessee Industries’ top management.

Especially one man. James Goddard. The one man at Genessee Industries who had the answers. San Francisco.

That was the next stop.

It had been a singularly effective effort on everyone’s part, made more difficult by the unorthodox methods Andy had called for. Very little of the work was done in the offices, almost all of it accomplished in the basement recreation room of his rented house in Tawning Spring. And those involved were limited to Alan Martin, Michael Ryan, John Larch, and the irrepressible Sam Vicarson.

He initially conceived of these methods, this secrecy, for very uncomplicated reasons. When the last responses came in from Genessee plants and contractors across the country, the volume was enormous. File cabinets were filled in a matter of several weeks. Then as these reports proved consistently unsatisfactory and additional requests were sent to the company’s offices, Trevayne realized that Genessee was going to crowd out everything else they were working on. Simple collating between the voluminous replies became a major complication, brought about by evasive responses.