Trevayne (31 page)

“Well, figure Genessee has a hundred installations—general and subsidiary—like the Houston labs. Not as big, certainly, but substantial. You can estimate between seven and ten top men at each site. Seven hundred to a thousand.”

“And these people control project decisions, production lines?” Trevayne wrote on notepaper.

“Ultimately, yes. They’re responsible.”

“So for a few million a year, Genessee extracts obedience from a powerful sector of the scientific community,” said Andrew, scratching over the figures he’d written. “Men who have control over, say, a hundred project installations, which in turn make the decisions for all of the Genessee plants and subsidiaries. Assembly lines and contracts involving billions.”

“Yes. I’d guess it’s growing every year; they start young.” The dejected, questioning expression returned to Ryan’s face. “Ralph Jamison’s a sad casualty, Andy. He’s better than that. He’s got a big problem.”

“He drinks with the Irish crazies,” said Alan Martin gently, seeing the pain in Ryan’s eyes.

Ryan looked at Martin, smiled, and paused before replying softly. “Hell no, Al, he’s an amateur. He goes out New Year’s Eve.… Ralph’s at the real genius level. He’s made great contributions to metallurgical research; we’d never have made the moon without him. But he burns himself out in the shops. He’s been known to work seventy-two hours straight. His whole life is committed to the laboratory.”

“Is that his problem?” asked Andy.

“Yes. Because he can’t take the time for anything else. He runs from personal commitments; he’s frightened to death of them. He’s had three wives—quick selections. They gave him among them four children. The ladies have bled him in alimony and support. But he’s nuts about the kids; he worries about them so because he knows himself and those girls. That was his admission to me. Every February he goes to Paris, where a Genessee small-timer gives him twenty thousand in cash, which he takes to Zurich. It’s for his kids.”

“And he’s one of the men who put us on the moon.” Sam Vicarson made the statement quietly and watched Trevayne. It was apparent to all in the room that Sam was referring to something—someone else.

And each knew that Sam had been to Seattle, Washington. To Joshua Studebaker.

Andrew accepted Vicarson’s words and his unspoken appeal. He turned back to Ryan. “But you’re not suggesting that we disregard Jamison’s report, are you, Mike?”

“Christ, no.” Ryan exhaled slowly. “I don’t like nailing him, but what I’ve learned about Genessee Industries scares the hell out of me; I mean
really scares
me. I know what those design shops and laboratories are turning out.”

“That’s physical, not sociological,” said Vicarson quickly, firmly.

“Sooner or later those two get together if they’re not already, fella,” answered Ryan.

“Thanks, Mike.” Trevayne’s voice indicated that he wanted no tangential discussions at the moment.

Vicarson leaned forward on the couch and picked up
his file folder. “Okay. I guess it’s my turn,” he said with a shrug that conveyed far more than resignation.

Andrew interrupted. “May I, please?”

Sam looked at Trevayne, surprised. “What?”

“Sam came to me earlier this evening. The Studebaker report isn’t complete. There’s no question that he was reached and threatened by Genessee, but we’re not sure of the degree of influence that had on the antitrust decision regarding Bellstar. The judge claims that it didn’t; he justifies the decision in legal and philosophical terms, using contemporary definitions. We
do
know the Justice Department had no real interest in pursuing the action.”

“But he
was reached
, Andrew?” Alan Martin was concerned. “And threatened?”

“He was.”

“Threatened with what?” asked Ryan.

“I’m going to ask you to let me wait before answering that.”

“It’s so filthy?” asked Martin.

“I’m not sure it’s relevant,” said Trevayne. “If it turns out to be, it’ll be filed.”

Ryan and Martin looked at each other, then at Vicarson. Martin spoke, addressing Trevayne. “I’d be a damn fool to start questioning your judgment after all these years, Andrew.”

“So, what else is new?” said Ryan casually.

“I’m leaving tonight. For Washington. Paul Bonner thinks I’m going to Connecticut; I’ll explain.… Genessee Industries is progressively eliminating all the checks and balances. It’s time for Senator Armbruster.”

Brigadier General Lester Cooper walked up the flagstone path toward the front door of the suburban home. The coach lamp on the lawn was lighted; the metal plate beneath it, suspended by two small chains from a crossbar, read: “The Knapps; 37 Maple Lane.”

Senator Alan Knapp.

There’d be at least one other senator inside, too, thought Cooper as he walked up the steps. He switched the attaché case to his left hand and pushed the button.

Knapp opened the door, his irritation obvious. “For God’s sake, Cooper, it’s almost ten o’clock. We said nine!”

“I didn’t
have
anything until twenty minutes ago.” The General spoke curtly. He didn’t like Knapp; he simply had to tolerate him, not be polite. “I didn’t look upon this evening as a social call, Senator.”

Knapp feigned a smile; it was difficult for him. “Okay, General, call off the artillery. Come on in.… Sorry, we’re a little upset.”

“With damned good reason,” added Cooper as he stepped inside.

Knapp preceded the General into the living room. It was an expensive room, thought Cooper as he saw the French provincial furniture, the soft white rugs, and the ornate objets d’art scattered about. Knapp came from money; old money.

Vermont’s Senator Norton looked out of place sitting in a delicate love seat. The craggy New Englander was not the sort of person for whom such pieces were designed. The other man, however—Cooper didn’t know him—seemed very much at ease on the couch. His clothes looked English; dark, thin pinstripes and cut close.

The White House’s Robert Webster was the fourth man.

“You know Norton and Webster, General. May I introduce Walter Madison.… Madison, General Cooper.”

The men shook hands. Knapp indicated a chair for Cooper and said, “Mr. Madison is Trevayne’s attorney.”

“What?” The Brigadier looked questioningly at the Senator.

“It’s all right, Cooper.” Norton shifted in the stiffly upholstered love seat as he spoke. He didn’t feel the need to add anything further.

Webster, standing by the piano, highball in hand, was more understanding. “Mr. Madison is aware of our problems; he’s cooperating with us.”

The Brigadier unlocked his attaché case, opened it,
and extracted several typewritten pages. Madison elegantly uncrossed and crossed his legs. He asked calmly, “How is Andrew? I haven’t heard from him in weeks.”

Cooper looked up from his papers. It was obvious that he thought Madison’s question was foolish. “He’s busy.”

“What have you learned?” Norton was impatient. He rose and walked to the couch—to the opposite end from Madison. Knapp kept his eyes on Cooper; he sat down in an armchair to the right of the General.

“Major Bonner spent the better part of the afternoon and evening trying to find the subcommittee’s airline reservations. There were none. Thinking they might have used false names, he ran tracers on all male passengers coming into and out of the Boise airport during the past several days. They all proved out. He went to private aircraft; same answer.” Cooper paused briefly; he wanted the pols to recognize the thoroughness of Defense personnel. “He then questioned several pilots and learned there was another airfield used exclusively for noncommercial aircraft; runway, medium-sized. Five thousand feet; sufficient for small jets. On the other side of Boise, eight to ten miles out of town. It’s called Ada County Airport.”

“General?” It was Knapp who was impatient now. The military was usually circumlocutory about a problem it hadn’t solved. “I’m sure Major Bonner is an efficient officer, but I wish you’d get to the point.”

“I’ll
do
that, Senator. But I’ll get there by giving you this information, because you should have it.
We
should have it. It bears considerably on the subcommittee’s actions.”

“I stand corrected. Go ahead, if you please.”

“Ada County has a lot of corporate traffic. The flight plans generally list only the pilot, the company, and, perhaps, the executive who ordered the aircraft. Rarely passengers. Bonner thought it might be a dead end. Trevayne knows a lot of people in companies that fly their own planes; his staff personnel could be unlisted passengers.… Then he found it. Two Lear jets chartered in the name of Douglas Pace.”

Walter Madison abruptly uncrossed his legs and sat forward.

“Who the hell is Douglas Pace?” asked Norton.

Walter Madison answered. “He’s Trevayne’s brother-in-law.”

Robert Webster whistled softly by the piano. General Cooper turned to Knapp. “Trevayne not only avoided all the commercial airlines, he also used an out-of-the-way field and flight plans under another name.”

Knapp wasn’t convinced that Trevayne’s caution required Cooper’s elaborate explanation, but Knapp decided to let him enjoy the moment. “Commendable job.… Where had they flown in from?”

Cooper looked down at the papers. “According to Flight Service Stations, the first Lear was traced back to San Francisco, where Air Traffic Control confirmed its destination as San Bernardino. No amended flight plan filed with ATC.”

“What?” Senator Norton was constantly annoyed by the Army’s use of short, staccato-sounding agencies and departments he’d never heard of or knew little about.

Webster, still by the piano, was once again understanding; this time on Norton’s behalf. “Flight plans can be amended within several minutes after a plane leaves the field, Senator. The information is filed with Traffic Control, not FSS. Flight Service rarely gets the information for hours, if at all. It’s one way to confuse tracers.”

Norton looked over his shoulder at Webster with suspicious respect. He didn’t know what Webster was talking about. Cooper continued.

“While the aircraft was in San Bernardino, Trevayne remained in San Francisco. Alan Martin did not.”

“He’s the comptroller from Pace-Trevayne in New Haven, isn’t he?” asked Knapp.

“Yes,” replied Cooper. “And San Bernardino’s twenty minutes from Pasadena. Genessee plants; there’ve been a lot of problems down there.”

Knapp looked at Norton. “Go on, General.”

“The Lear left Thursday morning, destination Boise, Idaho. It remained at the Ada County field for only an hour and then took off for Tacoma, Washington. Bonner
confirms that at that point Alan Martin returned, and the young lawyer, Sam Vicarson, was removed from the scene.”

“Tacoma!” shouted Norton angrily. “What the hell is in Tacoma?”

Robert Webster drank his drink; he was getting drunk. He looked down at the disheveled New Englander. “Tacoma is in the state of Washington, Senator Norton. An hour’s drive up the Puget is a city called Seattle. Just outside that city is a complex of buildings with ten-foot-high fences all around. By coincidence it has something to do with Genessee Industries. Its name is Bellstar.”

“Oh, Jesus!” Norton did not look at the White House aide this time. He was staring at Knapp, who addressed General Cooper.

“What about the second Lear? Do you have anything on it?”

“Everything,” answered Cooper. “Tracing the FP’s back from Boise, the plane was flown from Houston International. Its point of origin was Dulles Airport. Our informants at the Potomac Towers tell us that an aeronautical engineer named Michael Ryan was absent from the offices. Bonner confirms that Ryan showed up in Boise.”

Alan Knapp spoke quietly. “Then Ryan was in Houston. We can presume he was at the Genessee laboratories. They have check-in ledgers. Let’s find out who he went to see.” He rose from his chair and started for an antique desk with a French telephone on its sculptured top. “I know who to call.”

“Don’t bother, Senator. We called. Ryan never went to the labs.”

Knapp stopped and turned to Cooper. “Are you sure? I mean, how can you be sure?”

“We also know who to call.
I
know who to call.” Both men stared at each other. It was checkmate, and then some. The permanent career officer had made it clear to this elected—impermanent—official that there were doors the military could unlock effortlessly that the politicians might not be able to find. Knapp understood.

There were such doors.

“All right, General. Ryan wasn’t at the labs. Where was he? Why did he go to Houston?”

“Since I learned within the hour that he wasn’t on Genessee property, I haven’t had time to find out.”

“Can you?”

“Again, time.”

“We don’t
have
time!” interjected Norton from the couch. “Goddamn it! This is rough weather!”

“Oh, for God’s sake, stow that crap!” yelled Knapp. Senator Alan Knapp had been a decorated naval officer, and Norton’s excessive use of sea language maddened him.

“Now, just a minute!”

“All right, all right!” Knapp retreated. “Sorry, Jim.… What are you figuring on, General?”

“I thought we’d discuss that.… Along with a prior consideration.”

Robert Webster moved from the piano and spoke. “Trevayne sends a top financial analyst to Pasadena. To see who? Why?… An aeronautical engineer—one of the best, by the way—to Houston. Ryan may not have been
in
the labs, but he sure as hell was in Houston to see someone connected with them.… And a lawyer to Bellstar; that’s dangerous. I don’t like it.” Webster sipped his replenished drink and stared straight ahead, at nothing. “Trevayne’s cutting near a jugular.”

“I
think
”—Walter Madison stretched his arms through his fashionable sleeves and leaned back on the couch—“that you all should be reminded that Andrew could not,
can
not, come up with anything more than minor corruption. It’s just as well that he finds it, if he does. It will satisfy his puritan streak.”

“That’s a pretty goddamn blanket statement, Madison.” Knapp returned to his chair. He remembered how bewildered the lawyer had been at the hearing, months ago. He was astonished now at his calm.