Trevayne (10 page)

Trevayne heard the click of the disconnection and slowly replaced the telephone. He reached into his shirt pocket for his cigarettes, and extracting one, lit it with the all-maroon matches labeled “The Plaza.” There wasn’t much to think about. He wasn’t about to change his mind for the tactics of a very persuasive President.

He was Andrew Trevayne. Every once in a while he had to remind himself of that. He didn’t need anyone. Not even the President of the United States.

“Andy?”

Trevayne looked over at the bed. His wife’s head was propped sideways against the pillow, and her eyes were open.

“Yes, darling?” He got out of the chair and walked rapidly to the bedside. His wife was only half-conscious.

“I heard. I heard what you said.”

“Just don’t worry about a thing. The doctor’ll be back in the morning; we’ll head up to Barnegat first thing. You’re fine. Sleep now.”

“Andy?”

“What, sweetheart?”

“He wants you to stay, doesn’t he?”

“It doesn’t make any difference what he wants.”

“He’s right. Don’t you see that? If you quit … they’ve beaten you.”

Phyllis Trevayne shut her eyes deliberately. Andrew felt deeply for the pained expression on her exhausted face. Then he realized as he watched his wife that her pain was mixed with something else.

With loathing. With anger.

Walter Madison closed the door of his study and turned the brass knob, locking himself in. He’d gotten the call from Trevayne at the restaurant, and in spite of his panic, had followed Andy’s instructions. He’d reached the Plaza security man and made sure no police report would be filed. Trevayne was adamant that Phyllis be spared—the family, the children, spared—any press coverage of the assault. Phyllis couldn’t help with descriptions of either the man or the event; everything had been blurred for her, incoherent.

The Plaza security man had read something else into Madison’s instructions—the explicit instructions of the powerful attorney for the more powerful Andrew Trevayne—and didn’t bother disguising his interpretation. For several minutes Madison had considered offering the man money, but the lawyer in him prevented that; retired police officers adding to their pensions in stylish hotels had a proclivity for stretching out such understandings.

Better the man believe what he wanted to believe. There was nothing criminal involved, so long as the hotel property was paid for.

Madison sat down at his desk; he saw that both his hands shook. Thank God his wife was asleep. Asleep or passed out, what difference?

He tried to understand, tried to put everything into perspective, into some kind of order.

It had begun three weeks ago, with one of the most lucrative offers of his career. A silent retainer, conceived and executed in confidence. With him alone, unrelated to his partners or his firm. It wasn’t an unusual practice,
although he had entered into very few such agreements. Too often they weren’t worth the strain—or the secrecy.

This agreement was. Seventy-five thousand dollars a year. Untaxable, untraceable. Paid out of Paris into a Zurich account. Length of contract: forty-eight months. Three hundred thousand dollars.

Nor was there any attempt to hide the reasons behind the offer.

Andrew Trevayne.

He, Walter Madison, was Trevayne’s attorney; he had been for over a decade.

The conflict—so far—was minor. As Trevayne’s lawyer he was to advise his new clients of any startling or extraordinary information related to Andrew and this proposed subcommittee—which wasn’t even in existence as yet. And there was no guarantee that Andrew would advise
him
.

That was understood.

The risk was undertaken solely by the clients; they understood that.

It was entirely possible that no conflict would ever arise. Even if it did, whatever information he might transmit
could
be unearthed from a dozen sources. And in his bracket, it would take him a considerable length of time to bank three hundred thousand dollars.

But his agreement tolerated nothing in the area of what happened that evening at the Plaza.

Nothing!

To associate him with such an act was beyond imagination.

He unlocked the top drawer of his desk and withdrew a small leather notebook. He thumbed to the letter “K” and wrote the number on a scratch pad.

He picked up his telephone and dialed.

“Senator? Walter Madison.…”

A few minutes later the attorney’s hands stopped trembling.

There was no connection between his new clients and the events of the evening at the Plaza Hotel.

The Senator had been horrified. And frightened.

The closed hearing comprised eight senators, as diversified as possible within the opposing camps, and the candidate for confirmation, Andrew Trevayne.

Trevayne took his seat, Walter Madison beside him, and looked up at the raised platform. On the platform was the usual long table with the necessary number of chairs, microphones in their places in front of each chair, and the flag of the United States centered against the wall. A small desk with a stenotype machine was below the platform on the main level.

Men were standing around in groups talking with one another, gesturing with quiet intensity. The clock reached two-thirty, and the groups began to disperse. An elderly man Trevayne recognized as the senior Senator from Nebraska—or was it Wyoming—climbed the three steps of the platform and walked to one of the two center chairs. His name was Gillette. He reached over for a gavel and lightly tapped it.

“May we clear the room, please?”

It was the sign for those not part of the hearing to leave quickly. Last-second instructions were given and received, and Trevayne was aware that he was the object of a great many looks. A youngish man dressed in a sober, dark suit approached the table and put an ashtray in front of Trevayne. He smiled awkwardly, as if he wished he could say something. It was a curious moment.

The panel of senators began assembling; cordialities were exchanged. Trevayne saw that the smiles were abrupt, artificial; a taut atmosphere prevailed. It was emphasized by an incident that would have gone unnoticed under more relaxed conditions. Senator Alan Knapp, mid-forties, straight black hair combed carefully back from his wide forehead, pressed the button on his microphone and blew through the meshed globe. The amplified rush of air caused a number of the panel to react sharply. They looked—apprehensively,
perhaps—at their colleague. It might have been Knapp’s reputation for uncompromising investigation, even rudeness, that made the reactions so totally serious. Another curious moment.

Old Senator Gillette—Wyoming? No, it was Nebraska, thought Trevayne—perceived the tension and rapidly, softly tapped the gavel. He cleared his throat and assumed the responsibility of the chair.

“Gentlemen. Distinguished colleagues, Mr. Undersecretary. Senate hearing number six-four-one commences session on this date at the hour of two-thirty; so let the record state.”

As the stenotypist, staring at nothing, effortlessly touched the muted keys, Trevayne realized that the “Undersecretary” was himself. He had been “Mr. Undersecretary”;
an
undersecretary, one of many.

“Having been appointed generously by my colleagues as chairman of this hearing, I shall open with the usual statement outlining the purposes of our gathering. At the conclusion of this brief statement I welcome any additions or clarifications—I hope no contradictions, as our objective is fully bipartisan.”

There were perceptible nods of agreement, several unhumored smiles, one or two deep breaths signifying the start of Senate hearing six-four-one. Gillette reached for a folder in front of him and opened it. His voice had the drone of a court-martial charge.

“The state of the defense economy is appalling; an opinion shared by every knowledgeable citizen. As elected representatives, it is our duty-by-oath to use the powers granted us by the Constitution to ascertain these deficiencies and correct them wherever possible. We can and should do no less. We have made provision for the forming of an investigative subcommittee, so requested by the Defense Allocation Commission—a subcommittee the purpose of which is to make a thorough study of the major contracts now existing and submitted for congressional approval between the Department of Defense and those corporations doing business with Defense. To limit the scope of the inquiry—and surely it must be limited, for reasons of time—an arbitrary contractual figure of one-point-five
million has been suggested for the subcommittee’s guidelines. All Defense agreements in excess of this amount are subject to the scrutiny of the subcommittee. It will, however, be at the discretion of the subcommittee to make all such investigatory decisions.

“Our purpose this afternoon is to examine and confirm or deny the appointment of Mr. Andrew Trevayne, formerly Undersecretary of State, to the position of chairman of the above-mentioned subcommittee. This hearing is closed, and the record will remain classified for an indeterminate period, so I urge my colleagues to search their consciences, and where doubts exist, should they exist, express them. Again, further—”

“Mr. Chairman.” Andrew Trevayne’s soft-spoken, hesitant interruption so startled everyone in the room that even the stenotypist lost his appearance of uninterest and looked over at the man who had dared to interrupt the opening remarks of the chair. Walter Madison instinctively reached out and put his hand on Trevayne’s arm.

“Mr. Trevayne?… Mr. Undersecretary?” asked the bewildered Gillette.

“I apologize.… Perhaps this isn’t the time; I’m sorry.”

“What is it, sir?”

“It was a matter of clarification; it can wait. My apologies again.”

“Mr. Chairman!” It was the aquiline Senator Knapp. “The Undersecretary’s lack of courtesy to the chair is strange, indeed. If he has anything to say in the nature of clarification, it certainly
can
wait for the proper time.”

“I’m not that familiar with procedures, Senator. I didn’t want it to slip my mind. You’re right, of course.” Trevayne reached for a pencil, as if to write a note.

“It must have struck you as most pertinent, Mr. Undersecretary.” It was the Senator from New Mexico who now spoke; a man in his fifties, a respected chicano. It was apparent that he disliked Alan Knapp’s intimidating rebuke.

“It did, sir.” Trevayne lowered his eyes to the paper. There was a momentary silence in the room. The interruption was now complete.

“Very well, Mr. Trevayne.” Senator Gillette seemed unsure of himself. “It’s quite possible that you are correct, though unorthodox. I’ve never held to the theory that the chair’s remarks were sacrosanct. I’ve been tempted far too often to cut them short myself. Please. Your clarification, Mr. Undersecretary.”

“Thank you, sir. You stated that it was the responsibility of this panel to search for and express doubts.… I’m not sure how to say it, but I feel that a similar responsibility is shared by this table. Quite honestly, I’ve had doubts myself, Mr. Chairman.”

“Doubts, Mr. Trevayne?” asked Mitchell Armbruster, the small, compact Senator from California whose wit was as much a part of his reputation as his judgment. “We’re born with doubts; at least, we grow to recognize them. What doubts do you refer to? Pertinent to this hearing, I mean.”

“That this subcommittee will be given the degree of cooperation it needs in order to function. I sincerely hope the panel will consider the implications of this question.”

“That sounds suspiciously like an ultimatum, Mr. Trevayne.” Knapp spoke.

“Not at all, Senator; that would be totally unwarranted.”

“It nevertheless strikes me that your ‘implications’ are insulting. Is it your intention to put the Senate of the United States on trial here?” continued Knapp.

“I wasn’t aware that this was a trial,” replied Trevayne pleasantly, without answering the question.

“Damn good point,” added Armbruster with a smile.

“Very well, Mr. Undersecretary,” said Gillette. “Your clarification has been placed into the record and duly noted by this panel. Is that satisfactory?”

“It is, and thank you again, Mr. Chairman.”

“Then I shall conclude my opening remarks, and we may proceed.”

Gillette droned on for several minutes, outlining the questions which should be raised and answered. They fell into two categories. First, the qualifications of Andrew Trevayne for the position under consideration, and second, the all-important factor of conceivable conflicts of interest.

At his conclusion, the chairman made the customary statement. “Any additions or clarifications, beyond Mr. Trevayne’s previous inclusions?”

“Mr. Chairman?”

“The Senator from Vermont is recognized.”

James Norton, early sixties, close-cropped gray hair, down-easter accent very pronounced, looked at Trevayne. “Mr. Undersecretary. The distinguished chairman has described the areas of this inquiry in his usual clear and forthright manner. And we certainly will raise the questions of competence and conflict. However, I submit there is a third territory that should be explored. That is your philosophy, Mr. Undersecretary. You might say, where you
stand
. Would you grant that privilege to us?”

“No objections, Senator.” Trevayne smiled. “I might even hope that we could exchange such views. My own and the panel’s collective position, of course, relative to the subcommittee.”

“
We
are not standing for confirmation!” Alan Knapp’s voice crackled harshly through the speakers.

“I respectfully refer the Senator to my previous remarks,” answered Trevayne softly.

“Mr. Chairman?” Walter Madison placed his hand once more on Trevayne’s arm and looked up at the platform. “May I have a word with my client, if you please.”

“Certainly, Mr.… Madison.”

The Senate panel, in the courtesy of such hearings, talked among themselves and shuffled papers. Most, however, kept their eyes on Trevayne and Walter Madison.

“Andy, what are you doing? Are you trying to deliberately confuse the issues?”

“I made my point.…”