Trevayne (35 page)

“What he gave
you
, Major. Not
us.
” What Cooper implied put Paul Bonner on notice. The first of its kind he’d ever received.

“All right, General. What he gave
me
.… And whatever
he gave me I passed on to you, and you acted on it. I don’t move in those circles.”

Lester Cooper controlled his anger. The Young Turk was actually threatening him. There’d been too many threats; the General was wearying of them. He wasn’t capable of dealing with these constant assaults of subtlety. “There’s no cause for insubordination, Major. I’m merely defining lines of intelligence. We’re in this together.”

“In what, General?”

“You know perfectly well! The erosion of military influence; the accelerated lessening of defense necessities. We’re paid to uphold this country’s state of preparedness, not watch it disintegrate!”

“I read you, General.” And Bonner did. Except he suddenly had grave doubts about his superior’s ability to cope with the situation. Cooper was spewing out Pentagon clichés as though they were biblical revelations. He was not thoroughly in control of himself, and the circumstances called for absolute stability. And at this moment of doubt, Bonner made a decision he knew was not his to make. He would withhold the detailed specifics of why he came to Washington from Cooper. At least for the time being, until he spoke to Trevayne.

“… since you condescend to agree with me, Major, I’ll expect you in my office by nineteen hundred. That’s an hour and fifteen minutes.” Cooper had been talking, but Paul was barely aware of it. In some unconscious way he had dismissed his superior officer.

“General, if that’s an order, I’ll obey, of course. But I submit, sir, that every minute I spend
not
trying to reach Trevayne could have serious consequences.… He’ll
listen
to me.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and Bonner knew he’d win. “What will you tell him?”

“The truth—as I see it. He’s been talking to the wrong person. A maladjusted psychopath. Perhaps more than one; it’s happened before. And if this source is symptomatic of his other contacts—and it probably is, they all know each other—he should be told that he’s getting biased data.”

“Where is he now?” Bonner could sense the slight relief in the General’s voice.

“All I know is that he’s in Washington. I think I can find him.”

Paul could hear Cooper inhale over the wire. The brigadier was struggling to make his decision seem wise and strong and well-thought-out, when in reality it was the only decision that could be made. “I’ll expect you to phone me with a progress report by twenty-three hundred. I’ll be at home.”

Bonner was tempted to dispute the order; he had no intention of calling the General at twenty-three hundred. Unless he was doing absolutely nothing.

After lighting one of his infrequent cigarettes, Bonner again picked up the phone and called a friend he knew was on a twelve-to-eight post at Army G-2. A minute later he had the telephone number of Senator Mitchell Armbruster’s office and home.

He found him at home.

“Senator, I have to locate Andrew Trevayne.”

“Why call me?” The total lack of expression in Armbruster’s voice betrayed him. And like the tumblers in a lock falling into place, Bonner suddenly understood the meaning of Sam Vicarson’s notation: “10:00-11:30 S.A. Qu.”

Senator Armbruster had been in a quorum call on the Senate floor; the call was scheduled between those times, and Trevayne had to know it if he wanted to intercept the man.

“I don’t have time for explanations, Senator. I assume you met with Trevayne around noon.…” Bonner paused to hear a denial or a confirmation. There was none, which was the same as the latter. “It’s imperative I find him. In quick words, he’s been given highly misleading information; information that compromises a great many people who are completely above reproach—you among them, sir.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Major … Bonner, was it?”

“Senator! There’s a hundred and seventy-eight million dollars that Defense can substantiate as a long-standing priority request. Does that give you some idea?”

“I have nothing to say.…”

“You may have if I don’t find Trevayne and tell him he’s been dealing with enemies of this country! I can’t put it any plainer.”

Silence.

“Senator Armbruster!”

“He instructed the cab to take him to Dulles Airport.” The same expressionless voice.

“Thank you,
sir.
”

Bonner slammed down the phone. He leaned back in the Lieutenant Colonel’s chair and brought his hand to his forehead. Oh Christ! he thought, the age of instant mobility! He reached for the telephone once again and called Traffic Control, Dulles.

The Lear jet under charter to Douglas Pace had left the airport at two-seventeen in the afternoon. Destination: Westchester, New York. Arrival time: three-twenty-four.

So Trevayne had gone home—or near home. And if that was so, he would see his wife—especially under the strained circumstances. Of course, he’d go to his wife! It was inconceivable that he wouldn’t. Andy had that rare thing, a wife he
liked
—beyond the love, thought Bonner. Trevayne would travel miles, take hours, to be in her company, even for short periods of time. Most married men he knew would travel miles and take hours to avoid theirs.

Paul walked to the door, opened it, and looked for the Lieutenant Colonel. He was standing by a complex panel of instruments studying some pages on a clipboard.

“Colonel, I need a pilot. Would you have my plane refueled and checked out as soon as possible?”

“Hey, wait a minute, Major. We don’t run Andrews Field for your personal convenience!”

“I need a pilot, Colonel. Mine’s been on call for over twenty-four hours.”

“That could just be
your
problem.”

“Colonel, do you want General Cooper’s private telephone number and
you
tell
him
it’s my problem? I’ll be happy to give it to you.”

The Lieutenant Colonel lowered the clipboard and searched the face of the Major. “You’re with counter-intelligence, aren’t you?”

Bonner waited a few seconds before making his reply. “You know I can’t answer that.”

“Which gives me my answer.”

“Do you want the General’s private number?”

“You’ll have your pilot.… When do you want to be airborne?”

Paul looked up at the numerous dials on the wall. It was just seven o’clock, eastern time.

“An hour ago, Colonel.”

Bonner had gotten the name of the private hospital from 1600 Security. He then processed a driving route from Andrews Transport, secured a vehicle to be at his disposal once he arrived at Westchester, and thanked the Lieutenant Colonel with as much sincerity as he could muster.

The vehicle turned out to be a motor-pool sedan which an Army corporal from some totally obscure post in Nyack, New York, had driven over to the Westchester airport.

Since the Corporal expected he would be the Major’s driver, Bonner gave him twenty dollars to find his way back to his unmapped base in Nyack. The Major also informed the Corporal that there was no point in his returning before noon on the following day, and gave him a note so specifying. The Corporal was delighted.

Bonner drove up to the open iron gates of the hospital and entered the circular drive. The clock on the dashboard read nine-thirty-five. There were no automobiles in the circle; two illuminated signs directed cars to a parking lot on the far side of the building. Bonner was not about to be so directed. Instead, he clung to the right of the driveway—so as to let other cars pass—and parked half on the grass. There were flurries of snow descending; wet, not sticking to the ground for long before melting. He got out of the car and automatically expected the 1600 Patrol to approach. It was, after all, an Army vehicle. He was
prepared to deal with them. Explain, if necessary; which, of course, it would be.

No one came into view.

Bonner was confused. He’d read the rigid instructions the 1600 Patrol were to follow. With such buildings as the private hospital, housing a singular vehicular entrance and no more than three stories in height, one man was to remain outside, the other within, both in instant radio contact. The men from 1600 were the best in matters of security. They would not deviate except in an emergency.

To make certain it was not simply a case of observance without contact, Bonner walked slowly around the car and spoke clearly, projecting his voice slightly, not shouting.

“Bonner, Paul. Major, D.O.D. ‘Sixteen hundred,’ please respond.… Repeat. ‘Sixteen hundred,’ please reply.”

Nothing. Only the silent tone of the night, the muted hum of the peaceful building.

Paul Bonner reached under his tunic to his belt. He withdrew his “civilian” pistol—a custom-tooled, short-barreled, heavy .44. It would blow a human being into a jack-knifed, flying corpse.

He raced across the drive to the front entrance of the private hospital. He couldn’t know what was happening inside. His uniform might be a deterrent or a provocation—it was certainly a target. He put the pistol in his tunic pocket and kept his hand on the stock, his finger curled in the trigger housing; with his thumb he released the safety and held the weapon in a horizontal position. He was prepared to fire through the cloth.

He turned the large brass knob quietly, and swiftly opened the white colonial door, startling an attractive, intelligent-looking nurse behind an admissions counter. She’d been reading at the desk; there was no panic within. He approached and spoke calmly.

“Miss, my name is Bonner. I understand Mrs. Andrew Trevayne is a patient here.”

“Yes … Colonel.”

“ ‘Major’ is fine.”

“I can never get those insignias straight,” said the girl pleasantly, getting out of the chair.

“I have trouble myself; the Navy stripes always confuse me.” Bonner looked around for the 1600 Patrol.

No one.

“Yes, Mrs. Trevayne’s a patient. Is she expecting you? It’s somewhat after the usual visiting hours, Major.”

“Actually, I’m looking for
Mr
. Trevayne. I was told I’d find him here.”

“I’m afraid you missed him. He left about an hour ago.”

“Oh? Then I wonder … perhaps I might speak with Mrs. Trevayne’s driver. I believe arrangements were made for a driver and a secretary; I think …”

“It’s all right, Major,” said the nurse, smiling. “Our registration book is filled with ‘captains and kings,’ and people who keep them from being bothered by other people. I gather you’re referring to the two gentlemen who arrived with Mrs. Trevayne. Nice guys.”

“That’s who I’m referring to. Where are they?”

“It’s not your night, Major.
They
left before Mr. Trevayne.”

“Did they say where they were going? It’s really quite urgent that I talk to them.”

“No.… Mr. Callahan, the one in the corridor, got a phone call around seven-thirty. All he said was that he and his friend had the night off. I think he liked the idea.”

“Who took the call? I mean, do you know where it came from?” Bonner tried to conceal his anxiety, none too successfully.

“The switchboard.” The nurse understood the look in Paul’s eyes. “Shall I ask the operator if she can recall?”

“Please.”

The girl crossed rapidly to a white, paneled door to the right, behind the counter, and opened it. Bonner could see a small switchboard and a middle-aged woman seated in front of it. He thought how different things were in a private hospital; even a switchboard was kept from public scrutiny. No large glass walls with impersonal robots plugging in wires; no starched, hard mannequins announcing institutional names over the hectic drone of mechanized activity. Everything secreted gracefully, everything personal, so nonpublic; elegant, somehow.

The nurse returned. “The call was long-distance; a
Washingon, D.C., operator. Person-to-person for Mr. Callahan, Mrs. Trevayne’s party.”

“And then he left?” Paul’s anxiety turned to concrete fear. On several levels; for a number of reasons. There had to be an explanation, and he had to know what it was.

“That’s right,” answered the girl. “Major? Would you like to use the telephone?”

Bonner felt relief at the nurse’s perception. “I would very much. Is there—”

“There’s a phone in the waiting room. Right through there.” She pointed at an open door across the hall. “On the table next to the window. Just tell the operator to bill it to room … two-twelve. You’ll have privacy.”

“You’re very kind.”

“You’re very uptight.”

The “waiting room” was a living room, gracefully secreted, warmly appointed, rugs on the floor. So different from the plastic couches and the confusing array of magazine racks usually found in hospitals.

Paul gave the Washington number to the operator, and before the first ring was completed, 1600 Security answered.

“It’s Major Bonner again. Is this the same—”

“Right, Major. Four-to-twelve shift. Did you find the place?”

“Yes, I’m calling from there. What happened?”

“What happened where?”

“Here. Darien. Who relieved the men?”

“Relieved? What are you talking about?”

“The men were relieved. They were released at seven-thirty, or around then. Why?”

“No one released anybody, Bonner. What the hell are you talking about?”

“The men aren’t
here.
”

“Look around, Major. They’re there. They may not want you to know it, but—”

“I’m telling you, they
left
. Do you have a man named Callahan?”

“Hold it. I’ll get the route sheet; it’s right over here.… Yes, Callahan and Ellis. They’re on till two
A.M
.”

“They’re
not
on, goddamn it! Callahan got a phone
call from Washington. At seven-thirty. He left; he told the nurse he and his partner had the night off.”

“That’s crazy! No release went out. If it did, I’d know about it; it’d be listed on the route sheet. Damn it, Bonner, I’d be the one to make contact.”

“Are you telling me Callahan lied? He’s not here; take my word for it. Neither of them is.”