Trevayne (7 page)

The man who first had spoken to Trevayne in the hotel led him inside through the hallway to a tiny elevator at the end of the corridor. They entered; the agent pulled the brass grille shut and pushed the automatic button: four.

“Close quarters in here,” said Trevayne.

“The Ambassador says his grandchildren play in it for hours when they visit. I think it’s really a kiddie elevator.”

“The Ambassador?”

“Ambassador Hill. William Hill. This is his house.”

Trevayne pictured the man. William Hill was in his seventies now. A wealthy eastern industrialist, friend-to-Presidents, roving diplomat, war hero. “Big Billy Hill” was the irreverent nickname given by
Time
magazine to the articulate, soft-spoken gentleman.

The elevator stopped, and the two men got out. There was another hallway and another plainclothesman in front of another door. As Trevayne and the agent approached him, the man unobtrusively withdrew a small object from his pocket, slightly larger than a pack of cigarettes, and made several crisscross motions in Trevayne’s direction.

“Like being given a benediction, isn’t it?” said the agent. “Consider yourself blessed.”

“What is it?”

“A scanner. Routine, don’t be insulted. Come on.” The man with the tiny machine opened the door for them.

The room beyond the door was an immense library-study. The bookcases were floor-to-ceiling, the Oriental carpets thick, the furniture heavy wood and masculine. The lighting was indirect from a half-dozen lamps. There were several leather armchairs and a large mahogany table which served as the desk. Behind the table sat Ambassador William Hill. In an armchair to the right sat the President of the United States.

“Mr. President. Mr. Ambassador.… Mr. Trevayne.” The Secret Service man turned and walked out, closing the door behind him.

Hill and the President rose as Trevayne approached the latter, gripping the hand extended to him. “Mr. President.”

“Mr. Trevayne, good of you to come. I hope I didn’t inconvenience you.”

“Not at all, sir.”

“You know Mr. Hill?”

Trevayne and the Ambassador shook hands. “A pleasure, sir.”

“I doubt it, at this hour,” William Hill laughed, coming around the table. “Let me get you a drink, Trevayne.
Nothing in the Constitution says you have to be abstemious during any meeting called after six o’clock.”

“I wasn’t aware that there were any strictures before six, either,” said the President.

“Oh, I’m sure there are some eighteenth-century phrases which might apply. What’ll you have, Trevayne?” asked the old gentleman.

Trevayne told him, realizing that the two men were trying to put him at ease. The President gestured for him to sit down and Hill brought him his glass.

“We met once before, but I don’t suppose you recall, Mr. Trevayne.”

“Of course, I do, Mr. President. It was four years ago, I think.”

“That’s right. I was in the Senate, and you had done a remarkable job for State. I heard about your opening remarks at the trade conference. Did you know that the then-Secretary of State was very annoyed with you?”

“I heard rumors. He never said anything to me, though.”

“How could he?” interjected Hill. “You got the job done. He’d boxed himself into a corner.”

“That’s what made it so amusing,” added the President.

“At the time, it seemed the only way to thaw the freeze,” said Trevayne.

“Excellent work. Excellent.” The President leaned forward in the armchair, looking at Trevayne. “I meant what I said about inconveniencing you this evening. I know we’ll meet again in the morning, but I felt tonight was important. I won’t waste words; I’m sure you’d like to get back to your hotel.”

“No hurry, sir.”

“That’s kind of you.” The Chief Executive smiled. “I know you met with Bobby Webster. How did it go?”

“Very well, sir. I think I understand everything; I appreciate your offer of assistance.”

“You’re going to need it. We weren’t sure we were going to ask you to come out here tonight. It depended on Webster.… The minute he left you he telephoned me here. On my instructions. Then we knew we had to get you over.”

“Oh? Why was that?”

“You told Webster that you’d spoken with no one but Frank Baldwin about the subcommittee. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir. Frank indicated that I shouldn’t. At any rate, there was no reason to talk to anyone about it; nothing was set.”

The President of the United States looked over at William Hill, who stared intently at Trevayne. Hill returned the Chief Executive’s look, then pulled his attention back to Trevayne. Hill spoke softly, but with concern.

“Are you
absolutely sure?
”

“Of course.”

“Did you mention it to your wife? Could she have said anything?”

“I did, but she wouldn’t. I’m positive about that. Why do you ask?”

The President spoke. “You’re aware that we sent out rumors that you were being approached for the job.”

“They reached me, Mr. President.”

“They were meant to. Are you also aware that the Defense Commission is composed of nine members—leaders in their respective fields, some of the most honored men in the country?”

“Frank Baldwin said as much.”

“Did he tell you that they agreed to a man not to reveal any decisions, any progress, any concrete information?”

“No, he didn’t, but I can understand it.”

“Good. Now, I must tell you this. A week ago we sent out another rumor. An authenticated rumor—agreed to by the commission—that you had categorically rejected the post. We left no room for doubt as to where you stood. The rumor was that you violently objected to the whole concept, considered it a dangerous encroachment. You even accused my administration of police-state tactics. It was the sort of suppressed information that experience tells us is most readily believed, because it’s embarrassing.”

“And?” Trevayne did not try to conceal his annoyance. Not even the President of the United States had the right to attribute such judgments to him.

“Word came back to us that you had not rejected, but, instead, accepted the post. Civilian and military intelligence
established the fact that in certain powerful sectors it was common knowledge. Our denial was ignored.”

The President and the Ambassador remained silent, as if to let the importance of their revelation have an effect on Trevayne. The younger man looked bewildered, unsure of his reaction.

“Then my ‘refusal’ wasn’t believed. That doesn’t surprise me. Those who know me probably doubted it—the way it was phrased, at any rate.”

“Even when personally confirmed to selected visitors by the President?” asked William Hill.

“Not simply
me
, Mr. Trevayne. The
office
of the President of the United States. Whoever that man is, he’s a tall fellow to call a liar. Especially in an area like this.”

Trevayne looked over at both men. He was beginning to understand, but the picture was still out of focus. “Is it … was it necessary to create the confusion? Does it matter whether I take the job, or someone else?”

“Apparently it does, Mr. Trevayne,” answered Hill. “We know the proposed subcommittee is being watched; that’s understandable. But we weren’t sure of the intensity. We surfaced your name and then proceeded to deny—vehemently deny—your acceptance. It should have been enough to send the curious out speculating on other nominees. It wasn’t. They were sufficiently concerned to dig further, dig until they learned the truth.”

“What the Ambassador means—forgive me, Bill—is that the possibility of your heading up the subcommittee was so alarming to so many people that they went to extraordinary lengths to ascertain your status. They had to make sure you were out. They discovered otherwise, and rapidly spread the word. Obviously in preparation.”

“Mr. President, I assume this subcommittee, if it functions properly, will touch a great many people. Of course, it’ll be watched. I expected that.”

William Hill leaned forward over his desk. “Watched?… What we’ve described goes far beyond the meaning of the word ‘watched’ as I understand it. You may be assured that large sums of money have been exchanged, old debts called in, a number of dangerous embarrassments threatened.
These things had to happen, or a different conclusion would have been arrived at.”

“Our purpose,” said the President, “is to make you aware, to alert you. This is a frightened city, Mr. Trevayne. It’s frightened of you.”

Andrew slowly put down his glass on the small table next to the chair. “Are you suggesting, Mr. President, that I reconsider the appointment?”

“Not for a minute. And if Frank Baldwin knows what he’s talking about, you’re not the sort of man who’d be affected by this kind of thing. But you have to understand. This isn’t an interim government appointment made to a respected member of the business community for the sake of mollifying a few outraged voices. We are committed—I am committed—to see it produce results. It must follow that there will be a considerable degree of ugliness.”

“I think I’m prepared for that.”

“Are you?” asked Hill, leaning back once again in his chair. “That’s very important, Mr. Trevayne.”

“I believe so. I’ve thought it over, talked it out at length with my wife … my very discreet wife. I have no illusions that it’s a popular assignment.”

“Good. It’s necessary you understand that … as the President says.” Hill picked up a file folder from the large maroon blotter on his table-desk. It was inordinately thick, bulky, and held together by wide metal hasps. “May we dwell for a minute on something else?”

“Of course.” Trevayne looked at Hill as he answered, but he could feel the President’s stare. He turned, and the President instantly shifted his eyes to the Ambassador. It was an uncomfortable moment.

“This is your dossier, Mr. Trevayne,” said Hill, holding the file horizontally, as if weighing it. “Damned heavy, wouldn’t you say?”

“Compared to the few I’ve seen. I can’t imagine its being very interesting.”

“Why do you say that?” asked the President, smiling.

“Oh, I don’t know.… My life hasn’t been filled with the sort of events that make for exciting fiction.”

“Any man who reaches the level of wealth you did before he’s forty makes fascinating reading,” said Hill.
“One reason for the size of this file is that I kept requesting additional information. It’s a remarkable document. May I touch on a few points I found salient, several not entirely clear?”

“Certainly.”

“You left Yale Law within six months of your degree. You never made any attempt to finish or pursue the bar. Yet your standing was high; the university officials tried to convince you to stay, but to no avail. That seems odd.”

“Not really. My brother-in-law and I had started our first company. In Meriden, Connecticut. There was no time for anything else.”

“Wasn’t it also a strain on your family? Law school?”

“I’d been offered a full scholarship. I’m sure that’s listed.”

“I mean, in the sense of contributing.”

“Oh.… I see what you’re driving at. I think you’re giving it more significance than it deserves, Mr. Ambassador.… Yes. My father declared bankruptcy in nineteen fifty-two.”

“The circumstances were untidy, I gather. Would it bother you to describe them?” asked the President of the United States.

Trevayne looked alternately at both men. “No, not at all. My father spent thirty years building up a medium-sized woolens factory—a mill, actually—in Hancock, Massachusetts; it’s a town outside of Boston. He made a quality product, and a New York conglomerate wanted the label. They absorbed the mill with the understanding—my father’s understanding—that he’d be retained for life as the Hancock management. Instead, they took the label, closed the factory, and moved south to the cheaper labor markets. My father tried to reopen, illegally used his old label, and went under. Hancock became a New England mill-town statistic.”

“An unfortunate story.” The President’s statement was made quietly. “Your father had no recourse in the courts? Force the company to make restitution on the basis of default?”

“There was no default. His understanding was predicated
on an ambiguous clause. And talk. Legally, he had no grounds.”

“I see,” said the President. “It must have been a terrible blow to your family.”

“And to the town,” added Hill. “The statistic.”

“It was an angry time. It passed.” Andrew recalled only too well the anger, the frustration. The furious, bewildered father who roared at the silent men who merely smiled and pointed to paragraphs and signatures.

“Did that anger cause you to leave law school?” asked William Hill. “The events coincided; you had only six months to go for your degree; you were offered financial aid.”

Andy looked at the old Ambassador with grudging respect. The line of questioning was becoming clearer. “I imagine it was part of it. There were other considerations. I was very young and felt there were more important priorities.”

“Wasn’t there really just one priority, Mr. Trevayne? One objective?” Hill spoke gently.

“Why don’t you say what you want to say, Mr. Ambassador? Aren’t we both wasting the President’s time?”

The President offered no comment; he continued to watch Trevayne, as a doctor might study a patient.

“All right, I will.” Hill closed the file and tapped it lightly with his ancient fingers. “I’ve had this dossier for nearly a month. I’ve read it and reread it perhaps twenty times over. And as I’ve told you, I repeatedly asked for additional data. At first it was merely to learn more about a successful young man named Trevayne, because Frank Baldwin was—and is—convinced that you’re the only man to chair that subcommittee. Then it became something else. We had to find out why, whenever your name was mentioned as a possible nominee, the reactions were so hostile. Silently hostile, I might add.”

“ ‘Dumbstruck’ might be more appropriate, Bill,” interjected the President.

“Agreed,” said Hill. “The answer had to be here, but I couldn’t find it. Then, as the material was processed—and I placed it in chronological order—I found it. But I had to go back to March of nineteen fifty-two to understand.
Your first compulsive, seemingly irrational action. I’d like to capsule …”