Scruff

by Robert Ludlum

  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. “Trevay
ne 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.

  “It’s simply true. Legally, every overrun at Genessee has been substantially vindicated. And that’s what he’s looking into; that’s what he’s going after. I’ve spent weeks examining every congressional question. I’ve put my best staff on every problem. A little stealing, yes; and Andrew will nail it. Beyond that, nothing.”

  “You’re supposed to be a good man,” said Norton. “I hope you’re as good as the supposers say you are.”

  “I can assure you I am, Senator. My fees might help to convince you.”

  “I still want to know what Trevayne’s been after. You’ll find out, General?” asked Senator Knapp.

  “Within forty-eight hours.”

  25

  Friday morning in Washington, and no one knew he was there. The Lear jet landed at Dulles at seven-thirty, and at ten minutes past eight Trevayne walked into the rented house in Tawning Spring. He showered, changed clothes, and allowed himself an hour to sit and collect his thoughts, let the pressures of the fast trip from Boise wear off. He was good at pacing himself, he believed. He worked well under tension, because he tried never to permit tension and exhaustion to be simultaneous—mental exhaustion. And he was aware that now, during these next few days, he had to be very careful. It would be so easy for his mind, his imagination, to work itself into such a state of anxiety that thinking clearly might be impossible.

  He phoned for a Tawning Spring taxi and was driven into Washington to the Senate Office Building.

  It was ten-twenty-five; Senator Mitchell Armbruster would be returning to his office within minutes. He had been on the floor for a quorum demanded by his party, but there was no other business of consequence. Armbruster was expected back by ten-thirty at the latest. For a routine Friday-morning meeting with his staff.

  Andy stood in the corridor outside Armbruster’s door and waited. He leaned against the wall and halfheartedly leafed through the Washington Post. The editorial once again was a scathing appraisal of Congress’ progress; the House criticized for its indecisiveness, the Senate for its obfuscation of pertinent business.

  Late November in Washington; perfectly normal.

  Trevayne was aware of the fact that Armbruster had seen him first. The small, compact Senator had literally stopped walking; he stood motionless, as if momentarily frozen in astonishment. Indeed, it was this sudden break in the moving human traffic that caused Trevayne to look up from the newspaper.

  Armbruster resumed his casual, relaxed posture as he approached Trevayne. He smiled his warm, laconic smile and held out his hand. The moment of silent revelation had passed, but it was absolute, and both men recognized it.

  “Well, Mr. Trevayne, this is a delightful surprise. I thought you were out in my state, enjoying the scenic wonders of our Pacific.”

  “I was, Senator. Then Idaho. But I found it necessary to make a brief, unscheduled return.… To see you.”

  Armbruster, the handshake completed, looked questioningly at Trevayne as his smile diminished. “That’s certainly direct.… I’m afraid I have a full calendar today. Perhaps tomorrow morning; or if you like, we could have drinks around five-thirty. Dinner’s taken.”

  “May I suggest that it is most urgent, Senator. I’m seeking the help and advice of your office. Shall we say, on labor statistics in northern California?”

  There was a short halt to Mitchell Armbruster’s breathing. He was silent for a few moments, his eyes wandering from Trevayne’s face. “I’d rather not speak with you here, in my office.… I’ll meet you in an hour.”

  “Where?”

  “Rock Creek Park. Near the outdoor pavilion. Do you know it?”

  “Yes, I do. In an hour.… And, Senator, one more suggestion. Hear what I have to say before you get in touch with anyone. You don’t know what I’m going to say, sir. It would be best.”

  “I said you were direct, Mr. Trevayne.… I’ll keep my own counsel; because I also think you’re an honorable man. But then, I said that before, too. During the hearing.”

  “Yes, you did. In an hour, sir.”

  The two men walked along the wooded path in Rock Creek Park, the shorter one intermittently lighting his pipe with fresh matches. Trevayne realized that Armbruster’s pipe acted as some kind of psychological crutch, an anchor, for the Senator. He remembered during the hearing how Armbruster had toyed with it—fondled it, really—packing and repacking the bowl, scraping the burned-out contents into an ashtray with methodical precision. Now, here in Rock Creek Park, walking casually along a path, he clutched it, held it between his teeth with such force that the muscles of his jaw stood out.

  “So you’ve concluded that I’ve taken advantage of my office for personal gain,” said Armbruster calmly, his eyes staring straight ahead.

  “I do, sir. I don’t know any other way to put it. You determined the maximum funding Genessee Industries could handle; made sure it was sufficient for the unemployment recovery—at least, you had the economists back you up; and then guaranteed the amounts. You had to get both labor and management support. It won you the election.”

  “And that was bad?”

  “It was a political manipulation engineered at considerable expense. The country will be paying for it for a long time to come.… Yes, I’d say it was bad.”

  “Oh, you rich Brahmins are too holy for words! What about the thousands of families I represent? In some areas unemployment had reached the levels of twelve, thirteen percent! It was a constituency priority, and I’m damned proud I was able to help. Do I have to remind you that I’m the senior Senator from the state of California, young man?… If you want to know the truth, Trevayne …” Armbruster paused and looked up at Andy, chuckling his pleasant, throaty laugh. “You sound faintly ridiculous.”

  Trevayne returned the good-humored laugh and saw that Armbruster’s eyes weren’t laughing at all. If anything, they were more probing than they had been in the corridor of the Senate Office Building.

  “In other words, I’m ridiculous because I don’t recognize that what you did was not only good politics—I mean ‘good’ in all senses of the word—but also sound economics? And in line with defense objectives.”

  “You’re damned right. You’re goddamned right, young man.”

  “It was a question of priorities? A constituency … emergency?”

  “You’re almost poetic. ’Course, you don’t scan.”

  “It’s done every day, that’s what you’re saying.”

  “It’s done several hundred times a day, and you know it as well as I do. In the House, the Senate, every agency in Washington. What in heaven’s name do you think we’re in this town for?”

  “Even with such extraordinary sums of money?”

  “That description is relative.”

  “Contracts worth hundreds of millions are relative?”

  “What in hell are you driving at? You sound like a ten-year-old.”

  “Only one question, Senator. How often are these politically sound, economically feasible arrangements made with Genessee Industries? All over the country.”

  Mitchell Armbruster stopped. They were on a small wooden bridg
e spanning one of Rock Creek Park’s many streams. Armbruster stood by the gray-oak railing and looked down at the rushing water. He took his pipe from his mouth and tapped it against the wood.

  “That’s why you flew in on your … unscheduled detour.” He made the statement without any emotion whatsoever.

  “Yes.”

  “I knew it was.… Why me, Trevayne?”

  “Because I was able to make the practical, provable connection. I think coincidence. Frankly, I wish it were somebody else; but I don’t have the time.”

  “Is time that important?”

  “If what I believe has happened, it is.”

  “I’m minor. I fight for political survival so I can present a point of view that’s progressively disappearing. It’s important that I do that.”

  “Tell me.”

  Armbruster slowly removed a tobacco pouch from his jacket pocket and began refilling his pipe. He looked up at Trevayne several times, as if searching, wondering. Finally he lit the pipe and leaned his short elbows against the railing.

  “What’s there to tell? You join an organization, you understand the bylaws, the fundamental rules. As you go on, you find that in order to achieve certain objectives, those bylaws have to be, must be, circumvented. Otherwise you can’t get the job done. If you’re dedicated, I mean passionately committed, to your objectives, you become a very frustrated human being. You begin to doubt your own capabilities, your political virility. You think you’re a eunuch.… Then, after a while—at first very subtly—you’re told that there are ways, if you stop shouting off your big, fat liberal mouth. Stop trying to turn everything upside down with rhetoric. Be a little more accommodating.… It’s easy to assimilate; they call it the process of maturing. You call it at-last-achieving-something. You see the good you’re doing; you give just a little, but you get so much more in return.… Goddamn it, it’s worth it! Bills are given your name, amendments are named after you. You see the good … only the good.…”

  Armbruster seemed to weary, to tire of his own logic, obviously circulated and recirculated throughout his ever-active brain. Trevayne knew he had to jar the man, make him respond.