Scruff

by Robert Ludlum

  “Alexander Coffey.”

  Roderick Bruce stood there motionless. His tight jaw slackened, his lips parted, and his face lost all poise of arrogance.

  PART 4

  42

  It seemed preposterous.

  It was preposterous.

  And the most preposterous aspect of it was that no one wanted anything—except his commitment. That had been made totally clear; no one expected him to change one word of the subcommittee report. It was anticipated that he would complete it, present copies to the President, the Congress, and the Defense Allocations Commission and be thanked by a grateful government. Nothing altered, nothing compromised.

  Chapter closed.

  Another chapter about to begin.

  It didn’t seem to matter that the report was viciously uncompromising; he hadn’t concealed the fact. It had even been suggested that the more severe the judgments, the greater stature it lent his proposed candidacy.

  Candidacy.

  A candidate for the nomination of President of the United States.

  Preposterous.

  But it wasn’t preposterous at all, they’d insisted. It was the logical decision of an extraordinary man who’d spent five months, when the report was finished, making an independent study of the country’s most massively complicated problem. It was time for an extraordinary man unwedded to political harems; the nation cried out for an individual dramatically separated from the intransient positions of doctrinaire politics. It needed a healer; but more than just a healer. It demanded a man who was capable of facing a giant challenge, of assembling the facts and weeding the truth from myriad deceits.

  That was his track record, they’d told him.

  At first, he thought Mitchell Armbruster was mad, desperately trying to flatter with such excess that his words nullified his intent. But Armbruster had been firm. The senior Senator from California readily admitted that the idea seemed grotesque to him too when first proposed by a nucleus of the National Committee, but the longer he had thought of it, the more plausible it had become—for men of his political inclinations. The President, whom he supported more than he opposed, was not of his party; Armbruster’s party had no viable prospects, only pretenders. They were tired men, familiar men, men like himself who’d had their chance at the brass ring and failed to grasp it. Or younger ones who were too brash, too irreverent to appeal to the classic middle. The middle American really didn’t want to “rap” or be “right on.”

  Andrew Trevayne could cross the lines, fill the vacuum. There was nothing preposterous about that; it was eminently practical. It was political—within the craft of the possible that was politics. This was the National Committee’s argument. It was sound.

  But what of the report? The findings and judgments of the subcommittee weren’t compiled in such a way as to win partisan support. And there would be no alterations made for any reasons; he was adamant about that.

  So he should be, had been Armbruster’s unexpected reply. The report of the Defense Allocations subcommittee was just that. A report. It was to be filed with the proper committees in the Senate and the House and, of course, the President. Its recommendations would be weighed by both the legislative and the executive; the prosecutable data handed directly to the Justice Department, and where indictments were called for, they would follow.

  And Genessee Industries?

  The major conclusion of the subcommittee report branded the company as a government unto itself, with powers political and economic that were unacceptable in a democracy. What of this judgment? What of the men responsible? What of men like Ian Hamilton who controlled, and men like Mitchell Armbruster who benefited?

  The Senator from California had smiled sadly and restated the assurance of indictments where they were called for. He did not believe he had committed illegal acts. We were still a nation of laws, not insupportable speculations. He would stand on his record.

  As for Genessee Industries, neither the Senate, the House, nor the President would settle for less than complete reforms. Obviously, they were mandatory. Genessee Industries was in large measure dependent on government purchases. If the company had abused the resultant privileges to the degree Trevayne believed, it would be severely curtailed until those reforms were instituted.

  Andrew should sleep on the idea; say nothing, do nothing. It might all dissolve. Often these conjectures were mere flurries, political desperations. But the Senator, speaking for himself, had come to believe it made great sense.

  There would be other conversations. Other meetings.

  And there were.

  The first took place at the Villa d’Este in Georgetown. In a private room on the sixth floor. Seven men had gathered together—all of the same party, with the exception of Senator Alan Knapp. Senator Alton Weeks of the Eastern Shore of Maryland—still wearing the blazer Trevayne remembered from the closed Senate hearing—took command.

  “This is merely exploratory, gentlemen; I, for one, will need considerable enlightenment.… Senator Knapp, who is with us out of a bipartisan spirit, has asked that he be allowed to speak and then leave. His remarks will be confidential, of course.”

  Knapp leaned forward on the huge banquetlike table, his palms pressed down on the damask cloth. “Thank you, Senator.… Gentlemen, my good friend and colleague from across the aisle, Mitchell Armbruster”—Knapp smiled a short noncommittal smile at Armbruster, who was at his side—“told me of this meeting in response to a query of mine. As I’m sure you realize, the cloakroom has been alive with quiet rumors that a very dramatic announcement might be forthcoming. When I learned further the nature of this announcement, I felt that you should be aware of a little drama going on over in our section. Because, gentlemen, there’s been an unexpected turn of events that might have bearing on your discussion this evening. I tell you not only in a bipartisan spirit, but because I share with you the concern with the direction this country takes, especially in these times.… The President very likely will not seek a second term.”

  There was silence around the table. Slowly, without emphasis, but with consciousness, each man looked at Andrew Trevayne.

  Shortly thereafter Knapp left the private room, and the process of dissecting Andrew began.

  It lasted nearly five hours.

  The second meeting was shorter. Barely an hour and a half, but infinitely more extraordinary to Trevayne. In attendance was the junior Senator from Connecticut, an old-middle-aged man from West Hartford whose record was lackluster but whose appetites were reputed to be varied. He’d come to the meeting to announce his retirement; he was going back into private life. His reasons were bluntly financial. He’d been offered the presidency of a large insurance firm, and it wasn’t fair to his family to refuse.

  The Governor of Connecticut was prepared to offer Trevayne the appointment—provided, of course, that Andrew immediately enroll in the party. “Immediately” meant within the month. Before the fifteenth of January.

  By fulfilling the unexpired Senate term Trevayne would be propelled into the national spotlight. His political springboard was assured.

  It had happened before; to lesser men, usually. The extraordinary man could capitalize on it brilliantly. The forum was ready-made. Positions could be established swiftly, with strength. Papers would be issued, making irrevocably clear the beliefs of Andrew Trevayne.

  For the first time, Andrew faced the concrete reality.

  It was possible.

  Yet what were his beliefs? Did he believe in the checks and balances and independent judgments he so readily espoused? Did he believe—really believe—that the Washington talent was superior talent, needing only to be freed from contemptible influences such as Genessee Industries? And was he capable of leading that superior talent? Was he strong enough? Could he impose the strength of his own convictions on an immensely powerful adversary?

  Much had been made at the Villa d’Este meeting of his work for the State Department. The conferences in Czechoslovakia, where h
e’d brought seemingly implacable opponents together.

  But Andy knew that Czechoslovakia was not the test at all.

  The test was Genessee Industries.

  Could he himself—alone—bring the company to heel? That was the test he wanted, needed.

  43

  Paul Bonner stood at attention as Brigadier General Cooper came through the door of his small room in Arlington. Cooper waved his hand, half in salute, half in a gesture of weariness, indicating that Bonner should relax, sit down again.

  “I can’t stay long, Major. I’m due at O.M.B. shortly; there’s always a budget crisis, isn’t there?”

  “As far back as I can remember, sir.”

  “Yes.… Yes. Sit down. If I don’t, it’s only because I’ve been sitting all day. And most of this past weekend. I’ve been up to our place in Rutland. Sometimes it’s even more lovely with the snow. You should visit us there sometime.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Yes.… Yes. Mrs. Cooper and I would like it, too.”

  Paul sat down in the chair by his bare steel desk, leaving the single armchair for the General. But the Brigadier would not sit down. Cooper was nervous, agitated, unsure of himself.

  “I gather you haven’t brought very good news, General.”

  “I’m sorry, Major.” Cooper looked down at Paul, his mouth drawn, his brrow wrinkled. “You’re a good soldier, and everything will be done for you that can be done. We expect you’ll be acquitted of the murder charge.…”

  “That’s nothing to be sorry about.” Bonner grinned.

  “The newspapers, especially that little prick Bruce, have stopped demanding your neck.”

  “I’m grateful. What happened?”

  “We don’t know, and nobody wants to ask. Unfortunately, it will have no bearing.”

  “On what?”

  Cooper walked to the small double window overlooking the BOQ courtyard. “Your acquittal—if it’s that—will be in a civil criminal court with military as well as civilian attorneys.… You are still subject to an Army court-martial. The decision has been made to proceed with dispatch immediately following your trial.”

  “What?” Bonner got out of his chair slowly. The gauze around his throat was stretched as his neck muscles expanded in anger. “On what basis? You can’t try me twice. If I’m acquitted … I’m acquitted!”

  “Of murder. Not of gross neglect of duty. Not of disregarding orders, thus placing yourself at the scene of the trouble.” Cooper continued to look out the window. “You had no right being where you were, Major. You might have jeopardized the safety of Trevayne and his housekeeper. And you involved the United States Army in areas beyond its province, thus impugning our motives.”

  “That’s goddamn double-talk!”

  “That’s the goddamn truth, soldier!” Cooper whipped around from the window. “Pure and simple. You may have been shot at, legally constituting self-defense. I hope to Christ we can prove that. No one else was!”

  “They’ve got the Army car. We can prove it.”

  “The Army car. That’s the point! Not Trevayne’s car, not Trevayne.… Goddamn, Bonner, can’t you see? There are too many other considerations. The Army can’t afford you any longer.”

  Paul lowered his voice as he stared at the Brigadier. “Who’s going to do the shithouse detail, General? You?… I don’t think you’re up to it, sir.”

  “I won’t say that’s not called for, Major. From your point of view, I suppose it is.… However, it may have struck you that I was under no obligation to come here this afternoon.”

  Bonner realized the truth of Cooper’s statement. It would have been much simpler for everyone except him had the General said nothing. “Why did you, then?”

  “Because you’ve been through enough; you deserve better than you’re getting. I want you to know I know that. Whatever the outcome, I’ll make sure you’ll … still be able to come and visit a retired superior officer in Rutland, Vermont.”

  So the General was getting out, thought Paul. The commander wasn’t commanding anymore, just making his last deals. “Which means you’ll keep me out of the stockade.”

  “I promise you that. I’ve been given assurance.”

  “But I lose the uniform?”

  “Yes.… I’m sorry. We’re approaching a very sensitive situation.… We have to go by the book. No deviations. We can’t afford the Army’s motives to be subject to question. We can’t be accused of covering up.”

  “There’s that double-talk again, General. You’re not very good at it, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “I don’t mind, Major. I’ve tried, you know. I’ve tried to get better at it during the past seven or eight years. I don’t seem to take to it; I just get worse. I like to think it’s one of the better traits of us old-line men.”

  “What you’re telling me is the Army wants me conveniently tucked away somewhere. Out of sight.”

  Brigadier Cooper slumped into the armchair, his legs extended, the repose position of a combat officer in his tent. The way most of them slept after a rotten day at a fire base. “Out of sight, out of mind, out of the picture, Major.… If possible, out of the country; which I will propitiously suggest to you, once the court-martial is commuted.”

  “Jesus! It’s all been programmed, hasn’t it?”

  “There’s one possibility, Bonner. It struck me as amusing the other day, around noontime in my backyard … with all the snow. Not funny, just ironic.”

  “What is it?”

  “You might get a presidential reprieve. An executive reversal, I think it’s called nowadays. Isn’t that ironic?”

  “How would that be possible?”

  Brigadier General Cooper got out of the armchair and walked slowly back to the window overlooking the courtyard.

  “Andrew Trevayne,” he said quietly.

  Robert Webster didn’t say good-bye to anyone for the simple reason that no one other than the President and the head of the White House staff knew he was leaving.

  The sooner the better.

  The press release would read that Robert Webster of Akron, Ohio, for nearly three years a special assistant to the President, was relinquishing his post for reasons of health. The White House reluctantly accepted his resignation, wishing him well.

  His audience with the President took exactly eight minutes, and as he was leaving the Lincoln Room he could feel the intense stare of the Man’s eyes on his back.

  The Man hadn’t believed a word, thought Webster. Why should he have? Even the truth had sounded hollow. The words had tumbled forth, expressing, if nothing else, an exhaustion that was real; but the reality was obscured by his trying to explain it. That was hollow, false.

  “Maybe you’re temporarily burnt out, Bobby,” the President had suggested. “Why not take a leave of absence, see how you feel in a few weeks? The pressure gets rough; I know that.”

  “No, thank you, sir,” he’d replied. “I’ve made my decision. With your permission, I’d like to make the break final. My wife isn’t happy here. I’m not either, really. We want to start raising a family. But not in Washington.… I think I strayed too far from the barn, sir.”

  “I see.… So you really want to go back to the hinterlands, raise kids, and be able to walk the streets at night. Is that it?”

  “I know it sounds corny, but I guess it is.”

  “Not corny. The American dream, Bobby. Your talents have helped make it possible for millions of others. No reason why you shouldn’t have your share of the dream.”

  “That’s very generous of you, sir.”

  “No, you’ve sacrificed. You must be damned forty now …”

  “Forty-one.”

  “Forty-one and still no children …”

  “There just wasn’t the time.”

  “No, of course, there wasn’t. You’ve been very dedicated. And your lovely wife.”

  Webster knew then that the Man was toying with him; he didn’t know why. The President didn�
�t like his wife.

  “She’s been very helpful.” Webster felt he owed his wife that, selfish bitch or no.

  “Good luck, Bobby. I don’t think you’ll need luck, though. You’re very resourceful.”

  “Working here has opened a lot of doors, Mr. President. I have you to thank for that.”

  “That pleases me.… And reminds me, there’s a revolving door in the lobby, isn’t there?”

  “What, sir?”

  “Nothing. Nothing at all. It’s unimportant … Good-bye, Bobby.”

  Robert Webster carried the last of his checked-out effects to his car in the west parking lot. The President’s cryptic remark bothered him, but there was relief in knowing that it wasn’t necessary to dwell on it. He didn’t have to; he didn’t care. No longer would he have to analyze and reanalyze a hundred cryptic remarks every time he or the office faced a problem. It was more than relief; he felt a sense of exhilaration. He was out of it.

  Oh, Christ, what a magnificent feeling!

  He pulled his car up to the sentry box by the gate and waved at the guard. It would be the last time. Tomorrow morning the gate would get the word. Robert Webster was no longer a fixture at the White House, his plastic pass with the sharp photograph and the brief description of his identifying marks no longer valid. Even the guards would ask questions. He was always polite and cheerful with the White House detachment. He never knew when it might be necessary to stretch a time-out check at either end. Cop a little extra time for himself; no big deal, just a few minutes—ten or fifteen, perhaps—so he could “belt down an extra martini” or “avoid some son-of-a-bitch.” The gate was always cooperative. They couldn’t understand why someone like Bobby Webster ever worried about check-outs, but they accepted his bitchy comments about ducking this or that meeting. What the hell, they had their lousy inspections; Webster had his lousy meetings. Besides, he got them autographs.

  How many slightly altered check-outs had there been? How many times had he managed those invaluable extra minutes in which startling information would come over the Teletype—information he’d use but be perfectly capable of proving he could not have received.