“And there we are,” said Trevayne, sitting down. “Genessee Industries.”
“That’s where it’s at,” replied Sam. “Genessee.”
“Leopards and spots and nothing changes.” Andrew crushed out his hardly smoked cigarette.
“What’s that mean?” asked Larch.
“Years ago,” answered Trevayne, “twenty, to be exact, Genessee waltzed Doug Pace and me around for months. One presentation after another. I’d just gotten married; Phyl and I traveled out to Palo Alto for them. We gave them everything they wanted. So well, they threw us out and used variations on our designs and went into production for themselves.”
“Nice people,” said Vicarson. “Couldn’t you get them for patent theft?”
“Nope. They’re better than that and you can’t patent Bernoulli’s principle. They made the variation in the metallurgical tolerances.”
“Indigenous and unprovable.” Michael Ryan tapped his pipe into an ashtray. “Genessee has laboratories in a dozen different states, proving grounds in twice as many. They could predate mockups with authenticated affidavits, and the courts wouldn’t know what the hell was going on. They’d win.”
“Exactly,” agreed Andrew. “But that’s another story, another time. We’ve got enough to think about. Where are we? What do we do?”
“Let me try to put it together.” Alan Martin picked up the cardboard chart marked “Genessee Industries.” Each chart was twenty-four inches by twenty-four: there were outlined boxes with headings above subdivisions. Underneath and to the right of every title was inserted—stapled—typewritten data pertaining to the areas of contractual commitment, engineering and construction, financial operations, and legal entanglements—usually concerning the financial operations. There were scores of index markings that referred the reader to this or that file. “The advantage of the financial picture is that it pervades all areas.… During the past weeks we’ve sent out hundreds of questionnaires—routine, all the companies got them. As you all know, they were coded, just like advertising coupons in newspapers. The codes gave us mailing times and locations. We then followed up with staff interviews. We found that with Genessee there was an abnormal amount of shifting. Answers we assumed would be sent from logically designated departments and locations were transferred to others—not so logical. Executive personnel our staff went out to interview routinely were suddenly no longer in their positions. Genessee had sent them to other divisions, subsidiaries; hundreds, even thousands of miles away. Some to overseas branches.… We began setting up conferences with union leadership. Same story, only less subtle. The word went out across the country—from one coast to the other—no local discussions. The nationals were deciding what to do about government interference. In short words, Genessee Industries has been engaged in a very efficient and massive cover-up.”
“Not completely efficient, obviously,” said Trevayne quietly.
“Pretty damned good Andrew,” rejoined Martin. “Remember, Genessee has over two hundred thousand employees, multimillion-dollar contracts every fifteen minutes—under one name or another—and real estate rivaling the Department of the Interior. As long as those questionnaires kept coming back, and with Genessee’s diversification, the shuffling might easily go unnoticed.”
“Not with you, you financial raccoon.” Vicarson sat on the arm of an easy chair and reached over, taking the Genessee chart from Martin.
“I didn’t say they were that good.”
“What struck me,” continued Sam, “and it probably wasn’t so great a shock to Mike and John or even Al here, was the sheer size of Genessee. Its subsidiary structure is goddamned unbelievable. Sure, we’ve all heard Genessee this and Genessee that for years, but it never really impressed me before. Like those one-page ads you see in magazines—institutional things; you figure, okay, it’s a company. That’s nice; it’s a nice display. But this one! It’s got more names than a telephone book.”
“And no antitrust action,” said Andrew.
“Gesco, Genucraft, SeeCon, Pal-Co, Cal-Gen, SeeCal … So help me, it’s double crostics!” Sam Vicarson tapped his finger on the Genessee chart’s “Subsidiary” heading. “What bothers me is that I’m beginning to think there are dozens more we haven’t traced.”
“Let them be,” said John Larch with a pained expression on his thin face. “We’ve got enough to work with.”
14
Major Paul Bonner parked in an empty space on the river side of the Potomac Towers lot. He stared out the windshield at the water, growing sluggish with the progressing fall season. It had been seven weeks to the day since he’d first driven into that parking area; seven weeks since he’d first met Andrew Trevayne. He had begun the liaison position with resentment—against both the man and the job. The resentment against the job remained, perhaps grew; he found it difficult to sustain any real dislike of the man.
Not that he approved of Trevayne’s goddamn subcommittee; he didn’t. It was all horseshit. Scattershot horse-shit conceived by the pols on the Hill for the sole purpose of shifting—or at least diluting—the responsibility for that which was necessary. That’s what made Major Paul Bonner so hostile; no one could dispute the necessity—no one! Yet everyone gave the appearance of shocked disbelief when dealing with acknowledged reality.
Time was the enemy. Not people. Couldn’t they see that? Hadn’t they learned that in the space program? Certainly Apollo 14 cost twenty million when it was launched in February of seventy-one. If, instead, it had been scheduled for seventy-two, it would have cost ten; six months later, probably five to seven and a half. Time was the ultimate factor in the goddamn civilian economics and since they, the military, had to reckon with time, they also had to accept the economic—civilian—penalties.
Over the weeks he’d tried to impress Andy Trevayne with his theory. But Trevayne only acknowledged it to be a factor, not the factor. Trevayne insisted that Bonner’s theory was simplistic, then roared with laughter when Bonner reacted explosively to the term. Even the Major had smiled—“simplistic” was no less a code name for “idiocy” than his use of “civilian.”
Checkmate.
But Trevayne did allow that if one eliminated time, a degree of corruption could be dispensed with; if there was all the time in the world, one could sit back and wait for reasonable prices. He agreed to that.
But it was only one aspect, he insisted. Trevayne knew the marketplace. Corruption went much further than the purchase of time.
And Bonner knew he was right.
Checkmate.
The fundamental difference between the two men was the importance each gave to the time factor, however. For Bonner it was paramount; for Trevayne it wasn’t. The civilian held to the judgment that there was a basic international intelligence that would prohibit global holocaust. The Major did not. He’d seen the enemy, fought him, witnessed the fanaticism that propelled him. It filtered down from austere halls in national capitals through field commanders to battalions; from battalions down into the ranks of the half-uniformed, sometimes half-starved troops. And it was powerful. Bonner was not so simplistic, he felt, as to reduce the enemy to a political label; he’d made that clear to Andy. The enemy wasn’t a Communist, or a Marxist, or a Maoist or a Lumumbaist. Those were merely convenient titles.
The enemy was three-fifths of the earth emerging from ignorance and thrust forward by the idea of revolution; the idea of finally—after centuries—possessing its own identity. And once possessing it, forcing its imprimatur on the rest of the world.
No matter the reasons, even the justifications; no matter the rationalizations, filled with motivational theories and diplomatic convolutions. The enemy was people. A few in control of millions upon millions; and these few, with their newly found power and technology, were subject to human weakness and their own fanatical commitments.
The rest of the world had to be prepared to deal decisively, emphatically, overpoweringly with this enemy. Paul Bonner didn’t give a damn what it was
called.
That it was, was enough.
And that meant time. Time had to be bought, no matter the price or the petty manipulations of the suppliers.
He got out of the Army car and started to walk slowly across the tarred surface toward the entrance of the apartment-office complex. He was in no hurry, no hurry whatsoever. If it were possible, he’d prefer not being there at all. Not today.
For today was the start of his real assignment, what he’d been primed for, maneuvered into. Today was when he was to begin bringing back concrete information to his superiors at Defense.
He’d known it all along, of course. He realized at the beginning that he hadn’t been selected as Trevayne’s liaison because of any outstanding qualifications. He had none for that type of work. He knew, further, that the constant but innocuous questioning he’d received to date was only a lead-in to what had to follow. His superiors weren’t really interested in such mundane matters as: How are things going? Are the offices satisfactory? Is the staff up to snuff? Is Trevayne a nice fellow?… No, the colonels and the brigadiers had other things on their minds.
Bonner stopped by the steps and looked up. Three Phantom 40’s, their jetstreams sharply defined in white against the blue sky, streaked west at an enormous altitude. There was no sound, only the barely visible outlines of three tiny triangles gracefully, like miniature silver arrowheads, piercing the air corridors of the horizon.
Strike force—bomb and rocket tonnage capable of obliterating five battalions; flight maneuverability—complete mastery of dynamics from ground zero to seventy thousand feet: speed—Mach three.
That’s what it was all about.
But he wished it didn’t have to happen this way.
He thought back to the morning, a brief three hours ago. He’d been sitting in his office trying to make sense out of some Light-colonel’s appraisal of new installations at Benning. It was nonsense, the summation more concerned with the officer’s egotistical evaluation of his own observations than with the equipment. The request had been for eighty-percent replacement; said request a put-down of the previous officer in charge. It was an Army game played by second-raters.
As Bonner had scribbled his negative recommendation across the bottom of the page, his intercom rang. He was ordered to report immediately to the fifth floor—“Brasswares,” as all below the rank of colonel called it—to Brigadier General Cooper. Lester Cooper, a white-haired, tough, facile-tongued exponent of the Pentagon’s requirements. An ex-commandant of West Point whose father had held the same position. A man of and for the Army.
The Brigadier had spelled it out. Not just what he was to do, but without using the specific words, why he was selected to do it. As most military strategies, it was simple—simplistic?—and to the point. Paul Bonner, for the sake of military necessity, was to be an informer. In the event any impropriety was charged, he was expendable.
But the Army would take care of him. As it had taken care of him once before in Southeast Asia; protected him once before and showed him its gratitude.
It was all a question of priorities; the Brigadier had made that clear. Ordered it to be clear.
“You must understand, Major. We support this Trevayne’s efforts. The Joint Chiefs have requested that we cooperate in every way and we have. But we can’t allow him to cripple vital production. You of all people should see that.… Now, you’re on a friendly basis with him. You’ve …”
It was during the next five minutes that Brigadier General Cooper nearly lost his informer. He alluded to several get-togethers between Bonner and Trevayne that the Major had not listed in any report or spoken of in the office. There was no reason to; they were entirely social, in no way related to the Department of Defense. One had been a weekend he’d spent with the Trevaynes in Connecticut at High Barnegat. Another was a small dinner party Bonner’s current mistress, a divorcée in McLean, had given for Andy and Phyllis. Still another, an afternoon of horseback riding and a fall barbeque in the Maryland hunt country. None was remotely connected with Trevayne’s subcommittee or Bonner’s liaison assignment; none was paid for with government funds. The Major was annoyed.
“General, why have I been under surveillance?”
“You haven’t. Trevayne has.”
“Is he aware of it?”
“He may be. He’s certainly aware of the rotating patrols from Treasury. White House orders. He takes damn good care of them.”
“Do they act as surveillance?”
“Frankly, no.”
“Why not … sir?”
“That question may be beyond your province, Bonner.”
“I don’t wish to disagree with the General, but since I’m delegated to … act very closely with Trevayne, I think I should be informed of such matters. It was my understanding that the guards were assigned by ‘1600’ for precautionary measures. Since they’re in a maximum position for surveillance but they’re not being used—at least not by us—and we assign additional personnel, it strikes me that we’re either duplicating or at cross-purposes.”
“Which means you object to my reading off information you haven’t given this office.”
“Yes, sir. That information had nothing to do with this office. If there was surveillance, I should have been informed. I’ve been placed in an unreasonably prejudiced position.”
“You’re a hard-nose, Major.”
“I doubt I’d’ve been given this job if I wasn’t.”
The Brigadier got out of his chair and went to a long briefing table against the wall. He turned and leaned against it, facing Bonner. “All right, I’ll accept ‘cross-purposes.’ I won’t pretend that we have a solid working relationship with everyone in this administration. Nor will I deny that there are a number of people surrounding the President whose judgments we find lacking. No, Major, we’re not about to let ‘1600’ control our surveillance … or filter it.”
“I understand that, General. I still think I should have been told.”
“An oversight, Bonner. If it was anything else, my telling you now eliminates that, doesn’t it?”
The two officers stared at each other briefly. The understanding was complete—Bonner was at that moment accepted into the highest echelons of Defense.
“Understood, General,” said Bonner quietly.
The erect, white-haired Cooper turned back to the long table and opened a thick, plastic-bound notebook with huge metal rings. “Come here, Major. This is the book. And I mean the book, soldier.”
Bonner read the typed words on the front page: “GENESSEE INDUSTRIES.”
Bonner entered the glass doors of the Potomac Towers and walked on the thick blue carpet toward the elevators. If he’d timed everything right, if his telephone calls had resulted in the correct information, he’d arrive at Trevayne’s office at least a half-hour before Trevayne himself returned. That was the plan; over in the Senate Office Building, where Trevayne was in conference, others were also watching the clock.
He was such a familiar sight in Trevayne’s suite of rooms that he was greeted now with complete informality. Bonner knew he was accepted by the small civilian staff because he seemed to be an anomaly. The professional soldier who possessed few of the unattractive military trappings; whose outlook, even his conversation, seemed easygoing, with a continuous undercurrent of humor. When civilians found a man in uniform—especially the sort of overdressed uniform required daily at the Pentagon—who seemed to contradict the accepted manifestations of his profession, they warmed quickly. It was standard procedure.
It would be no problem at all for him to wait in Trevayne’s inner office. He would take off his tunic, and stand in the doorway, and joke with Trevayne’s secretary. Then he might wander into one of the other rooms—his tie undone, his collar unbuttoned—and pass a few minutes with several of the staff. Men like Mike Ryan or John Larch. Perhaps the bright young attorney, Sam Vicarson. He’d tell them a couple of stories—stories which ridiculed a pompous, well-advertised general or two
. Finally, he’d say he was going to stop bothering them and read the morning paper in Trevayne’s office. They’d protest in good humor, of course, but he’d smile and suggest a few drinks after work, perhaps.
It would all take six or seven minutes.
He would then return to Trevayne’s office, passing the secretary once again—this time complimenting her on her dress or her hair or whatever—and walk to the armchair by the window.
But he would not read the paper nor sit in the chair.
Instead he would go to the file cabinet on the right wall and open it. He would select the drawer that held the G’s.
Genessee Industries, Palo Alto, California.
He would extract the folder, close the drawer, and return to the chair. He would have a safe maximum of fifteen minutes to make notes before replacing the information.
The entire operation would take less than twenty-five minutes, and there would be only one moment of risk. If Trevayne’s secretary or a staff member walked in while the cabinet was open. In that event he would have to say he found it open and pass his actions off casually as “curiosity.”
But of course the cabinet would never have been open; it was always locked. Always.
Major Paul Bonner would unlock it with a key given him by Brigadier General Lester Cooper.
It was all a question of priorities; and Bonner felt sick to his stomach.
15
Trevayne rushed up the steps of the Capitol Building, conscious of the fact that he had been followed. He knew it, because he had made two out-of-the-way stops from his office to the center of town: at a bookstore on Rhode Island Avenue, where the traffic was slight, and a spur-of-the-moment detour to Georgetown, Ambassador Hill’s residence. The Ambassador wasn’t home.
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