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.”
29
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.”
“There’d be no reason for Callahan to lie. On the other hand, he couldn’t have been released unless the call came from here. He couldn’t have—”
“Why not?”
“Well, routine procedures … you know. I.D. codes change every twenty-four hours. Those words are locked tight. He’d have to be given a code phrase before he accepted any instructions. You know …”
“Then somebody’s got your words, buddy, ’cause the boys have gone.”
“That’s just crazy!”
“Look, I don’t want to argue; get the next team over.”
“They’re due at two—”
“Now!”
“They’ll be pissed off; I may have trouble finding—”
“Then use locals! Get this post covered within fifteen minutes! I don’t care if you have to use the Darien Boy Scouts! And find out who called Callahan.”
“Take it easy, Major. You’re not running this office.”
“You may not be either if a foul-up like this can happen!”
“Hey, wait a minute! You know who could have released them?”
“Who?”
“Trevayne.”
“He was upstairs with his wife when the call came.”
“He could have told them before, you know. I mean Callahan’s call could have been personal. Those guys do have wives and families, you know. People don’t think of that. I have to.”
“You sound just dandy, buddy. Do as I tell you; I’ll have D.O.D. Security check up on you.” Bonner replaced the phone with irritation. And then he thought about 1600’s suggestion. If Andy had spoken to the Patrol, it was conceivable that he wasn’t giving them time off but, instead, sending them somewhere else. It was remote but possible. And if it was possible, it meant that Andy expected an emergency somewhere else. Otherwise he wouldn’t leave Phyllis exposed for even a short period.
But if he hadn’t released the Patrol, it meant someone else had. Without authorization.
Andrew Trevayne was either setting a trap or the object of one.
Paul walked back through the door to the admissions desk. The nurse greeted him.
“Hi. Everything okay?”
“I think so. You’ve been a great help, and I’m going to have to burden you further.… We’re security people, and we always make errors on the side of caution. Do you have a night watchman or a guard?”
“Yes. Two.”
Bonner calmly requested that the men be stationed, one outside Phyllis’ door, the other in the lobby, which, he presumed, would cover the man’s normal duties. He explained that a simple scheduling mistake had taken place, and it was necessary—formally, if for no other reason—that men be posted. Others would be sent shortly to relieve them.
“I understand, Major,” said the girl, with equal calm. And Bonner believed she did.
“You said room two-twelve. I assume that’s the second floor? I’d like to see Mrs. Trevayne. May I?”
“Of course. Up the stairs to the left. It’s the room at the end of the corridor. Shall I ring through?”
“If you have to, by all means. I’d rather you didn’t.”
“I don’t.”
“Thank you.… You’re very kind. But I said that, didn’t I?” As Paul Bonner looked at the assured, lovely face of the girl, he recognized a professional; as he was a professional. He felt that she knew it, too. It happened so seldom these days.
“I’d better go up,” he said.
Bonner raced up the stairs and into the second floor corridor. He ran to the end. Room two-twelve was closed; most of the others were open. He knocked rapidly, and the instant he heard Phyllis’ voice, he opened it.
“Paul! My God!” She was sitting in the chair reading a book.
“Phyllis, where’s Andy?”
“Just calm down, Paul!” Phyllis was obviously afraid for her husband. Paul Bonner had a wild look about him. She hadn’t seen that look before. “I knew it; but you don’t understand. Now, close the door, and let me talk to you.”<
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“You don’t understand, and I don’t have time. Where did he go?” The Major saw that Phyllis was going to stall him, stall for her husband. He didn’t want to tell her about the removal of the patrol, but he had to get his message across. He closed the door and approached the chair. “Listen to me, Phyllis. I want to help Andy.… Sure, I’m mad as hell about this whole hospital bull, but that can wait. Right now I’ve got to find him!”
“Something’s happened.” Phyllis’ fear took another turn. “Is he in trouble?”
“I’m not sure, but he could be.”
“You didn’t follow him all the way from Boise or Denver unless you were sure. What is it?”
“Please, Phyl! Just tell me where he is.”
“He drove back to Barnegat.…”
“I don’t know the area. Which road would he take?”
“Merritt Parkway. It’s about a half-mile away to your left as you leave the hospital. On Calibar Lane.”
“What exit on the parkway?”
“First Greenwich toll. You turn right out of the ramp and get on Shore Road. Stay on it for about six miles. There’s a fork; the left is Shore Road, Northwest.…”
“That’s the one that becomes dirt?”
“It’s our property line.… Paul, what is it?”
“I … I just have to talk to him. Good-bye, Phyl.” Bonner opened the door and closed it rapidly behind him. He didn’t want Phyllis to see him running down the corridor.
The exit ramp at the first Greenwich toll station had a speed limit of twenty-five miles an hour. Paul Bonner was going over forty, although making sure the tires gripped the wet pavement. On Shore Road he passed car after car, scrutinizing each one as best he could while the speedometer crept toward seventy.
He reached the fork, traveled about a mile and a half, and the road became dirt. He had entered the property of High Barnegat.
He slowed down; the snow was falling heavier now, the reflection of the headlights creating thousands of dancing white spots. He had driven the road perhaps three or four times during the weekend he’d spent with the Trevaynes, but he wasn’t sure of the turns.
Suddenly he had to stop. A flashlight was waving in small circles about a hundred yards ahead. A man came running toward the car. Bonner’s window was open.
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