Trevayne

by Robert Ludlum

  “Why? Why do I lose?”

  “Because I can’t help thinking that you—or someone like you—could have stopped it.”

  “That’s not so.”

  “Then maybe there’s nothing left. If you’re right.” Steven Trevayne looked down at his ash-black hands and rubbed them on his dungarees. “I’ve got to wash my hands.… I’m sorry, Dad; I mean, I’m really sorry. I’m scared.”

  The boy ran into the hallway; Trevayne could hear him descend the stairs toward the study and the terrace.

  … maybe there’s nothing left.

  No.

  No, he couldn’t react like that. He couldn’t allow himself the indulgence others gave vent to. Even among his family; within his family.

  Not now.

  Now he had to make himself felt, where it counted. Before the continuity was irrevocably established.

  He had to jolt them, all of them. Make them realize he was serious. They could not be allowed to forget he held—held firmly—the weapons to depose them all.

  And he would use those weapons, for they did not deserve to run the country. The nation demanded more.

  “… maybe there’s nothing left.”

  But there was something. He would provide it.

  Even if it meant using Genessee Industries. Using Genessee properly.

  Properly.

  Use it or destroy it once and for all.

  He picked up the phone. He would stay on it until he reached Senator Mitchell Armbruster.

  PART 5

  54

  The smoothly tarred surface of the road abruptly stopped and became dirt. At this point on the small peninsula the township’s responsibility ended and the private property began. Only now it was under the jurisdiction of the federal government as well; watched, guarded, isolated, as it had been for eighteen months now.

  High Barnegat.

  The Connecticut White House.

  The row of five automobiles sped through the gates of the Greenwich toll station without stopping. The guards on duty saluted as the motorcade went by; a patrolman inside the first booth received a signal from a man standing outside and picked up a telephone. The normal flow of traffic could continue now. The President’s column had turned off onto the Shore Road exit, where the local police had cleared the area into the peninsula. The patrolman gave the release order to the Westchester station, waved to the man outside, who waved back, then climbed into a waiting automobile.

  The 1600 Security men had dispersed throughout the property in teams of two. The Secret Service agent named Callahan had checked the beach area with his partner, and both men were walking up the steps to the terrace, their eyes professionally scanning the sloping woods as they did so.

  Callahan had protected four presidents. Nearly twenty years of service; he was forty-six now. Still one of the best men 1600 had, and he knew it. No one could hold him responsible for the Darien business three years ago—that phone call from 1600 pulling him off duty at the hospital. Jesus! That’d been such a top-level fuck-up, he never did learn how it happened. How someone else had gotten the codes. He didn’t ask, either; not after he’d been taken off the hook. And he was nowhere near the White House when the assassination took place. Everyone on that detail was relieved. Strange: he’d been reassigned to Trevayne and wrote in his surveillance report that his subject had met with James Goddard a week before the killing of the President. No one paid much attention, and he never brought it up afterward. Weird that nobody else did, though.

  People—acquaintances, the small circle of friends he and his wife had—kept asking him what he thought of whoever was President at the time. He always gave the same reply: sober approval bordering on reserved enthusiasm. Totally apolitical. It was the best way.

  The only way; you never could tell.

  But if the truth were told, Callahan didn’t like any of them very much. He had devised a kind of scale for himself in judging a president. It was the balance between the public man and the private man as he saw him. There would always be differences, he understood that, but Jesus, some of them had gone too far.

  To the point where everything was an act; the scales really tipped out. Meaningless smiles at public nothings, followed by torrents of private anger; furious attempts to be something that wasn’t a person at all. An image.

  Not trusting.

  Worst of all, making a joke about it.

  Perhaps that’s why Andrew Trevayne got the best marks; he kept the scale nearer in balance. Not that he didn’t have moments when his temper exploded over some goddamn thing or other that seemed inconsequential, but by and large the private man didn’t deny the public man as often as the other presidents had. He seemed … maybe more sure of himself; more sure he was right, and so he didn’t have to yell about it or keep convincing people.

  Callahan liked the man better for that, but he still didn’t like him. Nobody who’d worked in the White House environment for any length of time could like a man who mounted such an assault for the Oval Office. A campaign that literally began within weeks after the assassination, within days after Trevayne had assumed the abandoned Senate seat from Connecticut. The sudden position papers, the cross-country tours that resulted in scores of dramatic press conferences and one television appearance after another. The man had a hunger, a driving, cold ambition that he mixed with a shyly ingratiating intelligence. A man with the answers, because he was a man of today. His supporters even coined a phrase, and it was used over and over again: “The Mark of Excellence.” A minion at 1600 couldn’t like a man like that. It was too obvious he wanted to move in.

  Trevayne’s preconvention maneuvers had stunned the White House staff, still under the awesome weight of adjusting to the most terrible of power transfers, the unexpected, unwanted, unwarranted. No one was prepared, no one seemed to know how to stop the headstrong, authoritative, even charismatic Senator from Connecticut.

  And at one point it occurred to Agent Callahan of 1600 Security, no one basically wanted to.

  The motorcade streamed into the wide drive in front of the house; the doors of the first and third vehicles whipped open before the cars stopped, and men stood effortlessly half out of the automobiles, their arms gripping the interior frames, their feet ready to touch the pavement at the first reasonable instant.

  Sam Vicarson leaned against the railing on the front steps. Sam wanted to be in evidence when Trevayne stepped out of the limousine. The President had come to expect that; expected him to be among the first of those who waited for him at any given destination. He told Sam that it gave him a sense of relief to know that there would be one person meeting him who’d give him the information he needed, not necessarily wanted.

  Vicarson understood. It was one of the aspects of working in the White House that he found deplorable. No one wanted to displease the Man. If that meant burying unpleasant facts, or disguising them to fit a presidential judgment, that’s what generally happened. It wasn’t necessarily fear that provoked aides to behave this way. Often it was simply the knowledge that the Man had so damn many pressures on him that if a few could be lessened, why not?

  But most of the time it was fear.

  Even Sam had fallen into the trap. Both traps: the sympathy and the fear. He had shaped the précis of a trade report in such a way that upheld the President’s thinking when actually there was room for disagreement.

  “If you ever do that again, Sam, you’re out!”

  Vicarson often wondered if it would have been the same with Trevayne’s predecessor.

  Goddamn, he was a good president! A really fine president, thought Vicarson as he watched Andrew get out of the car and hold the door for Phyllis, simultaneously talking with the Secret Service men at his side. People had confidence in him; people everywhere. If comparisons were to be made with those in the recent past, a columnist for the New York Times had said it best: “… the calming nature of Eisenhower, the grace and fire of Kennedy, the drive of Johnson.”

  Sam felt s
orry for the opposition party, parties. After only eighteen months in office, Trevayne had set a tone, an outlook. He’d established an attitude. For the first time in years the country had a collective pride in its leadership. The Man before Trevayne had almost reached that level, but the sharpshooting snipers on the right and left had prevented him. Trevayne, because of either a general desire for tranquillity or the force of his own personality—and his ability to listen—had defused the extremists. It was probably a combination of both, thought Vicarson.

  Trevayne was the right man for the right time. Another man might not be capable of sustaining the calm, sometimes more difficult than weathering a storm. Not that there was any lack of excitement. The Trevayne administration had made bold innovations in dozens of areas, but they were dramatic more in concept than in execution. And their announcements were subdued; they were called desirable shifts of priorities, not hailed as landmarks, which a number were. Housing, medicine, education, employment; long-range national strategies were implemented.

  Sam Vicarson was enormously, realistically proud of President Andrew Trevayne.

  So was the country, he felt.

  Sam was surprised to see an old man getting out of the other side of the presidential limousine. It was Franklyn Baldwin, Trevayne’s ancient banker friend from New York. Baldwin looked like hell, thought Vicarson. It was understandable; Baldwin had just buried William Hill, the friend he’d known since childhood. Big Billy Hill was gone; Baldwin had to be aware that his own time wasn’t far off.

  It was a mark of the President’s sense of obligation that he had attended Hill’s funeral; a mark of his swift grace that he’d insisted on saying a few words before the formal eulogy. A mark of his kindness that he’d brought old Frank Baldwin back with him to High Barnegat.

  A “Mark of Excellence.” That had been the very appropriate phrase used during the campaign.

  Phyllis watched her husband helping Frank Baldwin up the short steps to the front door. Sam Vicarson offered assistance, but Andrew shook his head imperceptibly; enough so the young lawyer understood. The President alone would attend to Mr. Baldwin.

  Phyllis felt a surge of quiet pride when Andy did such things, gave meaning to gestures. The prince doth render concern and the court doth follow, bettered by its better. A description Froissart gave to the court of Chatillon in his First Chronicle.… Prince, young king—and not so young, thought Phyllis. There was much of Froissart, or what the Arthurian chronicler always wanted to find, in Andrew’s White House. She knew her husband would laugh at such a suggestion. He’d tell her not to romanticize courtesy, not to find symbols where none were intended. That, too, was part of the aura that Andy exuded; the office magnified his quiet goodness, his confident modesty. Even his humor was laced with self-effacing irony.

  She’d always loved her husband: he was a man to be loved. Now she found herself almost revering him, and she wasn’t sure that was good or even healthy, but she couldn’t help it. She realized that the awesomeness of the office lent itself to reverence, but Andy refused the mantle of heavy-lies-the-head. He gave out no stern reminders that the ultimate loneliness was his, no plaintive cries that decisions were never easy. No hollow dramatics of justification were to be found in his explanations.

  But he had explained.

  “A nation that is capable of reaching the planets can tend to its own land. A people who have taken so much from the earth can render a just portion back into it. A citizenry that has supported—fairly and unfairly—the expenditures of millions beyond its borders, can certainly build within.…”

  And he had proceeded to expedite these deceptively simple inaugural beliefs.

  Phyllis followed her husband and Frank Baldwin into the house, where a military aide took their coats. They walked into the large living room, where some considerate soul—probably Sam, thought Phyllis—had lighted a fire. She’d been worried about old Baldwin. The funeral service for William Hill had been one of those long High Anglican chores, and the church drafty, the stone floor cold.

  “Here, Frank,” said Trevayne, holding the back of an armchair, turning it slightly toward the fireplace. “Relax. Let me get you a drink. All of us; we could use it.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President,” answered Baldwin, sitting down. Phyllis crossed to the long couch and saw that Sam Vicarson had moved a second armchair opposite Baldwin. Sam was so good at that sort of thing.

  “Scotch, isn’t that right, Frank? Rocks?”

  “You always remember what a man drinks. I think that’s how you became President.” Baldwin laughed, winking his old eye at Phyllis.

  “Much easier, believe me. Sam, would you do the honors for me? Scotch on the rocks for Mr. Baldwin; Phyl and I will have the usual.”

  “Certainly, sir,” replied Vicarson, turning toward the hall.

  Trevayne sat down in the chair facing Baldwin, Phyllis next to him at the end of the couch. He reached over and held her hand briefly, releasing it when the old man smiled at the sight.

  “Don’t stop. It’s nice to know a man can be President and still hold his wife’s hand without a camera around.”

  “Good Lord, Frank, I’ve been known to kiss her.”

  “Now you may stop,” added Baldwin with a soft laugh. “I keep forgetting how young you are.… It was most kind of you to invite me here, Mr. President. It’s much appreciated.”

  “Nonsense. I wanted your company; I was afraid I was imposing.”

  “That’s a gracious thing to say; but then, I read so often in the newspapers that you possess such qualities. I always knew you did.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s all been remarkable, hasn’t it? Do you remember, my dear?” asked Baldwin of Phyllis. “I remember, because I’d never been up here. I always picture in my mind an office, or a home, a club—whatever—when I telephone someone. Especially if I don’t know the surroundings. In your case it was a window looking out on the water. I recall distinctly your saying that Andrew … the President, was out in a sailboat. A cat.”

  “I remember.” Phyllis smiled gently. “I was on the terrace.”

  “So do I,” said Trevayne. “The first thing she asked me when I got in was why hadn’t I returned your calls. I was honest; I told her I was trying to avoid you.”

  “Yes, I remember your saying that at the bank. At lunch.… I beg you to forgive me for interrupting your life so completely.” The old man’s tired eyes showed that he was, indeed, asking forgiveness.

  “Aurelius, Frank.”

  “Who?”

  “Marcus Aurelius. You quoted him. ‘No man can avoid …’ ”

  “Oh, yes. ‘What he’s meant to do. At the moment …’ You called him a mutual fund.”

  “A what?” asked Phyllis.

  “An inept joke, Phyl. As I came to learn.”

  Sam Vicarson returned with a silver tray on which there were three glasses. He offered the tray first to Phyllis, and as she nodded, he caught Trevayne’s glance. Although it was customary to serve the President after the First Lady, he would approach Baldwin next.

  “Thank you, young man.”

  “You’re a regular maître d’, Sam,” said Phyllis.

  “It’s all those parties on Embassy Row.” Trevayne laughed, taking a glass. “Will you join us, Sam?”

  “Thank you, sir, but I’d better stay with communications.”

  “He’s got a girl in the kitchen,” mocked Phyllis in a stage whisper.

  “From the French embassy,” added Andrew.

  The three of them laughed while Baldwin looked on with amusement. Sam bowed slightly to the old man.

  “Nice to see you again, Mr. Baldwin.” He left as Baldwin inclined his head.

  “I see what they mean. Or I think I do,” said the banker.

  “What’s that?” asked Phyllis.

  “About the atmosphere around the White House these days. The easy relationships; even when things aren’t easy. The pundits give you a lot of credit for that, Mr
. President.”

  “Oh, Sam? He became my right arm, and sometimes my left as well, three years ago. He came with the subcommittee.”

  Phyllis couldn’t help herself. She wouldn’t let Andy continuously sidestep the compliments he deserved. “I agree with you and the pundits, Mr. Baldwin. Andrew’s made considerable progress in deformalizing the privy chambers. If the word’s still in use.”

  “My wife, the doctor,” interrupted Trevayne with a chuckle. “Which word?”

  “ ‘Deformalizing.’ It’s rarely used, but it should be. I haven’t heard it recently.”

  “I thought you meant ‘privy chamber.’ Whenever I come across the term in history books, I think of a bathroom.”

  “That’s historically sacrilegious, isn’t it, Mr. Baldwin?”

  “I’m not sure, my dear.…”

  “Just don’t tell the pundits I’m turning the White House rest rooms into playgrounds.”

  The small laughter that followed warmed Phyllis. Old Baldwin was being amused, taking his mind off the sadness of the day. His sadness.

  And then she realized the humorous byplay was only a momentary deflection. Baldwin’s memories wouldn’t be lightened. He spoke.

  “Billy Hill and I honestly believed that the subcommittee was our well-conceived gift to the country. We never dreamed that our gift, in reality, would be the next President of the United States. When we finally understood that, it frightened us.”

  “I would have given anything in the world to have had it otherwise.”

  “Of course you would. A man has to possess extraordinary drives to want to be president, in the ordinary process. He has to be out of his mind to want the office under the conditions …” Baldwin stopped, aware of his indiscretion.

  “Go on, Frank. It’s all right.”

  “I apologize, Mr. President. That was unwarranted and not meant …”

  “You don’t have to explain. I think I was as surprised as you. And the Ambassador. Certainly as frightened.”

  “Then may I presume to ask you why?”