His brother-in-law would take care of the small-plane arrangements. Charter and flight plans would be in his, Pace’s, name, and the first field would probably be the small private airport outside of Redwood City. Not San Francisco International. He’d call back. Further, his brother-in-law would discreetly, but thoroughly, check around the Hartford-New Haven area and uncover the whereabouts of Mario de Spadante. It wouldn’t be difficult; De Spadante delegated very little authority in his company. Any number of problems could be raised—invented—that required his immediate attention.
Trevayne reached Michael Ryan, who was still in his office at the Potomac Towers. Ryan made the evening brighter by telling Andrew he knew Ralph Jamison. Knew him quite well, as a matter of fact. They’d both been called in on the SST mock-up at Lockheed—consulting specialists.
«He’s a crazy bastard, Andy. But they don’t come any better in metallurgy. He’s a goddamn genius. And man, does he live! I’ll pump him dry.»
Ryan would be called directly by Doug Pace in New Haven; he understood the reasons, for secrecy and felt certain he could handle Jamison in that area. Ryan would try to complete the job and meet them in Boise. If he wasn’t able to make it by then, he’d get to Denver, the junket’s next stop.
Andrew made a final telephone call to Washington. To Robert Webster on the White House aide’s private line. He eventually reached him at home. He asked Webster to compile everything he could about Mario de Spadante.
Webster agreed to do so.
Trevayne looked down at the envelope in his hand. It was wrinkled, creased by his constant folding and unfolding. But the writing was still clear:
ERNEST MANOLO—Pasadena
RALPH JAMISON—Houston
JOSHUA STUDEBAKER—Seattle
MITCHELL ARMBRUSTER—D.C.
AARON GREEN—N.Y.C.
IAN HAMILTON—Chicago
This was the real itinerary. Six men who might help him understand the apparent majesty of Genessee Industries.
21
Sam Vicarson walked into the small passenger terminal at the Ada County airport, ten miles from Boise. Douglas Pace’s Lear jet had brought him back from Tacoma; while in Tacoma he’d rented a car and driven to Seattle.
To see Judge Joshua Studebaker.
It was a meeting he’d remember for the rest of his life.
It was also a meeting he could describe only to Andrew Trevayne alone. Not with Alan Martin; not with Mike Ryan. It was too private, too terrible, somehow, for any ears but Trevayne’s.
Vicarson knew that Mike had gotten into Boise from Houston several hours ago; Alan had returned from the Manolo interview two days ago, when he turned the Lear jet over for the Seattle run.
They were to meet that night in Trevayne’s hotel room. They were to put it all together then.
Sam had to find Trevayne before the meeting. Trevayne would know what to do.
Vicarson felt tired, exhausted, and depressed; he thought about stopping off at a bar for a few drinks. But he knew he wouldn’t.
He’d get roaring drunk, and that wouldn’t do anyone any good.
Especially not Joshua Studebaker.
Alan Martin stared out of the car window. He was alone; Andrew had left the meeting with I.T.T.’s subsidiary early, without explanation. Sam Vicarson had called from the airport; something was the matter.
The sign on the highway read: «Boise, Idaho; State Capital; Population 73,000; Heart of the Columbia Basin.»
It was difficult for Alan Martin to think of Boise, think of the unnecessary conferences they were holding, for cover.
He couldn’t get his mind off Pasadena. Pasadena and a fiery little man named Ernest Manolo. An incredibly young fiery man. Andrew didn’t want to discuss Manolo until they all got together that night. There was logic in that; save the information, don’t lose details in the retelling. Andrew was right; they could all trigger each other.
It wasn’t so much Manolo; Andrew was right again. Manolo was only a cog, a single spike in a frightening wheel.
Ernest Manolo, AFL-CIO negotiator for the entire district of southern California, had his own considerable fiefdom.
How many others were there across the country?
Michael Ryan sat at a booth in the hotel’s coffee shop. He was annoyed with himself. He should have known better than to be so obvious; he should have gotten a room and just stayed there until Trevayne called him.
Goddamn!
He just wasn’t thinking!
The first goddamn person he’d run into in the goddamn coffee shop was Paul Bonner!
Bonner was surprised, of course. And when he, Ryan, couldn’t come up with a decent explanation, Bonner’s surprise turned into something else.
It was there, in the soldier’s eyes. That something else.
Goddamn!
His carelessness, Ryan realized, was due to an old friend, Ralph Jamison. Stupid, insane, crazy-head Jamison! Falsifying designs to get Genessee Industries a hundred and five million of Defense funds.
How could he have done it? How could he do it?
Sold lock, stock, and barrel to Genessee Industries. Jamison, with his three ex-wives, his four kids from who-knew-which, his middle-aged peccadilloes that were right out of some goddamn fifth-rate porno movie.
Genessee took care of Ralph Jamison. Jamison told him it was standard operating procedure. «Ma Gen» took care of its talent.
Bank accounts in Zurich!
Insane!
It had been three days since Trevayne and his subcommittee aides had left San Francisco, but James Goddard couldn’t get them out of his mind. Something had gone wrong. The final two conferences were merely prolonged embarrassments.
Without the accountant. The accountant hadn’t been there. And it didn’t make sense for this Martin to be absent. Alan Martin was the cost man; just as he, Goddard, was a cost man. Without Martin, too many details were overlooked; Martin would have caught the details.
Trevayne had joked about his aide. The subcommittee chairman had laughed and said that Martin was holed up at the Mark Hopkins with a bad case of «San Francisco water.»
After the last conference, Goddard decided to inquire. He could do so easily, even be solicitous. He called the hotel.
Alan Martin had checked out two days ago.
Why had Trevayne lied? Why had the other aide, Vicarson, lied? Where had Martin gone?
Had he suddenly gone to get follow-up data on information revealed during the conferences?
Revealed by him; revealed by James Goddard, president, San Francisco Division, Genessee Industries?
Which? What?
How could he find out what it was without others becoming alarmed?
That was important. Mario de Spadante said some might have to hang so that those farther up could remain untouched. Goddard knew he was considered vital. Good Lord; he was vital! He was the figure man. He arranged the numbers, created the projections upon which the decisions were made. Even he wasn’t sure who ultimately made those decisions, but without him they couldn’t be made.