Free Trevayne by Robert Ludlum Page B

corporations involved in defense spending?”
    “Not inaccurate. I’d stress the past tense, however. It was over a decade ago.”
    “A short period of time when you’re talking about corporate policy,” said the President. “I imagine that most of the executive personnel remain the same.”
    “Probably so.”
    William Hill rose from his chair and took several steps to the edge of the mahogany table. He looked down at Trevayne and spoke quietly, good-naturedly. “You were exorcising a few demons, weren’t you?”
    Andrew met the old gentleman’s eyes and couldn’t help himself; he smiled slowly, with a marked degree of defeat. “Yes, I was.”
    “You were repaying the sort of people who destroyed your father.… March, nineteen fifty-two.”
    “It was childish. A hollow kind of revenge; they weren’t responsible.”
    Remember, Phyl? You told me: “Be yourself. This isn’t you, Andy! Stop it!”
    “Satisfying, however, I would think.” Hill walked around the desk and leaned against the front edge between Trevayne and the President. “You forced a number of powerful men to make concessions, lose time, become defensive; all for a young man barely in his thirties who held a large carrot in front of their faces. I’d say that was very satisfying. What I can’t understand is why you so abruptly stopped. If my information is correct, you were in a position of extreme strength. It’s not inconceivable that you might have emerged as one of the world’s richest men. Certainly possible that you could eventually have ruined a number of those you considered the enemy. Especially in the market.”
    “I suppose I could say I got religion.”
    “It’s happened before, I’m told,” said the President.
    “Then let’s call it that.… It occurred to me—with my wife’s help—that I had involved myself in the same form of waste I found so appalling in … March of nineteen fifty-two. I was on the other side, but the waste was the same.… And that, Mr. President, Mr. Ambassador, is all I care to say about it. I sincerely hope it’s acceptable.”
    Trevayne smiled as best he could, for he
was
sincere.
    “Entirely.” The President reached for his highball as Hill nodded and returned to his chair. “Our questions have been answered; as the Ambassador said, we were curious, we had to know. Among other things, your state of mind—which, frankly, we never doubted.”
    “We assumed it to be healthy.” Hill laughed as hespoke. “Anyone who leaves his own company to take on a thankless State Department job and then assumes the headaches of a philanthropic foundation is no ruthless Caesar of the financial world.”
    “Thank you.”
    The President leaned forward, locking his eyes with Andrew’s. “It’s of paramount importance that this job be carried out, Mr. Trevayne; go the distance. The specter of financial and political collusion is always ugly; it becomes worse if it’s suspected of being covered up. In other words, once you commit yourself, that’s it. There’s no turning back.”
    Andrew realized that the President was giving him his last opportunity to reconsider. But the decision had really been made when he’d first heard the rumors. He knew he was the man to do it. He
wanted
to do it. For many reasons.
    Among them, the memory of a Boston courtroom.
    “I’d like the post, Mr. President. I won’t quit.”
    “I believe you.”

6
    Phyllis Trevayne wasn’t often annoyed with her husband. He was careless, but she attributed that to his extraordinary concentration on whatever project he currently undertook, not to indifference. He had little patience with the niceties, but he was a nice person, time permitting. Abrupt, but gentle in his relationships. Abrupt even with her sometimes, but always considerate. And he had been there when she needed him most. The awful years.
    She was annoyed with him this evening, however.
    He had told her—asked her, really—to meet him in town. In the Palm Court