wants it. I’m not going to argue.”
“Neither am I.”
“The President naturally wants to convey his support for the subcommittee, and his personal endorsement of you. That’s primary. And there’s another aspect—I’ll putit in my words, not his; if I make a mistake, it’s
my
mistake, not his.”
Trevayne watched Webster carefully. “But you’ve discussed what you’re about to tell me, so the variation would be minor.”
“Naturally. Don’t look so concerned; it’s for your benefit.… The President has been through the political wars, Trevayne. He’s a savvy old duck. The State machine, the House, the Senate—he’s been where the action is, and he knows what you’re going to face. He’s made a lot of friends and I’m sure that slate is balanced by an equal number of enemies. Of course, his office removes him from those battles now, but it also allows him certain latitudes, certain pressure points. He wants you to know they’re at your disposal.”
“I appreciate it.”
“But there’s a catch. You’re never to try to reach him by yourself. I’m your sole contact, your only bridge to him.”
“It would never occur to me to try to reach him personally.”
“And I’m sure it never occurred to you that the official weight of the presidency was behind you in the most practical way. Namely, at the moment you may need it.”
“No, I guess it didn’t. I’m a corporation man; I’m used to the structures. I see what you mean. I
do
appreciate it.”
“But he’s never to be mentioned, you understand that.” Webster’s statement was spoken firmly. He wanted no room for doubt.
“I understand.”
“Good. If lie brings it up tomorrow, just tell him we’ve discussed everything. Even if he doesn’t, you might volunteer that you’re aware of his offer; you’re grateful, or however you want to put it.”
Webster finished his drink and stood up. “Wow! It’s not even ten-thirty yet. I’ll be home before eleven; my wife won’t believe it. See you tomorrow.” Webster reached down to shake Trevayne’s hand.
“Fine. Good night.”
Trevayne watched the younger man dodge between the armchairs, making his way rapidly toward the arch. Webster was filled with that particular energy which was at once the fuel he needed and the sustenance he took from his work. The exhilaration syndrome, Trevayne reflected. This was the town for it; it was never really the same anywhere else. There were semblances of it in the arts, or in advertising, but the rates of failure were too pronounced in those fields—there was always an underlying sense of fear. Not in Washington. You were either in or out. If you were in, you were on top. If you were at the White House, you were standing on the summit.
The electorate got a lot of talent for the money it paid, Trevayne had long ago decided. All in exchange for the syndrome.
He looked at his watch; it was too early to try to sleep, and he didn’t feel like reading. He’d go up to his room and call Phyllis and then look at the newspaper. Perhaps there was a movie on television.
He signed the check and started out, feeling his coat pocket to make sure the room key was there. He walked through the arch and turned left toward the bank of elevators. As he passed the newsstand he saw two men in neat, pressed suits watching him from the counter. They started toward him, and when he stopped in front of the first elevator, they approached.
The man on the right spoke, while taking a small black identification case from his pocket. The other man also removed his identification.
“Mr. Trevayne?”
“Yes?”
“Secret Service, White House detail,” said the agent softly. “May we speak with you over here, sir?” He indicated an area away from the elevators.
“Of course.”
The second man held his case forward. “Would you mind confirming, Mr. Trevayne? I’m going outside for a minute.”
Trevayne checked the photograph against the man’s face. It was
“Neither am I.”
“The President naturally wants to convey his support for the subcommittee, and his personal endorsement of you. That’s primary. And there’s another aspect—I’ll putit in my words, not his; if I make a mistake, it’s
my
mistake, not his.”
Trevayne watched Webster carefully. “But you’ve discussed what you’re about to tell me, so the variation would be minor.”
“Naturally. Don’t look so concerned; it’s for your benefit.… The President has been through the political wars, Trevayne. He’s a savvy old duck. The State machine, the House, the Senate—he’s been where the action is, and he knows what you’re going to face. He’s made a lot of friends and I’m sure that slate is balanced by an equal number of enemies. Of course, his office removes him from those battles now, but it also allows him certain latitudes, certain pressure points. He wants you to know they’re at your disposal.”
“I appreciate it.”
“But there’s a catch. You’re never to try to reach him by yourself. I’m your sole contact, your only bridge to him.”
“It would never occur to me to try to reach him personally.”
“And I’m sure it never occurred to you that the official weight of the presidency was behind you in the most practical way. Namely, at the moment you may need it.”
“No, I guess it didn’t. I’m a corporation man; I’m used to the structures. I see what you mean. I
do
appreciate it.”
“But he’s never to be mentioned, you understand that.” Webster’s statement was spoken firmly. He wanted no room for doubt.
“I understand.”
“Good. If lie brings it up tomorrow, just tell him we’ve discussed everything. Even if he doesn’t, you might volunteer that you’re aware of his offer; you’re grateful, or however you want to put it.”
Webster finished his drink and stood up. “Wow! It’s not even ten-thirty yet. I’ll be home before eleven; my wife won’t believe it. See you tomorrow.” Webster reached down to shake Trevayne’s hand.
“Fine. Good night.”
Trevayne watched the younger man dodge between the armchairs, making his way rapidly toward the arch. Webster was filled with that particular energy which was at once the fuel he needed and the sustenance he took from his work. The exhilaration syndrome, Trevayne reflected. This was the town for it; it was never really the same anywhere else. There were semblances of it in the arts, or in advertising, but the rates of failure were too pronounced in those fields—there was always an underlying sense of fear. Not in Washington. You were either in or out. If you were in, you were on top. If you were at the White House, you were standing on the summit.
The electorate got a lot of talent for the money it paid, Trevayne had long ago decided. All in exchange for the syndrome.
He looked at his watch; it was too early to try to sleep, and he didn’t feel like reading. He’d go up to his room and call Phyllis and then look at the newspaper. Perhaps there was a movie on television.
He signed the check and started out, feeling his coat pocket to make sure the room key was there. He walked through the arch and turned left toward the bank of elevators. As he passed the newsstand he saw two men in neat, pressed suits watching him from the counter. They started toward him, and when he stopped in front of the first elevator, they approached.
The man on the right spoke, while taking a small black identification case from his pocket. The other man also removed his identification.
“Mr. Trevayne?”
“Yes?”
“Secret Service, White House detail,” said the agent softly. “May we speak with you over here, sir?” He indicated an area away from the elevators.
“Of course.”
The second man held his case forward. “Would you mind confirming, Mr. Trevayne? I’m going outside for a minute.”
Trevayne checked the photograph against the man’s face. It was
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