Desperate Measures (36 page)

“Sexual orientation?”

“Were they homosexuals? It never occurred to me until my discussion with these reporters tonight. Did you ever have any suspicion
that—?”

Mrs. Page widened her eyes.

The sound that came from her throat made Pittman’s skin prickle. At first he feared that Mrs. Page was choking on something.
Then, as the sound became louder, he recognized it for what it was: laughter, full-throated, contemptuous laughter.

“Bradford, you are a fool. Is
that
what you rushed here to tell me? Even if my father
had
engaged in homosexual conduct, what use would that be to me? You keep behaving as if you’re still in the State Department
in the late forties and early fifties. Socially, those were the dark ages, Bradford. These days, only religious fanatics care
if a person is a homosexual. It seems as if celebrities are standing in line waiting to proclaim that they are gay.”

“Diplomats aren’t celebrities,” Bradford said indignantly.

“Of late, some behave as if they are. That isn’t the point. What one does in private is no longer a matter upon which one’s
reputation is judged. It’s how one performs one’s public duties that matters. To accuse my father and the others of being
homosexuals would serve no other purpose than to make
me
look bigoted. It’s a distasteful, pointless charge.”

“But what if their sexual orientation compromised them in some way?” Denning insisted. “In the fifties, it would have been
a serious charge. What if they were blackmailed?”

“By whom? The Soviets? If so, the attempt at extortion didn’t work. No diplomatic group was harder on the Soviets than my
father and his associates. And on anyone suspected of being sympathetic to the Soviets.
You
above all should appreciate that.”

Denning’s face became redder.

“But even if I thought that it was a ruinous matter to accuse someone of being a homosexual,” Mrs. Page said, “I wouldn’t
make that accusation against my father.”

“Why not?”

“Because my father is an asexual being. In his prime, he had no interest in sex of
any
kind. My mother once confided to me that the only time they’d engaged in what my mother called the marital act was the night
I was conceived. I’m convinced that he was too worried about his career to risk taking on a mistress—and given the repressive
nature of the 1940s and ’50s, he wouldn’t have risked consorting with men. His ambition was all he cared about.
That
was his mistress. Henry Kissinger said it best for all men like my father: ‘Power is the ultimate aphrodisiac.’” Mrs. Page
glared at Pittman and Jill. “Surely
you
know how valueless it would be to attack my father on the basis of sexual conduct.”

“Yes,” Pittman said. “All the same, there’s something that makes him feel vulnerable. We know the grand counselors have a
secret that they’re prepared to do anything to keep hidden.”

“A secret?”

“About the prep school they went to. Grollier Academy.”

“That’s another matter I wanted to tell you, Vivian,” Denning said. “It’s been suggested that one of their teachers made advances
to them.”

“But this is the same subject we just dismissed,” Mrs. Page said sharply.

“It goes beyond that,” Pittman said. “We’re not sure in what way, but…”

“Mrs. Page, did you ever hear anything about a man named Duncan Kline?” Jill asked.

“Duncan Kline?” Mrs. Page cocked her head, searching her memory. “No, I don’t believe so.”

“He taught your father and their friends at Grollier Academy.”

Denning interrupted. “A man who was probably Duncan Kline showed up at the State Department in the summer of 1952. Your father
and the others were shocked by his arrival. They met him behind closed doors, reacting as if to a grave situation.”

“What type of grave situation?”

“I don’t know, but I thought that
you
might.”

Mrs. Page concentrated, tightening the already-tight skin on her face. “Not if it’s about Grollier Academy. My father was
extremely loyal to the school. Throughout his career, he contributed generously to the alumni fund. When did you say this
man came to see my father? The summer of 1952? That was an important year for my father. I remember his mood well. After Eisenhower
was nominated at the Republican convention that summer, my father was convinced that he would win against Stevenson.”

“I already explained that to these reporters,” Denning said.

Mrs. Page glared. “Let me finish. My father and the others focused all of their energy on ingratiating themselves with Eisenhower’s
people. And then of course, Eisenhower won in November. Having declared their loyalty
before
Eisenhower’s victory, my father and his friends had an advantage. Throughout November and December, up to the inauguration
in January, they increased their attempts to impress Eisenhower. The tactic succeeded and made possible their various promotions.
Within a few years, the group controlled every major diplomatic position within the government. It was the beginning of the
myth about the grand counselors. That’s why—given the importance of their need to impress Eisenhower after the November election—I
was surprised that they took time off to go to a December reunion at Grollier Academy. It’s a measure of how much affection
they felt for the school. Obviously if they were sexually molested there as students, they wouldn’t have wanted to go back.”

“Unless they consented to Duncan Kline’s advances,” Denning insisted.

“Bradford, I refuse to hear any more of these sexual accusations,” Mrs. Page said. “They’re a waste of time to consider. My
father is so skilled a diplomat that if anyone accused him of this type of activity at his prep school, he would turn it to
his advantage and make himself appear a victim of a molester. He’d attract sympathy, not blame.”

“That’s what we told Bradford earlier tonight,” Jill said. “But there
is
some kind of secret that the grand counselors are determined to go to any lengths to hide, and it has something to do with
that school.”

“Any lengths to hide?” Mrs. Page sounded pensive. “How do you know this?”

Jill hesitated.

Pittman answered for her. “Reliable sources we’ve interviewed.”

“Who?”

“I’m not at liberty to reveal their names,” Pittman said. “They spoke to us on condition of anonymity.”

Mrs. Page gestured in frustration. “Then they’re useless to you.
And
to me. How can I add to what you know and how can it help me punish my father if I don’t understand the connection that your
sources have with him?”

“Does the expression ‘the snow’ mean anything to you?” Pittman asked. “One of the last things Jonathan Millgate said was ‘Duncan.
The snow.’”

“Before he was murdered,” Mrs. Page said.

Pittman nodded, waiting.

“No,” Mrs. Page said. “I haven’t the least idea what Jonathan Millgate would have been talking about.” She studied Pittman,
Jill, and Denning. “And that’s all? These are the important subjects that you came here to tell me? This evening has been
worthless.”

“Millgate,” Denning said unexpectedly.

They looked at him in surprise.

“I beg your pardon?” Mrs. Page said.

“Millgate.” Denning stared at Pittman. “You mentioned
Jonathan Millgate
.”

“Bradford, have you lost your senses?” Mrs. Page asked.

Denning suddenly pointed at Pittman. “Now I remember where I’ve seen you before.”

Pittman felt a chill.

“Your name isn’t Lester King or whatever you said it was! It’s Matthew Pittman! I met you several years ago! I’ve seen your
photograph a dozen times in the newspaper! But you had a mustache and—You’re the man the police want for killing Jonathan
Millgate!”

“Bradford, this is outrageous. Do you realize what you’re saying?” Mrs. Page demanded.

“I’m telling you this is the man!” Denning said. “Do you have a newspaper? I’ll prove it to you! I’ll show you the photographs!
This man killed Jonathan Millgate!”

“Don’t be absurd,” Pittman said. “If I killed him, what would I be doing here?”

The door opened. The uniformed servant appeared, his brow deeply furrowed. “Mrs. Page, I heard loud voices. Is anything wrong?”

“George, phone the police!” Denning said.

“The police, sir?” George looked puzzled, glancing toward Mrs. Page for an explanation.

“Bradford, what do you think you’re doing?” Mrs. Page demanded.

“Hurry! Before he kills all of us!”

Pittman stood, making Denning cower. “Bradford, I’d stop drinking if I were you. It affects your behavior and your judgment.”
He turned to Mrs. Page. “I regret that this happened. We’re sorry for the inconvenience. Thanks for agreeing to talk with
us.”

Jill stood as well. “We appreciate your time.”

Pittman shifted toward the doorway. “With Bradford in this condition, obviously it’s pointless for us to continue this conversation.”

Mrs. Page looked bewildered.

“Good evening,” Pittman said. “And thanks again.”

“Call the police, George!” Denning insisted. “Before they get away!”

“No,” Mrs. Page said. “I don’t understand this at all. Bradford, what on earth has gotten into you?”

Pittman and Jill passed the servant, left the room, crossed the shiny hardwood floor of the vestibule, and opened the door
to the porch, its pillars casting shadows from lights among shrubs.

“We’d better hurry,” Jill said.

In the cool night air, she and Pittman started down the brick steps from the porch, about to reach the murky area beyond the
lights on the lawn, when Pittman faltered, touching Jill’s arm. “More trouble.”

Jill tensed, seeing what he meant. “Our car.”

It was parked in front of the mansion. Revealed by streetlights, two rugged-looking men in windbreakers were staring at the
front license plate on the Duster.

Pittman backed up. “They must have been watching the house.”

“Why would they…?” Jill retreated quickly up the steps toward the porch. At once she realized. “Eustace Gable knows his daughter
is a threat. He must have arranged for the house to be watched in case we came here.”

“And the Vermont license plates on our car,” Pittman said. “They’re probably the only ones on the street. They connect us
with our visit to Grollier Academy.”

As Pittman and Jill hurried toward the mansion’s front door, one of the men shouted, “Hey!” Pittman turned, seeing the man
point at him. Simultaneously Pittman saw a dark Oldsmobile appear beyond the cars parked in front of the house. It skidded
to a stop. Men scrambled out.

Pittman gripped the doorknob, praying that the servant hadn’t locked the door after they’d left. Exhaling with relief when
he made the knob turn, he shoved the door open, lunged inside behind Jill, slammed the door, and locked it.

The noise caused startled voices in the room to the left. As Pittman swung toward that doorway, the servant loomed into view,
Mrs. Page and Denning behind him.

“What are you doing?” Mrs. Page asked. “Why did you come back?”

“I’m afraid we brought you trouble,” Pittman said. “There isn’t time to explain. We have to figure out how to—”

“Six of them.” Jill stared past the lace curtain of a high, narrow window next to the front door.

“Six?” Mrs. Page veered past Denning and the servant. “I don’t know what you’re—”

“They’re coming up the sidewalk,” Jill said.

Pittman stepped closer to Mrs. Page. “You’re in danger. What’s in back? How do we get out of here?”

“Danger?” Denning’s voice shook.

“They’re separating.” Jill strained to look out the window. “Two in front, two going along each side of the house.”

“Mrs. Page, those men are from your father,” Pittman said.

“My… ?”

“The two in front just pulled out handguns,” Jill said.

“Mrs. Page, I think they intend to kill all of us,” Pittman said. “They’ll make it look as if I did it.”

“Kill us?” Mrs. Page looked horror-stricken. “
Why?
”

“Because your father’s afraid of what you might have told me. We have to get out of here.”

“Some of them will go to the back,” Jill said. “They’ve got the house sealed off.”

“My father would
never
try to kill me.”

“He killed your mother, didn’t he? Why wouldn’t he kill you?”

Mrs. Page’s eyes widened with shocked understanding.

“The two in front are coming toward the porch,” Jill said.

Pittman turned to the servant. “Did you do what Denning wanted and call the police?”

“No. Mrs. Page told me not to.”

“Then you’d better call them
now
.”

“There isn’t time!” Denning whined. “The police won’t get here before—”

Glass shattered at the back of the house. Denning whirled toward the sound.

Pittman reached beneath his sport coat and pulled out the .45, the sight of which made Denning’s face become the color of
cement.

From the porch, someone tried to turn the doorknob.

“Jill,” Pittman warned, “get back.”

She hurried toward Pittman as he told the servant, “Switch off the lights in the hallway.”

The vestibule became dim, illuminated only by lamps in the room that they had left.

More glass shattered at the back of the house.

“Jill, if anybody tries to come through that door, do you think you can use the gun in your purse?”

“I’m so scared.”

“But
can
you?”

“Yes, if I have to.”

“Good.” Pittman rushed from the vestibule toward the rear of the house. “Find a place to hide,” he heard Jill saying.

“The car,” Mrs. Page said.

At the rear of the house, Pittman crouched in shadows, clutching his .45, concentrating to hear the sounds of someone climbing
through a window.

“Yes, the car,” Denning said.

From the porch, shoulders slammed against the front door.

“The car? Forget it,” Jill said. “Some of those men are outside in the back. They’ll shoot us if we try to get to the garage.”