Desperate Measures (43 page)

“Under an assumed name.”

“Yes.”

“With Ms. Warren.”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps in Mexico. Perhaps farther south. In a country where the economy is such that a million dollars is worth considerably
more.”

“Yes.”

“And after the barrage of telephone calls last night,” Gable asked with irritation, “how do you intend to protect us from
the
other
people who—thanks to you—have acquired knowledge of our private affairs?”

“Your daughter, for example?”

“In particular.”

“Those phone calls were staged to get your attention,” Pittman said. “To put pressure on you so you’d agree to this meeting.
To make you want to end this before it spreads any farther. The truth is, your daughter doesn’t know anything for certain.
If you agree to my terms, I’ll go back to her and—”

From somewhere in the house, a phone rang, the faint sound echoing.

Pittman glanced past Webley toward the hall as the phone rang a second time.

“It’s not important,” Gable said. “The fax machine in my home office is on a line that’s separate from the main telephone
line. That’s what you heard, the fax machine. Two rings and it answered.”

Pittman nodded. “If you agree to my terms, I’ll go back to your daughter and behave irrationally enough that she’ll lose faith
in my credibility. My apparent suicide will make her even more skeptical about me. She’ll be forced to conclude that her accusations,
based on what I told her, are the nonsense you say they are.”

“I like it,” Sloane said eagerly. “It makes sense. It can get us out of the mess we’re in.”

“Winston.” Gable’s aged eyes flashed. “Your persistent outbursts force me to violate protocol. I have never before done this
in a negotiation. But you leave me no choice. I must ask you not to interrupt me again.”

“But—”

“Winston!” Gable’s chest heaved, the effort of emotion having an obvious weakening effect on him.

Sloane looked abashed and lowered his gaze toward his hands.

Gable’s breath rate subsided. He composed himself and studied Pittman, frowning. “So you restricted the information that you
gave to my daughter.”

“That’s right.”

Gable shook his head in disagreement. “I suddenly have doubts about you.”

“Doubts?”

“To enlist my daughter’s aid, it isn’t logical that you would have held back. To make your strongest case, you would have
told her everything you know. I’m beginning to worry that all of this has been needless. What exactly
do
you know? What are we buying? What precisely is worth one million dollars and two passports?”

“Duncan Kline was an instructor at Grollier Academy.”

Gable raised his bushy white eyebrows and gestured for Pittman to continue.

“He liked to gather the brightest students around him,” Pittman said. “He persuaded them to join him in small study groups.
He nurtured them.”

“Of course. Nurturing is something that a good teacher does automatically.”

“But good teachers don’t molest their students,” Pittman said.

Gable’s face became rigid, his wrinkles deepening.

“Duncan Kline carefully prepared his few chosen students,” Pittman said. “It took time and devotion, painstaking kindness
and delicate reassurance. At last he made himself so necessary in their lives, so essential to their emotional well-being,
that they found themselves incapable of resisting his advances. You and the other grand counselors, all of you were molested
by him. It’s affected you ever since.”

Gable kept staring, his wrinkled features reminding Pittman of a crust of mud that was cracking.

“Molested?” Gable asked. “You honestly think I’d go to all this trouble to hide the fact that we were molested as students
at Grollier? Which we were, by the way.” Gable raised his face to the beamed ceiling and burst out laughing, his feeble Adam’s
apple bobbing, his bony throat sounding as if gravel were stuck in it. At once he seemed to strangle on his laughter. In pain,
he lowered his face, tugged out his handkerchief, and coughed repeatedly into it. His pale face turned red from effort. The
spasms slowly subsided. “Of course we were molested.” He swallowed and put away his handkerchief. “If you revealed that information,
I could easily turn it to my advantage, eliciting sympathy from the media. In America today, there is no such thing as shame,
only prurience and pity. You know nothing that threatens me, Mr. Pittman. You’re wasting my time.”

“You didn’t let me finish.”

“Oh? Are you suggesting that you have information of more substance to share with us?”

Pittman’s chest ached, swollen with pressure. His heart pumped faster. He had hoped that Gable would take for granted that
Pittman had discovered his secret. An open discussion, in which Gable revealed details that he assumed were shared knowledge,
had been part of Pittman’s strategy. What he hadn’t counted on was that Gable, the lifelong negotiator, wasn’t about to acknowledge
any
information unless Pittman volunteered it first.

Sweat rolled down Pittman’s back. Paradoxically cold, the sweat stuck his clothes to his skin, making him shiver, although
he fought not to show it. Okay, he told himself nervously, you came here because you felt your best weapon was your ability
to interview somebody. Well, it’s time to prove how good you are. Let’s see you interview a world-class negotiator.

He turned toward the wall-length window, straining to concentrate, composing his thoughts. Sunlight gleamed into the room,
making him squint. Nonetheless, he was able to focus on the fir trees beyond the window, amazingly green and clear, preciously
beautiful, given his proximity to death. At the bottom of the wooded slope beyond the house, distant golfers took advantage
of the pleasant April day. A man in a golf cart drove past a sand trap, toward where his ball had landed near the wall that
separated Gable’s estate from the golf course.

Pittman stared at the sand trap, and again he couldn’t help being aware of the bitter irony that a week ago his nightmare
had begun near a golf course and now was about to end near another one.

“Mr. Pittman,” Gable said, “if you have substantive information to share with us, do so. Otherwise, I’m afraid that Mr. Webley
will have to ensure that you never share anything with anyone again.”

Continuing to squint, Pittman turned to Gable.

“You’re sweating,” the grand counselor said. “Look at your forehead. It’s pouring off you. Surely you’re not nervous. In a
negotiation, you should never allow your emotions to show. Certainly
I
never do.”

“It’s the temperature in this room. It’s too hot in here.” Pittman wiped his forehead.

“My doctor has given me instructions that the temperature must be kept at eighty. To remedy a mild health problem of mine.
Take off your sport coat if the temperature is making you uncomfortable. You’re wearing a sweater also.”

“I’m fine.” Pittman refocused his attention, concentrating on the view through the window. The man in the golf cart had disappeared
behind the wall at the bottom of the slope. “That fax, the one that arrived a few minutes ago.”

“What about it?” Gable asked.

Pittman looked directly into Gable’s steel gray eyes. “It was for me.”

Gable didn’t respond immediately. “For you?”

“What does he mean?” Winston Sloane asked.

Ignoring his colleague, Gable told Pittman, “That’s absurd. Why would anyone send a fax to you here?
How
could anyone do that? The fax number is confidential.”

“The same as your telephone number is confidential,” Pittman said. “But I arranged for your daughter to phone you last night.
And for Jill to phone
your
confidential number, Winston. And then we phoned Victor Standish’s confidential number. Too late in that case. He’d already
blown his brains out. Because he couldn’t stand hiding the secret you shared. But if I had no trouble using my contacts to
learn
those
numbers, I assure you it was just as easy for me to find out your fax number. The message is Duncan Kline’s obituary. I’m
sure we’ll all find it interesting.”

Gable frowned with suspicion. “Mr. Webley, see that my visitor remains exactly where he is while I get the fax message from
my office.”

Webley raised Pittman’s .45. “Don’t worry. He isn’t going anywhere.”

Pittman watched Gable stand with difficulty and proceed from the room. His back as regally straight as he could make it, Gable
disappeared down a corridor.

Pittman was uncomfortably aware of more sweat slicking his brow. His anxiety, combined with the heat in the room, made him
nauseous. Avoiding Webley’s intense gaze and Sloane’s nervous expression, Pittman turned again toward the wall-length window.
It took him a moment to adjust his vision to the painful glare of the sun. The fir trees were even more beautiful. The green
of the spring grass was made exquisite by his terror. In the distance, golfers passed trees near a pond.

Abruptly a motion caught Pittman’s attention. At the bottom of the slope on Gable’s estate. Close to the wall.
This
side of the wall. The man who’d driven the golf cart toward the opposite side of the wall was now in view, climbing the slope
toward Gable’s mansion. Pittman didn’t know how he had gotten over the wall, but it was the same man, Pittman could tell,
because the man in the golf cart had worn a white cap and a red windbreaker, the same as this man. Despite the sheltering
cap, it was now possible to see that the man was elderly. But he moved with slow determination, climbing, holding something
in his right hand. And as he trudged higher, beginning to show the physical cost of his effort, just before pine trees obscured
him, Pittman realized with hastily subdued shock that he recognized the grimacing elderly man. Pittman had bought a drink
for him last night. He’d followed him to Mrs. Page’s mansion. He’d taken him to a hospital when the elderly man collapsed.
Bradford Denning
. This morning, Denning had snuck from the hospital’s cardiac ward, and now he looked totally deranged as he stumbled into
view again, leaving the fir trees, struggling higher toward the house. With equal shock, Pittman distinguished the object
in Denning’s right hand—a pistol held rigidly to his side.

No! Pittman thought. If Gable sees him, if Webley notices, they’ll decide that I’ve tricked them, that I can’t be trusted,
that everything’s out of control. The moment they realize Denning’s armed, they’ll shoot him. And then they’ll finish
me
.

The echo of faltering footsteps on a stone floor alerted Pittman. He straightened, turned from the window, hoped that no one
else had seen what he had, and directed his full attention to Eustace Gable, who entered the room, looking considerably frailer
and older than when he had left. Ashen, the grand counselor regarded the single sheet of fax paper that he had brought from
his office.

“How did you obtain this?” the old man asked.

Pittman didn’t answer.

Gable assumed as imperious a stance as he could manage. “Answer me. How did you obtain this?”

Not knowing the substance of the message, knowing only that it was what he had asked Mrs. Page, using her contacts at the
Washington Post
, to send to him, Pittman hoped that he sounded convincingly casual. “Surely you haven’t forgotten that lately my assignment
has been obituaries.” Pittman stood, approached Gable, and attempted to take the fax from Gable’s rigid grip.

Gable resisted.

Damn it, if I don’t get a chance to read this… Pittman thought in hidden panic.

Unexpectedly, Gable released his grasp.

As if he’d seen it numerous times, Pittman glanced offhandedly down at the text. It was from the obituary page of the
Boston Globe
, December 23, 1952. The death notice for Duncan Kline.

Pittman’s temples throbbed, sickening him. “I’m sure it was a difficult matter for you to decide—whether to arrange for a
small discreet notice about Duncan Kline’s passing or whether to allow the larger obituary that one might expect for a remarkable
teacher who had taught many remarkable students. In the first case, Duncan Kline’s former colleagues and students might have
been suspicious about the indignity of giving him only a few words. They might have sought out more information. But in the
second case, they might have unwittingly learned too much if the circumstances of his death were elaborated. As it is, you
struck a prudent compromise.”

The room became deathly silent. Thinking with furious speed, Pittman imagined Bradford Denning struggling higher up the slope.
The old man would not yet be close enough to be a danger. But Pittman had been disturbed by his resolve. He remembered how
Denning had pressed his left hand to his pained chest while his right hand clutched his pistol.

“The obituary tells you nothing,” Gable said. “It’s been a matter of public record for more than forty years. If there was
anything incriminating in it, someone would have discovered it long ago.”

Pittman raised his voice. “But only if someone knew what to look for.” The faster his heart rushed, the more his lungs felt
starved for oxygen. His reporter’s instincts had seized him, propelling his thoughts, thrusting them against one another,
linking what he already knew with what he had just now discovered, making startling connections.

“Duncan Kline died in 1952,” Pittman said. “That was the year he suddenly appeared at the State Department, demanding to see
all of you. July. Eisenhower had won the Republican nomination for President. All of you were busy ruining the reputations
of your competitors while you prepared to jump ship from a Democratic administration to one that you were sure would be Republican.
Your conservative, anti-Soviet attitudes were in tune with the times. The future was yours. Then Kline showed up, and he scared
the hell out of you, didn’t he?”

As yet, Pittman had no idea why the grand counselors had been afraid of Kline, but the intensity with which they listened
to Pittman’s insistence that they had indeed been afraid of Kline gave Pittman the incentive to follow that line of argument.