ten. It's about Victor Standish. " His heart pounded fast again but
this time making him nauseated with shock, as he stared toward the
chaotic scene of an ambulance and police cars in front of a mansion,
emergency lights flashing while policemen made way for attendants
bringing out a body bag on a gurney.
A somber announcer was saying, verified that the distinguished diplomat
Victor Standish died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound."
No matter how desperately Pittman wanted to, he couldn't sleep. The
shock of learning about Standish's suicide kept him and Jill awake,
watching CNN for further details until after 2:00 A.m. A summary of
Standish's long, distinguished career was punctuated by photographs of
him and the other grand counselors, first as robust, steely-eyed,
ambitious-looking young men, later as elderly icons of diplomacy
standing with bolt-straight dignity despite their frail bodies, some of
them bald, others with wispy white hair, their faces wrinkled, skin
drooping from their necks, but their eyes communicating as much ambition
as ever.
When it became clear that the report wouldn't be updated until the
morning, Pittman reluctantly turned off the television. In the darkness
of the hotel room, he lay tensely in bed, his eyes open, directed toward
the murky ceiling. Beside him, Jill's eventual slow, shallow breathing
made him think that at least she had finally managed to shut off her
mind and get some rest. But Pittman couldn't stop the announcer's words
from echoing through his frantic memory: died from a self-inflicted
gunshot wound."
The suicide was totally alien to Pittman's expectation. He strained to
analyze the implications. The grand counselors had killed one of their
own, Jonathan Millgate, in an effort to keep him from revealing
information about them. The cover-up, which had involved using Pittman
as a scapegoat, had gotten so out of hand that another grand counselor,
Anthony Lloyd, had died from a stroke. Now a third grand counselor,
Victor Standish, had shot himself, presumably because of fear. Earlier,
Denning had said gleefully, "Three dead. Two to go. " But Pittman
didn't share Denning's manic enthusiasm. True, Pittman was encouraged
that a fissure of weakness had developed in what he had assumed was an
annorre resolution among the grand counselors. But if the tension was
affecting them so extremely, there was every danger that the remaining
two grand counselors, Eustace Gable and Winston Sloane, would succumb to
age and desperation.
Damn it, Pittman thought, I have to do something. Soon.
When he and Jill had arrived in Washington that evening, one of his
primary emotions had been rage, the urge to get even with the grand
counselors for what they had done to him. But his encounter with
Bradford Denning had made him realize the consequences of rage. The
emotion had so distorted Denning's approach to life that he had wasted
his life. Indeed, tonight he had worked himself into such a frenzy that
his rage had nearly killed him.
As Pittman continued to lie wearily, rigidly on the bed in the dark
hotel room, it occurred to him that Denning I s rage and the grand
counselors' fear were mirror images, that Denning and the grand
counselors were unwittingly destroying themselves because of their
obsession with the past.
But not me, Pittman thought. What I'm doing isn't a disguised version
of a death wish. It isn't a version of the suicide I attempted a week
ago. Indeed he was struck by the irony that suicide, which had seemed
reasonable and inevitable to him, now was shocking when someone else
committed it. I want to live. Oh God, how I want to live. I never
believed I'd feel that way again.
Pittman's thoughts were suddenly interrupted as he felt Jill move beside
him. Surprising him, she sat up. He was able to see her shadowy
silhouette in the darkness.
"What did you say?" she asked.
"Nothing. "
"Sure you did. You were mumbling."
"Mumbling? ... I thought you were asleep."
. "I thought you were asleep."
"Can't. "
"Me, either. What were you mumbling? Something about you want to
live."
"I must have been thinking out loud."
"Well, I applaud your motive. In a week, you've certainly come a long
way from putting a pistol into your mouth to wanting to live."
"I was thinking about Denning."
"Yes. We ought to phone the hospital and find out how he is."
"I was thinking how thrilled he was to know that three of the grand
counselors were dead."
"That's what put him in the hospital."
"Exactly. And there's no guarantee that the two remaining grand
counselors won't wind up in the hospital or worse because of this also.
I was thinking that I might as well be dead if Eustace Gable and Winston
Sloane don't survive. Because, in that case, I won't have any way to
prove that innocent. Everything's happening so fast. I don't know if
we've got enough time. I have to .
'What?"
"I used to be a reporter. It's what I do best-interviewing people. I
think it's the only way to save us.
Shortly after dawn, feeling a chill in the air, seeing vapor come out of
his mouth, Pittman parked next to a pay phone outside a coffee shop.
Sparse traffic sounded eerie as he got out of the car, Jill following,
and stepped into the booth. After studying the list of telephone
numbers that he had used last night, he put coins in the box and pressed
numbers.
A male voice, with the haughty obsequiousness of a servant to the
powerful and rich, answered after two rings. "Mr. Gable's residence."
"Put him on."
"Who may I say is calling, sir?"
"You're supposed to say it's too early to disturb him."
"I beg your pardon, sir?"
"It's barely six in the morning, but you didn't take long to answer the
phone. It's like you've been on duty for quite a while. Are things a
little frantic over there?"
"I really don't know what you're implying, sir. If you wish to speak
with Mr. Gable, you're going to have to tell me who you are."
"The man he's been trying to have killed." The line became silent.
"Go ahead," Pittman said. "Let him know."
"As you wish, sir.
Pittman waited, looking at Jill, whose lovely face normally glowed with
health but now was wan from stress and fatigue.
Thirty seconds later, a man's voice, aged and frail, like wind through
dead leaves, came on the line. "Eustace Gable here. "
"Matthew Pittman."
Again the line became silent.
"Yes?" Gable sounded as if he was having trouble breathing. "I've been
reading about you in the newspapers."
"You don't seem surprised that I'm calling."
"At my age, I'm not surprised by anything," Gable said. "However, I
don't understand the way you identified yourself to my assistant."
"I can see where it might be confusing, depending on how many other
people you're trying to have killed. "
Gable stifle
d a cough. "I don't know what you're talking about. "
"Not over the phone at least. I can understand that. It's what I'd
expect from a diplomat famous for conducting secret meetings. All the
same, I do think we ought to talk, don't you?"
"Perhaps. But how, if not on the phone?"
"In person."
"Oh? Given that you murdered my friend and colleague, I'm not certain
that I'd feel safe in your presence."
"The feeling's mutual. But as you know, I didn't murder him. You did."
"Honestly, Mr. Pittman. First you fantasize that I'm g to have you
killed. Now you're fantasizing that I killed my friend.
"No one else is on this line, so you can save the disinformation.
"I always assume that someone else is on the line."
"Does that prevent You from negotiating?"
Gable stifled another cough. "I'm proud to Say that in my entire
career, I have never turned down a request to negotiate. "
"Then listen. Obviously things have gotten way out of hand. You never
expected me to stay alive this long. You never expected so many other
people to become involved."
The only sound was Gablo.'s labored breathing.
"you've destroyed my life," Pittman said. "But I know enough to be able
to destroy Yours- Let's call it a stalemate. I think it's in our mutual
best interests if I disappear. With a retirement fund. A million
dollars and a passport that gives me a safe name."
"That's a substantial retirement fund."
,But that's my price. Also a safe passport for Jill Warren.
"Passports are difficult."
"Not with your contacts in the State Department. think about it. I
disappear. Your cover-up works. No . more problems for you. "
"If I agree to the meeting you propose, I want it completely understood
that I don't t any involvement in your false accusations about cover-ups
and murders. We're discussing hypothetical matters."
"Whatever makes you feel good, Mr. Gable."
"I'll need time to consider the implications."
"And I've been on this line too long. I'll call back at ten
A.M.
Mrs- Page opened the door the moment Pittman knocked on it. Her
designer dress was wrinkled and looked out of place in a motel early in
the morning. Otherwise, she appeared alert and deteinnined, her
skin-tucked face severe with intensity. "Did you watch the morning
news?"
"About Standish's suicide?" Pittman nodded.
"He was always the weakest of the five. My father was the strongest. We
have to keep putting pressure on him."
"This morning, I started again."
"How?" Mrs. Page asked quickly. Pittman explained.
"Be careful. My father is a master Of manipulation."
"And arrogant about it. I'm counting on that," Pittman said. "I'm
hoping that it's inconceivable to him that someone could out manipulate
him."
"But can you? You're taking a tremendous risk."
"If I could think of another way, I'd do it. We can't just hide. WC
have to keep pushing them. We have to go back to Washington. I've got
several stops to make. In particular, I need to see two other people I
once interviewed. "Who?"
"A security expert and a weapons specialist. I'll explain as we
drive.', "But what if they remember you?" Mrs. Page asked. "If they
connect you with the newspaper stories and television reports ... "
"I interviewed them at least five years ago. I was heavier. I had a
mustache. There's a good chance they won't recognize me. But even if
the risk was greater, I'd still have to take it. I can't make this plan
work without their help."
As they spoke, Pittman walked to the next door and knocked on it. When
George came out, they went down concrete steps to where Jill was waiting
at the car.
"Give me your room keys. I'll leave them at the desk and check
everybody out," George said.
"Fine. We'll meet you at the restaurant down the street," Jill said.
"Restaurant?" Mrs. Page looked horrified. "That's not a restaurant.
"Okay, it's a Roy Rogers. Think of it as a broadening experience. We're
so pressed for finie, we'll have to eat takeout as we drive."
"Time. Yes. We have to make time for something else," Mrs. Page
insisted. "We have to see about Bradford. We have to go to the
hospital."
Amid the drone of fluorescent lights and the pungent odor of
antiseptics, Pittman frowned in response to Jill's frown as she came
back from speaking to a nurse at the counter outside the cardiac-care
unit.
"What's the matter?" Pittman's hands suddenly felt cold. "Don't tell
me he died." I 'He Is gone."
Mrs. Page stepped forward, ashen. "He is dead?"
"I mean he literally isn't here. He's gone. He left," Jill said. "The
nurse looked in on him at five A.m. His bed was empty. He'd pulled an
IV needle from his arm. He'd turned off his heart monitor so it
wouldn't sound a warning when he pulled the sensor pads from his chest.
His clothes were in a cupboard in his room. He put them on and snuck
out of the hospital. "
"It's a wonder he had the strength," Pittman said. "What the hell did
he think he was doing?"
George shook his head. "Last night, it was exhaustion. But if he's not
careful, he'll give himself a heart attack."
"Obviously he believes the risk is worth it,', Jill said. "To get back
at them. The remaining two grand counselors. I
can't imagine anything else that would have made him act so
obsessively."
"Damn it, now we've got a wild card out there," Pittman said. "He's so
out of control, he scares me. God knows what he might do to interfere
with our plan."
"But we can't let him worry us," Mrs. Page said. "We have to go ahead.
Why are you looking at me like that?"
Pittman stepped forward. "Mrs. Page, how are your connections with the
Washington Post? Do you think you can get someone in the obituary
department to do us a favor?"
Eight hours later, in midafternoon, Pittman was back in Fairfax,
Virginia, quickly passing through it, taking 29 west, then 15 north
toward Eustace Gable's estate. During his second telephone call to
Gable, which Pittman had made exactly at ten as promised, using a pay
phone in Washington, Gable had given him instructions how to get to the
estate. As Pittman drove toward the rendezvous, squinting from the sun,
he glanced toward his rearview mirror and was reassured to see that
despite congested traffic, the gray Ford van remained behind him, Jill
visible behind the steering wheel. The van and the equipment inside it
had been rented using George's credit card, and Pittman thought morbidly
that George certainly deserved a bonus, the trick being for all of them
to stay alive so he could receive it, Pittman passed farms and strips of
woods, the sunlight making them seem golden, and he prayed that he would
have a chance to see them again, to see Jill again. He thought about
Jeremy, and as much as he missed his son,. he felt strangely close to
him, as if Jeremy were with him, helping him. Give me strength, son.
As instructed,
Pittman came to a sign-EVERGREEN COUNTRY CLUB-then headed
to the left, trees casting shadows from the sun. A mile later, he went
right, along an oak-lined gravel road. This time when he glanced toward
his rearview mirror, he saw Jill stopping the van, parking it among
bushes at the side of the gravel road. She was doing what they had
agreed upon. Nonetheless, he wished she didn't have to. Until now he
hadn't felt alone.
He rounded a curve and proceeded up a gentle rise Banked by AprU-Iush
fields, and he couldn't help contrasting his increasing fear with the
peaceful setting. More, he couldn't help contrasting his apprehension
as he approached Gable's estate with the indifference to his safety that
he had felt a week earlier when he had snuck into the estate in
Scarsdale to find out why Jonathan Millgate had been removed from the
hospital.
Back then, Pittman's only motive had been to get a story for Burt
Forsyth, to relieve his obligations to his friend. Obsessed with the
need to conunit suicide, Pittman had felt liberated from apprehension as
he had crept through the rainy darkness, circling the Scarsdale mansion,
David Morrell - Desperate Measures Page 37
