Desperate Measures

  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 sticking his brow . His

  anxiety, combined with the heat in the room, made him nauseated.

  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 hottorn 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.

  1 0

  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 0 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. nking 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 mote 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 con
nections.

  "Duncan Kline died in 1952," Pittman said. "That was the year he

  suddenly appeared at the State Department, de to see all of you. July.

  Eisenhower had won the ican nomination for President. All of you were

  busy ru ning 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.

  "You thought you'd buried him in your p"t," Pittman said. "But suddenly

  there he was, making a very public appearance, and yes, he scared the

  hell out of you. In fact, he scared you so much that in the midst of

  your determined efforts to convince Eisenhower and his people to bring

  you on board, you took time out-all of you-to go to a reunion at

  Grollier. That was in December. Kline must have put a lot of pressure

  on you since July, When he showed up at the State Department. Finally

  you had no choice. You all went back to the reunion at Grollier because

  it was natural for Kline to be there, as well. It wouldn't have seemed

  unusual for you and Kline to be seen together. While you tried to

  settle your differences without attracting attention."

  Pittman's nervous system was in overdrive as he studied Winston Sloane's

  reactions, the old man's facial muscles tightening in a stressful

  acknowledgment of what Pittman was saying. For his part, Eustace

  Gable's expression provided no indication as to whether Pittman was

  guessing correctly. "Duncan Kline had retired from teaching," Pittman

  continued. "He was living in Boston, but this obituary says he died at

  a cottage he owned in the Berkshire Hills. I don't need to remind you

  they're in western Massachusetts, just south of Vermont. In December.

  Why the hell would an elderly man who lived in Boston want to be at a

  cottage in the mountains during winter? Under the circumstances, the

  best reason I can think of is that he made the relatively short drive to

  the cottage after he attended the reunion at Grollier. Because his

  business with all of you wasn't finished. Because you needed an

  isolated place where he and you could continue discussing your

  differences. "

  Pittman stopped, needing to control his breathing, hoping that his

  inward frenzy wasn't betraying him. As frightened as he was, he felt

  elated that neither Gable nor Sloane contradicted what he had said.

  Imagining Bradford Denning climbing the slope outside, not daring to

  risk a glance toward the window to see how close Denning had staggered

  to the mansion, Pittman shifted toward a wall of bookshelves at the side

  of the room, desperate to prevent his - audience from facing the window

  and seeing what was happening outside.

  Pittman pointed toward a section of the obituary he held. "Duncan Kline

  was English. He came to the United States in the early 1920s, after

  teaching for a time at Cambridge - "

  Pittman's stomach tensed as he made another connection. British. If

  only I'd known earlier that Kline was British, that he came from

  Cambridge.

  ,I'm sure it must have been quite a coup for an Anglophile school like

  Grollier to have acquired an instructor from Cainbridge as one of its

  faculty members. Ironic, isn't it? Over the years, Grollier's students

  have gone on to be congressmen, senators, governors, even a President,

  not to mention distinguished diplomats such as yourselves. But for all

  its effect on the American political system, the school's philosophical

  ties have always been to Britain and Europe. I've seen the transcripts

  of the seminars you took from him. Kline's specialty was history.

  Political science.

  Winston Sloane's face turned gray.

  Pittman continued. "So a political theorist from Cambridge bonded with

  five special students and trained them for their exceptional diplomatic

  careers - The five of you provided the philosophical underpinnings for

  almost every administration since Truman. The theories Duncan

  Kline-instilled in you "No! When we were young maybe," Winston Sloane

  ohjected. "But we never carried through on Duncan's theofies! "Winston,

  enough!" Gable said.

  "But listen to what he's saying! This is exactly what we feared! He'll

  destroyour reputations! We were never Communists! "

  And that was it. What Pittman had fervently hoped, that one of the

  grand counselors would unwittingly volunteer information, had finally

  happened. The word Communists seemed to echo eerily . At once the room

  became disturbingly silent just as everyone in it seemed frozen in

  place.

  Slowly Eustace Gable took out his handkerchief. He coughed into it in

  pain. Winston Sloane peered down at his gnarled hands, evidently

  ashamed of his lapse, realizing how severely he'd declined from having

  once been a great negotiator renowned for keeping his counsel.

  For his part, Webley showed no reaction. He just kept pointing the .45

  at Pittman.

  Gable cleared his throat and put away his handkerchief. Despite his

  problems of health and age, he looked so dignified that he might have

  been conducting a meeting in the White House. "Complete your thought,

  Mr. Pittman . "In 1917, the Russian Revolution electrified

  anti-Establishment British intellectuals. Liberal faculty members at

  British universities, especially at Cambridge, became enchanted with

  socialist theory - The eventual results of that enchantment were the

  British spy rings-former students who'd been recruited by their

  professors at Cambridge-working for the Soviets to undermine England and

  the United States. Guy Burgess. Donald Maclean. Kim Philby. In fact,

  now that I think of it, Burgess and Maclean defected to Russia in 195

  I.Philby was suspected of having warned them that they were about to be

  arrested as spies. The next year, Duncan Kline made his threatening

  appearance outside your offices at the State Department. I guess you

  could say that he was more advanced than Philby and the others. After

  all, Philby had been converted in the thirties, whereas Kline had become

  a Communist sympathizer a decade earlier, in the twenties. He must have

  been an exceptional seducer-sexually, politically. And after all, you

  and your friends were so young, so impressionable. You graduated from

  Grollier in 1933. You attended college, some of you at Harvard, others

  at Yale. Meanwhile, the Depression worsened. Kline's Communist

  theories presumably continued to be fascinating to you, given the chaos

  of the country. But eventually you stayed loyal to the capitalist

  tradition. Did it finally occur to you that if you followed Kline's

  theories and undemiined the Establishment, you'd be undermining

  yourselves, inasmuch as you were the next leaders of the
Establishment?"

  Pittman stared at Gable and Sloane, but neither man responded.

  "I think you're opportunists," Pittman said. "If communism had taken

  control of the United States, you'd have insinuated yourselves into the

  highest levels of the new system. But once the Second World War

  started, communism lost its limited appeal here. The Soviets appeared

  to be as a threat as the Nazis. So you insinuated yourselves into upper

  echelons of the State Department. There, you not only jettisoned your

  former Communist attitudes; you also gained more power by eliminating

  your competitors, claiming that they were Communist sympathizers. "

  Pittman thought nervously of Bradford Denning clutching his pistol,

  struggling up the slope past fir trees, toward the mansion. "In the

  anti-Communist McCarthy hysteria of the early fifties, you built your

  careers on the sabotaged careers of other diplomats. Then Duncan Kline

  showed up and threatened to ruin everything. What did he do? Hold you

  up for blackmail? Unless you paid him to be quiet, he'd reveal that you

  were as vulnerable as the men you accused of being Communists, is that

  it?"

  The room became so still that Pittman could feel blood pounding behind

  his eardrums.

  Eustace Gable forlornly shook his wizened head. His tone was a blend of

  discouragement and disappointment. "You know far more than I expected.

  " The old man exhaled wearily. "You've demonstrated remarkable

  journalistic skills. That's why I permitted you 'to come here-so that I

  could judge the extent of your knowledge. But you're wrong."

  "I don't think so."

  "Duncan didn't attempt to blackmail us. He didn't want money," Gable

  said.