He pulled from the curb.
Immediately he noticed a police car at the corner of the next street. He tried to keep his speed constant, to peer straight ahead. It seemed to take him forever to pass the cruiser. In his rearview mirror, he saw the police car move forward—not in his direction, but along the continuation of the side street.
He loosened his tight grip on the steering wheel. His brow felt clammy. He was more afraid than usual.
5
“Where are we going?”
Pittman shook his head, squinting at the painful glare of headlights on the crowded Massachusetts Turnpike. For several minutes, he’d been pensively quiet, trying to adjust—as he assumed Jill was—to the powerful change in their relationship. “We’re heading out of Boston. But where we’re going, I have no idea. I don’t know what to do next. We’ve learned a lot. But we really haven’t learned anything. I can’t believe that Millgate’s people would want to kill us because we’d found out what happened to him in prep school.”
“Suppose he wasn’t molested.”
“The circumstantial evidence indicates—”
“No, what I mean is, suppose he’d been willing,” Jill said. “Maybe Millgate’s people believe that the old man’s reputation would have been ruined if—”
“You think that’s what his people were afraid of?”
“Well, he confessed something to you about Grollier, and they killed him for it. Then you had to be stopped. And me because they have to believe you’ve told me what you know.”
“Killed him to protect his reputation? I just can’t… There’s something more,” Pittman said. “I don’t think we’ve learned the whole truth yet. Maybe the other grand counselors are trying to protect their reputations. They don’t want anyone to know what happened to them at Grollier.”
“But what exactly? And how do we prove it?” Jill asked. She rubbed her forehead. “I can’t think anymore. If I don’t get something to eat…”
Glancing ahead, she pointed to the right toward a truck stop off the turnpike, sodium arc lamps glaring in the darkness.
“My stomach’s rumbling, too.” Pittman followed an exit ramp into the bright, eerie yellow light of the gas station/restaurant, where he parked several slots away from a row of eighteen-wheel rigs.
After they got out of the car and joined each other in front, Pittman hugged her.
“What are we going to do?” She pressed the side of her face against his shoulder. “Where do we go for answers?”
“We’re just tired.” Pittman stroked her hair, then kissed her. “Once we get something to eat and some rest…”
Hand in hand, they walked toward the brightly lit entrance to the restaurant. Other cars were pulling in. Wary, Pittman watched a van stop ahead of them. The driver had his window down. The van’s radio was blaring, an announcer reading the news.
“I guess I’m needlessly jumpy. Everybody looks suspicious to me,” Pittman said. He made sure that he was between Jill and the van when they came abreast of the driver’s door. The beefy man behind the steering wheel was talking loudly to someone else, but the radio was even louder than his gruff tone.
Pittman turned toward the van. “My God.”
“What’s the matter?”
“The news. The radio in that van. Didn’t you hear it?”
“No.”
“Anthony Lloyd. One of the grand counselors. He’s dead.”
6
Dismayed, Pittman ran with Jill back to the Duster. Inside, he turned on the radio and switched stations, cursing impatiently at call-in shows and country-western programs. “There must be a news station somewhere.”
He turned on the car’s engine, afraid he would weaken the battery while he switched stations. Ten minutes later, an on-the-half-hour news report came on.
“Anthony Lloyd, onetime ambassador to the United Nations, the former USSR, and Britain, past secretary of state as well as past secretary of defense, died this evening at his home near Washington,” a solemn-voiced male reporter said. “One of a legendary group of five diplomats whose careers spanned global events from the Second World War to the present, Lloyd was frequently described—along with his associates—as a grand counselor. To quote the reaction of Harold Fisk, current secretary of state, ‘Anthony Lloyd had an immeasurable influence on American foreign policy for the past fifty years. His wisdom will be sorely missed.’ While the cause of death has not yet been determined, it is rumored that Lloyd—aged eighty—died from a stroke, the result of strain brought on by the recent apparent murder of his colleague, Jonathan Millgate, another of the grand counselors. Authorities are still looking for Matthew Pittman, the former reporter allegedly responsible for Millgate’s death.”
The news report changed to other topics, and Pittman shut off the radio. In silence, he continued to stare at the dashboard.
“Died from a stroke?” Jill asked.
“Or was he murdered, too? It’s a wonder they didn’t blame his death on me, as well.”
“In a way, they did,” Jill said. “Their story is that the first death caused the second.”
“Died from strain.” Pittman bit his lip, thinking. He turned to Jill. “Or from guilt? From worry? Maybe something’s happening to all of them. Maybe the grand counselors aren’t as strong as they thought.”
“What are you getting at?”
“We’ll have to eat on the road and take turns sleeping while the other drives. We’ve got a lot of miles to cover.”
7
Shortly before 7:00 A.M., in dim morning light, Pittman parked near the well-maintained apartment building in Park Slope in Brooklyn. Traffic increased. People walked by, going to work. “I just hope she hasn’t left yet. If she has, we could end up sitting here all day, thinking she’s still in the apartment.” Pittman used his electric razor to shave.
“You’re certain she works outside the home?”
“If you’d ever met Gladys, you’d know she’d definitely prefer to be away while her husband works at home and takes care of the baby.” He sipped tepid coffee from a Styrofoam cup.
“Do we have any more of that Danish left?” Jill glanced around, peered at her Styrofoam cup of stale coffee on the dashboard, and grimaced. “I can’t believe I’m doing this to myself. I hardly ever drink coffee, and now I’m guzzling it. Yesterday morning, I was eating doughnuts. Last night, chili and French fries. Now it’s the gooiest Danish I ever… And I can’t get enough of it. After years of eating right, I’m self-destructing.”
“There.” Pittman gestured. “That’s Gladys.”
A prim, sour-faced woman stepped out of the apartment building, tightened a scarf around her head, and walked determinedly along the street.
“Looks like she runs a tight ship,” Jill said.
“Talking to her makes you think of mutiny.”
“But we won’t have to talk to her.”
“Right.” Pittman got out of the car.
They walked toward the apartment building. In the vestibule, Pittman faced a row of intercom buttons and pretended to study the name below each button as if looking for one in particular, but what he really did was wait for the man and woman leaving the building to get out of his sight in time for him to grab the door as it swung shut. Before it could lock itself, he reopened it and walked through with Jill, heading toward the elevator.
When the door to 4 B opened in response to the knock, Brian Botulfson—who still wore his pajamas, had rumpled hair, and looked exhausted—slumped his shoulders with discouragement the moment he saw Pittman. “Aw, no. Give me a break. Not you. The last thing I need is—”
“How are you, Brian?” Pittman asked cheerily “How have you been doing since I saw you last?”
In the background, Pittman heard an infant crying harshly, not the usual baby cry, but a hurt cry, a sick cry. Pittman remembered it well from when Jeremy had been an infant.
“Uh-oh, sounds like you’ve been up all night.” Pittman entered.
“
Hey, you can’t—”
Pittman shut the door and locked it. “You don’t seem very happy to see me, Brian.”
“The last time you were here, I got in so much trouble with… If Gladys was here…”
“But she isn’t. We waited until she left.”
Jill was preoccupied by the cries from the baby. “Boy or girl?”
“Boy.”
“He doesn’t sound well. Has he got a fever?”
“I think so,” Brian said.
“You didn’t check his temperature?” Jill asked.
“I didn’t have time. I was too busy getting him clean after he threw up.”
“Seems like you could use some help. Where’s your thermometer? Let me see the baby supplies you got.”
Pittman raised his hands. “Almost forgot, Brian. This is my friend Jill.”
“Hello, Brian. I’m a nurse. I used to work in pediatrics. I’ll take good care of your son. The thermometer?”
“On his bedside table.” Brian pointed.
As Jill went toward a room to the left of the kitchen, Pittman said, “See, it’s your lucky day.”
“Yeah, I feel lucky all to hell. Look, you’ve got to stop coming here. The police are searching for you.”
“No kidding.”
“I can’t get involved in this. I can’t—”
“I won’t come around again. I swear, Brian. Scout’s honor.”
“That’s what you said the last time.”
“Ah, but I didn’t swear on Scout’s honor.”
Brian groaned. “If the police find out…”
“I’m a dangerous criminal. Tell them I terrified you so much, you had to help me.”
“The newspapers say you killed a priest and a man in somebody’s apartment and… I’m losing count.”
“Not my fault. All easily explainable.”
“You still don’t get it. I don’t want to know anything you’re doing. I’d be an accessory.”
“Then we’re in agreement. I don’t want you to know what I’m doing, either. But if you refuse to help me, if I get caught, I’ll convince the police that you are an accessory,” Pittman lied.
“Don’t think like that. I’d go to prison again.”
“And imagine what Gladys would say. On the other hand, I never turn against my friends, Brian. The quicker we do this, the quicker I’m out of here. I want you to give me a crash course in hacking.”
Jill leaned out from the baby’s room. “His fever’s a hundred and one.”
“Is that bad?” Brian asked nervously.
“It isn’t good. But I think I can lower it. By the way, Brian, those children’s aspirins are a no-no for a baby’s fever. They can cause a serious condition called Reye’s syndrome. Have you got any Tylenol?”
“See?” Pittman said. “In good hands. Now come on, Brian, pay us for the house call. Show me how to do a little hacking. Or we’ll hang around the house until Gladys comes home.”
Brian turned pale. “What programs do you want to get into?”
“Unlisted telephone numbers, and the addresses that go with them.”
“What city?”
“I don’t want to tell you, Brian. You’re going to have to show me how to get in without knowing what city I want. Then you’re going to sit in a corner while I play with your computer.”
“I feel like crying.”
8
“Will the baby be all right?” Pittman drove from the apartment building.
“As long as Brian keeps giving him a children’s dose of Tylenol on schedule. And liquids. A sponge bath doesn’t hurt. I told him to get the baby to a doctor if the fever gets worse or the vomiting persists. Cute kid. I think he’ll be okay.”
“And maybe Brian will get some sleep tonight.”
“Unless Gladys decides to make trouble. Did he let you have what you wanted?”
Pittman held up a sheet of paper. “I learned from the mistake we made with the guy from the alumni association. Don’t let anybody know our next move. Brian showed me how to get unlisted phone numbers and addresses. But he doesn’t know whose or what city.”
“Washington.”
Pittman nodded.
“The grand counselors.”
Pittman nodded again.
“Long drive.”
“We can’t fly. You’d have to use a check or a credit card to buy our tickets. Your name would get in the computer. The police will be looking for it. We’ve got to keep driving.”
“You really know how to show a girl a good time. I think I’ll pull a blanket over my head and assume a fetal position.”
“Good idea. Get some more rest.”
“You, too. We’ll need it if we’re going to try to get close to the grand counselors.”
“Not just yet.”
“But I thought you said we were going to Washington.”
“Right. But I need to see somebody else there.”
“Who?”
“A man I interviewed a long time ago.”
9
It was after dark when they reached Washington’s Beltway, headed south on I-95, then west on 50 to Massachusetts Avenue. Despite his exhaustion, Pittman managed to drive skillfully through the dense traffic.
“You seem to know your way around the city,” Jill said.
“When I was working on the national affairs desk, I spent a lot of time down here.” Pittman rounded Dupont Circle and took P Street west into Georgetown.
“Reminds me of Beacon Hill,” Jill said.
“I suppose.” Pittman glanced at the narrow wooded street. The paving was cobblestone. Ahead, it changed to red brick. Federal and Victorian mansions were squeezed next to one another. “Never been here?”
“Never been to any place in Washington. New York was about as far from my parents as I felt I needed to get.”
“Georgetown’s the oldest and wealthiest district in the city.”
“The remaining grand counselors live here?”
Pittman shook his head. “This is too ordinary for them. They live on estates in Virginia.”
“Then who did you come here to see?”
“A man who hates them.” Pittman headed south on Wisconsin Avenue. Headlights and streetlights made him squint. “The guy I’ve been trying to phone every time we stopped along the road. Bradford Denning. He’s elderly now, but in his prime, he was a career diplomat. A mover and shaker in the State Department during the Truman administration. According to him, he would eventually have become secretary of state.”
“What happened that he didn’t?”
“The grand counselors. They didn’t like him being in competition with them, so they got him out of their way.”
“How on earth did they manage that?”
“To hear Denning tell it—this was during the McCarthy witch-hunt era—they spread persistent rumors that Denning was soft on communism.”
“In the early fifties, that would have ruined a diplomat.”
“It certainly ruined Denning. He found it impossible to undo the damage, was given less and less responsibility in the State Department, and finally had to resign. He claims that his isn’t the only career the grand counselors ruined by claiming that somebody was a Communist sympathizer. The grand counselors then ingratiated themselves with the incoming Eisenhower administration, replaced the diplomats they’d attacked, and went on to control the highest diplomatic offices. That lasted until 1960 when the Democrats regained the White House with Kennedy. Kennedy wanted to work with friends and family rather than career diplomats. For three years, the grand counselors stood on the sidelines. But after Kennedy was assassinated, Johnson, who had disliked Kennedy, was eager to assert himself by getting Kennedy’s people out of the State Department and the White House staff. He welcomed the grand counselors back into diplomatic power. For the second time in their careers, they had managed the trick of being accepted by different political parties. In fact, by then they seemed to transcend the two-party system, so that when Nixon a
nd the Republicans came back into power at the end of the sixties, the grand counselors had no difficulty in continuing to maintain their influence. So it went. In periods of intense international strain, various later Presidents continued to ask for their advice.”
“And Denning?”
“Had what to most people would have seemed a productive life. He taught college. Wrote for political journals. Contributed editorial columns to the New York Times and the Washington Post. But he always felt cheated, and he never forgave the grand counselors. In fact, he devoted most of his spare time to researching a book about them, an exposé of their ruthlessness.”
“Is that how you know about him? Because of the book?”
“No. The book was never published. Near the end of his research, his house caught fire. All his notes were destroyed. After that, he was a defeated man. Seven years ago, when I was preparing to write a story about Millgate, one of the few people who agreed to talk to me told me about Denning. I came down here to Washington to see him. But he’d been drinking, and what he had to say was all innuendo—he’d once had proof, he insisted, but it went up in the fire—and I finally realized I couldn’t quote him. I never wrote the story, anyhow. After I was arrested and my jaw was broken by those two prisoners in jail, my editor assigned me to something else.”
Driving, Pittman brooded. Thinking of his reassignment had reminded him of Burt Forsyth, not only his editor but his closest friend. The fight in the construction area off Twenty-sixth Street was brutally vivid in Pittman’s memory, Burt stepping back as the gunman came into the shadows, the gunman shooting at Pittman, then at Burt.
Grief felt like arms around his chest, squeezing him breathless. They didn’t need to kill Burt, he thought. The bastards.
“You look awfully angry,” Jill said.
“Don’t you think I’ve got reason to be?”
“Without a doubt. But it’s surprising.”
“How so?”
“When you came to my apartment Sunday, the emotion you communicated was desperation. Your motive was passive—a reaction to being threatened. But anger’s an active emotion. It’s… Let me ask you a question. If somehow a truce could be arranged and the police wouldn’t be after you and the grand counselors would leave you alone, would you walk away?”
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