Desperate Measures

by David R. Morrell

  “After everything those bastards have put me through? No way.”

  Jill studied him. “Yes, you’ve definitely changed.”

  “You have no idea how much. This is Wednesday. Remember, a week ago tonight, I was ready to kill myself.”

  Jill didn’t react, just kept staring at him.

  “Say something.”

  “I keep forgetting how deeply upset you were,” Jill said.

  “Still am. None of this changes my grief for Jeremy.”

  “Yes. You’ll continue to grieve for the rest of your life.”

  “That’s right.”

  “But if you wanted to die as much as you say you did, why didn’t you let the grand counselors do the job for you? No. In the last week, something happened to you to make you want the rest of your life to go on as long as possible.”

  “You.”

  Jill touched his shoulder with affection. “But you’d been on the run for a couple of days before you showed up at my apartment. You had plenty of opportunity to give in to your despair. You know what I think?”

  Pittman didn’t answer.

  “Fear made you feel alive again. While we’ve been driving, you told me how you sometimes have the sense that Jeremy’s with you, that he talks to you.”

  Pittman nodded. “You think it’s foolish to believe that?”

  “On the contrary, I’ll go you one better. I think Jeremy’s been pushing you into fighting back. I think he wants you to decide to live for something.”

  Pittman’s voice was husky with emotion. “That would be nice to believe.” His throat ached as he squinted ahead toward the bright lights and congested traffic in the area of Wisconsin Avenue and M Street.

  Jill sounded puzzled. “What’s the problem ahead? An accident?”

  Affected by the intensity of what they’d been discussing, Pittman was grateful to change the subject. “No, it’s always this crowded. Wisconsin Avenue and M Street are where the action is in Georgetown—bars, restaurants, nightclubs, shops selling everything you can imagine as long as it’s expensive.”

  “Denning lives around here?”

  “Not at all. He couldn’t possibly afford it. He lives on his college pension, which isn’t very much. No, when I finally got in touch with him on the phone, I told him I was a journalist doing a story on Anthony Lloyd’s death. I told him so many diplomats and politicians were canonizing Lloyd that I thought a dissenting opinion would give my story depth. I asked him if I could take him to dinner. He was more than happy to accept. He said he planned to go to a memorial service for Anthony Lloyd”—Pittman hesitated—“and then sit down to eat a big meal with me to celebrate.”

  10

  The restaurant, Il Trovatore, was spacious and soothingly lit, the tables far enough apart that politicians and personalities could discuss delicate topics without being easily overheard. As Pittman walked in with Jill, he glanced to the right toward the bar and recognized a well-known senator. A network news anchorman was eating dinner with an important-looking man at a table to the left. From somewhere, a piano was playing soft jazz. The clink of silverware against plates and the murmur of voices blended with the subtle level of the music, cloaking individual conversations.

  “Yes, sir?” The maître d’ had pinched nostrils, wore a white dinner jacket, and looked disapprovingly at Jill’s sweater, jeans, and sneakers.

  “We have a reservation in Bradford Denning’s name.” Pittman had phoned to make the reservation during one of their stops along the interstate en route to Washington.

  The maître d’ glanced at a list of names. “Yes, Mr. Denning has already arrived. He’s been seated at the table.”

  “Good.”

  But the maître d’ continued to look with disapproval at Jill’s clothing.

  “If there’s a problem with the restaurant’s dress code…” Pittman discreetly handed the maître d’ twenty dollars from their diminishing supply of cash.

  “No problem at all, sir. Come this way.”

  The maître d’ led them toward the back of the restaurant, where a short, thin, elderly but intense man was seated alone in a booth. The man had sparse white hair that contrasted with the fierce brown of his eyes and the red of his cheeks. He wore a gray suit that was somewhat out of date. He was drinking whiskey on ice. A second lowball glass, empty, had been placed to the side.

  “Here you are, sir,” the maître d’ told Pittman.

  “Thank you.”

  “Enjoy.”

  Pittman turned to the man in the booth. “Bradford Denning?”

  “Lester King?”

  “That’s right.” Because the police now knew that Pittman was using the pseudonym Peter Logan, he had decided that the change was necessary. He was nervously aware that he risked being recognized by Denning, but he had to take the chance. He and Denning had met only once before, seven years ago, and Denning had been so drunk that Pittman didn’t think it likely he would remember that long-ago evening. “This is my assistant, Jennifer.”

  “A pleasure.” Keeping a careful grip on his whiskey glass, Denning half got out of his seat in a polite gesture of greeting.

  “Please, there’s no need to be formal.” Jill sat next to him.

  Pittman took the seat across from him. “It’s kind of you to agree to join us.”

  “Kind?” Denning found the comment amusing. “I haven’t been able to afford to eat in a place like this since… too long.”

  “I’m glad you approve of my choice.”

  “It reminds me of another Italian restaurant that used to be up the street. What was it called?” Denning sipped from his whiskey and shook his head. “Can’t remember. This was back in the fifties. Elegant. Used to eat there all the time. Everybody who mattered did.” He finished the whiskey. “Of course, it’s out of business now. They come, and they go.” He squinted. “Like people…. By the way, I hope you don’t mind.” He gestured toward the empty glasses. “I got here a little early and started ahead of you.”

  “Why would I mind? You’re our guest. As I said, I’m grateful that you could join us.”

  “It’s not every day that someone pays for me to celebrate the death of an enemy.” Denning motioned for a waiter to come over. “Two enemies. I’m still not finished celebrating Millgate’s death.” He nodded to the waiter. “Bring two more of these. Jack Daniel’s. Not so much ice this time.”

  “Certainly, sir. And for your friends?”

  “Heineken,” Pittman said.

  “Your house Chardonnay,” Jill said.

  “May I tell you about our specials so you can think about them while you’re enjoying your cocktails?”

  “Later,” Denning said. “There’ll be plenty of time for that. We’re not hungry yet.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  As the waiter left, Pittman wondered if Denning’s haughty take-charge manner typified his diplomatic style when he was in the State Department. If so, gossip spread by the grand counselors might not have been the only reason he was forced to resign.

  “Two down,” Denning said. “Three to go. I intend to drink a cocktail for every one of those sons of bitches. A liquid prayer that the other three’ll be dead soon, too.”

  Pittman noticed that Denning’s voice had a subtle slur. “Your attitude toward the grand counselors is well known. Obviously you still haven’t stopped hating them.”

  “Never.”

  “Do you mind if we talk before we eat?”

  “About them?” Denning’s emphasis implied numerous obscenities. “That’s why I came here. You wanted something compromising to offset the righteous bullshit people are saying about Millgate and Lloyd. I’ll give it to you. I’ll give you plenty.”

  Pittman took out a pen and a notepad, maintaining the pretense that he was writing a newspaper story. “What’s the worst thing you can say about them?”

  “They burned my house.”

  “Excuse me?” Pittman had expected more of the unsubstantiated charges that he
had heard from Denning seven years earlier. But this was a new accusation.

  Denning frowned at him. “You look familiar. Have we met before?”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” Pittman said, tensing.

  “You remind me of…”

  “Washington can be a small town. Maybe we ran into each other at a diplomatic reception or—”

  “I haven’t been invited to a diplomatic reception in thirty-five years,” Denning said bitterly.

  “They burned your house.”

  “I was writing an exposé about them. They must have found out. They set fire to my house and destroyed my research.”

  “But can you prove that?” Jill asked.

  “Of course not. They’re too clever to leave evidence.”

  “Then can you tell us what you were going to expose?”

  “They murdered hundreds of thousands of people.”

  This is as bad as the last time, Pittman thought. He’s going to rant and rave, and I won’t learn anything.

  “Hundreds of thousands?”

  Denning scowled at Pittman again. “Are you certain we haven’t met before?”

  “Yes.” Pittman tried to assure himself that he didn’t look the same as when he had first met Denning. He strained to hope that Denning wouldn’t make the connection.

  Denning brightened as the waiter set down their drinks. “Cheers.”

  The three of them raised their glasses.

  “To that bastard Eustace Gable and the rest of them.” Denning took a deep swallow of Jack Daniel’s.

  He must have been drinking this hard for many years, Pittman thought. Otherwise, as old as he is, he wouldn’t have a tolerance for this much alcohol. “You said they murdered hundreds of thousands of people.”

  “In Korea. In Vietnam. To make themselves important. They never cared about those countries. They never cared about rebuilding Europe after the war. The Marshall Plan and all that. They cared about themselves. McCarthy.”

  He’s rambling, Pittman thought in despair. Damn it, we came all this way for nothing. Pittman’s side ached from when he’d injured it escaping from Grollier Academy. His legs, back, and neck ached from having spent nearly twenty-four hours in the car. He was tired and desperate, and he wanted to lean across the table, grab Denning’s suit coat, and shake him until he made sense.

  “What about McCarthy?” Jill asked. “You mean back in the early fifties? Joe McCarthy? The anti-Communist witch-hunter?”

  “That’s how the bastards got me out of the State Department. They convinced everybody I was red.”

  “Were you?”

  Denning laughed to himself. “Yes.”

  “What?”

  “Not card-carrying. A sympathizer.”

  Pittman tried not to show his surprise. Seven years earlier, Denning hadn’t given so much as a hint that the grand counselors might have been correct.

  “If I’d stayed on track, if the grand counselors hadn’t gotten rid of me, if I’d managed to become secretary of state… it was too late to do anything about Korea, but maybe I could have stopped Vietnam. Hey, so what if I thought the Soviets had points in their favor? Did that make me a criminal? I wasn’t going to sell out our country. But I could have done my damnedest to make sure we didn’t nearly destroy ourselves because of Vietnam.”

  Pittman listened more intensely. “I had an older brother who died in Vietnam.”

  “Then you know what I’m talking about.”

  “Spell it out,” Pittman said.

  “The grand counselors based their careers on taking a hard line against communism. After the Second World War, they helped formulate the Marshall Plan to rebuild Europe… but exclude the Soviets. And they helped formulate the Truman Doctrine—that America had an obligation to defend the world… against the Soviets, of course. I fought them on their anti-Soviet bias, but I lost. That’s when they began thinking of me as an enemy. In 1950, it was partly because of their urging that we sent troops into South Korea to stop the North Korean invasion… to stop the spread of communism. What was eventually called the domino theory. Never believed in it. I didn’t think we had any business being over there, and history proves I was right. We didn’t make a difference. So I fought them about going into Korea, and I lost. Then I fought them about several other issues to do with the Soviets. I didn’t believe it was wise to bully the Soviets with our atomic weapons capability, for example. I was sure it would lead to a deadly arms race. I was right on that score as well, but Millgate and the others prevailed. By 1952, they’d made everybody believe I was soft on communism. I was out. The heightening of the Cold War during the fifties—they had plenty to do with that. The Vietnam War—they had even more to do with that. Because of them, hundreds of thousands died. And all the while, they were in deep with the arms manufacturers. They let their bank accounts determine foreign policy.”

  The accusation about kickbacks was the same one that Denning had made seven years earlier. It was what Pittman had been investigating back then, the reason he had gone to Denning in the first place. But Denning hadn’t been able to provide substantiation for the charges. Perhaps he could now.

  “I’m sure you already know this,” Pittman said. “A little less than a week ago, the night Jonathan Millgate was taken from the hospital, someone leaked a secret Justice Department report that Millgate was suspected of being involved in buying nuclear weapons from the former Soviet Union.”

  “Another illegal arms deal.” Denning smiled bitterly. “You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”

  “Do you have anything that would prove your accusations?”

  “Not after the fire.”

  Pittman shook his head in frustration. Unable to think of another way, he decided to go directly to the primary question that he’d come here to ask, but the waiter’s sudden reappearance at their booth made him stop.

  “Are you ready to hear about our specials for tonight?” the waiter asked.

  “Didn’t I tell you to wait awhile?” Denning complained. “We’re not hungry yet.”

  “Very good, sir,” the waiter said dourly, and left.

  Pittman noticed that Denning raised his cocktail glass, then seemed to make a decision and set it down without drinking.

  “Let’s talk about another matter,” Pittman said. “Have you ever heard of someone named Duncan Kline?”

  Denning studied him, his elderly face developing lines of strain. “Who?”

  “Duncan Kline.”

  “Are you sure we haven’t met before?” Denning asked unexpectedly.

  Pittman tried not to look worried. “Quite sure.”

  “Then maybe it’s something in the news. Talking about Millgate, Lloyd, and the others makes me associate you with…”

  Damn it, Pittman thought. I was wrong. He doesn’t remember me from seven years ago. I don’t have to worry about that. No, what I have to worry about is something worse. When Millgate died, Denning would have devoured every speck of news on the subject. Needing to gloat, he would have read and reread every story. He’s seen my photograph dozens of times. But because I’m using a different name and I look different than I looked seven years ago, he hasn’t realized who I am.

  But I’m afraid he will. And what’ll happen when he does?

  “I don’t know how to explain it,” Pittman said.

  “Duncan Kline.” Jill interrupted, obviously wanting to distract Denning and get the conversation back where they wanted.

  Denning gave Pittman one more puzzled look, then turned to Jill, frowning in concentration. “I can’t say the name is familiar. Perhaps if I had a context.”

  “He was a teacher at Grollier Academy. That’s the prep school the grand counselors attended. He was their main instructor.”

  “Ah,” Denning said.

  “Then the name is familiar?”

  “No, but… Odd.”

  “What?”

  “As I get older, events from thirty and forty years ago can be vivid, and yet I have t
rouble remembering things that happened last month.”

  “Forty years ago?”

  “Nineteen fifty-two. The summer. July. I remember so well because that was the turning point in my life. The Republicans had their convention that month. Eisenhower was nominated to run for President. In fact, he won the nomination on the first ballot. Eisenhower and Nixon. Given the national mood, it was obvious to me that Eisenhower would defeat Stevenson in the upcoming election. Evidently it was even more obvious to Millgate and the others. Immediately after the convention, they intensified their efforts to ingratiate themselves with those Republicans who mattered. It’s a measure of their ability to manipulate that they succeeded, convincingly crossing the line from Democrat to Republican.”

  Pittman noticed that Denning’s cheeks had become more flushed with agitation, that a film of glistening sweat had formed on his upper lip.

  Denning picked up a glass, not his whiskey glass, but instead, one filled with water. He sipped quickly and continued. “July of 1952 was also the month in which they brought their campaign against me to its peak. I was so thoroughly branded as a Communist sympathizer that I became ineffectual as a diplomat.” Denning squinted at Pittman. “In self-defense, I spent most of my time keeping myself informed about everything Millgate and the others did. I had to be on the alert against their next offensive. And that’s when I noticed that something had made them slightly panicky. A man had arrived at the State Department near the end of July. I never saw him, but I was given a description of him. A man with a deeply tanned face and a solid frame, big shoulders, an athletic appearance, but a man who had gray hair and seemed to be in his sixties. My informant told me that for all the signs that the man was physical and preferred the outdoors, he had a refined, almost effete manner, a patrician pseudo-British accent. He asked to see Jonathan Millgate. Well, of course you don’t just walk into the State Department and expect to be allowed to see one of the deputy secretaries without an appointment. The visitor gave his name and Millgate’s assistant put it at the bottom of a long list. In frustration, the visitor then asked to see Anthony Lloyd. Same reaction. With greater frustration, the visitor asked to see Eustace Gable. Winston Sloane. Victor Standish.”