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 breath less. 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?"
"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."
1 0
The restaurant, Tr'ovatore, 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 Maitre d' had pinched nostrils, wore a white dinner
jacket, and looked disapprovingly at jills 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
enroute to Washington.
The matre d' glanced at a list of names. "Yes, Mr. Denning has
arrived. He's been seated at the table."
"Good. "
But the Maitre d' continued to look with disapproval at Jill's clothing.
"If there's a problem with the restaurant's dress code di tly handed the
meitre d' twenty dollars from diminishing supply of cash. "No problem
at all, sir. Come this way."
The matre 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 mitre 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 cele
brate 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
theree'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, making 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 expos6 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 from 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 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 l
ittle 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 reappear8nce 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?"
Desperate Measures Page 30