Desperate Measures

by David Morrell

  counselors in a makeshift hospital room off a deck above the five-stall

  garage. The effort had been easy, the sense of danger nonexistent,

  because Pittman hadn't cared what might happen to him. Prepared to kill

  himself, he had felt immune to any risks. Not anymore.

  At wide intervals, mansions were set back from the road.

  White wooden fences enclosed horses. Ahead on the left, Pittman saw a

  high stone wall. He came to a closed metal gate and stopped within view

  of a security camera mounted to the left on top of the wall. As

  instructed, he leaned out his driver's window SO that the camera could

  have a good look at him.

  Immediately the gate whirred open. Pittman drove duough, checking his

  rearview or, noting that the gate closed behind him while he followed a

  paved lane through spacious grassland. The lane went over a hill, and

  on the other side, snuggled into the slope, just below the crest on the

  right, was a distinctive, sprawling one-story complex that reminded

  Pittman of homes designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. The main impression

  was of limestone, terraces, and beams, and the way it conformed to the

  landscape, aided by plentiful trees and shrubbery, would make it

  invisible from the golf course below, Pittman guessed.

  From the moment that the gate had opened, allowing him onto the estate,

  Pittman had noted the absence of guards. TO anyone who nught be

  watching from the road, there was nothing out of the ordinary. To all

  appearances, pi was an unremarkable visitor who knew Eustace Gable well

  enough that the gate had been opened without delay. The closer Pittman

  came to the house, g a downward curve in the lane, proceeding to the

  right, passing fir trees, the more Pittman was struck by the lack of

  activity on the property. Given the size of the estate, he would have

  expected gardeners at least, maintenance personnel, someone to take care

  of the horses that came into view below him in a paddock next to a long,

  low stable rinnned by more fir trees and made from limestone, matching

  the house. But the place seemed deserted. There weren't any cars,

  which presumably had been placed in a garage on the opposite side of the

  house.

  Perhaps the lack of guards was intended to make him feel unthreatened,

  Pittman thought. To encourage him not to change his mind. To lure him

  into a trap. But if the purpose was to lull him, the opposite effect

  had been achieved. Instead of lowering his defenses, the eerie solitude

  intensified Pittman's apprehension, sending warning signals throughout

  his body, compacting his muscles.

  He reached a circular driveway in front of the house, stopped the car,

  and got out, surveying the apparently deserted area. He heard water

  trickling from somewhere, presumably a fountain. He heard a breeze

  whispering through the fir uses. A horse whinnied.

  A door opened, and Pittman, who had glanced toward the stable on the

  slope below him, whirled toward the house. An elderly man,

  narrow-faced, with white hair, spectacles, and wrinkle-pinched features,

  stepped from a polished wooden doorway onto a stone terrace. Tall and

  slender, he wore a dark blue three-piece suit that conformed to his

  rigidly straight posture. Pittman recognized him from photographs and

  the incident at the Scarsdale estate. Eu stace Gable. "Four P.m.

  precisely. I admire punctuality." Even at a distance, it was obvious

  that Gable's chest heaved. "We have much to discuss. Come in, Mr.

  Pittman."

  Pittman took one last look around and, seeing no threat, climbed steps

  to the terrace. He ft-owned when Gable offered his hand.

  "This won't do, Mr. Pittman. Rudeness is a poor way to begin a

  negotiation."

  "I'm not used to civility from people who want to have me killed."

  "The formalities matter," Gable said. "Even when negotiating with the

  most bitter enemy, it is essential to be respectful and courteous. "

  "Sure. Right. But it sounds like hypocrisy to me."

  Gable coughed, raising a handkerchief to his mouth. The ripple of pain

  thatcrossed his wrinkled features made Pittman realize how much effort

  it took for the old man to stand as straight as he did, to maintain the

  diplomatic bearing that had made him famous in his prime.

  Composing himself, Gable again held out his hand. "Ritual controls

  emotion. It encourages order. "

  "Is that what you told yourself when you arranged for Jonathan Millgate

  to be murdered?"

  Gable's expression hardened, his wrinkles becoming like cracks in the

  deep grain of weathered wood.

  "And Burt Forsyth?" Pittman said. "And Father Dandridge? I wouldn't

  call their murders controlling emotion and encouraging order. "

  Gable inhaled with effort. "Order dictates necessity. I'm still

  waiting."

  Pittman finally shook his hand with exaggerated indifference, but the

  slight gleam in Gable's wizened eyes told Pittman that the old man

  thought he had won an advantage. Gable gestured for Pittman to enter

  the house.

  Pittman's unease deepened. He almost turned away, wanting to get back

  to the car, to drive from the estate as fast as he could. But he told

  himself that if Gable meant to have him killed here, an expert marksman

  with a sniper's rifle could have done it easily when Pittman was in the

  open, climbing the steps to the terrace in front of the house.

  fbe plan, he thought. I have to go through with it. I can't keep

  running. I've used up nearly all my resources. This.

  might be the only chance I get.

  ,you know my temls," Pittman said.

  "Ah, but you haven't heard mine." Gable's thin lips formed a grimace

  that may have been a smile - " After you - "

  His veins swelling from increased pressure, Pittman entered the house.

  Hearing Gable shut the door behind him, Pittman noted that the inside

  had walls and beamed ceilings made from various tropical woods of

  varying colors, mahogany and teak among others. The lighting system was

  recessed but remarkably bfight- The temperature was unusually warm.

  Passing a thermostat in a stone-iloored corridor, Pittman saw that it

  was set at eighty degrees. Even on the coldest winter day, he would

  have considered that temperature excessive. But given that this was a

  mild day in late April, Pittman had to conclude that Gable was using the

  heat to combat his evident illness. Similarly, the bright lights

  suggested that Gable's vision 'night be fading. TO Pittman's fear and

  anger, the unexpected emotion Of Pity was added, and Pittman urgently

  subdued it, knowing that Gable would take every advantage he could. For

  all Pitunan knew, the bright lights and the excessive temperature were

  Part of a carefully designed stage setting that would allow Gable to

  manipulate him.

  Proceeding along the hallway, heading left, the direction that Gable

  indicated, Pittman listened to the old man's labored footsteps. An open

  door led to a spacious room with a wall length window that provided a

  view of the ponds and sand traps of the go]f course at the bottom of the

  slope.

  But Pitt
man's attention was primarily directed toward two men who waited

  for him. One of them he recognized. A gaunt-cheeked elderly man

  sitting nervously on a sofa had a neatly trimmed white mustache, wore a

  dark -piece suit almost identical to Gable's, and was recognizable from

  photographs, particularly because of a distinctive cleft in his chin

  that had deepened with age-. the other remaining grand counselor,

  Winston Sloane. The second man was in his thirties, six feet tall, well

  built, with strong features emphasized by his short haircut. His gray

  suit looked less carefully tailored than Gable's and Sloane's. Indeed,

  the jacket seemed slightly too large and had a bulge on the left side.

  As Pittman studied the man, who stood in the middle of the room, it

  occurred to him that he knew this man also, or at least had seen him

  before. Last night, the man had been with the group who had attacked

  Mrs. Page's house. Pittman turned to Gable. "I didn't know that we

  wouldn't be alone."

  "It doesn't do to negotiate unless all interested parties are in

  attendance. May I present my colleague-Winston

  Sloane." With effort, Sloane tried to stand. "No need," Pittman said.

  Gable pointed toward the second man. "And this is my assistant, Mr.

  Webley." Pittman nodded, giving no indication that he recognized the

  man.

  "I'm sure you won't mind if Nft. Webley performs a security check,"

  Gable continued.

  For a moment, Pittman wasn't sure what Gable was talking about. "You're

  saying you want this man to search me?"

  "We're here on good faith. There shouldn't be any need weapons.

  'Then why is your assistant armed?" Webley's eyes narrowed.

  "Because his duties require him to be armed. I do hope this isn't going

  to be a problem," Gable said.

  Pittman raised his arms.

  Webley reached for something on a chair behind hiirn and came over with

  a handheld metal detector, tracing its wand along the contours of

  Pittmans body.

  It beeped when it came to the base of Pittman's spine. Webley groped

  behind the sport coat and removed Pittman's .45.

  Gable made a tsking sound. "How can we negotiate on a basis of trust

  when you bring a weapon to our meeting?"

  "Force of habit. For the last week, I've gotten used to needing

  protection."

  "Perhaps after this afternoon, you won't need it anymore.

  "I certainly hope so."

  Webley continued to scan Pittmans body with the metal detector. It

  beeped several more times. "Keys and coins-. His belt buckle. A pen,"

  Webley told Gable.

  Examine the pen. Check him thoroughly. Be certain that he isn't

  wearing a microphone." Webley did so. "Nothing unusual.,*

  "Very well. Be seated, W. Pittman. Let's discuss your proposal."

  "Why?" Winston Sloane asked. "I don't see what purpose this so-called

  negotiation will serve. Our best course is to telephone the police and

  have this man arrested for murdering Jonathan. "

  6 4A week ago, I would have agreed with you," Gable said.

  In fact, I did agree. We all agreed." He cleared his throat and turned

  to Pittman. "As you must have concluded by now, our original intention

  was to blwne you for what we were forced to do to Jonathan. Your

  history of animosity toward Jonathan and your suicidal impulses made you

  an excellent candidate. No one would believe your denial, for which'you

  would have no proof. Not that we wanted you to have a chance to deny

  anything. We made arrangements to have you. killed before the police

  could take you into, custody. "

  "The man in my apartment," Pittman said.

  Gable nodded. "We bribed a policeman to let our own man take his place

  and wait there."

  Sloane's cheeks became alarmingly flushed. "You're telling him too

  much."

  "Not at all," Gable said. "If we're to accomplish anything, we have to

  be candid. Correct, Mr. Pittman?"

  "That's why I'm here. To be candid. To find a way Out of this."

  "Precisely.

  "What I don't understand," Pittman said, "is why YOU needed to blame

  anyone for Jonathan Millgate's death. He was old. He was sick. He was

  on oxygen. If you'd taken away his life-support system, let him die,

  and then hooked him up to the support system again, his death would have

  seemed natural. No one would have been the wiser."

  "That's what I wanted," Sloane insisted, his cheeks even redder.

  "And at the start, you were right," Gable said patiently. "Try to

  remember the sequence. As Jonathan's health dwindled, he became more

  afraid of dying. He'd been flirting with religion for the past several

  years. That priest, that damnable priest. I never understood

  Jonathan's attitude toward Father Dandridge. The priest hounded us

  during the Vietnam years.

  Ho organized demonstrations and called press conferences to criticize

  every policy we made about Vietnam. It was because of Father Dandridge

  that Jonathan left public life. The priest's interference made it

  impossible for Jonathan to function effectively in the government. And

  yet two decades later, Jonathan asked the priest to be his personal

  confessor. "

  "Father Dandridge felt that Jonathan Millgate needed a confessor who

  wouldn't be intimidated by him, a spiritual adviser who would stand up

  to him about ultimate matters," Pittman said.

  Gable's gaze turned cold. "Ultimate matters. I forgot that you spoke

  to the priest briefly."

  "I was there when you had him killed. "He shouldn't have gotten

  involved. He shouldn't have made trouble. "

  "He would never have revealed what he heard in confession, " Pittman

  said.

  "So you claim. But in my career, I have known diplomats who conveyed

  all sorts of confidential information to trusted associates, only to

  have that information repeated back to them by third parties. God only

  knows what Jonathan had already confessed to the priest, but I know for

  certain that what he intended to tell the priest on his deathbed would

  have been ruinous. I was visiting him in the hospital, and all he could

  do was keep telling me that he had to see Father Dandridge. He had to

  clear his conscience. He had to save his soul." Gable said the last

  word with contempt. "Then the Justice Department leaked its report that

  it was investigating rumors about a covert plan to buy nuclear weapons

  from the former USSR. Jonathan was implicated as having acted as an

  intermediary. "

  "Intermediary? Stop biding behind words. What you mean is, Millgate

  was functioning as an arms dealer," Pittman said with disgust. "The

  worst kind Of arms. What possible reason could justify-?" ,The safety

  of the world," Gable said indignantly. ,Yeah, right. That's the excuse

  you and your buddies always came up with. The safety of the world. It

  doesn't matter how self-serving the idea is, you always justify

  yourselves by saying it's good for everybody

  'Are you so naive as to think that the fall of communism, and the

  dissolution of the USSR mean the end of a threat from that region?"

  "Of course not," Pittman answered "The bloodba
th in Bosnia shows that

  any damned thing can happen Over there. After decades of being

  repressed, the provinces of the former USSR might all go in the opposite

  extreme. Soon they might all be out of control."

  "With access to nuclear weapons about which neither the former

  government nor the disbanding military is responsible. " Gable gestured

  for emphasis. "If a new government, a rogue government comes into

  power, there's a very real danger that those, nuclear weapons will be

  used to allow that new government to cOnsOlidate its Power- What's

  unscrupulous about trying to stop that from happening?"

  I "fbe way you put it, nothing. But I've been a reporter too long not

  to be able to read between the lines."

  "What are you WUng about?"

  "The Justice Department's accusation was specific: Jonathan Millgate was

  implicated in buying nuclear weapons. Not paying to have them destroyed

  in Russia, nothing Wrong about that, but buying them. What the bell was

  he going to do with them once he owned them? Bring them all the way to

  the United States to have them destroyed? Sounds a lot more expensive

  than it needs to be, not to mention dangerous, all those warheads being

  moved around. And who's paying for I these nuclear weapons, anyhow? The

  U.S. government? Not damned likely. It would be political suicide for

  anyone in the government to get involved in such an outrageous scheme.

  So you've got two problems: how to pay for the weapons and what to do