Desperate Measures

Matthew Pittman, 38, West 12th St., died Wednesday evening from a self-inflicted gunshot wound.

A memorial service will begin at noon on Saturday at Donovan’s Tavern, West 10th St. In lieu of flowers, memorial donations may be made to the children’s cancer fund at Sloan-Kettering in the name of Jeremy Pittman.

“It was all I could think of.”

“Brevity’s a virtue.” Burt tapped the sheet of paper. “But so is thoroughness. You didn’t mention that you worked for the Chronicle.”

“I didn’t want to embarrass the newspaper.”

“And you didn’t mention that you were survived by your ex-wife, Ellen.”

Pittman shrugged.

“You didn’t want to embarrass her, either?” Burt asked.

Pittman shrugged again. “I got writer’s block when it came to calling Ellen by her new last name. I finally decided to hell with it.”

“I wish you could ignore your other problems as conveniently. Eight more days, Matt. You promised me eight more days.”

“That’s right.”

“You owe me,” Burt said.

“I know,” Pittman said with force. “I haven’t forgotten what you did for-” To interrupt the confrontation, he glanced at his watch. “It’s almost noon. I’ll get started on Millgate’s obituary after lunch.”

8

The tavern had three things to recommend it: It was out of the way, it didn’t do much business, and the little business it did wasn’t from staff members of the Chronicle. Pittman could drink in peace, knowing that he wouldn’t be interrupted-not in this place. Its only reason for existing was for the coming and going of numbers runners. When Pittman had come in and asked for a drink, the bartender had looked shocked to be having a legitimate customer.

Pittman nursed two Jack Daniel’s on the rocks while he did his newspaper’s crossword puzzle. Anything to occupy his mind. Burt had been trying to do that, as well: to distract him. And Burt’s tactic had been effective. Because the crossword puzzle wasn’t effective. The only words that kept coming into Pittman’s mind were Jonathan Mitigate.

Pittman had once worked on a story about Millgate, back when he had been at the national affairs desk. Before Jeremy’s death. Before… Seven years ago, Jonathan Millgate had been rumored to be involved as a middleman in a covert White House operation whereby munitions were illegally supplied to right-wing governments in South America in exchange for the cooperation of those governments in fighting the war against drugs. It was further rumored that Millgate had received substantial fees from those South American governments and certain weapons manufacturers in exchange for acting as a go-between in the secret exchange.

But Pittman had found it impossible to substantiate those rumors. For a man who had once been so much in the public eye, Millgate had become a remarkably private, guarded person. The last interview he’d given had been in 1968 after the Tet offensive against American forces in Vietnam. Millgate had spoken to a senior reporter for the Washington Post, expressing strong sympathy with the Nixon administration’s policy of sending considerably more U.S. soldiers to Vietnam. Because Millgate was respected so much, his statement was interpreted to represent the opinion of other conservative political theorists, especially Millgate’s fellow grand counselors. Indeed, the implication was that Millgate was endorsing a policy that he and the other four grand counselors had themselves formulated and privately urged the Nixon White House to adopt: heightening America’s involvement in the Vietnam War.

By the time Pittman became interested in Millgate because of the possible munitions scandal, Millgate’s effect on presidential attitudes was so discreet and yet powerful that his reputation for diplomacy had achieved mythic status. But no government source could or would say anything about him. As a consequence, Pittman (full of energy, motivated, in his prime) had gone to Burt Forsyth and requested permission to investigate Millgate’s legend.

Pittman’s telephone log eventually recorded one hundred attempts to call Millgate’s business and government associates. Each executive had declined to be interviewed. Pittman had also contacted Millgate’s law office in an attempt to make an appointment to interview him. Pittman was put on hold. He was switched from secretary to secretary. He was told to call numbers that were no longer in service. Pittman had phoned the Justice Department, hoping that the team investigating Millgate would give Pittman an idea of how they stayed in contact with him. He was told that the Justice Department had no need to remain in contact with Millgate, that the rumors about his receiving kickbacks because of his alleged involvement in a munitions scandal had been proven to lack substance, and that the investigation had been concluded in its early stages.

“Can you tell me which attorney represented him in your initial discussions?”

After a long pause, the man had answered, “No. I can not.”

“I didn’t get your name when you picked up the phone. Who am I speaking to, please?”

The connection had been broken.

Pittman had gone to a computer hacker, about whom Pittman had written what the hacker considered to be a fair story about the hacker’s motives for accessing top secret Defense Department computer files. “I wanted to show how easy it was, how unprotected those files were,” the hacker had insisted. But despite his pleas that he’d been motivated by loyalty to his government, the hacker had gone to prison for three years. Recently released, bitter about how the government had treated him, delighted to see his defender again, the hacker had agreed to Pittman’s request and, with greater delight, had used a modem to access telephone company computer files in Massachusetts.

“Unlisted number? No problem. As a matter of fact, check this-your dude’s got four of them.”

Pittman had looked at the glowing computer screen and begun to write down the numbers.

“Forget the pen-and-paper routine. I’ll print out the dude’s whole file.”

That was how Pittman had learned not only Millgate’s private numbers but the addresses for his Boston mansion and his Martha’s Vineyard estate, as well. Determined, he had phoned each of Millgate’s private numbers. Each person on the other end had treated Pittman with deference until with shock they realized what he wanted.

“I demand to know how you learned this number.”

“If you’d just let me speak to Mr. Millgate.”

“What newspaper did you say you worked for?”

Fifteen minutes after Pittman’s final attempt, he’d been summoned to Burt Forsyth’s office.

“You’re off the Millgate story.”

“This is a joke, right?”

“I wish it was. I just got a call from the Chronicle’s publisher, who just got a call from somebody who must have a hell of a lot of influence. I’m under strict orders to give you strict orders to work on something else.”

“And you’re actually going to give me those orders?”

Burt had squinted at the smoke he blew from his cigarette-in those days, smoking in the building had not been forbidden. “You’ve got to know when to be rigid and when to bend, and this is a time to bend. It’s not as if you had anything solid. Admit it, you were on a fishing expedition, hoping you’d find a story. To tell the truth, you were taking more time than I’d expected. And there’s something else to be considered. It’s been suggested that you broke the law in the way you obtained Millgate’s telephone numbers. Did you?”

Pittman hadn’t answered.

“Work on this story instead.”

Pittman had been angry at Burt for several days, but the object of his anger had shifted when there turned