Desperate Measures

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 trouble 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.”

“All the grand counselors,” Pittman said.

“The same reaction in each case. The visitor’s name was put at the end of a long list. At that, the visitor lost his patience, stopped asking to see them, and demanded to see them. For a moment, it appeared that a security officer would have to be summoned. But instead, Millgate heard the commotion, came out of his office, and… Well, according to my informant, Millgate turned pale. His usual domineering manner disintegrated. He immediately ushered the visitor into his office, told his assistant to cancel his next appointment, then sent for Anthony Lloyd and the rest of them. Most unusual. I have never forgotten the incident. It has puzzled me to this day. I’ve always suspected that if I had understood the subtext of the event, I would have had ammunition with which to defend myself.”

“Was the visitor’s name Duncan Kline?” Pittman asked.

“I remember some things so vividly and… Unfortunately my memory for names… The fire destroyed my records. I don’t recall.”

“Then why would you have told us about this?”

“Because I do recall managing to learn the visitor’s connection with Millgate and the others. He had been one of their teachers at their prep school.”

“Then it was Duncan Kline,” Jill said. “The big shoulders you mentioned. Kline was an expert rower. It’s the kind of build that a rower would-”

“Why is Duncan Kline so important to you?” Denning frowned and wiped sweat from his upper lip.

“Someone else I interviewed mentioned him,” Pittman said. “The implication is that there may have been a secret about Kline that would have threatened the grand counselors’ reputations if it were known.”

“What type of secret?” Denning’s gaze was disturbing.

“That’s what we’re trying to find out. We’re reasonably certain that as teenagers at Grollier Academy, all the grand counselors were sexually molested by Duncan Kline.”

Denning slammed a hand on the table. “If I’d known that, I might have been able to fight back, to defend myself against them.”

“In what way?” Jill asked. “How could being victims of a child molester have hurt their careers? Wouldn’t it have made people feel compassion?”

“In the fifties? Take my word, there wasn’t a lot of compassion going around during the McCarthy period. Guilt by association. But what if Millgate and the others weren’t victims? What if they consented? In the political climate of the fifties, they would have been dismissed from the State Department at once.” Denning breathed rapidly.

“Did you ever hear even a hint that…?”

“No. But there’s someone who-” Denning’s hands shook.

“Someone?” Pittman leaned forward. “I don’t understand. Who? What are you talking about?”

“Nothing. I meant, there must be someone who could prove it.” Denning spoke with effort.

“Are you feeling all right?” Jill asked.

“Fine. I’m fine.” Denning swallowed deeply from his glass of water.

“Perhaps you can help us with something else,” Pittman said. “Apparently, one of the last things Jonathan Millgate said was, ‘Duncan. The snow.’ Does the reference to snow make any sense to you?”

“None whatsoever. Even supposing that the incident was traumatic enough…” He paused for breath. “… traumatic enough for Millgate to refer to it when he was close to death…”

“Are you sure you feel all right, Mr. Denning?”

“The teacher who showed up at the State Department and startled Millgate… arrived in the summer, not the winter.… The snow. I have no idea what it means. I wish I did. Anything to punish them.”

The waiter reappeared at the booth. “For our specials tonight-”

“I don’t have an appetite.” Denning groped to stand. “I don’t feel well.”

Jill hurried to stand, allowing him to lurch from the booth.

“All this excitement. Millgate, then Lloyd. Too much excitement. Too many questions.”

“Do you need a doctor?” Pittman asked quickly.

“No.”

“Can we give you a ride home?”

“No.” Agitated, Denning wiped his face with a handkerchief. “I’m fine. I can manage by myself.” He stumbled past the waiter, almost bumped into another waiter carrying a tray of food, then veered past crowded tables.

Pittman and Jill tried to go after him, but a group being seated blocked their way for a moment. Past a woman in an evening dress, Pittman saw Denning reach the front lobby. Then the group was out of the way and Pittman and Jill hurried toward the front exit.

11

On the busy sidewalk outside the restaurant, amid the noise of traffic and the glare of headlights as well as streetlights, Pittman studied the pedestrians to his left, then those to the right, while Jill studied the opposite side of the street.

“What the hell was that about?” Pittman asked.

“I was hoping you’d know. He looked as if he might be ill, but…”

“Or maybe what he said was true-that the conversation overexcited him.”

“The thing is, what’s he going to do about it? Where was he going in such a rush?”

“Come on, let’s split up and see if we can find him.”