Desperate Measures

recognized. A gaunt-cheeked elderly man sitting nervously on a sofa had a neatly trimmed white mustache, wore a dark three-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 Mr. 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 for 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 him and came over with a handheld metal detector, tracing its wand along the contours of Pittman’s 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 Pittman’s 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, Mr. 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.”

“A 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 blame 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. He 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 hiding 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 bloodbath 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?”

“The 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 talking 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 hell was he going to do with them once he owned