Desperate Measures (24 page)

“Then imagine the influence the grand counselors have,” Pittman said. “Advisers to Presidents from Truman on. Ambassadors,
members of the cabinet. At one time or another, three of them were secretary of state. Two of them were secretary of defense.
Several were chiefs of staff and national security advisers, not to mention ambassador to the United Nations, NATO, Great
Britain, the USSR, Saudi Arabia, West Germany, et cetera. Never elected. Always appointed. With influence since the Second
World War. A government within the government. When their power wasn’t officially granted to them by the White House—during
the Kennedy and Carter years, for example—they still managed to maintain their influence indirectly by creating foreign policy
as members of think tanks like the Council on Foreign Relations, the Rand Corporation, and the Rockefeller Foundation. Three
of the grand counselors went to Harvard. Two went to Yale. And at least three of them, maybe all of them, went to the same
prep school. But one of them felt so troubled by that prep school, he wanted to confess something about it on his deathbed,
and the others were prepared to do anything to stop him.”

At a scenic town called Bolton, they turned north off Route 89, following a narrow, winding road that took them through a
long valley filled with meadows alternating with sections of pine trees.

“If the librarian in Montpelier knew what she was talking about,” Jill said, “there ought to be a village up ahead.”

Pittman squinted through the windshield, wishing he had sunglasses. “There. Just above that break in the trees. See it?”

“A church steeple. Good. We’re right on schedule.”

The steeple was brilliant white, and as they entered the village, they saw that not only the church but every building in
town was the same radiant color. The village green seemed even more green by contrast. For a moment, even allowing for telephone
poles and other evidence of modern technology, Pittman had the sense that he’d been transported back in time, that he was
in a slower, more peaceful century,

Then the village was behind them, and as Jill drove next to a brisk stream filled with snowmelt, Pittman felt a sudden apprehension.
He opened his gym bag and took out the .45, which he’d reloaded with ammunition from the container he had stored in the bag.

Remembering a detail from a story he’d written about undercover police officers, he put the .45 behind his back, beneath his
belt, at the base of his spine. It felt uncomfortable, but that didn’t matter. He knew that his sport coat would conceal it
far better than if he carried it in his overcoat pocket, where it would form a drooping, conspicuous bulge. He would have
to get used to the feel of metal against his back.

Last Wednesday night, I had the barrel of that gun in my mouth, he thought, and now…

He opened Jill’s purse.

“Hey, what do you think you’re doing?”

“Seeing if this fits.”

He reached into the gym bag again and pulled out the other pistol, the one he had taken from the gunman in Jill’s apartment.
The gun was almost the same size as the Colt .45, but its caliber was smaller: a 9-mm Beretta.

“You don’t expect me to carry that,” Jill protested. “I don’t even know how to use it.”

“Nor did I until a couple of days ago. Learn as you need to—that’s my motto.”

Jill’s purse was a shoulder bag, made of leather.

“Fits perfectly,” Pittman said.

“I’m telling you I’m not going to—”

“The first thing you need to know about this gun,” Pittman said, “is that the ammunition is stored in this spring-loaded device—it’s
called a magazine—that’s inserted into the bottom of the grip.”

“Are you serious?” Jill squinted as the Duster emerged from a covered bridge into dazzling sunlight. “Have you any idea how
many people in critical condition because of gunshot wounds I’ve had to try to keep alive in intensive care? I don’t want
to know anything about that gun. I don’t want it in my purse. I don’t want to have anything to do with it.”

Pittman studied her, then peered ahead. “The first turn on the right past the bridge.”

“I
know
. It’s on the sheet of directions the librarian gave us. I
remember
what she said.”

“I was just trying to be helpful.”

“Look, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be snappy. It’s just… You scared me with that business about the gun.” Jill’s voice was
unsteady. “For a while there, when we were on the train, I was able to forget how serious this is. I wish I wasn’t doing this.”

“Then turn around,” Pittman said.

“What?”

“We’ll go back to Montpelier and put you on the train back to New York. I’ll go out to the academy on my own.”

“Put me on the… ? What good would that do? Nothing’s changed. Those men are still after me. I can’t go back to my apartment.
You’ve convinced me that the police wouldn’t be able to protect me forever. I certainly can’t depend on my parents to get
me through this. They’re probably being watched. As for my friends, I don’t want to put them in danger. Being with you is
the safest place I can think of, and that’s not saying much, but it’s all I’ve got.”

“I’ve already fed a round into the firing chamber. To shoot this gun, you don’t need to cock it. All you have to do is pull
the trigger. There’s the gate.” Pittman pointed toward a large elegant sign that read:
GROLLIER ACADEMY.

“I love its motto,” Pittman said.

TO LEAD IS TO SERVE.

They veered from the road, following a paved lane up a treed incline. A white wooden fence had an open gate. They passed a
small building that reminded Pittman of a sentry box at the entrance to a military base, but no one was there, and Pittman
assumed that the building was for deliveries.

At the top of the incline, the view was spectacular enough to make Jill stop driving. On each side, fir trees stretched along
a ridge, rising toward mountains. But directly ahead and below, the trees had been cleared, replaced by an impressive expanse
of grassland. In the valley, there were stables, horses in a pasture, an equestrian ring, and a polo field. Adjacent were
several football fields. In the distance, an oval-shaped lake glinted with the reflection of sunlight, and Pittman remembered
the importance that Professor Folsom had said the school placed on team rowing.

But Pittman’s attention was mostly directed toward the buildings in the center of the valley: a traditional white-steepled
church, an imposing pillared building that was probably the school’s administration center, fifteen other structures made
of brick, covered with ivy.

“Dormitories and classroom buildings,” Pittman said. “Solid, efficient, functional. What the Establishment considers roughing
it.”

Jill looked puzzled. “You really have a problem about privileged society.”

“To rephrase Will Rogers, I never met a rich person I liked.”

“
I’m
rich.”

“But you don’t
act
rich…. I had an older brother,” Pittman said.

Jill looked as if she didn’t understand the jump in topics.

“His name was Bobby. He taught me how to ride a bicycle, how to throw a baseball. When I came home with a black eye from a
fight in the school yard, he showed me how to box. There wasn’t anything Bobby couldn’t do. He was my idol. God, how I loved
him.”

“You keep using the past tense.”

“He died in Vietnam.”

“Oh…. I’m sorry.”

“He didn’t want to go,” Pittman said. “He didn’t believe the war was right. But my parents didn’t have any money, and Bobby
didn’t have the means to go to college and he couldn’t get a draft deferment. I remember him cursing about how all the rich
kids got deferments but he couldn’t. All of his letters mentioned the same thing—how everybody in his unit was part of the
Dis
establishment. Of course, Bobby used cruder terms. He kept writing about a premonition he had, about how he was sure he wouldn’t
be coming back. Well, he was right. Friendly fire killed him. I used to go to the cemetery every day to visit him. I remember
thinking how easy it was for rich people to start wars when their children wouldn’t have to fight. Later, after I saved enough
money from working on construction to go to college, I realized something else—those rich people got richer because of the
wars they started. That’s why I became a journalist. To go after those bastards. To get even for my brother.”

“I’m sorry,” Jill repeated.

“So am I.” Pittman stared down at his bandaged hand. “I apologize. I didn’t mean for all that to come out.”

Jill touched his arm.

The buildings were situated along a square that reminded Pittman of a parade ground. Pavement flanked each side of the square,
and Jill almost parked there, until she saw a lot next to what appeared to be the administration building. Fifteen other cars
were already parked there.

Pittman got out of the Duster, conscious of the .45 under his sport coat. It dismally occurred to him that one mark of how
far he had come since his suicide attempt Wednesday night was that he thought of being armed as ordinary.

Jill locked the car and came around to join him. Her sneakers, jeans, and sweater were in a small suitcase in the backseat.
The brown pumps, sand-colored A-line skirt, forest green jacket, and yellow blouse that she’d bought in Montpelier fit her
perfectly. Pittman still wasn’t used to seeing her in clothes that weren’t casual and loose. The lines of her legs were as
elegant as those of her throat.

“Ready?”

Jill inhaled nervously and nodded, securing the strap of her purse to her shoulder. “It’s heavy.”

“Just try to forget a weapon’s in there.”

“Easy advice from you. I still don’t see why it couldn’t stay in the car.”

“Because things keep turning out differently from the way I expected.”

They walked from the parking lot and watched as the square, which had been deserted except for a few groundskeepers, suddenly
filled with hurrying students a few seconds after a bell rang in several of the buildings.

Wearing uniforms of gray slacks, navy blazers, and white shirts with red striped ties, the boys moved with brisk determination
from what seemed to be classroom buildings, crossing toward a larger building opposite the church.

“Fire drill?”

Jill glanced at her watch. “Noon. Lunchtime.”

A boy of about fifteen stopped before them. Like the others, he had brightly polished black shoes and neatly cut short hair.
His gaze was direct, his voice confident, his posture straight. “May I help you, sir?”

“We were wondering where the school library is,” Pittman said.

The boy pointed to Pittman’s left. “In building four, sir. Would you like to see Mr. Bennett?”

“Mr. Bennett?”

“The academy’s director.”

“No. There isn’t any need to bother him. Thank you for your help.”

“You’re welcome, sir.” The boy turned and continued quickly toward the building the other students were entering on the opposite
side of the square. Although they hurried, they managed to look like gentlemen.

“He’ll be a credit to Washington insiders,” Pittman said.

He and Jill walked in the direction the young man had indicated, reached a brick building with the number 4 above its entrance,
and left the noon’s intense sunlight, entering a cool, well-lit stairwell that smelled sweetly of wax. Steps led down and
up.

The building was eerily silent.

“I doubt very much that a library would be in the basement,” Jill said. “Too much danger of moisture getting into the books.”

Nodding in agreement, his footsteps echoing, Pittman went up to the first floor. A hallway had several doors on each side.
Many of the doors were open. In one, study desks were equipped with computers. In another, the desks had tape players and
earphones, probably for language study.

As Pittman approached a third door, an elderly man came out, holding a key, about to close the door. He wore the same uniform
that the students had been wearing. Short and somewhat heavy, he looked to be about sixty, with a salt-and-pepper mustache
and receding gray hair.

He peered over his glasses toward Pittman and Jill. “I was just going to lunch. May I help you?”

“We were told that the library is in this building.”

“That’s correct.” The man cleared his throat.

“Is that where you keep old yearbooks, things like that?” Pittman asked.

“They would be in our archival section.” The man squinted. “I don’t believe I’ve met you before. Why exactly would you need
to know?”

“My name is Peter Logan. I’m a freelance journalist, and I’ve decided to write the book I always promised myself I would.”

“Book?”

“About Grollier Academy. A great many distinguished public servants have graduated from this school.”

“You could say that we’ve had more than our share. But I strongly suspect that they wouldn’t want their privacy invaded.”

“That isn’t what I had in mind. Grollier Academy itself, that would be my emphasis. I thought it would be an example to other
schools if I wrote about the superior methods of this one. This country’s in a crisis. If our educational system isn’t changed…
I’m worried about our future. We need a model, and I can’t think of a better one than Grollier.”

The man scrunched his eyebrows together and nodded. “There is no better preparatory education in America. What sort of research
did you intend to do?”

“Well, for starters, Mr…. ?”

“Caradine. I’m chief librarian.”

“Naturally I’ll devote a considerable portion of the book to Grollier’s educational theory. But I’ll also need to supply a
historical perspective. When the academy was founded. By whom. How it grew. The famous students who passed through here. So,
for starters, I thought that a general immersion in your archives would be helpful. The yearbooks, for example. Their photographs
will show how the campus changed over the years. And I might discover that Grollier had many more famous graduates than I
was aware of. I want to skim the surface, so to speak, before I plunge into the depths.”