Desperate Measures (3 page)

“What Ellen wanted was to tell you she was sorry,” Burt said. “She wants you to call her.”

“Tell me about this obituary.”

“Give her a chance.”

“Our son died. Then our marriage died. There’s plenty to be sorry about. But I don’t want to talk about it. I’m through talking
about it. Nine—correction: Since I promised last night, if we count today, it’s
eight
more days, Burt. That’s all the time I’m willing to give you. Then we’re even. Tell me about the obituary.”

Assessing Pittman, Burt didn’t blink for quite a while. At once he shrugged, sighed, then picked up a folder on his desk.
“Jonathan Millgate.”

Pittman felt a spark speed along his nerves.

“That name ought to sound familiar from when you were working on the national affairs desk, before…” Self-conscious, Burt
let the sentence dangle.

“Before I cracked up, you mean? Or fell to pieces, or… What’s the euphemism these days?”

“Needed a rest.”

“I’m not so fuzzy-minded that I wouldn’t remember the name of one of the grand counselors.”

Burt raised his thick eyebrows.

From the forties, from the beginning of the Cold War onward, a group of five East Coast patricians had exerted a continuous
influence on American government policy by acting as major advisers to various Presidents. At first they had been cabinet
members and ambassadors, later private consultants, mostly to Republican Presidents, but not exclusively. During the Democratic
administration in the late seventies, Carter was supposed to have consulted with them about the Iran hostage situation. It
was rumored that on their advice he authorized the failed hostage-rescue attempt and in effect opened the way for Ronald Reagan
to get into the White House. Eventually, as they aged, they acquired the status of legends and became known as the grand counselors.

“Jonathan Millgate would be about eighty now,” Pittman said. “Mother a society maven in Boston. Father a billionaire from
investments in railroads and communications systems. Millgate graduated at the top of his class, with a law degree from Yale.
Nineteen thirty-eight. Specialty: international law, which came in handy during the Second World War. Went to work for the
State Department. Moved upward rapidly. Named ambassador to the USSR. Named ambassador to the United Nations. Named secretary
of state. Named national security adviser. Tight with Truman. Jumped parties to become a Republican and made himself indispensable
to Eisenhower. Not close to Kennedy. But despite the party differences, Johnson certainly relied on Millgate to help formulate
policy about Vietnam. When the Republicans came back into office, Nixon relied on him even more. Then Millgate suddenly dropped
out of public view. He retreated to his mansion in Massachusetts. Interestingly, despite his seclusion, he continued to have
as much influence as a high-level elected or appointed official.

“He had a heart attack this morning.”

Pittman waited.

“Here in town,” Burt said.

“But apparently not a fatal attack, because you said the subject of the obituary wasn’t dead yet.”

“Since the
Chronicle
’s dying anyhow, we can afford to experiment. I want the obit long, and I want it dense. With facts, with intelligence, with
style. A cross between the front page and the editorial page. That used to be your specialty.”

“You’re gambling he won’t last until a week from tomorrow, that
he’ll
die before the
Chronicle
does.”

“What I’m really gambling,” Burt said, “is that you’ll find the assignment interesting enough to make you want to do others
like it, that you’ll get committed to something besides grief, that you and the
Chronicle
won’t die together.”

“Gambling’s for suckers.”

“And working on obituaries too long can make a person morbid.”

“Right,” Pittman said dryly. “It’s not like reporting on national affairs can make you morbid.” He turned to leave.

“Wait, Matt. There’s one other thing.”

Pittman glanced back and saw the envelope Burt was holding. His chest felt cold.

“The guy who subbed for you yesterday found this in your desk drawer.” Burt opened the envelope. “It’s addressed to me, so
he figured he’d better deliver it.” Burt set a sheet of paper on the desk. “I guess I got it earlier than you wanted. Pretty
impersonal, don’t you think, given all we’ve been through?”

Pittman didn’t need to read the typed note to know what it said.

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.”

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 out to be a certain
synchronicity between the police-brutality assignment Pittman was given and what happened next. On his free time over the
weekend, Pittman had gone to Boston, intending to stake out Millgate’s mansion in the hope that he would see Millgate leave.
Pittman’s plan was to follow Millgate’s limousine until he could find a place that allowed him to approach Millgate with questions.
One minute after Pittman parked on the mansion’s tree-lined street, a police car stopped behind him. One hour later, he was
being questioned as a burglary suspect at police headquarters. Two hours later, he was in a holding cell, where two prisoners
picked a fight with him and beat him so badly that he needed a thousand dollars’ worth of dental work.

Visiting Pittman in the hospital, Burt had shaken his head. “Stubborn.”

The wires that secured Pittman’s broken jaw had prevented him from answering.

Pittman finished his second Jack Daniel’s and glanced across the almost-deserted tavern toward the bartender, who still seemed
startled that he’d actually had a legitimate customer. A man carrying a bulging paper bag came in, looked around the shadowy
interior, raised his eyebrows at the sight of Pittman, got a shrug and a nod from the bartender, and proceeded toward a room
in the back.

Pittman considered ordering another bourbon, then glanced at his watch and saw that it was almost 1:30 in the afternoon. He’d
been sitting there brooding for longer than he’d realized. He hadn’t thought about Millgate in quite a while—years—since well
before Jeremy had become ill. Pittman’s jaw had healed. He’d pursued other assignments. Millgate had managed to make himself
invisible again. Out of sight, out of mind. The only reminder had been periodic twinges in Pittman’s jaw during especially
cold weather. Sometimes when he fingered the line where his jaw had been broken, he would recall how he had tried to investigate
the two prisoners who had beaten him. They’d been admitted to his cell a half hour after he’d been placed there. The charges
against them had been public drunkenness, but Pittman hadn’t smelled any alcohol on their breath when they had beaten him.
Subsequent to the beating, they had been mistakenly released from jail, a mix-up in paperwork. Their names had been common,
their addresses temporary, and Pittman had never been able to contact them or investigate their backgrounds to find out if
Millgate had been responsible for the beating.