Desperate Measures (23 page)

The next obvious words-kill him-never came out. Abruptly Jill stopped talking as the waitress set down their orders: grapefruit, English muffins, and yogurt for Jill; hash browns, eggs, and bacon for Pittman.

"You'll never get back into shape if you keep eating that way," Jill said.

"At least I ordered whole-wheat toast. Besides, I've been using a lot of energy lately."

"Right. You're not in enough danger-you've got to order a death sentence for breakfast.

"Hey, I'm trying to eat."

Jill chuckled, then glanced around at the warm dark tone of the wood in the rustically decorated room. "I'll be right back. "

"What is it?"

"Somebody just left a newspaper. USA Today." She looked eager to read it, but once she returned to their table and studied the front page, she murmured, "Suddenly I'm not hungry anymore."

"Bad?'-'

As the waitress seated a man and a woman at the table next to them, Jill handed him the newspaper. "Some things are better left unsaid."

Pittman scanned the story, becoming more and more disheartened. The crazed obituary writer's murder spree continued, bold letters announced. Pittman was being blamed for killing Father Dandridge. He was also being charged for shooting a man who, with two associates, had supposedly been sent to Jill's apartment by Jonathan Millgate's son to pass on his thanks for the skillful attention she had given his father while in intensive care. In addition, Pittman was suspected of abducting Jill.

"It keeps getting worse," Pittman said. "Maybe I ought to just hang myself and be done with it."

"Don't say that, not even as a joke."

Pittman thought about it. "The thing is, it was a joke about suicide. I'm amazed . A couple of days ago, I wouldn't have been able to do that."

Jill looked at him harder. "Maybe some good will come out of this."

Pittman gestured toward the newspaper. "At the moment, it doesn't look that way. We'd better leave. We've got plenty to do."

"Find the library?"

"Right." Pittman stood. "There's a reference series most libraries have. The Dictionary of American Biography. it lists the background, including education, for almost every intellectually famous person in the United States. "It'll tell me if all the 'grand counselors went to Grollier. Then maybe the librarian will be able to help with something else."

"What's that?"

"How to find Grollier Academy."

,Four hundred dollars?" Jill shook her head, skeptical.

"I know. I'm not crazy about it, either, but I think this is the best deal we're going to get," Pittman said. "Every other used car on the lot costs more than the cash we have."

The car salesman, gangly, wearing a bow tie, watched with interest from the window of his Office as Pittman and jill'circled the gray 1975 Plymouth Duster. The two-door sedan had what was once considered to be a sleek outline, but the rust on the rear fenders and the cracks in the vinyl top were evidence of the hard use that the vehicle had received.

"Then let's forget about paying cash," Jill said. "I'll write him a check and get something decent."

"cant." Pittman recalled an interview he had once conducted with a private detective who was an expert in tracing fugitives. "An out-of-state check. The salesman will probably decide to call your bank to see if the check is good . The police will have put the bank on alert about reporting any attempt to get money from your account. My guess is that the grand counselors will have used their influence to get the same information. They would all know where to focus their search. It's the same reason we can't rent a car. To do that, we need to use your or my credit card. The moment either name is in the computer, we're blown. The grand counselors would immediately figure out why we're in Vermont. They'd have men waiting for us by the time we showed up at Grollier Academy. "

"Four hundred dollars." Jill bleakly surveyed the rusted automobile.

"I know. It's a fortune when the only money at our disposal is a thousand. But we don't have an option. At least we bargained the salesman down from four hundred and fifty. "

"But can we be certain the car won't break down when we drive it off the lot?"

"Well, the best thing I can tell you is, this car has a Chrysler slant-six engine. It's almost indestructible."

"I didn't realize you knew about auto mechanics." "I don't."

"Then how-?"

"I once did a story about used-car lots and ways to tell if the buyer was getting cheated."

"Remarkable. I'm beginning to realize you're the sum of all the interviews you conducted."

"Something like that."

"And if we buy this heap, yu think we'll be getting a good deal?" "Only if the salesman gives us a free tank of gas."

As they headed northwest from Montpelier Past the mountains that flanked Route 89, the Duster performed better than Pittman expected, its slant-six engine sounding Powerful and smooth Because his bandaged left hand made it awkward for him to steer, Jill did the driving. She opened her window - "Whoever owned this car sure liked cigars-"

"on the positive side, the seat covers don't look bad. Which is more than I can Say about me- I'd better get presentable for when we arrive at Grollier."

He took the battery-powered razor from his gym bag, and while he shaved, he stared at the wooded Peaks. "The map the used-car salesman gave us says this range is called the Green Mountains. An odd name for a place known for skiing."

"I told you the French were the first settlers here- Analyze the name of the state. Vermont is another way of saying mont vert. Green Mountain."

4,It seems so peaceful here. What could there possibly be about Grollier Academy that's so terrifying to the grand counselors?" hy "At the library, the DictionarY of American Biography sure wasn't much help," Jill said. "Professor Folsom was right. ustace Gable arid-Anthony Lloyd went to Grollier, the same as Jonathan Millgate. But the other two grand counselors don't have any mention of Grollier in the entries about them.,."

That still doesn't prove anything. Does it mean they. didn't actually go there, or is it that they don't want to advertise?"

As the Duster rounded a curve, revealing a meadow flanked by spruce trees, wooded peaks looming above them, Pittman was so preoccupied, he barely noticed the vista. "Maybe they realized that it wasn't in their best interests for it to be known that they all went to the same prep school.

"Why would that hurt them?"

"Too blatantly chummy. The general public might catch on about one of the federal government's nasty secrets: how inbred it is. Certain prep schools for the elite prepare the cream of the future Establishment to go to Ivy League colleges. That future Establishment graduates from those colleges and heads toward Washington. There they dominate. various branches of the government. The CIA is tight withYale, for example. The State Department used to be dominated by people from Harvard. Clinton's administration has a close relationship with Yale Law School.

"But it gets more specific. Ivy League colleges have secret societies, and the most prestigious-Skull and Bones, for for example-are almost exclusively for members of the Establishment. A President appoints his classmates, his fellow society members. They become ambassadors or serve on the cabinet or as his advisers. You know the story-the President goes out of office and his appointees move into the private sector, where as members of the boards of various corporations use their influence in Washington to manipulate government regulations. Or else they form their own consultation businesses and cater to foreign clients who pay them extremely well to use their powerful contacts. That's the reason I wanted to bring Millgate down to my level. Because he was in thick with the weapons manufacturers. He advocated military involvement in Korea, Vietnam, Panama, and Iraq, to name the most famous instances. But the question is, Was that for the good of the country and the world , or was it for the good of the weapons manufacturers and Millgate's Swiss bank account?

"on the most basic level, one of the reasons there is SO much corruption in the government is that few Politicians and diplomats have the courage to question the behavior of a former classmate and club member. Good old so-and-so made a mistake by accepting bribes. But he's not really a bad guy . Why turn him in and make trouble for him? Some social commitments are more important than representing the American people. Did you ever hear about Bohemian Grove?"

"No." Jill looked puzzled.

"It's another secret society-. a males-only club, the main purpose of which is a summer Outing that takes place each year in a compound in the woods of northern California. Its members are among the most powerful men in the United States: senators, cabinet members, major financiers, and corporate executives. Every Republican president since Nixon has been a member. The members are allowed to bring equally powerful guests from foreign countries. And what do all these influential men do? They get drunk, sing campfire songs, put on skits, and have pissing contests."

"A boy's camp for grown-ups," Jill said.

-,Right. And when the festivities are over, when all those men go back to their Powerful occupations, is it likely that any of them would ever accuse any Others-they pissed against trees together at lamP-Of improper Professional conduct? No way. The ultimate consequence of Bohemian Grove is to make it seem in terribly bad taste for Power brokers to accuse one another of being unethical. And that's just one example of how club rules are more important than society's rules. The whole damned thing stinks.

Except for the drone of the Duster's engine, the car became silent. Jill steered around another curve, passing cattle near a stream in another valley.

At last she spoke. "Now that you've got that off your chest, do you feel better?"

"No. , , "My father went to Yale. He was a member of Skull and Bones. "I wasn't trying to be personal."

"But it's true. My father works in international commodities. Because he belonged to Skull and Bones, he seems to have more influence than his competitors. He's able to call in better favors."

"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 secretaries of state. Two of them were secretaries of defense. Several were chiefs of staff and national security advisers, not to mention ambassadors 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 diem, 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 gumnan 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.