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.”
“It seems so peaceful here. What could there possibly be about Grollier Academy that’s so terrifying to the grand counselors?”
“At the library, the Dictionary of American Biography sure wasn’t much help,” Jill said. “Professor Folsom was right. Eustace Gable and 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 with Yale, 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 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 they 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’s 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 camp-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 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.”
6
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?”