Pittman’s thoughts were suddenly interrupted as he felt Jill move beside him. Surprising him, she sat up. He was able to see her shadowy silhouette in the darkness.
“What did you say?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“Sure you did. You were mumbling.”
“Mumbling?… I thought you were asleep.”
“I thought you were asleep.”
“Can’t.”
“Me, either. What were you mumbling? Something about you want to live.”
“I must have been thinking out loud.”
“Well, I applaud your motive. In a week, you’ve certainly come a long way from putting a pistol into your mouth to wanting to live.”
“I was thinking about Denning.”
“Yes. We ought to phone the hospital and find out how he is.”
“I was thinking how thrilled he was to know that three of the grand counselors were dead.”
“That’s what put him in the hospital.”
“Exactly. And there’s no guarantee that the two remaining grand counselors won’t wind up in the hospital or worse because of this also. I was thinking that I might as well be dead if Eustace Gable and Winston Sloane don’t survive. Because, in that case, I won’t have any way to prove that I’m innocent. Everything’s happening so fast. I don’t know if I’ve got enough time. I have to…”
“What?”
“I used to be a reporter. It’s what I do best-interviewing people. I think it’s the only way to save us.”
2
Shortly after dawn, feeling a chill in the air, seeing vapor come out of his mouth, Pittman parked next to a pay phone outside a coffee shop. Sparse traffic sounded eerie as he got out of the car, Jill following, and stepped into the booth. After studying the list of telephone numbers that he had used last night, he put coins in the box and pressed numbers.
A male voice, with the haughty obsequiousness of a servant to the powerful and rich, answered after two rings. “Mr. Gable’s residence.”
“Put him on.”
“Who may I say is calling, sir?”
“You’re supposed to say it’s too early to disturb him.”
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“It’s barely six in the morning, but you didn’t take long to answer the phone. It’s like you’ve been on duty for quite a while. Are things a little frantic over there?”
“I really don’t know what you’re implying, sir. If you wish to speak with Mr. Gable, you’re going to have to tell me who you are.”
“The man he’s been trying to have killed.”
The line became silent.
“Go ahead,” Pittman said. “Let him know.”
“As you wish, sir.”
Pittman waited, looking at Jill, whose lovely face normally glowed with health but now was wan from stress and fatigue.
Thirty seconds later, a man’s voice, aged and frail, like wind through dead leaves, came on the line. “Eustace Gable here.”
“Matthew Pittman.”
Again the line became silent.
“Yes?” Gable sounded as if he was having trouble breathing. “I’ve been reading about you in the newspapers.”
“You don’t seem surprised that I’m calling.”
“At my age, I’m not surprised by anything,” Gable said. “However, I don’t understand the way you identified yourself to my assistant.”
“I can see where it might be confusing, depending on how many other people you’re trying to have killed.”
Gable stifled a cough. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Not over the phone at least. I can understand that. It’s what I’d expect from a diplomat famous for conducting secret meetings. All the same, I do think we ought to talk, don’t you?”
“Perhaps. But how, if not on the phone?”
“In person.”
“Oh? Given that you murdered my friend and colleague, I’m not certain that I’d feel safe in your presence.”
“The feeling’s mutual. But as you know, I didn’t murder him. You did.”
“Honestly, Mr. Pittman. First you fantasize that I’m trying to have you killed. Now you’re fantasizing that I killed my friend.”
“No one else is on this line, so you can save the disinformation.”
“I always assume that someone else is on the line.”
“Does that prevent you from negotiating?”
Gable stifled another cough. “I’m proud to say that in my entire career, I have never turned down a request to negotiate.”
“Then listen. Obviously things have gotten way out of hand. You never expected me to stay alive this long. You never expected so many other people to become involved.”
The only sound was Gable’s labored breathing.
“You’ve destroyed my life,” Pittman said. “But I know enough to be able to destroy yours. Let’s call it a stalemate. I think it’s in our mutual best interests if I disappear. With a retirement fund. A million dollars and a passport that gives me a safe name.”
“That’s a substantial retirement fund.”
“But that’s my price. Also a safe passport for Jill Warren.”
“Passports are difficult.”
“Not with your contacts in the State Department. Think about it. I disappear. Your cover-up works. No more problems for you.”
“If I agree to the meeting you propose, I want it completely understood that I don’t admit any involvement in your false accusations about cover-ups and murders. We’re discussing hypothetical matters.”
“Whatever makes you feel good, Mr. Gable.”
“I’ll need time to consider the implications.”
“And I’ve been on this line too long. I’ll call back at ten A.M.”
3
Mrs. Page opened the door the moment Pittman knocked on it. Her designer dress was wrinkled and looked out of place in a motel early in the morning. Otherwise, she appeared alert and determined, her skin-tucked face severe with intensity. “Did you watch the morning news?”
“About Standish’s suicide?” Pittman nodded.
“He was always the weakest of the five. My father was the strongest. We have to keep putting pressure on him.”
“This morning, I started again.”
“How?” Mrs. Page asked quickly.
Pittman explained.
“Be careful. My father is a master of manipulation.”
“And arrogant about it. I’m counting on that,” Pittman said. “I’m hoping that it’s inconceivable to him that someone could outmanipulate him.”
“But can you? You’re taking a tremendous risk.”
“If I could think of another way, I’d do it. We can’t just hide. We have to keep pushing them. We have to go back to Washington. I’ve got several stops to make. In particular, I need to see two other people I once interviewed.”
“Who?”
“A security expert and a weapons specialist. I’ll explain as we drive.”
“But what if they remember you?” Mrs. Page asked. “If they connect you with the newspaper stories and television reports…”
“I interviewed them at least five years ago. I was heavier. I had a mustache. There’s a good chance they won’t recognize me. But even if the risk was greater, I’d still have to take it. I can’t make this plan work without their help.”
As they spoke, Pittman walked to the next door and knocked on it. When George came out, they went down concrete steps to where Jill was waiting at the car.
“Give me your room keys. I’ll leave them at the desk and check everybody out,” George said.
“Fine. We’ll meet you at the restaurant down the street,” Jill said.
“Restaurant?” Mrs. Page looked horrified. “That’s not a restaurant.”
“Okay, it’s a Roy Rogers. Think of it as a broadening experience. We’re so pressed for time, we’ll have to eat takeout as we drive.”
“Time. Yes. We have to make time for something else,” Mrs. Page insisted. “We have to see about Bradford. We have to go to the hospital.”
4
Amid the drone of fluorescent lights and the pungent odor of antiseptics, Pittman frowned in response to Jill’s frown as she came back from speaking to a nurse at the counter outside the cardiac-care unit.