Desperate Measures

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.”