Desperate Measures

8

Sweat rolled down Pittman’s back. Paradoxically cold, the sweat stuck his clothes to his skin, making him shiver, although he fought not to show it. Okay, he told himself nervously, you came here because you felt your best weapon was your ability to interview somebody. Well, it’s time to prove how good you are. Let’s see you interview a world-class negotiator.

He turned toward the wall-length window, straining to concentrate, composing his thoughts. Sunlight gleamed into the room, making him squint. Nonetheless, he was able to focus on the fir trees beyond the window, amazingly green and clear, preciously beautiful, given his proximity to death. At the bottom of the wooded slope beyond the house, distant golfers took advantage of the pleasant April day. A man in a golf cart drove past a sand trap, toward where his ball had landed near the wall that separated Gable’s estate from the golf course.

Pittman stared at the sand trap, and again he couldn’t help being aware of the bitter irony that a week ago his nightmare had begun near a golf course and now was about to end near another one.

“Mr. Pittman,” Gable said, “if you have substantive information to share with us, do so. Otherwise, I’m afraid that Mr. Webley will have to ensure that you never share anything with anyone again.”

Continuing to squint, Pittman turned to Gable.

“You’re sweating,” the grand counselor said. “Look at your forehead. It’s pouring off you. Surely you’re not nervous. In a negotiation, you should never allow your emotions to show. Certainly I never do.”

“It’s the temperature in this room. It’s too hot in here.” Pittman wiped his forehead.

“My doctor has given me instructions that the temperature must be kept at eighty. To remedy a mild health problem of mine. Take off your sport coat if the temperature is making you uncomfortable. You’re wearing a sweater also.”

“I’m fine.” Pittman refocused his attention, concentrating on the view through the window. The man in the golf cart had disappeared behind the wall at the bottom of the slope. “That fax, the one that arrived a few minutes ago.”

“What about it?” Gable asked.

Pittman looked directly into Gable’s steel gray eyes. “It was for me.”

Gable didn’t respond immediately. “For you?”

“What does he mean?” Winston Sloane asked.

Ignoring his colleague, Gable told Pittman, “That’s absurd. Why would anyone send a fax to you here? How could anyone do that? The fax number is confidential.”

“The same as your telephone number is confidential,” Pittman said. “But I arranged for your daughter to phone you last night. And for Jill to phone your confidential number, Winston. And then we phoned Victor Standish’s confidential number. Too late in that case. He’d already blown his brains out. Because he couldn’t stand hiding the secret you shared. But if I had no trouble using my contacts to learn those numbers, I assure you it was just as easy for me to find out your fax number. The message is Duncan Kline’s obituary. I’m sure we’ll all find it interesting.”

Gable frowned with suspicion. “Mr. Webley, see that my visitor remains exactly where he is while I get the fax message from my office.”

Webley raised Pittman’s.45. “Don’t worry. He isn’t going anywhere.”

Pittman watched Gable stand with difficulty and proceed from the room. His back as regally straight as he could make it, Gable disappeared down a corridor.