David Morrell - Desperate Measures

But other people were in the large room, as well. Pittman hadn’t seen them at the hospital, although he definitely had seen them before-in old photographs and in television documentaries about the politics of the Vietnam War. Four men. Distinguished-looking. Dressed in conservative custom-made dark three-piece suits. Old but bearing a resemblance to images of their younger selves.

Three wore spectacles. One had a white mustache. Two were bald, while the other two had wispy white hair. All had stern, pinched, wrinkled faces and drooping skin on their necks. Their expressions severe, they stood in a row, as if they were on a dais or part of a diplomatic receiving line. Their combined former titles included ambassador to the USSR, ambassador to the United Nations, ambassador to Great Britain, ambassador to Saudi Arabia, ambassador to West Germany, ambassador to NATO, secretary of state, secretary of defense, national security adviser. Indeed, several of these positions had been held by all of these men at various times, just as they had all at various times belonged to the National Security Council. They had never been elected to public office, and yet in their appointed roles they had exerted more influence than any but the most highly placed politicians. Their names were Eustace Gable, Anthony Lloyd, Victor Standish, and Winston Sloane. They were the legendary diplomats upon whom Presidents from Truman to Clinton, Republican and Democrat, had frequently relied for advice, their shrewdness having earned them the nickname “the grand counselors.” Four of them. Which suggested that the old man in the bed was, in fact, the fifth grand counselor: Jonathan Millgate.

The intense young man with the stethoscope said something that Pittman couldn’t hear. The nurse said something in response. Then the two male attendants spoke. Again Pittman was too far away to make out what they were saying. The man with the stethoscope turned toward the grand counselors and seemed to explain something. One of the elderly diplomats, a gaunt-cheeked man with a white mustache, Winston Sloane, nodded wearily. Another, his narrow face pinched with wrinkles, Eustace Gable, asked a question. The man with the stethoscope answered. A third elderly diplomat, Anthony Lloyd, tapped his cane on the floor in a gesture of frustration. Although their faces were pale, their ancient eyes were fiery. With a final comment, Eustace Gable left the room. His associates solemnly followed.

The nurse approached the draperies. When she pulled a cord on the side, the draperies moved, then stopped. She pulled harder, but something prevented her from closing them all the way. From the deck, Pittman studied the room with increasing confusion. The four bodyguards went after the counselors, as did the two ambulance attendants, leaving only the man with the stethoscope and the female nurse. The latter dimmed the room’s lights, and now Pittman understood why there weren’t any arc lamps illuminating the sundeck. The group didn’t want the glare of the outside lights intruding on the room after it was put into comparative darkness. The red lights on the monitors were almost as bright as the muted glow of the lamps. In the dusky atmosphere, the patient was being encouraged to rest. But that was about all Pittman did understand, and as he crouched in the darkness beside the metal deck furniture, he wiped rain from his face, shivered from the cold, and asked himself what he should do.

You proved your suspicion. That was Jonathan Millgate they took from the hospital. You don’t know why, but you do know where they took him, and that’s all you can do for now. It’s time to go. You’ll get pneumonia if you stay in this rain much longer.

That final thought made Pittman smile with bitterness. You almost killed yourself tonight, and now you’re worried about catching pneumonia? Not yet. Your time isn’t up for another eight days.

And it won’t be pneumonia that kills you.

He watched the man with the stethoscope leave the dusky room. As the nurse continued inspecting Millgate’s monitors and tubes, Pittman turned toward the stairs that led down from the sundeck. He heard a noise that paralyzed him.

It came from directly below him, a combination of a drone and a rumble. The roof of the sundeck vibrated beneath Pittman’s wet shoes.

One of the motorized garage doors was being opened. Pittman’s heartbeat quickened. He crouched lower, making certain that he wouldn’t be a silhouette against the roofline. Nonetheless, he was able to see light spill from the garage, revealing raindrops on dark puddles as the door opened higher, then stopped, its motor becoming silent.

In the unnerving quiet, varied only by the hiss of the drizzle, Pittman suddenly heard the scrape of footsteps on concrete, the creak of car doors being opened, the echo of voices.

“… priest,” an elderly man’s brittle voice said, taut with emotion.

“Don’t worry,” a second elderly voice said. “I told you the priest never arrived. Jonathan never spoke to him.”

“Even so.”

“It’s been taken care of,” the second aged voice emphasized, reminding Pittman of the rattle of dead leaves. “It’s safe now. Secure.”

“But the reporters…”

“Have no idea where Jonathan is. Everything is under control. The best thing we can do is separate and get back to a pretense of normalcy.”

Throughout, Pittman heard the sound of people getting into a vehicle. Now he heard the thunk of car doors being closed, the sudden roar of an engine.

Headlights blazed. A dark limousine surged out of the garage and sped along the murky driveway, past trees and shrubs and toward the gate that led from the estate.

Pittman’s bent legs cramped. He began to stand, then flinched when he heard further voices.

“The taxi,” another aged voice said.

“If you’re correct that we were followed…” This voice was crusty, yet filled with phlegm.

Pittman couldn’t make out the rest of the sentence. What he heard instead was a louder rumbling drone as a second garage door rose. Other lights gleamed into the drizzle-misted night.

When the noise of the garage door stopped, Pittman strained to listen, hoping that the voices would continue.

“… a coincidence. A late commuter coming from Manhattan.”

“But in a taxi?”

“Perhaps the trains don’t run this late. There might be several explanations. Until we know for certain, I refuse to become alarmed.”

“But we saw the headlights go past the gate as we drove toward the house.”

“You heard me send Harold to look into the matter. If it was the same taxi, it had less than a minute’s head start before Harold went after it. And if the taxi came from Manhattan, it would be one of few, if any, in the area at this hour. Its city of origin would be marked on the vehicle. I’m certain that Harold would intercept it well before it reached the thruway.”

“You’ll keep me informed.”

“Of course. Relax. Look at how your hands are shaking. Be calm, my friend. You didn’t use to worry this much.”

“I didn’t have as much to lose.”

“Nor did we all.”

“Good night, Eustace.”

“Goodnight, Anthony.”

Despite the worry in their voices, the tone of the old men was strikingly affectionate.

Car doors thunked shut. An engine roared. Another dark limousine sped from the garage and along the murky driveway.

From above, crouching in the darkness of the sundeck, Pittman watched the taillights recede, then disappear, the sound of the limousines fading into the silence of the night. With a final droning rumble, all the garage doors descended, cutting off the lights inside. The gloom in the area intensified.