David Morrell - Desperate Measures

“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.”

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?”

“Seeing if this fits.”

He reached into the gym bag again and pulled out the other pistol, the one he had taken from the gunman in Jill’s apartment. The gun was almost the same size as the Colt.45, but its caliber was smaller: a 9-mm Beretta.

“You don’t expect me to carry that,” Jill protested. “I don’t even know how to use it.”

“Nor did I until a couple of days ago. Learn as you need to-that’s my motto.”

Jill’s purse was a shoulder bag, made of leather.

“Fits perfectly,” Pittman said.

“I’m telling you I’m not going to-”

“The first thing you need to know about this gun,” Pittman said, “is that the ammunition is stored in this spring-loaded device-it’s called a magazine-that’s inserted into the bottom of the grip.”

“Are you serious?” Jill squinted as the Duster emerged from a covered bridge into dazzling sunlight. “Have you any idea how many people in critical condition because of gunshot wounds I’ve had to try to keep alive in intensive care? I don’t want to know anything about that gun. I don’t want it in my purse. I don’t want to have anything to do with it.”

Pittman studied her, then peered ahead. “The first turn on the right past the bridge.”

“I know . It’s on the sheet of directions the librarian gave us. I remember what she said.”

“I was just trying to be helpful.”

“Look, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be snappy. It’s just… You scared me with that business about the gun.” Jill’s voice was unsteady. “For a while there, when we were on the train, I was able to forget how serious this is. I wish I wasn’t doing this.”

“Then turn around,” Pittman said.

“What?”

“We’ll go back to Montpelier and put you on the train back to New York. I’ll go out to the academy on my own.”

“Put me on the…? What good would that do? Nothing’s changed. Those men are still after me. I can’t go back to my apartment. You’ve convinced me that the police wouldn’t be able to protect me forever. I certainly can’t depend on my parents to get me through this. They’re probably being watched. As for my friends, I don’t want to put them in danger. Being with you is the safest place I can think of, and that’s not saying much, but it’s all I’ve got.”

“I’ve already fed a round into the firing chamber. To shoot this gun, you don’t need to cock it. All you have to do is pull the trigger. There’s the gate.” Pittman pointed toward a large elegant sign that read: GROLLIER ACADEMY.

“I love its motto,” Pittman said.

TO LEAD IS TO SERVE.