The Patriots Club (17 page)

28

At ten-thirty, the main branch of the New York Public Library, known officially as the Humanities and Social Sciences Library, was mildly busy. A stream of regulars filed up and down the stairs with a workaday stiffness. Tourists meandered through the halls, identified by their hip packs and their agog expressions. Only the library personnel walked slower.

Built on the site of the old Croton Reservoir in 1911, the Beaux Arts structure spanned two city blocks between Fortieth and Forty-second Streets on Fifth Avenue, and at the time of its construction, was the largest marble building ever erected. The main gallery was a heaven of white marble, its ceiling soaring a hundred feet above the floor. Imposing staircases framed by towering colonnades rose on either side of the great hall. Somewhere inside the place was a Gutenberg Bible, the first five folios of Shakespeare’s plays, and a handwritten copy of Washington’s Farewell Address, the most famous speech never given.

Hurrying across the third-floor rotunda, Bolden traversed the length of the main reading room and passed through an archway to the secondary reading room, where the library’s computers were kept. He signed his name on the waiting list, and after fifteen minutes, was shown to a terminal with full Internet access. He slid his chair close to the desk, rummaging in his pocket for the drawing he had made in his apartment earlier that morning. The paper was wrinkled and damp, and he spent a moment flattening it with his palm.
I’m fighting a dragon with a paper sword,
he thought.

Accessing the search engine, he selected “Image Search,” then typed in “musket.” A selection of postage-stamp-size photos, or thumbnails, filled the screen. Half showed a slim long-barreled rifle that reminded Bolden of the gun Daniel Boone had used. There were also pictures of men dressed in Colonial military garb: Redcoats, Hessians, Bluecoats (better known as the Continental Army); a thumbnail of a poodle staring at the camera. (Was the dog named Musket?) And a shot of three friends raising obscenely decorated beer steins. Sex was never more than a click away on the Internet.

The second page included a thumbnail of a miniature iron musket balanced on the tip of a man’s index finger. Impressive, Bolden conceded, but irrelevant. Another photo of the drunken revelers. The caption called them the Dre Muskets, which he took as Dutch for “Three Musketeers.”

Then he saw it. The third picture along the top row. The oddly shaped rifle butt differentiated the musket from the others he had seen. The butt was asymmetrical, shorter by six inches across the top than on the bottom. The caption identified it as a “Kentucky Flintlock Rifle, ca. 1780.” He checked it against his drawing. It was the one. He clicked on the picture and was directed to a fuller description of the gun.

“The Kentucky flintlock rifle was a favorable alternative to the more popular British Brown Bess musket. Not only was the Kentucky flintlock considerably lighter at eight pounds, versus the Brown Bess’s fourteen pounds, but the rifle’s spiraled-groove barrel permitted accurate fire from up to 250 yards, far outdistancing the Brown Bess’s (notoriously inaccurate) range of only eighty yards.”

The word “minutemen” caught Bolden’s eyes. He thought it sounded like the name of a secret group that might select a tattoo of a Revolutionary War–era weapon as their symbol. He typed in “minutemen” and spent a few minutes clicking on the more relevant citations. He read brief histories of the Minutemen, Paul Revere, and William Dawes. He hadn’t known that the Minutemen were a handpicked elite from the militia—only a quarter of the militia served as Minutemen—or that they had been in existence since 1645 to fight off all manner of foreign invasion and to protect the frontier against Indians. To his mind, Minutemen were the valiant bunch who fought off the British at Lexington and Concord in 1775.

Another citation interested him. “Minutemen Ready to Battle Communist Threat.” The article discussed an ultra-right-wing group founded in Houston, Texas, in the 1960s to fight the Reds should they ever land on American soil. It was a kind of Rotarian paramilitary organization that offered marksmanship training to all its members. Bolden marked them as John Birchers with guns. Just the type that might evolve into an organization that could foul up his credit cards and plunder his banking records.

Bolden clasped his hands behind his head and rocked on the chair’s back legs. Detective Franciscus believed that Wolf and Irish could be civilian contractors to the military. Bolden plugged in the names of the companies he had mentioned, one by one, and reviewed their websites. Executive Resources, Tidewater, and the Milner Group. All were actively looking for new employees. Job specifications were stated up front: All positions required the applicant to have spent at least five years of active duty in an army, navy, or Marine Corps unit, usually in one of the combat arms: infantry, artillery, or armor. Some went further, screening for applicants who’d served in an elite division: 82nd Airborne, 101st Airborne—the “Screaming Eagles”—Army Rangers, Special Forces, Delta Force, SEALs, Air Force Rescue, or as a marine infantryman. The sites were noticeable most for their subdued, corporate layout. On none, however, did Bolden find a symbol of a Kentucky flintlock rifle.

After twenty minutes, he pushed his chair back and went to get a drink of water.

“Mr. Guilfoyle. I have something you need to take a look at.”

Hoover waited until Guilfoyle was standing by his shoulder, then pointed to the wall map of Manhattan. The red pinlight that denoted Thomas Bolden’s location was no longer bouncing from spot to spot, but was holding rock steady at the corner of Fortieth Street and Fifth Avenue. “He’s in the New York Public Library. The signal’s strong, so he must be near an entrance, a window, or on the top floor.”

Guilfoyle stared at the solitary red light, weighing his options. “How long has he been there?”

“About twenty minutes.”

“Nothing yet on where Bolden’s supposed to meet his girlfriend?”

“Still processing.”

Guilfoyle pinched the fat gathering beneath his chin. “Get me Wolf.”

“Kentucky flintlock rifle.”

Bolden plugged in the words and waited for the posted results, hoping to find a decent picture to print out. Flipping through several pages, he noticed a photo that didn’t belong in the group. Instead of a musket, there was a picture of four men smiling broadly, standing with their arms linked over their shoulders. The photograph was dated. The men were straight out of the fifties or early sixties, wearing crew cuts, white short-sleeved shirts, black ruler ties, and tortoiseshell glasses. They looked like poster boys for the “fast-paced engineering lifestyle.” The Few. The Proud. The Geeks. What captured his attention was the large sign behind them that read, “Scanlon Corporation. World Headquarters.” The silhouette of a Kentucky flintlock rifle sat beneath the company name. He brought his face closer to the screen. The silhouette was identical to the drawing he had made, down to the unique notched rifle butt, a distinct feature he’d never seen, or at least, never noticed before.

Bolden clicked on the picture and got a “Forbidden. You do not have permission to access this site.” He returned to the photo and printed out a copy. The caption read www.bfss.org/yearbook/1960/BillF.jpg, but Bolden didn’t hold out much hope of tracking down “Bill F.,” whoever he was. He tried typing in “BFSS,” but got nothing. Then he tried “Scanlon Corporation.” He was disappointed not to find a corporate website. There were, however, a few pages of articles.

The first mentioned Scanlon in passing as the winning bidder for a highway project in Houston, Texas, in 1949. A second provided more detail. Scanlon Corporation, it read, was founded in 1936, in Austin, Texas, as a civil engineering firm engaged primarily in road construction. The article went on to list a few of its projects and ended by saying that its newest endeavors involved working in concert with the United States Armed Forces.

The third article was more informative and came from the
Army Times
.

. . . Scanlon Corporation of Vienna, Virginia, has been awarded a $45,000,000 indefinite delivery/indefinite quantity contract by MACV (Military Assistance Command, Vietnam) to construct three airbases and landing facilities in the Republic of Vietnam. The airbases will be built at Da Nang, Bien Hoa, and Phu Cat.

Scanlon President Russell Kuykendahl stated, “We are proud to have been chosen by the Department of Defense and MACV as the sole contractor to construct and improve the United States Army and the United States Air Force’s operational facilities in the Republic of Vietnam and hope our work will ensure that the country’s tenure in Vietnam will be brief and successful.”

Bolden reread the article. Scanlon had struck it rich with that one. To be named sole contractor for building landing strips and airbases on the eve of the biggest overseas deployment in American history was a sweet piece of business. He thought it strange that the name didn’t ring a bell. He added Kuykendahl’s name to his short list, then in large block letters added: CIVILIAN/MILITARY CONTRACTORS.

Intrigued, Bolden began to check every link to Scanlon. A dozen mentioned Scanlon in the same sentence as government contracts. There were contracts to build generators, munitions storage areas, to bury electrical distribution lines, even something referred to as typhoon recovery at Andersen Air Force Base, Guam. The amounts were substantial. Twenty, fifty, one hundred million dollars.

The last few articles spoke of a change in the company’s focus. Instead of construction, Scanlon had begun to receive contracts to assist in the training of the Colombian and Philippine armies. While no dollar amounts were listed, the articles went so far as to mention that forty-five “trainers” were being sent to the countries in question for a period of no less than six months.

Finally, there was a notice dated June 16, 1979, stating that representatives of the Scanlon Corporation would be interviewing job candidates at the Fayetteville Holiday Inn. Bolden knew his military history well enough to recognize Fayetteville as the hometown of Fort Bragg, North Carolina. Scanlon was doing its recruiting at the home of the United States Special Forces.

As quickly as he had found it, the trail went cold.

There was no mention of the company anywhere after 1980. No word of bankruptcy, merger, LBO, nothing. Scanlon had fallen off the end of the earth. One thing was for certain: They didn’t just curl up and die. A corporation of that size, with those kinds of government contracts, had to have been gobbled up by somebody. The field of candidates was necessarily limited to corporations in the defense, construction, and, possibly, oil-field services sector. Back in 1980, there were maybe thirty companies that could have purchased Scanlon. Fewer today.

Bolden shifted in his chair and slipped his BlackBerry off his belt. Skimming through his address book, he recognized the names of a dozen people who might be able to fill him in about Scanlon. He set the compact device on the desk. By now, every one of his clients had received a call from the firm informing them that Thomas Bolden no longer worked at Harrington Weiss. A quiet voice would add that if the client had heard rumors about Bolden beating up a certain female colleague, they would not be remiss to believe them. And yes, it was true that Sol Weiss had been killed while confronting Bolden with the evidence.

Thomas Bolden was persona non grata.

He stood and, after notifying the librarian that he would be back in a few minutes, walked to the rotunda, where he began placing calls. He thought of all the congratulatory e-mails he’d received that morning. There had to be someone who’d give him a hand. He started with Josh Lieberman, an M and A banker at Lehman.

“Hello, Josh, Tom Bolden.”

“Should I be talking to you?”

“Why not? I know what you might have heard, but none of it’s true. Trust me.”

“You calling me from your BlackBerry?”

“Yes,” said Bolden. “Listen, I need a—”

“Sorry, pal . . . no can do . . . but, hey, good luck.”

Bolden tried Barry O’Connor at Zeus Associates, another sponsor. “Jesus Christ, Bolden, do you have any idea the shit you’re trailing?” whispered O’Connor breathlessly. Bolden might have climbed Everest or sequenced the human gene. “My man, you are in a heap of it!”

“It’s some kind of setup. I didn’t touch the girl.”

“The girl? I haven’t heard a thing about the girl. Word is you killed Sol Weiss.”

“Weiss? Of course not—”

“Get yourself a lawyer, buddy. I’m hearing bad things. Very bad things.”

“Hold on . . . I need a favor.”

“Tom, I’d love to but . . .” O’Connor’s voice grew hushed. “The phones, man, they’re wired, you know that.”

“Real quick. Some info on a company . . .”

“I don’t think this is the time to be thinking about business. Another call’s coming in. Good luck, Tommy. Get that lawyer.”

As Bolden flipped though his phone directory, a name caught his eye. It came to him he’d been silly to concentrate on bankers in New York. Rumors spread like wildfire on the Street. It was better to look elsewhere for help. He dialed a number with a 202 area code that he knew by heart.

“De Valmont.” The voice answered lazily, with the hint of an English accent.

“Guy, it’s Tom Bolden.”

“Hello, Tom,” said Guy de Valmont, senior partner at Jefferson. “What gives? Everything all right on the Trendrite deal?”

Bolden sighed with relief. Finally, someone who hadn’t heard the news. “Everything’s fine. I was wondering if you could help me with a query. I’m looking something up on a company named Scanlon Corporation. They were a defense contractor in the fifties and sixties, big into Vietnam. I can’t find hide nor hair of them after 1980. I know that Jefferson’s been active in that sector for a long time, and I was wondering if you might be able to track them down.”

“Say again? Scanlon? Doesn’t ring a bell, but 1980’s a lifetime ago. I’ll be happy to have a look. Get you back at the office?”

“Call me on my cell.” He rattled off the number.

“Where are you? Reception’s lousy.”