The Patriots Club (35 page)

The Patriots Club
June 1, 1843–July 31, 1878
Minutes

62

“J. J. . . . a word?”

“Yes, what is it?” replied Jacklin. “Has the President arrived?”

“Not yet,” replied Guilfoyle, crouching at his side. “He’s due in eight minutes. His motorcade just crossed Key Bridge.”

Jacklin smiled obligingly at his guests. Dinner had been served. The dance floor was packed to bursting. The plates had been cleared; a digestif offered. He raised the snifter of Armagnac to his mouth and took a sip. “What is it, then?”

“Bolden’s woman is in D.C.”

“I thought she was laid up in the hospital.”

“Hoover just contacted me from the operations center. Cerberus spat out some credit-card activity indicating she purchased a ticket on the US Airways shuttle and rented a car at Reagan National Airport.”

“Why are you telling me this now? Cerberus is a real-time program. It should have given us the information hours ago.”

“The boys in the op center thought she was in the hospital, too. No one inputted her vitals until a couple of hours ago.”

Jacklin checked his temper. He had half a mind to cuff this unfeeling robot right then and there. “And you think she’s headed here?”

“She also purchased evening wear from a boutique on Madison Avenue.”

Jacklin excused himself from the table and led Guilfoyle outside. A freshening breeze snapped at their cheeks. “Look at that,” he said, scanning the leaden sky. “We’re going to have one hell of an inauguration.”

Guilfoyle looked up at the sky, but said nothing.

“And the cop?” Jacklin asked. “You getting what you need?”

“In time.”

Jacklin turned suddenly and grabbed Guilfoyle by the lapels. “We don’t have time. Can’t you get that through your head? I ask for results and you bring me more problems. For all your supposed intuition, you’ve shown all the foresight of a chimpanzee. First you screw up with Bolden, then you can’t make this cop give us what we need. Now you’re telling me that Bolden’s girlfriend might be trying to mess things up. Thank God, it’s just a woman.” He released the lapels, breathing through his teeth. “What does she look like, anyway?”

“No picture, yet. She’s thirty, tall and blond with wavy hair down to her shoulders. Reasonably attractive.”

“What’s her name?”

“Dance. Jennifer Dance.”

Jacklin leaned closer.
“Jennifer?”

This was the rough stuff. The stuff that happened when you got too close to the cartels, or hounded the Mob a little too much. This was the stuff you read about and shook your head, and when you went to sleep that night, you prayed it would never happen to you. When they beat you up before they start asking questions, when they hit you so hard that suddenly you can’t remember the last five minutes, or where you are even, you know it’s the rough stuff. And you know how it’s going to end.

“I’m a cop,” Franciscus said through his broken teeth, though it sounded like “Thime a thop.” “I don’t take evidence with me.”

“Did you leave it in New York?”

Franciscus tried to lift his head, but his neck seemed locked in a downward position. They had taken their time beating him. They’d started on his face, then worked down to his gut, going methodically step by step, like the local train stopping at every station. He was fairly certain that his cheekbone was fractured. He could still feel the punch that had done that. Contractors, he had told Bolden. The best his government could train.

Someone hit him again in the face, directly on the busted cheek. He heard the impact from afar, the bone shattering like a china plate. His eyes remained open, but he saw nothing, just sparks from a flare exploding in the center of his brain. He passed out for a minute or two. He had no idea how long, really, except that the same goons were still there when he came to. Both had removed their jackets. Their shoulder holsters cradled 9 millimeter pistols.

Lying on the concrete floor, he saw his thumb a few inches away. He willed it to budge, and a second later, it did, jittering as if juiced with a thousand volts. The sound of his breathing filled his ear. It was a thin, wheezing rasp, and he thought,
Christ, whoever sounds like that is gonna check out pronto.

It was then that he decided, no. He wasn’t done yet. He wasn’t going to allow these two gorillas to finish him off. He would not let them kill him here and now. Not without a fight. The drums of his rebellion pounded faintly, but unmistakably. War drums.

A few hundred yards down the path, a hundred men and women were drinking and dancing the night away. Reach them and he was safe. He would flash his badge. He would give his name. He’d get the collar, one way or the other. Jacklin would be his.

Franciscus summoned his resolve. He needed to act quickly, while he had enough strength to make it to the main house. He lay as still as a rock, holding his breath. One of his interrogators knew right away something was wrong. You were supposed to jerk when you got hit, not just lie there. He came closer, looking at Franciscus as if he were a landed croc that might have some bite left in him.

“I think our man’s checked out. He’s blue.”

The other man laughed skeptically. “Has he stopped sweating? That’s when you’ll know if he’s dead.”

“I think it’s his heart.”

“Let me have a look.” The man dropped to a knee and bent over Franciscus. First he put a hand on his wrist. Then he looked at his associate, and the look was enough to get the man down on the floor of the tack room, too. “I can’t find a pulse. See if you can feel anything.”

“He’s cold. Fuckin’ Guilfoyle. I told him it was stupid to beat up on a senior. My dad’s a cop, too. I don’t want this on my conscience.”

“Shh. I’m still listening.”

“And?”

“Nothing.”

“Go get him. The guy’s turning bluer than a fish.”

Jennifer Dance was reading the minutes of the Patriots Club.

December 6, 1854

Present: Franklin Pierce. Henry Ward Beecher. Frederick Douglass. Horace Greeley. Thomas Hart Benton.

“. . . the Committee votes in favor of a grant of $25,000 to assist Mr. Beecher in the purchase of Sharps rifles for overland shipment to Kansas in support of the abolitionist/antislavery movement.”

The guns were later named Beecher’s Bibles by the Northern press, and they turned the state of Kansas into a battleground that was nicknamed Bloody Kansas.

Sept. 8, 1859

Present: James Buchanan. William Seward. Horace Greeley. Ralph Waldo Emerson. Henry Ward Beecher.

“. . . all ammunition to be provided to Mr. John Brown and sons in support of his proposed raiding of the arsenal at Harpers Ferry . . .”

John Brown’s raid on Harpers Ferry failed, but his subsequent conviction for treason against the commonwealth of Virginia and his execution by hanging hastened the advent of the Civil War.

April 1, 1864

Present: Abraham Lincoln. William Seward. U. S. Grant. Salmon P. Chase. Horace Greeley. Cornelius Vanderbilt.

“. . . the Committee votes against General Lee’s petition asking for a truce between the Union and the Confederacy, the Confederacy accepting the Emancipation Proclamation with all territorial issues reverting to
status quo ante bellum.
”

A truce? Jenny had never heard of a failed truce between the states. Abraham Lincoln had pressed the war until the South had surrendered, exhausted, depleted, and without any chance of further victory on the battlefield.

Jenny opened the second ledger, dated 1878–1904. She thumbed the pages until she came to the date of January 31, 1898.

Present: William McKinley. Alfred Thayer Mahan. Elihu Root. J. P. Morgan. John Rockefeller. J. J. Astor. Thomas B. Reed. Frederick Jackson Turner.

“We can no longer overlook the pressing requirement for our nation to acquire global colonies. At the least, a string of coaling stations across the Pacific necessary for the expanding fleet . . . it is imperative that we check the British colossus as a world power.”

Her eyes skipped down the page.

“. . . an incident required to galvanize the American people in support of war . . . suitable targets: Cuba, Haiti, the Philippines . . . all lands where a democratic presence would be viewed as a liberator and widely welcomed by local populace . . . Mr. Root proposed scuttling of U.S.S.
Maine,
second-class battleship cruising in Cuban waters.”

Voices carried into the room from the corridor. Jenny flipped the pages forward faster, and faster yet. She was searching for one more name, a last indication that, against whatever argument she might muster, it was all true.

March 13, 1915. Present: Woodrow Wilson, Colonel A. E. House, General J. J. Pershing, Theodore Roosevelt, J. P. Morgan, Vincent Astor.

“. . . a means to enter European conflict is now of primary importance . . . unrestricted submarine warfare an assault on civility of conflict . . . the Cunard liner
Lusitania
will depart New York on May 1. The War Department is shipping two thousand tons of ammunition for the Allied war effort. Items are not on manifest . . . an irresistible target for German navy . . .”

She flipped forward to the most recent meeting. It was dated the night before. She read a paragraph, then two.

The door burst open.

Jacklin stood framed by the light. Two of his bodyguards waited behind him. She recognized them from the night before. Wolf and Irish. Jacklin walked slowly across the room and plucked the journal from her hands.

“Miss Dance . . . is it?”

63

“Take off the restraints,” said James Jacklin, entering the guesthouse and laying eyes on Bolden. “Jesus Christ. The man’s a banker, not a convict.” The tall, grim-faced man hurried toward him, occasionally admonishing Wolf to get the job done faster. “That better, Tom?”

Bolden rubbed his wrists. “Yes,” he said. “Thank you.”

“Well now,” said Jacklin, sizing him up. “What can I get you? Beer? Scotch? Name your poison.”

“I could use a glass of water.”

Jacklin fired off a command for some water, and a little something to eat, but for all the talk about the restraints being some kind of mistake, he was sure to keep his bodyguard nearby. “Jesus Christ, Tom, would you care to tell me how we got so far down the wrong road? As I recall, we even made you an offer a few months back.”

“You tell me. I think it might have started last night when Wolf, here, and Irish kidnapped me.”

“A regrettable mistake,” said Jacklin, lowering his head as if the whole thing plain embarrassed him. “I do apologize. Mr. Guilfoyle handles that side of things.”

“Mr. Guilfoyle knows damn well that I had no knowledge of Crown or Bobby Stillman.”

A figure stirred in the corner of the room. Guilfoyle rose from a club chair. “Maybe I can clear up the misunderstanding,” he said, hands tucked in his pockets, as close to a pleasant expression on his face as Bolden had seen. “Tom, as you know, Jefferson holds in its portfolio a good many companies active in the information technology sector—companies engaged in the manufacture of computer hardware and software, much of it with applications in the defense sector. Suffice it to say that our systems pinpointed no fewer than four indicators that you posed a threat to Jefferson.”

Trendrite. National Bank Data. Triton Aerospace. Bolden knew the companies to which Guilfoyle referred. “I guess you’ve gotten a long way toward perfecting the code on that one. Tell me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t that software designed to heighten national security? What’s Jefferson doing messing with it?”

Guilfoyle answered matter-of-factly. “There are corporate applications we’d be foolish not to take advantage of. One of them indicated that you’d been in contact with Bobby Stillman.”

“I’ve never spoken with any Bobby Stillman in my life,” said Bolden.

Guilfoyle persisted. “How do you explain the calls placed from your home in New York to Ms. Stillman’s temporary residence in New Jersey?”

“There’s nothing to explain. I don’t know the man. I never made the calls.”

“The man?” Jacklin shook his head. “Bobby Stillman’s a woman, as I’m sure you know. Records don’t lie. You phoned her on the nights of December fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth.”

“That would be difficult, considering I was in Milwaukee the fourteenth and fifteenth, and Denver the day after. Or didn’t your software tell you that? And who are you to tell me that records don’t lie? It was easy enough for you to hack into my bank’s mainframe and destroy my credit. At least I know now how you got into HW’s system. Mickey Schiff helped you.”

“A necessity,” said Guilfoyle.

“It’s a breach of privacy.”

Jacklin laughed bitterly. “Exactly what Bobby would say.”

“
Bobby?
So you’re friends?”

“Hardly,” said Jacklin.

“Who is she?” Bolden demanded. “Why are you so hell-bent on killing me because you think I’ve been in contact with her?”

“A thorn in my side is what she is. We’re still working to determine your status.” Jacklin exhaled loudly, raising his hands in a gesture of pacification. “Look, Tom,” he said agreeably. “The world is a dangerous place. We’re simply doing our job to protect the country.”

“It sounds to me like you’re protecting your interests.”

“Listen to me for a minute and you might find you’ll learn something.”

Bolden decided that there was nothing to gain from defiance. He sat. “I’m all ears.”

Jacklin sighed and took the chair across from him. “Some of the companies Mr. Guilfoyle referred to were involved in the government’s efforts to build a terrorist surveillance system. The technology is sophisticated, cutting-edge stuff that involved being granted access to a lot of sensitive private data. When the public got wind of it, they grew nervous. No one likes the idea of the government having that kind of access. The potential for abuse is too high. They demanded the Department of Defense put an end to it. But technology is a Pandora’s box. Once it’s opened, there’s no denying what’s inside. There’s no going back. Either we capture that technology, control it, and fashion it to our purposes, or someone else will. Someone unfriendly to the cause. When things became touchy, some of my old friends at DOD asked if we might step in. Put the company in one of our funds. Let the feds monitor progress from afar. Does that surprise you?”

“No,” Bolden admitted. Part of him even thought it was a good idea. Naturally, there were times when the government needed to work on projects out of the public domain. “But you couldn’t resist, could you?” he asked. “The first thing you did was harness the little we knew and put it to your own use. That’s how you ended up pinning everything on the wrong guy. I do have one question.”

“Shoot,” said Jacklin.

“If you’re so damned tight with the government, why do you have to bribe every other retiring senator or offer them jobs?”

“ ‘Bribe’? Is that what you call it? We like to think of it as a preemployment incentive.” Jacklin dismissed their difference with a wave of the hand. “That’s an operational issue. We make investments in individuals to assist our investments in companies. It’s in our clients’ best interests, and I admit, our own. Tom . . . you’re a smart man. You’ve seen some things you shouldn’t have. You’ve been subjected to some unpleasant things. We’re here to put all that behind us. You’ve received my apology. Can we start there?”

“And Jenny? Did you apologize to her for shooting her? She’s pregnant. Did you know that? Or would it even figure into your calculations?”

Jacklin’s right eye twitched, but he kept the same conciliatory expression, the freeze-dried grin firmly in place. “As I said, I am sorry. I must, however, ask if you’ve shown the records of the financial transfers we’ve made to certain executives at our company and to certain officials on the Hill to anyone else? Have you made any copies? Have you e-mailed them to a friend?”

“Ask Wolf. He was there.”

“Wolf isn’t sure.”

“And if I have?”

Jacklin looked to Guilfoyle, then back at Bolden. “Tom, let me be blunt. We want you to join Jefferson. Like I said, you’re a smart young man. You work like the dickens. You’ve got a tremendous record of accomplishment. The way I see it, we’re over the awkward part. You’ve seen some of the dirty laundry. Is it really that big? Of course not. Not in the greater scheme of things. Let’s work that to your advantage. I can use a personal assistant. I’m not going to be around that much longer. Ten years, if my liver holds out. I want you to work with me. At my side. Name your price. I can’t offer you a partnership yet. But in three or four years? The sky’s the limit for someone of your abilities. The boys at Scanlon couldn’t believe how you put one over on them. We’ll start you at a million even. You can count on double that for a bonus. Not bad for a young man who’s still a little wet behind the ears. Bring Jenny to D.C. She’s a history buff, she’ll love it. We’ll set both of you up in a cozy little townhouse in Georgetown. Get you involved with the Boys Club down in this neck of the woods. We need a man with some fire in his blood. Christ knows, I need someone to rouse my butt out of the sack on some of the cold mornings. What do you say, Tom?” Jacklin extended his hand. “The world’s yours for the asking.”

Bolden looked at the outstretched hand. Money. Position. Privilege. He smiled tiredly. It was a lie, of course. Jacklin had no intention of keeping such a bargain. Bolden sincerely wondered what he’d done to be taken for such a greedy fool, or if Jacklin just assumed everyone in his profession must share such values.

He raised his gaze and stared into Jacklin’s brown eyes. “I don’t think my mother would like it very much.”

The triumphant expression melted from Jacklin’s face like a late snow. “Do you know what you’re saying?”

“I have an idea.”

Jacklin looked to Guilfoyle, who shrugged, then back at Bolden. His face was harder now, the eyes set, the mouth turned down. “Did you give the information to anyone else?”

Bolden shrugged. “Maybe.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“It’ll have to be.”

Jacklin turned to Guilfoyle. “Is he telling the truth?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Jacklin snapped.

Guilfoyle remained staring at Bolden. “I’m sorry, J. J., but I don’t know.”

“Bring her in, then.”

Bolden rose from the chair, starting for the door. Firm hands gripped him from behind, forcing him onto the seat. The door opened. Jenny walked in, accompanied by Irish. “Tom . . .”

“Jenny!” Bolden reached out for her, but Irish held her back. She was alive, and unhurt. “You’re all right.”

She nodded, and he could see she was hiding something from him.

“I’ll ask you again, Tom,” said Jacklin. “Did you make any copies of the financial information? If you think I have any qualms about hurting Miss Dance, think again.” He crossed the short distance to Jennifer and backhanded her across the face, his ring opening a cut on her cheek.

“Stop!” yelled Bolden, struggling to get free. “The answer is no. I didn’t make any copies. I didn’t send any of the information I found on Mickey Schiff’s computer to anyone. I didn’t have time. Wolf took the only copies I have.”

Jacklin offered a last look as he left the room. “My guess is you’re lying. We’ll have to leave it to Wolf to find out if I’m right.”