“I’m sorry, Bobby,” said Jacklin, flashing their airline tickets in his fist. “I came to settle this misunderstanding once and for all.”
“Misunderstanding? I thought it was a felony.”
“Call it whatever you like.”
“There’s nothing to settle,” said Bobby. “You’re a fascist. You want to spy on everyone to make sure no one’s doing anything you don’t like. You think you’re Big Brother, even if your feet can’t touch the kitchen floor. Just because you’re out of the government doesn’t mean you’re not still in cahoots with them.” She spun to face the men on the stairs. “Who are these gorillas? Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum? Why’d you bring them? Can’t handle things by yourself? I thought you were a hero.” She went on goading him, her anger at the boiling point, her temper shot. “J. J., you always were just a clown in a cowboy suit, trying to be the man your mother wanted you to be.”
“That’s enough, Bobby.”
It was then that she saw the pistol in his hand.
“We just bought the company,” he said, giving it a waggle. “Fanning Firearms. Figured I ought to get something out of it.”
“Oh, Christ, J. J., this is too much. A gun? Did you think we were going to fight back? Two lawyers? The Constitution’s gunslingers? That there’s Bernstein the Kid, fastest Jew in the West. And I’m . . .” She stopped midsentence and turned to her lover. “Would you look at him, David?”
“Be quiet, Bobby,” said David Bernstein in a sober voice.
He knew, Bobby Stillman chided herself, twenty-five years later. He’d grown up the son of a police officer. He knew the cardinal rule about guns. You never drew one unless you were going to use it. And she, for her part, had done everything humanly possible to make sure his premonition came true.
“Oh, put it down, J. J.,” she went on. “The police are coming. Good!” She thrust her wrists in front of her, as if welcoming the cuffs. “Let them arrest us. The courts will be the forum we need to shine a bright fucking light on your crappy little company. You really expect everyone to believe that those devices Guardian’s making will only be used by the military? I bet the FBI has a big order in already. Who else? Customs? Treasury? DEA? Everyone on the block will want one. They’ll be installing them in every phone switching center within a year. All courtesy of James Jacklin and Guardian Microsystems.”
“As usual, Bobby, you’re a little too smart for your own good,” said Jacklin.
He gave her a last supremely pissed-off look, then turned and fired a bullet into David Bernstein’s head. He collapsed to the floor without so much as a grunt. She would never forget how his knees buckled, his entire body going limp, as if someone had unplugged him from the wall and all the current had instantly gone out of him. And then lying there, he did a terrible thing. He kicked. One leg bucked the air. One heel of one leather shoe clomped onto the wooden floor. And then he was still.
Jacklin walked over to look at him. “No one is going to testify in any court about Guardian, sweetheart,” he said. “National security.”
Bobby froze. Then she began to shake her head. Tears came. She didn’t want to cry, but she was overwhelmed. “You monster,” she sobbed. “You killed him. But you called the police? They’re coming.”
“I surely hope so.”
Just then, a police car pulled to the curb in front of the house. Two officers climbed out, slipping their batons into their belts. A scream rose in her throat. She ran to the window. One of Jacklin’s men stopped her, sweeping her into his arms and clamping a hand over her mouth. The doorbell rang a minute later.
Jacklin opened the door. Before either could see David Bernstein, he shot them. Once through the heart, so close that the cloth of their shirts briefly caught fire.
He pointed the gun at her. “Go outside,” he said.
Shaking, she stepped over the bodies onto the wraparound porch. He stood with the gun aimed at her for a minute. Neither moved.
“And Jacky Jo?” she said.
And so, Jacklin had created the myth of Bobby Stillman, cop killer. He had made her a permanent fugitive. It was a brilliant move. It robbed her of everything. Her freedom. Her credibility. And her son.
Bobby stepped back from the Scanlon operative. With one hand, she yanked his boxer shorts to the floor. She allowed him a moment to savor his vulnerability. Just a second or two to feel the wind blow.
She took a firm hold of his penis.
“What is Crown?” she asked, placing the carpet layer’s knife under his manhood. She flicked the blade upward, drawing blood. “Last chance.”
“D.C. . . . Senator McCoy,” he said in dry gulps.
“More.”
“A sanction.”
“When?”
“The inauguration . . . tomorrow.”
59
Delta flight 1967, New York LaGuardia to Washington Reagan National Airport, touched down at 8:33 P.M., thirty minutes behind schedule. Detective First Grade John Franciscus was the second passenger off the plane, held up only by a purple-haired matron in a wheelchair. Checking the overhead signs, he found his way to the car-rental desk. He had two or three friends on the D.C. Metro force he might have asked to pick him up, even a couple of Maryland state troopers. They were all good guys, but he didn’t want to bring anyone else in on this. It wasn’t the time to figure out who was his friend and who wasn’t. A flash of the badge got him the last four-wheel drive. Keys in hand, he walked to the sidewalk to wait for the shuttle bus to take him to his car. If anything, the snow was falling heavier here than in New York. It came down in great fat feathers, an ocean of goose down suspended in the air. The bus arrived. Beneath the harsh sodium lights, he caught his reflection in its window. Gray he looked, and gray he felt.
At some point on the flight down, someplace between Trenton and Gettysburg, Franciscus had decided to go ahead and have the procedure. Twenty years with a zipper on his chest was better than twenty years without one. He’d even come up with the harebrained notion of moving out to L.A., wrangling himself an advisor’s job on one of the cop shows. They needed someone to straighten them out. He, personally, was sick of the crime-scene stuff. He wanted to see things done the old-fashioned way. His way. Bracing a guy at two in the morning in the stairway of the Jackson Projects until he gave up the doer. Or traipsing up to Albany on a hunch and coming back with a set of fingerprints that tied a man to a murder twenty-five years after the fact. Maybe he’d even ask Vicki Vasquez to come with him. He’d done crazier things.
Franciscus lifted his eyes and stared into the sky. It boiled down to this: Even if he got the collar, his time was up. You didn’t spit in the chief’s face and live to talk about it. Esposito was a vindictive son of a bitch. He wouldn’t forget. Franciscus would make sure the city paid for his procedure. His buddies in the union would back him. The lieutenant was right. Thirty-four years on the job was a career. Who said sixty-two wasn’t a good time to start over?
The bus arrived. He climbed aboard and gave the driver the number of his rental car. Two minutes later, he climbed out.
Inside the car, he cranked the heat to the max. The car had an automatic navigation system and he spent a minute programming in Francois Guilfoyle’s address. Just in case, he opened the glove compartment and retrieved a map of D.C. and Virginia. “Chain Bridge Road,” he murmured to himself, flipping through the index.
A shadow passed close to the car.
Franciscus looked up, but saw nothing.
He returned his attention to the map.
Just then, the passenger-side front and rear doors opened and two men climbed into the car. The one nearest him shoved an automatic into his gut. “Try anything and you’re dead,” he said, leaning across his chest and clearing Franciscus’s pistol. “Start the engine and drive.”
“Senator Marvin, good evening, sir. Great to have you with us.”
Dapper in his dinner jacket and cummerbund, a dab of pomade to groom his hair, James Jacklin stood inside the entry to h
is home, greeting his guests. Every man got a thunderclap of a handshake, every woman a peck on the cheek and a heartfelt compliment. If people remarked that he seemed happier than they remembered, warm even, they would be correct. After a day and a night of stress and uncertainty, things were headed back his way. Not only did they have Bolden in custody, but Guilfoyle had nabbed the detective from New York as well. He only needed one more to make it a hat trick, but he was too old a dog to ask for more. He’d been chasing that rabbit for twenty-five years with no luck. All he really wanted to hear was a “yes” that Hugh Fitzgerald, senator from Vermont, would vote in favor of the appropriations bill and the night would be a doozy.
“General Walker, it’s a pleasure, sir,” said Jacklin, with a hand to his shoulder. “Any word from Fitzgerald about the pre-pos? The nation is in a dire state.”
“Let’s keep our fingers crossed,” said Walker.
“Director Von Arx, glad to see you,” said Jacklin to the director of the FBI. And in a whisper he added, “I thank you, Mr. Hamilton. We have the young man in custody as I speak. All’s well that ends well. Let’s have a drink together afterward.”
“Make it a double,” said Von Arx.
There was a break in the line of guests. Jacklin stepped outside to survey the cars and limousines clogging the long, curving driveway. Even the weather couldn’t keep people away. He checked the sky. The clouds were as dense as a bowl of cotton, the snow falling steadily. The broad front lawn sprawled before him as white as a wedding cake.
“Well, well, the billionaire himself.” Senator Hugh Fitzgerald lumbered up the stairs. In his greatcoat and black tie he looked like a coachman from the nineteenth century. A very large coachman. He wore a bloodred carnation in his lapel. “I thought you’d have a butler answering the door.”
“Now, Hugh, I’ve been waiting here just for you,” said Jacklin, seizing his forearm as they shook hands, and drawing him near. A gesture reserved for the closest of friends. “You’re on my short list. I don’t suppose you’ve done any thinking . . .”
“But I have, J. J. In fact, I’ve done nothing but think.”
“And?”
“Ah . . .” Fitzgerald offered a pat on the shoulder and an Irishman’s wink. “I didn’t say I’d decided.”
Jacklin joined him in convivial laughter, then he turned to the next guest. “Ah, Secretary Luttwak . . .”
But under his breath, he swore.
The line of parked cars ran up and down both sides of the narrow two-lane road for as far as she could see. Jenny pulled the rental behind the last one and killed the engine. The wipers skidded to a halt. In the seconds before snow dusted the windscreen and the world was whited out, she saw a man in a red windbreaker running up the hill, then another running down it. A car pulled in behind her, the lights illuminating the interior. For a moment, she caught her own eyes in the rearview mirror. The pupils were pinpricks. Her mouth appeared drawn; her complexion waxlike. She forced herself to take a breath. To calm herself, she applied a fresh coat of lipstick and ran the eyeliner a second time beneath her eyes. I can’t do this, she said to her reflection. I’m a teacher, not a spy. Her hand rested on her stomach. She thought of the new life growing inside her. A spy. She remembered that Mata Hari had died in front of a firing squad. It was better than a bullet in the back, or not seeing it at all.
“Excuse me,” she called, opening the door.
The parking attendant was a young man, his thick black hair crowned with snow. “Ma’am?”
“Do you have an umbrella?”
“Bring your car to the top of the driveway. I’ll be happy to park it for you.”
“I might need to make a quick getaway.”
He came nearer and got a look at Jennifer. His frown dissolved into a welcoming smile. “Wait right here. I’ll be back.”
He disappeared into the falling snow, a pair of legs running at full tilt. It took him five minutes to return, long enough for Jenny to erase any ideas about a quick getaway. He offered Jenny the umbrella and his arm. She accepted both. She didn’t like the idea of slipping in her high heels. Shoulder to shoulder, they marched up the street, then crossed it and continued up a long, curling drive.
The house was Mount Vernon’s ugly stepsister, bigger, bolder, and more garish in every way. To shield guests from the elements, a temporary porte cochere had been erected in front of the entry. A car passed on their left. Jenny paid careful attention as each couple presented their invitation to a very large doorman before being admitted. Elsewhere, she noted men in dark overcoats standing like sentries near the garage and at either end of the house.
“Why so much security?” she asked as they began the long walk up the hill.
“The President is due here at ten. He’s going to eat some dessert and say a few words. The Secret Service owns this place.”
Jenny felt her throat catch. “Damn,” she said. “I forgot my invitation.”
“Is it in the car? I can run back and get it for you.”
“No. At home, I’m afraid. Can you run to Georgetown? Things look pretty tight up there.”
The valet caught Jenny’s disappointed look. “Come with me,” he went on. “I’ll slide you in the kitchen entrance. I don’t think you qualify as a threat.”
“You never know,” she said, squeezing his arm.
A host of parking attendants stood inside the garage, helping themselves from a table laden with roast beef sandwiches, chicken legs, soft drinks, and hot coffee. Two Secret Service agents stood among them, talking. Jenny smiled as she walked past. She even waved, thinking a tall blonde with all-American good looks couldn’t possibly raise any alarm bells.
A moment later, the two agents were standing in front of her. Both had four inches on her, necks the size of fire hydrants, and a discreet wire trailing from their ears.
“Your invitation, ma’am?” asked one.
Jenny answered earnestly. “I forgot it at home. I know it was stupid. I even told this young man, here, and he was nice enough to help me get in.”
“I’m sorry, but we can’t permit you onto the premises.”
“I know,” said Jenny. “It’s just that my boss is here and I’m sure he’ll be upset if I don’t show up. The Ten Billion Dollar Dinner. You can imagine, it’s a big deal.”
“Your name, ma’am?”
“Pendleton,” she said. “Jennifer Pendleton.”
The lead agent brought his mouth toward his lapel. “Dallas one, this is Dallas four. Requesting a guest check. Jennifer Pendleton.” He turned his attention back to Jenny. “This will take a moment. In the meantime, I’ll need to see your driver’s license.”
“Oh, yeah, sure.” Jenny opened her purse, fiddling with her Kleenex and lipstick and eyeliner and chewing gum. The last thing she wanted to show the Secret Service was a driver’s license giving her real name. Not being on the guest list was one thing. Lying about it, another.
Presently, three more Secret Service agents arrived, forming a semicircle around her. The man who’d asked for her license addressed a short, barrel-chested agent whom she assumed to be his superior. “Unwarranted entry,” he said. “The lady doesn’t have an invitation. Not on the guest list, either.”
The agent in charge took her by the arm. “Do you have a driver’s license? Or any form of government-issued identification?”
Jenny shook her head. “No, I’m sorry. I seem to have left it at home, too.”
“With your invitation?”
“Yes.”
Nods all around. She sensed a definite increase in the tension level. This is where they unbutton their jackets and tuck their coats behind their revolvers, she thought.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like you to come with me,” said the barrel-chested agent. Another motion toward the lapel. “Mary, we have a Code Alpha. Meet me in the garage.”
Ten seconds passed. A trim, olive-skinned woman dressed in the same navy business attire as the male agents emerged from the house and bustled
across the garage.
“This is Mary Ansenelli,” said the agent in charge. “She’s going to escort you inside. We’re going to ask if it’s all right if we frisk you. You have a right to say no, in which case you will be arrested and taken to the local police station.”
“Arrested? I’m a guest of Mr. Jacklin and Jefferson. I’m sorry if they made a mistake and my name isn’t on the list. I work for Harrington Weiss. I couldn’t care less if you frisk me. You can do it here, for all I care. I just want to go to the party, preferably before dessert is served.”
“I understand you’re upset, ma’am. If you’ll just cooperate, I’m sure we can work things out.”
“Cooperate? What else do I have to do? I parked where I was supposed to. I came at the right time. I didn’t know strip poker was on the agenda.”
The female agent grasped her arm firmly. “If you’d come with me, please.”
Jenny shook it off. “No, I won’t!”
“Gary, shoot me some cuffs.”
“You will not put handcuffs on me. I am a guest at this event. Not some two-bit party crasher!”
The agent in charge took hold of her arms and tugged them behind her back. “Please keep still. We just need a little cooperation.”
“Let me go!” shouted Jenny, struggling. “Get Mr. Jacklin. I’m his guest!”
Handcuffs clamped her wrists. Someone spun her around, while the female agent led her toward the front of the garage. An agitated voice called for a car. Another was radioing ahead, advising someone to expect an incoming prisoner. A hand on her back pushed her forward. Jenny marched past the parking valets and the table laden with coffee and sandwiches. She glanced over her shoulder. The door to the kitchen was getting farther and farther away. “Be careful,” she said angrily. “I’m pregnant.”
A sedan drew up a few feet away. A short curly-haired man with vicious pockmarks stepped out and took Jenny’s arm. “Watch your head,” he said, opening the rear door and placing his hand on her head and forcing her into the car.
“Is there a problem, Agent Reilly?”
The Patriots Club Page 34