Jenny turned and stared into James Jacklin’s stern face.
“This woman was trying to gain entry to your party, sir,” said the agent in charge. “She doesn’t have an invitation and her name’s not on the guest list.”
Jenny looked between the two men. Catching Jacklin’s eye, she smiled with heartfelt relief. “Mr. Jacklin, it’s me . . . Jenny Pendleton. You probably don’t remember me, but I work at Harrington Weiss in New York. I’m in the structured finance group under Jake Flannagan.”
“Of course, I know Jake. I’m sorry he couldn’t make it.” Jacklin looked from one agent to another. “Gentlemen, I think it’s all right if you remove the handcuffs from this poor woman.”
Reilly, the agent in charge, unlocked the cuffs.
Jenny put a hand to her chest, sighing. “Thank God. Someone who doesn’t take me for a criminal. Jake’ll kill me for being late, but . . .”
Jacklin waved away the Secret Service agents. “I think we can take it from here. Miss Pendleton’s with one of Jefferson’s most important clients. I’ll be happy to vouch for her.” He extended a hand and Jenny took it. “Right this way, m’dear. I’ll be happy to show you around. First, though, let me get you a drink. I insist. Cold outside, isn’t it?”
Jenny nodded, the smile frozen in place. Strangely, she couldn’t say a word.
60
The jet was an older Gulfstream III. A ten-seater with cracked leather seats, faux burled-wood paneling, and not quite the ceiling height of newer models. Bolden sat in the center of the cabin, his hands and ankles bound by plastic restraints that cut deep into his skin. Wolf sat at the tail of the cabin, screwing and unscrewing the silencer onto the muzzle of his pistol. “Low-velocity shells,” he’d informed Bolden when they’d boarded. “Just enough powder to put a hole in you, but not enough to carve one in the fuselage.”
It was not Bolden’s first trip on a private jet. Nor his second, nor even his tenth. The business of buying and selling billion-dollar corporations was conducted at a fever pitch. Time was money. No one could afford to waste hours stuck in ticket queues, clearing security, or being at the whim of a late-arriving aircraft. In the course of six years as an advisor to many of the nation’s largest companies, he’d logged no less than fifty flights aboard corporate aircraft.
In comparison to the others, this flight ranked near the bottom. “Spartan” would be a good word to describe it. He did not enjoy the usual amenities. There was no diet Coke, ginseng tea, or Red Bull to revive his flagging spirits; no chilled Dom to celebrate a successful closing; no homemade biscuits and jam; no Concord grapes and brie; no tortilla chips and guacamole to nosh on. No warm towels. And certainly no onboard aesthetician to inquire whether he’d prefer a manicure or a ten-minute “power” massage.
Bolden reflected that it was odd how much a man’s life could change in twenty-four hours. Last night, he was the cock of the walk. Man of the Year. A high-ranking executive with a boundless future. It had changed in another, more important, way. He was the father of a child growing in the womb of the woman he loved. He stared out the window, seeing Jenny’s face in the darkness.
The plane banked to the left, dropping out of the clouds above Georgetown University. They came in low over the Potomac, the Kennedy Center nipping at their wing. The plane shuddered as the landing gear came down. They flew at monument level, looking through the Lincoln Memorial down the Reflecting Pool, the Washington Monument half obscured by mist and snow.
It would be, he thought, his final landing.
“Are you sure we’ve met?” asked Jacklin. “I don’t know that I could have forgotten someone so lovely.”
Jennifer Pendleton nodded eagerly. “Actually, once . . . but it was a while ago. I can’t thank you enough for coming to my rescue. I was actually starting to feel a little afraid.”
“Not to worry, m’dear. It would have worked itself out.”
The two were standing in the main salon, surrounded by a swirl of men and women in tuxedos and evening finery. Jenny laid a hand on Jacklin’s arm and Jacklin couldn’t help but step closer to her. She was damned cute. “You say you’re a Pendleton?”
“As a matter of fact, we share a great-great-grandfather. Edmund Greene Pendleton. Our side of the family moved to Ohio. We were farmers, not politicians.”
“Where would this country be without farmers? George Washington raised some tobacco in his day, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Tell me, Mr. Jacklin . . .”
“J. J., dammit, you’re making me feel old.”
“Tell me, J. J.,” she went on, pointing to the oil portraits that adorned the wall. “Are any of these Pendletons?”
“Jacklins mostly.” He patted her hand. “I’ll be happy to give you a tour.” He led her around the room, offering brief biographies of his ancestors. Harold Jacklin, his father, the distinguished congressman. Edmund Jacklin, before him, a railroad man and banker. She is a charming girl, he thought. Not at all like the cold fish that strutted up and down Wall Street. When he’d finished talking about the paintings, he was happy to find her hand still on his arm.
“You know, J. J.,” said the woman, “I’ve always believed that the Pendletons are America’s forgotten family. Nathaniel Pendleton is hardly mentioned in the history books, yet he was a close friend of Alexander Hamilton and George Washington. It’s time to give our family its due.”
“I couldn’t agree more. You know, I’m a bit of a history nut myself. Tradition runs in our blood. A respect for the past. I’m the fifth generation Jacklin to serve his country. I’m a marine myself. Old Nat Pendleton was a colonel in the cavalry.”
“South Carolina, wasn’t it?”
“Now you’re talking. I see you know something of the family.”
“Actually, I’m a history nut, too. I used to give walking tours of old New York. We’d start at Fraunces Tavern, then walk up to St. Paul’s.”
“Fraunces Tavern? So you’re familiar with the Long Room?”
Jennifer Pendleton nodded. “Where General Washington said farewell to his officers. I believe it was December 4, 1783.”
Jacklin looked at the girl in a new light. She was sharp as a tack. He’d have to give Mickey Schiff a call and see if she might take Bolden’s place. He’d be more than happy to steer a little extra business in HW’s direction, if it meant making a few overnight company visits with this golden-haired damsel. He checked his watch. “Would you like to see it right now?”
“The Long Room? New York’s a bit of a trip.”
Jacklin pulled her closer and whispered in her ear. “Who’s talking about going to New York? Come with me, but we’ve got to hurry. Dinner’s due to be served. Picked out the menu myself. Are you partial to truffles?”
Jacklin led the young woman upstairs. When he came to the door, he stopped. “This took me twenty years to get just right. Every detail is just as it was that night in 1783.”
Jacklin pushed open the door and turned on the light. He walked around the table and pointed out the display case holding Lincoln’s Bible and Hamilton’s hair. Her rapt attention reminded him of his own ardor for the subject. “Nat Pendleton used to meet with General Washington and that fox Hamilton in this very room. It was more a club for them than a tavern.”
“A club. Really?” Jenny’s heart beat faster. It was real. Just as Bobby Stillman had said. Just as Simon Bonny had promised.
“Yes. A place where they could repair in private, smoke a cigar, have a few tankards of ale. But Washington was a serious fellow. He came here to do business. See to the affairs of the country.” Jacklin ran a hand over a large burled-wood humidor set atop a matching burled-wood stand. “See this?”
“It’s beautiful,” she said.
“Handmade to match General Washington’s own. Not a replica. A twin.” Opening the humidor, he selected a Romeo y Julieta that would go nicely with the port being served with dessert. He remembered that these days women smoked the damn things, too. He didn’t want to
be taken for her granddad. “Care for one . . . Jenny, is it?”
“Oh no, I believe that cigars are best left for the man of the house.”
Jacklin nodded appreciatively. She was talking his language. He walked the length of the table. “Yes sir,” he said. “More important decisions were made in this room than I’d care to guess.”
“I’m getting goose bumps,” said Jenny.
“There, there. Let me warm you up.” Jacklin rubbed her arms. “You’re shaking.”
“I should have brought a shawl.”
“Nonsense.” Jacklin slipped his arm around her, letting his hand drift lower and caress her bottom.
“And you said that General Washington had meetings here?” she asked. “Even when he was President?”
“Oh yes. There were some things he couldn’t talk about in Philadelphia. Too many spies. You have no idea—” A bell sounded from downstairs. Jacklin looked toward the door. “There’s dinner.” He allowed his hand to linger and noticed the woman didn’t seem to mind. Well, well, the night might turn out a little more exciting than he’d planned. “What table are you at, m’dear?”
“I left my invitation at home. I don’t remember what it might have said.”
“You’re welcome to join Leona and me, if you like.”
“No, really, I don’t mean to intrude. I’ve already taken up enough of your time.”
Jacklin switched off the lights and closed the door. “Consider it done,” he said, feeling the glow of an impending conquest. “We’re family, after all. We have to stick together.”
61
It was Jacklin’s house. Franciscus knew it without being told. He could see it through the glade of pines as they drove up an unpaved road adjacent to the property. A classic Colonial with fluted white columns, forest green shutters, and a portico you could drive a hansom cab through. Some party, too. The place was lit up like Tavern on the Green. Mercedeses, BMWs, more than a few Rollses lined the driveway. Not a Ford in the lot. The car pitched and rumbled over loose rock and gravel and came to an abrupt halt. Several men emerged from the woods and formed a cordon around his door. At their signal, he was spirited out of the car and marched to a stable three hundred yards down a manicured stone trail. A lone guard was posted outside. As they approached, he spoke some words into his lapel mike and opened the door. Franciscus walked inside, along with the two men who had driven him down from Reagan Airport.
They passed a line of empty stalls and led him to a tack room with saddles draped on wooden rods and horse blankets stacked in one corner. The room was small, fifteen feet by fifteen, with a poured concrete floor, an antique bench, and a hurricane lamp hanging from the ceiling. He sat down on the bench and rubbed his hands together. It was frigid and damp inside. He had on an overcoat and his suit, but the walk had raised a sweat. Before long, he was shivering.
Franciscus didn’t have much experience being a captive, and the truth was that it scared the shit out of him. He’d seen David Bernstein’s body, looked at the slug that had killed him. He knew that the men who held him were capable of murder. Mostly, he was scared because he knew what they wanted, and he had decided that he wasn’t going to give it to them.
The door opened and a sallow, hunched man about his age walked in. His tux identified him as a member of the ruling classes. His eyes came to rest on Franciscus. Dark. Depthless. Eyes that looked into your soul.
“Hello, Carnac,” said Franciscus.
“It’s been a while since I’ve heard that. I don’t like it, by the way.” Guilfoyle motioned for the other men to leave. When they were outside, he took up position by the door. “Where did you find the fingerprints?” he asked.
“They were in Kovacs’s things,” said Franciscus agreeably.
“Really? I thought I’d given all of his belongings a good going-over. Where exactly?”
“Does it matter? I looked through his papers and I found them.”
“I trust you have them with you.”
Franciscus looked at him as if he were nuts. “You used to be a cop. Ever carry evidence around with you?”
“Did you leave them in New York? We’ve had a look through your desk and inside your home. Any place we might have missed? Just so you know, we erased the file from LiveScan’s memory. You’ve got the only existing copy of Mr. Jacklin’s prints. That’s to your advantage.”
Franciscus shrugged. “Actually, I gave them to Bill McBride.”
“I wouldn’t trust McBride with my laundry ticket. Really now, Detective, we must have the fingerprints.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I really don’t have ’em with me.”
“Mind if we search you?”
“Be my guest,” said Franciscus, raising his arms to either side and turning a circle. “But the lottery ticket’s mine. I’ve got a good feeling about it.”
“Take off your jacket and trousers.”
“It’s not going to help you.”
“Just do it,” said Guilfoyle.
Franciscus handed Guilfoyle his jacket and trousers, and watched as he went through them, turning out the pockets, patting the lapels, feeling the seams. Guilfoyle was doing all the work, but it was Franciscus who felt the energy seeping out of him. A few times, he’d fought off nausea spells, noticed his vision getting fuzzy at the periphery. Guilfoyle picked his wallet up from a milking stool and looked through it. He took out the money, then the credit cards, then the scraps of this and that that Franciscus had at one time or another deemed important enough to hold on to. Finished, Guilfoyle replaced the wallet on the stool, beside his credit cards, his badge, and his police ID. “I need the fingerprints, Detective. Now.”
“That I can imagine,” said Franciscus. “Those prints were all over the gun that killed Officers Shepherd and O’Neill, and David Bernstein.”
Guilfoyle ran a hand over his chin. Suddenly, he turned his attention back to the stool where Franciscus had set his wallet and his badge. Knocking both aside, he snatched up Franciscus’s ID holder, flipped it open, and wedged his thumb behind the photograph. He sighed, then dropped the case on the floor.
“Detective Franciscus . . . you know what you’ve stumbled into. Mr. Jacklin’s an important man. I confess that I have an interest in those prints, too. There’s no reason we can’t release you if you simply hand them over. We live in a world of evidence, not hearsay. I know your kind. You don’t go tilting at windmills. You’re like me. A realist. Give me those prints and you’re a free man. I’ll have one of my associates give you a ride to the airport. You have my word.”
Franciscus stared at him with disgust. “Too bad you left the force. You’re very persuasive. Very smooth.”
“The prints, Detective. You may either give them to me, or tell me where they can be found.”
Franciscus shook his head. “I don’t make deals with scumbags. You killed Theo Kovacs. Maybe you had a hand in taking care of Shepherd and O’Neill, too. You tried to knock off Bolden and ended up shooting his girlfriend instead. You made a mess on my turf, and I’m going to see to it that you do some time for it.”
That was it. Franciscus had spoken his piece. He’d expected it to resonate more. But in the cold, barren stable, his words ended up sounding flat and powerless. Standing there barefoot, bare-chested, and shivering, he felt stupid. Worse, he felt defeated.
“I’ve got a dinner to go to,” said Guilfoyle, after he’d summoned his security men back into the shack. “Boys, do your best to make the detective a little more talkative.”
Dinner was served inside a large tent erected on the tennis court. White trellises laced with live bougainvillea decorated the walls. A parquet floor had been laid. Tall space heaters stood rooted like trees between the tables. A stage rose at the far side of the tent. The orchestra played an upbeat number with verve and brio.
The first course had been cleared. Jacklin wandered between tables, making the rounds. He spotted Guy de Valmont at the bar and went to speak with him.
“Well, J. J., are you happy?” asked de Valmont. “Full house despite the lousy weather. I’d say it’s a home run.”
Jacklin surveyed his assembled guests. “Never seen ’em so relaxed. Remind me to have all our fund-raisers at my home.”
“They’re all here. Every last one of them showed up.” De Valmont looked around the room, calling the names as he saw them. “The boys from Armonk, Jerry Gilbert from Grosse Pointe, the Brahmins from Harvard Endowment . . .”
“Even that shrew from Calpers made it,” whispered Jacklin. “You know it’s a hot ticket if the liberals from California start showing up.”
“I’ve already got a commitment for another two hundred million from GM,” de Valmont reported. “It’s going to be a good night.”
Jacklin beamed. “The President’s agreed to introduce Frances Tavistock. That should net us another half a billion.”
“Have you made it official with President Ramser about coming aboard?”
“Decorum, Guy. Decorum. It’ll look a little nicer if he waits a year, does the lecture circuit. Remember, it doesn’t do to hurry.” Jacklin clapped an arm around de Valmont and squeezed his shoulders. The defeats of that afternoon were as fleeting as gunsmoke. “Ten billion. We’re almost there.”
The music faded as Jenny made her way upstairs. A Secret Service agent stood next to the banister at the top of the stairs. The President was due any minute. Jenny motioned toward the ladies’ room. A nod of the head granted her free passage.
The hall was narrow and brightly lit, a runner of sky blue carpeting over a wood plank floor. Jenny passed the bathroom and opened the door next to it. The Long Room was dark, shadows from the rustling branches flitting across the floor. She closed the door behind her and waited a moment. Ghosts. She could feel them hiding in the corners, watching. There was Lincoln’s Bible and Hamilton’s hair and a splinter from Washington’s coffin. The relics of saints.
They met at midnight. A prayer was said first . . .
Jenny turned on the overhead light. The similarity to the real Long Room was eerie. But why copy it? she asked herself as she crept across the floor. Was it a history buff’s nostalgia fix? Or was there another reason? Besides the table that ran down the center of the room, the furniture consisted of a low dresser, a desk, and a glass-fronted armoire. She opened every drawer, tried every cabinet. She found nothing.
The Patriots Club Page 35