“Those were different times,” said Gordon Ramser. “Far less transparent. We can’t afford to attract any undue scrutiny.”
Jacklin rested a hand on the back of his chair. “What are you all driving at?”
“Just watch what you’re doing,” said Ramser forcefully. “We can’t risk your actions discrediting our motives. The good of the nation comes first. Remember that.”
“I’ll be sure to tell it to Hugh Fitzgerald. He’s decided to give us his vote. The appropriations bill will pass. Our pre-pos should be restocked within six months. We can continue with our plans to bring some light to that godforsaken desert.”
“Congratulations,” said Ramser. A few of the others joined in, but Jacklin thought their voices were hollow, insincere. He noted the veiled stares, the averted faces. They’d been talking behind his back again. He knew the reasons why. He was too direct. Too brash for them. He was the only one who had the gumption to tell it like it is. Not one of these two-faced bastards dared look him in the eye. They’d been shoveling bullshit for so long, they’d grown to like the smell.
Jacklin cleared his throat. “I believe we were talking about Senator McCoy. It’s got to be done up close. I have something our British subsidiary developed for MI Six . . .”
“Excuse me, J. J., but I don’t believe we’ve taken a final vote on the matter,” said Chief Justice Logsdon.
“A vote? We decided last night. Gordon gave it a last shot and she turned him down. Our hands are tied. The President has always been a member. If she can’t take the hint, then she’s making her own bed. God knows, we’re better off without her.”
“No!” said Charles Connolly, and the word echoed around the room.
“No what?” asked Jacklin.
“We can’t do it. She’s the President. The people elected her. It isn’t right.”
Jacklin rose from his chair and walked the length of the table. “Since when do we care what the people say? This committee was created to temper the people’s will. To stop them from running this country into the ground.”
“It was not created to kill the President,” Connolly retorted.
“Sounds like you’re afraid you’ll lose your special pass at the White House. Did McCoy already promise to pull back the curtains and give you an insider’s view of how she saves us from the ‘new Vietnam’? Is that it, Charlie? No grist for the new book?”
“Don’t you see?” Connolly continued. “Any authority we claim comes from the President’s presence. Without him . . . or her . . . we’re not patriots, we’re renegades.” He shot a corrosive look at Jacklin. “Just a bunch of businessmen looking to enrich ourselves at the country’s expense.”
“That’s nonsense!” said Jacklin.
“Is it? The people expect the President to do what’s necessary. They realize that there are times when he can’t consult them, maybe even when he shouldn’t. It’s their implicit trust in him that gives us our legitimacy. Hamilton would never have started the club without Washington.”
“Screw him,” said Jacklin. “He’s been dead two hundred years.”
“But his ideas are still alive,” shouted Connolly right back.
“The club’s grown bigger than one person,” said Jacklin. “I don’t care if it’s the President or not. We have responsibilities to the nation. We have a history. You ask me, the country practically belongs to us. We bribed that Frog Talleyrand to make the Louisiana Purchase happen. We convinced old Du Pont to help underwrite the loan that paid for it. Whose idea was it to blackmail the czar so he’d sell us Alaska for three cents an acre? We’ve helped facilitate every major acquisition of territory in this country’s history. You say we need the President. I say we are the President. This is the White House, right here!”
“Shut up, J. J.,” said Chief Justice Logsdon. “You’ve gone too far.”
“No such place,” said Jacklin, dismissing the comment with a nasty wave.
“And you others?” asked Ramser. “Have you changed your mind?”
For a few moments, no one in the room spoke. Only the ticking of John Paul Jones’s ship’s clock filled the room. Jacklin paced back and forth, like a beleaguered ship’s captain. “Come on, Von Arx,” he said, putting a hand on the FBI director’s shoulder. “You know what’s right.”
Von Arx nodded reluctantly. “I’m sorry, J. J., but I have to agree with Charlie,” he said. “It’s tampering. We’ve got to give McCoy a chance to come to us. Her time in office will make a convert out of her.”
“Me, too,” said Logsdon. “Give the woman time.”
“And you?” Jacklin said, facing President Gordon Ramser.
“It doesn’t matter what I say. That’s three votes against. A unanimous vote is required for measures of this kind.”
“Screw the bylaws. What do you think we should do?”
Ramser rose from his chair and walked over to Jacklin. “J. J.,” he said. “I think we may have gotten ahead of ourselves on this one. There’s no hurry now that Fitzgerald’s given us his vote. The military needs at least six months before they can make any move. The joint chiefs are busy revising their battle plan. Let’s all take a breath and calm down. Like the chief justice says. ‘Give the woman time.’ ” He laughed richly to paper over the discord. “She has no idea what she’s in for.”
Jacklin forced a smile to his face, joining the others in laughter. But inside, his gut clenched and his nerves hummed with near unbearable tension. Gordon Ramser was right. She had no idea.
66
They walked outside, descending a short flight of stairs, then starting down a gravel path flanked by neatly trimmed hedges. The path led into a patch of woods, and within a minute, the woods became a forest, menacing and primeval, a thick canopy overhead allowing only a smattering of snowflakes to fall to the ground. The dark was utter and complete.
“Keep walking,” said Wolf.
Bolden picked up his feet and shuffled forward. He wore a loose shirt unbuttoned to the waist and a stained Mackinaw jacket someone had thrown over his shoulders. His chest was raw, fiery, his horribly scored flesh tightening as the wound congealed. The brush of the cold air, the prick of the snow against his skin, brought tears to his eyes.
He glanced behind him. A third bodyguard had joined Wolf and Irish. Somewhere ahead and off to the left, he caught a pair of red lights flash, then go dark. Brake lights, he guessed. The others had seen them, too. Their lack of concern extinguished his hope. The lights belonged to his hearse.
Alone, he and Jenny had spent a few minutes together. They’d sat hand in hand taking turns sharing what they had learned. About Jefferson bribing so many government officials. About Jacklin and the Patriots Club. Mostly, though, they talked about the baby.
Jenny told him, “I’m sure it’s a boy,” and Bolden suggested “Jack” as a name. It was a name he’d always liked. He suggested they raise him in Costa Rica, or maybe Fiji. Somewhere warm and far away from the United States. After some prodding, he agreed to Connecticut or northern New Jersey. A house on the water in Greenwich sounded inviting. Jack could learn to sail. Tom would learn first, so he could teach him. They wanted him in public schools. Jenny thought piano would be nice. Bolden said basketball was a must.
And Bolden . . . what would he do? He was done with investment banking. That much was certain. He didn’t know what he might be good at. He had some money saved, so he wouldn’t have to do anything for a couple years. Jenny would stay home with Jack. Her job showed her the effects not having a mother had on someone . . . just look at Tom. They’d laughed at that. Pretty soon, Jack would have a sister, and that would be all. She wanted to travel as a family, and four was a good, round number.
Dreams.
Bolden looked around him. Trees crowded in on the path. His universe shrunk to a narrow tunnel with neither beginning nor end. He grabbed Jenny’s hand. “I love you,” he said.
“I love you, too.”
“Forever.”
For a moment,
Bolden thought about running. But where? They were hemmed in on all sides. He couldn’t see ten feet in front of him. He’d be lucky to get a step before they cut him down. It didn’t matter. His ruined chest prevented him from running at all.
They came to a small clearing, a circular expanse that might have welcomed a bonfire.
“Hold up, hoss,” said Wolf. “On your knees.”
Bolden stopped. Jenny looked at him and he nodded. They knelt together. The ground was icy, littered with twigs and small rocks. His heart was beating very fast. A gun was racked close to his ear. Something cold and hard touched the nape of his neck.
He reached out for Jenny’s hand and prayed.
Bobby Stillman cut through the woods with a stealth born of experience. For twenty-five years she’d been ducking out of back doors, vaulting over fences, and in general acting like a fugitive half her age. In all that time, she’d never used her skills to save someone else. Harry followed a step behind, Walter pulling up the rear. The forces of liberty and justice, she’d named them.
It was no miracle that they’d found Thomas. They’d forced their captive to contact headquarters and report that he’d been kidnapped by Bobby Stillman but had managed to escape. Headquarters had informed him that Bolden was being transported to Jacklin’s estate. It was technology that allowed Bobby Stillman to track the Scanlon operatives nearby. If Harry was their brawn, then Walter was their brains. He’d simply built a receiver to track the signals emitted by the RFID chips implanted in the Scanlon operatives.
The footsteps ahead of them stopped.
Bobby drew to a halt. “Harry?” she whispered.
A hulking shadow came near. “We’ve got to split up,” he said. “Go around them. Walk softly. Heel to toe.”
In the dark, Bobby could make out a clump of figures. One, two . . . she wasn’t sure how many. She waited a moment to let Harry get into position, then began to inch through the undergrowth. Twigs scratched her cheek. A branch blocked her way. With infinite patience, she pushed it aside and skirted it. She wasn’t sure how to intercede. Harry carried a leather sap, but otherwise they didn’t have any real weapons. She’d never allowed them to carry guns or knives. It was a point of pride she was deeply regretting. Each carried a Maglite flashlight. The lights and whatever surprise they could muster would have to suffice.
When she was twenty feet away, she sank down and waited. The night closed around her. The wind whistled through the bushes, biting at her cheek. In a minute, her joints began to ache.
Alone in the dark, Bobby Stillman’s mind was flooded with memories of the day she had left her son.
They were coming!
She saw him fleeing down the hallway of her apartment in the Village. He was just a boy, and gripped by a child’s unspeakable panic. She was at his back, exhorting him to hurry. At the end of the hall, he flung open a closet door. She crouched at his side and lifted up the floorboards to reveal a neat rectangular space dug into the earth.
“Jump in,” she said.
Little Jack dropped into the hole and lay down in a single fluid motion, just as they’d practiced so many times before. She stared at him, her thin, anxious son with his mop of curly hair. He was a good boy, so eager to please, so obedient, yet the tears always so near. It was because of her, she knew. He had adopted her paranoia, her anxieties, her everlasting fear of the world.
“I’ll be back for you,” she said.
“When?” he asked.
She didn’t answer. She couldn’t bring herself to lie to him again. How could she say “never”?
Working quickly, she began replacing the floorboards. He remained still, his arms pressed to his sides. Sensing his fear, she bent to him. The flyaway strands of her unruly red hair tickled his cheek. She smiled and his eyes widened and he looked as if everything would be all right. But a moment later, he was lost in his waking nightmare. He knew his mother was leaving and she had said nothing to make him think differently. The tears streamed from his eyes. Silent tears. Obedient tears.
And then he pressed his lips together and forced a fragile smile. He wanted her to know that he was strong. That her Jacky Jo would be all right.
She laid the last plank into place and rushed from the house.
They were coming!
Only afterward had she realized that she hadn’t told her son she loved him.
She hoped she would be given one more chance.
Somewhere ahead, a hard voice said, “On your knees.”
Bobby Stillman’s heart stopped. She looked to her left and right. She was waiting for a signal from Harry. Darkness stared back. Squinting, she made out shadows, phantoms born of her imagination. She moved forward a step, and then another. She spotted Thomas on his knees in the center of a small clearing. Jenny was next to him.
She stepped closer and a stick snapped. All heads turned toward her. Bobby froze. Dressed in black pants, a long-sleeved black shirt, her hair dyed a widow’s black, she blended into the night. They saw nothing.
She could not take her eyes off of her Jacky Jo.
A shimmer of metal caught her eye. Someone moved closer to Jack . . . no, to Thomas. She must call him by the name he’d lived his life by. A man stood close to her son, his arm stiff, outstretched. Squinting, she could tell that he held a gun.
Harry, where are you? She wanted to shout. What are you waiting for? Walter? Then she realized it was her they were waiting for. She was their leader.
“No!” she screamed, turning on her flashlight, running wildly through the bushes. Around her, two other lights illuminated the scene.
A gunshot blistered the night.
John Franciscus lay still, his eyes half-open and glazed, his breath coming in shallow, undetectable sips. Closer, he urged the two guards. Just a little closer.
“Hurry up,” said the man nearest to him. “Find out if we should get a doc.”
From the corner of his eye, he saw one of the men rush out of the shack. The other bent over him, ear pressed to his chest. Franciscus rolled his eye to the left. The butt of the pistol was there. Inches from his fingers. The holster was unsnapped, the pistol’s safety on.
The guard raised his head, staring toward the open door. “Get a move on it!” he yelled.
Just then, Franciscus sat up and yanked the pistol from the holster. It was a clean clear. The guard shouted with surprise, too startled to immediately react. Franciscus notched the safety and fired into his chest. The man toppled to one side, grunting. Franciscus placed the pistol against his forehead and pulled the trigger. Rolling to one side, he pushed himself to his feet.
“Frankie, what gives?”
The second guard ran through the door. Franciscus staggered toward him, firing once, twice, the man collapsing to the ground, his head striking the concrete, thudding like a cannonball. Franciscus leaned against the wall, gathering his breath. His injuries were more severe than he’d imagined. The busted cheek was killing him. Worse, his vision was royally fucked, the light shattering into thousands of shards like he was looking at the world through a kaleidoscope. He took a step, looking out the door and down to the barn. The stables were deserted.
This is it, babe, he said to himself. The voice was strong and it gave him hope. Whaddaya know? I just might make it. For a moment he thought of Vicki Vasquez. He hoped she’d give him a chance. Just listen to him . . .
He started down the center of the barn. He kept the gun in front of him, his finger tugging at the trigger. With each step, his entire body rocked this way and that, searching for balance. He was rickety as a condemned building. Vicki would love him now. She might take an older guy with a weak heart. A half-blind cripple with a face that had lost the demolition derby was another story.
He needed to get outside. Ten steps and he would be there. He’d fire off a few shots, shout for help. A crowd would show up in no time. He dropped a hand to his back pocket and felt the outline of his badge holder. He wanted to smile, but his face was too wrecked. For a momen
t, he felt warm, and oddly satisfied with himself.
He reached for the barn door, but something was wrong. The door was opening inward toward him. He tried to step back, but he was too slow, and the door slammed into him. He stumbled backward. A figure rushed at him. It was hard to see who. Damned eye. A detached retina. That’s what the problem was. He aimed wildly and fired. Before he could squeeze the trigger again, something hot, blazingly hot, crashed into his chest and knocked him to the floor.
He stared up, looking at the hurricane lamp swaying above him. The light in the barn was fading fast, as if someone were dousing the wick. His mouth was very dry; his breath running from him.
Guilfoyle leaned over him, clutching Franciscus’s badge holder in his hand. He flipped it open and dug a thumb into the crease between the badge and the leather. Finding nothing, he swore and dropped it on the floor. “That’s the one place I’d forgotten to look,” he said. “Been bothering me for twenty-five years. So, where are they? What did you do with Jacklin’s fingerprints?”
Franciscus tried to open his mouth, but his body no longer obeyed him. The prints were safe, he wanted to say. He’d sent them where they might do some good. Away from men like Guilfoyle and Jacklin.
“Where are the prints?” Guilfoyle asked again. “Dammit, I need to know.”
But Franciscus could no longer hear him. He was floating. Above the stables and the pine forest, high into the sky.
Thomas Bolden jerked at the sound of gunfire. The pistol left his neck. Suddenly, the clearing was illuminated by light. An agitated voice shrieked, “No!” Lashing out, Bolden spun and kicked Wolf’s feet out from beneath him. Bolden jumped on top of him, pummeling him in the face, about the head. The pain in his chest, his body, was immense, a roaring brushfire that had engulfed him. It no longer mattered. His rage was fiercer still. All that mattered was that he kept up the assault. Again and again, he raised his fists and brought them down on his assassin’s face.
The Patriots Club Page 38