The Patriots Club
Page 41
As Jacklin walked downstairs, he shook off one set of worries for another. His spies at the Securities and Exchange Commission had informed him that the head of enforcement had received certain confidential documents outlining massive payoffs from Jefferson Partners to a dozen former government officials, including the recently retired head of the FCC and a prominent four-star general. There was no indication of who had supplied the documents, but Jacklin knew well enough. It was Bolden. He had managed to fire off some copies to his friends, after all. Jacklin’s attorneys would handle the matter. In the meantime, Jacklin would repair to his private island. From there, he would direct the usual overtures. Promises would be made. Money would change hands. He was worth eight billion dollars, give or take. That kind of wealth bought lots of friends. Jefferson was too big to kill. It had too many secrets. In the meantime, he would see what he could do about Logsdon and Von Arx. It was just a matter of time before he was back.
Jacklin opened the front door. The chauffeur stood waiting, cap drawn low over his eyes. Jacklin noticed he had a strange scar on his cheek.
“Just the one bag,” Jacklin said. “I’ll be right there.”
“Take your time, sir. We’re in no hurry.”
Jacklin placed the note he’d written to his wife on the kitchen counter, then set the alarm and locked the door behind him. He took a last look at the house. Everything was secured. The journals had been packed up and sent to a safe place. Somewhere away from prying eyes. The heirlooms of Washington and Hamilton, likewise. He didn’t want them rotting in a museum. They were meant for privileged eyes only.
He took a breath of his beloved Virginia air—American air—and climbed into the backseat of the limousine. It was only when he sat back that he noticed the figure at the far end of the passenger compartment. A big man with dark skin and narrow, hate-filled brown eyes.
“That you, Wolf?”
“I came to wish you bon voyage, Mr. Jacklin.”
Jacklin’s hand flew to the door. He pulled at the handle repeatedly.
“Locked,” said Wolf.
“What exactly is going on? Hold it, right there! That’s an order.”
Wolf advanced across the compartment at a crouch. He held something sharp and angular in his hand. “Change of management, sir. The President sends her regards.”
The sun’s dying rays flashed off the knife’s honed blade.
EPILOGUE
Spring had arrived in a spray of vibrant greens. The air had warmed, and a wandering breeze swept across Central Park. Hand in hand, Thomas Bolden and Jennifer Dance sat on a bench next to an empty baseball diamond.
“Mexico City?” Jennifer said. “But you don’t even speak the language.”
“I can learn,” said Bolden. “It will be the biggest Boys Club in the country. They need someone to run the place. Mostly someone who can help them raise the money to keep it going.”
“Isn’t it dangerous down there?”
Bolden shrugged. “I think we can look after ourselves.”
Jenny nodded. “It’s just so far away . . .”
“I’m not going without you.”
“You’re not?”
“Wouldn’t think of it.”
“What about your mother?” Jenny asked.
“Bobby? I figure she can visit once every couple of months. I think that’s enough, don’t you?”
Three days after the attempt on President Megan McCoy’s life, Bolden had received an envelope from the New York Police Department containing a copy of the fingerprints found on the gun that had killed two Albany police officers twenty-five years earlier. A note stated that the fingerprints had been identified by the NCIC as belonging to James J. Jacklin. It was signed Detective John Franciscus. With the new evidence and a lack of eyewitnesses, all charges were dropped against Bobby Stillman.
“You’re probably right,” said Jenny. She narrowed her eyes. “Mexico, huh? You expect me just to pack up and move to a foreign country with you. I don’t know if I’m that kind of girl. I mean, we haven’t even lived together yet.”
Bolden got up off the bench and led her to home plate. Kneeling, he took her hand. “Jennifer Dance. I love—”
Bolden stopped midsentence, distracted by a black Lincoln Town Car that had pulled up on the road directly beside them. The door opened and a squat, older man emerged, dressed in a funereal black suit. Bolden recognized him immediately. “Um, just a second, Jenny.”
Bolden rose and jogged over to the man. “Mr. Chief Justice,” he said.
“Catch you at a bad time?” asked Edward Logsdon.
“The worst.”
“I’m sorry, son. Important matters.” Logsdon laid a hand on Bolden’s shoulder and guided him away from the baseball diamond. “I need to discuss something with you.”
Bolden nodded, glancing behind him. Jenny remained by home plate, arms crossed over her chest. “What exactly do you want?” he asked.
Logsdon stopped walking and turned to face him. “I’ve come to speak to you about the club. You didn’t think we went away, did you?”
Bolden shook his head. “I guess not.”
“We owe you an apology, as well as a debt of gratitude.”
“Look, whatever it is, I’m not interested. That’s over. I’m just trying to get on with my life.”
“At least hear us out.”
Bolden looked toward Jenny, then sighed and said, “Okay.”
Logsdon stepped closer. “Actually, Tom, I’ve come here to ask you to join us.”
“To join you? The club?”
“Yes.”
“Are you kidding? I mean, why me? Aren’t I a little young?”
“To be honest, yes. But in this case, age isn’t a qualifying factor.”
Bolden waited, not saying a word.
“There has always been a Pendleton in the Patriots Club,” Logsdon continued. “I’m obligated by our covenants to ask you to join us.”
Bolden swallowed. “James Jacklin . . .” he began.
“Your father.”
“What was that about?” Jenny asked when Bolden returned.
“He wanted me to join a club.”
“The club? What did you tell him?”
“I told him I’d think about it. I had something more important to take care of first.” Thomas Bolden took a knee. “Now, where was I?”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank the following individuals for their assistance: Detective First Grade (retired) Thomas McKenna, NYPD; Special Agent-in-Charge (retired) Thomas Sloan of the United States Secret Service; Dr. Doug Fischer, Special Agent with the California Department of Justice; Dr. Gregory Piatetsky-Shapiro; Dr. Raghu Ramakrishnan; Richard Brookhiser; Jeffrey Kroessler; Bob Friedman at the Blackstone Group; Tom Flanagan at Lehman Brothers; the kind folks at Fraunces Tavern in lower Manhattan; and my good friend, Niklaus Leuenberger at The Peninsula Hotel New York.
A special thank-you to Dan Starer of ResearchforWriters.com, also in New York. Dan is a wiz at finding whatever a writer needs, and I’m always happy to thoroughly recommend his services.
At Bantam Dell, I offer my thanks to Irwyn Applebaum, Nita Taublib, Micahlyn Whitt, Susan Corcoran, Betsy Hulsebosch, and most especially to my editor, Bill Massey.
Every author owes a huge debt to his family. My wife, Sue, is a partner in every aspect of my work. Words are not enough . . .
Finally, I’d like to thank my agent, Richard Pine, to whom this book is dedicated, and his colleagues at Inkwell Management, especially the indefatigable Lori Andiman.
Author’s Note: It is normal for both the House and Senate to be adjourned prior to the Presidential Inauguration. I took it upon myself to convene a hearing of the Senate Appropriations Committee during that time. I hope our august legislators will pardon the license taken.
Christopher Reich
Olivenhain, California
April 2005
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Christopher Reich was born in To
kyo in 1961. A graduate of Georgetown University and the University of Texas at Austin, he worked in Switzerland before returning to the United States to pursue a career as a novelist. The bestselling author of four other acclaimed novels, Numbered Account, The Runner, The First Billion, and The Devil’s Banker, he lives in California with his wife and children.
Also by Christopher Reich
NUMBERED ACCOUNT
THE RUNNER
THE FIRST BILLION
THE DEVIL’S BANKER
THE PATRIOTS CLUB
A Delacorte Press Book / August 2005
Published by
Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2005 by Christopher Reich
Delacorte Press is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Reich, Christopher.
The Patriots Club / Christopher Reich.
p. cm.
1. Corporations—Corrupt practices—Fiction. 2. Fugitives from justice—Fiction. 3. False testimony—Fiction. 4. Conspiracies—Fiction. 5. Kidnapping—Fiction. 6. Wall Street (New York, N.Y.)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3568.E476284 P38 2005
813′.54 22 2005041439
www.bantamdell.com
eISBN: 978-0-440-33550-4
v3.0