The Patriots Club

by Christopher Reich

  “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.”

  64

  The tip of the knife came to rest a millimeter above Bolden’s bare chest. It was a K-Bar, with white athletic tape wrapped around the handle. One side of the blade was serrated, the other sharpened like nothing Bolden had ever seen. Hands bound behind his back, feet tied to the legs of the chair, it was impossible to move.

  “Why are you doing this?” he asked. “You know I didn’t send any papers. You were watching me the entire time.”

  Wolf sniffed the air, giving the question his full consideration. “Easy, really: to settle the score. Make sure you go to the Lord with a sign that you crossed the Wolf’s path. It’s important to mark the bad guys.”

  “Kill ’em all. Let God sort ’em o
ut. Is that it?”

  “Oh, I’m not going to kill you. Not yet.” He stuffed a cotton handkerchief into Bolden’s mouth and pulled a piece of tape across his lips. “Some of the guys liked to beat up the Muj. Knock ’em around until their brains were mushy, then start asking ’em questions. Others liked to work on fingers or toes. Crush their knuckles, whatever. Not me. I like the skin. Most people know what to expect when you snap their fingers or stuff bamboo under their fingernails. No one knows what it’s like to have your skin peeled off your body, strip by strip. That’s their fuckin’ nightmare, man. It’s medieval. I think it’s the fear as much as the pain that makes them talk.”

  The point of the knife pressed into Bolden’s chest, an inch to the right of his nipple. A bead of blood bubbled around it. The knife cut deeper, Wolf drawing the blade in a straight line toward Bolden’s belly. When he reached his waist, he cut horizontally an inch, then twisted the blade and brought it back up.

  Until now, the pain had been extreme, but bearable. Bolden stared into Wolf’s eyes and darkness stared back. The abyss.

  “To those about to rock,” said Wolf. “We salute you.”

  Spearing the strip of outlined flesh, Wolf yanked the blade up.

  Bolden screamed.

  Jacklin spotted Hugh Fitzgerald deep in conversation with Frances Tavistock.

  “I see you two have met,” he said, pulling up a chair and joining them at their table.

  The former British prime minister was an elegant older woman, with coiffed graying hair, a stern countenance, and a patrician manner that would have done Queen Victoria proud. “Senator Fitzgerald’s been telling me about his time up at Oxford. Did you know we were both at Balliol? What a marvelous coincidence.”

  “Yes, I had to admit to Frances that she wasn’t all bad, considering she’s a Tory.”

  “Oh, Hugh,” she said, slapping his leg. “Tony’s practically come out of the closet himself.”

  “Does that mean you’re coming to our side of the table?” Jacklin asked.

  “I do think we’ve made some progress educating the senator about the true nature of the world,” said Tavistock. “Bad, bad, bad. Isn’t that so? It really is ‘us against them.’ One can never possess enough of an advantage.”

  “Simple common sense,” said Jacklin. “But it’s the soldier I’m worried about. Our boys don’t deserve to die just because one society has an inferiority complex toward America. I’m sorry, but that’s just the way I feel about it.”

  “All right, you two,” said Hugh Fitzgerald. “That’s enough. You win. J. J., you’ll have my recommendation for the appropriations bill tomorrow. Frances has convinced me that six billion dollars isn’t too much to pay to ensure that our boys are as safe as they can be.”

  “Hear, hear,” said Frances Tavistock, grasping Fitzgerald’s hand and giving it a squeeze. “Doesn’t it feel good to do what’s right?”

  “Offer still stands if you’re retiring,” said Jacklin. “We’ve an office with your name on it.”

  “Oh, do sign up with Jefferson, Hugh. It would be lovely. I’ve got to have someone to join me for roast beef and Yorkshire pudding on my visits.”

  But Fitzgerald would only go so far in one night. “I’ll think about it, J. J. Give me some time.”

  Jacklin stood. “Take all the time you need.”

  The orchestra struck up “Witchcraft.” Fitzgerald extended a hand toward Mrs. Tavistock. “Care to dance?”

  “Once we had a real tough Muj,” said Wolf. “He was as mean as a rabid dog. Six foot seven. Towered over me. These crazy blue eyes. We are talking wild. He was a warlord, had about two hundred savages under his control. And make no mistake, they were savages. I respect all religions, Islam, Buddha, what have you . . . but these guys . . . they came from another world, man. I mean, they weren’t even human. I found this guy easy enough. We brought him back to the base at Bagram to do a debrief. To tell you the truth, I was scared of him. I thought this sonuvabitch was going to outlast me. He was walking around on a busted knee. How much does that hurt?” Wolf shook his head in amazement. “Know how long it took before he spilled the beans? Ten minutes. Didn’t even get to finish the star I was cutting into him, my little reminder of his time with Uncle Sam. Now you, you’re still going strong. Tough little turd, aren’t you?”

  Wolf pulled the gag out of Bolder’s mouth, then poked the tip of the blade into his chest. “One more time, Tommy. Did you make any copies of Mr. Jacklin’s files?”

  “Didn’t have time,” whispered Bolden. “You were there.” His mouth was dry, his lips crusted with spittle. He couldn’t look at himself. It would be worse if he saw what Wolf had done to him. His breath came in short bursts, the slightest expansion of his ribs plunging a serrated spear into the farthest recesses of his belly. Fire. He was on fire.

  “Liar,” said Wolf. “I know you did. Just tell me where you sent them.”

  “No time. You saw. No time.”

  “Wrong answer,” said Wolf.

  Beneath the flickering light, the knife flashed.

  When he was finished, Wolf threw Bolden into the room with Jenny. “Looks like he was telling the truth. Take care of your man. He’s a tough one.”

  Jenny stared at Bolden’s chest, at the orthodox crucifix carved into his flesh, and stifled a scream. “My God, what have you done to him?”

  “Marked him for the Lord.”

  Bolden staggered and fell into her arms.

  65

  The old ship’s clock struck midnight. Around the table, all heads bowed in prayer.

  “. . . and so we thank you, Lord. Amen,” intoned Gordon Ramser, President of the United States. He looked up. “We all have a busy day tomorrow. Let’s keep this meeting as brief as possible. I’m sorry to report that my discussion with Senator McCoy did not produce the desired results. She even threatened to talk to Charlie at the Post.”

  “Would’ve taken that bet at ten to one,” said James Jacklin.

  Charles Connolly shook his head.

  “A shame,” said Ramser. “She would have been a solid addition.”

  “No shame at all.” Jacklin despised this maudlin hypocrisy. Either you stood with them or against them. All the moralizing in the world didn’t change what the men in this room had to do, or what those actions branded them. “We’d be looking at eight years of playing it safe,” he went on. “Kissing our allies’ asses and saying mea culpas for having the guts to do what was right, instead of what was expedient. Mrs. McCoy’s first trip would be to France, and she’d follow that up with a ride up the Rhine with her lips firmly planted on the German chancellor’s ass, all in the name of reestablishing our reputation as a team player. Alliances breed indecision. There’s not one thing to be gained from playing kissy-face with old Europe. Hell, they want nothing better than to see us fall on our ass, anyway. McCoy’s standoffishness is the best thing we could have asked for, besides getting our own man put into the White House. Any plans we had for Iran and Syria would have been scotched then and there. The whole Middle East would sink back into that pit of fundamentalist quicksand. Everything we’ve done would have gone for naught. I don’t even want to think what she’d do to defense spending.”

  “Defense spending?” asked John Von Arx, director of the FBI. “Is that what this is all about? We’re talking about taking the life of the next President of the United States. Jesus Christ, J. J., sometimes I think you confuse what’s good for the country with what’s good for your company.”

  “What do you mean by that?” snorted Jacklin.

  “It means I don’t like you asking me to call out my boys to solve your own problems. I’m talking about Tom Bolden and what transpired this morning in Manhattan.”

  “Bolden was a threat that needed to be neutralized.”

  “I heard it was an error.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “I do run the FBI. I have a few sources.” Von Arx addressed the other members seated at the table. “Some of
my guys looked at that tape of Sol Weiss being shot. They say it was faked. Top-quality work, but their computers spotted it in a jiff. It would never hold up in court.”

  “It was a judgment call,” said Jacklin. “He was a threat to Crown. We needed to get him off the street.”

  “Where is he now?” asked Von Arx.

  “He’s been contained. You don’t have to worry about it any longer.”

  Gordon Ramser clasped his hands on the table and directed a long, hard gaze at Jacklin. “The rumors about Jefferson are getting out of hand,” he said. “Your ‘revolving door’ is becoming a popular topic for the press corps. All this talk about ‘access capitalism’ has to stop. Are we clear on that, J. J.?”

  “That’s right, boys,” said Jacklin. “I only bribe ’em when you tell me to.”

  “The feeling is that you’re gorging yourself at the public trough,” said Chief Justice Logsdon.

  “Bullroar!” exclaimed Jacklin.

  “A word to the wise, J. J.,” cautioned Ramser. “Don’t confuse the Committee’s policies and your company’s.”

  Jacklin shook his head in disgust and disbelief. “Don’t talk to me about keeping public and private separate. Old Pierpont Morgan helped get us into the Great War and his company practically underwrote the whole thing. The history of this country is nothing but the government helping out the private sector, and vice versa. One hand washing the other. Hamilton knew it when he started the club with Nat Pendleton. Economics must dictate the country’s policies.”

  “You like to mention Hamilton so much,” said Charles Connolly, the journalist and author, also known as Rufus King. “He made it a point never to take a profit from policies he had a say in. He repeatedly turned down territories in Ohio and the Missouri Valley that would have made him immensely rich.”

  “He also got us started down this rocky road by getting rid of that scoundrel who was threatening the Jay Treaty. Don’t go moralizing to me about Hamilton. He was no saint. The man was a skirt chaser of the first degree. ‘The man had an overabundance of secretions no number of whores could satisfy.’ I believe I got that quote from your book, Charlie.” Jacklin pushed his chair back and stood up. “I’ve read those minutes, too. Go tell it to John Rockefeller and Standard Oil and Commodore Vanderbilt and his railroads. They all sat in my chair before me. Go tell it to Averell Harriman and his cronies. They all got rich from decisions that were made right here. The business of America is business. A wiser man than me already said it.”