Wolf freed a hand and rocketed a fist into Bolden’s jaw, knocking him to the ground. The Scanlon operative rolled to his feet, his face bruised, blood dangling in cords from his nose. Bolden stood. The two circled each other, the gun on the ground between them.
Other figures were running around him. A tall, gray-haired man wielding a heavy Maglite clubbed Irish. Jenny wrapped her arm around the blond man’s neck and held him in a headlock. Somewhere there came the spit of a silenced gunshot, followed by the crunch of a hard object striking someone’s skull.
Wolf spat out a gob of blood. Carelessly, he wiped at his face. Bolden waited, gathering his breath. Wolf charged. This time it was Bolden who went with the attack, following the blow, grasping the man’s wrist, twisting it and pulling him over his shoulder. Wolf hit the ground. Bolden landed on his chest, driving his knee into the sternum, his hand cupped around his neck, fingers digging into the soft flesh. He found the windpipe. His fingers closed in on it, crushing it. Wolf thrashed on the ground, his hand clawing at Bolden’s face, seeking to gouge his eyes. Bolden brought all his weight onto his hands. The band of cartilage began to give . . .
“No, don’t . . .”
Bolden didn’t hear the words. He increased the pressure, forcing his thumb deep into the tissue. He stared into the burning brown eyes, wanting to extinguish their hateful fire forever.
“Stop!”
Hands grabbed Bolden’s shoulders and pried him off the Scanlon operative. Wolf pushed himself up. A figure stepped over Bolden and struck Wolf across the face with the Maglite. Wolf fell to the ground and was still.
Bolden lay on his back, sucking in the air. Bobby Stillman stood above him, the flashlight in her hand. Stunned, he looked up at his mother.
“Hello, Thomas.”
67
The floor of the Jeep Wagoneer was rusted through, holes the size of grenades chewed away by corrosion, rock salt, and years of abusive wear. Bolden sat in the rear seat, a wool blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He could see the icy path rushing beneath them, hear the clatter of gravel striking the undercarriage. Every bump, every turn, every acceleration made him wince. Adrenaline and emotion did something to combat the pain, but not enough. Jenny sat beside him, and next to her, his mother, Bobby Stillman. The vehicle turned violently, fishtailing on the slick pavement. Bolden caught the cry deep in his throat and stifled it with an iron fist.
“They still down?” asked the driver. His name was Harry. Bolden recognized him as the rangy, gray-haired man who’d come to the rescue in Union Square.
“No one’s moving yet,” answered Walter, seated in the lookout’s seat, shorter, paunchier, in need of a shave and a shower. He was studying a rectangular object similar to a Palm personal assistant. A topographic map was brightly illuminated on its screen. At its edge, a triangle of dots remained motionless. “Satellite tracking device,” he explained. “You familiar with LoJack? Works just like that. Just on people, not cars. Looks like all the other goons have headed home for some shut-eye.”
“People with transmitters?” asked Jenny.
“They’re ‘chipped,’ ” said Harry. “Don’t look so surprised. The army’s been using the technology for years. Only way they could find our Delta operators in Afghanistan.” He glanced over his shoulder. “How you doin’, my man? Think you can hold out till we can get you to a hospital? Have a doctor clean you up?”
“He’s not going to a hospital,” said Bobby Stillman. “Not yet. He’s a wanted murderer, for Christ’s sake. You think a man walking into the emergency room with a cross carved on his chest isn’t going to raise some questions?” She leaned forward and tapped Harry on the shoulder. “Stop at an all-night supermarket when you get into D.C. We can pick up some lidocaine spray, antibiotic cream, and bandages there. That’ll have to do for now.”
Bolden pulled the blanket around him, unable to keep his gaze from Bobby Stillman. He was hoping to spot a hint of resemblance between the two of them, something to prove to him that she was his mother. Something other than the “change of name” form that Marty Kravitz had dug up in the Albany county clerk’s office stating that John Joseph Stillman would now and forever be known as Thomas Franklin Bolden.
“Wondering if you’re really mine?” Bobby Stillman asked, catching him staring at her. “Surgery. Nose, cheeks, my hair’s dyed. After twenty-five years, I’d be surprised if you still recognized me . . . even if I hadn’t changed a wink.”
“You were there,” he whispered hoarsely. “Last night. I saw you.”
“At the dinner?” asked Jenny, looking between them.
“She was outside watching.”
“Yes. I was there,” said Bobby Stillman.
“How long were you watching me?”
“Your whole life.”
Bolden considered her words. “I never phoned you,” he said.
“No, you didn’t.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Jenny.
“That’s what set them off,” Bolden explained, going slowly. “Guilfoyle had come across a few indicators, minor things that they could have written off to business. But it was the phone calls that convinced them. Three nights in a row, someone placed a call from my apartment to her house. But I was in Milwaukee last week. It couldn’t have been me.” He looked back at Bobby Stillman. “You didn’t want them to miss it.”
Bobby Stillman nodded, but in the rearview mirror, Bolden caught Walter’s smile. It was his handiwork. Jefferson could hack into his bank accounts. Walter could tamper with his phone records. Three cheers for personal privacy. “Why didn’t you just shoot up a flare?” he asked.
“You have to understand how important it was for us to get inside Jefferson. We’d tried so many times and failed. The security was just too tight.”
“Why not just ask me?”
“And say what? ‘Hi. I’m your mom. Sorry I’ve been gone for twenty-five years. Now that I’m back, I’ve got some bad news. You’re in business with a world-class sneak, a murderer, and a threat to the entire country. I’ve come to ask you to risk your career and everything else you’ve busted your butt to earn, to help me bring him down.’ ” Bobby Stillman looked into her son’s eyes. “I don’t think that would have worked. No, Thomas, we had to show you what they were capable of. We had to make you feel it.”
“What did you expect me to do?”
“We knew that Jacklin would make the first move. It wasn’t Guilfoyle who came across the indicators. It was Cerberus. Cerberus is what they call their all-knowing, all-seeing data mining system. What’s that company you’re about to sell Jefferson? Trendrite. Yeah, well, it’s like Trendrite on steroids. Anyway, Cerberus picked you up. We imagined they’d question you, maybe cause some problems at work. Discreetly at first, just enough so you’d realize they’d compromised your privacy.”
“And then?”
“And then we were going to contact you and tell you what was what. Point you in the right direction. It was just a matter of letting you be yourself. You would push right back.”
Bolden held her eyes, damning her. “I guess I didn’t push hard enough.”
“I . . . I didn’t . . .” Words formed on Bobby Stillman’s lips, but she didn’t continue.
“What?” said Bolden. “You didn’t expect them to do this to me? You said it yourself. You wanted me to ‘feel it.’ You know something? It worked.”
“I had no idea they were so desperate. I—”
“You knew damn well this is what they’d do. This, or something like it.”
Bobby Stillman swallowed, her face taut. “No. This time was different. They went farther. Too far.”
“It’s Crown,” said Jenny. “I saw it in the minutes.”
“What minutes?” asked Bobby Stillman.
“The club’s,” said Jenny. “I found them upstairs in Jacklin’s house. It’s what they call themselves. The Patriots Club. Von Arx from the FBI, Edward Logsdon, Jacklin, Gordon Ramser, Charles Connolly, and Mickey
Schiff.”
Jenny went on. “They’re going to do something to Senator McCoy. She won’t join their group. They’re waiting to hear from President Ramser if he could convince her.”
“They’re going to assassinate her,” said Bobby Stillman. “It’s all set for this morning. At the inauguration.”
“You know about this, too?” Bolden asked.
His mother nodded. “We got it out of the Scanlon operative we nabbed at Union Square. That’s the good news. The bad news is that he didn’t know the when and how. Only the where.”
Crown. Bobby Stillman. Bolden put a hand to his forehead. It all fit now.
“Have you called the police or the Secret Service?” asked Jenny.
Bobby Stillman frowned. “And say what? Should I mention who I am? Or that I’m shielding a suspect wanted for murder in the state of New York? That makes two killers. Why not call the FBI while we’re at it? Put me through to Director Von Arx. Oh, I forgot, he’s part of the club, too.”
Jenny stared at her, aghast. “And so . . . we do nothing to stop it.”
Bobby Stillman lowered her head. “I don’t know what we can do.”
They drove in silence. Snow fell steadily, a white wilderness illuminated by the headlights. They turned onto George Washington Parkway. Here and there, the Potomac peeked from the trees, wide and flat and dark. He peered at the water, wanting answers.
“You have no idea what it took to walk away.”
The words were so hushed that Bolden thought that they might have come from inside him. He looked across the seat at his mother. “I was your son. You’d already seen fit to dump my father. You shouldn’t have dumped me, too.”
“I was on the run. I couldn’t take you with me.”
“Why not? What was the worst that could happen? You get caught, they take me away. Same difference.”
Bobby Stillman couldn’t hold his gaze. “Because you slowed me down.”
“Ah, the truth.”
“But I didn’t want them to take you. I had some friends in mind, people I thought I could trust. I hid you, but . . . but they let me down.”
“The left-wing fringe,” said Bolden. “Dependable as ever.”
A shadow passed over his mother’s face. Sighing with anger, desperation, even hope, she began to talk about the past. About bombing Guardian Microsystems and David Bernstein’s murder, about Jacklin framing her. About spending her life moving from one town to the next, always scrounging for money. And finally, about her mission to expose Jefferson, to unravel their fraud and put an end to their meddling.
“How can you understand?” she asked. “It was a crazy time. We were so impassioned, so angry. We believed. Does anyone believe in anything anymore?”
“But you never came back,” said Jenny. “You never wrote Tom a single letter.”
“It was better for him to forget me.”
“You didn’t leave when I was two,” said Bolden. “I was six. You were all I had.”
“And do you think you would have understood? Do you think a six-year-old can grasp the concept of sacrifice? All kids think about are themselves. Well, wise up, sonny boy, some things are more important than having a Coke and a smile.”
Bolden shook his head. He felt no loss, no sorrow, or self-pity. That part of him had died a long time ago. He was surprised when he heard her gasp and saw tears running down his mother’s face. She looked away, wiping her cheeks.
“Oh, lord.” She laughed achingly, her chin unsteady. “I was terrible. I know that. It was my choice and I’d make it again today. I couldn’t let Jacklin steal the people’s voice. That’s what he does. He doesn’t trust us. Any of us. So there. Now you know it. I was a bad mother. I’ve had to live with that every day. But I did what I had to do.”
Bolden reached out his hand. His mother looked down at it. Her eyes rose to him. Lacing her fingers through his, she took his hand and held on to her son tightly.
68
Agent Ellington Fiske of the United States Secret Service strode through the front door of the White House and addressed the assembly of men and women standing inside. “Mr. President. Senator McCoy. We’re ready for you.”
It was ten o’clock in the morning, Thursday, January 20. Inauguration Day by vote of Congress. Standing in the vestibule were the President and First Lady, their three grown children and two grandchildren, Senator McCoy, her father, her sister, and two nieces. At Fiske’s announcement, the group hastily set their cups and saucers on the table and headed to the door.
Four limousines waited outside: heavily armored black stretch Cadillacs, the Stars and Stripes flying from the hood like a cavalry unit’s guidons. Only the second and third in line, however, were outfitted to transport the President of the United States. These carried extra armor sufficient to withstand a direct strike from a rocket-propelled grenade, bulletproof glass capable of stopping a .30 caliber round fired at point-blank range, and puncture-proof tires.
President Gordon Ramser and Senator Megan McCoy climbed into the second limousine in line. Their family members and guests trooped into the third and fourth. Though the inauguration would not begin until twelve o’clock, protocol dictated that the incoming and outgoing President visit the Hill for a morning tea with congressional leadership inside the Capitol rotunda. Fiske checked that all doors were properly closed before walking to the head of the motorcade and climbing into the command car, a navy blue Chevrolet Suburban with no armor, no bulletproof glass, and a set of standard steel-belted radials. Secret Service agents were expendable.
“Tomahawk to Braves. We are go to the Capitol. Move ’em out.” Fiske put down the two-way radio and looked at Larry Kennedy, his number two. “This is it. The big day.”
“You da man, chief,” said Kennedy. He nodded confidently. “Everything’s gonna go smooth as silk.”
“Your mouth to God’s ear.”
For twelve months, Fiske had worked tirelessly to ensure that nothing would mar this day. Success was measured in how quickly the average American would forget it. Fiske wanted four minutes on the evening news and not a second more. Larry Kennedy put out his hand. Fiske shook it firmly. “Let’s do it.”
The motorcade departed 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, turning right, then right again at the end of the block and continuing down Fifteenth Street. Fiske stared out the window with suspicious eyes. The snow had stopped. The clouds had broken. A sky of frosted blue peeked from behind the curtain of white fleece. The next instant, the sun hit the ground, gilding the newly fallen snow and sending spirals of reflected light shooting off the wet streets. Fiske nodded grudgingly. About time the Lord got with the program.
The spectators were taking up positions along the parade route, staking out spots on the sidewalk and filling the bleachers. Clusters of eight magnetometers governed entrance to each fenced-in, three-block perimeter. It was simple mathematics. Three thousand people an hour could pass through each checkpoint. There were twenty checkpoints in total. Sixty thousand people an hour could gain access to the parade route and National Mall. Last time, the crowd had numbered an estimated three hundred thousand between the Mall and the parade route. But now . . . Fiske grimaced. The change in weather would bring them out in droves. A steady stream of men and women passed through each checkpoint along the route. So far, so good.
His eyes rose to the roof of the Reagan Building. A shadow flitted above the parapet. Sharpshooters were in place at seventeen strategic locations along the route. Antiaircraft batteries had been erected at eight others. To his right, a K-9 team conducted a final check for explosives beneath the bleachers.
Three thousand uniformed police.
Two hundred of his own agents.
Two thousand volunteers.
Everyone was in place.
Fiske sat back. All he could do was wait.
Thomas Bolden tramped awkwardly across the snow, his arm draped over Jenny’s shoulder. Despite the bandages wrapping his chest and the heavy dose of over-the-counter lidocai
ne spray-on painkiller, his chest throbbed ferociously. He’d just have to take it for a while.
The National Mall was crowded to bursting with spectators. From the steps of the Capitol building to the sloped foothills leading up to the Washington Monument, it was a sea of bobbing heads with more arriving every minute. Bobby Stillman led the way, not afraid to push, squeeze, or plain shove her way through the grinding crowd. For over an hour, Bolden had argued that he should find a Secret Service agent and inform him of their fears. His mother wouldn’t hear of it. One mention of a threat to the President-elect, and he would be whisked off to a holding cell where he could be interrogated. The first thing they would do was ask for his driver’s license, or social security number, and run him through their computers. Word would come back that he was wanted for murder, and that would be the end of that. Case closed. Innocent or not, he was a fugitive whose word had lost its value.
They had come to keep watch. To pray that they’d spot the attempt on Senator McCoy’s life in time to warn her.
They stopped at a spot beneath the television tower. The strains of the Marine Corps Band reached their ears. All brass and drums, a chest-thumping call to arms.
“Nothing like a Sousa march to get the blood flowing,” said Harry. “Makes me want to straighten up and fire off a salute.”
“Makes me want to run in the other direction,” said Walter.
The presidential stand was two hundred feet away. The seats behind it were nearly full. Bolden spotted Von Arx of the FBI, and Edward Logsdon, Charles Connolly, the author, and of course, James J. Jacklin. The Scoundrels Club. Only Ramser and Schiff were missing.
The Patriots Club Page 39
