The Patriots' Club

43

“Professor Walsh?”

A bearded, shaggy-haired man in a black cable-knit sweater and tortoiseshell glasses glanced up from his desk. “We’re officially closed,” he called gruffly. “Office hours are Monday and Friday from ten to eleven. They’re posted on the window and on your syllabus, if you haven’t had a chance to take a look at it.”

“Professor Walsh, it’s Jennifer Dance. Senior seminar… the historical society.”

Behind the pebble lenses, watery blue eyes stirred. “Jennifer? Jennifer Dance? That you?”

Jenny stepped tentatively into the office. “Hello, Professor. Sorry to disturb you. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t important.”

Walsh stood and gestured for her to enter. “Nonsense. Come in, come in. I thought you were another one of my geniuses carping about their grades. The kids these days… either it’s an ‘A’ or you’re jeopardizing their future. Ingrates is what they are.” Turning to the side, he slipped past a bookcase filled to overflowing. He was broad-shouldered and burly, more a mountain man than a tenured professor of American history and the president of the New-York Historical Society. “Still giving tours of the city?”

Jenny closed the door behind her. “Not for a while. Actually, I’m teaching. High-risk teens at the Kraft School.”

“Teaching? Bully for you. Remember my motto: ‘Those that can, teach… and the hell with the rest of ’em.’ My God, look at you. It’s been too long.”

Walsh spread his arms and Jenny accepted the hug. “Eight years.”

“Shhh,” he said, putting a finger to his lips. “That makes me sixty. Don’t tell a soul. The cult of youth. It’s everywhere. New department chair is forty. Forty. Can you imagine? I was still growing my sideburns at forty.”

Jenny smiled. As a student, she’d spent considerable time in this office. After taking four classes with Professor Harrison Walsh, she’d served as his teaching assistant senior year while he supervised her thesis. Professors fell into three categories. Those you hated, those you tolerated, and those you worshiped. Walsh counted among the last. He was loud, long-winded, and wildly passionate about his subject. God help you if you hadn’t done your reading. It was either a one-way ticket out of the class or an hour of sheer hell in the hot seat.

“Take a seat, kiddo,” said Walsh. “You look pale. Coffee? Hot chocolate? Something stronger?”

“I’m fine,” said Jenny. “Just a little cold.”

She glanced out the window. Walsh’s office overlooked the main quad, Low Library, and the statue of Alma Mater, which every Columbia University student knows means “nourishing mother.” The sky had fused into a pearl gray dome that pressed lower and lower, crushing the city beneath it. A light snow danced in the air, whipped about by contrary winds, never seeming to fall to the ground.

Harrison Walsh clapped his hands together. “So what brings you back to school on a day like this?”

“A question, actually. Something about the past.”

“Last I checked, this was still the history department. You’ve come to the right place.”

Jenny set her purse on her lap, trying to keep from wincing as she settled into the chair. “It’s about a club,” she began. “An old club. I mean, very old. Dating from the beginning of the country. Something like the Masons, but different, more secretive even, made up of government officials, big wheels in industry, important people. They might call themselves the committee, or something like that.”

“And what does ‘the committee’ do when they’re not practicing their secret handshakes?”

Jenny recalled Bobby Stillman’s words. “They spy, they listen, they interfere. They help the government get things done without the people’s consent.”

“Not them again,” Walsh complained.

Jenny sat forward. “You mean you know who they are?”

“Sure, but I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong room. You need Conspiracy 101: Introduction to Fruitcakes. Jenny, you’re talking about everyone from the Trilateral Commission to the fellows at Bohemian Grove, with a spice of the Council on Foreign Relations thrown in. They all fit the bill. The invisible hand that rocks the cradle.”

“This isn’t a conspiracy, Professor,” said Jenny soberly. “It’s a real group of men who are trying to shape government policy for their own ends.”

“And this club is still around?”

“Definitely.”

Walsh narrowed his eyes. After a moment, he picked up a paperweight made from an old World War I shell casing and tossed it back and forth from hand to hand. “Okay, then,” he said finally. “The first thing that comes to mind is a group led by Vincent Astor that called themselves ‘the Room.’ They helped out Wild Bill Donovan during the thirties when he was setting up the Office of Strategic Services. Strictly volunteers. Businessmen, mostly rich New Yorkers, who’d meet on Astor’s yacht upon returning from their world travels and trade gossip while getting silly on bourbon. Sound like who you have in mind?”

“No. These guys are concerned about what’s going on in the country. With affecting the course the nation takes. They kill people who don’t agree with them.”

“Not good guys.”

“No,” said Jenny stonily. “Not good guys.”

Walsh put the shell casing down and plonked his elbows onto the desk. “Come on, Jenny, is this for real?”

Jenny nodded, but added nothing. She didn’t want to go into it any further. At the moment, she was feeling very shaky.

Walsh studied her closely. “Are you in any kind of trouble?”

“No,” she said. “Of course not. Just curious.”

“You’re sure?”

Jenny forced a smile. “Can I take you up on that coffee now?”

“Sure thing.” Walsh stood up and moved to a cluttered sideboard. Finding a Styrofoam cup, he poured some coffee from a warming pot.

Jenny took a sip. “I see you haven’t upgraded.”

“Good old Maxwell House. Starbucks will have to make do without me.” He sat back and let her drink in peace. After a minute, he wrinkled his brow and said, “What else can you tell me about this ‘real club’?”

Jenny searched her mind for anything else Bobby Stillman might have said. “One more thing,” she said. “One of their phrases was Scientia est potentia.”

“ ‘Knowledge is power.’ Good motto for a bunch of spies.” He banged his palm on the table, and said, “Can’t help you, Jen. This one goes right over my head. Me, I’m a twentieth-century man. T. R. to the present. Not my area, I’m afraid.”

“It was a long shot. I’m sorry to have taken your-”

“Not mine,” Walsh went on. “But Ken Gladden might be able to give you a hand. He’s our resident Founding Fathers freak. You might even find him in his office if you hurry.”