The Patriots' Club

55

Bolden stared at the pair of diamond-crusted ruby earrings. Twenty-seven thousand nine hundred dollars, from Bulgari. The next display held watches. Ten thousand dollars for some rubber and stainless steel.

Through the jewelry store’s windows, he enjoyed an unobstructed view across the lobby of the Time Warner Center. Smoked-glass doors guarded the entry to 1 Central Park, the address given the luxury residences occupying the fiftieth through seventy-fifth floors. He had been waiting ten minutes. In that time, a lavender-haired matron and her two shih tzus, a once-famous movie star, and a harried, instantly recognizable rock musician had scurried past the guards to disappear behind the smoked-glass doors.

A welter of bubbling voices drew his attention. Parading through the building’s main entrance at Columbus Circle was a tight-knit group of six or seven men and women. Several carried briefcases, one a round cardboard tube commonly used to transport building plans. All were dressed in black outfits. But it was the strange, geometric eyeglasses that gave them away. Architects, thought Bolden.

He watched them closely, waiting for them to veer to the left or right, toward the pavilion of retail shops flanking the entrance. The group steered a course toward the smoked-glass doors. Leaving his position by the jewelry store, Bolden strolled briskly across the lobby. A young woman trailing the pack caught his eye. “Just move in?” he asked, catching up to her.

“Me? Oh, I don’t live here,” the woman responded.

“But you should,” he said. “The views are marvelous. On a clear day… well, you know how the song goes.”

Ahead, the leader of the group waved to a guard who had already swung the door open and was ushering them in.

“The top floors are a must,” Bolden prattled on. “Cost a fortune, but the way I see it, if you’re going to break the bank, why not go all the way. What’s this, a birthday party? Someone get a raise?”

He was the bullshit artist he’d always despised, throwing one line of garbage after the next. To his horror, he saw that it was working. Not only was this serious, reserved-looking woman giving him the time of day, she seemed flattered by the attention.

“A celebration,” she said. “We just won a commission. Champagne at the boss’s place.”

“Congratulations, then. I’m sure you did all the work.”

The woman smiled self-consciously. “Only a little.”

“You’re lying. I can tell. Your cheeks are turning red. You did it all.” Bolden never removed his gaze from the woman. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the guards giving every member of the group the once-over, doing a head count as they passed. It was then that the woman stumbled. Her heel caught on the carpet and she turned an ankle. As Bolden put out a hand to steady her, he bumped into the security guard holding the door. The woman cried out briefly, caught herself, and laughed. The entire group stopped as one, and turned to check that she was all right. The boss, an older man with a long iron gray ponytail, insisted on escorting her to the elevator. The group ambled down the hallway, their voices merry.

Left alone, Bolden turned and smiled at the guard. He was waiting for the hand to fall on his shoulder and ask him who he was, and just what in the name of God did he think he was doing trying to fake his way into the apartment building. Instead, he received a gracious “Excuse me, sir,” followed by “Have a nice evening.”

And then it was over. He was through the doors, strolling across the muted gray and polished-silver lobby, past the oriental antiquities and faux Bayeux tapestry.

He caught up to the group and they all filed into the same elevator. The architects got off at fifty-five. Bolden waited until the last had gone, then pushed seventy-seven. The penthouse. Gossip around the office was that it had gone for a cool twelve million.

“On a clear day,” he whistled, for the security camera and for himself. Reaching into his overcoat, he pulled out his baseball cap. A few calls had established that Schiff was at home, waiting to be picked up by Barry, his chauffeur, and driven out to Teterboro Airport to fly down to D.C. for Jefferson’s Ten Billion Dollar Dinner.

The elevator opened and he stepped into a cool beige corridor. Beige carpeting, beige paneling, dim lights. A door on either side of the corridor led to the penthouse apartments. Schiff’s he knew faced east, toward the park. Bolden rang the bell. He stood with his shoulder to the door, his head cocked to obscure his face. Just then, he heard a buzzer. The latch turned automatically. A voice issued from an invisible speaker. “That you, Barry?”

“Yes sir.”

Bolden pushed open the door.

Mickey Schiff rounded the corner of the entryway. He looked tanned and dapper, dressed in evening attire. Bolden rushed forward, took him by his collar, and slammed him into the wall.

“Get out of here,” said Schiff. “I already called security.”

“If you called security, you wouldn’t have let me in.”

Bolden pushed Schiff in front of him, guiding him into the living room. The condominium was decorated in a bachelor’s style, with sleek, arty furniture that didn’t look particularly inviting, the living room dominated by a sixty-inch plasma screen and a very large Picasso from his Blue Period. A bachelor worth a couple of hundred million dollars, that is.

“Sit,” said Bolden, pointing to the couch.

Reluctantly, Schiff lowered himself onto a cushion.

“You going to the Jefferson dinner?”

“Isn’t everybody?”

Bolden sat down on a matching couch across the coffee table. “First thing you have to realize is that you’re screwed.”

“How’s that?” Schiff asked, brushing dust from his tux.

“Let me lay it out, just so we’re clear, Lieutenant Colonel Schiff. I’ll keep it simple. Your last act as a marine supply officer was to steer a seventy-five-million-dollar contract to Fanning Firearms, a company owned by Defense Associates, an LBO firm James Jacklin set up in 1979, right after he left the Pentagon. In exchange for handing Fanning Firearms the contract, he paid you over a million dollars. Three hundred twenty thousand went for the down payment of the house in Virginia. The rest, he wired to your new account at Harrington Weiss. In addition, you received a cushy job at Defense Associates and a starting salary of five hundred thousand dollars. Even today that’s a lot for a guy with no banking experience. Back then it was a fortune.”

“I did no such thing,” spat Schiff. “That’s a shameless lie.”

“Numbers never lie.” Bolden removed a sheaf of papers he’d stuffed into the rear of his waistband and threw it onto the coffee table. “It was the first thing you taught us in our training class. Anyway, you’ll find all the details there.”

Schiff examined the papers. “Where did you get these…” he began, then dropped the papers on the couch. “That was twenty-five years ago. The statute of limitations has run out.”

“Who’s talking about pressing charges? I’m going straight to The Wall Street Journal with this. I can’t think of a reporter that wouldn’t kill for this scoop. Hell, Mickey… it’s not an article. It’s a book. Besides,” added Bolden, “integrity’s mandatory for running a Wall Street firm. The statute of limitations never runs out on that.”

“You want to believe that, go ahead.”

“You know something? I do want to believe that.”

Schiff considered the information, his eyes darting from the papers lying on the coffee table to Bolden and back again. He ran a hand across his mouth, alternately frowning and pursing his lips. “Okay, okay,” he said finally. “What do you want?”

“What do you think? Your help.”

“And then?”

“I’ll tear up the papers.”

“Your word?”

“I can’t destroy the records, but I’ll give you my word that I won’t turn you in. But you don’t get HW. I won’t do that to Sol.”

“Sol? Is he the saint now?”

“You weren’t the first person Jacklin bribed to get a contract, and you certainly weren’t the last. It’s his modus operandi. Five’ll get you ten that half of Jefferson’s counselors are on the take. All I’m asking is for you to help me take a look.”

“And for that you’ll forget everything you know about my involvement with Defense Associates?”

“Not quite. You’re going to the police and telling them that I didn’t kill Sol. You’re going to say that as a witness you are willing to swear that I wasn’t holding the gun when it went off. You’re also going to write a memo informing everyone at the firm that I didn’t touch Diana Chambers.”

“Anything else?” asked Schiff.

“One more thing,” said Bolden, leaning forward, arms resting on his knees.

“What’s that?”

“Tell me about ‘the committee’ or ‘the club.’ ”

“What club is that?”

“The club that gives you your marching orders. The people who told you to act dumb when you saw the doctored tape of me shooting Sol Weiss on television. The people who ordered you to beat up Diana Chambers, and to plant those fictitious e-mails on the company server. I know Jacklin’s involved, but I think there are others, too. It’s too big.” Bolden stood and circled the coffee table, eyes locked on Schiff. “Help me out, Mickey. It’s got to have a name.”

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re out of luck, then.” Abruptly, Bolden scooped up the documents and walked toward the door.

Schiff let him get five steps before shouting, “Sit down, Tom. Come back. You got me by the balls, okay?”

Bolden remained standing.

“Look, you’re a good kid,” Schiff went on. “I’m sorry you’ve gotten mixed up in this, but there are some things you have to know. The world is not always run according to the rules.”

“Is that supposed to surprise me? So do you agree or not?”

“Yeah, sure. Have a look at the accounts. But I’m not saying a thing about Jacklin. You want to expose me? Go ahead. Call the Journal. Call the Times. Do what you got to do. But that’s as far as I go.”

“As far as you go?”

“Yeah.” Schiff tugged at his cuff, and spent a moment adjusting it so that exactly one inch of white cotton was showing.

Bolden crossed the distance between them in four steps. He grabbed a handful of Schiff’s hair and yanked his head back. “They shot my girlfriend. Do you understand that? She’s pregnant. I asked you who are they, Mickey.”

Schiff arched his back, and batted at Bolden’s hand. But beneath the pain, he was looking at him sadly, as if for all his own problems, he didn’t envy Bolden one bit. “All you have to know is that they exist.”

Bolden let go of Schiff’s hair. “Get up,” he said. He was disgusted with Schiff and disgusted with himself for having to make a deal with the devil. “You can drive me down to the office.”

“I need my keys and my wallet.” Schiff gestured haltingly toward his bedroom.

“Help yourself,” said Bolden, keeping a half step behind him.

They’d covered half of the corridor when Bolden heard a noise coming from the door to his right. A muffled cry. He stopped. “What was that?”

Schiff looked at him, then bolted for the door of his bedroom.

Bolden hesitated, then ran after him. Ahead, the door slammed shut. Bolden rammed a shoulder into it, feeling it budge. The lock flew home. Bolden backed up a step and kicked at the door handle. Two blows splintered the doorjamb. The third sent the door buckling on its hinges.

Schiff stood next to his bed, a phone cradled under his ear, pulling an imposing nickel-plated automatic from the drawer of his night table. He was desperately trying to chamber a round. Bolden stalked across the room. Schiff dropped the pistol and picked up a ten-inch jade statue. Lunging, he brought the statue down on Bolden’s shoulder. Bolden ducked, but the blow staggered him. Schiff raised the statue again. Bolden grabbed his wrist and wrenched it. The statue fell to the carpet. Still grasping Schiff’s arm, Bolden freed the phone and slammed it into the carriage.

“Who’s in that room?”

Schiff didn’t answer.

“Who’s in that-”

Schiff’s knee caught him in the stomach. Bolden doubled over. A blow to his back forced him to the ground. Schiff ran from the bedroom. The pistol lay a few feet away. Rising to his knees, Bolden picked it up and followed, stumbling, fighting for his breath.

Schiff paced at the far side of his living room, his back to the window. A lone figure floating on clouds. He had a phone to his ear.

“Put it down,” said Bolden.

Schiff stared defiantly at him. “Hello,” he said. “This is-”

Bolden raised the gun. The trigger had a feather’s weight. The window behind Schiff shattered, but did not break. Schiff fell to a knee, clutching the phone. “Hello,” he said. “Mr.-”

Bolden clubbed Schiff on the neck with the butt of the pistol. Schiff fell to the carpet. Bolden hung up the phone and returned to the room where he’d heard the muffled voice. The door was unlocked. Diana Chambers lay on the bed. A stack of melted ice packs sat on the night table, alongside several containers of painkillers. Her eye was puffy, the bruise a deep purple. “I heard shouting,” she said, pulling herself up.

“It was just Mickey.”

“Is he all right?” Even drugged up, she sounded like she really cared. “You didn’t shoot him, too?”

“What’s it to you?”

The look she gave him said it all. She was in on it, too. Mickey’s office squeeze looking to do her share for the cause. What was a black eye, after all, compared to the daily bruising she took just trying to break through the glass ceiling?

“What did he promise you?” Bolden asked. “A raise? A promotion? A ring?”

Diana slumped back on the bed, her eyes fixed to the ceiling.

Bolden came closer. “Why is Mickey doing this? Did he tell you?”

Diana Chambers glared at him, then turned her head away. Bolden took her by the jaw and turned her face toward his. “You’re being very rude, Diana. We haven’t finished our conversation. Tell me something. What is ‘Crown’? Did Mickey mention that? Did he ever talk about a woman named Bobby Stillman?”

“No,” said Diana after a moment. “Never.”

“Then why is he trying to destroy me? What did he tell you to make you agree to let him hit you? You’re a smart woman. There had to have been a reason.”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know or you won’t tell?”

“I don’t know,” she repeated.

“Bullshit!” Bolden slammed a hand on her pillow, just missing the injured eye. “Tell me!”

“It’s for them. His friends.”

“What friends?” Bolden leaned over her, his face inches from hers. “You will tell me, Diana. I promise you that. You’ll tell me, or I’ll go get that gun and shoot you like I shot Mickey.”

“You didn’t?”

Gently, he pressed the tip of his index finger to the center of her forehead. “Right there,” he whispered. “One shot. You won’t feel a thing. It sure as hell won’t hurt as much as that black eye he gave you. Or did someone else do the honors? A guy named Wolf? Tall, bad attitude, built like a block of cement?”

Diana shook her head, anguish stiffening her body.

“Go take a look,” said Bolden.

She started to get up from the bed, then fell back again. She stared at Bolden, then slapped him across the face. He grabbed her hands and locked them to her sides. “Who are his friends?” he asked, shaking her. “Names! I want names!”

“No!”

“Tell me, dammit.” Bolden fought to keep her on the bed. She was possessed of a fear, a hatred, that he could not comprehend. Finally, she calmed, but her face remained a mask of revulsion.

“The club,” she said. “In Washington. They make things happen. Big things. The power behind the throne… you know how it goes.”

“I don’t actually,” said Bolden. “What are their names?”

“Mickey’s Mr. Morris. I don’t know the others, except that he calls them Mr. Washington, and Mr. Hamilton…” She looked away. “It’s for the country, that’s all I needed to know. Mickey told me it was my chance to serve. After all, he’d put in his twenty years in uniform. Why shouldn’t I take a couple of bruises for Uncle Sam?”

“And it was fine by you if they knocked me off in the process.”

“You’re dangerous. You’re trying to harm the club. You and Bobby Stillman. She’s been after them for years. She’s crazy, you know, just in case you think you’re really doing something good. You’re both crazy. You’ll never win, you know. They’ll stop you.”

“Maybe they will. Maybe they won’t. We’ll see.”

Bolden found duct tape in the pantry and socks in Schiff’s dresser. Returning to the guest room, he taped her ankles together. When she cried out, he stuffed a pair of silk dress socks into her mouth and taped that, too. Finally, he taped her wrists together and dragged her into the bathroom. He locked the door before pulling it closed.

It took him five more minutes to give Schiff the same treatment.

Somewhere in the house a phone rang. Security, he thought. Then he recognized the ring as belonging to a cell phone. He looked around and identified the noise as coming from the kitchen. He found the compact phone, next to Schiff’s wallet and keys. “Yes.”

“Mr. Morris. We’ll be meeting in the Long Room following the dinner this evening. Twelve o’clock. I trust you’re coming despite the weather.”

“Yes,” said Bolden. “I’ll be there.”