The Patriots' Club

60

The jet was an older Gulfstream III. A ten-seater with cracked leather seats, faux burled-wood paneling, and not quite the ceiling height of newer models. Bolden sat in the center of the cabin, his hands and ankles bound by plastic restraints that cut deep into his skin. Wolf sat at the tail of the cabin, screwing and unscrewing the silencer onto the muzzle of his pistol. “Low-velocity shells,” he’d informed Bolden when they’d boarded. “Just enough powder to put a hole in you, but not enough to carve one in the fuselage.”

It was not Bolden’s first trip on a private jet. Nor his second, nor even his tenth. The business of buying and selling billion-dollar corporations was conducted at a fever pitch. Time was money. No one could afford to waste hours stuck in ticket queues, clearing security, or being at the whim of a late-arriving aircraft. In the course of six years as an advisor to many of the nation’s largest companies, he’d logged no less than fifty flights aboard corporate aircraft.

In comparison to the others, this flight ranked near the bottom. “Spartan” would be a good word to describe it. He did not enjoy the usual amenities. There was no diet Coke, ginseng tea, or Red Bull to revive his flagging spirits; no chilled Dom to celebrate a successful closing; no homemade biscuits and jam; no Concord grapes and brie; no tortilla chips and guacamole to nosh on. No warm towels. And certainly no onboard aesthetician to inquire whether he’d prefer a manicure or a ten-minute “power” massage.

Bolden reflected that it was odd how much a man’s life could change in twenty-four hours. Last night, he was the cock of the walk. Man of the Year. A high-ranking executive with a boundless future. It had changed in another, more important, way. He was the father of a child growing in the womb of the woman he loved. He stared out the window, seeing Jenny’s face in the darkness.

The plane banked to the left, dropping out of the clouds above Georgetown University. They came in low over the Potomac, the Kennedy Center nipping at their wing. The plane shuddered as the landing gear came down. They flew at monument level, looking through the Lincoln Memorial down the Reflecting Pool, the Washington Monument half obscured by mist and snow.

It would be, he thought, his final landing.

“Are you sure we’ve met?” asked Jacklin. “I don’t know that I could have forgotten someone so lovely.”

Jennifer Pendleton nodded eagerly. “Actually, once… but it was a while ago. I can’t thank you enough for coming to my rescue. I was actually starting to feel a little afraid.”

“Not to worry, m’dear. It would have worked itself out.”

The two were standing in the main salon, surrounded by a swirl of men and women in tuxedos and evening finery. Jenny laid a hand on Jacklin’s arm and Jacklin couldn’t help but step closer to her. She was damned cute. “You say you’re a Pendleton?”

“As a matter of fact, we share a great-great-grandfather. Edmund Greene Pendleton. Our side of the family moved to Ohio. We were farmers, not politicians.”

“Where would this country be without farmers? George Washington raised some tobacco in his day, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Tell me, Mr. Jacklin…”

“J. J., dammit, you’re making me feel old.”

“Tell me, J. J.,” she went on, pointing to the oil portraits that adorned the wall. “Are any of these Pendletons?”

“Jacklins mostly.” He patted her hand. “I’ll be happy to give you a tour.” He led her around the room, offering brief biographies of his ancestors. Harold Jacklin, his father, the distinguished congressman. Edmund Jacklin, before him, a railroad man and banker. She is a charming girl, he thought. Not at all like the cold fish that strutted up and down Wall Street. When he’d finished talking about the paintings, he was happy to find her hand still on his arm.

“You know, J. J.,” said the woman, “I’ve always believed that the Pendletons are America’s forgotten family. Nathaniel Pendleton is hardly mentioned in the history books, yet he was a close friend of Alexander Hamilton and George Washington. It’s time to give our family its due.”

“I couldn’t agree more. You know, I’m a bit of a history nut myself. Tradition runs in our blood. A respect for the past. I’m the fifth generation Jacklin to serve his country. I’m a marine myself. Old Nat Pendleton was a colonel in the cavalry.”

“South Carolina, wasn’t it?”

“Now you’re talking. I see you know something of the family.”

“Actually, I’m a history nut, too. I used to give walking tours of old New York. We’d start at Fraunces Tavern, then walk up to St. Paul’s.”

“Fraunces Tavern? So you’re familiar with the Long Room?”

Jennifer Pendleton nodded. “Where General Washington said farewell to his officers. I believe it was December 4, 1783.”

Jacklin looked at the girl in a new light. She was sharp as a tack. He’d have to give Mickey Schiff a call and see if she might take Bolden’s place. He’d be more than happy to steer a little extra business in HW’s direction, if it meant making a few overnight company visits with this golden-haired damsel. He checked his watch. “Would you like to see it right now?”

“The Long Room? New York’s a bit of a trip.”

Jacklin pulled her closer and whispered in her ear. “Who’s talking about going to New York? Come with me, but we’ve got to hurry. Dinner’s due to be served. Picked out the menu myself. Are you partial to truffles?”

Jacklin led the young woman upstairs. When he came to the door, he stopped. “This took me twenty years to get just right. Every detail is just as it was that night in 1783.”

Jacklin pushed open the door and turned on the light. He walked around the table and pointed out the display case holding Lincoln’s Bible and Hamilton’s hair. Her rapt attention reminded him of his own ardor for the subject. “Nat Pendleton used to meet with General Washington and that fox Hamilton in this very room. It was more a club for them than a tavern.”

“A club. Really?” Jenny’s heart beat faster. It was real. Just as Bobby Stillman had said. Just as Simon Bonny had promised.

“Yes. A place where they could repair in private, smoke a cigar, have a few tankards of ale. But Washington was a serious fellow. He came here to do business. See to the affairs of the country.” Jacklin ran a hand over a large burled-wood humidor set atop a matching burled-wood stand. “See this?”

“It’s beautiful,” she said.

“Handmade to match General Washington’s own. Not a replica. A twin.” Opening the humidor, he selected a Romeo y Julieta that would go nicely with the port being served with dessert. He remembered that these days women smoked the damn things, too. He didn’t want to be taken for her granddad. “Care for one… Jenny, is it?”

“Oh no, I believe that cigars are best left for the man of the house.”

Jacklin nodded appreciatively. She was talking his language. He walked the length of the table. “Yes sir,” he said. “More important decisions were made in this room than I’d care to guess.”

“I’m getting goose bumps,” said Jenny.

“There, there. Let me warm you up.” Jacklin rubbed her arms. “You’re shaking.”

“I should have brought a shawl.”

“Nonsense.” Jacklin slipped his arm around her, letting his hand drift lower and caress her bottom.

“And you said that General Washington had meetings here?” she asked. “Even when he was President?”

“Oh yes. There were some things he couldn’t talk about in Philadelphia. Too many spies. You have no idea-” A bell sounded from downstairs. Jacklin looked toward the door. “There’s dinner.” He allowed his hand to linger and noticed the woman didn’t seem to mind. Well, well, the night might turn out a little more exciting than he’d planned. “What table are you at, m’dear?”

“I left my invitation at home. I don’t remember what it might have said.”

“You’re welcome to join Leona and me, if you like.”

“No, really, I don’t mean to intrude. I’ve already taken up enough of your time.”

Jacklin switched off the lights and closed the door. “Consider it done,” he said, feeling the glow of an impending conquest. “We’re family, after all. We have to stick together.”