The Patriots' Club

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 out. 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.