The Patriots' Club

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 lidocaine 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.

Bolden checked his watch. Eleven fifty-five. The inauguration would begin in five minutes. He glanced over his shoulder and surveyed the crowd. There were uniformed police everywhere. According to his mother, Scanlon had been hired to enhance perimeter security and provide a “secure but porous event environment.” He knew what that meant. They would be dressed in plainclothes, but armed and with a mandate to intervene when necessary. Some, he knew, would be looking for him.

“Walter,” he said. “Got your little radar kit?”

The short, paunchy man fished the device out of his back pocket. “You having the same thought I am?”

“Just curious to see how many of our buddies are hanging around.”

Walter switched on the device. A stable black dot indicated the base unit. Flashing X’s identified RFID transmissions, or in this instance, Scanlon men who were “chipped.”

“Nothing,” he said. “Let me run through some bandwidth.”

Abruptly, the Marine Corps Band stopped playing. All heads lifted to the Capitol steps. The air was quiet except for the distant thumping of the Blackhawk helicopters hovering at a thousand feet to maintain air security. The President and First Lady descended the stairs, followed by Senator McCoy, and the vice president and vice president-elect.

“Holy shit,” blurted Walter, bringing the tracking device closer to his eyes. “Man, they are everywhere. I’m counting eighteen at least within a hundred yards of us.”

“Just doing their job, right?” said Bolden.

James Jacklin took his seat on the reviewing stand next to the two men who had preceded him as secretary of defense. It was no coincidence that both were employees of Jefferson Partners. He pushed his hands deep into the cashmere-lined pockets of his overcoat. The vice president had been sworn in a few minutes earlier. Now it was time for the main event.

He looked around him. It was hard not to be awed by all the pomp and ceremony, the gold piping and crenellated bunting and the long, red carpets. The flags hanging on the Capitol building were as big as city blocks. It was the Roman Empire all over. Christ, he loved it. What a party this was.

He remembered his first inauguration, thirty years ago. Back then, it had been on the east side of the Capitol, where the winds howled at you across the Anacostia plains. In 1841, “Old Tippecanoe,” William Henry Harrison, had braved the fierce cold for ninety minutes to shout his inauguration speech. A month later he was dead from pneumonia. It took “the Gipper” to change things. Ronnie wanted to face west when he took the Oath of Office. West toward the open country. West toward opportunity. Manifest Destiny wasn’t dead. No, thought Jacklin, his chest expanding, it was just beginning. People talked about the American Century. It would be the American millennium. This country was born to rule. And he planned on being at its helm. Oh, not in office. Never. The real power was behind the throne. No truer words had ever been spoken. The French had the right word for it. An éminence grise. A gray eminence. He would rule from the shadows.

Catching Director Von Arx’s eye, he nodded. Von Arx looked away without the slightest indication he’d seen him. Charles Connolly sat behind the First Lady, her very own lapdog. Chief Justice Logsdon stood on the reviewing stand, the drab black jurist’s robes making him look more like a squat, dyspeptic funeral attendant than the nation’s ranking interpreter of the Constitution. For an instant their eyes met. Logsdon ducked his head, as if he were shaking off a bee.

They were wrong. All of them. McCoy would not join them. Not now. Not ever. She was the renegade. Her gall enraged him. Who did she think she was to turn down an offer to join the club? In six months, she would only be worse. Their only chance was now. Why was he the only one to see it?

Jacklin smiled smugly. He knew they were forming against him, whispering to one another, planning his ouster. None of it bothered him a whit. On this chill morning with the wind out of the east snapping the American flag and the sky as blue as faded denim, he felt supremely secure. In control. Jacklin had his own plans.

“They’re leaving,” said Walter.

“What do you mean?” Bolden stood at his shoulder. “Who’s leaving?”

“The Scanlon men. They’re taking a hike.” Walter held out the electronic device for Bolden to see. The X’s that denoted the Scanlon operatives moved steadily toward the perimeter of the screen. He looked around him, knowing it was hopeless in this crowd to try and spot them, but doing it nonetheless.

Bobby Stillman yanked the handheld tracking device out of Walter’s hands. “This is it,” she said. “It’s happening now. He’s pulling them out!”

The loudspeakers broadcast Senator McCoy taking her oath of office.

“I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States, and will, to the best of my ability, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States.”

Bolden searched the rows of seats behind the President. It took him a moment to find Jacklin. The chairman of Jefferson Partners sat idly, his eyes on Senator McCoy as she took the Oath of Office. It made no sense that the Scanlon men were deserting their posts. Bolden was no expert on security, but he knew the goons didn’t leave until the President had left the podium and the event was officially over. Even then, there was the parade that would pass adjacent to the Mall.

“Are they meeting up somewhere?” he asked. “Maybe it’s a security briefing.”

“They’re headed to all points of the compass,” said Walter. “Off to hell and gone.”

McCoy’s voice died off and a great roar rose up from the crowd. The applause spread over Bolden, enveloping him in its enthusiasm, a wild, unfettered cry for democracy. It was done. The nation had its next President. The men and women behind the new President were on their feet, applauding, patting each other, some hugging. Bolden looked back toward Jacklin. His seat was empty.