The Patriots' Club

70

James Jacklin threw a last shirt into his suitcase and zipped it up. Walking to the dresser, he picked up his passport, his billfold, and an envelope stuffed with fifty thousand dollars and slipped them into the pockets of his blazer. It was just four-thirty. He should relax. He had plenty of time to make the eight o’clock flight to Zurich. Stopping in front of the mirror, he combed his hair, taking a moment to cut the part razor-sharp, then tightened the knot of his tie. He had an appointment with his banker on the Bahnhofstrasse the following morning at nine, and he wasn’t sure if he’d make it to the Baur au Lac in time to freshen up.

From the window, he saw the limousine pull into the driveway and advance slowly toward the portico. Dusk was falling. A crescent moon hung low in the sky. It was time to get out of Dodge. The investigation into the bombing had tied down the explosives used three days earlier as RDX. They’d even come up with a batch number. Connolly was dead, but Ramser, Logsdon, and Von Arx had survived the blast, though Von Arx had lost his right leg at the hip. Jacklin hadn’t spoken with any of them since the incident. The news about the RDX would do it. They’d know beyond a doubt that he was behind it, and he knew what actions they would take.

As Jacklin walked downstairs, he shook off one set of worries for another. His spies at the Securities and Exchange Commission had informed him that the head of enforcement had received certain confidential documents outlining massive payoffs from Jefferson Partners to a dozen former government officials, including the recently retired head of the FCC and a prominent four-star general. There was no indication of who had supplied the documents, but Jacklin knew well enough. It was Bolden. He had managed to fire off some copies to his friends, after all. Jacklin’s attorneys would handle the matter. In the meantime, Jacklin would repair to his private island. From there, he would direct the usual overtures. Promises would be made. Money would change hands. He was worth eight billion dollars, give or take. That kind of wealth bought lots of friends. Jefferson was too big to kill. It had too many secrets. In the meantime, he would see what he could do about Logsdon and Von Arx. It was just a matter of time before he was back.

Jacklin opened the front door. The chauffeur stood waiting, cap drawn low over his eyes. Jacklin noticed he had a strange scar on his cheek.

“Just the one bag,” Jacklin said. “I’ll be right there.”

“Take your time, sir. We’re in no hurry.”

Jacklin placed the note he’d written to his wife on the kitchen counter, then set the alarm and locked the door behind him. He took a last look at the house. Everything was secured. The journals had been packed up and sent to a safe place. Somewhere away from prying eyes. The heirlooms of Washington and Hamilton, likewise. He didn’t want them rotting in a museum. They were meant for privileged eyes only.

He took a breath of his beloved Virginia air-American air-and climbed into the backseat of the limousine. It was only when he sat back that he noticed the figure at the far end of the passenger compartment. A big man with dark skin and narrow, hate-filled brown eyes.

“That you, Wolf?”

“I came to wish you bon voyage, Mr. Jacklin.”

Jacklin’s hand flew to the door. He pulled at the handle repeatedly.

“Locked,” said Wolf.

“What exactly is going on? Hold it, right there! That’s an order.”

Wolf advanced across the compartment at a crouch. He held something sharp and angular in his hand. “Change of management, sir. The President sends her regards.”

The sun’s dying rays flashed off the knife’s honed blade.