The Patriots Club Page 3

  Wolf checked his watch. “Call ahead. Tell them we’re two minutes out.”

  Irish made the call.

  “Quite an operation,” said Bolden.

  “No more than was necessary to complete the objective,” said Wolf.

  “And I am that objective?”

  “That’s affirmative.”

  Bolden shook his head. It was ridiculous. Insane. Despite everything they might know about him, they had the wrong man. But there was nothing ridiculous about the gash on Jenny’s arm, or the silenced pistol four inches away. He looked at the tattoo on Wolf’s chest. “What’s that artwork? A gun? You used to run with some guys?”

  Wolf pulled the torn shirt over the tattoo and buttoned his overcoat. “If you’re so gung ho to talk, tell me this: What exactly did you plan on doing when you caught up to us back there?”

  “I planned on getting the watch back and smacking you in the head.”

  “You?” An unbelieving smile stretched across Wolf’s face. “You’re a little out of practice, but at least you’ve got a positive attitude. Tell you what. You got the watch back. Why not try going two for two? Go on. Give it your best shot. Come on. I’m ready.” The smile vanished. He leaned forward, the eyes taunting him. “Come on, Bolden. Your best shot. You want to smack me in the head. Do it!”

  Bolden looked away.

  Wolf laughed. “What do you say, Irish? Could we use him on our team?”

  Irish shook his head. “This guy? You’ve got to be kidding. We took him six blocks and he was ready to puke. Totally unsat. I’d say he’s NPQ.”

  “Not physically qualified,” added Wolf, for Bolden’s edification. “You, sir, are unsat.”

  But Bolden couldn’t care less about his unsatisfactory rating. Something else he’d heard had sparked his attention. “What team is that?” he asked.

  “You know the answer to that question,” said Irish.

  “Help me out,” said Bolden.

  “We’re the good guys,” said Wolf. He rooted inside a canvas bag at his feet and pulled out an antiseptic towelette. “Get yourself cleaned up. Mr. Guilfoyle doesn’t like blood.”

  Bolden took the towelette and dabbed at his knee. Irish’s phone crackled. A voice said, “ETA ninety seconds.” The car slowed and began an extended left-hand turn.

  “Some advice?” said Irish. “Give Mr. Guilfoyle what he wants. Don’t mess around. Remember, we know all about you.”

  “Your team?”

  Irish nodded. “Give the man what he wants. You see, Mr. Guilfoyle, he’s special. He’s got this thing, this talent. He knows about people.”

  “What about people?” asked Bolden.

  “Everything. Don’t even think of lying to him. It makes him upset.”

  “So if I just tell him the truth, then he’ll know it.”

  “Bingo!” said Irish, touching the barrel of the gun to his knee.

  Wolf reached into his canvas bag and came back with a knit hood. “Put this on and keep it on.”

  Bolden turned the hood over in his hands. It was a black balaclava with patches sewn over the eyes. A death’s hood.

  5

  On December 4, 1783, after eight years of campaigning against the British, George Washington gathered his top commanders together at Fraunces Tavern, a popular ale house one block south of Wall Street, to formally discharge them from their country’s service, and to offer his gratitude for their years of dedication and sacrifice.

  The Paris Peace Treaty had been signed on September 3, formally declaring an end to hostilities between the two nations, and giving in writing Great Britain’s recognition of the United States of America as a sovereign republic. The last British soldier had left New York eight days earlier. The Union Jack had been lowered a final time from Fort George at the southern tip of Manhattan and the Stars and Stripes raised in its place. (Though not without difficulty. The departing Redcoats had greased the flagpole with tallow, making it impossible for even the most able-bodied seaman to reach the flag. Finally, iron rungs had to be nailed into the pole so a man could climb to the top and take it down.)

  Washington and his officers met in the Long Room, on the tavern’s second floor. Over tankards of beer and wine, they talked of their victories and defeats. Lexington. Concord. Breed’s Hill. Trenton and Monmouth. Valley Forge. Yorktown.

  Together they had defeated the most powerful nation on earth. From thirteen wildly different colonies they had forged a country united by a common and enlightened belief in the rights of man and the role of government. Never again would they take up arms for so noble a cause. The eyes of history had been upon them and they had acquitted themselves with honor.

  It was a sentimental farewell.

  Two hundred twenty-odd years later, the room had been re-created from top to bottom on the second floor of a Virginia country estate. From the aged wood floor to the chiffon yellow paint. From the wood-burning fireplace to the Quaker chairs, everything was as it had been that night. Even the table was said to be a replica of the one Washington had sat at that momentous evening, when one after another he had shaken his loyal officers’ hands and bid them a tearful good-bye.

  “Has there been any change?” asked Mr. Washington. “Is she willing to join our ranks?”

  “None,” said Mr. Jay. “Senator McCoy refuses to reconsider. The woman is as stubborn as a deaf mule.”

  “But it’s not a matter of choice,” said Mr. Hamilton, his cheeks reddening. “It’s an obligation. A God-given duty.”

  “You tell her that,” said Mr. Pendleton. “She’s made a career telling people like us to go to hell. For some reason, the voters seem to like her for it.”

  Six men sat round the table. It was a tradition for each to take the name of one of the six founders. Oil portraits of their namesakes hung on the wall, staring down at them like moody ancestors. George Washington. Alexander Hamilton. John Jay, first chief justice of the Supreme Court. Robert Morris, the gentleman financier who had paid for much of the Continental Army’s rifle and grapeshot out of his own silk-lined pockets. Senator Rufus King of New York. And Nathaniel Pendleton, distinguished jurist and Alexander Hamilton’s closest friend.

  “Does she really know who ‘people like us’ are?” asked Mr. King. “I’m wondering if you made yourself sufficiently clear.”

  “As clear as I can until she joins us,” said Mr. Jay. “There’s only so much we can tell her without jeopardizing our position.”

  “It’s the same approach you made to me,” said Mr. Washington. He was a tall and distinguished man with thick silver hair, the envy of other sixty-year-olds, and an inquisitor’s black gaze. “Most people would take it as an honor. That isn’t the problem. She’s made her name as a renegade. It’s what got her elected. To join with us would go against everything she stands for.”

  “And if she doesn’t join?” asked Pendleton.

  “She will,” said Mr. King hopefully. “She must.”

  Mr. Pendleton dismissed the younger man’s idealism with a grunt. “And if she doesn’t?” he repeated.

  When no one answered, he looked toward a glass cabinet in the corner. Inside were relics left them by their predecessors. A locket of Hamilton’s hair, the color of honey. A splinter from Washington’s casket (obtained by an earlier member when the Father of His Country was disinterred and reburied at Mount Vernon). A Bible belonging to Abraham Lincoln. Like him, they had been realists, wedded to the possible.

  “It’s symptomatic of the times,” said Mr. Jay. “The people aren’t used to their government stirring things up. They like America to settle things down. To put out fires, not start them. Senator McCoy looks at us and believes that we’ve caused the problems.”

  Mr. Washington nodded. “Two oceans don’t separate us from the rest of the world like they used to. If we want to protect our interests, we have to act, not react. God didn’t put us on this map to bow and scrape at the hem of every second-rate dictator.”

  “Not problems,” said Mr. P
endleton. “Opportunities. For once, we’re in a position to shape the world in our image. It’s a question of manifest destiny. It’s time we make the most of it.”

  “ ‘You are the light of the world, a city set on a hill cannot be hid,’ ” said Mr. King. A journalist and historian, he had written a Pulitzer prize–winning biography of John Winthrop. At forty, he was the youngest of the group, or the Committee, as they called themselves. Only one man in their history had been younger: Alexander Hamilton, who had founded the club in 1793 at the age of thirty-eight.

  “How much does she know?” asked Mr. Pendleton. “Any names? Any specifics? Did you get around to discussing any of our initiatives?”

  The mood in the room changed as dramatically as a shift in the wind. The yardarm had swung from reconciliation to confrontation.

  “Nothing specific,” said Mr. Jay, pushing his horn-rimmed spectacles to the bridge of his nose. He was a short man, and rotund, sparse white hair crowning a pinched, sour face. “But she knows we exist and, I would gather, that I’m a member. I assured her that we view ourselves as being entirely at the President’s disposal. To help out in those times when extraordinary actions are needed. Actions best not mentioned to the public.”

  “Wasn’t she curious?” asked Mr. King. “I mean, didn’t she want to know who exactly we were? What we’ve done in the past?”

  “Make no mistake, Mrs. McCoy was curious. I talked to her about a few things we’d helped out with. The Jay Treaty.”

  “Did you tell her everything?” Mr. King appeared shocked at the prospect.

  “What I didn’t tell her, I let her guess. She’s a smart woman.”

  Mr. King exhaled slowly. In their history, only one President had refused to join. John Adams. But then, he was a President in name only. While he closeted himself away in Braintree, Alexander Hamilton was pulling all the strings, through his close friends in Adams’s cabinet. Mr. King’s palms grew moist and clammy. The entire state of affairs made him more than a little uncomfortable. He was a journalist. It was one thing to report on momentous events. It was another to bring them to pass.

  On the desk in front of him lay an aged, leather-bound volume in which the minutes of each meeting were recorded. The newest member of the club, King had inherited the job of “secretary.” It fell to him to faithfully continue the record. He had studied the minutes—in this volume, and in the five others that preceded it—with an interest bordering on the feverish.

  The Jay Treaty. Yes, he thought, it was the only place to begin.

  In the summer of 1795, the country was in an uproar. America was caught between its allegiance to France—its ally in the war for independence, and itself in the throes of a wild and violent democratic revolution—and its hatred of England, which had reneged on many of the main points of the Paris treaty signed twelve years earlier. Britain had brazenly boarded over 250 U.S. merchantmen in the past year, seizing their cargoes and impressing their sailors. (“Impressment” was the practice of forcing captured seamen into the service of one’s own military—in this case, the British navy.) British ships had even been so arrogant as to station themselves in a picket at the mouth of New York Harbor and had seized four ships in a single day. Up and down the Eastern seaboard, there were calls for war with Britain. Riots broke out in Philadelphia and New York. The country was aflame with patriotic fervor.

  Hoping to quell the dispute between the two nations, George Washington had sent John Jay, recently retired from his post as the first chief justice of the Supreme Court, to England. The treaty he negotiated reconfirmed an alliance between England and the United States, but was viewed by many as traitorous because it failed to force Britain to repay the debts it had earlier promised. Angry voices claimed the Jay Treaty returned the United States to its role as subordinate to England and that the United States might as well be a colony all over again with George III its king.

  The issue was discussed during a meeting held in June of 1795.

  June 12, 1795

  Present: General Washington, Mr. Hamilton, Mr. Jay, Mr. Morris, Mr. Pendleton, Mr. King.

  Mr. Hamilton states that signature of the Jay Treaty is a necessity and of paramount concern to the Union. Friendship and trade with Britain are crucial to the country’s growth as an economic power and to its future strategic position.

  General Washington concurs. War with Britain is certain should he not sign the treaty.

  Mr. Morris dissents, stating that Britain must be forced to live up to its obligations as specified in the Treaty of Paris. He notes that he personally is owed over fifty thousand dollars for impressed goods.

  Mr. Hamilton points out that fifty thousand dollars is a “trifle.” War with Britain will cut off the English market for American goods and restrict import of raw materials. The resulting economic hardships will divide the country between manufacturing and agrarian interests. The Union will not survive.

  Mr. Pendleton believes that Mr. X, publisher of the Philadelphia Tribune, is the main impediment to ratification.

  Mr. Hamilton concurs. Mr. Fox is a rabble-rouser who plays to the base instincts of the crowd for his own aggrandizement. His charisma is sufficient to ensure a widespread rebellion should the President sign the treaty.

  General Washington promises to speak with him to express the urgency of the country’s plight. A report is promised for the next meeting.

  The next meeting, held on June 19, 1795, summarized the outcome.

  June 19, 1795

  Present: General Washington, Mr. Hamilton, Mr. Morris, Mr. Jay, Mr. King, Mr. Pendleton.

  General Washington reports that his conversation with Mr. Fox was fruitless. Further, Mr. Fox promised to amplify calls for insurrection should he (General Washington) sign the bill.

  General Washington states his growing conviction that his failure to sign the treaty will result in open warfare with Britain.

  It is agreed that unless Mr. Fox is removed from his position of prominence, the future of the nation is at risk.

  Mr. Hamilton proposes that grave measures be taken.

  The vote is unanimous in favor.

  Grave measures.

  And then a chilling entry, three weeks afterward:

  A prayer is offered on behalf of Mr. Elias Fox, killed this past Wednesday by “highwaymen” while returning to his home from the City Tavern.

  Mr. King drummed his fingers on the ledger. The smell of old leather drifted to him, as intoxicating as Kentucky bourbon . . . these ledgers . . . The True History of the United States.

  Washington signed the Jay Treaty later that July of 1795. The House voted funds for its enforcement by the barest of margins, 51–49. The United States had staked its prosperity on the strength of the British fleet. It was a wise decision. In the next eighteen years, the country’s landmass grew twentyfold, with the acquisition of Louisiana and lands west of the Mississippi. Manufacturing capability tripled. Population grew by fifty percent. More important, five elections had passed. The country had a history to bind it. When war with Britain arrived in 1812, America fought as a unified populace, and earned a stalemate against a far stronger country.

  A silence had settled over the Long Room. The men traded glances, none liking what he read in the others’ faces. Finally, Mr. Washington looked to Mr. Pendleton. “And Crown?”

  “The plan’s been drawn up. It’s a matter of moving everyone into place. I need the go-ahead to complete the arrangements.”

  “I don’t like it,” said Mr. Jay. “It’s a rule never to interfere in elections. General Washington expressly stated that—”

  “The election’s over,” said Mr. Pendleton, slapping an open palm onto the table. “The people have chosen.”

  “We can’t afford to wait eight years to continue,” agreed Mr. Hamilton.

  “Eight years,” said Mr. Morris, with a glance toward Mr. Jay. “That’s a damn long time to keep in the shadows. You yourself said she was curious. What if she decides to look into our past? It w
ould be just like her to try and unmask us. Another of her crusades.”

  “There are still two days until the ceremony,” said Mr. Washington. “I have a courtesy meeting with Senator McCoy tomorrow. Show her around her new living quarters and all that. I’m sure we can find a few minutes alone.”

  “And in the meantime?” asked Mr. Pendleton. “This matter can’t wait any longer.”

  “In the meantime, we vote.” Mr. Washington placed his palms on the table and stood. He spent a moment looking at each man. It was not necessary to state the motion. “All in favor?”

  One by one, the men seated around the table raised their hands. For a sanction to be binding, it had to be unanimous. Mr. King hesitated, then lifted his hand into the air. When it was his turn, Mr. Washington did the same. The sleeve of his gray blazer fell to reveal a round cuff link emblazoned with the seal of President of the United States.

  “The decision carries. Mr. Pendleton, you have the green light to make the necessary arrangements. But nothing happens until I let you know. I suggest we reconvene tomorrow evening.” He added, “We owe it to ourselves to make that last approach. Some people believe this office still carries a bit of power with it. If I can’t convince her . . .” A sad look darkened his face.

  No one spoke.

  The Patriots Club stood adjourned.

  6

  “Head down,” ordered Wolf.

  The car jerked to a halt. The door opened. A palm on Bolden’s head guided him out the door. An iron hand gripped his arm and led him inside a building, his shoulder colliding with something . . . a wall, a door. Objects littered the floor. Several times he tripped, hearing the clatter of wood or the clank of a pipe rolling across concrete. They stopped suddenly. A grate slid open. A hand pushed him inside a confined space. Wolf and Irish crowded in next to him. The grate banged closed. For ten seconds, the elevator whirred upward. His ears popped. The doors opened. The hand guided him forward. He smelled fresh paint, glue, sawdust. Another door opened, this time quietly. Carpet ran beneath his feet. A hand gripped his shoulder, turning him ninety degrees to the right, then shoved him against a wall.