The threat of snow and rapidly falling temperatures did nothing to discourage the lunchtime crowd, Bolden decided as he made a circuit of Union Square. The sidewalk was knotted with men and women, their parkas, mufflers, and berets a rainbow against the woolen sky. He kept close to the buildings, hugging the walls. Occasionally, he cut into a doorway and lingered there a moment or two. He kept his eyes down, his chin and mouth buried in the folds of his jacket. But all the while he was looking.
A raft of students blocked the area immediately in front of an NYU dorm, petitioning for signatures against the newly reinstated draft. Across the street in the park, a horn quartet serenaded a gaggle of listeners with a Bach fugue. Farther along, a smaller ensemble had gathered in front of a boom box pounding out a reggae beat. Bolden could see nothing out of place. Everything was moving at its usual frenetic pace.
Leaving Union Square, he headed west two blocks, then turned south and circled back. He slowed by the entrance to the alley that led to the rear of the Coffee Shop, the restaurant where he’d planned to meet Jenny for lunch. His eyes traveled up and down the street, but again, he saw nothing out of the ordinary.
The back door was open. The low, steady rumble of conversation reached him, along with a pulse of warm air. He stepped inside. The heat wrapped itself around him like a blanket. The rest rooms were on the right, and past them, a coffee station. On the left, swinging doors led to the kitchen. He advanced a few steps and gazed across the dining room. Jenny was seated alone in a booth next to the window, huddled over a cup of coffee. She was dressed in jeans, an ivory Irish fisherman’s sweater, and a camel-hair overcoat.
Bolden studied the noontime crowd, his eyes sliding from face to face. There was no one staring at Jenny.
No one except him.
It was safe.
She spotted him.
The dark-haired man seated alone at the table, next aisle over. This was the second time Jenny had glanced in his direction and found him staring back. He was one of them. Had to be. He was young. He looked strong, athletic. She observed that he was dressed in slacks and a blazer, like the two who had come after her last night. Bobby Stillman had been right. They were here. Jenny didn’t know how it was possible, just that it was. He was proof. Sitting there fifteen feet away pretending not to look at her, but looking at her, all the same. She looked up again only to meet his eyes. He was handsome, she’d give him that much. They’d chosen their operatives well. Operatives. It was Bobby Stillman’s word. Except this time, he didn’t look away. He smiled. He was flirting. Oh, Lord, he even raised an eyebrow.
Jenny’s gaze dropped to the table like a lead weight. She could cross him off the list of potential bad guys. With a microbiologist’s zeal, she examined the rim of her coffee cup. She wasn’t any good at this. Not the lying. The acting. The pretending. The simplest fib left her trembling with shame. She felt as if she were on stage, every set of eyes in the restaurant secretly examining her.
“How’s your arm?”
Jenny started, not knowing whether she should look up and answer or just ignore Thomas altogether. She didn’t recognize him in jeans and a dark work jacket. “Ten stitches,” she said. “How did you know?”
“Long story.”
“Don’t tell me. We have to get out of here.” She slid a leg out of the booth, then froze. Her hand reached out to his cheek. “My God,” she whispered.
“It’s nothing,” he said.
“Nothing?”
“Actually, it’s gunpowder. The good news is that the guy missed.” Bolden narrowed his eyes, confused. “What’s wrong? Why are you so worried about me?”
“They came to get me,” said Jenny. “They told me you were in trouble, and that I might be in danger, too. They took me to this apartment in Brooklyn so I’d be safe. But then these other guys-”
“Who came for you? Who told you I was in trouble?”
“Bobby Stillman. She said you’d know who she was.”
“She?”
Jenny nodded. “She’s waiting for us. They’re here. The ones who are after you. We have to go now. We have to get out of here.”
“Slow down, Jen.”
“No!” she whispered, her teeth on edge. She wished that for once he would just do as she asked without arguing. “We have to go.”
But Thomas didn’t move. “It’s all right,” he said, looking around the restaurant. “I promise you. They don’t know we’re here. No one does. I don’t know what anyone told you, but no one followed me here. It’s impossible, okay? This is our place. No one else knows about it.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. For once, I’m sure.”
Jenny could sense his worry beneath the confidence. His eyes looked tired. She leaned across the table and reached for his hand. “What in the world is going on?”
Thomas spent a few minutes going over what he had been through during the past twelve hours. When he was finished, he said, “I didn’t know what to think when I stopped by school and you weren’t there. At first I thought it was just because you were feeling lousy, but then…” He smiled, and she could feel his affection, his love. “Tell me about her. Who is this Bobby Stillman?”
“So you don’t know who she is?”
“Contrary to popular opinion, no.”
“She’s scary. She has too much locked up inside of her. She’s like a hydrogen bomb, all this dark energy and fear, just ready to go off. She said it’s ‘a club’ that’s after you. Or a ‘committee.’ I’m not exactly sure. They think you know something about them. They’re scared. That’s all I know, other than the fact that she’s on the run, too.”
“You said she came for you at school?”
“Not her, but a friend of hers did. They said that if I ever wanted to see you again, I had to come with them. At first, I didn’t believe them, but then there were those cars coming after them, and now, here you are with gunpowder on your cheek.” Jenny found a napkin and wiped her eyes. “They’re going to help you get out of this mess… they’re going to help us. Please come with me now. We can’t stay. She said they might figure out we’re here. It’s all so crazy. Mind readers and Big Brother and the All-Seeing Eye.”
“Did she say anything about Scanlon? Or about a group calling themselves Minutemen?”
“No. Who are they?”
Bolden explained about the tattoo he’d seen on Wolf, and how he’d found a similar drawing related to the Scanlon Corporation, a “civilian contractor” that had once built military bases for the army. How Scanlon had branched off into private security work that included providing military trainers for other nations’ armed forces. “The connection seemed too perfect to be a coincidence.”
“And who are the ‘Minutemen’?”
“Some group of right-wing crazies back in the sixties. All I know is that they’re from Houston, too, where Scanlon started up, and that they used the same Kentucky flintlock rifle as a logo for their group.”
“I’ve never heard of them… outside the regular Minutemen. Paul Revere. Lexington and Concord. One if by land, and two if by sea. The Old North Church.”
Bolden looked away, and she could see the disappointment in his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” said Jenny.
“It’s all a wild-goose chase.” He wrung his hands.
“Where did you say they took you?”
“Harlem. Hamilton Tower. Near Convent Avenue.”
“I know where it is. It’s one block from Alexander Hamilton’s old home. The Grange.”
“And so?”
“And so, I don’t know… you’re the one talking about Minutemen and flintlock rifles. Bobby Stillman said the club had been around forever. Actually, she said, ‘since the beginning.’ Maybe it’s been around since Hamilton was secretary of the Treasury.”