Irish continued. “You graduated summa cum laude with a double major in math and economics from Princeton University. You were captain of the rugby team, but you broke your leg in a game against Yale your senior year, and that was that. You wrote an investments column for the newspaper called ‘Common Cents.’ You worked twenty-five hours a week at Butler Dining Hall. After that, you attended the Wharton School on a full scholarship. You turned down a job with the World Bank, and passed on a Fulbright scholarship to take a job at Harrington Weiss. Last year, you were promoted to director, the youngest to make it in your hiring class. Are we good?”
“How…?” Bolden began.
Wolf slid forward and tapped Bolden on the cheek. “Irish asked, ‘Are we good?’ ”
“We’re good.” It was a whisper.
We want you, Mr. Bolden.
The car drove at a steady pace. Bolden guessed that they were heading north either on the West Side Highway or FDR Drive. They were still in Manhattan. Had they crossed a bridge or passed through a tunnel he would have noticed. He sat as still as a rock, but his mind was doing the hundred-yard dash. He had no grievances outstanding, past or present. He hadn’t violated anyone’s trust. He hadn’t broken any laws. He settled into the soft black leather and ordered himself to wait, to cooperate, to be ready for a chance.
Bolden lifted the silver plate off the floor and placed it in his lap. A program from the dinner had fallen out of its protective wrap. Irish read it, then handed it to Wolf, who gave it a perfunctory look and threw it back onto the floor.
“Why do you do it?” asked Irish. “Think you make a difference?”
Bolden studied the man. His face was lean to the point of being gaunt, the skin drawn tight across his jaw. His complexion ruddy, windburned. The reckless eyes, a flinty blue. It was the face of a climber, a triathlete, a marathoner; someone who enjoyed testing the limits of his endurance. Bolden decided the scar on his cheek was a bullet wound. “You guys were in the army?” he asked. “What, Rangers? Airborne?”
Neither man protested, and Bolden noted a change in their bearing. A camouflaged pride.
“What’s that saying of yours?” he went on. “ ‘No man left behind.’ That’s why I do it. The kids up there don’t have someone looking after them to make sure they don’t get left behind.”
He looked out the window, hoping for a glimpse of the street, but caught only his own reflection. Why did he do it? Maybe because his life had grown settled and routine, and with the kids, nothing was ever settled or routine. Every decision-from what color shirt to wear to school to which fast-food joint to do their homework in afterward-was liable to have a profound impact on their future. It was an existence lived on a razor’s edge, and it required the skill of a tightrope artist just to stay out of trouble. Maybe he did it for himself. Because he’d been one of them. Because he knew what it was like to live day by day, to think of the future as what might happen the week after next. Maybe he did it because he’d been the lucky one who got out, and you never forgot your brothers.
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.