“How much?”
“Fifty-three million.”
Bolden whistled long and low.
The crowd slowed and grew more frenetic as they approached the entry to the PATH terminal at the WTC. Through the tall mesh fence, dump trucks, cranes, earthmovers, and backhoes dotted the escarpment. From where Bolden stood, they looked like Tonka toys. As usual, Ground Zero provoked a complicated and transient mix of emotions. One moment he felt angry, the next forlorn, and the next ornery and begging for a fight. Mostly, though, the memory of all that once had been-the ghost of the towers-left him feeling a little less human.
“You still interested in that list of companies your clients bought and sold?”
“Scanlon anywhere there?”
“No, sir.”
“Might as well take a look at it,” said Bolden. “I don’t want you to think you did all that hard work for nothing.”
Althea slowed and took hold of his arm. “Thomas, you’re not coming back, are you?”
Bolden put his hand on top of hers. “I’d say my days at HW are pretty much finished.”
“What about me?”
“Just stay. Do your job. When I get out of this, I’ll look you up. We’re a team.”
“I got my Bobby.”
“He’s a good boy.”
“Yes, he is. He deserves better.”
They walked a hundred yards without speaking.
“See that trash bin?” Bolden said, lifting his head and indicating a square container a few yards ahead. “Drop the papers in there. I’ll be along a minute later to pick them up. Go home and don’t tell anyone you’ve seen or heard from me.”
“Okay, boss.” Althea extended a hand down low. “I’ve got something else for you. Made a pit stop on the way.” Bolden grasped her hand and felt the crisply folded bills. He looked at her and she returned his gaze. “Be careful, child,” she said. “I don’t know what I’ll tell my Bobby if something happens to you.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“You do better than that. You’re saying they changed that man’s face on the videotape and put yours in his place. Those people are rewriting the past. Better watch out or they’ll rewrite you and me.”
45
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help. Feel free to give a call though, anytime. Really.”
“Thanks anyway.” Jenny closed the door of Professor Mahmoud Basrani’s office, walked down the hall, and collapsed onto the nearest chair. In the space of an hour, she’d visited two professors of American history, an associate professor of government, and a lecturer in sociology. Their reactions had run the spectrum from bewildered to bemused, but in the end, their responses were identical. None had the scantest notion what she was talking about. The search was over before it had even begun. Walsh had been right. It was time to sign up for Conspiracy 101.
Jenny felt tears welling up. She’d hardly begun to look for the club and already she felt defeated. But it’s real, she’d wanted to scream. They shot me. Do you want to see? How much more real can it get than that?
A wave of fatigue swept over her and she wanted to go to sleep. Her shoulder was killing her, she was eight weeks pregnant, and she had absolutely nowhere to go, and no one she could turn to without risking dragging them into this mess as well. Worst of all, the father of her child, and the man she truly loved, was running for his life, and she couldn’t do a thing to help him. She slumped further into the seat, trying to find a spark, something that would light a fire inside her.
“You’re Jennifer?”
Jenny looked up to find a thin, red-haired girl hardly out of her teens bent over her. A nod was all she could manage.
“I’m Peg Kirk. Professor Walsh’s T.A. Harry told me that you’d visited him a little earlier. We talked about what you’d asked him.”
“About my ‘club’?” Jenny said, only half-facetiously. “I know it sounds stupid. I just thought that someone around here might be able to shed some light on it.”
“No,” said Peg earnestly. “It’s not stupid at all.”
Jenny looked at the slight girl, her plain face illuminated by a wide, believing smile and blue eyes that shone with enthusiasm. She was dressed in beat-up jeans and a baggy sweatshirt. A student, she thought. A believer. God help me, I was like that once, too. “Thanks, but I know when I’m beat.”
Peg dropped into the next seat. “Don’t let them get you down. They’re all a bunch of fuddy-duddies. They only know what they read. None of them go in for alternate history.”
“Alternate history?”
“You know… what might have been. Or as we prefer to say, ‘what really was,’ and has been papered over, hushed up, or just plain covered up since.”
“And you do?”
Peg shrugged. “Actually, I’m not sure yet. But between you and me, it’s the only area that’s still out there for the examining. Everything else has been written to death. The Founding Fathers, the Civil War, Manifest Destiny. You can forget the twentieth century. It’s all been done. I’ve got to read between the lines and ask, ‘What if?’ ”
“Have I got a story for you,” said Jenny, shaking her head.
“Not for me,” said Peg. “For Simon. He’s who you’re looking for. Scientia est potentia. He’ll love that.”
“Simon? Is he a friend of yours?”
“Simon Bonny? God no. Not a friend. I, like, worship him. He’s a teacher. Head of the department at the University of Glasgow. He’s a searcher. He looks in dark corners for the truth.”
Cue the X-Files theme, thought Jenny. Next stop: the Bermuda Triangle. “Glasgow,” she said, smiling ruefully. “Well, that’s a help at least.”
“No, silly,” Peg protested. “He’s not in Glasgow now. He’s here at Columbia. Professor Bonny’s teaching the freshman survey class this semester. He’s exactly who you need to speak with.”
“And he knows about the club… this Professor Bonny?”
Peg bunched her shoulders. “If anyone does, it’s him. And you know what else?” She motioned Jenny close. “He knows who really killed JFK.”
The Old Scotland pub was dark and woody with the smell of day-old beer hanging in the air and plenty of corners she wouldn’t dare set foot in. Simon Bonny stood at the rail of the bar, a pint of beer in front of him, an unlit cigarette resting in the ashtray. “You’re Jenny?”
“Professor Bonny?” Jenny extended a hand. “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”
“Not to worry,” said Bonny. “As you can see, the waiting room’s not exactly crowded.”
He was a tall string bean, dressed in blue jeans, a wrinkled button- down, and a tweed jacket. He was pale and anxious with slits for eyes, a fidgeting mouth, and a bobbing Adam’s apple. Scotland’s answer to Ichabod Crane. “Your call whetted my appetite. A club of influential gentlemen founded two hundred years ago. Governing without the consent of the people. Scientia est potentia. ‘Knowledge is power.’ Fascinating, indeed.”
For once, some excitement. Jenny found his interest refreshing. “Really? Does it ring a bell?”
“Maybe,” said Bonny stuffily. “First, let me tell you that I gave Harry Walsh a jingle. Had to check your bona fides. Hope you don’t mind. He said you seemed a little rattled. He was rather worried about you. Any reason for that?”
“No, no.” Jenny lowered her head and laughed, as if upset with herself. “I’ve just been doing some reading. Professor Walsh… uh, Harry… was my advisor when I was a student here. I thought he might be able to help me out.”
“Decent chap, but he never read a source he didn’t believe. Takes everything as given. That’s the problem, you know. History’s written by the victors. If you want to really know what’s going on, you have to study the losers… how they might have construed things… search for any nuggets that give you their side of the story.”