“But I didn’t want them to take you. I had some friends in mind, people I thought I could trust. I hid you, but… but they let me down.”
“The left-wing fringe,” said Bolden. “Dependable as ever.”
A shadow passed over his mother’s face. Sighing with anger, desperation, even hope, she began to talk about the past. About bombing Guardian Microsystems and David Bernstein’s murder, about Jacklin framing her. About spending her life moving from one town to the next, always scrounging for money. And finally, about her mission to expose Jefferson, to unravel their fraud and put an end to their meddling.
“How can you understand?” she asked. “It was a crazy time. We were so impassioned, so angry. We believed. Does anyone believe in anything anymore?”
“But you never came back,” said Jenny. “You never wrote Tom a single letter.”
“It was better for him to forget me.”
“You didn’t leave when I was two,” said Bolden. “I was six. You were all I had.”
“And do you think you would have understood? Do you think a six-year-old can grasp the concept of sacrifice? All kids think about are themselves. Well, wise up, sonny boy, some things are more important than having a Coke and a smile.”
Bolden shook his head. He felt no loss, no sorrow, or self-pity. That part of him had died a long time ago. He was surprised when he heard her gasp and saw tears running down his mother’s face. She looked away, wiping her cheeks.
“Oh, lord.” She laughed achingly, her chin unsteady. “I was terrible. I know that. It was my choice and I’d make it again today. I couldn’t let Jacklin steal the people’s voice. That’s what he does. He doesn’t trust us. Any of us. So there. Now you know it. I was a bad mother. I’ve had to live with that every day. But I did what I had to do.”
Bolden reached out his hand. His mother looked down at it. Her eyes rose to him. Lacing her fingers through his, she took his hand and held on to her son tightly.
68
Agent Ellington Fiske of the United States Secret Service strode through the front door of the White House and addressed the assembly of men and women standing inside. “Mr. President. Senator McCoy. We’re ready for you.”
It was ten o’clock in the morning, Thursday, January 20. Inauguration Day by vote of Congress. Standing in the vestibule were the President and First Lady, their three grown children and two grandchildren, Senator McCoy, her father, her sister, and two nieces. At Fiske’s announcement, the group hastily set their cups and saucers on the table and headed to the door.
Four limousines waited outside: heavily armored black stretch Cadillacs, the Stars and Stripes flying from the hood like a cavalry unit’s guidons. Only the second and third in line, however, were outfitted to transport the President of the United States. These carried extra armor sufficient to withstand a direct strike from a rocket-propelled grenade, bulletproof glass capable of stopping a.30 caliber round fired at point-blank range, and puncture-proof tires.
President Gordon Ramser and Senator Megan McCoy climbed into the second limousine in line. Their family members and guests trooped into the third and fourth. Though the inauguration would not begin until twelve o’clock, protocol dictated that the incoming and outgoing President visit the Hill for a morning tea with congressional leadership inside the Capitol rotunda. Fiske checked that all doors were properly closed before walking to the head of the motorcade and climbing into the command car, a navy blue Chevrolet Suburban with no armor, no bulletproof glass, and a set of standard steel-belted radials. Secret Service agents were expendable.
“Tomahawk to Braves. We are go to the Capitol. Move ’em out.” Fiske put down the two-way radio and looked at Larry Kennedy, his number two. “This is it. The big day.”
“You da man, chief,” said Kennedy. He nodded confidently. “Everything’s gonna go smooth as silk.”
“Your mouth to God’s ear.”
For twelve months, Fiske had worked tirelessly to ensure that nothing would mar this day. Success was measured in how quickly the average American would forget it. Fiske wanted four minutes on the evening news and not a second more. Larry Kennedy put out his hand. Fiske shook it firmly. “Let’s do it.”
The motorcade departed 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, turning right, then right again at the end of the block and continuing down Fifteenth Street. Fiske stared out the window with suspicious eyes. The snow had stopped. The clouds had broken. A sky of frosted blue peeked from behind the curtain of white fleece. The next instant, the sun hit the ground, gilding the newly fallen snow and sending spirals of reflected light shooting off the wet streets. Fiske nodded grudgingly. About time the Lord got with the program.
The spectators were taking up positions along the parade route, staking out spots on the sidewalk and filling the bleachers. Clusters of eight magnetometers governed entrance to each fenced-in, three-block perimeter. It was simple mathematics. Three thousand people an hour could pass through each checkpoint. There were twenty checkpoints in total. Sixty thousand people an hour could gain access to the parade route and National Mall. Last time, the crowd had numbered an estimated three hundred thousand between the Mall and the parade route. But now… Fiske grimaced. The change in weather would bring them out in droves. A steady stream of men and women passed through each checkpoint along the route. So far, so good.
His eyes rose to the roof of the Reagan Building. A shadow flitted above the parapet. Sharpshooters were in place at seventeen strategic locations along the route. Antiaircraft batteries had been erected at eight others. To his right, a K-9 team conducted a final check for explosives beneath the bleachers.
Three thousand uniformed police.
Two hundred of his own agents.
Two thousand volunteers.
Everyone was in place.
Fiske sat back. All he could do was wait.
Thomas Bolden tramped awkwardly across the snow, his arm draped over Jenny’s shoulder. Despite the bandages wrapping his chest and the heavy dose of over-the-counter lidocaine spray-on painkiller, his chest throbbed ferociously. He’d just have to take it for a while.
The National Mall was crowded to bursting with spectators. From the steps of the Capitol building to the sloped foothills leading up to the Washington Monument, it was a sea of bobbing heads with more arriving every minute. Bobby Stillman led the way, not afraid to push, squeeze, or plain shove her way through the grinding crowd. For over an hour, Bolden had argued that he should find a Secret Service agent and inform him of their fears. His mother wouldn’t hear of it. One mention of a threat to the President-elect, and he would be whisked off to a holding cell where he could be interrogated. The first thing they would do was ask for his driver’s license, or social security number, and run him through their computers. Word would come back that he was wanted for murder, and that would be the end of that. Case closed. Innocent or not, he was a fugitive whose word had lost its value.
They had come to keep watch. To pray that they’d spot the attempt on Senator McCoy’s life in time to warn her.
They stopped at a spot beneath the television tower. The strains of the Marine Corps Band reached their ears. All brass and drums, a chest-thumping call to arms.
“Nothing like a Sousa march to get the blood flowing,” said Harry. “Makes me want to straighten up and fire off a salute.”
“Makes me want to run in the other direction,” said Walter.
The presidential stand was two hundred feet away. The seats behind it were nearly full. Bolden spotted Von Arx of the FBI, and Edward Logsdon, Charles Connolly, the author, and of course, James J. Jacklin. The Scoundrels Club. Only Ramser and Schiff were missing.
Bolden checked his watch. Eleven fifty-five. The inauguration would begin in five minutes. He glanced over his shoulder and surveyed the crowd. There were uniformed police everywhere. According to his mother, Scanlon had been hired to enhance perimeter security and provide a “secure but porous event environment.” He knew what that meant. They would be dressed in plainclothes, but armed and with a mandate to intervene when necessary. Some, he knew, would be looking for him.