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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.
    “Wait here,” said Irish.
    Bolden stood still, his heart pounding. The hood was tight and cloying, the coarse filaments brushing his lips, getting into his mouth. Someone entered the room. He could feel the change in pressure, a presence circling him, sizing him up as if he were a slab of beef. Reflexively, he stood at attention.
    “Mr. Bolden, my name is Guilfoyle. I’m sorry for any inconvenience. All I can say is that it’s necessary for us to speak and we can’t have anyone being privy to our conversation. Wolf, take off that hood, will you? Mr. Bolden must be getting a little uncomfortable.”
    Wolf removed the hood.
    “So, here’s our gadfly,” said Guilfoyle. “Persistent, aren’t you?”
    He was a short, unattractive man in his fifties with narrow shoulders and a hunched posture. His thinning black hair grew in a widow’s peak that he combed away from a lined brow. His eyes were dark, cupped by fleshy pouches, his skin sallow, cheeks sagging, a turkey’s dangling chin. The smell of tobacco hung on him like a cloud.
    “Come with me.” Guilfoyle led the way into another room. The décor was suited for a clerk or other menial labor: cheap carpeting, white walls, acoustic tiles on the ceiling. A veneer desk sat in the center of the room, along with two office chairs. There were no windows. “Take a seat.”
    Bolden sat down.
    Guilfoyle dragged the other chair closer. Sitting, he craned his neck forward, his eyes riveted to Bolden’s face. Mouth tight, lips pushed up at the corners, he looked as if he were studying a painting he didn’t like.
    He knows things about people.
    “I’d like you to keep still,” he said in a doctor’s patient, disinterested tone. “Movement makes things very difficult for me. It will only delay matters. I’ve only got two questions. Answer them and you’re free to go.”
    “Easier than
Jeopardy!
”
    “This is no game show.”
    Bolden took in the almost decent suit, the cheap necktie, the ease with which Guilfoyle launched into his interrogation. The guy had cop written