Black Market (32 page)

Authors: James Patterson

Tags: #thriller, #Fiction, #General, #Espionage, #Terrorists, #Detective and mystery stories, #Wall Street (New York; N.Y.)

BOOK: Black Market

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Virginia

Thomas More Elliot's palms were unpleasantly dry and cold. He suppressed a nervous tic that was starting to pulse in his throat. He finally stepped out of the dark blue stretch limousine and into the chill Virginia winter air. Dead trees were silhouetted against the gray skyline, and in the distance there was the sound of bird hunters' gunshots.

He turned and walked up the fieldstone steps that led to the large double doors of an imposing thirty-room country house. He paused before going in and sucked air deeply into his lungs.

Inside, the cavernous front hall was badly overheated. He felt a trickle of sweat run along his collar. His footsteps echoed on the marble floor as he crossed to a great curving flight of stairs that led up to the floors above. It was not a house that Thomas More Elliot enjoyed. Its very size, its history of late, made him uncomfortable.

When he reached the landing, he came to an ornately carved walnut door. It shone so deeply from years of meticulous care that he could almost see his own indistinct reflection in it.

He opened the door and walked in.

A group of men sat around a long, polished oak table. They were dressed mostly in dark business suits. Some of them, including General Lucas Thompson, were retired military and naval commanders. Others were influential bankers, landowners, proprietors of TV stations, and highly respected newspapers.

The man at the head of the table, a retired admiral with a shining bald head, waved at the vice president. “Sit down, Thomas. Sit. Please.

“A year ago,” the admiral continued once Elliot had taken a seat, “we met in this very room. Our mood that day was one of some agitation…”

There was a polite ripple of laughter.

“We debated, I'm sure we all remember, the complex problem posed by the so-called Red Tuesday plan, the plan that was hatched-if that's the word-in Tripoli by the oil-producing nations… There were rather heated arguments that day.”

The admiral smiled. Thomas Elliot thought he resembled a rather smug school principal on award day at a private academy.

“On that day we reached a decision-unanimous, finally-to create what we called Green Band. I believe the name was something I suggested myself, a name with both financial and military connotations.”

The admiral continued in sanctimonious tones, “We are here today to confirm that the paramilitary operation called Green Band was a success. We created temporary panic in the economic system. A panic we were able to control. We took hundreds of millions of dollars back from the oil-producing cartel. We brilliantly usurped the terrorist plan known as Red Tuesday. The world will find Jimmy Hoffa before they ever locate the body of François Monserrat… And with the destruction of Green Band and the inevitable death of our volatile associate, Colonel Hudson, the file should be closed on this unfortunate episode in our history… We are making
every
effort to make certain that it is.”

Thomas Elliot shifted on his chair. The atmosphere in the large room was changing subtly. The men were beginning to loosen up, to move toward a celebratory atmosphere, one that was muted, quiet, and, most of all, tasteful.

The admiral said, “In approximately two weeks, Justin Kearney will dramatically resign his presidency… He will be remembered chiefly as a scapegoat for the economic near tragedy… More important, though”-and here all eyes in the room turned toward Thomas More Elliot-”Thomas Elliot will ascend to that office…”

There was an outbreak of mild applause. Elliot looked around at the eleven men. His own presence brought the number to an even dozen.

The twelve men who effectively ran America, the American Wise Men.

“Later,” said the admiral, “there will be champagne and cigars. For the moment, Thomas, our dry congratulations to you, and I think to everyone in this room…”

The admiral looked reflective for a moment. “In a few weeks, for the first time, one of us will occupy the highest office in the land. And that means our control is tighter, more sure than ever before…” He looked down the row of men. “Which means we will no longer need to contend with a president who doesn't think the way we do… someone who imagines his power is independent of what we bestow.”

Thomas More Elliot stared off into the gray light that lay against the window. His throat had become suddenly dry. He reached for the water pitcher on the table. He was about to say something that would not contribute to the general mood of contentment in the room. But that couldn't be helped. Somebody had to deliver the news.

“I have heard from our people in New York City. A man called Archer Carroll is in police custody there. I have been told that he is talking… that he's telling his story to anyone who will listen… and that certain media representatives are paying very close attention to what he is saying.”

Thomas More Elliot sipped his tepid water.

“What does he know?” the admiral asked eventually.

“Everything,” the vice president said.

Manhattan

At Seventy-second Street, Police Sergeant Joe Macchio and Patrolwoman Jeanne McGuiness were driving out of the woods of Central Park when they spotted the scene.

“This is car one-three-eight. Please give
immediate assistance
at Seventy-second Street and Central Park West!” Patrolwoman Jeanne McGuiness, a tall, skinny woman with an impassive face, was already speaking into the car radio. The red police bubble on top of the cruiser had begun to revolve slowly.

Up ahead, traveling at maybe fifty or fifty-five miles an hour, was a dark blue Lincoln. That
wasn't
the problem.

The problem was some suicidal or homicidal maniac trying to wiggle out of the shattered backseat window. He was halfway out. Holding him inside were two other men.

“Look! Look there! The second car behind!” McGuiness pointed straight ahead. Inside the second car, children, a host of screaming kids, seemed to be fighting and struggling to get out.

“Son of a bitch!” Joe Macchio growled. He had been dreaming of Christmas, and something of the peaceful spirit had created a glow in him. Now that was all gone.

Macchio and McGuiness left their police cruiser. With revolvers drawn, they cautiously approached the two sedans, which had now stopped at the southwest corner of Seventy-second. Other blue-and-whites, sirens screaming, were already racing up Broadway.

“We're federal agents.” A man in a dark business suit burst out of the lead sedan. He was confidently holding out a portfolio wallet and an official-looking badge.

“I don't care if you're the commander in chief of the United States Army,” Sergeant Macchio croaked in his most convincing street-cop voice. “What the hell's going on here? Who the hell's this guy? Why are these kids screaming like somebody's being murdered?”

A second dark-suited man stepped out of the trailing sedan. “I'm Michael Kenyon of the CIA, Officer.” He said it calmly but authoritatively. “I think I can explain this whole thing.”

Carroll was still half-in, half-out of the back window of the sedan. He was groggy, almost out on his feet. He hollered at the two police officers. “Hey! Please!” His speech was slurred. “My kids… they're in danger… I'm a federal officer…”

Sergeant Joe Macchio couldn't help himself-he finally started to laugh. “Not that I think this is funny, pal. But
you're
a federal officer?”

Ten minutes later the situation wasn't any closer to being solved. Several more police blue-and-whites had arrived. So had cars from the New York FBI and more from the CIA. There was a buzzing cluster of police officials on Seventy-second Street.

Two EMS ambulances had pulled up, but Caitlin and Mary Katherine wouldn't let them take Carroll to Roosevelt Hospital or anyplace else without them.

Caitlin was yelling at the policeman, telling him that she and Carroll were part of the Green Band investigation team. She had proof in her pocketbook.

The CIA agents had lots of impressive proof that they were who they said they were. The arguing continued on the corner, getting more heated with every passing moment. It began to draw a curious sidewalk crowd.

Mickey Kevin Carroll finally sidled up to Sergeant Joe Macchio, who had walked off to try to think the whole crazy thing out.

“Can I see your hat?” Mickey Kevin asked. “My dad's a policeman. He doesn't get to wear a hat, though.”

Joe Macchio looked down at the small boy and finally offered a tired smile. “And which one
is
your dad?” he asked. “Is your dad here now?”

“
That's
my dad.” Mickey Kevin pointed at the man peacefully slumped, seemingly sleeping, on the EMS cot, looking like Crusader Rabbit.

“He's a policeman, son?”

“Yes, sir.”

Well, that settled it for Sergeant Macchio. “That's what I needed to know, son. That's what I needed to know for starters, anyway.”

Sergeant Macchio stooped down and handed Mickey Kevin Carroll his hat. Then he hastily walked in the direction of the disturbance that had closed down Seventy-second Street, not to mention the downtown lanes of Central Park West and the park road.

“Tell you what we're gonna do, eh!” Sergeant Macchio clapped his hands for a little old-fashioned order and attention. “We're gonna sort this all out down at the station house!”

At that news, the entire Carroll family started to do a very odd thing; at least Sergeant Macchio and the rest of the New York cops thought it was peculiar. The kids started to balls-out cheer and clap for the NYPD.

The cops weren't used to that. A couple of the older patrolmen even started to blush. They'd almost never been treated like the arriving cavalry before, like the good guys.

“All right,
all right
, now! Everybody pile into the wagons. Let's get this show on the road. See who's been naughty, eh?”

Photographs of the scene were snapped by somebody from
The New York Times
, also by a free-lance photojournalist who lived across the street in the Dakota. A shot of Mickey Kevin wearing Macchio's hat was featured in
Newsweek
magazine.

Eventually the
Newsweek
shot of Mickey Kevin appeared framed on the mantel in the Carroll house. Lizzie, Mary III, and Clancy all complained loudly about favoritism. Arch told them to shut their yaps, they were all family, weren't they?

Washington, D.C.

A direct line to the president of the United States signaled through at six O'clock on the morning of March 7. Clustered inside the Oval Office were most of the members of the National Security Council. Not one of the high-ranking officials could believe what was happening now.

A prerecorded message came over the telephone wire: “The White House is scheduled to be firebombed this morning, in a matter of minutes… This decision is irrevocable. This decision is nonnegotiable. You are to evacuate the White House immediately.”

Inside a telephone booth, less than a mile from the White House, Colonel David Hudson pushed down the recording machine's stop button. He stuffed the compact recorder into the pocket of his fatigue jacket. Hudson laughed out loud.

Washington waited, but the White House was never struck that morning. Instead, the home of General Lucas Thompson was firebombed. So was the home of Vice President Elliot, the homes of Admiral Thomas Penny, of Philip Berger, of Lawrence Guthrie… twelve homes in all.

David Hudson finally climbed into a light green touring van. He drove west out of the serene and strikingly lovely capital. No more nightmare voices screeched inside his head.
Finally, there was an end to deception
.

New York – London – Los Angeles

***