Never a day passed that Birnbaum didn't read for at least six or seven hours. Because of that lifelong habit, the financier knew he was still several steps faster than the other people in his business, especially the lazy boys on Wall Street.
What was the operative connection between Green Band, the bombing of December 4, and the dangerous economic events of the past two days?
Why had nothing conclusive been discovered about Green Band yet?
Why were the Green Band provocateurs consistently two steps ahead of those conducting the investigation? How could that be happening again and again?
Like nature, Anton Birnbaum abhorred a vacuum, and that was precisely what Green Band had masterfully created: a huge empty space in which logical questions had no apparent answers.
Months back he had heard rumors of a Russian-sponsored plot to dramatically disrupt the stock market… His closest and most reliable contacts at the CIA had been worried about the activities of the wretched François Monserrat. Was Monserrat somehow connected with the Green Band plot? And what about certain members of the government here in America? The CIA's Philip Berger? He was a character Birnbaum had never found it in himself to trust… Or Vice President Thomas Elliot? He was a chilly one as well, and he played everything close to the vest.
Too many possibilities. Almost as if that were part of the plan.
As the tiny ancient man made his inquisitional phone calls that morning-to Switzerland, England, France, South Africa, to both West Germany and East Germany-he felt like someone who had an important name on the tip of his tongue but just couldn't remember it.
Anton Birnbaum wrote down the most suspicious names.
Philip Berger
Thomas More Elliot
François Monserrat
And perhaps the connecting link: Red Tuesday.
The clue was there-the beginning of the answer they were searching for. He was certain of that.
If he could just find the one clue… If he could just figure out the motive for the events thus far. It was here, somewhere.
Anton Birnbaum worked at his desk, sketchily making notes, making highly confidential calls. He worked feverishly, like a man who felt his time running out.
Carroll had decided to start at square one again, to thoroughly check and recheck every lead, every hunch he'd ever had about Green Band. The task would take countless hours. he knew. It would require an intense search through the computers, even allowing for the fact that he had high-speed data at his disposal. Ah, police work.
He asked for clearance from the CIA and the FBI to make a search of their computer files. Neither organization gave him too much trouble, although Phil Berger imposed certain limitations on his access, for the usual reasons of national security.
Nearly eleven hours later Carroll stood before the dozen or so computer screens inside the crisis room at 13 Wall Street. He stared at the screens, and his eyes ached from the dull green glow.
He glanced at Caitlin, who sat with her slender fingers raised over a computer keyboard, ready to type out a password for further access to the FBI's files. There was no skill she didn't seem to have.
When the display screen answered, she rapidly typed again, this time requesting a readout of active and nonactive Vietnam veterans who, for whatever reason, had been under police surveillance during the past two years-a time frame she and Carroll had agreed on.
She added the subcategories: Explosives Experts; New York and Vicinity; Possible Subversive Leanings.
There was a long pause, a spooky electronic pause, and then the machine began its requested readout of Vietnam veterans.
Carroll had been down this particular route of investigation, only not with this equipment and Caitlin's help. American terrorist-related groups were out there, but none was considered very powerful or well organized. Phil Berger of the CIA had been investigating American paramilitary groups himself. He had waved Carroll off that trail once before.
“Can you print out a list of the real hard cases?” Carroll asked Caitlin.
“This is a computer. It can do anything if you ask it nicely.”
The printer obligingly kicked back into life. Paper slid through it as the dot matrix clacked back and forward. A total count showed no more than ninety names of current soldiers and veterans with extensive explosives experience in Vietnam -men whom the FBI considered important enough to keep track of. Carroll ripped the paper from the printer and took it to a desk.
Adamski, Stanley. Corporal. Three years VA hospital, Prescott, Ariz. Member of left wing-oriented veterans group called the Rams, ostensibly a bikers club.
Carroll wondered how much of this was standard FBI paranoia.
The list was filled with dizzying cross-references, he soon discovered. One name was connected to another, creating a mazelike effect. He could spend months working on all the permutations.
Keresty, John. Sergeant. Munitions expert. Discharged VA hospital, Scranton, Pa. 1974. Occupation: custodian, plastics corp. Member of the American Socialist party. Ridgewood, N.J. SEE: Rhinehart, Jay T.; Jones, James; Winston files.
The lists went on and on.
Carroll massaged his eyelids. He went for two coffees, then returned to the desk and even more sprawling computer sheets.
He said, “Any one of these men, or two or three of them could have helped blow up the financial district.”
Caitlin gazed over his shoulder at the printout. “So where do we start?”
Carroll shook his head. He was filled with doubts again. They would have to investigate, maybe even visit, every name on the lists. They didn't have time.
Scully, Richard P. Sergeant. Plastique expert. Hospitalized Manhattan, 1974, for alcoholism. Extreme right wing sympathizer. Occupation: cabdriver. New York City.
Downey, Marc. Military assassin. Hospitalized 1971-73. Occupation: bartender. Worcester, Mass.
Carroll gazed at the burgeoning list again. An army officer, maybe? A disaffected officer with a grudge or a cause? Somebody exceptionally smart, nursing a grievance, year after year.
He laid his hands on the warm computer console. He wished he could coax all the secrets out of it, all the electronic links of which it was capable. He stared at the lengthy printout again. “An officer,” he said. “Try that.”
Caitlin went back to the keyboard to request more information. He watched her fingers move expertly over the keys. She was requesting information on known or suspected subversives who had been officers in Vietnam. Under the general rubric of “subversive” were included all kinds of people.
The screen began to issue more names. Colonels. Captains. Majors. Some were listed in these official records as schizophrenics. Others were supposedly burned out on drugs. Others had become evangelists, panhandlers, small-time bank and liquor store robbers. Carroll received a printout of these names as well. There were twenty-nine of the hard-core category in and around New York City.
The screen flickered again.
Names of the various officers on the FBI list now shimmered forth. Carroll once again ran his eyes over them.
Bradshaw, Michael. Captain. Discharged VA hospital, Dallas, Tex., 1971. Occupation: real estate salesman, Hempstead, Long Island. Post traumatic stress disorder victim.
Babbershill, Terrance. Major. Discharged dishonorably, 1969. Known Vietcong sympathizer. Occupation: English-language tutor for various Vietnamese families. Brooklyn, N.Y.
Carroll tried to focus. His eyes were beginning to water. He needed to feel the fresh cold night air on his face. But he continued to run his eyes up and down the screen.
Rydeholm, Ralph. Colonel.
O'Donnell, Joseph. Colonel.
Schweitzer, Peter. Lieutenant colonel.
Shaw, Robert. Captain.
Craig, Kyle. Colonel.
Boudreau, Dan. Captain.
Kaplan, Lin. Captain.
Weinshanker, Greg. Captain.
Dwyer, James. Colonel.
Beauregard, Bo. Captain.
/> Arnold, Tim. Captain.
Morrissey, Jack. Colonel.
Too many names, Carroll thought. Too many casualties in a war of total waste.
“Can you get me cross-references, Caitlin? Associations and connections between any of these men? The officers. The real hard-asses out of Vietnam?”
“I'll try.”
Caitlin tapped a few keys. Nothing happened this time. She stared at the screen thoughtfully, then tapped another brief message.
Nothing happened.
She tapped out another message. Still nothing happened.
“Is something wrong?” Carroll asked.
“This is the best I can get, Arch. Damn it.”
The unfortunate message that shone in front of them read “Further data: see files.”
“See files?” he asked. “These are the files.”
“They apparently have more information in FBI files that aren't on the computer, Arch. They're down in Washington. Why is that?”
At ten o'clock on the evening of December 16, Sergeant Harry Stemkowsky was thinking that he was actually solvent. He was financially comfortable, probably for the first time in his entire adult life.
He'd just bought a new Ford Bronco, also a luxurious beaver coat at Alexander's for Mary. Life was suddenly getting decent for them, for the first time in all their years together.
But Harry Stemkowsky couldn't bring himself to believe in any of it comfortably. This was all like Santa Claus and trips to Disney World-that kind of transient shit.
Who could identify with a sudden net worth of $1,152,000?
Stemkowsky felt a little like one of those Looney Tunes who won the New York State Lottery, then nervously kept their little jobs as janitors or U.S. postal employees. It was a matter of too much too fast. He kept getting the uneasy feeling that somebody was going to take it all away again.
At twenty past ten that evening, Stemkowsky carefully nosed his Vets cab out of the street noise and blazing yellow lights of midtown Manhattan. He'd finished his regular ten-hour shift, all according to Colonel Hudson's prescribed step-by-step plan for their ultimate success. The Checker cab bumped and rattled onto the Fifty-seventh Street entrance to the bridge.
A few minutes later the cab turned onto a busy avenue in Jackson Heights, then edged onto Eighty-fifth, where Stemkowsky lived with his wife, Mary. He absently licked his lips as he drove down the street. He could just about taste the stew Mary had said she was fixing when he'd left in the morning. The sudden expectation of beef, shallots, and those little light-puffed potatoes she usually made was mouthwatering.
Maybe he and Mary should retire to the south of France after this was over, he began to think. They'd be filthy rich enough for sure. They could eat four-star French food until they got absolutely sick of it. Maybe move on to Italy. Maybe Greece after that. Greece was supposed to be cheap. Hey-who cared if it was cheap or not?
Harry Stemkowsky began to accelerate down the last flat stretch toward home.
“Jesus Christ, buddy!” he shouted suddenly, and pounded his brakes.
A tall bald-headed man, with an incredibly pained look, had run right out in front of the cab. He was frantically waving both arms over his head; he was screaming something Stemkowsky couldn't make out with the windows up.
Harry Stemkowsky recognized the look from Vietnam, though, from dreaded cleanup patrols into villages after devastating Phantom air strafes. His heart had already dropped through the floorboards of the cab. Something horrible and unexpected had happened here-something awful had happened in Stemkowsky's own neighborhood.
The terrified man was up against the cab window now, still screaming at the top of his voice. “Help me, please! Help! Please help!”
Stemkowsky finally got the window rolled down. He had his radio mike in hand, ready to call for whatever emergency help was needed. “What the hell happened? What happened, mister?”
Suddenly a small black Beretta was shoved hard, crunching like a nightstick, against Harry Stemkowsky's temple. “This is the matter! Don't move. Put back that mike.”
A second man appeared now, quickly emerging out of the smoky side-street darkness. He yanked open the creaking passenger-side door.
“Just turn the cab right around, Sergeant Stemkowsky. We're not going home quite yet.”
An indefinite time later-hours? maybe days? There was no possible way to accurately gauge because all time had collapsed under him-Harry Stemkowsky felt hands angrily ripping under his armpits, lifting him rudely. The hands propped him hard onto a creaking wooden chair again. They'd injected him twice with drugs, probably Pentothal.
A man's face, a blur of soft pink, seemed to float down and step close to Stemkowsky's face. Harry Stemkowsky was aware of minty breath and musky cologne. Then his mind went into complete shock. He couldn't believe who this was.
This face-he'd seen it before, recently always distilled by a network TV screen or a newspaper…
No, he was confused. The drug had fucked his brain over-
What was going on here? This person couldn't be-
The face smiled horribly and said, “Yes, I'm François Monserrat. You know me under another name. This is an extraordinary shock, I know.”
Harry Stemkowsky shut his eyes. This was all a bad dream. It would go away.
He opened his eyes and shook his head, which ached unbelievably. His eyeballs felt indescribably heavy. He simply could not believe it. So incredibly near the top. The ultimate traitor…
When Stemkowsky finally spoke, he was almost incoherent; incomprehensible words squirmed through his gummy, swollen lips. His tongue felt at least twice its normal size.
“Ga fuh-fuh-fuck yrrself. Fuh-fuck yrrself.”
“Oh, please. Your time for being morally indignant is long past… All right, then…look at what we have here. Look at this.”
Monserrat's hands were holding out a brown paper shopping bag. From it, he took out a familiar blue cooking pot.
Harry Stemkowsky screamed! He fought insanely against his bonds, forcing them to rip into his skin. Up close to his eyes, a fork dipped slowly into the depths of the pot. The fork speared a dripping chunk of beef bourguignonne that oozed brown gravy.
Stemkowsky screamed. He screamed again and again.
“It seems you guessed my little secret. You should also know by now how deadly serious this interrogation is. How important this is to me.” Monserrat turned to his lieutenants.
“Bring in the unfortunate cook.”
Harry Stemkowsky recognized Mary, but only slightly. She was such a pitiful caricature of her former self. Her face was badly bruised, purplish, and raw. Her bloated mouth opened crookedly as she saw Harry. Some of her front teeth were missing; her swollen gums were pulpy and bloody.
“Puh-puh-pleez?” Stemkowsky struggled; he lifted the chair legs right off the floor with his tremendous arm strength. “She don know.”
“I know that. Mary doesn't know how you came to possess stolen stock market bonds in Beirut, then in Tel Aviv. You know, though.”
“Pleeze. Don-don-don hur' her…”
“I don't want to hurt her. So you tell me what you know, Sergeant. Everything that you know. You tell me right now. How did you get the stolen stock market bonds?”
Once again, that horrible smile from Monserrat.
It took another excessively cruel and gruesome fifteen minutes to get the information, to find out some, not all, of what Sergeant Harry Stemkowsky knew…
Information about the stolen bonds and Wall Street securities; about the bombing on December 4. Not where Colonel Hudson was right now. Not even precisely who the Vets leader was. But a start, a beginning, at least. And a beginning was better than what Monserrat had been accustomed to recently.
François Monserrat stared down at a crippled Harry Stemkowsky and his wife. From Stemkowsky's perspective the terrorist leader seemed to be looking right through them, as if they were both totally insubstantial. The look on Monserrat's face was almost inhum
an, frightening, sickening.
“You see now? None of your pain and none of poor Mary's suffering were necessary. It could have been five minutes of talking together, at most. Now, how's this for just rewards?”
A compact black Beretta appeared, paused so that the Stemkowskys could see what was coming, then fired twice.
The very last thing U.S. Army Sergeant Harry Stemkowsky ever thought was that he and Mary never got to enjoy their money. Over a million dollars, which he'd earned. It wasn't fair. Life wasn't ever fair, was it?
That night Arch Carroll went to his home in Riverdale. As he trudged up from the floodlit clapboard garage, the ground around him seemed to be spinning.
He climbed the creaky porch steps. Twinges of guilt struck painfully hard. He'd been neglecting the kids for too long this time.
Only the night-light was on downstairs. There was the soft electric buzz of kitchen appliances. Carroll took off his shoes and tiptoed upstairs.
He stopped and peeked inside the front bedroom where Elizabeth, AKA Lizzie, bunked with Mickey Kevin. Their tiny baby figures were delicately sprawled across twin beds.
He remembered buying the beds years before, at Klein's on Fourteenth Street. Just look at the little creepolas. Not a problem, not a care in the world. Life as it ought to be.
An ancient Buster Brown clock from Carroll's own childhood glowed and clicked softly on the far wall. It was next to posters of Def Leppard and the Police. Strange world for a little kid to grow up in.
Strange world for the big kids, too.
“Hi, you guys,” he whispered too low to be heard. “Your old dad's home from the salt mines.”
“Everybody's just fine, Archer,” Mary K. said.
“You scared the living shit out of me, Mary. I never heard you come in.”
“They understand all the problems you're having. We've been watching the news.”
Mary K. gave her big brother a hug. She'd been seventeen the year both their parents had died in Florida. Carroll had brought her up after that. He and Nora had always been around to talk to her about her boyfriends-about Mary Katherine wanting to be a serious painter, even if she couldn't make any decent money at it. They'd been there when she needed them, and now it was the other way around.
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