“You do seem to go all the way on things,” she lightly teased Hudson.
“Or not at all. Just look at this insanity! This wonderful monstrosity!” He suddenly whooped and grinned broadly. It was quite unlike his usual self, at least the part she’d seen.
They’d finally come up close to the glittering, extravagantly overdecorated Rockefeller Center tree. A crowd, lovers mostly, from college aged to quite elderly, was clustered over the top of the skating rink and attached restaurant. A small boys’ choir, innocent in cassock and surplice, sang the loveliest carols down below.
Colonel Hudson’s brain had finally slowed; he was relaxed and relatively comfortable right now. An exceedingly rare treat. To be savored.
He occasionally felt a stab of guilt about his mission, about losing concentration, but he knew the release of tension could be valuable, too.
“Do you miss your family, your home? Being away from England during the holidays?” he asked.
He and Billie caught one another’s eyes, and held on for a long few seconds. As it had been with the two of them from the start, they seemed almost alone now. In spite of the shoving masses crowding the square.
“I miss certain incidents from the past.… Some charming things about my sister, my mother. I don’t miss home too much, no. Life in the Midlands. Birmingham is one of those places from which all the young people, all the reasonably bright ones, want to get away…
“If you remain in Birmingham, you work for British Steel, or perhaps the new exhibition center. Once you marry, you stay home with your brood. Watch the new morning BBC. You get fat, your thinking petrifies. After a few years, no one can imagine that any of the women were ever pretty slips of young girls. Almost no one over forty looks like they were ever young.”
“So you escaped? London? Paris?”
“I went to London when I turned eighteen. I was crude, unpolished, in the way that I looked, the way I thought about the world. I wanted to be an actress, a fashion model, anything that would keep me from ever going back to Birmingham. Ever.”
Billie smiled, and she was so charmingly self-effacing. “I made a few minor misjudgments in London,” she said with a mocking laugh.
“And then?”
“After, I guess it was five years there, I decided to either come to New York, or Paris. That’s me up to the present. I’m hopeful I can do well as a model. I’m putting together a book for press advertising—that’s magazines and newspapers. I know that I’m attractive—physically attractive, at least.”
She had delivered most of the autobiographical speech very shyly, with her eyes downcast, glancing anywhere but into David Hudson’s eyes. Color had crept up from her neck, finally covering her entire face.
“I’ve made a few tiny misjudgments myself. Just a few.” Hudson laughed then. So many stored-up emotions were being released inside him now. It had been so long since he’d allowed himself this.
Billie began to laugh again. “Oh, to hell with the past,” she said, her eyes a little sad however, ironic, slightly pinched at the corners. They both ran out of words at exactly the same time. The moment seemed especially poignant for some reason, confused, with far too many emotional crosscurrents.
Billie finally turned to face Hudson again. She spoke very softly, feathers of her warm breath lightly touching his ear.
“Please kiss me, David. That might not sound like anything so very dramatic.… Except that I don’t think I’ve said it to anyone, and meant it, since I was about sixteen or seventeen years old.”
Hudson and Billie Bogan, her slender body loose and pliant, his strong, almost at military attention, kissed in the shadows of the grand Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center.
Holiday music sweetly played around them: “Adeste Fidelis,” “Silent Night,” “Joy to the World.”
For that moment, at least, Hudson conveniently forgot his other plans for the world.
Not joy, exactly. No, something else that was badly needed, though.
Justice for mankind.
Revenge for a special few.
Chapter 76
CAITLIN DILLON HURRIEDLY entered the crowded conference room inside No. 13 Wall.
She passed repairmen plastering over cracks in cement. Three cleaning women hauled buckets at the end of the hallway, clanking as they moved. Caitlin paused at the buzzing entrance to the conference room and raised one hand to her hair.
She was thinking how much she missed Carroll, who was expected back from Washington at any moment. He’d called, but his voice had been strained, almost as if he’d been afraid to tell her anything.
She stepped into the meeting room, passing through a phalanx of policemen and Army personnel.
The word had already spread up and down the hallway s—there had been some sort of break in the Green Band investigation. Finally, a break.
Walter Trentkamp of the FBI stood in silence before the restless audience. He was obviously tense. Streaks-of light sweat highlighted his face and the collar of his shirt was damp.
Trentkamp cleared his throat. The scene reminded. Caitlin of high-level press conferences held in Washington, emergency meetings called on short notice.
“You have no doubt heard the rumor that a significant development has occurred in the Green Band case.… It was uncovered through the tireless effort of Captain Francis Nicolo and Sergeant Rizzo in NYPD Ballistics.”
Nicolo, Waxy Frank, appeared in the crowd alongside Joe Rizzo. Both men were beaming, taking an imperceptible bow.
“These men have been working tirelessly since the bombings on December fourth. Their labors have paid a big dividend.”
There were a couple of appreciative mumbles in the room and a half-hearted attempt at applause. Nicolo and Rizzo shuffled their feet like schoolboys at an honors presentation.
“Sergeant?” Trentkamp said. “Come up here please.”
Rizzo awkwardly stepped forward, hoisting a Styrofoam chart up on a metal stand. On the chart a police artist had sketched the major buildings of the financial district in black and white. The structures which had been bombed were colored traffic-signal red. Each of the bombed-out buildings also had a bold violet ring drawn around it. Caitlin noticed that the purple rings were at widely different levels on the fourteen buildings.
Rizzo began, “The buildings marked with red were all hit around six-thirty on December fourth. The bombs were definitely detonated by remote signals. The signal might have been operated from as far away as eight to ten miles.”
Rizzo paused, blew his nose unselfconsciously in a big white handkerchief, then went on: “The violet rings on the buildings were drawn to indicate where the explosions actually took place. The plastique packages were actually placed. Here, here, here, et cetera.
“As you can see, the plastique was planted on different floors in all fourteen buildings. The second floor at Twenty-two Broad. Fifteenth floor at Manufacturers Hanover. And so on. You can see that plainly.”
Rizzo looked around at the faces in the room as if he were challenging someone to disagree.
“There’s no special pattern to this. At least, that’s what we’ve thought up to now. Last night though, we found a connection we’d missed…
“Look here! Each of the circled floors actually contains one of that building’s messenger drop-off and pickup rooms. Either a drop-off or a package mail station. What threw us off this approach was the fact that messenger drop-off stations and the mail room in these buildings isn’t always the same. Not even on the same floor. Some of the Wall Street buildings have drop-off stations on every floor. You all see what I’m driving at?”
Sergeant Rizzo paused for effect.
Rizzo said, “Gentlemen, the bombs were all hand-delivered. Probably by a regular commercial messenger, who would go unnoticed.”
Rizzo once again looked around the quiet room. “There are more than two hundred messenger services in and around Wall Street. Jimmy Split. Speedo. Fireball, Bullet, to name a few. You’ve seen most
of them yourselves. Chances are at least one of them was contacted by our friends Green Band. Perhaps several were used to deliver the plastique on December fourth!”
Rizzo paused again. “What this means is that some goofball messenger is going to help break this thing open! Tonight we hit the streets and run this thing down to earth!”
Caitlin felt the tremendous energy that coursed through the meeting room as the men began to disperse. They had come alive, after days of pounding on unyielding walls, days of pursuing an investigation that had been going absolutely nowhere. She was almost swept aside as policemen and detectives crushed toward the door.
A Wall Street messenger service.
A shiver suddenly traveled through her.
Messenger service?…
Caitlin turned and left the meeting room; she started back in the direction of her own office. She had just remembered something, except she wasn’t sure now if her memory was playing tricks on her.
Caitlin started to run down the corridor inside JNo. 13.
Chapter 77
CARROLL WAS CERTAIN he had been followed back from Washington. A dark car had tracked his Checker taxicab from Kennedy Airport all the way into the Financial District.
When he stepped out of the taxi at No. 13 Wall, the tracking car went skirting past.
He couldn’t see faces inside, only shapes, two or three men huddled together. Why were they following him? Who had sent them? Who was tracking the tracker?
He disappeared inside No. 13 and went straight to Caitlin’s office on the second floor. He hurried because he was filled with the strongest need to see her, to talk to somebody he could trust.
She rose from behind her desk, where she’d been studying a printout of the names of U.S. veterans the computer had supplied before. She stepped out to hug him, and Carroll didn’t seem to want to let her go. They pressed tightly into one another’s bodies.
Caitlin finally disentangled herself. “How was Washington?”
He told her about the FBI’s file on David Hudson, about his visit with General Lucas Thompson.
Caitlin brought him up to the moment on developments explained by Sergeant Rizzo. She indicated the computer printout she’d been studying when he had arrived.
“Maybe this is coincidence. Maybe it doesn’t mean a thing. But on this FBI list of veterans there’s an explosives expert whose occupation is cabdriver and messenger. The home address is New York City.”
“Which name?” Carroll asked. He was already scanning the lengthy list.
“A man called Michael Doud… who just happened to serve under Colonel David Hudson in Viet Nam.”
“Does it say which messenger service?” Carroll looked up from the printout.
Caitlin shook her head. “It shouldn’t be too difficult to find out. Let’s see:”
Carroll waited while Caitlin made a quick couple of telephone calls. He slid his investigation notebook out of his coat and impatiently flipped through those familiar pages that had chronicled Green Band’s false starts and stops from the beginning.
There were several different organizational headings now: Interviews. Physical Evidence. Suspects. Miscellaneous.
David Hudson… the mastermind of all this chaos?
West Point 1966. Special Forces. Rangers.
Golden Boy?
Fort Bragg. JFK Training School. Severe stress testing. Experimentation with drugs. Preparing Hudson for what?
Special terrorist training. By whose orders? Where did that chain of command end?
Carroll finally shut the notebook in frustration.
What do I know, that I don’t know I know? Carroll’s thoughts went back to Green Band.
What could I know? What have I seen that’s crucial?
Washington, D.C.? General Lucas Thompson?
He watched Caitlin put the telephone receiver down.
“Vets Cabs and Messengers,” she said with a sudden grin. “They have a garage near here in the Village.”
Carroll stood up. “Call Philip Berger. Then could you call Trentkamp? Tell them to get their men organized, to meet me at…”
Caitlin interrupted, “There’s more, Arch.”
She paused for just a beat.
“David Hudson works there, too. He’s been there for over a year.”
Chapter 78
JUST PAST MIDNIGHT on December 18, Colonel Hudson emotionally addressed the assembly of twenty-four Vets garnered inside the Jane Street garage.
“This has been a long and particularly hard mission for you,” he said. ‘I know that. But at each important stage you’ve done everything that has been asked of you.… I feel humble standing here before you.”
Hudson paused and looked over the upturned faces that watched him motionlessly. “As we approach the final stages of Green Band, I want to stress one thing. I don’t want anyone to take needless risks. Is that understood? Take no chances. Our ultimate goal from here on is zero KIA.”
Again, Hudson paused. When he finally spoke, there was an uncharacteristic edge of emotion in his voice.
“This will be our last mission together. Thank you once again. I salute you all.”
From that moment, Green Band was designed to be a thoroughly disciplined, Army-style field maneuver. Every detail had been scrutinized.
The grease-stained garage doors at VETS CABS AND MESSENGERS rolled open with a heavy metallic roar. Diffuse amber headlights suddenly pierced the darkness.
Vets 5, Harold Freedman, ran outside the Vets building. He looked east and west on Jane Street, then Freedman began to bark orders like the Army drill sergeant he’d once been.
It was just past 12:30 A.M.
If anyone in the West Village neighborhood saw the three Army transport trucks emerge from the garage, they paid little attention, in the tried and true tradition of New Yorkers.
The trucks finally hurtled up Tenth Avenue.
Hudson crouched forward in the passenger seat of the lead troop truck. He was in constant walkie-talkie contact with the two other troop transports.… This was a disciplined Army field maneuver in every respect.
They were moving into full combat again. None of them had realized how much they missed it Even Hudson had forgotten the clarity that came before a major battle. There was nothing like this anywhere in life; nothing to compare.
“Contact. This is Vets One. You are to follow us straight down Tenth Avenue to the Holland Tunnel entrance. We’ll be maintaining strict military speed limits inside the city. So sit back. Just relax for the ride. Over.”
Two hours passed before the lead transport truck pulled to a shuddering stop at a military guardpost less than sixty yards off Route 34 in New Jersey.
Over the wooden sentry box the sign said FORT MONMOUTH, UNITED STATES ARMY POST.
The Army private on duty had been close to falling asleep. His eyes were glazed behind horn-rimmed glasses and his movements wooden as he approached the lead transport truck.
“Identification, sir.” The private cleared his throat. He didn’t look much more than eighteen years old to Hudson. Shades of Viet Nam, of wars fought by boys.
Hudson silently handed across two plastic ID cards. The cards identified him as Colonel Roger McAfee of the 68th Street Armory, Manhattan. The inspection that followed was pro forma. The regular duty guard speech was given by the sentry.
“You may proceed, sir. Please obey all posted parking and traffic regulations while you are a visitor at Fort Monmouth. Are those transport vehicles behind with you, sir?”
“Yes, we’re going on bivouac. We’re here to pick up supplies. Small arms and ammunition for our weekend in the country. Two helicopters have been requisitioned. They’ll have the details inside. I’m to see Captain Harney.”
“You can all proceed then, sir.”
The Army base sentry finally stepped aside. He crisply waved the small Army Reserve convoy onward.
“Contact. This is Vets One.” As soon as they passed the gate, Colonel Hudson spoke into
the PRC transmitter. “We’re now less than twelve hours until the termination of the operation code-named Green Band. Everyone is to use extreme, repeat, extreme caution. We’re almost home, gentlemen.”
Chapter 79
INCONSPICUOUS AND DRAB, the Vets garage on Jane Street wasn’t the kind of place to draw attention. It sat in the middle of a West Village block, its large metal doors rusted and grease stained and bleak.
At both ends of the block, the desolate street had silently been cordoned off. NYPD patrol cars were positioned everywhere around the garage. Carroll counted seventeen of them.
Beneath the darkened edifice of a Shell gas station, he could see unmarked FBI cars and as many as thirty heavily armed agents.
The police and the FBI agents carried M-16 automatic assault rifles, 12-gauge riot shotguns, .357 Magnums. It was as frightening an attack force and arsenal as Carroll had ever seen.
Carroll leaned against his own car, studying the metal doors, the crooked, bleached sign that read VETS CABS AND MESSENGERS. He tapped his fingers on the car hood.
Something was wrong here. Something was wrong again.
Carroll peered hard in the direction of the Shell station. The FBI guys stood perfectly still, waiting for the signal that would bring them rushing into action.
At his side was Walter Trentkamp. Carroll had kept Walter informed. Now Trentkamp was inside the maze with him.
Carroll took out his Browning. He turned the weapon over in the palm of his hand and thought it was strange how some voice inside was telling him to be careful. Careful, he thought. He hadn’t been careful before—so why start now? Carroll thought he knew why.
“Archer.” Walter nudged him. A limousine was suddenly threading its way down the grim, quiet street.
Police Commissioner Michael Kane solemnly climbed out. The Commissioner, whose street experience was limited, and who was more politician than cop, had a bullhorn in one hand.
“Oh Christ, no…” Carroll muttered.
Commissioner Kane’s voice echoed down the West Village street. “Attention… this is Commissioner of Police Kane.… You have one minute to emerge from the Vets garage. You have sixty seconds before we open fire.”
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