Black Friday

The truck finally plowed to a stop in front of a cottage in the country village of Staritsa. The driver leaped out and ran crunching through bright new snow up to his knees.

  The cottage door opened, and a woman’s arm, in a drab gray bathrobe, took an envelope.

  The driver then high-stepped back to his truck, and hurriedly drove away into the snow.

  From the village of Staritsa, the contents of the envelope were relayed in telephone code to a young woman working at the GUM Department Store in Moscow.

  The GUM clerk used a special telephone, and another complex code, to make an urgent transatlantic call to the United States, specifically to the city of Langley, Virginia.

  The original message had been sent by Margarita Kupchuck, the housekeeper at Zavidavo. For eleven years Margarita had been one of the most important operatives of the Central Intelligence Agency working inside Russia.

  The message provided the American team with their first break in the Green Band investigation.

  It consisted of just fifteen words:

  Ritz Hotel, London. Thursday morning. Two billion dollars. Stolen securities to be exchanged… Green Band.

  Chapter 42

  IT WAS PROBABLY A DREAM, and a very bad one.

  He was standing in an unfamiliar room whose walls met the ceiling at angles that would have been impossible in anything other than dream geometry. There was a door halfway open and a pale light, the color of pearl, created a slat of dull color.

  A shadow moved into the pearl-colored light and stood there just beyond the door. He knew, without even having to look, that the figure was Nora.

  He wanted to move forward, to step out of the room, he wanted to see Nora and hold her but something held him in place, something kept him rooted to the floor.

  He cried her name aloud.

  And then—

  A bell was ringing. And he imagined it rang in Nora’s hand.

  Disturbed, sweating, Carroll sat upright.

  He rubbed his eyes, swung his legs over the side of the rumpled covers on his bed.

  And then he realized that the bell was real. Someone was ringing the doorbell and this was the sound his dream had absorbed.

  He wandered from the bedroom. He squinted into the spyhole of the Manhattan apartment he’d once shared with Nora.

  “Who is it?”

  He could see nothing except swirling blackness where the hallway had definitely been last night.

  Years before, he’d lucked into the West Side apartment, a sprawling three bedroom with river views. The apartment was still rent-controlled at four hundred and seventy-nine dollars a month, an impossible bargain. After Nora died, Carroll had decided to hold on to the place and use it nights when he worked late in the city.

  “Who is it? Who’s out there?” Doorbell goddamn ring itself or was he still dreaming?

  Whoever was out in the apartment house hallway didn’t seem to want to answer.

  Carroll reached back for his Magnum.

  Arch Carroll finally unlocked the Segal, but he left the heavy linkchain secure.

  He swung the front door open about four inches and the chain snapped against the sturdy wooden jamb.

  Caitlin Dillon was peering in at him through the doorway crack. She looked frightened. Her eyes were hollow and dark.

  Chapter 43

  “I COULDN’T SLEEP.”

  “What time is it?”

  “I’m embarrassed to say it’s before five. It’s about twenty to five. Okay?”

  “In the morning?”

  “Please laugh at this or something. Oh, God. I’m going.” She suddenly turned away.

  “Hold it. Wait. Hey, stop walking.”

  She half turned at the elevator. Her hair was windblown and her cheeks were flushed, like she’d been riding horses in Central Park.

  “Come on in…. Please come in and talk. Please?”

  Inside his apartment, Carroll whisked clean the kitchen table, and he made coffee. Caitlin sat down and twisted her long fingers together nervously. She opened a box of cigarettes and lit one. When she spoke her voice was husky, slightly unfamiliar.

  “I’ve been smoking for hours, which is uncharacteristic of me. I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t stop pacing around. All that information about the stolen securities kept spinning through my head, Arch…”

  Carroll shook the last remnants of the bad dream from his mind, jerking himself into the present “Green Band’s moving. Only we can’t figure out the direction they’re taking.”

  “That’s one thing that bothers me,” Caitlin said. “And then I start to wonder how much has been stolen and how far this whole incredible thing goes. I calculated an amount in the region of a couple hundred million, but God knows how much more has actually disappeared.”

  She sighed, crushing her cigarette impatiently. “Also, I’m still really ticked off at not being invited to that meeting in Washington. Do they honestly think I’ve got nothing to contribute?”

  Carroll had never seen her in this frame of mind. It was like watching her from a whole new set of angles—she was angry, she was worried, and she seemed temporarily confused. Her usual business-world professionalism couldn’t help her now; she was reduced to asking questions which neither of them could answer. Suddenly, Caitlin Dillon wasn’t quite so untouchable.

  Around five-fifteen they made Sara Lee danishes, the only moderately edible items in Carroll’s kitchen.

  “When I was thirteen or so I actually won a bakeoff. This was at an Ohio county fair,” Caitlin admitted as she pulled the danishes out of the oven.

  They moved out to a windowed nook which overlooked the river and the New Jersey Palisades. One whole wall of the room was covered with thirty-five millimeter pictures of the kids. A single, fading picture was of Carroll as an Army sergeant in Viet Nam. He’d taken down the last pictures of Nora only a few months before.

  “Mmmfff. Tremendous.” He licked sticky crumbs off his index and middle fingers.

  Caitlin’s eyes rolled back into her forehead. “I’m not impressed with your kitchen supplies, Arch. Your cupboard’s stocked with four bottles of beer, a half jar of Skippy peanut butter. Haven’t you heard—the contemporary man in New York is a gourmet cook.”

  Maybe her boyfriends were, Carroll thought to himself. None of the “contemporary men” Carroll knew could cook anything much more complicated than tomato soup.

  “What can I tell you, I’m basically an ascetic. Skippy peanut butter happens to be cholesterol free.”

  A different kind of look crossed Caitlin’s face right about then. A private joke smile? Carroll wasn’t sure he’d read it correctly. Was she laughing at him now?

  Then a quick reassuring smile came that was warm and even more comfortable.

  “I think we’re going to need at least an hour,” she said mysteriously. “Uninterrupted time. Phone-off-the-hook seclusion and quiet. You didn’t have any big plans for the morning I hope?”

  “Just sleep.”

  “Boring. Also not very ascetic.”

  Carroll shrugged his broad shoulders; his eyes burned with curiosity. “I’m a boring person. Daddy, sometimes mom of four; straight job with the government; occasional terrorist contact.”

  There was a dense silence as he and Caitlin walked out of the windowed den. They cleared their throats almost at the same moment.

  Caitlin reached for him, and then they were lightly, just barely holding hands,

  Carroll was suddenly very aware of her perfume, the shh-shh of her jeans, the silhouette of her profile…

  “This is one of the more impressive New York apartments I’ve been in. I really didn’t expect this. All the hominess, the charm.”

  “What did you expect: hunting rifles on the wall?… Actually, I sew: I can knit. I do iron-on patches for four little kids.”

  Caitlin had to smile at Carroll again.

  It was the first time he’d seen this particular smile. Irony, but also nice warmth were glowing in her eyes at the same time.
He felt like they’d crossed some barrier, made some slightly more solid connection. He wasn’t sure what it was, though.

  They started to kiss and touch each other lightly in the narrow hallway. They kissed gently at first. Then the kiss became harder, with urgency and strength on Caitlin’s part.

  They kissed all the way to the front bedroom where morning light was flooding the room. Huge, curtainless windows faced onto the Hudson, which was a flat, slate-blue lake that morning.

  “Caitlin? … Is this wise?”

  “It is really wise. It doesn’t mean the end of the world, you know. It’s just one morning. I promise not to get hurt. If you do.”

  She put a finger to Carroll’s lips. Soften the blow of her last statement. She then lightly kissed the back of her own finger.

  “I have one small favor. Don’t think about anything for ten minutes or so. No Ohio jokes either. Okay?”

  Carroll nodded. She was smart about this kind of thing, too. A little scary smart. She’d been here before… I won’t get hurt; don’t you get hurt.

  “All right. Whatever you say can be the official rules.”

  For a moment, they sat together, hugging on the low-slung, quilt-covered double bed. Then they very slowly began to undress. A shivery draft slithered in from the casement windows; the cold air seemed to blow right through the tall black-framed window panes.

  Carroll was completely, physically and spiritually entranced. Also frightened. He hadn’t been with anybody for over three years. There hadn’t been anything like this for so very long. He felt a little guilty, automatically comparing Caitlin with Nora, though he didn’t want to.

  Caitlin’s hands had the lightest imaginable touch. Extraordinary control and gentleness as she tugged off his trousers. He felt everything beginning to relax inside.

  Her fingers were like elegant feathers over his upper back. Tickling. Dusting his neck.

  Then Caitlin’s palms. Rotating in easy circles. Into his temple. Gently pulling on the curls of his dark hair.

  Carroll remembered that he was ticklish down both sides of his stomach. He had been since he was a little kid.

  More feathery fingers. Teasing Carroll up and down the insides of his legs …

  On to the balls of his feet, his toes, his soles …

  Then everything was moving slightly faster; up another notch in tempo.

  His body suddenly, involuntarily spasmed. Jesus Christ.

  Caitlin was doing some unexpected things to him.

  She blew softly on the insides of her hands. She cupped warm fingers over his eyelids, then over his ears.

  She spoke in a voice that was nearly as gentle and sensual as her touch. “This is called a thrill massage. Believe it or not, it was the fad at little Oberlin College.”

  “Yeah? You’re good at it”

  “Awh, gee blush…. Wild youth in long forgotten Mid western corn fields.”

  He was beginning to like her.

  Maybe an awful lot.

  He didn’t know if he should, if this truly was wise.

  She lightly brushed his legs again…. His upper back again Neck, scrotum.

  Only much faster, even lighter now. Turning him into jelly, no container.

  There was no real impression of fingers, he was noticing.

  Quite amazing.

  More like the softest combs of air.

  How had she gotten this good?… A little unbelievable in a way… being who she was….Who was she, really?

  Her face came down very close then. “Smile for the camera, Arch.” Faint smiling whisper from Caitlin. “My heart is pure, but my mind is occasionally kinky.”

  At some time, somewhere in all of the light touching, brushing, tickling, Caitlin had taken her jeans and blouse off. She still wore pink underpants, wool knee socks. Her breasts had the loveliest, delicate, shell-pink nipples. They were hard now; totally aroused.

  She touched one erect nipple, then the other to the head of Carroll’s penis.

  She was a masterpiece, Carroll couldn’t help thinking, completely filling his eyes.

  Carroll remembered what she’d said before in the breakfast nook. It made him smile a little now, almost laugh out loud. We ‘re going to need at least an hour.

  There was no longer such a thing as time; no Green Band urgencies existed right now. Carroll had the comfort able, wonderful idea that he trusted Caitlin Dillon…. He almost completely trusted her. How could he so easily trust Caitlin already?…

  “Tell me all about yourself. Whatever comes out No editing, okay, Carroll?”

  To the continuing rhythm of her fingers; to the slight crooning of bed springs; to dancing morning sunbeams, Carroll spoke the truth, as he knew it:

  “Whole life story. About thirty seconds…. As a little kid I always wanted to play for the Yankees, maybe, maybe for the football Giants. Son of a cop. Honest, poor cop. Irish-Catholic family from the West Bronx. That’s my youth. Notre Dame…. Law School at Michigan State. Then drafted.

  “Four absolutely terrific kids. Kind of a perfect marriage until Nora passed away. That’s middle-American for she died… I’m a very different person when I’m with my kids. Childlike and free. Maybe a little retarded… um… boy … that’s very nice. Yes, right there. Ohio, huh?”

  “What else? You were telling me your life story. Reader’s Digest condensed version.”

  “Oh, yeah… I have this recurring problem. Big problem … with Them:

  “Who’s them?”

  Arch Carroll suddenly felt a sharp twist of tension. Not now. He made it go away.

  “Just them…. Ones who make all the most important decisions Ones who rob people, without caring one way or the other. On Wall Street, down in Washington. Ones who trade terrorist murderers—for innocent, kidnapped business people. The ones who kill people of brain cancer. The bad guys. As opposed to… us.”

  Caitlin gently kissed Carroll’s curly brown hair; she kissed his cauliflower ear. She finally found his mouth, which tasted very nice, she thought Fresh and clean and sweet.

  “I don’t like them either. I think I like you. I think I like us. Please like me a little.”

  “All I can do is try, Caitlin. You’re beautiful. You’re witty. You seem to be nice as hell. I’ll try to like you.”

  “Now me. Your turn to …” Caitlin whispered.

  “This an’ that, the next thing.”

  “Really soft, Arch … with you that name’s more like the verb. To arch. Anybody ever call you Archie?”

  “Not more than once.”

  ‘Tough guy,” she purred.

  “Grrr. I’m a street cop.”

  Carroll slowly rose onto his hands, then his knees. He was very hard, almost painfully hard.

  At his first touch, Caitlin tightened her stomach. Then she slowly let herself relax. She tightened the abdominal muscles in her stomach then let herself relax again.

  Her breathing was controlled, holding for several seconds. Her pulse was slow, a runner’s …

  Where did she learn all this stuff? Not in Ohio; not at Oberlin College.

  Her eyes closed. Such smiling eyes. She was easy to be with.

  Carroll’s pulse was thumping so damn hard. He’d never in his life held off orgasm this long, never felt excited in quite this way. His head grew light.

  “Please wait. Okay?” Caitlin whispered to him. Her body spasmed lightly.

  “Trying…”

  “Just… wait… Arch?”

  Carroll’s brain was burning up. His body was a million raw exposed nerves—as he floated down, floated down, floated down. Finally—he went inside Caitlin.

  Her eyes slowly, very slowly, shut.

  Her mouth opened. Wider and wider, an unbelievably soft, delicately pink mouth.

  Her face was so surprisingly sweet in passion. She seemed to be smiling all the time …

  Then Caitlin’s eyes flipped open—looked at him—and she made him feel so good. Wanted again. Necessary to somebody.

  “
Hi there, Arch. Nice to have you here.”

  “Hi yourself. Nice to be had.”

  They moved faster together. Her dark hair slowly danced backward and forward. Her curls spread across the pillow, brushed, flowed majestically across his face—hid her eyes.

  Carroll arched dramatically and nearly fell over backwards. Impossible, acrobatic positions.

  He spasmed, shuddered, called out her name so loudly it embarrassed him.

  “Caitlin.”

  Completely new feelings were coming so fast…

  Again… “Caitlin.”

  He felt as if she knew him—instantly saw through his defenses, his poses:… Finally, somebody … Jesus.

  When it was over, when it was finally, finally over, neither of them could move…. Nothing anywhere in the universe could move. Not ever again.

  Chapter 44

  THOMAS X. O’NEIL, Chief of U.S. Customs at Shannon Airport, Ireland, walked with most of his body weight ponderously thrown back on his boot heels. As he walked, his toes splayed out as if he were wearing ill-fitting bedroom slippers. His size forty-seven waist protruded obscenely, as did his customary, nine-incher Cuban cigar. Chief O’Neil looked like an unflattering caricature of Churchill and he couldn’t have cared less. He had a public image and he enjoyed it. He didn’t give a good goddamn what anyone thought.

  At twelve noon, O’Neil casually waddled across the frozen gray tarmac toward North Building Three at the Irish airfield located outside of Dublin.

  As he walked, O’Neil could smell fresh peat settling in the air. Nothing quite like the blessed aroma, he was thinking.

  At the same moment he looked up and saw a majestic 727 just gliding in through a blowing fog from America. Seven years before, he’d come over from New York himself. He never ever planned to return to that syphilitic rat’s asshole, either. He had even tried to alter his accent and speech patterns so that he’d sound Irish: it was a ludicrous attempt and he came off sounding like a ham in some third-rate touring company doing George Bernard Shaw.

  Inside Building Three there were hundreds of various-sized wooden crates, marked with the usual, faded corporate logos.

  A carrot-haired Irish inspector stood with a red marker and clipboard beside a bare wooden desk, right at the center of the cluttered warehouse room.