Black Friday

  Carroll’s world wheeled violently and turned on its side. Whatever sense of reality he had left, shattered. He closed his eyes. He raked one hand over his smoke-blackened face.

  His mind’s eye seemed to flood with exploding light. Uncle fucking Walter. It was the worst hurt, the worst betrayal of his life.

  He thought about everything Trentkamp had been privy to in the past. He reviewed his own investigation of Green Band, how Trentkamp knew every detail he’d learned at each maddening turn.

  Had Trentkamp dispatched him on the early wild goose chases? Why? Well, he knew the answer to that. So he could watch, and control Carroll. So he could control the DIA’s terrorist group. Talk to me on this one, Archer. Let me know what you find out. Will you promise me that?

  Talk to me, Archer …

  Promise me, Archer!

  Walter Trentkamp had sat in on the highest level meetings inside the White House, always observing and studying. What incredible self-confidence and gall. How many years had this been going on? How many years? … Francois Monserrat! The most ruthless of the world’s terrorists was none other than Trentkamp. It was impossible for him to conceive of. Yet it was true.

  The rage inside Carroll seemed to clutch and rip at the back of his throat, tearing at his flesh. He’d been used. Just like the Vets, he’d been used. He’d been violated one more time. Contradictions attacked his mind from every angle.

  Carroll moved forward toward Trentkamp and Hudson. The rage inside him heightened. He was fighting against the blind, overwhelming urge to wildly fire his Browning. He wanted to pull the trigger. Right now, he ached to fire on these two men. He couldn’t; he couldn’t shoot. Somehow, he was more than a trained killer. And what are you, please tell me, mister? Somehow he was more than these other two bastards.

  Carroll finally stepped out from behind the shadowy retaining wall. He spoke in a whisper that carried with the wind.

  “Hello, Walter. I wanted to keep my promise. I did promise to talk to you about everything I found out.”

  Trentkamp’s face registered surprise, then the terrorist seemed almost indifferent to Carroll’s presence. He was Monserrat now.

  “It was never anything personal,” he spoke, then shrugged at Carroll. “You were my listok. That’s a Russian word. You were my solution to a problem.”

  Carroll raised his Browning to eye level. Colonel Hudson … Francois Monserrat … himself. It seemed that none of them could win. Carroll wasn’t even sure what “win” meant now. And what are you, please tell me, mister?

  “How do you live a life made of nothing but lies?” He edged closer to Hudson and Trentkamp. “Nothing but deceit and lies.”

  “I don’t believe in the same truths as you. It follows that I don’t believe in the same lies. Don’t you realize that you’re living with lies, too. Your own people have deceived you again and again…. Everyone has lied to you, Archer. Your government is the greatest lie of all.”

  Chapter 94

  NOTHING BUT HIS INSTINCTS counted from here on.

  Colonel Hudson rigidly held that thought.

  Nothing but his reflexes counted.

  Hudson had a flashing image of the camp in Norm Viet Nam. Lessons he had learned there.

  Deception, Hudson remembered. Sometimes you even had to deceive yourself …

  Monserrat was like the Lizard Man, he thought. Monserrat was the same as the Lizard Man.

  Instincts.

  Reflexes.

  Monserrat seemed to be concentrating on Carroll … “Everyone has lied to you, Archer. Your government is the greatest lie of all.”

  A scream rose from Hudson’s throat. At that moment, Hudson’s arm chopped upward in a short, powerful arc.

  The bone in Monserrat’s elbow shattered. The Beretta dropped. A harsh growl escaped from his mouth—his teeth were bared like an animal’s.

  A needle-thin knife seemed to appear from nowhere in Hudson’s hand. A pocket in his trousers flopped open in the wind.

  Assassin.

  Monserrat took a fast, agile step away from Hudson and the knife. Monserrat was better than the Lizard Man had been.

  David Hudson followed as if he were Monserrat’s shadow. The sleek stiletto lanced forward, an extension of his arm. Everything was instincts, reflexes for survival.

  Francois Monserrat’s hands rose and shielded his face, shielded his upper body. His arm was slashed. It seemed nothing to him.

  He was moving into a martial arts crouch, almost dancing.

  Hudson screamed as he feinted one move, a second move, then he struck….

  Seemed to strike? …

  Feinted? …

  The knife blade shivered forward with accuracy and fierceness …

  The surgical knife blade drove several inches into its target area. The long, piercing needle disappeared into the flesh and bone of Monserrat’s rib cage. Monserrat kept coming.

  The knife blade was twisted, then pulled away, unplugged it seemed.

  The stiletto was thrust forward again. This time it split the center of Monserrat’s throat. Blood gushed everywhere.

  The terrorist’s legs suddenly went limp. He began to convulse. His face no longer seemed smug—no longer confident and in control. Monserrat was surprised, in shock as he fell forward.

  Carroll hadn’t known whom to shoot. He’d watched, waiting for the victor. He trained his Browning on Colonel Hudson now. His finger tightened, turned to stone around the trigger.

  Suddenly he heard the distinct click of yet another automatic weapon!

  The disturbing sound came from directly behind him in the thickening smoke.

  Carroll started to whirl around.

  His mind was suspended by pain and the moment’s chaos. He needed all of the madness to stop for a moment.

  He saw men he thought he recognized. Four men in tattered khaki green were closing around him on the Brooklyn rooftop. Their M-21s were pointed at him.

  They looked like soldiers Carroll had fought with years before. They were Vets, he realized. This was Green Band.

  Here was everything he’d wanted to know—only now Carroll didn’t want to know it.

  The outrage continued.

  The outrage.

  Walter Trentkamp’s throat had been slashed. His coat had spread open like an umbrella in the wind. His chest was bloodied, redness seeping down into his trousers. His eyes were already glazed and sightless. Christ! Christ!

  Carroll tried to grab hold of something. He began to shout at the top of his voice. “Who are you, Hudson? What the hell do you want? Who sent you to Wall Street?”

  Outrage!

  Something hard crashed, the most brutal force exploded against the top of Carroll’s head.

  His skull was crushed so easily.

  He staggered, he almost fell, but he stayed upright. The insane streetfighter inside him wouldn’t go down.

  Goddamn! Them!

  Carroll saw streaks of blood merging. He felt as if he must be going blind. The pain and chaos, the sudden light show was unbearable inside his skull.

  “Who are you, Hudson?” One final, maddening question formed on his lips. He had no idea whether he spoke the words or not.

  He took another step toward Hudson, toward the fallen body of Monserrat—of Walter Trentkamp.

  The metal base of the revolver fell on his skull again. It struck the same tender spot, harder than the first time.

  A terrible, mashing noise echoed inside Carroll’s brain. Fire lit on the left side of his chest.

  He was falling then, collapsing against his will. Carroll heard himself moaning. He had the thought that he was choking on his own blood. So sad, so wrong.

  The revolver crashed down another time.

  He spun around and saw Hudson rigidly standing there. Carroll tried to speak. Shit, he couldn’t. He had so many questions. He fought the onrushing unconsciousness with the strength he had left. Not much. Not enough!

  Chapter 95

  WITH A SHAKING HAN
D, Anton Birnbaum poured Sandeman port for himself and for Caitlin.

  He felt at least a thousand years old.

  He had a piercing headache from his recent sleeplessness and hyperactive mental activity. Now, in the thin daylight that streaked his apartment, he went to the window and peered into the streets of his beloved New York.

  Caitlin Dillon, whose head also reeled from the hours of intense concentration without sleep, took a cigarette from her purse and started to light it. She changed her mind. Her throat was raw and there was a heavy pressure behind her eyes. What she needed, she knew, was a long sleep. Both she and Birnbaum were waiting for final news of Green Band, news from Carroll. Caitlin now understood what it was like, to be a policeman’s wife.

  “We know some of what we need to know,” Birnbaum said. “Two years ago, in Tripoli, Monserrat met with important leaders from the Third World. In particular, he met leaders from the Middle Eastern, oil-producing countries. The heads of these nations’ military forces were in attendance there as well.” Anton Birnbaum walked away from the apartment window.

  “I’m convinced that they planned a cunning way to disrupt the economic system of the West. Their plan called for the cartel to ultimately gain control of the entire American Stock Market.”

  “They already had enough economic leverage to influence the Market,” Caitlin said. Her head pounded mercilessly. Some small sadist with a jackhammer was working way back in the recesses of her skull, digging for God only knew what. She thought about Carroll, who was out there in pursuit of Green Band. Why hadn’t they heard anything?

  “That spring, our newly elected President learned of the Tripoli plot. More important, the Committee of Twelve must have heard. Only they moved much faster than President Kearney could in Washington.”

  The old man’s eyes became as cold as fire going suddenly out “Caitlin, I believe they created Green Band to counter the plot. Effectively, the Committee of Twelve has stolen the Arabs’ billions away. Green Band is the very finest of trompe l’oeil, the best.

  “Now, they’re selling them back their own funds. This has been an economic world war. The first of its kind—unless we include the 1970s oil embargo.”

  Caitlin thought that if it had been anyone other than Birnbaum making these accusations, outlining these hypotheses…. But it was Birnbaum. And he was serious about everything he was proposing….

  “How does Hudson fit in? What’s his part in this, Anton?” Caitlin asked.

  “Ah, the enigmatic Mr. Hudson.” Birnbaum allowed a smile to cross his face. “I’ve given great thought to Colonel Hudson. Either he’s in the pay of the Committee of Twelve … or they’re ruthlessly using Hudson and his veterans group. It wouldn’t be the first time, would it? It wouldn’t be the first time these men were used by those who wield power in this country. Either way, we’ll know in a few hours. We’ll know the truth soon, won’t we?”

  Chapter 96

  AS HE ARRIVED at the designated address, Hudson felt exactly the way he’d always known he would—if they had won in Viet Nam. The adrenaline, the excitement of victory, was pumping, rushing furiously through his body.

  This would certainly be the most unusual safe house he’d ever used, Hudson thought as he reached York Avenue on Manhattan’s fashionable East Side. He entered an elegant glass-and-grillwork doorway just beyond the corner at 90th Street.

  Billie Bogan’s apartment was located on the river side of the modern building, a building which apparently had paper-thin ceilings and walls, because Hudson could hear a piano playing as he approached the doorway on the fifteenth floor.

  The lovely music surprised him. He hadn’t known that Billie played.

  Hudson hesitated before pushing the doorbell. Warning alarms, his usual alert signals were going off again. It was all perfectly natural. One didn’t stop being a military terrorist and saboteur overnight.

  Billie answered the door seconds after the first ring. She was wearing a pink T-shirt that said winter across her chest. She had on tight black French jeans, no shoes or socks.

  “David.”

  Her brilliant blue eyes passed from the slightest puzzlement to undisguised pleasure as she saw who it was at the door.

  She reached out and pulled Hudson toward her. She held him in the doorway.

  “Was that you playing the piano?” he asked.

  Billie pecked at his cheek and gave him an extra hug. “Of course it was me…. You know, I think the piano is the reason I ultimately escaped from Birmingham. As I found out about Mozart, Brahms, Beethoven, I was convinced there had to be more than the dreary dullness I was used to. Come inside. I’m so happy to see you. It’s so good to see you.” She kissed him again.

  Hudson smiled more willingly than he had in a long time. “I’m happy to see you. I feel like I’m home at last,” he said.

  Once inside, they talked. They held one another. They stared into one another’s eyes for a long time. Hudson told Billie about his past, talking with the speed of a man who has observed vows of silence for too many years. It all came tumbling out—West Point, the horrors of Viet Nam, his early career in the Army.

  Hudson told her everything, except about the past year, which he was tempted to do as well. How his revenge had become sweet victory. A material reward—millions of dollars for himself and the other Vets. He wished he could share it with her, share everything right now.

  Under the tent of a brightly striped wool blanket, with the windows thrown half open, they made love. Hudson was still learning to feel, and the lovemaking helped enormously. She brought him closer and closer to climax … right to the edge. He just couldn’t make it over. Then the most debilitating wave of exhaustion swept over Hudson.

  He felt shaky. Then he was sliding headlong toward a tranquil dream state. The warning alarms still hadn’t completely stopped. The warning alarms almost seemed a natural part of him, now.

  One moment he was softly stroking Billie’s blond hair, touching the elegant oval of her face. The next, he was falling into sleep.

  Billie lay awake in the large brass bed, watching the ember glow on a filtered cigarette. She sighed quietly, blowing smoke between lightly touching teeth.

  Sometimes she surprised even herself with her ability to create a lie, in perfect context, consistent with a whole world of other lies ….

  Deception.

  Her being able to play Chopin, and fitting that so naturally into the Birmingham, England, framework, was an inspiration. But then again, wasn’t that precisely why she was here with Hudson?

  She rose from the double bed, tossing off rumpled designer sheets. She was certain it would be a miracle to wake Hudson with a cannon.

  She returned to the bedroom with something close to that: a gun with a blunt-nosed silencer attached.

  She knew better than to hesitate for even a second. She swung both arms up stiffly. She moved to fire the revolver into his temple, just below the hairline.

  Then, she hesitated.

  The sleeping body went rigid and jumped forward. Hudson’s eyes blinked open and he fired through the bed-sheets. He fired again and again and again.

  Warning signals were shrieking in his head. Sirens of terrible pain screamed out at David Hudson.

  Deception—forever, deception.

  Horrifying deception everywhere he turned. Even here.

  The Committee of Twelve, the American Wise Men— there was no way they could have let him live once Green Band ended. They had recruited him after the disappointments of Viet Nam, the disappointment in knowing his early promise in the Army could never be realized. He’d been their agent provocateur for crises around the world. They had been so attractively intelligent, every bit as smart, as precise as he was. They’d sent the girl, of course, his escort. They’d known about all his habits. They’d used him so well.

  Finally, Hudson understood Green Band himself.

  Chapter 97

  CARROLL SLOWLY OPENED his eyes and pushed himself into a sitting positio
n. All around him were startling crashing sounds, police and U.S. Army personnel, blinding bright lights, flashing, running shapes. There was more chaos and confusion than before on the rooftop.

  Faces peered down at him. New York cops, a physician? There were others he couldn’t place right now. The images registered sporadically.

  “What happened?” Carroll asked. “How long have…. What happened to the body that was up here? A body was over there!”

  The body of Walter Trentkamp had been near the water tower—except there wasn’t any body there now …

  A uniformed New York cop knelt down alongside him. Carroll had never seen the man before. “What other body are you talking about?”

  Carroll rotated his head so he could see all the way around the rooftop. “There was a body there, over near the Cobra. Walter Trentkamp of the FBI was killed right there.”

  The policeman shook his head. “I was one of the first up here on the roof. There wasn’t any other body. You know, you’ve got a small watermelon growing up on top of your head. You sure you’re all right?”

  Carroll pushed himself to his feet, then he nearly fell back to the suddenly spinning cement “Oh, yeah, I’m fine. Tip-top shape.”

  Carroll’s eyes were watering badly. His body wasn’t his own. Using bricks in the wall for handholds, he started down the metal stairs winding away from the roof.

  Somebody had taken Walter Trentkamp’s body away.

  The cop called after him, “Hey, buddy, you ought to get yourself treated! Have somebody look at your head. There wasn’t any body up here.”

  Carroll hardly heard the policeman’s last words.

  Suddenly he had a different priority in mind: he wanted to go home. He needed to go home right away.

  Carroll thought about his kids and about Caitlin.

  He thought about Caitlin’s meeting with Anton Birnbaum and wondered what might have transpired there. He was worried about the people he loved…. There wasn’t any body up here on the roof…. Sure thing—this was all a dream, a horrible nightmare.

  He had no clue how he managed the first wild minutes of the drive to Riverdale. Maybe it was practice—all those half-drunken nights of his recent past. Maybe God did look after babies and drunks. But there was a time coming when God might abdicate his responsibilities, all his watchfulness …