And what then?
Chapter 98
THE FAMILIAR LIGHTS of the old house in Riverdale were glittering brightly.
As he drove up his street, Carroll remembered a time when his father and mother would have been there, a time when everything had seemed so much saner … when Trentkamp was Uncle Walter.
Walter Trentkamp had been his father’s friend for all those years. Had his father begun to guess anything? We had all been so naive about foreign governments back then. About our own government as it was turning out Americans thought of democracy as the world’s one superior political system. We thought we understood the parameters of our government’s power.
Trentkamp and the KGB had been brilliant at fooling everyone. Walter Trentkamp had been so confident, he hadn’t hesitated at using Carroll. What better conduit for information? Walter’s hubris was startling, but his modus was consistent at least As Carroll thought back now, he remembered that Walter had spent time in Europe after World War II. He recalled “fact-finding” trips to South America, to Mexico, to Southeast Asia. It was no wonder they had never been able to identify Monserrat. They hadn’t been looking in the right places.
No one had thought to look right there in New York or Washington. No one had begun to suspect Trentkamp. And Trentkamp had obviously known that they wouldn’t. His confidence was galling. He had no fear or respect for American Intelligence, and he had been right not to. His ruse, the misdirection had been perfect—the life-work of a master spy, this decade’s Donald McLean or Kim Philby.
Suddenly, Carroll’s eyes were watering again—only now it was-because he was so glad to see his kids. They jumped up and ran to him as he stumbled inside the house. Then the Carroll family was hugging and kissing. They were squeezing their father as tightly as they could.
“We have to get out of here,” Carroll whispered to Mary Katherine as the two of them got to hold one another. “We have to move out of the house now…. Help me dress them. Try to explain as little as you can. I have to call Caitlin.”
Mary Katherine nodded. She didn’t even seem that surprised at the news. “You go call Caitlin now. I’ll outfit the troops.”
Two hours later, the Carrolls, the family of six plus Caitlin Dillon, quietly checked into the Durham Hotel on West 87th Street in Manhattan.
Carroll’s plan was to stay there for a night, maybe a few nights, until they could decide how to work with Anton Birnbaum, how to work with the New York police, whoever they could trust. Life was suddenly full of treacherous false bottoms. Carroll didn’t want another one to suddenly fall out.
Once they were together in the West Side hotel, Caitlin and Carroll fell into an embrace. They shared a long kiss which neither of them wanted to end. Caitlin pushed against Carroll with a fierce need. There was no more reason to hide anything, to hold back her feelings.
“I love you.” She locked her eyes into Carroll’s gaze.
“I love you, Caitlin. I was afraid today. I thought … that I might never see you again.”
They made love in the hotel room, and it was all passion, definitely not Lima, Ohio. When they did it a second time, Caitlin and Carroll held hands—almost as if they might never do this beautiful thing again.
“I hated it when you were out there after them,” Caitlin finally whispered as she lay beside Carroll. Her breath was like feathers on his cheekbone. “I’ve never felt so alone and afraid. I don’t want to feel that way again.”
Carroll brushed strands of hair away from her face. She was so precious to him. “I told Walter Trentkamp that I planned to quit once Green Band was over. I haven’t changed my mind.”
Caitlin stared into his eyes. “There’s a catch, though.”
“Yes, there’s one catch. Green Band isn’t over.”
There was so much evidence to be considered and studied. There were classified files from the FBI and Pentagon; there were taped statements from Birnbaum’s contacts in Washington and Europe …
… They just had to get to the right people with what they knew, with the truth.
Who were the right people, though? Whom could they trust now?
The New York Tunes?
The Washington Post?
“Sixty Minutes”?
The New York police?
The CIA?
The Committee of Twelve seemed to be everywhere. Were they connected with the police, the CIA? Did they control the newspapers and TV?
Whom could they go to with the truth?
During the first hours in the hotel, Carroll and Caitlin read every newspaper report. Twice that afternoon, Carroll took cabs to the large out-of-town newspaper stand in Times Square. He and Caitlin read and reread everything written about-Green Band.
They searched for a faint shadow of what they knew to be the truth.
There was none that they could find. Nothing had been reported about secret intragovernment groups. Nothing had been reported about the whereabouts of Walter Trentkamp. Had the body been spirited away by the Twelve?… Nothing was said about Colonel David Hudson’s Special Forces training at Fort Bragg. In the news, Colonel Hudson was described as a “Jackal-like provocateur,” the renegade mastermind of Green Band. Hudson was depicted as an obsessed man looking for justice, some personal meaning, years after ‘Viet Nam…
It all sounded plausible and right, if you didn’t know any better.
Chapter 99
THE MORNING OF December 21, Caitlin and Carroll had visitors at the hotel.
The visitors were Anton Birnbaum and Samantha Hawes, the FBI researcher who had helped Carroll in Washington. They met in another room on the same floor as the Carroll suite.
The best and the worst part of the Green Band investigation had begun. The tension and pressure were even more relentless than before. Carroll’s stomach had been doing an uncomfortable dance of panic for the past twenty-four hours.
A working picture of Green Band was emerging. If not a complete portrait, it was at least an outline, a foreshadowing of the truth. The story was different from anything reported in the newspapers or on TV.
“The Twelve, the American Wise Men, are descended from our own OSS, America’s intelligence team during World War Two,” Birnbaum said in a voice that seemed to grow weaker each day. “The route is serpentine, but it can be followed…. The existence of the Twelve goes back to the elder Dulles, his reluctance to surrender his wartime intelligence machine over to the politicians in 1940s Washington. When the OSS was transformed into the CIA, the Twelve began to meet outside official circles. They were still the most powerful men in Washington. At first they gave counsel, then they took things into their own able hands…. The original OSS was the best American intelligence unit ever.
“The Twelve still smugly believe they are the elite. They’re convinced they are doing the country a grand service, guiding us through the Cuban Missile threat, the time of the assassinations, Watergate, now Green Band. Every year, each decade, they become more and more powerful.”
Samantha Hawes spoke after Birnbaum. She had information about Hudson. She’d managed to retrieve some of the missing Vets files during the past few days.
“David Hudson was approached by at least one Committee member when he was still in the Army, while he was at Fort Bragg after Viet Nam,” she told the others. “General Lucas Thompson, his old commander, approached Hudson first Thompson knew everything about Hudson’s POW experiences. He knew about Hudson’s training at Fort Bragg, too. Army Intelligence had prepared Hudson to be their Juan Carlos. They backed off when Hudson lost his arm. Well, the Committee had plenty of uses for Hudson and his skills.
“… Another interesting note—Philip Berger of the CIA ran Hudson’s original commando training at Fort Bragg. Several Committee members have spoken at veteran affairs over the past few years. The connections are there, the manipulation is feasible.”
Carroll had read the missing FBI and Pentagon files which Hawes had brought with her. “Hudson was given a lot of help with Green
Band. The help came in the form of Wall Street information, and tips about what we were doing inside Number 13. That’s why he was able to play so many cat-and-mouse games. He also had Pentagon files on all the candidates for Vets. Hudson chose men who’d served with him in Viet Nam. The Committee promised him millions as a reward.”
“Yes, only half the Vets are dead now,” Birnbaum spoke. “The rest are missing. Hudson is missing. Where is David Hudson now, I wonder?”
Caitlin had been quiet for most of the session. She had retrieved the necessary financial backup information. She Was still angry. She felt used by this Committee which believed it was above the government, above laws.
“We’re beginning to make progress,” Caitlin finally spoke in a quiet manner. “But we’re still faced with an overwhelming problem. Whom do we trust beyond the people here in this room? Do we take our information to the newspapers? Do we go to the FBI, Samantha? Whom can we tell this story to?”
There was silence in the room. They were all beginning to understand the power that was in the grasp of a select few. They were beginning to understand the real political system.
The question remaining was so simple, yet so impossibly complex—whom could they trust with the truth?
Chapter 100
FOR ANOTHER TWENTY-FOUR HOURS on December 22, the Carrolls lived in cramped quarters in the West Side hotel. They had no other choice to consider. Whom could they trust?
Late at night, Carroll and Caitlin stayed in the smaller of the two bedrooms. They lay in each other’s arms, passing the long, eerie hours. They were realistic enough to know that something nightmarish might still happen—that they might never be together like this again.
“Hudson said something on the rooftop in Brooklyn,” Carroll whispered as he stroked Caitlin’s hair. “He said that he loved his country. You know, I still feel that way. I almost feel closer to Hudson than to the others.”
Caitlin nodded.
Her eyes were stinging when she finally whispered to Carroll, “I feel so angry at whoever was deceiving all of us, at the ones who’ve lied and misled us all these years.”
When Caitlin and Carroll made love, it was more tender than it had ever been. They fell asleep holding each other, like children allowed to sleep together during a storm.
At six o’clock, Caitlin found that she couldn’t sleep anymore. She pushed herself up in bed.
When she switched on a tiny portable radio, Caitlin heard the last thing she wanted to hear in all the world. Caitlin heard the news that finally broke her heart.
“… adviser to several U.S. Presidents, Anton Birnbaum, was killed on Riverside Drive near his home in Manhattan early today. The elderly statesman was struck in late-night traffic by an unidentified hit-and-run driver … Birnbaum was eighty-three years old at the time of his death.”
Caitlin shook Carroll until he mumbled and finally blinked awake. In a voice that was racked by sobs, she began to tell him what had happened.
“Oh, Arch, they killed him. They killed Anton this morning. They killed him as if he was nothing. What’s happening now? What’s going to happen?”
Carroll shivered as he got up from bed. He dressed, then hurried down to Broadway, where he bought the Daily News, The New York Times, the Wall Street Journal.
All the front-page stories about Anton Birnbaum contained respectful eulogies. They also contained lies. At best, the newspapers revealed a small fragment of the truth.
At the newsstand, Carroll read the articles with trembling fingers. It was as if nothing real had ever happened. There was no high-placed traitor in the FBI. There was no Monserrat, no mention of the whereabouts of Colonel Hudson.
That same morning, trudging back to the hotel from Broadway, Carroll saw the two men following him.
There was no way anyone connected with Green Band could live.
Chapter 101
ESCAPE. It was the only possibility left.
On the night of December 23, Carroll, Caitlin, the four children, and Mary Katherine tightly locked hands. They walked down Columbus Avenue. There had to be a way for three adults and four small children to escape a surveillance team. So far, Carroll had found none. But the New York crowds would provide temporary safety.
Columbus Avenue was still buzzing with holiday music and a festive bustle at night. The energetic crowd—every other person holding a bright Christmas bundle, a tree, a Lincoln Center program—parted reluctantly for the family.
It wasn’t like any Christmas that Carroll had ever known before—it was as if a terrible, unfathomable darkness lurked in the shadows between the bright lights and the fir trees. Caitlin, Mary K., the kids—how could he shield them when he felt that some unknown gunmen lingered in every doorway?
“Can we please stop running, Daddy? Please?”
A tiny voice trailed after Carroll, echoing thinly inside the symphony of the New York City street noise. The bizarre cacophony of Christmas sounds wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t let up for a moment of relief. Why did he think it would?
Four-year-old Lizzie was dragging herself along on the hem of his sports coat. “Please, Daddy. Just for a minute? Please?” Up ahead of them, Caitlin and Mary Katherine had the three other children in tow. They were bravely hurrying the children forward.
Carroll finally stopped and stooped to wrap his arms around his little girl. He whispered soothingly against Lizzie’s chilled, red-rimmed ear. “Please, baby, please be good. Just a little longer, sweetheart.”
Carroll immediately straightened again. It was so sad— what he was almost certain was going to happen next. It was so unfair. He had reached the most hollow place of his existence, a terrible numbness hung around his heart.
He gazed north, then down the bright lights of Columbus Avenue. His weary eyes brushed over colorful signs that said Sedutto’s, Dianne’s, Pershings, La Cantina.
Columbus Avenue had changed dramatically since he’d last been above 72nd Street. The area had once been crowded with Spanish food stores as well as transient hotels, and oriental rug dealers. Now it was a trendy, self-conscious version of Greenwich Village.
Carroll glanced over his shoulder again. The same pair of men was still following. Now, though, there were more than two. There were as many as five men following the Carroll family.
And they were closer—no more than half a city block away.
Where in the name of God do we go? Somebody help us, he thought to himself.
The back of Carroll’s neck was soaking wet, even in the chill air. His skin, his brown hair, was plastered against his shirt collar.
He was hopelessly tired. He felt he could lay down on a parked car, sleep right there in the middle of Columbus Avenue.
The passersby looked so preoccupied, so self-interested and city cool. Would any of them help?
Carroll’s mind was silently screaming, pleading for some form of reason to finally prevail.
This is happening, he thought. Whether I choose to believe it or not, this is happening.
Escape was the only reality.
He had one idea, a kind of prayer, which he didn’t think could work. His mind was close to bursting. There was nothing left but rage, the constant, maddening stab of fear. He could see the same emotion pressed onto Caitlin’s face. As for Mary Katherine, her face looked blank. All its usual ruddy color was gone.
He reached out suddenly for Caitlin. He held her narrow shoulders. “Listen to me. Listen closely.” He whispered something hopeful, something so innocent it started tears in her soft brown eyes. “I love you so much, Caitlin. Everything has to be all right”.
“Oh, Arch, why now? Why now?”
Then Carroll pushed her away. He sent Caitlin and his sister and the tangle of children in the opposite direction.
Up 72nd Street. Away, far away from him.
“I’m going down Columbus! Take them! Take them away, please! Caitlin! Take them now!”
“Daaa-ddy! … Daa-ddy!”
The final thing Carroll hear
d was his babies’ cries as he raced away.
As he put his head down, chin into his heaving chest.
As he started to run as fast as he could along the clogged sidewalk.
Suddenly, powerful arms grabbed him, wrenched him to a spinning stop. A hand clamped down hard, twisting into his face. Searing pain ripped through Carroll’s eyes.
His mind was racing: they were attacking him in the middle of New York City, in one of the most crowded, residential areas of the city. They had come for him in full view of a hundred witnesses …
They didn’t even care about the witnesses anymore.
“Get the hell off me! Get off me, you pieces of shit!” Carroll’s shouts rose like fighting kites above the honking horns, above the city’s deafening street rumble. “Somebody, please help!”
They were giving him a needle! Some kind of long, terrifying needle pierced through his trousers into his leg.
They were giving it to him right out here in the open.
Right on West 70th Street in New York City.
“Somebody help! Somebody fucking help!”
There were obviously no secrets anymore. There was no bullshit pretense that this was a police bust, that they were New York detectives.
“Get off! … no needle … nooooo!”
Carroll roared his last words savagely. He screamed and he fought back. He clawed at them with his remaining strength. He broke a jaw with a short, powerful punch. His elbow smashed hard into a forehead. A bone snapped loudly. His?
Everything was unreal. Everything was impossible to comprehend, or slow down even a fraction.
Carroll was being dragged into a dark blue sedan. He was being held upside down!
He looked back as they pulled him off Columbus Avenue, out of the crowds.
As he was hanging upside down, he saw the second car arrive!