Black Market (31 page)

Brooklyn

Carroll slowly opened his eyes and sat up painfully. All around him were crashing sounds, police and U.S. Army personnel, blinding bright lights, flashing, running shapes. Faces peered down at him. Who were these people?

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

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

“There was a body there, over near the Cobra. Walter Trentkamp of the FBI was killed right over 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 stood up clumsily. Everything was spinning. “Oh, yeah, I'm fine. Tiptop shape.”

Arch Carroll, grasping the bricks in the wall for support, started down the winding metal stairs.

Somebody had taken Walter Trentkamp's body away.

“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 words. He wanted to go home. He needed to go home, right away. He 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 on the roof… Sure thing-this was all a dream, a horrible nightmare.

He didn't know 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 make him abdicate his responsibilities, his watchfulness…

What then?

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 in America… when Trentkamp was Uncle Walter, for God's sake.

Walter Trentkamp had been his father's friend for all those incredible years. Had his father ever begun to guess anything? Had his father ever sensed the horrifying betrayal coming from Trentkamp? 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 felt that we understood the parameters of our government's power. We understood
nothing
, Carroll now saw.

Trentkamp and the KGB had been so brilliant at fooling everyone. Walter Trentkamp had been so confident. He'd never hesitated to use Carroll. What better conduit for information? Walter's hubris was startling, but his modus operandi was consistent. 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, while Carroll had been serving there himself. 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 in New York or Washington. Why would anyone suspect the living legend? Walter Trentkamp had no respect for American intelligence, and he had been absolutely right. His ruse, the classic misdirection, had been perfect-the lifework of a master spy, a Donald Maclean or a Kim Philby.

Arch Carroll's eyes were watering again-only now it was because he was so glad to see his kids. They all 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 fast,” Carroll whispered to Mary Katherine. “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, and Caitlin Dillon quietly checked into the Durham Hotel on West Eighty-seventh Street.

Carroll's initial 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. Life was suddenly full of treacherous false bottoms. Was there anyone he could trust?

Once they were alone together in the hotel, Caitlin and Carroll fell into an embrace. They shared a long, tender kiss that neither of them wanted to end. Caitlin pushed against Archer Carroll with a fierce, undisguised need. There was no more reason to hide anything, to hold back her feelings.

“I love you so much,” she said.

“I love you, too, 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. Then a second time, Caitlin and Carroll gently held hands-almost as if they might never do this beautiful thing again. Almost as if they would never share their love again.

“I hated it when you were out there after them,” Caitlin whispered as she lay beside Carroll. Her breath was like feathers on his cheekbone. “I've never felt so afraid. I don't want to feel that way ever again.”

Carroll brushed her hair from her face. She was so unbelievably 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 deeply into his eyes. “There's a catch, though.”

“Yes, there's one catch. Green Band isn't over yet.”

There was so much terrifying evidence to be considered and studied. There were classified files from the FBI and Pentagon; there were also taped statements from Birnbaum's highly placed 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? The newspapers? Television stations? The New York police? The CIA?

The Committee of Twelve seemed to be everywhere. Were they connected with the police, the CIA? Did they somehow control the newspapers and TV?

It was all so unbelievably shitty.

During the first agonizing hours in the hotel, Carroll and Caitlin read every major newspaper report. Twice that afternoon Carroll took cabs to the large stand in Times Square that carried out-of-town newspapers. He and Caitlin read and reread everything written about Green Band. They searched desperately 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 intragovernmental groups.
Nothing
had been reported about a terror plan called “Red Tuesday.” Or about 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, North Carolina. 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 still looking for some justice, some personal meaning, years after Vietnam…

It all sounded so plausible, if you didn't know any better.

Manhattan

Early on the morning of December 22, Caitlin and Carroll had some visitors at the hotel. The visitors were Anton Birnbaum and Samantha Hawes.

The best and worst part of the Green Band investigation had begun. The tension and pressure were even more relentless than before. For the past twenty-four hours Carroll's stomach had been doing an uncomfortable dance.

A picture of Green Band was finally emerging. If not a complete portait, it was at least an outline, a foreshadowing of the truth. The story was certainly 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 the Second World War,” Anton 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 younger Dulles, his reluctance to surrender his wartime intelligence machine to the politicians. When the OSS was transformed into the CIA, the Twelve began to meet outside official circles. They were still probably the most powerful men in Washington. At first they gave counsel, then they took things into their own able hands… The original OSS was probably 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.”

Birnbaum was looking pale and brittle. At the outset of the morning, he'd told Caitlin that he was fearful of a heart attack or stroke if he continued at this pace. “The Red Tuesday plan could have incited another market crash, the worst since 1929. Green Band worked to stop that, at least. The Committee members also managed to profit from the results. The companies they control have already made hundreds of millions of dollars.”

Samantha Hawes had more information about Colonel 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 Vietnam. General Lucas Thompson, his old commander, approached Hudson first. General 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 Colonel Hudson and his special skills… Another interesting note-Philip Berger of the CIA ran Hudson's original commando training at Fort Bragg. Several Committee members have spoken at veterans affairs over the past few years. The connections are there, the manipulation is feasible. The Committee needed a paramilitary group, and they used David Hudson.”

Carroll had read the missing FBI and Pentagon files that Samantha Hawes had brought with her. “Hudson was given a lot of help with Green Band, probably more than he needed. The help came in the form of Wall Street information, and precise tips about what we were doing inside number Thirteen. That's why he was able to play so many cat-and-mouse games. He also had Pentagon files on all potential candidates for Vets. As it turned out, Hudson chose men who'd served with him in Vietnam. The Committee promised him millions as a reward once the Green Band mission was completed.”

“Yes, only half the Vets are dead now,” Birnbaum said. “The rest are missing. Colonel Hudson is missing. Where is David Hudson now, I wonder?”

Caitlin had been unusually quiet for most of the session. She had retrieved the necessary financial backup information. She was still angry. She felt used by this grandiose Committee that believed it was above the government, above laws.

“We're beginning to make progress,” she said in a quiet, businesslike manner. “But we are still faced with an over-whelming problem. Can we trust anyone but the people right in this room? Do we take our information to the newspapers? Do we go to the director of the FBI, Samantha? Whom can we tell this story to?”

There was silence in the room. They were all beginning to understand the frightening power of a select few. Whom could they trust?

The cover-up was almost as clever and masterful as the Green Band plot itself. The cover-up was brilliantly executed.

For another twenty-four hours the Carrolls managed to live in cramped quarters in the West Side hotel. So far, they had no other choice. 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 exploring each other's bodies. They were realistic enough to know that something nightmarish might still happen-that they might never be together like this again.

“Hudson said something up on that rooftop,” Carroll whispered as he stroked Caitlin's hair. “He said that he loved his country. You know, I still feel that way myself. I almost feel close to Hudson in a strange way.”

Caitlin and Carroll made love again that night, and it was more tender than it had ever been. They fell asleep holding each other, like children during a storm.

At six o'clock on the morning of December 24, Caitlin found that she couldn't sleep anymore. She finally got up.

When she switched on the tiny portable radio, she heard the news that finally broke her heart.

“Anton Birnbaum, advisor to several U.S. presidents, was killed on Riverside Drive near his home early today. The elderly, still-active financier was struck by an unidentified hit-and-run driver… Birnbaum was eighty-three years old at the time of his death.”

Caitlin shook Carroll's shoulder. “Oh, Arch, wake up. They killed him,” she sobbed. “The Committee killed Anton this morning. They've killed him. What's going to happen to us? Oh, poor Anton.”

Carroll mumbled and cursed as he got up from bed. He threw on his clothes, then hurried down to Broadway, where he bought the
Daily News, The New York Times
, and the
New York Post
.

All the front-page stories about Anton Birnbaum contained respectful eulogies. They also contained substantial, and what Carroll took to be purposeful, lies. At best, the newspapers revealed only a small fragment of the truth.

At the news kiosk, he read the articles with trembling fingers. It was as if nothing had ever happened. There was no high-placed traitor in the FBI. There was no Monserrat and no mention of the whereabouts of Colonel David Hudson.

Trudging back to the hotel, Carroll saw two men following him.

There was no way anyone connected with Green Band could live.

Escape
. It was the only possibility that remained.

On the night of December 24, Arch Carroll, Caitlin Dillon, the four Carroll children, and Mary Katherine locked hands and walked rapidly down Columbus Avenue. There had to be some way for three adults and four small children to escape a surveillance team. The New York crowds would provide temporary safety.

Columbus Avenue was buzzing with holiday music and festive bustle. The energetic crowd parted reluctantly for the hurrying family. Carroll wondered how he could protect Caitlin, Mary K., the kids-when he knew that professional gunmen were following them.

“Can we please stop running, Daddy? Please? Please, Daddy. Just for a minute? Please?” said Lizzie as she was being dragged along. Up ahead, Caitlin and Mary Katherine had the other three children bravely in tow.

Carroll stopped and wrapped his arms around his little girl. He whispered soothingly against her cold, red-rimmed ear. “Please, baby, please be good. Just a little longer, sweetheart.”

Carroll was almost certain he knew what was going to happen next. He gazed north, then down the bright lights of Columbus Avenue. His weary eyes brushed over colorful signs that said Sedutto, Diane's Uptown, Pershings, Cantina.

Columbus Avenue had changed dramatically since he'd last been above Seventy-second 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.

He glanced over his shoulder again. The same persistent pair of men was still following. He was sure they had been joined by others. There seemed to be five men following the Carroll family.

Where in the name of God do we go from here? Somebody help us.

Carroll was sweating, even in the chill night air. He was so tired. He wanted to go to sleep right there in the middle of crowded Columbus Avenue.

This is happening. Whether I choose to believe it or not, this is happening.

Escape.

He had one desperate prayer. He was bursting with fear. He could see the same emotion on Caitlin's face. Mary Katherine was very pale, her usual ruddy color gone. He reached out for Caitlin and held her tight.

“Listen to me. Listen closely.” He whispered something to her that made her cry. “I love you so much, Caitlin. Everything
has
to be all right.”

“Oh, Arch, be careful. Please be careful.”

Then Carroll gently pushed her away. He sent Caitlin and his sister and the tangle of children running in the opposite direction, across Seventy-second Street. Away, far away from him.

“Daaa-ddy!… Daa-ddy!” Carroll heard his babies' cries as he raced away. He ran as fast as he could along the clogged sidewalk.

Suddenly powerful arms grabbed him. A hand clamped down hard, twisting into his face. Searing pain ripped through his eyes.

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 above the honking horns, above the city's deafening street rumble. “Somebody, please help!”

They were injecting him. Some kind of long needle pierced his trousers right into his leg.

They were killing him right out here.

On West Seventieth 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
…
noooo!
”

Arch Carroll roared. He screamed and fought back savagely. He clawed at them with his remaining strength. He was sure he broke a jaw. His elbow smashed hard into a fore head, and he heard a bone snap loudly.

Then he was being dragged into a dark blue sedan. He was being held upside down! He looked back as they pulled him out of the staring crowds.

He was still hanging upside down when he saw the second car arrive, saw Caitlin and his sister and the kids being snatched away.

No one connected with Green Band could live. The Committee, the American Wise Men, couldn't allow that.

“
Not the kids!
You goddamned bastards! Not my kids, not my kids!… No,
please
, not my kids!”