Black Market

Hudson could feel his body pulsing and tingling lightly He spoke to the men without any written notes-everything was committed to memory.

His personal grasp of minutiae and military theory was riveting that afternoon in early December. For nearly two and a half hours Colonel David Hudson painstakingly reviewed every foreseeable scenario, every likely and even unlikely change that might occur up to, and including, the end of the Green Band mission. He used combat-proven memory aids: reco

A deep graveled voice sounded from the shadowy rear of the Vets locker room. One of the combat mercenaries, a southern black named Clint Hurdle, had taken the floor.

“Why you so sure there won't be no attacks of conscience? This going to heat up now, Colonel. Who says nobody going to fuck up and run?”

There was a startled hush around the small room.

Hudson considered the question very carefully before answering. He had, in fact, posed almost the same question hundreds of times in his own head. He always assumed the worst, then created a number of alternative ways to effectively deal with, and avoid, disaster.

“Nobody, not a single one of you men, broke during combat… Not even in a war none of you wanted or believed in. Nobody broke in POW camps! Not one of you!… None of you will break now, either. I'm fully prepared to bet everything we've worked for on that.”

There was an uncomfortable silence after the difficult question and emotional answer. David Hudson's intense green eyes slowly surveyed the Vets' dressing room one more time. He wanted them to feel in their guts that he was sure about everything he'd just said. The way he was sure. Even though it might not look it, every man in the room had been carefully hand-picked from hundreds of possible vets. Every soldier in the room was special.

“If any one of you wants to leave, though, this is the time… Right now, gentlemen. This afternoon… Anybody?… Anybody who wants to leave us?…”

One Vet slowly started to clap. Then the rest of them. Finally all the Vets were solemnly clapping their hands. Whatever was going to happen, they were in it together now.

Colonel Hudson slowly nodded; the cocksure military commander once again took control.

“I've saved the foreign travel assignments, the specific assignments, until last. I'm not going to entertain any discussion, any disagreement at all, over these assignments. The operational environment is already confused. We will not be confused. That's another reason we're going to win this war.”

Hudson walked to a long wooden table, from which he began to pass out thick, official-looking portfolios. Each one had a white tag pasted carefully on the front. Inside the envelopes were counterfeit U.S. passports and visas, first-class airplane tickets, extremely generous expense monies, and copies of elaborate topographical maps from the briefing. The genius was in the details.

“Cassio will go to Zurich,” Hudson began to a

“Stemkowsky and Cohen have Israel and Iran… Scully will go to Paris. Harold Freedman to London, then on to Toronto. Jimmy Holm to Tokyo. Vic Fahey to Belfast. The rest of us stay put right here in New York.”

A schoolboy's groan went up. Hudson silenced it instantly with a short, chopping hand motion.

“Gentlemen. I'll say this one time only, so you have to remember it… While you're in Europe, in Asia, in South America, it is absolutely essential that you act, that you groom and dress yourselves, in the particular style we've laid out for you. Remember the catch phrase: Nothing succeeds like excess…

“All of your air travel arrangements are first class. All of your clothing and restaurant expense money is meant to be spent. Spend that money. Throw it around. Be more extravagant than you've ever been in your lives. Have fun, if you can under the circumstances. That's an order!”

Hudson eased up. “For the next few days you have to be self-assured, successful American business types. You have to be like the people we've been studying on Wall Street for the past year. Think like a Wall Street man, look like one, act like a high-powered Wall Street executive.

“At oh-four-thirty, you'll be given self-respecting corporate haircuts, shaves, and-believe it or not-manicures. Your wardrobes have been carefully selected for you, too. They're Brooks Brothers and Paul Stuart-your favorite shops, gentlemen. Your shirts and ties are Turnbull & Asser. Your billfolds are from Dunhill. They contain credit cards and plenty of cash in the appropriate denominations you'll need in your respective countries.”

He paused, and his eyes roamed slowly across the room. “I think that's all I have to say… except one important thing. I wish you all the very best luck possible. I wish you the best, in the future after this mission… I believe in you. Believe in yourselves.”

Colonel David Hudson shut his eyes briefly, then opened them. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking. His face gave nothing away. It was a blank mask staring at the handful of men gathered in the dressing room.

He raised his arm, and in a tone that sounded almost religious, he said, “Now, our rendezvous with destiny.”

10

It was two-thirty on Sunday afternoon when Arch Carroll kicked both weathered Timberland work boots up on his desk inside number 13. He yawned until his jaw cracked; it felt as if it had just been dislocated.

He'd already finished four absolutely draining and futile interrogations. He'd been lied to by the very best-the most dangerous provocateurs and terrorists from all around New York.

Carroll had purposely chosen a cramped office for himself, tucked away at the back of the Wall Street building. His small but hearty DIA group, a half-dozen unorthodox police renegades and two efficient and extremely resilient secretaries, surrounded the uninspiring office in a satellite of Wall Street-style cubicles.

Like burned skin, paint peeled from the walls of Carroll's office. The windowpane had been shattered, courtesy of Green Band. He'd tacked a square of brown paper to the hole, but rain soaked through, anyway. It was a depressing working space for a depressing task. Even the light that managed to fall inside was oppressive, mangy brown, dim, and hopeless.

The first four suspects Carroll had interviewed were known terrorists who lived in the New York City area: two FALN, a PLO, and an IRA fund-raiser. Unfortunately the four were no more knowledgeable about the Wall Street mystery than Carroll was himself. There was nothing circulating on the street. Each of them convincingly swore to that after exhaustively long sessions.

Carroll wondered how it could be possible. Somebody had to know something about Green Band. You don't calmly blow away half of Wall Street and keep it a state secret for over forty hours.

The scarred and rusted wooden door into his office opened again. He watched the door over the steamy lid of his coffee container.

Mike Caruso, who worked for Carroll at the DIA, peeked inside. Caruso was a small, ski

“We got Isabella Marqueza up next. She's already screaming for her fancy Park Avenue lawyer. I mean the lady is fucking screaming out there.”

“That sounds promising. Somebody's upset, at least. Why don't you bring her right in?”

Moments later the Brazilian woman appeared like a sudden tropical windstorm. “You can't do this to me! I'm a citizen of Brazil!”