Black Market

12

The following morning, eighty-three-year-old Anton Birnbaum, appearing on a special edition of the PBS show “Wall Street Week,” explained why the destruction of Manhattan 's financial district did not exactly signal the end of the civilized world.

“The major American market was indeed knocked out this past Friday. More markets exist out there, however-believe it or not-and they may just possibly become the beneficiaries of this disaster… These markets are the midwestern, the Pacific, and the Philadelphia exchanges. They handle local issues as well as certain board listings. If Joe Investor has to sell fifty shares of A T and T to meet the balloon payment on his mortgage, his local broker may well be able to make a deal for him outside New York. Of course, he may not find a buyer at a price even close to what he's asking.

“Obviously,” Birnbaum went on, “ Chicago is where the significant action is this week. Between the midwest exchange and the two premier commodity exchanges, there are still plenty of opportunities for everyone to lose a lot of money.”

Even as he gave this purposely calming and reassuring speech, Anton Birnbaum knew that the existing situation was more tragic than he dared admit. Like almost everyone intimately co

In a way, somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind, he almost welcomed the purification rite, so very long overdue. As of Tuesday morning, the venerable financier had no idea how large a part he himself would play in Green Band.

13

Paris, France

Paris… a powerful man named Michel Chevron… Green Band…

The idea of the magnificent city filled Carroll with something akin to dread. Even as he sat inside a dark blue State Department limousine, riding down the rue Saint-Honoré, Carroll didn't want to look out at the streets. He didn't want to acknowledge that he was truly back in the splendid French capital.

The street sounds he heard pressing against the limousine were like the rattling of old bones. For Carroll, this Paris was a city of sharply painful memories. This Paris was Nora and himself in another age and time. This Paris was a fading decal imprinted with the spectral shapes of two young, carefree honeymooners who wandered all the boulevards, holding hands, who stopped to kiss impulsively every so often, who couldn't keep from touching each other constantly even in the most casual of ways.

Carroll stared at the two American flags that flapped regally on the bumpers of the luxury car. Make believe you're somewhere else, he told himself.

Christ, though, the memories kept coming back like a forceful tide. Nora sipping café au lait on the crowded boulevard Saint-Germain. Nora smiling and laughing as they made all the tourist stops-the Eiffel Tower, Montparnasse, the banks of the Seine, the Latin quarter.

Carroll felt a tightening around his throat. It was a sense of the unfairness that had ended Nora's life, and it crowded him uncomfortably now.

Near the Sorbo

Seated in the gray velvet rear salon of the car, Carroll flinched at the sight of the man. But when the prospect of the grapefruit assault had passed, he relaxed a little and tried to shake his head free of the fog of overseas jet lag. He opened his bulky Green Band file and began to look over his scribbled notes. He knew work would be a salvation from the memories of this town. If he dug into his material on Green Band, he could make himself a foxhole safe from the scenes that passed by.

How could Green Band have isolated itself so well from the terrorist underground? How could there be no rumor, no concrete leads, anywhere out on the street? And what was the ultimate reason for the New York financial district bombing?

Something else occurred to Carroll: What if he was still looking in all the wrong places?

“Société Générale bank, monsieur. Vous êtes arrivé. You have arrived safely, comfortably, I hope… This is le Quartier de la Bourse.”

Arch Carroll climbed out of the limousine and slowly walked inside Société Générale.

The bank building itself, the cavernous lobby, the hand-operated elevators, were all carved stone and exquisitely gilded. Everything was regal and impressive, the kind of background against which American tourists would take pictures to later put in albums.

The prestigious French financial institution reminded Carroll quite powerfully of another era. Compared with Wall Street, it was visually softer and more civilized to behold. It was as if money were not the major game being played here. The aim was something less vulgar, something even spiritual, perhaps. In actuality, le Quartier de la Bourse occupied the former site of a Dominican convent. No matter the history of the place, no matter the artistic appeal, it was the same religion you found on Wall Street. Gentility and ma

Michel Chevron, Carroll thought, remembering why he was there. Chevron and the massive, secretive European black market.

The question was whether Chevron really fit into the frustrating Green Band puzzle and whether there was a bridge, even a frail one, linking Chevron with François Monserrat.

The bank executive's personal assistant was a thin, sickly-looking man of perhaps twenty-eight. He had white-blond hair, closely cropped, almost punk in style. He sat stiffly behind an antique desk, which in New York would have seemed inappropriate for anyone except a chief executive. He wore a double-breasted pin-striped suit, a funereal, mauve four-in-hand tie.

Carroll tried to imagine applying for a loan from this chilly character, something for home repair, maybe, a room extension, or an underground sprinkler system. He could just see the bank assistant sniffling over the application papers with an expression of mild disgust. He knew this particular assistant would turn him down flat, possibly even laugh at him.

“My name is Archer Carroll. I'm here from New York to see Monsieur Chevron. I spoke to someone yesterday on the telephone.”

“Yes, to me.” The bank assistant addressed him as a country gentleman would address a stable hand on the subject of a gelding's health. “Director Chevron has provided fifteen minutes… at eleven forty-five.”

Observing the bank assistant's ma

“Director has an important lunch at twelve. You will please wait. The sofa for waiting is there, Monsieur Carroll.”

Arch Carroll nodded his head slowly. Reluctantly he wandered over to a tight nest of art deco couches. He sat down and clenched his hands together. He was trying to fight back anger now, seething anger. On the telephone the bank assistant had set up a meeting firmly for eleven o'clock. He was right on time, and he'd traveled several thousand miles to be here.

Michel Chevron was right behind those heavy oak doors, he kept thinking, probably laughing up his well-tailored sleeve at the ugly American outside in reception…

He steadily drummed his fingers on his knee. His right loafer tapped against the elegant marble floor. At fifteen minutes to twelve, the bank assistant set down his slender silver fountain pen. He looked up from a thick sheaf of paperwork. He smacked his purplish lips before he spoke.

“You may see Director Chevron now. Will you please follow me?”

A moment or so later, Director Michel Chevron, a tall man with an equine face and shock of ink-black hair that stood up on his head like a fuzzy yarmulke, said, “Mr. Carroll, so good of you to come to Paris,” almost as if this transatlantic journey were something Carroll did every other day of the week.