Black Market

“Comments?” Vice President Elliot asked, his tone clearly acerbic. “On Mr. Carroll's contributions.”

The blank faces staring at Carroll certainly weren't encouraging or supportive. The heads of the enforcement agencies were especially cool and distant. The cabinet members were mostly business-management types who didn't understand the problems of police work in the field. They were indifferent to the trials and demands of a start-from-scratch street investigation.

The Senate majority leader finally spoke. Marshall Turner's familiar voice was southern and boomed like an echo. “Mr. President, I'm afraid this simply will not do. All of what I'm hearing is unsatisfactory. Late last week we came that close to a full economic collapse in this country.”

“That's what we're told, Marshall.”

“Now you tell us we're still in serious danger, maybe even worse danger. A second Black Friday is being discussed. I feel it's our responsibility to make certain we have our best investigative apparatus in place. Now, as I understand it, the Federal Bureau and the CIA are both being underutilized in the current manhunt for terrorists.”

The tone in the senator's voice was offensive to Carroll. He stared at the political leader, who had the kind of swollen pink face you might encounter in the sawdust-filled back room of a country store.

Phil Berger, the director of the CIA, stepped into the uncomfortable silence. He was a small, lean man whose head, starkly bald and shining under the lights in the room, came to a domed point. He reminded Carroll of a hard-boiled egg sitting in an eggcup.

Berger said, “The FBI and the CIA are working twenty-four-hour shifts. There's no question of underutilization.” He turned his eyes toward Carroll. “And I'm sure Mr. Carroll is giving it his very best, even if he hasn't managed to come up with anything.”

“All right. Let's not fight among ourselves.” President Kearney abruptly rose from the conference table.

Justin Kearney looked at Carroll and said, “I made a hard decision late yesterday. I would have called you, but you weren't in New York, Archer.”

“Right. I was in Paris, getting shot at.”

The president ignored Carroll's remark. “Effective immediately, I'm ordering the following changes. I want you to continue to run the part of the operation that deals directly with known terrorist groups. But I want Phil Berger to supervise the overall investigation of Green Band, including the investigation of terrorists inside the United States. You're to report directly to Phil Berger. You're also to give the CIA a complete record of your personal contacts, all of your files.”

Carroll stared incredulously at President Kearney. He was almost certain it wasn't legal for him to give his record files to the CIA. He also had the feeling he'd just been floated down the Potomac on a leaky raft. Thanks for all of your past help, but your team's working methods leave something to be desired.

He turned his face away from the president, who seemed, in his Olympian wisdom, to have reached this decision single-handedly. That fact troubled and perplexed Carroll. But there was something else, one thing that disturbed him even more.

It was the general boardroom coldness, the sterile big business atmosphere that was growing up everywhere in the government. It was the supersecrecy, the superdeceit usually under the misleading cover of “national security” and “need to know.” They made the command decision, and they no longer felt they had to explain themselves to anybody.

“I guess I understand, Mr. President, and I'm afraid I have to quit under those circumstances. With all due respect, I resign, sir. I'm out of this.”

Arch Carroll got up and walked out of the conference room, out of the White House entirely. It was over for him. Washington was a bureaucratic company town, and he just didn't want to work for the company anymore.

Approximately an hour later, Arch Carroll was in an Eastern shuttle jet destined for New York.

Outside, an electrical storm whipped the sky. From his window he could see dramatic black clouds. He stared at the gathering storm, and he felt overwhelmed by a curious loneliness.

It was at times like these he missed Nora most. Nobody he'd met before or since was as good at making him feel whole; nobody else seemed able to make him laugh at himself. And that was the real trick, being able to laugh when you needed to-and right now, Arch Carroll needed to laugh at something.

He felt Caitlin Dillon's hand on his arm. Turning, he gave her a weary half smile. She was trying her hardest to be sympathetic, to be kind.

“You must know it isn't your fault. Everybody's frustrated, Arch. Green Band didn't just do a number on Wall Street, it created an atmosphere of panic. Our president, who is turning out to be even less decisive than I imagined he'd be, made a panicky decision. That's all.”

She patted his arm, and he felt like a kid with a scarred, bloody knee. This warm, almost maternal, streak in Caitlin surprised him.

“It isn't your fault. You've got to keep that in mind. Washington is loaded with scared men making inadequate decisions.” She paused before asking, “What will you do? Go into legal practice? Draw up wills? Deed of trust? Maybe something like corporate law?”

Carroll drifted back from somewhere distant inside his mind. Her light sarcasm didn't escape him. He even welcomed it. Law, he thought. The reason he'd never used his degree was because he couldn't stomach the idea of law tomes, of hunting down precedents in the dust of unreadable books, of having to fraternize with other lawyers. They were a breed that depressed the hell out of him.

He was quite for a time. Then he said, “Can you honestly imagine me reporting to that CIA clown Phil Berger?”

Caitlin shook her head. A puff of smoke surrounded her face a moment, and she blinked. “He's an egghead in more than one sense of the word. The man must have been hatched.”

Carroll suddenly roared. The storm rocked the plane a moment. “When I was a kid, my mother used to give us, hard-boiled eggs for breakfast. Some tradition from the old country. All of us kids would beat the tops open with our spoons. That's what I should have had back there in the White House. A goddamn big spoon to beat on Phil Berger's head.”

Carroll turned his head toward Caitlin Dillon. She was laughing, too. It was a musical laugh, like some quirky tune you couldn't forget, one that ran through your mind in a tantalizing way but you couldn't put a name to. “You surprise me. You really surprise me.”

“Why is that?”

“You look so damn straight and businesslike, but you've got this weird sense of humor underneath all that-”

“Weird for a Wall Street business type, I guess. For a dyed-in-the-wool midwesterner. A Presbyterian.”

Arch Carroll laughed some more, and it felt pretty good. Tension knots in his neck were finally loosening up. “Yeah. Of course. For a country hick from Ohio.”

“My father taught me that you need a good sense of humor to survive on Wall Street. He survived it, though just barely.”

She gazed at him, saying nothing more. She had stopped laughing, and her expression was serious; her eyes searched his face. She looked as if a small, important gear had just shifted in her mind.

Carroll watched her, conscious of something happening in his body, the unsettling motions of desire. For a moment he had the uncomfortable feeling that he was betraying Nora, betraying a sacred memory.

Christ, it had been a long time since his body had reacted like this; he was suddenly aware of how deprived he was, how hungry he'd become. He raised one hand, his fingers trembling slightly, and placed the palm against Caitlin's cheek.

Gently, tenderly, he kissed her.

And then the moment was over, suddenly, as if it had never happened.