Black Market

30

There was no more time to waste. Clearly, there was no time at all. Every passing hour was vitally important. Anton Birnbaum's hyperactive mind was clicking automatically like a computer.

Birnbaum had begun to make urgent phone calls from his eleven-room apartment on Riverside Drive, near Columbia University. He had definite hunches now-strong suspicions after talking to Caitlin Dillon and her policeman friend Carroll.

At junctures in his life, Birnbaum had been thought of as the consummate international businessman, at times as the world's preeminent economist. Certainly he was an intense student of life, intrigued by the vicissitudes of human behavior. His curiosity was boundless, even at his age.

Never a day passed that Birnbaum didn't read for at least six or seven hours. Because of that lifelong habit, the financier knew he was still several steps faster than the other people in his business, especially the lazy boys on Wall Street.

What was the operative co

Why had nothing conclusive been discovered about Green Band yet?

Why were the Green Band provocateurs consistently two steps ahead of those conducting the investigation? How could that be happening again and again?

Like nature, Anton Birnbaum abhorred a vacuum, and that was precisely what Green Band had masterfully created: a huge empty space in which logical questions had no apparent answers.

Months back he had heard rumors of a Russian-sponsored plot to dramatically disrupt the stock market… His closest and most reliable contacts at the CIA had been worried about the activities of the wretched François Monserrat. Was Monserrat somehow co

Too many possibilities. Almost as if that were part of the plan.

As the tiny ancient man made his inquisitional phone calls that morning-to Switzerland, England, France, South Africa, to both West Germany and East Germany-he felt like someone who had an important name on the tip of his tongue but just couldn't remember it.

Anton Birnbaum wrote down the most suspicious names.

Philip Berger

Thomas More Elliot

François Monserrat

And perhaps the co

The clue was there-the begi

If he could just find the one clue… If he could just figure out the motive for the events thus far. It was here, somewhere.

Anton Birnbaum worked at his desk, sketchily making notes, making highly confidential calls. He worked feverishly, like a man who felt his time ru

Carroll had decided to start at square one again, to thoroughly check and recheck every lead, every hunch he'd ever had about Green Band. The task would take countless hours. he knew. It would require an intense search through the computers, even allowing for the fact that he had high-speed data at his disposal. Ah, police work.

He asked for clearance from the CIA and the FBI to make a search of their computer files. Neither organization gave him too much trouble, although Phil Berger imposed certain limitations on his access, for the usual reasons of national security.

Nearly eleven hours later Carroll stood before the dozen or so computer screens inside the crisis room at 13 Wall Street. He stared at the screens, and his eyes ached from the dull green glow.

He glanced at Caitlin, who sat with her slender fingers raised over a computer keyboard, ready to type out a password for further access to the FBI's files. There was no skill she didn't seem to have.

When the display screen answered, she rapidly typed again, this time requesting a readout of active and nonactive Vietnam veterans who, for whatever reason, had been under police surveillance during the past two years-a time frame she and Carroll had agreed on.

She added the subcategories: Explosives Experts; New York and Vicinity; Possible Subversive Leanings.

There was a long pause, a spooky electronic pause, and then the machine began its requested readout of Vietnam veterans.

Carroll had been down this particular route of investigation, only not with this equipment and Caitlin's help. American terrorist-related groups were out there, but none was considered very powerful or well organized. Phil Berger of the CIA had been investigating American paramilitary groups himself. He had waved Carroll off that trail once before.

“Can you print out a list of the real hard cases?” Carroll asked Caitlin.

“This is a computer. It can do anything if you ask it nicely.”

The printer obligingly kicked back into life. Paper slid through it as the dot matrix clacked back and forward. A total count showed no more than ninety names of current soldiers and veterans with extensive explosives experience in Vietnam -men whom the FBI considered important enough to keep track of. Carroll ripped the paper from the printer and took it to a desk.

Adamski, Stanley. Corporal. Three years VA hospital, Prescott, Ariz. Member of left wing-oriented veterans group called the Rams, ostensibly a bikers club.

Carroll wondered how much of this was standard FBI paranoia.

The list was filled with dizzying cross-references, he soon discovered. One name was co

Keresty, John. Sergeant. Munitions expert. Discharged VA hospital, Scranton, Pa. 1974. Occupation: custodian, plastics corp. Member of the American Socialist party. Ridgewood, N.J. SEE: Rhinehart, Jay T.; Jones, James; Winston files.

The lists went on and on.

Carroll massaged his eyelids. He went for two coffees, then returned to the desk and even more sprawling computer sheets.

He said, “Any one of these men, or two or three of them could have helped blow up the financial district.”

Caitlin gazed over his shoulder at the printout. “So where do we start?”

Carroll shook his head. He was filled with doubts again. They would have to investigate, maybe even visit, every name on the lists. They didn't have time.

Scully, Richard P. Sergeant. Plastique expert. Hospitalized Manhattan, 1974, for alcoholism. Extreme right wing sympathizer. Occupation: cabdriver. New York City.

Downey, Marc. Military assassin. Hospitalized 1971-73. Occupation: bartender. Worcester, Mass.

Carroll gazed at the burgeoning list again. An army officer, maybe? A disaffected officer with a grudge or a cause? Somebody exceptionally smart, nursing a grievance, year after year.

He laid his hands on the warm computer console. He wished he could coax all the secrets out of it, all the electronic links of which it was capable. He stared at the lengthy printout again. “An officer,” he said. “Try that.”

Caitlin went back to the keyboard to request more information. He watched her fingers move expertly over the keys. She was requesting information on known or suspected subversives who had been officers in Vietnam. Under the general rubric of “subversive” were included all kinds of people.

The screen began to issue more names. Colonels. Captains. Majors. Some were listed in these official records as schizophrenics. Others were supposedly burned out on drugs. Others had become evangelists, panhandlers, small-time bank and liquor store robbers. Carroll received a printout of these names as well. There were twenty-nine of the hard-core category in and around New York City.

The screen flickered again.