Black Market

Names of the various officers on the FBI list now shimmered forth. Carroll once again ran his eyes over them.

Bradshaw, Michael. Captain. Discharged VA hospital, Dallas, Tex., 1971. Occupation: real estate salesman, Hempstead, Long Island. Post traumatic stress disorder victim.

Babbershill, Terrance. Major. Discharged dishonorably, 1969. Known Vietcong sympathizer. Occupation: English-language tutor for various Vietnamese families. Brooklyn, N.Y.

Carroll tried to focus. His eyes were begi

Rydeholm, Ralph. Colonel.

O'Do

Schweitzer, Peter. Lieutenant colonel.

Shaw, Robert. Captain.

Craig, Kyle. Colonel.

Boudreau, Dan. Captain.

Kaplan, Lin. Captain.

Weinshanker, Greg. Captain.

Dwyer, James. Colonel.

Beauregard, Bo. Captain.

Arnold, Tim. Captain.

Morrissey, Jack. Colonel.

Too many names, Carroll thought. Too many casualties in a war of total waste.

“Can you get me cross-references, Caitlin? Associations and co

“I'll try.”

Caitlin tapped a few keys. Nothing happened this time. She stared at the screen thoughtfully, then tapped another brief message.

Nothing happened.

She tapped out another message. Still nothing happened.

“Is something wrong?” Carroll asked.

“This is the best I can get, Arch. Damn it.”

The unfortunate message that shone in front of them read “Further data: see files.”

“See files?” he asked. “These are the files.”

“They apparently have more information in FBI files that aren't on the computer, Arch. They're down in Washington. Why is that?”

At ten o'clock on the evening of December 16, Sergeant Harry Stemkowsky was thinking that he was actually solvent. He was financially comfortable, probably for the first time in his entire adult life.

He'd just bought a new Ford Bronco, also a luxurious beaver coat at Alexander's for Mary. Life was suddenly getting decent for them, for the first time in all their years together.

But Harry Stemkowsky couldn't bring himself to believe in any of it comfortably. This was all like Santa Claus and trips to Disney World-that kind of transient shit.

Who could identify with a sudden net worth of $1,152,000?

Stemkowsky felt a little like one of those Looney Tunes who won the New York State Lottery, then nervously kept their little jobs as janitors or U.S. postal employees. It was a matter of too much too fast. He kept getting the uneasy feeling that somebody was going to take it all away again.

At twenty past ten that evening, Stemkowsky carefully nosed his Vets cab out of the street noise and blazing yellow lights of midtown Manhattan. He'd finished his regular ten-hour shift, all according to Colonel Hudson's prescribed step-by-step plan for their ultimate success. The Checker cab bumped and rattled onto the Fifty-seventh Street entrance to the bridge.

A few minutes later the cab turned onto a busy avenue in Jackson Heights, then edged onto Eighty-fifth, where Stemkowsky lived with his wife, Mary. He absently licked his lips as he drove down the street. He could just about taste the stew Mary had said she was fixing when he'd left in the morning. The sudden expectation of beef, shallots, and those little light-puffed potatoes she usually made was mouthwatering.

Maybe he and Mary should retire to the south of France after this was over, he began to think. They'd be filthy rich enough for sure. They could eat four-star French food until they got absolutely sick of it. Maybe move on to Italy. Maybe Greece after that. Greece was supposed to be cheap. Hey-who cared if it was cheap or not?

Harry Stemkowsky began to accelerate down the last flat stretch toward home.

“Jesus Christ, buddy!” he shouted suddenly, and pounded his brakes.

A tall bald-headed man, with an incredibly pained look, had run right out in front of the cab. He was frantically waving both arms over his head; he was screaming something Stemkowsky couldn't make out with the windows up.

Harry Stemkowsky recognized the look from Vietnam, though, from dreaded cleanup patrols into villages after devastating Phantom air strafes. His heart had already dropped through the floorboards of the cab. Something horrible and unexpected had happened here-something awful had happened in Stemkowsky's own neighborhood.

The terrified man was up against the cab window now, still screaming at the top of his voice. “Help me, please! Help! Please help!”

Stemkowsky finally got the window rolled down. He had his radio mike in hand, ready to call for whatever emergency help was needed. “What the hell happened? What happened, mister?”

Suddenly a small black Beretta was shoved hard, crunching like a nightstick, against Harry Stemkowsky's temple. “This is the matter! Don't move. Put back that mike.”

A second man appeared now, quickly emerging out of the smoky side-street darkness. He yanked open the creaking passenger-side door.

“Just turn the cab right around, Sergeant Stemkowsky. We're not going home quite yet.”

An indefinite time later-hours? maybe days? There was no possible way to accurately gauge because all time had collapsed under him-Harry Stemkowsky felt hands angrily ripping under his armpits, lifting him rudely. The hands propped him hard onto a creaking wooden chair again. They'd injected him twice with drugs, probably Pentothal.

A man's face, a blur of soft pink, seemed to float down and step close to Stemkowsky's face. Harry Stemkowsky was aware of minty breath and musky cologne. Then his mind went into complete shock. He couldn't believe who this was.

This face-he'd seen it before, recently always distilled by a network TV screen or a newspaper…

No, he was confused. The drug had fucked his brain over-

What was going on here? This person couldn't be-

The face smiled horribly and said, “Yes, I'm François Monserrat. You know me under another name. This is an extraordinary shock, I know.”

Harry Stemkowsky shut his eyes. This was all a bad dream. It would go away.

He opened his eyes and shook his head, which ached unbelievably. His eyeballs felt indescribably heavy. He simply could not believe it. So incredibly near the top. The ultimate traitor…

When Stemkowsky finally spoke, he was almost incoherent; incomprehensible words squirmed through his gummy, swollen lips. His tongue felt at least twice its normal size.

“Ga fuh-fuh-fuck yrrself. Fuh-fuck yrrself.”

“Oh, please. Your time for being morally indignant is long past… All right, then…look at what we have here. Look at this.”

Monserrat's hands were holding out a brown paper shopping bag. From it, he took out a familiar blue cooking pot.

Harry Stemkowsky screamed! He fought insanely against his bonds, forcing them to rip into his skin. Up close to his eyes, a fork dipped slowly into the depths of the pot. The fork speared a dripping chunk of beef bourguigno

Stemkowsky screamed. He screamed again and again.

“It seems you guessed my little secret. You should also know by now how deadly serious this interrogation is. How important this is to me.” Monserrat turned to his lieutenants.

“Bring in the unfortunate cook.”

Harry Stemkowsky recognized Mary, but only slightly. She was such a pitiful caricature of her former self. Her face was badly bruised, purplish, and raw. Her bloated mouth opened crookedly as she saw Harry. Some of her front teeth were missing; her swollen gums were pulpy and bloody.

“Puh-puh-pleez?” Stemkowsky struggled; he lifted the chair legs right off the floor with his tremendous arm strength. “She don know.”