Black Market

He felt such rage now, such hatred for everything American, everything he'd once loved about his country.

No hospital perso

David Hudson kept walking-faster-almost hearing a soft military drum roll in his head. He went down a bright yellow hallway, a falsely cheery one. He remembered the surroundings with vibrant clarity now. Almost uncontrollable rage swept through his body.

In the fall of 1973 he'd been admitted to the VA, ostensibly for psychiatric evaluation and tests. A smug Ivy League doctor had talked to him twice about his affliction, the unfortunate loss of his arm. The army doctor was equally interested in Hudson's POW experience. Had he killed a Vietcong camp commandant while making his escape? Yes, Hudson assured him; in fact, the escape was what had first brought him to the attention of army intelligence. They had tested him in Vietnam, then sent him back to Fort Bragg for further training… The interviews lasted no more than fifty minutes each time. Hudson had then filled out endless Veterans Administration questio

At the end of the yellow hallway were glass double doors to the outside. Through the hospital doors, Hudson could see fenced-in back lawns. The fences were not intended to keep the veterans in, he knew. They'd been built to keep the people outside from seeing what was inside: the terrifying, awful disgrace of America's veterans.

David Hudson hit the glass door squarely with his right shoulder and plunged into the sharp winter cold.

Directly behind the main hospital building was a steep frost-covered lawn that ended in threadbare scrub pines. Hudson moved across it quickly. Concentrate, he instructed himself. Don't think about anything but the present. Nothing but what's happening right now.

Two men suddenly stepped out from behind a row of thickly snow-laden firs. One man had the impressive, very formal appearance of a United Nations diplomat. The other was a common-looking street thug with a tough, expressionless face.

“You might have chosen the Oak Bar at the Plaza just as easily. Certainly that would have been more convenient,” the impressive-looking man said. “Colonel Hudson, I presume?… I am François Monserrat.”

The distinguished man's English was slightly accented. He might have been French? Swiss?… Monserrat. Carlos's replacement.

David Hudson smiled, showing slightly parted teeth. Every one of his senses was coming alive now. “The next time we meet, it can be your turn to choose a location. At the clock in Grand Central Station? The observation deck of the Empire State Building? Whatever site pleases you,” he offered.

“I'll remember that. You have a proposition for me to consider, Colonel? The remainder of the securities from Green Band? A substantial amount, I take it.”

Hudson's eyes remained hooded, showing no emotion, not a hint of the seething rage inside. “Yes, I would say substantial. Over four billion dollars. That's enough to cause an unprecedented international incident. Whatever you wish.”

“And what do you want from us, dare I ask? What is your final reward out of this, Colonel?”

“Less than you might think. The deposit of one hundred fifty million in a secure, numbered account. Your assurance that the GRU won't pursue my men afterward. The end of Green Band, at least where you're concerned.”

“That's all? I can't accept that.”

“No, I suppose it isn't all. I have something else in mind… You see, I want you to destroy the pathetic American way of life. I want you to end the American century a little early. We both intensely hate the American system-at least what it's become. We both want to set it on fire, to purify the world. We've both been trained to accomplish that.”

Hudson's apocalyptic words hung in the chilly air. The European terrorist stared into Colonel Hudson's eyes. Then, François Monserrat smiled, and his smile was hideous. He understood his man perfectly now.

“You're pla

Hudson looked at his wristwatch as if to check the time. He knew precisely what time it was. He was just going through the expected motions. “It's ten-thirty now. In six hours, gentlemen.”

Monserrat hesitated, a momentary uncharacteristic flicker of indecision. “Six hours is acceptable. We will be ready. Is that all?”

Colonel David Hudson experienced a sudden flash of insight as he stood huddled with the two men. His old charm surfaced, his old West Point charisma. “There is another matter. One more serious problem we have to discuss.”

“And what might that be, Colonel Hudson?”

“I realize that no one is supposed to know who you are. That's the primary reason I wanted you here. Why I insisted on it, if you were to get the bulk of these bonds. You see me, I see you. Except for one thing…”

“Except what?”

“Next time, I want to see the real François Monserrat. If he doesn't come in person, there will be no final exchange.”

Having said that, Colonel David Hudson turned away, walked briskly back toward the VA hospital, and disappeared inside.

His revenge, his fifteen-year odyssey, was almost complete now. The final telling moment was coming for each and every one of them.

Deceit! As it had never been seen before. Not since the Vietnam War, anyway.

They had taught him to destroy so very, very well… Whatever he wished to destroy…

Manhattan

In a fashionable and expensive part of New York City, Vice President Thomas More Elliot walked at a quickening pace along the rim of the East River, directly behind the United Nations complex.

There was the customary parade of joggers ru

He was alone and troubled that morning. There were apparently no bodyguards for the vice president of the United States. No Secret Service men were anywhere in sight. There was no one to protect Thomas Elliot from possible harm.

The walk alone was something the vice president did infrequently, but it was something he needed to do now. It was a fundamental human need to be alone. He needed to be able to mink, to be able to see a complex and challenging plan in its entirety.

He desperately needed to piece together the real reason why he was here, alone.

He paused and stared into the sluggish wintry gray river. Smoke drifted lazily upward on the other bank. He thought about his childhood, then, as if those comforting recollections might put everything in perspective. The casual rise of smoke reminded him of those autumnal bonfires on the grounds of his family home in Co

Vice President Elliot placed his gloved hands in the deep pockets of his overcoat. Green Band was almost at an end. Out there, in this vast city, the terrorist François Monserrat, the New York police, and Colonel David Hudson and his men were rushing toward their personal rendezvous with destiny. Meanwhile, other powerful forces were slotting quietly into place.

He frowned. A barge crawled over the oily surface, of the river. Dirty washing hung on a rope, and smoke rose upward from a blunt fu

Colonel David Hudson was to have his moment of destiny…

As was he, the vice president of the United States.

In a very short time, when the considerable dust had cleared on the brief reign of Justin Kearney-a disillusioned man who hadn't been able to come to terms with the strict limitations of his power, a man who would resign his office in the wake of an economic crisis, who would probably be exiled to some rustic estate and live out the remainder of his days writing heavily censored memoirs-when all the dust had cleared, Thomas More Elliot, like Lyndon Baines Johnson twenty-odd years before, like Gerald Ford a little more than a decade ago, would step up to the presidency of the United States.