Black Market

“My account is Number four-eleven/FA. Make the agreed-upon deposit into the account…” A few minutes later Monserrat hung up.

Then the phone rang, and Colonel Hudson received a confirmation that the money had indeed been successfully transferred in Europe. More than two hundred million dollars had gone out of the Soviet accounts into special accounts opened by the Vets in London, Paris, Amsterdam, and Madrid. Vets 28, Thomas O'Neil, the Customs chief of Dublin International Airport, had come through once again. The Green Band plan was perfect.

“Colonel, I believe our business is concluded. You seem to have won each round. This time, anyway.” Monserrat executed a cold deferential bow.

As Colonel David Hudson stood up from the table, he felt that a terrible weight had finally been lifted. He was free of an obsession he'd carried with him for almost fifteen years.

At that precise moment, he was silently counting down to zero.

Green Band was almost at an end.

Almost, but not quite. Just one more twist, one final element of surprise.

Deception, at its best.

A game in which Hudson alone knew the rules. An amazing game called Green Band.

Less than forty seconds remained… Two pistols were drawn in the room…

Concentrate. David Hudson eased himself toward a controlled calmness.

Talk to them. Keep talking to Monserrat.

“I have one question before I leave. May I? May I ask one troubling question?”

Monserrat nodded. “What harm? You may ask anything. Then perhaps I have a question.”

Colonel Hudson watched Monserrat's eyes as he spoke. He saw nothing, no emotion there. No affect. The two of them were close in so many ways. Killing machines.

“How long have you been with the Russians? How long have you been one of their moles?”

“I was always with the Russians, Colonel. I am Russian. My parents were stationed in middle America. They were among the hundreds of agents who came here in the late 1940s. I was taught to assimilate myself-to be American. There are many others like me. Many others. They're all over the United States right now. Waiting, Colonel. We want to destroy this country financially, and in every other way.”

Fourteen seconds. Twelve seconds. Ten seconds. Colonel David Hudson kept counting in his head, kept talking in a monotone to François Monserrat. His heartbeat remained low. He was still in complete control.

“Harry Stemkowsky… Do you remember a man named Stemkowsky? A poor crippled sergeant? One of my men?”

“One of the casualties of war. Your war. Your war, Colonel, not ours. He wouldn't betray you under any circumstances.”

As he reached three in his countdown, Colonel David Hudson took two fast, unexpected steps to his left. Both Russian terrorists awkwardly swung up their pistols. They were too late.

Hudson tucked his chin down hard against his chest and dove headfirst through a glass window, crashing into the factory section of the building.

At that precise moment, the entire building shook with the first savage round from the M-60s, which completely pulverized the tenement's fourth floor.

Flash fires broke out simultaneously in three separate areas of the factory. Bright orange-and-crimson flames strained to reach the stained yellow ceiling. Huge panes of glass buckled, then burst from their casements and crashed to the cement below. Everywhere, the old struts and supports of the building were begi

M-16 rifles coughed and rattled everywhere.

The Vets attack force was under way.

David Hudson waited in a combat crouch behind heavy factory machines. The thick smoke from the fire was friend and enemy at the same time. The billowing smoke and flames made it impossible for Monserrat and his men to locate Hudson, but it also made him vulnerable, exposed to sudden attack from any side.

Colonel Hudson heard the sound he'd been waiting for. The whirring of the helicopter rotors was unmistakably loud and clear.

The Cobra had arrived on the rooftop exactly as they'd pla

Colonel David Hudson allowed himself a trace of a smile. Just a trace.

“Get the fuck out of my way! Move it! Move it! Move, move, move!”

A roaring, unbelievable firefight had erupted. Arch Carroll saw rows of flat rooftops shooting flames as he pushed and elbowed his way through the crowd gathered on Halsey Street. Ghouls, he thought. The worst kinds of ambulance chasers.

He winced. His left arm was numb, and something was wrong with his lower back; contact with the pavement sent jarring pains up his spine.

None of the neighborhood people-leather-jacketed teenagers, sullen young women, small gri

“Get back! Damn it, get back!” Carroll yelled hoarsely as he ran. “Get inside with those kids! Get back inside your houses.”

Expectant, wide-eyed faces were crowded into every available apartment window. Farther down Halsey Street, hundreds of neighborhood people filed out into the cold, rainy afternoon. They were staring toward the explosions, enthralled by the blazing fire, the sudden jolting volleys of M-16 rifle and pistol shots.

Carroll continued to run in his clumsy crouch, moving in closer to the gunshot-riddled building.

A police bullhorn suddenly boomed out. It thundered over the cacophony of gunblasts and piercing human shouts. “You there! You, ru

Carroll ignored all the voices. He kept charging forward. His steps weaved as he struggled with pains that attacked his body. As he reached the fiery building he heard an even more familiar and terrifying sound. A Cobra was hovering over the factory roof. The same helicopter that had shot him down was back. Green Band was here.

Arch Carroll vaulted the building's stone steps. He took the stairs three at a time, and with each leap he thought he could hear the rattle of his own loose bones flying about in his body.

A heavyset man suddenly burst out of the open doorway directly in front of Carroll. The man looked Spanish or maybe Cuban. He was holding an 870 riot gun.

Carroll's gun was set on rapid-repeat. A full round of.30-caliber bullets flickered into the unfortunate terrorist's face and throat. He reeled back inside the doorway.

The smoke, forcing itself out of the broken first-floor windows, choked Carroll. He managed to keep ru

Instinctively Carroll hugged the wall. Cheek tight against the cold, peeling plaster, he gasped for breath. His head was spi

Cobra helicopter? How did they manage a Cobra? Getting a Cobra just wasn't possible… Green Band was waiting upstairs, and that didn't seem possible, either.

A heavy, grated iron door opened slowly onto the tenement rooftop. Columns of smoke, scattered by the wind, temporarily blurred David Hudson's vision. He was no more than forty yards from the waiting Cobra.

Colonel Hudson walked cautiously at first, then he began to trot like a victorious athlete toward the waiting helicopter. He'd done it. They had all done their jobs almost perfectly. The Green Band mission was finally over. The sudden exhilaration of victory was unbelievable to savor.

Hudson never saw the second figure on the roof until the skillful assailant was on top of him. He'd been careless. For once, just once, he'd forgotten to check, to double-check, every possibility.

“You can stop right there, Colonel.”

Face and shoulders still obscured in shadow, the figure appeared cautiously from behind the water tower. One hand held a Beretta. Then a face came into the light.