Black Market

The terrorist suddenly went limp. There was a brief look at Hudson. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then slumped to the asphalt roof.

Carroll watched the bitter struggle in horror, the last convulsion of François Monserrat. He trained his Browning on Colonel Hudson now. His finger tightened around the trigger.

It was then that he heard the distinct click of the automatic weapon. It came from directly behind him. Carroll whirled around.

Four men in tattered khaki green were surrounding him. Their M-21 rifles were pointed at him.

They looked like soldiers. They were Vets. This was Green Band.

Here was everything he'd wanted to know-only now Carroll didn't want to know.

Outrage!

Walter Trentkamp's tall, imposing figure now looked very small to Carroll as it lay on the ground in a pool of blood. The hard gray-green eyes as empty in death as in life. Christ! Christ!

Carroll suddenly began to shout at the top of his voice. “Who are you, Hudson? What the hell do you want? Who sent you to Wall Street?”

Outrage!

Something hard exploded against Carroll's head. He staggered, almost fell. The Bronx street fighter in him refused to go down. Goddamn! Them!

Arch Carroll thought he was going blind. The pain in his head was unbearable. Streams of blood coursed down his face.

“Who are you, Hudson?” One final, maddening question formed on his lips. He took another lunging step toward Colonel Hudson, toward the body of François Monserrat-of Walter Trentkamp.

He was struck again with tremendous force.

A terrible mashing noise echoed in Carroll's head. He was falling, then, collapsing against his will. He heard himself moan.

The revolver crashed down hard again.

He gazed up and saw Colonel David Hudson. Carroll tried desperately to speak. So many questions to ask. Everything was blurry now. He tried to get up. He had to make the madness stop. But Archer Carroll now felt himself falling into a tu

41

Manhattan

With a shaking hand, Anton Birnbaum poured miserly portions of aged Sandeman port for himself and for Caitlin Dillon.

He felt a thousand years old. He had a piercing headache from his recent sleeplessness and mental hyperactivity. Now, in the thin daylight that streaked his apartment, he went to the window and peered into the streets of his beloved New York. What in hell was happening out there?

Caitlin Dillon, whose head also reeled from the hours of intense concentration without sleep, took a cigarette from her purse and started to light it. Then she changed her mind. Her throat was raw, and there was a heavy pressure behind her eyes. What she needed, she knew, was a long sleep. Both she and Birnbaum were waiting for final news of Green Band, news from Carroll. Caitlin now understood what it was like to be a policeman's wife. She didn't know how those women could bear it.

“We know some of what we need to know,” Birnbaum said. “Two years ago, in Tripoli, François Monserrat met with important leaders from the Third World. In particular, he met key leaders from the Middle Eastern oil-producing countries. The heads of their military forces were in attendance there as well.” Birnbaum walked away from the window.

“I'm convinced that they pla

“They already had enough economic leverage to definitely influence the market,” Caitlin said quietly. Her head pounded. A jackhammer was drilling mercilessly in the recesses of her skull. She thought about Carroll, who was out there right this moment in pursuit of Green Band. Why hadn't they heard anything?

“That spring, our newly elected president learned of the frightening Tripoli plot. More important, the Committee of Twelve must have heard about Red Tuesday. Only they moved much faster than President Kearney could in Washington.”

The old man's eyes became cold. “Caitlin, I believe they created Green Band to counter Red Tuesday. Effectively, the Committee of Twelve has stolen billions from the Arabs. Green Band is the very finest and most dangerous group of men you would ever want to meet. Now they're selling them back their own funds. This has been an economic world war. The first of its kind-unless we include the 1970s oil embargo.”

Caitlin thought that if it had been anyone other than Anton Birnbaum making these accusations, outlining these hypotheses… But it was Birnbaum. And he was serious about everything he was proposing… Why hadn't she heard from Carroll yet?

“How does Hudson fit in? What's his part in this, Anton?” Caitlin asked.

“Ah, the enigmatic Mr. Hudson.” Birnbaum allowed a tight smile to cross his face. “I've given great thought to Colonel Hudson. Either he's in the pay of the Committee of Twelve… or they're ruthlessly using Hudson and his veterans group. It wouldn't be the first time, would it? It wouldn't be the first time these men were used by those who wield great power in this country. Either way, we'll know in a few hours. We'll know the truth soon, won't we?”

As he arrived at the designated address, Colonel David Hudson felt exactly the way he'd always known he would- if they had won in Vietnam. The adrenaline, the magical excitement of victory, was pumping, rushing furiously through his body.

This would certainly be the safest house he'd ever used, Hudson thought as he reached York Avenue on Manhattan's fashionable East Side. He entered an elegant glass-and-grill-work doorway just beyond the corner at Ninetieth Street.

Billie Bogan's apartment was located on the river side of the starkly modem building, a building that apparently had paper-thin ceilings and walls, because Hudson could hear a piano playing as he approached the doorway on the fifteenth floor.

The lovely music surprised him. He hadn't even known that Billie played.

David Hudson hesitated before pushing the doorbell. Warning alarms were going off again. It was all perfectly natural. One didn't stop being a military terrorist and saboteur overnight.

Billie answered the door seconds after the first ring. She was wearing a pink T-shirt that said WINTER across her chest. She had on tight black French jeans, no shoes or socks. She looked stu

“David.”

Her brilliant blue eyes passed from puzzlement to undisguised pleasure as she saw who it was. She wore no makeup; she didn't need it.

She reached out and pulled Hudson toward her. She held him tightly. David Hudson ached to have his arm back-to hold her in both arms just this once.

“Was that you playing the piano?” he asked.

Billie pecked at his cheek and gave him an extra hug. “Of course it was me… You know, I think the piano is the reason I ultimately escaped from Birmingham. As I found out about Mozart, Brahms, Beethoven, I was convinced there had to be more than the dreary dullness I was used to. Come inside. I'm so happy to see you. It's so good to see you.” She kissed him again.

David Hudson smiled more willingly than he had in a long time. “I'm happy to see you, too. I feel like I'm home at last,” he said.

Once inside, they talked. They held each other. They stared into each other's eyes for a long time. Hudson told Billie about his past, talking with the speed of a man who had observed vows of silence for too many years. It all came tumbling out-West Point, the horrors of Vietnam, his early, abortive career in the army.

He told her everything, except about the past year, which he was tempted to tell her as well. How his, brilliant revenge had become his sweet victory. A material reward-millions of dollars for himself and the other Vets. He wished he could share it with her, share everything right now.