Black Market

Caitlin shook Carroll's shoulder. “Oh, Arch, wake up. They killed him,” she sobbed. “The Committee killed Anton this morning. They've killed him. What's going to happen to us? Oh, poor Anton.”

Carroll mumbled and cursed as he got up from bed. He threw on his clothes, then hurried down to Broadway, where he bought the Daily News, The New York Times, and the New York Post.

All the front-page stories about Anton Birnbaum contained respectful eulogies. They also contained substantial, and what Carroll took to be purposeful, lies. At best, the newspapers revealed only a small fragment of the truth.

At the news kiosk, he read the articles with trembling fingers. It was as if nothing had ever happened. There was no high-placed traitor in the FBI. There was no Monserrat and no mention of the whereabouts of Colonel David Hudson.

Trudging back to the hotel, Carroll saw two men following him.

There was no way anyone co

43

Escape. It was the only possibility that remained.

On the night of December 24, Arch Carroll, Caitlin Dillon, the four Carroll children, and Mary Katherine locked hands and walked rapidly down Columbus Avenue. There had to be some way for three adults and four small children to escape a surveillance team. The New York crowds would provide temporary safety.

Columbus Avenue was buzzing with holiday music and festive bustle. The energetic crowd parted reluctantly for the hurrying family. Carroll wondered how he could protect Caitlin, Mary K., the kids-when he knew that professional gunmen were following them.

“Can we please stop ru

Carroll stopped and wrapped his arms around his little girl. He whispered soothingly against her cold, red-rimmed ear. “Please, baby, please be good. Just a little longer, sweetheart.”

Carroll was almost certain he knew what was going to happen next. He gazed north, then down the bright lights of Columbus Avenue. His weary eyes brushed over colorful signs that said Sedutto, Diane's Uptown, Pershings, Cantina.

Columbus Avenue had changed dramatically since he'd last been above Seventy-second Street. The area had once been crowded with Spanish food stores as well as transient hotels and Oriental rug dealers. Now it was a trendy, self-conscious version of Greenwich Village.

He glanced over his shoulder again. The same persistent pair of men was still following. He was sure they had been joined by others. There seemed to be five men following the Carroll family.

Where in the name of God do we go from here? Somebody help us.

Carroll was sweating, even in the chill night air. He was so tired. He wanted to go to sleep right there in the middle of crowded Columbus Avenue.

This is happening. Whether I choose to believe it or not, this is happening.

Escape.

He had one desperate prayer. He was bursting with fear. He could see the same emotion on Caitlin's face. Mary Katherine was very pale, her usual ruddy color gone. He reached out for Caitlin and held her tight.

“Listen to me. Listen closely.” He whispered something to her that made her cry. “I love you so much, Caitlin. Everything has to be all right.”

“Oh, Arch, be careful. Please be careful.”

Then Carroll gently pushed her away. He sent Caitlin and his sister and the tangle of children ru

“Daaa-ddy!… Daa-ddy!” Carroll heard his babies' cries as he raced away. He ran as fast as he could along the clogged sidewalk.

Suddenly powerful arms grabbed him. A hand clamped down hard, twisting into his face. Searing pain ripped through his eyes.

They were attacking him in the middle of New York City, in one of the most crowded, residential areas of the city. They had come for him in full view of a hundred witnesses…

They didn't even care about the witnesses anymore.

“Get the hell off me! Get off me, you pieces of shit!” Carroll's shouts rose above the honking horns, above the city's deafening street rumble. “Somebody, please help!”

They were injecting him. Some kind of long needle pierced his trousers right into his leg.

They were killing him right out here.

On West Seventieth Street in New York City.

“Somebody help! Somebody fucking help!”

There were obviously no secrets anymore. There was no bullshit pretense that this was a police bust, that they were New York detectives.

“Get off!… No needle… noooo!”

Arch Carroll roared. He screamed and fought back savagely. He clawed at them with his remaining strength. He was sure he broke a jaw. His elbow smashed hard into a fore head, and he heard a bone snap loudly.

Then he was being dragged into a dark blue sedan. He was being held upside down! He looked back as they pulled him out of the staring crowds.

He was still hanging upside down when he saw the second car arrive, saw Caitlin and his sister and the kids being snatched away.

No one co

“Not the kids! You goddamned bastards! Not my kids, not my kids!… No, please, not my kids!”

44

Virginia

Thomas More Elliot's palms were unpleasantly dry and cold. He suppressed a nervous tic that was starting to pulse in his throat. He finally stepped out of the dark blue stretch limousine and into the chill Virginia winter air. Dead trees were silhouetted against the gray skyline, and in the distance there was the sound of bird hunters' gunshots.

He turned and walked up the fieldstone steps that led to the large double doors of an imposing thirty-room country house. He paused before going in and sucked air deeply into his lungs.

Inside, the cavernous front hall was badly overheated. He felt a trickle of sweat run along his collar. His footsteps echoed on the marble floor as he crossed to a great curving flight of stairs that led up to the floors above. It was not a house that Thomas More Elliot enjoyed. Its very size, its history of late, made him uncomfortable.

When he reached the landing, he came to an ornately carved walnut door. It shone so deeply from years of meticulous care that he could almost see his own indistinct reflection in it.

He opened the door and walked in.

A group of men sat around a long, polished oak table. They were dressed mostly in dark business suits. Some of them, including General Lucas Thompson, were retired military and naval commanders. Others were influential bankers, landowners, proprietors of TV stations, and highly respected newspapers.

The man at the head of the table, a retired admiral with a shining bald head, waved at the vice president. “Sit down, Thomas. Sit. Please.

“A year ago,” the admiral continued once Elliot had taken a seat, “we met in this very room. Our mood that day was one of some agitation…”

There was a polite ripple of laughter.

“We debated, I'm sure we all remember, the complex problem posed by the so-called Red Tuesday plan, the plan that was hatched-if that's the word-in Tripoli by the oil-producing nations… There were rather heated arguments that day.”

The admiral smiled. Thomas Elliot thought he resembled a rather smug school principal on award day at a private academy.

“On that day we reached a decision-unanimous, finally-to create what we called Green Band. I believe the name was something I suggested myself, a name with both financial and military co