James Patterson - Black Market

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 connotations.”

The admiral continued in sanctimonious tones, “We are here today to confirm that the paramilitary operation called Green Band was a success. We created temporary panic in the economic system. A panic we were able to control. We took hundreds of millions of dollars back from the oil-producing cartel. We brilliantly usurped the terrorist plan known as Red Tuesday. The world will find Jimmy Hoffa before they ever locate the body of François Monserrat… And with the destruction of Green Band and the inevitable death of our volatile associate, Colonel Hudson, the file should be closed on this unfortunate episode in our history… We are making every effort to make certain that it is.”

Thomas Elliot shifted on his chair. The atmosphere in the large room was changing subtly. The men were beginning to loosen up, to move toward a celebratory atmosphere, one that was muted, quiet, and, most of all, tasteful.

The admiral said, “In approximately two weeks, Justin Kearney will dramatically resign his presidency… He will be remembered chiefly as a scapegoat for the economic near tragedy… More important, though”-and here all eyes in the room turned toward Thomas More Elliot-”Thomas Elliot will ascend to that office…”

There was an outbreak of mild applause. Elliot looked around at the eleven men. His own presence brought the number to an even dozen.

The twelve men who effectively ran America, the American Wise Men.

“Later,” said the admiral, “there will be champagne and cigars. For the moment, Thomas, our dry congratulations to you, and I think to everyone in this room…”

The admiral looked reflective for a moment. “In a few weeks, for the first time, one of us will occupy the highest office in the land. And that means our control is tighter, more sure than ever before…” He looked down the row of men. “Which means we will no longer need to contend with a president who doesn't think the way we do… someone who imagines his power is independent of what we bestow.”

Thomas More Elliot stared off into the gray light that lay against the window. His throat had become suddenly dry. He reached for the water pitcher on the table. He was about to say something that would not contribute to the general mood of contentment in the room. But that couldn't be helped. Somebody had to deliver the news.

“I have heard from our people in New York City. A man called Archer Carroll is in police custody there. I have been told that he is talking… that he's telling his story to anyone who will listen… and that certain media representatives are paying very close attention to what he is saying.”

Thomas More Elliot sipped his tepid water.

“What does he know?” the admiral asked eventually.

“Everything,” the vice president said.

Manhattan

At Seventy-second Street, Police Sergeant Joe Macchio and Patrolwoman Jeanne McGuiness were driving out of the woods of Central Park when they spotted the scene.

“This is car one-three-eight. Please give immediate assistance at Seventy-second Street and Central Park West!” Patrolwoman Jeanne McGuiness, a tall, skinny woman with an impassive face, was already speaking into the car radio. The red police bubble on top of the cruiser had begun to revolve slowly.

Up ahead, traveling at maybe fifty or fifty-five miles an hour, was a dark blue Lincoln. That wasn't the problem.

The problem was some suicidal or homicidal maniac trying to wiggle out of the shattered backseat window. He was halfway out. Holding him inside were two other men.

“Look! Look there! The second car behind!” McGuiness pointed straight ahead. Inside the second car, children, a host of screaming kids, seemed to be fighting and struggling to get out.

“Son of a bitch!” Joe Macchio growled. He had been dreaming of Christmas, and something of the peaceful spirit had created a glow in him. Now that was all gone.

Macchio and McGuiness left their police cruiser. With revolvers drawn, they cautiously approached the two sedans, which had now stopped at the southwest corner of Seventy-second. Other blue-and-whites, sirens screaming, were already racing up Broadway.

“We're federal agents.” A man in a dark business suit burst out of the lead sedan. He was confidently holding out a portfolio wallet and an official-looking badge.

“I don't care if you're the commander in chief of the United States Army,” Sergeant Macchio croaked in his most convincing street-cop voice. “What the hell's going on here? Who the hell's this guy? Why are these kids screaming like somebody's being murdered?”

A second dark-suited man stepped out of the trailing sedan. “I'm Michael Kenyon of the CIA, Officer.” He said it calmly but authoritatively. “I think I can explain this whole thing.”

Carroll was still half-in, half-out of the back window of the sedan. He was groggy, almost out on his feet. He hollered at the two police officers. “Hey! Please!” His speech was slurred. “My kids… they're in danger… I'm a federal officer…”

Sergeant Joe Macchio couldn't help himself-he finally started to laugh. “Not that I think this is funny, pal. But you're a federal officer?”

Ten minutes later the situation wasn't any closer to being solved. Several more police blue-and-whites had arrived. So had cars from the New York FBI and more from the CIA. There was a buzzing cluster of police officials on Seventy-second Street.

Two EMS ambulances had pulled up, but Caitlin and Mary Katherine wouldn't let them take Carroll to Roosevelt Hospital or anyplace else without them.

Caitlin was yelling at the policeman, telling him that she and Carroll were part of the Green Band investigation team. She had proof in her pocketbook.

The CIA agents had lots of impressive proof that they were who they said they were. The arguing continued on the corner, getting more heated with every passing moment. It began to draw a curious sidewalk crowd.

Mickey Kevin Carroll finally sidled up to Sergeant Joe Macchio, who had walked off to try to think the whole crazy thing out.