James Patterson - Black Market

“Can I see your hat?” Mickey Kevin asked. “My dad's a policeman. He doesn't get to wear a hat, though.”

Joe Macchio looked down at the small boy and finally offered a tired smile. “And which one is your dad?” he asked. “Is your dad here now?”

“ That's my dad.” Mickey Kevin pointed at the man peacefully slumped, seemingly sleeping, on the EMS cot, looking like Crusader Rabbit.

“He's a policeman, son?”

“Yes, sir.”

Well, that settled it for Sergeant Macchio. “That's what I needed to know, son. That's what I needed to know for starters, anyway.”

Sergeant Macchio stooped down and handed Mickey Kevin Carroll his hat. Then he hastily walked in the direction of the disturbance that had closed down Seventy-second Street, not to mention the downtown lanes of Central Park West and the park road.

“Tell you what we're gonna do, eh!” Sergeant Macchio clapped his hands for a little old-fashioned order and attention. “We're gonna sort this all out down at the station house!”

At that news, the entire Carroll family started to do a very odd thing; at least Sergeant Macchio and the rest of the New York cops thought it was peculiar. The kids started to balls-out cheer and clap for the NYPD.

The cops weren't used to that. A couple of the older patrolmen even started to blush. They'd almost never been treated like the arriving cavalry before, like the good guys.

“All right, all right , now! Everybody pile into the wagons. Let's get this show on the road. See who's been naughty, eh?”

Photographs of the scene were snapped by somebody from The New York Times , also by a free-lance photojournalist who lived across the street in the Dakota. A shot of Mickey Kevin wearing Macchio's hat was featured in Newsweek magazine.

Eventually the Newsweek shot of Mickey Kevin appeared framed on the mantel in the Carroll house. Lizzie, Mary III, and Clancy all complained loudly about favoritism. Arch told them to shut their yaps, they were all family, weren't they?

Washington, D.C.

A direct line to the president of the United States signaled through at six O'clock on the morning of March 7. Clustered inside the Oval Office were most of the members of the National Security Council. Not one of the high-ranking officials could believe what was happening now.

A prerecorded message came over the telephone wire: “The White House is scheduled to be firebombed this morning, in a matter of minutes… This decision is irrevocable. This decision is nonnegotiable. You are to evacuate the White House immediately.”

Inside a telephone booth, less than a mile from the White House, Colonel David Hudson pushed down the recording machine's stop button. He stuffed the compact recorder into the pocket of his fatigue jacket. Hudson laughed out loud.

Washington waited, but the White House was never struck that morning. Instead, the home of General Lucas Thompson was firebombed. So was the home of Vice President Elliot, the homes of Admiral Thomas Penny, of Philip Berger, of Lawrence Guthrie… twelve homes in all.

David Hudson finally climbed into a light green touring van. He drove west out of the serene and strikingly lovely capital. No more nightmare voices screeched inside his head. Finally, there was an end to deception .

New York – London – Los Angeles