Rizzo began, “The buildings marked with red were all hit around six-thirty on December fourth. The bombs were definitely detonated by remote signals. The signal might have been operated from as far away as eight or ten miles.”
Rizzo paused, blew his nose in a big white handkerchief, then went on: “The violet rings on the buildings were drawn to indicate where the explosions actually took place. The plastique packages were actually placed here, here, here, et cetera.
“As you can see, the plastique was planted on different floors in all fourteen buildings. The second floor at Twenty-two Broad. Fifteenth floor at Manufacturers Hanover. And so on. You can all see that plainly.” Rizzo looked around at the faces in the room as if he were challenging someone to disagree.
“There's no special pattern to this. At least, that's what we thought up to now. Last night, though, we found a connection we'd missed…
“Look here! Each of the circled floors actually contains one of that building's messenger rooms. Either a drop-off or a package-mail station. What threw us off this approach was the fact that messenger drop-off stations and the mailroom in these buildings aren't always the same. Not even on the same floor. Some of the Wall Street buildings have drop-off stations on every floor. You all see what I'm driving at?”
Sergeant Joe Rizzo paused for effect, then said, “Gentlemen, the actual bombs were all hand-delivered. Probably by a regular commercial messenger who would go unnoticed.”
Rizzo once again looked around the suddenly quiet room. “There are more than two hundred messenger services in and around Wall Street. Jimmy Split, Speedo, Fireball, Bullet, to name a few. You've probably seen most of them yourselves. We're going to contact every single one of those services. Chances are at least one of them was contacted by our friends, Green Band Perhaps several were used to deliver the plastique on December fourth!”
Rizzo paused again. “What this means is' that some goof-ball messenger is going to help break this thing open! Tonight we hit the streets. Tonight we run this thing down!”
Caitlin felt the tremendous surge of energy that coursed through the room as the men began to disperse. They had suddenly come alive, after days of pounding on walls, days of pursuing an investigation that had been going absolutely nowhere. She was almost swept aside as eager policemen and detectives crushed toward the door.
A Wall Street messenger service.
A slight shiver traveled through her.
Messenger service?…
Caitlin turned and left the meeting room; she started back to her own office. She had just remembered something.
She started to run down the corridor.
Carroll was certain he was being followed. A dark car had tracked his cab from Kennedy Airport all the way into the financial district.
When he stepped out of the taxi at 13 Wall Street, the tracking car went skirting past. He couldn't see the faces inside, only shapes, two or three men huddled together. Why were they following him? Who had sent them? Who was tracking the tracker?
He disappeared into number 13 and went quickly to Caitlin's office. He was filled with the strongest need to see her, to talk to somebody he could trust.
She rose from her desk, where she'd been studying a printout of the names of U.S. veterans the computer had supplied before. She hugged him, and Carroll didn't want to let her go. They pressed tightly into each other's bodies. They kissed with an urgency neither of them had acknowledged before.
Caitlin finally disentangled herself. “How was Washing; ton?” She was smiling, relieved to see him.
“Interesting. More man just interesting,” Carroll said.
He told her about the FBI's file on David Hudson, about his visit with General Lucas Thompson.
Caitlin brought him up to date on the developments explained by Sergeant Rizzo. She indicated the computer printout she'd been studying when he had arrived.
“Maybe this is coincidence, Arch. Maybe it doesn't mean a thing. But on this FBI list of veterans there's an explosives expert whose occupation is cabdriver and messenger. The home address is New York City.”
“Which name?” Carroll asked. He was already scanning the lengthy list.
“A man called Michael Demunn… who just happened to serve under Colonel David Hudson in Vietnam.”
“Does it say which messenger service?” He looked up from the printout.
Caitlin shook her head. “It shouldn't be too difficult to find out. Let's see.”
Carroll waited while Caitlin made a couple of quick telephone calls. He slid his investigation pad out of his coat and impatiently flipped through those familiar pages that had chronicled Green Band's false starts and stops from the beginning.
There were several different organizational headings now:
Interviews. Physical Evidence. Suspects. Miscellaneous.
David Hudson… the mastermind?
West Point. 1966. Special Forces. Rangers.
Golden boy? The all-American boy?
Fort Bragg. JFK Special Warfare Center and School. Severe stress testing. Experimentation with drugs. Preparing Hudson for what?
Special terrorist training. By whose orders? Where did that particular chain of command end?
Carroll finally shut the pad in frustration. He absently studied Caitlin, the delicate curve of her spine as she stood with her back to him. The way she was poised on one foot-with the phone cord twisted around her waist.
What do I know that I don't know I know? Carroll's thoughts went back to Green Band.
Washington, D.C.? General Lucas Thompson? A genial white-haired liar. Somebody following me now.
For what reason? On whose orders?
He watched Caitlin put down the receiver.
“Vets Cabs and Messengers,” she said with a sudden grin. “They have a garage in the West Village.”
Carroll stood up. “Call Philip Berger. Then could you call Walter Trentkamp? Tell them to get their men organized, to meet me at-”
“There's more, Arch,” Caitlin interrupted.
She paused for just a beat. “David Hudson works there, too. He's been there for over a year. I think we've finally found Colonel Hudson. We've found Green Band.”
37
Just past midnight on December 19, Colonel David Hudson emotionally addressed the assembly of twenty-four Vets gathered inside the Jane Street garage.
“This has been a long and particularly hard mission for all of you,” he said. “I know that. But at each important stage you've done everything that has been asked of you… I feel very humble standing here before you.”
Hudson paused and looked at the upturned faces. “As we approach the final stages of Green Band, I want to stress one thing. I don't want anyone to take needless risks. Is that understood? Take no chances. Our ultimate goal from here on is zero KIA.”
Again Hudson paused. When he finally spoke, there was an uncharacteristic edge of emotion in his voice. “This will be our last mission together. Thank you once again. I salute you all.”
From that moment, Green Band was designed to be a thoroughly disciplined army-style field maneuver. Every possible detail had been scrutinized again and again.
The grease-stained garage doors at Vets Cabs and Messengers rolled open with a heavy metallic roar. Diffused amber headlights pierced the darkness.
Vets 5, Harold Freedman, ran outside the Vets building. He looked east and west on Jane Street, then began to bark orders like the army drill sergeant he'd once been.
It was just past 12:30 P.M.
If anyone in the West Village neighborhood saw the three army transport trucks emerge from the garage, they paid little attention, in the tried-and-true tradition of New Yorkers.
The trucks finally hurtled down West Street.
Colonel David Hudson crouched attentively on the passenger seat of the lead troop truck. He was in constant walkie-talkie contact with the two other troop transports… This was a disciplined field maneuver in every respect.
They w
ere carefully moving into full combat again. None of them had realized how much they missed it. Even Hudson himself had forgotten the intense clarity that came before a major battle. There was nothing else like this in life, nothing like full combat.
“Contact. This is Vets One. You are to follow us straight down West Street to the Holland Tunnel entrance. We'll be maintaining strict military speed limits in the city. So sit back. Just relax for the ride. Over.”
Two hours passed before the lead transport truck pulled to a shuddering stop at a military guardpost less than sixty yards off Route 35 in New Jersey. Over the wooden sentry box the sign read FORT MONMOUTH, UNITED STATES ARMY POST.
The private on duty had been very close to falling asleep. His eyes were glazed behind horn-rimmed glasses and his movements comically stiff as he approached the lead truck.
“Identification, sir.” The private cleared his throat. He spoke in a high-pitched whine and didn't look much more than eighteen years old to Hudson. Shades of Vietnam, of brutal wars fought by innocent boys for thousands and thousands of years.
David Hudson silently handed across two plastic ID cards. The cards identified him as Colonel Roger McAfee of the Sixty-eighth Street Armory, Manhattan. The inspection that followed was pro forma. The regular guard-duty speech was given by the sentry.
“You may proceed, sir. Please obey all posted parking and traffic regulations while you are at Fort Monmouth. Are those transports behind you with you, sir?”
“Yes, we're going on bivouac. We're here to pick up supplies. Small arms and ammunition for our weekend in the country. Two helicopters have been requisitioned. They'll have the details inside. I'm to see Captain Harney.”
“You can all proceed, then, sir.”
The youthful sentry stepped aside. He crisply waved on the small army reserve convoy.
“Contact. This is Vets One.” As soon as they passed the gate, Colonel Hudson spoke into the PRC transmitter. “We're now less than twelve hours until the termination of operation Green Band. Everyone is to use extreme, repeat, extreme caution. We're almost home, gentlemen. We're almost home at last. Over and out.”
Inconspicuous and drab, the Vets garage on Jane Street wasn't the kind of place to draw attention. It sat in the middle of a West Village block, its large metal doors rusted and grease-stained and bleak.
At both ends of the block, the desolate street had silently been cordoned off. NYPD patrol cars were positioned everywhere around the garage. Carroll counted seventeen of them.
Beneath the darkened edifice of a Shell gas station, he could see unmarked FBI cars and as many as thirty heavily armed agents. Each of them watched the front of the garage with the kind of intensity that represented professionalism in the Bureau.
The police and the FBI agents carried M-16 automatic assault rifles, twelve-gauge shotguns, and.357 Magnums. It was as frightening an arsenal and attack force as Carroll had ever seen.
He leaned against his own car, studying the metal doors, the crooked, bleached sign that read VETS CABS AND MESSENGERS. He tapped his fingers nervously on the car hood.
Something was wrong here. Something was definitely wrong.
Arch Carroll peered hard in the direction of the Shell station. The FBI guys stood perfectly still, waiting for the signal that would bring them rushing into action.
At Carroll's side was Walter Trentkamp. He had kept Walter informed. Now Trentkamp was inside the dangerous maze with him.
Carroll took out his Browning. He turned the heavy weapon over in the palm of his hand and thought it was strange how some voice in his head was telling him to be careful. Careful, he thought. He hadn't been careful before-so why start now? He thought he knew why.
“Archer.” Walter nudged him. A black limousine was threading its way down the grim, quiet street.
Police Commissioner Michael Kane solemnly climbed out. The commissioner, whose street experience was limited and who was more politician than cop, had a gleaming bullhorn in one hand. He held it as if he'd never touched such a thing before.
“Oh, Jesus Christ, no,” Carroll muttered.
Commissioner Kane's voice echoed down the deserted West Village street. “Attention… this is Commissioner of Police Kane… You have one minute to emerge from the Vets garage. You have sixty seconds before we open fire.”
Carroll's eyes roamed over the red brick garage. He was tense, his neck and forehead damp. He slowly raised his pistol to the firing position.
The Vets garage remained quiet.
Something definitely wasn't right about this.
“Twenty-five seconds… come out of the garage…”
Walter Trentkamp leaned close. One of the things Carroll appreciated was that Walter was still basically a street cop. He still needed to be in on the action himself. “Suppose this is all bullshit? Suppose we've got the wrong men, the wrong messenger service? Something's not right here, Arch.”
Carroll still said nothing. He was watching and thinking.
“Twenty seconds… ”
“C'mon, Walter… come with me.”
Carroll suddenly stepped forward. Walter Trentkamp, somewhat reluctantly, followed him toward the garage doors. The police commissioner had stopped counting down.
Then FBI agents and city cops were everywhere, pushing through the jagged edges of the broken doors and into the darkened building itself. Somebody turned on a light, revealing a somewhat ordinary, gloomy, and cavernous garage.
Carroll, Browning in hand, froze. He could smell oil and grease, all the harsh odors left behind by sick and aging automobiles. Slick puddles of oil covered the concrete floor. There were mechanics' tools lying around.
And nothing else.
There were no vehicles of any kind.
There were no people, no Vietnam veterans. Colonel David Hudson was nowhere to be seen.
Carroll and Trentkamp wandered around the garage, their guns still drawn. They entered each small side room in a careful police crouch. They finally climbed the narrow, twisting stairs to the top floor.
And then they saw it.
It was taped to the grease-stained wall mocking them, mocking them all.
A green ribbon had been tied in a perfect bow, and it hung on a barren wall. They couldn't miss it.
Green Band had disappeared from the garage on Jane Street-still one frustrating jump ahead of them.
Caitlin Dillon carried a leather portfolio, overflowing with her notes, down the darkened hallway of an Upper West Side apartment building. The door to 12B was halfway open.
Anton Birnbaum was standing there, waiting. Caitlin wondered why he had called her so late at night.
They went to his library, a room crammed to its high ceiling with old books and periodicals.
“Thank you for coming right away,” he said. He seemed incredibly relieved to see her. “Coffee? Tea? I've been living on the unhealthy stuff lately.” He gestured to a tarnished espresso pot near the glowing fireplace.
Caitlin declined. She sat down on an antique sofa and lit as Du Maurier as the old financier poured himself a demitasse from the pot.
His hands were trembling slightly. This whole room, in its papery disarray, indicated that Anton Birnbaum had been feverishly burning the midnight oil.
“Let me go all the way back to Dallas, Caitlin. The tragic assassination of President John Kennedy… The assassination was probably orchestrated, as we all know.”
Caitlin crushed out her cigarette. Anton Birnbaum was very agitated now.
“Next comes Watergate, 1972. I think, I firmly believe, that Watergate was permitted to escalate. Its flames were purposely fanned… in order to remove Richard M. Nixon from office. That, my dear, is history. American history.” Birnbaum's cup rattled gently in the saucer. “Both these events were clearly orchestrated. Both events were devised by a cabal cleverly working both inside and outside the United States government. This elitist group is a remnant, a cell of the old OSS, our own World War Two intelligence network. I have heard
them called the Wise Men. I've also heard them called the Committee of Twelve. They exist. Permit me to continue before you comment.
“In 1945, the men who ran the OSS realized that the cloak of responsibility they had assumed in wartime was coming to an end. They were suddenly faced with giving their enormous power back to the same politicians who had almost managed to obliterate the human race a few years before… They had no desire to do so, Caitlin. None at all. In many ways, one can almost justify their actions.”
Birnbaum sipped his coffee. He made a sour face. “A high-ranking clique of these OSS men surrendered only some of their wartime powers to President Truman. They remained working behind the scenes in Washington. They began to maneuver a long series of political puppets. These men, and their protégés, the current Committee of Twelve, have gone so far as to select the presidential candidates for political parties. For both parties, Caitlin, in the same election.”
Caitlin stared at the old man. The Wise Men? The Committee of Twelve? A secret cabal with unlimited powers? She already knew a great deal about real and imagined government conspiracies. They had always seemed woven firmly into the tapestry of American history. Unconfirmable rumors; uncomfortable realities. Uncomfortable whispers in high places. “Who are these men, Anton?”
“My dear, they are not exactly faces familiar from Newsweek or Time magazine. But that's beside the point right now. What I am trying to tell you is that I have no doubt this group is somehow involved in the Green Band incident. Somehow they encouraged or caused the December fourth attack on Wall Street. They're behind whatever is happening right now.”
Caitlin didn't have the appropriate words to respond to what Birnbaum was saying. With any other person she might have dismissed this whole thing; but Birnbaum, she knew, wouldn't have told her any of this if he wasn't certain himself. Anton Birnbaum double- and triple-checked all of his information, no matter the source.
The financier stared at Caitlin, and there was a weary glaze over his eyes. She looked slightly European smoking Du Mauriers, not completely like herself, he thought. He started again.
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