He saw Caitlin and his sister and the kids being snatched away.
“Not the kids! You goddamned bastards! Not my kids, not my kids! … No, please, not my kids!”
Chapter 102
THOMAS MORE ELLIOT’S palms were dry and cold. He suppressed a nervous tic which 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 hung against the gray skyline and in the distance there were the gunshots of bird hunters.
He turned and walked up the fieldstone steps that led to the large double doors of an imposing, thirty-room country house. He paused at the top of the steps 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 with the stealth of an insect.
His footsteps echoed on marble as he crossed to a great curving flight of stairs that led upward to the floors above. It was not a house that Elliot enjoyed. Its very size, but more, its history made him uncomfortable.
When he reached the landing he came to a door ornately carved out of walnut. It shone so deeply from years of meticulous care that he could see his own indistinct reflection in the wood.
He opened the door and entered the room beyond.
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. Some ran large multinational corporations. Others were influential bankers, landowners, proprietors of TV stations and newspapers.
The man at the top of the table, a retired admiral whose bald head shone in the room like a bone, waved one hand at the Vice-president. “Sit down, Thomas. Sit. Please.”
The Vice-president sat.
The Admiral smiled and it wasn’t an expression of mirth. There was an immediate silence in the room.
“A year ago,” the Admiral said, “we met in this very room. Our mood that day was one of some agitation …”
There was a polite ripple of laughter. Self-satisfied laughter spread around the formal library table.
“We debated, I’m sure we all remember, the complex problem posed by the so-called Red Tuesday plan, the plan hatched—if that’s the word—by the oil-producing nations in Tripoli…. There were rather heated arguments that day.”
The Admiral smiled. Elliot thought he resembled a smug school principal on award day at a private academy.
“On that day we reached a decision—unanimous—to create what we called Green Band. I believe the name was something I suggested myself, a name with both financial and military connotations.”
A bird appeared against the casement window of the room, a bleak little sparrow that briefly looked in, then hopped off into the late afternoon light.
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 usurped the terrorist plan known as Red Tuesday. The world will find Jimmy Hoffa before they locate the body of Francois Monserrat…. And with the destruction of Green Band, 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.”
Elliot shifted his body in his chair. The atmosphere in the large room was changing subtly. The men were beginning to loosen up, to move toward as celebratory an atmosphere as they might ever aspire to—which meant 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 importantly, 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 applause. Elliot looked around at the eleven men in the room. His own presence brought the number to an even dozen.
“Later,” said the Admiral, “there will be champagne and cigars. For the moment, Thomas, our 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 …” The Admiral looked down at the white hair on the back of his hands. “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. He blinked his pale eyes twice.
He licked his lips, which had become dry. He opened his mouth and his throat felt parched.
He realized that he was about to say something that would not contribute to the general mood of contentment within the room. But that couldn’t be helped. He didn’t like the prospect, but somebody had to deliver the news.
He said, “I have heard from our people in New York City.”
Eleven heads swiveled toward him.
“A man called Archer Carroll is in police custody there.”
A silent pause came to the room with all the suddenness of a stilled pulse.
“It is my information that he is talking…. That he’s telling his story to anyone who will listen…. And that media representatives are paying close attention.”
The silence was a long, unhappy thing.
Thomas More Elliot sipped his tepid water.
“What does he know?” the Admiral asked eventually.
“Everything,” the Vice-president said.
Chapter 103
NEW YORK POLICE Sergeant Joe Macchio and Patrolman Jeanne McGuiness were rolling out of the wooded 72nd Street transverse through Central Park when they spotted a scene they wished they hadn’t spotted, especially not so close to the end of their four to twelve o’clock night shift.
“This is Car One-three-eight. Please give me immediate assistance at Seventy-second Street and Central Park West!” Patrolman McGuiness, a tall skinny woman with an impassive face, was already speaking into the patrol car radio. The red police bubble on top of their cruiser had begun to revolve.
Up ahead on 72nd Street, traveling at maybe fifty or fifty-five miles per 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 back-seat window of the Lincoln.
He had his torso halfway out. The only thing holding him inside were two other men. They looked as if they were trying to land an ocean-sized fish in the speeding vehicle.
“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.
“Godfuckingdamnit!” Joe Macchio growled even louder. He had been dreaming of Christmas Day and something of the peaceful spirit had created a glow inside him. Now all that was gone.
Sergeant Macchio and Patrolman McGuiness left their police cruiser with revolvers drawn. They cautiously approached the two sedans, now stopped against the southwest corner of 72nd. Other police blue and whites, sirens screaming, were already racing up 72nd from the direction of Broadway.
“We’re Federal agents.” A man in a dark suit burst out of the lead sedan. He was 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 all these kids screaming like somebody’s being murdered?”
A second dark-suited man stepped out of the trailing sedan. “I’m Victor 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 lead sedan. He was groggy, almost out on his feet. He hollered at the two police officers. “Hey! Pleaser His speech was slurred. “My kids…. They’re in danger … I’m a Federal officer …”
Sergeant Macchio couldn’t help himself—he started to laugh. “Not that I think this is funny, pal. 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 cluster of police officials on 72nd Street.
Two EMS ambulances had pulled up, but Caitlin and Mary Katherine wouldn’t let them take Carroll to Roosevelt Hospital, or any place else without them.
Caitlin was yelling at the policeman, telling them 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 of 72nd Street, getting more heated with every passing moment. It began to draw a New York sidewalk crowd.
Mickey Kevin Carroll finally sidled up to Sergeant Macchio, who had walked off to try to think the whole crazy thing out.
“Can I see your hat?” Mickey Kevin asked. “My dad’s a policeman. He doesn’t get to wear a hat.”
Joe Macchio looked down at the small boy, and 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 slumped, seemingly sleeping on an EMS litter-cot, looking like Crusader Rabbit one final time.
“He’s a policeman, son?”
“Yes, sir.”
Well, that settled it for Sergeant Macchio—because the alleged CIA agents were claiming that the other man definitely wasn’t a police officer. “That’s what I needed to know, son. That’s what I needed to know for starters, anyway.”
NYPD Sergeant Macchio stooped down and handed Mickey Kevin his hat. Then he walked in the direction of the disturbance that had closed down 72nd Street, not to mention the downtown lanes of Central Park West, and the park transverse.
‘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 New York cops weren’t used to that. A couple of the older patrolmen started to blush. They’d almost never been treated like the arriving cavalry before, like the good guys in the white hats.
“All right, all right now! Everybody pile into the wagons. Let’s get this show on the road. See who’s been naughty and nice, eh?”
Photographs of the scene were snapped by somebody from The New York Times, also by a free-lance photo-journalist who lived across 72nd Street in the Dakota. A shot of Mickey Kevin wearing Sergeant Macchio’s hat was featured in Newsweek magazine.
Eventually, the Newsweek shot of Mickey Kevin appeared framed on the Carroll’s Riverdale house mantel…. Lizzie, Mary IE, and Clancy all loudly complained about favoritism. Arch told them to shut their yaps. So much had happened to them in a relatively short time. Not the least of it was that Arch had fallen in love with Caitlin, and slowly, but surely, so had the kids. They were all family now, weren’t they?
They truly were family.
EPILOGUE
Hudson
Chapter 104
A LINE TO the President of the United States signaled through at 6:00 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 officials could believe what was happening.
A prerecorded message came over the telephone.
“The White House is scheduled to be firebombed this morning. In a matter of a few 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, David Hudson pushed down the recording machine’s stop button. He stuffed the compact recorder into the pocket of his fatigue jacket.
Hudson was actually smiling. For the briefest moment, Hudson laughed out loud.
All of Washington waited, but the White House was never struck that morning.
Instead, the home of General Lucas Thompson was fire-bombed. 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 strikingly lovely capital city. For a moment, at least, no nightmare voices screeched inside his head. His arm had stopped aching—the arm that was no longer there.
He had done the right thing, he believed, especially for his men, the other Vets. They had scattered like leaves after a fierce storm; he hoped they would prosper, or at least be at peace. Finally, they had justice.
Finally, there was an end to deception.
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Chapter 3
GIVEN EVERYTHING THAT HAS HAPPENED, it isn’t too much of a stretch to say that this is one of the most incredible stories ever, and the strangest I’ve ever encountered. The weirdest thing of all is that I am part of it. A big part.
I remember how my involvement began, remember every detail as if it happened just moments ago.
I was in my small, hopelessly cluttered, but comfortable office in the Back Bay section of Boston. I was staring off in the general direction of the Hancock and Prudential towers:
The door opened without so much as a tap, and an elderly man stepped inside. He was wearing a gray pinstriped suit, a white-on-white shirt, and a dark blue silk tie. He looked like a successful Beacon Hill lawyer or a businessman.
I knew that he was neither; he was Cardinal John Rooney of the Archdiocese of Boston, one of the most important religious leaders in the world, and a friend of mine.
“Hello, Annie,” he said, “nice to see you, even under the circumstances.”
“Nice to be seen, Eminence,” I said, and I smiled as I rose from my seat “You didn’t have to get all duded up to see me, though. What circumstances?”
“Oh, but I did,” Rooney said “I’m traveling incognito, you see Because of the circumstances.”
“I see. Nice threads. Very high WASP, which all us Catholics aspire to. Be careful, some chippie might try to pick you up. Come in. Please sit. It’s nearly six. Can I offer you something to drink, Eminence?”
“’John’ will do for tonight, Anne. Scotch if you have it. An old man’s drink for an old man. Getting older in a hurry.”
I fixed the cardinal a scotch, then got a Samuel Adams put of the minifridge for myself.
“’I’m honored. I think,” I added as I gave him his glass. “Here’s to—the circumstances of your visit,” I said and raised my beer.
“The perfect toast,” Rooney said and took a sip of his drink.
I have a rather complicated history with the Archdiocese of Boston, but most recently, I’ve worked several times with certain members as a private investigator. One case involved a teacher in Andover. She had been raped by a priest who taught at the same high school. Another case was about a fifteen-year-old who’d shot another boy in their church. None of the cases were happy experiences for either the cardinal or for me.
“Do you believe in God, Anne?” Rooney asked as he sat back in one of my comfy, slightly tattered armchairs.
>
I thought it an odd question, almost impertinent “Yes, I do. In my own, very unusual way.”
“Do you believe in God the Father, Jesus, the Blessed Mother?” the cardinal went on. He was making this very strange meeting even stranger.
I blinked a few times. “Yes. In my way.”
Cardinal Rooney then asked, “As a private investigator, are you licensed to carry a gun?”
I opened my desk drawer and showed him one of Smith & Wesson’s finest. I didn’t feel obliged to tell him that I had never fired it.
“You’re hired,” he said and knocked back the rest of his drink. “Can you leave for Los Angeles tonight? There’s something there I think you should see, Anne.”
Chapter 4
I WILL NEVER FORGET LOS ANGELES and what I found there, what I felt there.
I had first seen the graphic pictures of the terrible disease on CNN, and then on every other TV network. I had watched, cringed in horror, as the children of Los Angeles burst upon Cedars-Sinai Medical Center by the carload, all with aching joints and fever, with symptoms that could kill within days.
When I arrived at Cedars, the scene was more intense than what I had seen on TV. It was so very different to be there in the midst of the suffering and horror. I wanted to turn away from it all, and maybe I should have. Maybe I should have run into the Hollywood Hills and never come out.
The sound of chaos and fear was well over a hundred decibels inside the fabled hospital, which had been turned into a confused mess. The shouting of the emergency-room nurses and doctors, and the wailing of their young patients, ricocheted sharply off beige tile walls.
It was so sad, so ominous. A portent of the future?
A curly-haired boy of four or so in yellow pjs, was waiting to be intubated. I winked at him, and the boy managed to wink back. On another table, an adolescent girl was curled up in a fetal position around her stuffed sandy-haired bear. She was crying deep, heartrending sobs as doctors tried to straighten her contorted limbs. Other children were banked in a holding pattern along the perimeter of the room. Policemen, their radios squawking loudly, manned the doorways as best they could. They restrained desperate parents from their babies. The long linoleum hallway was packed wall to wall with feverish children tossing and turning on blankets laid across the bare floor.
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