Black Friday Page 21

  “Once the market sniffs a demand for these two bellwether issues, smart money will start moving. The risk arbitragers, who can spot an uptrend in an avalanche and who command billions in ready cash, will begin testing the waters.

  “I have advised a select few of my associates, who have responsibility for mutual and pension funds around the country, that a dramatic break in the crisis situation is imminent. I have suggested that they look for opportunities to begin bargain hunting, before they lose out on a very fast and favorable profit spiral. A spiral back close to where the market began this morning.”

  The news of Birnbaum’s recovery plan traveled with appropriate dispatch through the main Trade Center conference room. Emotional arguments over whether the daring strategy was right, or disastrous, raged immediately.

  “Clyde Miller has just bankrupted his own corporation.” One of the detractors laughed with derision at the news.

  Two other middle-aged bankers argued their way into a fist fight Creaking haymakers were thrown. A loop of bankers and stock analysts surrounded the breathless, wheezing pugilists arid a couple of side bets were laid. The fight ended with both bankers leaning against each other in fatigue, as if they were each trying to shore up the other’s dignity.

  As the winter morning passed into steely gray afternoon, however, it was obvious that the Birnbaum plan was either too late or too little.

  The largest single-day losses ever had already been recorded on the world’s stock markets.

  On October 29, 1929, losses had been fourteen billion.

  On December 14, the single day’s recorded losses around the world exceeded two hundred billion.

  Chapter 64

  LATE THAT NIGHT, Caitlin swallowed warm sips of diet soda and sat entranced before a forty-inch television screen just off the main crisis room.

  The monitor’s reception was crisp, the antennas for the major national networks all being up on the Trade Center roof.

  “This is it,” she whispered to Carroll. “The exchange in Hong Kong will be the first important one to open around the world. Sydney and Tokyo are both staying closed until noon. Yesterday, the Hang Seng Index fell 80 points. This will tell the story.”

  Caitlin and Carroll were sitting within a tightly clustered nest of Wall Street bankers, frayed men and women who were like spectators burned out by watching some unlikely sport event that stretched day after day. A closed-circuit TV broadcast was being beamed by satellite transmission from Asia to New York.

  On the flickering screen, they watched cameramen and news reporters—live—recording history from behind Hong Kong police lines.

  Farther down the crowded, rowdy street, tens of thousands of Hong Kong residents were loudly chanting, waving hand-printed political placards. Meanwhile, single lines of dark-suited stockbrokers were beginning to solemnly march into the exchange itself.

  “The brokers look like pallbearers,” Carroll whispered to Caitlin.

  “It isn’t a cheery sight, is it? It does look like a state funeral.”

  A correspondent for one of the American networks stepped up to a TV camera planted on the mobbed Hong Kong street. The newsman wore a rumpled seersucker suit and spoke with a clipped British accent.

  “Never before have we seen such a graphic demonstration of the polarization between Third World and Western hopes and dreams. Here in Hong Kong I believe we are seeing a mini-drama of the imminent future of the world. It is now the day after stock prices have tumbled precipitously everywhere…. The bond market is in shambles; the French and Arabs are liquidating their holdings at literally the rate of billions a day…. And in Hong Kong this morning, many people are deeply concerned, even sad faced But the majority, surprisingly large numbers, mostly university and street gang youths, but also the unemployed—are shouting anti-U.S. slogans, even praying for a shattering Stock Market crash. The people are rooting for a full-scale world economic crash. They’re expecting the worst, and they’re gleeful about the disastrous outcome…. The long awaited fall of the West.”

  Chapter 65

  SUDDENLY EVERYTHING CHANGED!

  Unbelievably.

  Almost as if it had all been prearranged, too.

  Not forty minutes after the Hong Kong Exchange opened, stock prices on the Hang Seng began to stabilize; then stock prices started to actually rise—to surge upward on the index.

  To the disappointment of many of the university students and workers mobbing the streets outside—a dizzying spiral of nearly seventy-five points followed in the next hour.

  The exchange in Sydney opened in much the same manner. Grim and hopelessly exhausted brokers at first; highly organized labor and student rallies against capitalism, against the United States in particular—then a burst of excited buying.

  The same scenario followed at the late opening exchange in Tokyo.

  In Malaysia an hour later.

  Everywhere.

  Carefully orchestrated chaos.

  The manipulator’s manipulation—but to what end?

  At 8:30 A.M. New York time, looking as though he’d been liberated from the dustiest carrel in the New York Public Library, Anton Birnbaum peered inside the World Trade Center emergency meeting area. This time, however, a boisterous entourage surged forward and escorted the Financier to the front of the pandemonious room.

  President Kearney appeared relaxed, almost jovial as he met the aging mastermind, “vice-president Thomas Elliot was standing beside him, looking controlled and restrained. The Vice-president appeared to be the coolest of the Washington leaders.

  Birnbaum himself seemed astonished by the general hubbub, the strange celebration before nine in the morning. He was equally astonished by the way the market, like some whimsical thing subject not to the rules of money but rather the patterns of the wind, had come back so strongly.

  “Mr. Birnbaum. Good morning.”

  “Yes. Good morning, Mr. President, Mr. Vice-president. And I hear it is a pretty good morning.”

  “By God, you did it.”

  “By God. Or in spite of Him, Mr. President.”

  “This is amazing. It’s quite moving, actually. See?… Real tears.” Caitlin stood hanging lightly onto Carroll’s arm. She finally dabbed at her eyes, and was hardly alone in the gesture.

  They were at the heart of the celebration inside the World Trade Center. Off to one side of the room, President Kearney was emotionally clutching his Chief of Staff. The secretaries of Treasury, State and Defense were boyish with their loud whoops, their echoing hand clapping. The gray-suited Chairman of the Federal Reserve danced briefly with the cantankerous Chairman of the Joint Chiefs.

  “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen bankers so joyous before,” Caitlin said.

  “They still dance like bankers though.” Carroll smiled at the odd but affecting scene of relief.

  He couldn’t help feeling elation in the midst of this crazy, almost riotous room, though. It wasn’t as if they’d actually found Green Band, but it was something, a sliver of merriment at the heart of the recent grimness, the frustration trailing back for days.

  Caitlin nuzzled the side of his face with her mouth. “I’m already getting worried again. I only hope…”

  “What do you hope?” Carroll gently held Caitlin’s arm. He felt unbelievably close to her. They had already shared more charged moments than some people do in a lifetime.

  ‘I hope that it continues like this, and doesn’t come crashing down.”

  Carroll was silent, studying the oddly uplifting scene in front of him. Somebody had found a tape player and the sound of Scottish bagpipers could be heard over the general din. Somebody was dragging in a couple of cases of champagne. There was something just a little forced in the celebration—but what the hell? These were people who’d been about to fall off the edge of their world and, slippery though it might be, they’d found temporary footing.

  Still…

  Still…

  Even as Carroll sipped champagne, something inside
kept him from getting too hopeful. This is all premature, he was thinking as the party heightened in intensity.

  Where is Green Band? Is Green Band watching right now?

  What are they thinking? Where are they taking us next? What kind of party are they having today?

  Chapter 66

  CARROLL HAD DECIDED to start at the beginning. Square one again. He thoroughly checked and rechecked every early lead, every hunch he’d ever had about Green Band. The task would take countless hours, he knew. It would require an intense search through the computers, even allowing for the fact that he had high-speed data at his disposal.

  Ah, police work.

  He asked for clearance from both the CIA and the FBI to make a search of their computer files. Neither organization gave him trouble, although Phil Berger imposed limitations on Carroll’s access.

  Nearly eleven hours later, Carroll stood before a dozen or so computer screens inside the Emergency Room at No. 13 Wall. Carroll stared at the screens and his eyes ached from the dull green glow.

  He glanced at Caitlin, who sat with her fingers raised over a computer keyboard, ready to type out a password for further access to the FBI’s files.

  When the display screen answered, she typed again, this time requesting a readout of active and nonactive Viet Nam veterans who, for whatever reason, had been under police surveillance during the past two years—a time frame she and Carroll had agreed on.

  She added the subcategory: Explosive experts. New York and vicinity. Possible subversive leanings.

  There was a long pause, a spooky electronic pause, then the machine began its requested readout of American soldiers.

  Carroll had been down this particular route of investigation, only not with the Crisis Room equipment and Caitlin’s help. American terrorist-related groups were out there, but none were considered powerful or well-organized. Phil Berger of the CIA had been investigating paramilitary groups himself. He had waved Carroll off that trail.

  “Can you print out a list of the hard cases?” Carroll asked Caitlin.

  “This is a computer. It can do anything if you ask nicely.”

  The printer obligingly kicked back into life. Paper slid through it as the dot matrix clacked back and forward. A total count showed no more than ninety names of current soldiers and veterans with extensive explosives experience in Viet Nam; men who the FBI considered important enough to keep track of. Carroll ripped the scroll of paper from the printer and took it to a desk, spreading the thing out.

  Adamski, Stanley. Corporal. Three-years VA Hospital, Prescott, Arizona. Member of left-wing oriented veterans group called the Rams, ostensibly a biker’s club.

  Carroll wondered how much of this was standard FBI paranoia?

  The list was filled with dizzying cross-references, he soon discovered. One name was connected to another, creating a mazelike effect. You could spend months working on all the permutations.

  Keresty, John. Sergeant. Munitions expert. Discharged VA Hospital, Scranton, Pa., 1974. Occupation: custodian, plastics corp. Member of the American Socialist Party. Ridgewood, New Jersey. SEE: Rhinehart, Jay T.; Jones, James; Winston files.

  The lists went on and on for pages.

  Carroll massaged his eyelids. He went for two coffees, returned to the work desk and even more sprawling computer sheets.

  He said, “Any one of these men, or two or three of them, working in tandem, could have helped blow up the financial district.”

  Caitlin gazed over his shoulder at the printout list. “So where do we start?”

  Carroll shook his head. He was filled with doubts again. They would have to investigate, maybe even visit every name on the lists. They didn’t have time.

  Scully, Richard P. Sergeant. Plastique expert. Hospitalized Manhattan 1974 for alcoholism. Extreme right-wing sympathizer. Occupation: cabdriver. New York City.

  Downey, Marc. Military assassin. Hospitalized 1971-73: Occupation: bartender. Worcester, Mass.

  Carroll gazed at the burgeoning list again. He had another idea. An Army officer, maybe? A disaffected officer with a grudge, or a cause? Somebody exceptionally smart, nursing a grievance, year after year.

  Carroll laid his hands on the warm computer console. He wished he could coax all the secrets out of it, all the electronic links of which it was capable. He stared at the already lengthy printout again. “An officer,” Carroll said. “Try that.”

  Caitlin went back to the keyboard to request more information. He watched her fingers move expertly over the keys. She was requesting information on known or suspected subversives, who had been officers in Viet Nam. Under the general rubric of “subversive” were included all kinds of people.

  The screen began to issue more names. Colonels. Captains. Majors. Some were listed in these official records as schizophrenics. Others were supposedly burnt out on drugs. Others still had become evangelists, panhandlers, small-time bank and liquor store robbers. Carroll received a printout of these names as well. There were twenty-nine of the hard-core category in and around New York City.

  The screen flickered again.

  Names of the various officers on the FBI list now shimmered forth. Carroll once again ran his eye over them.

  Bradshaw, Michael, Captain. Discharged VA Hospital Dallas, Texas, 1971. Occupation: Real estate salesman, Hempstead Long Island. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder victim.

  Babbershill, Terrance. Major. Discharged dishonorably 1969. Known Viet Cong sympathizer. Occupation: English-language tutor for various Vietnamese families. Brooklyn, New York

  Carroll blinked and tried to focus. His eyes were beginning to water. He needed to feel the fresh cold night air on his face. He didn’t move: he continued to run his eyes up and down the screen.

  Rydeholm, Ralph. Colonel.

  O’Donnell, Joseph. Colonel.

  Schweitzer, Peter. Lieutenant Colonel.

  Shaw, Robert. Captain.

  Norsworthy, Robert. Colonel.

  Boudreau, Dan. Captain.

  Kaplan, Lin. Captain.

  Weinshanker, Greg. Captain.

  Dwyer, James. Colonel.

  Beauregard, Bo. Captain.

  Arnold, Tim. Captain.

  Morrissey, Jack Colonel.

  Too many names, Carroll thought.

  Too many casualties in a war of total waste.

  “Can you get me cross-references, Caitlin? Associations and connections between any of these men? The officers. The real hard asses out of Viet Nam?”

  “I’ll try.” Caitlin tapped a few keys. Nothing happened this time.

  She stared at the screen thoughtfully, then tapped another brief message.

  Nothing happened.

  She tapped out another message.

  Nothing happened

  “Is something wrong?” Carroll asked.

  “This is the best I can get, Arch. Damn it.”

  The message that shone in front of them read:

  Further data: see files

  “See files?” he asked. “These are the files.”

  “They apparently have more information in FBI files that aren’t on the computer, Arch. They’re down in Washington. Only in Washington. Why the hell is that?”

  Chapter 67

  AT TEN O’CLOCK ON the evening of December 15, Sergeant Harry Stemkowsky was thinking that he was actually solvent. He was financially comfortable, probably for the first time in his life.

  He’d just bought a new Ford Bronco, also a luxurious beaver coat for Mary. Life was suddenly getting decent for them, for the first time in their four married years together.

  But Stemkowsky couldn’t bring himself to comfortably believe in any of it. This was all like Santa Claus, and trips to Disneyworld—that kind of transient shit.

  Who could identify with the sudden net worth of $1,152,000?

  Harry Stemkowsky felt a little like one of those loonie-tunes who won the New York State Lottery, then nervously kept their little jobs as janitors or U.S. postal employees. It was a matte
r of too much, too fast.

  At twenty past ten that evening, Stemkowsky nosed his Vets cab out of the street noise and blazing yellow lights of Midtown Manhattan in the East 60s. He’d finished his regular ten-hour shift, all according to the Vets’ master plan, Colonel Hudson’s prescribed step-by-step plan for their ultimate success.

  The Checker cab bumped and rattled onto the 59th Street entrance to the bridge.

  A few minutes later, the Checker cab turned onto a busy avenue in Jackson Heights, then edged onto 85th Street, where Harry Stemkowsky lived with his wife, Mary.

  He absently licked his lips as he drove down 85th. He could just about taste the French stew Mary had said she was fixing when he’d left in the morning.

  The sudden expectation of beef, shallots, those little, light puffed potatoes she usually made, was exhilarating. Maybe he and Mary should retire to the south of France after this was over, he began to think. They’d be filthy rich enough for sure. They could eat four-star French food until they got absolutely sick of it Maybe move on to Italy. Maybe Greece after that Greece was supposed to be cheap. Hey. Who cared if it was cheap or not?

  Harry Stemkowsky began to accelerate down the last flat stretch toward home.

  “Jesus Christ, buddy! Stemkowsky suddenly shouted out loud and pounded his brakes.

  A tall, balding guy, with an incredibly pained look, had run out in front of the cab. The guy was frantically waving both arms over his head; he was screaming something Stemkowsky couldn’t make out with the windows up.

  Harry Stemkowsky recognized the look from Viet Nam though, from dreaded clean-up patrols into villages after devastating Phantom air strafes. Something horrible and unexpected had happened here—something awful had happened in Stemkowsky’s neighborhood.

  The terrified man was up against the cab window. Still screaming at the top of his voice. “Help me, please! Help! Please help!”

  Stemkowsky finally got the window rolled down. He had his radio mike in hand, ready to call for whatever kind of emergency help was needed.

  “What the hell happened? What happened, mister?”