Black Market (21 page)

She stopped with her back to the window and looked at the framed photographs on the walls. There was Anton, snapped in the company of the very powerful and famous. Statesmen, controversial industrialists, people from the entertainment industry… there were photos of Konrad Adenauer, Harold MacMillan, and Anwar Sadat. Also Henry Ford and J. Paul Getty. John Kennedy, Richard Nixon, and Ronald Reagan.

Anton Birnbaum scratched the bridge of his blotched and mottled nose as he contemplated his choice of words. He was reminded once again that Caitlin was one of the few people on Wall Street he could really talk to. Complex explanations of his theories and insights were unnecessary when speaking with her.

“The Europeans simply don't trust us. Which is precisely why they don't talk to us anymore. They believe we have different attitudes, different priorities toward the Middle East, also toward the Soviet bloc. They're certain we're too casual about the dangers of a nuclear war. They don't feel we understand Marxist-Leninist ideology.”

Birnbaum stared directly into Caitlin's deep brown eyes. His own eyes were watering hopelessly behind thick glasses. He reminded Caitlin of Mole in
The Wind in the Willows
.

“I sound like an alarmist, no? But I feel the intrinsic truth of what I'm saying. Almost prima facie, I feel it. There will be a crash now. I believe there will be a serious crash, possibly another Black Friday. Very, very soon.”

Caitlin sat down on the stiff leather chair.

Another Black Friday, her mind raced. A stock market crash! Her own worst fears had been confirmed by the man she most respected on the Street. Her father's jeremiads twenty years before had finally come home to roost.

Complete collapse; the entire economic system falling. Impossible ideas were formulating in her brain.

She stared at Birnbaum and saw that he was watching her with an expression of vague sorrow. The light from an antique brass lamp turned the lines on his face into deep dark bands.

Complete collapse… The phrase continued to ring. It meant the end of an entire way of life.

And after the failure of an economic system, who would survive? Who would finally crawl out of the rubble and be able to go on? If she had the answer to that, maybe she'd also have the answer to the mystery of Green Band.

Anton Birnbaum spoke again. “As I said, I think we could be in the middle of a war. The money war. The great Third World War we have so long feared-it may already be upon us.”

Manhattan

“Goddamn it! Look at this! Look at this now!” The speaker was Walter Trentkamp, and his voice was harsh with disbelief. “Gentlemen, it's happening everywhere!”

Philip Berger, Trentkamp, and General Frederick House were gathered around the computer terminals when Caitlin and Carroll arrived. Several display screens were working simultaneously, rapidly flashing words as well as color graphics.

Berger glaneed up as Caitlin Dillon and Carroll hurried across the crisis room.

“Emergency reports have been coming in for about fifteen, twenty minutes,” he said to the others. “Since three-thirty our time. They've definitely got something hopping. Something's happening
all over the world
this time.”

Paris, France

At one o'clock Paris time, on December 14, La Compagnie des Agents was suddenly closed by official order of the president of France.

All stock trading was immediately halted on the Bourse.

Bourse officials reluctantly admitted that the market's CAC Index had fallen more than
three
percent in a single morning.

The afternoon newspapers in Paris carried the most shocking headlines in four decades:

MARKET CLOSE TO PANIC!

BOURSE CRASH!

PARIS MARKET IN SHAMBLES

FINANCIAL DISASTER!

For once, however, the tabloids were actually being written with some understatement.

Emergency government meetings were immediately called in the Palais de Élysées, rue de Faubourg-St-Honoré. But no one knew what to do next about the unparalleled financial panic in Europe.

Frankfurt, West Germany

The Frankfurt Stock Exchange was in complete chaos, meanwhile, but still managed to stay open for the entire session.

The Commerzbank Index had fallen under a thousand for the first time since 1982. The largest losers for the immensely tragic day included Westdeutsche Landesbank, Bayer, Volkswagen, and Philip Holzmann.

Yet none of the economists in West Germany understood why prices were dropping or how far they might plummet in the very near future.

Toronto, Canada

The Toronto Stock Exchange was one of the very worst hit. The exchange's composite index of three hundred stocks fell 155 points to under 2000.

Trading volumes set new records, until the major Canadian exchange was officially closed at 1:00 P.M.

Tokyo, Japan

The Nikkei-Dow Jones Index was extremely shaky all day, finally closing at 9200. This was a full 12.5 percent decline in a single day.

Hardest hit were all companies trading heavily with the Middle East. These included Mitsui Petrochemical, Sumitomo Chemical, and Oki Electric.

Almost on cue, Japanese student riots broke out in major cities all over the islands.

Johannesburg, South Africa

Heavy European and American deposits made the Johannesburg Stock Exchange the only apparent winner. Bullion was suddenly trading at one thousand dollars an ounce. The rand instantly appreciated to one dollar and fifty cents.

Hundreds of millions of dollars were made in South Africa. Suspicions rose, but still no satisfactory answers came.

London, England

London dramatically shut down at noon, four and a half hours shy of regular closing.

The
Financial Times
Index of seven hundred and fifty companies had fallen nearly 90 points; it was down almost 200 since the initial Green Band bombing in New York.

The scene on Threadneedle, near the Bank of London, was nearly without hope and as bleak as bombed-out Wall Street in New York.

Manhattan

With its forty-button telephone-computer consoles, the crisis room at 13 Wall Street was beginning to resemble the starship
Enterprise
more than the traditional Chippendale feel and look of the Street. Nonetheless, the thirty or so police, army, and financial experts in the room had absolutely no idea what they were supposed to accomplish next.

The Western economic system seemed to be crashing to a disastrous halt, right before their eyes. No one knew why.

There was only maddening silence from Green Band.

Moscow

Major General Radomir Raskov peered nervously over half-moon reading spectacles. He studied the august group seated at the long, highly polished mahogany conference table inside the Moscow KGB offices-specifically, the offices of the Directorate.

The Politburo officials who had been at Zavidavo were also at the emergency meeting. They were joined now by Mikhail Slepovik, director of Soviet security, and a very cultured gentleman, Popo Tvardevsky, undersecretary of the Communist party, some said the future premier.

Premier Yuri Belov slapped shut the thin black folder set before him. He looked at the others and scowled menacingly. “I find it utterly,
utterly
incomprehensible that we have no more knowledge than this. During this crisis! During this world-threatening emergency situation!”

Premier Belov's gray eyes were piercing, forbidding to encounter for more than a brief glance. “Not five months ago, I sat in this very room and I
listened
to a plan, the ‘Red Tuesday Plan.’ In this highly detailed proposal, it was
clearly and emphatically
stated that it was in the best interests of the Soviet Union to sabotage and disable Wall Street, in effect, the entire Western economic system.

“This plan, as you may all recall, was thoroughly analyzed and finally approved by the parties here in this room. It was an immaculate plan and a daring one, and there was every possibility it would succeed.”

Premier Belov paused. His jaw twitched. “
Now, that very thing has happened!
And you expect me to believe that we have no complicity, no knowledge whatsoever, of any of the causes?” Belov slammed his heavy palm on the gleaming wooden table. His next words were spoken in a gravelly voice, almost a whisper. Several of his listeners had to lean forward to hear every word.

“The entire world is hurtling toward chaos, perhaps even its economic destruction… Now someone please tell me-what is Green Band? What is Green Band's precise relationship to the ‘Red Tuesday Plan’? For there is
some
relationship… Who is running Green Band?… And
why?
”

Manhattan

The infernal noise Arch Carroll heard inside his head was the sound of financial markets collapsing all over the world. It was a brutal and grinding thought.

He and Caitlin were sitting on an old floral couch in Carroll's Manhattan apartment, facing down over the Seventy-ninth Street Boat Basin. A Beethoven concerto played soothingly on the tape deck. River winds occasionally buffeted the dark living room windows.

Once again they were waiting for Green Band. There was nothing to do but wait for morning.

“I think I have to turn in.” Caitlin was already half asleep. She kissed Carroll's forehead. “I'll get a few hours, anyway.”

Carroll looked at his wristwatch. His eyes felt unbelievably heavy. “What a party pooper. No sense of adventure. It's only two-thirty.”

“People from Ohio go to bed at nine-thirty, ten o'clock. The Lima Holiday Inn restaurant is filled at five-thirty. Closed down by eight,” said Caitlin.

“Yeah, but you're a sophisticated New Yorker now. We party until two or three on weekdays here.”

Caitlin kissed Carroll again, and the idle talking stopped. He was amazed at how comfortable he was with her. Watching someone you thought you cared about almost being killed seemed to accelerate the courting process.

“Is anything the matter? You look, I don't know, a little sad. Tell me…”

“It's probably my dumb Irish-Catholic conscience. Guilt about not doing my duty properly. Taking myself too seriously, as usual.”

“Are you telling the truth? About being all right? Sometimes I can't tell with you.” She nestled gently against Carroll's shoulder. She was no longer untouchable.

“I'm not quite ready for bed yet. That's all. I'm overtired, I guess. I'll be in soon. You go ahead.”

Caitlin leaned in closer and kissed Carroll very softly again. She always smelled so wholesome and nice, he thought. She had the softest lips he could imagine kissing.

“Do you want me to stay with you?” she whispered.

Carroll shook his head decidedly.

Caitlin finally left the living room, sleepily cocooned in a blanket.

Carroll immediately got up from the couch. He started to pace back and forth, past the darkly reflective windows. His body felt all wrong: wired, incandescent.

He went to his desk and began to shuffle through the dusty, littered drawers. Then he looked inside an antique blanket chest he'd bought years back in central Pennsylvania. His mind was wandering into very odd places, weird time zones…

He wondered if Caitlin liked kids much…

He thought for a few minutes about the possibility of getting hurt by Caitlin. How she just might move on after Green Band was finally over. Her romantic interlude with a real-life policeman.

He then considered what he felt to be a somewhat lesser possibility: that he might somehow hurt her. She'd already told him things about her two previous love affairs. One guy had been a highly successful New York investment lawyer, who was so busy making his second or third million, he hadn't bothered to notice that Caitlin wasn't just an extraordinarily pretty face, an asset in certain demanding social situations… Her second lover had been a professional tennis player, “with an ego as big as Forest Hills Stadium,” as Caitlin had described him. Number two had expected her to be his housemate, his sexy Playboy bunny, and his mom. Caitlin had finally said no to all three roles.

Jesus, he was so incredibly wired. So uptight tonight.

Finally he did it, though. The absolute worst thing he could have done under the particular set of circumstances.

On the anniversary.

Nora's death three years before.

December 14.

First, he gathered up a handful of old photographs. He found most of the photos on a cluttered bottom shelf inside a glass-enclosed book cabinet. Next, he pulled a tattered wicker chair up close to one of the tall windows facing the lights of Riverside Drive and the river.

Carroll stared down at the West Side Highway, the peacefully quiet boat basin. He was letting the present go all fuzzy and blurred.

Then he stood up again.

He took three particular record albums off the uneven stacks on the stereo. One album was
52nd Street
, Billy Joel self-consciously holding a trumpet on the cover. The second album was mainstream country and western,
I Believe in You
by somebody called Don Williams. The third was Barbra Streisand and Barry Gibb
Guilty
.

Carroll switched on the stereo, and the big floor speakers immediately hummed. He felt the power surge through the soles of his bare feet. He turned the volume way down.

He'd never been a big Streisand fan, but there were two particular songs he wanted to hear on this album: “Woman in Love” and “Promises.” Out in the world, a moving van rumbled along Riverside Drive.

He still kept an old framed picture of Nora, hidden away facedown in the bottom of the bookcase. He slid it out now and carefully propped it on the arm of the couch.

For a long, pensive moment, he stared at Nora in her hospital-issue wheelchair. Anniversary of her death. Pain still sharp and fresh as yesterday, it seemed. He could remember
exactly
when the snapshot had been taken. After they'd operated. After the surgeons had failed to remove her malignant tumor.

In the photo, Nora was wearing a simple yellow-flowered sundress, a knitted blue cardigan sweater. She had on a pair of crazy high-topped sneakers that became her trademark as an invalid.

She was smiling radiantly in the picture. Not once to his knowledge had she completely broken down during the illness; not once had she felt sorry for herself. She'd been thirty-one years old when they'd found the tumor. She'd had to watch her blond hair fall out from the chemotherapy treatments. Then she'd had to adapt to life in the inflexible iron clutches of her wheelchair. Nora had somehow accepted that she wasn't going to see her children grow up or anything else the two of them had laughed and dreamed about and always taken for granted.

Why couldn't he finally accept her death?

Why couldn't he ever accept the way life was apparently supposed to be?

Arch Carroll stopped and listened more closely to Barbra Streisand singing.

The song “Promises” made him remember the stretch when he'd visited Nora every night, night after night, at New York Hospital. After the hospital visits, he would eat at Galahanty's Bar up the hill on First Avenue. A very tired burger, soggy home fries, draft beer that tasted the way swamp grass smelled. Probably the beginning of his drinking problems.

The two Streisand songs had been local favorites on Galahanty's jukebox. They always made him think of Nora-all alone back at that scary, skyscraper hospital.

Sitting in the bar, he'd always wanted to go back-at ten, eleven o'clock-to talk with her just a little bit more; to sleep with her; to hold her tight against the gathering night inside her hospital room. To squeeze every possible goddamn moment out of the time they had left together…

The worst, the very truest line for him in “Promises” finally came…

Tears rolled slowly down his cheeks. The pain inside was like a rock-solid column that extended from the center of his chest all the way up to his forehead. The sadness and inconsolable grief were for Nora, though, not for himself-the unfairness of what had happened to her.

He began to hold himself fiercely tight, squeezing hard with both arms. He was remembering more than he wanted to about the time around Nora's death. He was going to blow apart one of these times. Real tough cop, right?

When would this cold, hollow feeling please stop? The past three years had been unbearable. When would it please fucking stop?

He always had this same insane urge-to break glass.

Just to punch glass.

Blindly, irrationally punch glass.

Caitlin, meanwhile, stood immobile, perfectly silent, in the darkened hallway. She couldn't catch her breath, couldn't even swallow right then. She had wandered back from the bedroom when she'd heard noises. Faint strains of music…

So sad to watch Carroll like this, with the old photographs.

Finally she walked back to the bedroom and huddled deep down into the body-warm covers and sheets.

Lying there alone, she bit down hard on her lip. She understood and felt so much more about Carroll now. Maybe she understood more than she wanted to.

She stared at shadows walking the bedroom ceiling; she thought about her own life since she'd come to New York. Somehow she'd known she would never completely fit in Lima, Ohio. There were so many other experiences she needed to try. There was her long-standing need to involve herself in the financial arena. Maybe to vindicate her father, maybe just to make him proud again. She'd become a success; everybody acknowledged that.

Only recently, for the first time in many years, she wasn't sure if success was what she wanted now, if she'd even done the right thing leaving the Midwest. Right at the moment, she was not completely sure about anything.

Except maybe one thing: she was in love with Carroll. She was falling deeply in love.

She wanted to hold him right now, only she was afraid. Caitlin closed her eyes and felt a great sense of solitude assail her. Would she always be a trespasser in Carroll's life?

She didn't know exactly how long she'd been alone. The bed felt so empty without Carroll.

The telephone on the nightstand began to ring.

It was three-thirty in the morning.

Carroll didn't pick up in the living room. Where was he?

She waited, four, five rings, and he still didn't pick up. Finally she grabbed the receiver.

A high-pitched and very excited voice was on the line. A man was talking before she had a chance to say a word.

“Arch, sorry to wake you. This is Walter Trentkamp. I'm down at number Thirteen right now. The stock exchange in Sydney just opened. There's a massive panic! You'd better come now.
It's all going to crash!
”