“The brokers look like pallbearers,” Carroll whispered to Caitlin. He stroked her arm lightly.
“It isn't exactly a cheery sight, is it? It certainly
“Yeah. And whose funeral?” Carroll asked.
A foreign correspondent for one of the major American networks eventually stepped up to a TV camera planted on the mobbed cacophonous Hong Kong street. The newsman wore a rumpled seersucker suit and spoke with an affected, 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 minidrama 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 the rate of billions a day… And in Hong Kong this morning, many people are deeply concerned, even sad-faced… But
Suddenly, everything changed!
Unbelievably.
Beautifully, and all around the world.
Almost as if it had been prearranged, too.
Not forty minutes after the Hong Kong Exchange opened, stock prices on the Hang Seng began to stabilize; then stock prices actually started to rise-to surge powerfully upward on the index.
To the keen disappointment of many of the jeering university students and workers mobbing the streets outside, a dizzying spiral of nearly 75 points followed in the next hour alone.
The exchange in Sydney opened in very much the same manner. Grim and exhausted brokers at first, highly organized labor and student rallies against capitalism, against the United States in particular-then a burst of excited buying. A dramatic spiral up.
The same scenario followed at the late-opening exchange in Tokyo.
In Malaysia an hour later.
Carefully orchestrated recovery.
The manipulator's manipulation-but to what end?
At 8:30 A.M. New York time, looking as if he'd recently 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 pandemoniacal room.
President Justin Kearney appeared relaxed, almost jovial, as he met the aging financial mastermind. Vice President Thomas Elliot was standing beside him, still looking controlled and restrained. The vice president was the coolest of the Washington leaders. Birnbaum himself seemed astonished by the general hubbub, the strange celebration, so early in the morning. He was equally astonished by the way the market, like some whimsical thing subject not to the rules of money, but to 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
“By God, you did it.”
“By God. Or in spite of Him, Mr. President.”
“This is amazing. It's quite moving. See?… Real tears.” Caitlin was hanging lightly on to Carroll's arm. She dabbed her eyes and was not alone in the gesture.
They were at the heart of the frenzied celebration. Off to one side of the room, President Kearney was emotionally clutching his chief of staff. The secretaries of Treasury, State, and Defense were positively boyish with their loud whoops, their hand clapping. The gray-suited chairman of the Federal Reserve had danced briefly with the cantankerous chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
“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 genuine scene of relief. “No threats to Michael Jackson here.”
He couldn't help feeling elation in the midst of this crazy, almost riotous room. It wasn't as if they'd actually found Green Band, but it was something, a sliver of merriment at the heart of all the recent grimness and frustration.
Caitlin nuzzled the side of his face with her mouth. “I'm already getting worried again. I only hope…”
“What do you hope?” Carroll held Caitlin's arm. He felt unbelievably close to her. They had already shared more charged moments than some people did in a lifetime.
“I hope that it continues like this, and doesn't come crashing down.”
Carroll was silent, studying the oddly uplifting scene before him. Somebody had found a phonograph, and the sound of Scottish bagpipers could be heard over the general din. Somebody extremely resourceful was dragging in a couple of cases of champagne. There was something just a little forced in the sudden 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 some kind of temporary footing.
Still…
Still…
Even as Carroll sipped his champagne, something kept him from getting too hopeful. This is all premature, and therefore dangerous, he was thinking as the party heightened in intensity. The policeman inside him never stopped working, never stopped probing, never stopped figuring out all the possible angles. Damn it, police work
Where is Green Band? Is Green Band watching right now?
What are they thinking? What kind of party are they having today?
30
There was no more time to waste. Clearly, there was no time at all. Every passing hour was vitally important. Anton Birnbaum's hyperactive mind was clicking automatically like a computer.
Birnbaum had begun to make urgent phone calls from his eleven-room apartment on Riverside Drive, near Columbia University. He had definite hunches now-strong suspicions after talking to Caitlin Dillon and her policeman friend Carroll.
At junctures in his life, Birnbaum had been thought of as the consummate international businessman, at times as the world's preeminent economist. Certainly he was an intense student of life, intrigued by the vicissitudes of human behavior. His curiosity was boundless, even at his age.
Never a day passed that Birnbaum didn't read for at least six or seven hours. Because of that lifelong habit, the financier knew he was still several steps faster than the other people in his business, especially the lazy boys on Wall Street.
What was the operative connection between Green Band, the bombing of December 4, and the dangerous economic events of the past two days?
Why had nothing conclusive been discovered about Green Band yet?
Why were the Green Band provocateurs consistently two steps ahead of those conducting the investigation? How could that be happening again and again?
Like nature, Anton Birnbaum abhorred a vacuum, and that was precisely what Green Band had masterfully created: a huge empty space in which logical questions had no apparent answers.
Months back he had heard rumors of a Russian-sponsored plot to dramatically disrupt the stock market… His closest and most reliable contacts at the CIA had been worried about the activities of the wretched Francois Monserrat. Was Monserrat somehow connected with the Green Band plot? And what about certain members of the government here in America? The CIA's Philip Berger? He was a character Birnbaum had never found it in himself to trust… Or Vice President Thomas Elliot? He was a chilly one as well, and he played everything close to the vest.
Too many possibilities. Almost as if
As the tiny ancient man made his inquisitional phone calls that morning-to Switzerland, England, France, South Africa, to both West Germany and East Germany-he felt like someone who had an important name on the tip of his tongue but just couldn't remember it.
Anton Birnbaum wrote down the most suspicious names.
Philip Berger
Thomas More Elliot
Francois Monserrat
And perhaps the connecting link: Red Tuesday.
The clue was there-the beginning of the answer they were searching for. He was certain of that.
If he could just find the one clue… If he could just figure out the motive for the events thus far. It was here, somewhere.
Anton Birnbaum worked at his desk, sketchily making notes, making highly confidential calls. He worked feverishly, like a man who felt his time running out.
Carroll had decided to start at square one again, to thoroughly check and recheck every 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 the CIA and the FBI to make a search of their computer files. Neither organization gave him too much trouble, although Phil Berger imposed certain limitations on his access, for the usual reasons of national security.
