Nearly eleven hours later Carroll stood before the dozen or so computer screens inside the crisis room at 13 Wall Street. He stared at the screens, and his eyes ached from the dull green glow.
He glanced at Caitlin, who sat with her slender fingers raised over a computer keyboard, ready to type out a password for further access to the FBI's files. There was no skill she didn't seem to have.
When the display screen answered, she rapidly typed again, this time requesting a readout of active and nonactive Vietnam 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 subcategories: Explosives Experts; New York and Vicinity; Possible Subversive Leanings.
There was a long pause, a spooky electronic pause, and then the machine began its requested readout of Vietnam veterans.
Carroll had been down this particular route of investigation, only not with this equipment and Caitlin's help. American terrorist-related groups were out there, but none was considered very powerful or well organized. Phil Berger of the CIA had been investigating American paramilitary groups himself. He had waved Carroll off that trail once before.
“Can you print out a list of the real hard cases?” Carroll asked Caitlin.
“This is a computer. It can do anything if you ask it 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 Vietnam -men whom the FBI considered important enough to keep track of. Carroll ripped the paper from the printer and took it to a desk.
Adamski, Stanley. Corporal. Three years VA hospital, Prescott, Ariz. Member of left wing-oriented veterans group called the Rams, ostensibly a bikers 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. He 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, N.J. SEE: Rhinehart, Jay T.; Jones, James; Winston files.
The lists went on and on.
Carroll massaged his eyelids. He went for two coffees, then returned to the desk and even more sprawling computer sheets.
He said, “Any one of these men, or two or three of them could have helped blow up the financial district.”
Caitlin gazed over his shoulder at the printout. “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. An army officer, maybe? A disaffected officer with a grudge or a cause? Somebody exceptionally smart, nursing a grievance, year after year.
He 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 lengthy printout again. “An officer,” he 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 Vietnam. 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 burned out on drugs. Others 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 eyes over them.
Bradshaw, Michael. Captain. Discharged VA hospital, Dallas, Tex., 1971. Occupation: real estate salesman, Hempstead, Long Island. Post traumatic stress disorder victim.
Babbershill, Terrance. Major. Discharged dishonorably, 1969. Known Vietcong sympathizer. Occupation: English-language tutor for various Vietnamese families. Brooklyn, N.Y.
Carroll tried to focus. His eyes were beginning to water. He needed to feel the fresh cold night air on his face. But 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.
Craig, Kyle. 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 Vietnam?”
“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. Still nothing happened.
“Is something wrong?” Carroll asked.
“This is the best I can get, Arch. Damn it.”
The unfortunate message that shone in front of them read “Further data: see files.”
“See files?” he asked. “These
“They apparently have more information in FBI files that aren't on the computer, Arch. They're down in Washington. Why is that?”
At ten o'clock on the evening of December 16, Sergeant Harry Stemkowsky was thinking that he was actually solvent. He was financially comfortable, probably for the first time in his entire adult life.
He'd just bought a new Ford Bronco, also a luxurious beaver coat at Alexander's for Mary. Life was suddenly getting decent for them, for the first time in all their years together.
But Harry Stemkowsky couldn't bring himself to believe in any of it comfortably. This was all like Santa Claus and trips to Disney World-that kind of transient shit.
Who could identify with a sudden net worth of $1,152,000?
Stemkowsky felt a little like one of those Looney Tunes who won the New York State Lottery, then nervously kept their little jobs as janitors or U.S. postal employees. It was a matter of too much too fast. He kept getting the uneasy feeling that somebody was going to take it all away again.
At twenty past ten that evening, Stemkowsky carefully nosed his Vets cab out of the street noise and blazing yellow lights of midtown Manhattan. He'd finished his regular ten-hour shift, all according to Colonel Hudson's prescribed step-by-step plan for their ultimate success. The Checker cab bumped and rattled onto the Fifty- seventh Street entrance to the bridge.
A few minutes later the cab turned onto a busy avenue in Jackson Heights, then edged onto Eighty-fifth, where Stemkowsky lived with his wife, Mary. He absently licked his lips as he drove down the street. He could just about taste the stew Mary had said she was fixing when he'd left in the morning. The sudden expectation of beef, shallots, and those little light-puffed potatoes she usually made was mouthwatering.
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.
“
A tall bald-headed man, with an incredibly pained look, had run right out in front of the cab. He 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 Vietnam, though, from dreaded cleanup patrols into villages after devastating Phantom air strafes. His heart had already dropped through the floorboards of the cab. Something horrible and unexpected had happened here-something awful had happened in Stemkowsky's own neighborhood.
The terrified man was up against the cab window now, 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 emergency help was needed. “What the hell happened? What happened, mister?”
Suddenly a small black Beretta was shoved hard, crunching like a nightstick, against Harry Stemkowsky's temple. “
