Black Market

States?”

Samantha Hawes sat down beside Carroll. She took a healthy bite of an overstuffed sandwich. “As I said, there are some peculiar gaps in his military records. In all of their records. Believe me, I look at enough of them to know.”

“What sort of peculiar gaps? What should be in there that isn't?”

“Well, there were no written reports on his special training at Fort Bragg, for example. There was nothing on his ‘Q’ or his Ranger training. There was almost nothing on his time as a POW. Those should all be in there. Marked highly confidential if need be, but definitely there in the file.”

“What else is missing? Would there be photostated copies or originals anywhere else?”

“There should definitely be more psychological profiles. More reports after he lost his arm in Vietnam. There's very little on that. He was tortured by the Vietcong. He apparently still has flashbacks. All the backup data on his POW experience is conveniently missing. I've never seen a two eleven file without a complete psych workup, either.”

Carroll selected a second roast beef sandwich half. “Maybe Hudson took them out himself?”

“I don't know how he could get in here, but it makes as much sense as anything else I read yesterday.”

“Like? Please keep going, Samantha.”

“Like the way they made him a cipher right after Vietnam. He had very high-level intelligence clearance in Southeast Asia. He was a heavy commander in Vietnam. Why would they give him such a nothing post back in the States? The arm? Then why not write it up that way?”

“Maybe that's why he ultimately quit the service,” Carroll suggested. “The second-rate assignments once he got back home.”

“Maybe. But why did they do it to him in the first place?… They were grooming David Hudson before he came home. Believe me, they had serious plans for him. You can see tracks to glory all over those files. In the early years, anyway. Hudson was a real star.”

Carroll jotted down a few notes. “What would a more predictable assignment have been? Once he was back in the States? If he was still on the fast track?”

“At the very least he should have gotten the Pentagon. According to his records, he was on an extremely fast track. Until the disciplinary problems, anyway. He got bush-league assignments before he did anything to deserve them.”

“It doesn't make sense. Maybe they'll know something at the Pentagon. That's my next stop.”

Samantha Hawes extended her hand. “My sincere condolences. The Pentagon makes this austere place seem like a hippie commune.”

“I've heard they're a party group.” Carroll smiled back at Agent Hawes. She was smart, and he liked her.

“Listen,” she said. “There is something else you should know. One other person definitely went through the two eleven files in the past two weeks. On the fifth of December, actually.”

Carroll stopped packing up and stared at Samantha Hawes. “Who?” he asked.

“On that day, certain two eleven files were ordered over to the White House. Vice President Elliot wanted to see them. He kept the files for more than six hours. Listen, Carroll. You come back here if you need any more help. Officially or otherwise… Promise?”

“I promise,” Carroll said, and absolutely meant it.

Riverdale, New York City

The young Carroll boy had his marching orders, really strict orders, too.

Six-year-old Mickey Kevin Carroll had been allowed to walk the three blocks home from CYO basketball practice since the second month of the school year. He had very precise orders for the walk, which his Aunt Mary K. made him write out in his composition notepad:

Look both ways at Churchill Avenue.

Look both ways at Grand Street.

Don't talk to strangers for any reason at all.

Don't stop at the Fieldstone store before supper.

If you do, it's instant death by torture.

Mickey Kevin was pondering the confusing mechanics of the basketball lay-up as he covered the long double block between Riverdale Avenue and Churchill Avenue. Brother Alexander Joseph had made it look kind of easy. Except when Mickey tried it himself, there were just too many things to remember, all practically at once. Somehow your leg and your arm had to come up; then you had to throw the ball perfectly into the high, high hoop. All at the same time.

As he rehearsed the confusing sport's primary action, Mickey Kevin gradually became aware of footsteps growing louder behind him.

He turned and saw a man. The man was walking his way. Walking pretty fast.

Mickey Kevin's body tightened. TV movies and stuff like that made you scared when you were alone. Somebody was always out to get the little kid or the baby-sitter all alone at home. It was a pretty creepy world. Some of the people out there were unbelievably creepy.

The man walking behind him looked pretty normal, Mickey guessed, but he decided to hurry it up a little anyway. Without looking too obvious, he started to take longer steps, faster steps. He walked the way he always did when he was trying to keep up with his dad.

There weren't any cars or anything at the corner of Grand Street. Mickey stopped according to the rules, anyway. He looked both ways.

He looked back then-and the man was really close. Really, really close.

Mickey Kevin ran across Grand Street, and Aunt Mary K. would have killed him on the spot. His heart was pounding now. Really thumping out loud. Right down into his shoes, he could fell his heartbeat.

Then Mickey Kevin did the really, really dumb thing. He knew it the second he did it. The instant!

He cut through the empty lot at the Riverdale Day School.

There were all of these tricky bushes and stuff back there. Everybody left empty beer cans and broken wine and liquor bottles. Mary K. had forgotten to put that on the list: Don't cut through the Riverdale Day School lot. It was too obvious for words.

Mickey pushed the prickly bushes out of his way, and he thought he heard the man coming through the lot behind him. Crashing through the lot. He wasn't completely sure. He'd have to stop walking to listen so he could tell. He decided to just keep running, to run like hell.

Full speed ahead now. As fast as he could, with all the dark, thorny bushes, the hidden rocks and roots trying to trip him.

Mickey Kevin stumbled forward, his feet seeming to catch in dirt holes. He glided over slippery leaves. He nicked a rock and almost went over headfirst. He was panting now, his breath was too loud in his own ears, his footsteps were echoing like gunshots.

The back of his house suddenly appeared: the glowing amber porch lights, the familiar gray outline against the darker blackness of the night.

He had never been so glad to see home.

Fingers touched the side of his cheek, and Mickey yelled out, “Hey!”

A stupid tree branch!

He almost had a heart attack. Mickey ran across the last icy patch of back lawn. He ran like a midget halfback bound for seven. Halfway there, his metal lunch box popped open. It just about exploded-an orange, rolled-up papers, and a thermos tumbled out.

Mickey Kevin dropped the lunch box. He crashed up the back steps and put his hand on the cold metal storm door.

And then…

Mickey Kevin turned. He had to look back.

His chest was pounding nonstop now. Ka-chunk, ka-chunk, like a huge machine was inside there. Making ice or something equally noisy. He had to look back.

Oh, brother! Oh boy, oh boy!

Nobody was behind him.

Nobody!

It was completely quiet in the backyard. Nothing moved. His lunch box lay in the middle of the snow. It glowed a little in the dark.

Mickey squinted real hard. He was feeling pretty stupid now. He'd made it all up; he was almost sure of it… But he still wasn't going to go back and pick up his lunch box. Maybe in the morning. Maybe in the spring sometime.

What a little baby! Afraid of the dark! He finally went in the house.

Mary K. was in the kitchen dicing vegetables with a big knife on the butcher block. The TV was turned on to “The Mary Tyler Moore Show.”

“How was practice, Mickey Mouse? You look beat up. Wash, huh? Dinner's almost ready. I said-how was your basketball practice, fella?”

“Oh, uh… I don't know how to do a stupid lay-up. It was okay.”

Then Mickey Kevin smoothly disappeared, slid like a shadow into the downstairs bathroom. He didn't wash his hands and face, though, and he didn't turn on the overhead light.

Very slowly, he lifted a handful of lace curtain. He stared out into the dark, very creepola backyard, squinting his eyes tightly again.

He still couldn't see anybody.

The stupid cat, their stupid cat Mortimer, was playing with his lunch box. There was nobody else. Nobody had really chased him, he was suddenly sure.

But Mickey Kevin couldn't see the real-life bogeyman watching the Carroll house from the darkened back lot. He couldn't see the fearsome Sten machine pistol or the man holding it, fingering it so expertly.

Washington, D.C.

It was just after five o'clock when Colonel Duriel Williamson strode into a windowless office hidden away inside the twenty-nine-acre concrete complex known as the Pentagon.

Arch Carroll was already waiting in the Spartan, bureaucratic green room. So was Captain Pete Hawkins, who had formally escorted Carroll from the visitor's pickup desk back through the dizzying grid of tightly interlocking Pentagon corridors.

Colonel Williamson was an imposing black man. He was in the full-dress uniform of the U.S. Special Forces-including a blood-red beret, cocked jauntily. His hair, a bristly salt and pepper, was regulation length and looked appropriately stern. His voice was starched but showed heavy hints of irony.

Everything about Duriel Williamson said “No bullshit permitted here. State your business, mister.”

Captain Hawkins made the introductions in a polite if strictly formal military fashion. Hawkins was clearly a career bureaucrat, a survivor.

“Mr. Archer Carroll from the Defense Intelligence Agency, on special assignment by order of the president… Colonel Duriel Williamson from Special Forces. Colonel