Walter Trentkamp stood in dramatic silence before the restless audience. He was tense. Streaks of light sweat highlighted his face, and the collar of his shirt was damp. Caitlin hadn't seen the FBI chief this anxious before.
Trentkamp cleared his throat. The scene reminded Caitlin of high-level press conferences held in Washington, emergency meetings called on short notice.
“You have no doubt heard the rumor that a significant development has occurred in the Green Band investigation… It was uncovered through the tireless effort of Captain Francis Nicolo and Sergeant Rizzo in NYPD Ballistics.”
Nicolo-”Waxy Frank”-appeared in the crowd alongside Joe Rizzo. Both men were beaming, taking an imperceptible bow.
“These men have been working tirelessly since the bombing on December fourth. Finally, their labors have paid a big dividend.”
There were a couple of appreciative mumbles in the room and a halfhearted attempt at applause. Nicolo and Rizzo shuffled their feet like schoolboys at an honors presentation.
“Sergeant?” Trentkamp said. “Come up here, please.”
Rizzo stepped forward awkwardly and hoisted a chart onto a metal stand. On the chart a police artist had sketched the major buildings of the financial district in black and white. The structures that had been bombed were colored traffic-signal red. Each of the bombed-out buildings also had a bold violet ring drawn around it. Caitlin noticed that the purple rings were at widely different levels on the fourteen buildings.
Rizzo began, “The buildings marked with red were all hit around six-thirty on December fourth. The bombs were definitely detonated by remote signals. The signal might have been operated from as far away as eight or ten miles.”
Rizzo paused, blew his nose in a big white handkerchief, then went on: “The violet rings on the buildings were drawn to indicate where the explosions actually took place. The plastique packages were actually placed here, here, here, et cetera.
“As you can see, the plastique was planted on different floors in all fourteen buildings. The second floor at Twenty-two Broad. Fifteenth floor at Manufacturers Hanover. And so on. You can all see that plainly.” Rizzo looked around at the faces in the room as if he were challenging someone to disagree.
“There's no special pattern to this. At least, that's what we thought up to now. Last night, though, we found a connection we'd missed…
“Look here! Each of the circled floors actually contains one of that building's messenger rooms. Either a drop-off or a package-mail station. What threw us off this approach was the fact that messenger drop-off stations and the mailroom in these buildings aren't always the same. Not even on the same floor. Some of the Wall Street buildings have drop-off stations on every floor. You all see what I'm driving at?”
Sergeant Joe Rizzo paused for effect, then said, “Gentlemen, the actual bombs were all hand-delivered. Probably by a regular commercial messenger who would go unnoticed.”
Rizzo once again looked around the suddenly quiet room. “There are more than two hundred messenger services in and around Wall Street. Jimmy Split, Speedo, Fireball, Bullet, to name a few. You've probably seen most of them yourselves. We're going to contact every single one of those services. Chances are at least one of them was contacted by our friends, Green Band Perhaps several were used to deliver the plastique on December fourth!”
Rizzo paused again. “What this means is' that some goof-ball messenger is going to help break this thing open! Tonight we hit the streets. Tonight we run this thing down!”
Caitlin felt the tremendous surge of energy that coursed through the room as the men began to disperse. They had suddenly come alive, after days of pounding on walls, days of pursuing an investigation that had been going absolutely nowhere. She was almost swept aside as eager policemen and detectives crushed toward the door.
A Wall Street messenger service.
A slight shiver traveled through her.
Messenger service?…
Caitlin turned and left the meeting room; she started back to her own office. She had just remembered something.
She started to run down the corridor.
Carroll was certain he was being followed. A dark car had tracked his cab from Kennedy Airport all the way into the financial district.
When he stepped out of the taxi at 13 Wall Street, the tracking car went skirting past. He couldn't see the faces inside, only shapes, two or three men huddled together. Why were they following him? Who had sent them? Who was tracking the tracker?
He disappeared into number 13 and went quickly to Caitlin's office. He was filled with the strongest need to see her, to talk to somebody he could trust.
She rose from her desk, where she'd been studying a printout of the names of U.S. veterans the computer had supplied before. She hugged him, and Carroll didn't want to let her go. They pressed tightly into each other's bodies. They kissed with an urgency neither of them had acknowledged before.
Caitlin finally disentangled herself. “How was Washing; ton?” She was smiling, relieved to see him.
“Interesting. More man just interesting,” Carroll said.
He told her about the FBI's file on David Hudson, about his visit with General Lucas Thompson.
Caitlin brought him up to date on the developments explained by Sergeant Rizzo. She indicated the computer printout she'd been studying when he had arrived.
“Maybe this is coincidence, Arch. Maybe it doesn't mean a thing. But on this FBI list of veterans there's an explosives expert whose occupation is cabdriver and messenger. The home address is New York City.”
“Which name?” Carroll asked. He was already scanning the lengthy list.
“A man called Michael Demunn… who just happened to serve under Colonel David Hudson in Vietnam.”
“Does it say which messenger service?” He looked up from the printout.
Caitlin shook her head. “It shouldn't be too difficult to find out. Let's see.”
Carroll waited while Caitlin made a couple of quick telephone calls. He slid his investigation pad out of his coat and impatiently flipped through those familiar pages that had chronicled Green Band's false starts and stops from the beginning.
There were several different organizational headings now:
Interviews. Physical Evidence. Suspects. Miscellaneous.
David Hudson… the mastermind?
West Point. 1966. Special Forces. Rangers.
Golden boy? The all-American boy?
Fort Bragg. JFK Special Warfare Center and School. Severe stress testing. Experimentation with drugs. Preparing Hudson for what?
Special terrorist training. By whose orders? Where did that particular chain of command end?
Carroll finally shut the pad in frustration. He absently studied Caitlin, the delicate curve of her spine as she stood with her back to him. The way she was poised on one foot-with the phone cord twisted around her waist.
What do I know that I don't know I know? Carroll's thoughts went back to Green Band.
Washington, D.C.? General Lucas Thompson? A genial white-haired liar. Somebody following me now.
For what reason? On whose orders?
He watched Caitlin put down the receiver.
“Vets Cabs and Messengers,” she said with a sudden grin. “They have a garage in the West Village.”
Carroll stood up. “Call Philip Berger. Then could you call Walter Trentkamp? Tell them to get their men organized, to meet me at-”
“There's more, Arch,” Caitlin interrupted.
She paused for just a beat. “David Hudson works there, too. He's been there for over a year. I think we've finally found Colonel Hudson. We've found Green Band.”
37
Just past midnight on December 19, Colonel David Hudson emotionally addressed the assembly of twenty-four Vets gathered inside the Jane Street garage.
“This has been a long and particularly hard mission for all of you,” he said. “I know that. But at each important stage you've done everything that has been asked of you… I feel very humble standing here before you.”
Hudson paused and looked at the upturned faces. “As we approach the final stages of Green Band, I want to stress one thing. I don't want anyone to take needless risks. Is that understood? Take no chances. Our ultimate goal from here on is zero KIA.”
Again Hudson paused. When he finally spoke, there was an uncharacteristic edge of emotion in his voice. “This will be our last mission together. Thank you once again. I salute you all.”
From that moment, Green Band was designed to be a thoroughly disciplined army-style field maneuver. Every possible detail had been scrutinized again and again.
The grease-stained garage doors at Vets Cabs and Messengers rolled open with a heavy metallic roar. Diffused amber headlights pierced the darkness.
Vets 5, Harold Freedman, ran outside the Vets building. He looked east and west on Jane Street, then began to bark orders like the army drill sergeant he'd once been.
It was just past 12:30 P.M.
If anyone in the West Village neighborhood saw the three army transport trucks emerge from the garage, they paid little attention, in the tried-and-true tradition of New Yorkers.
The trucks finally hurtled down West Street.
Colonel David Hudson crouched attentively on the passenger seat of the lead troop truck. He was in constant walkie-talkie contact with the two other troop transports… This was a disciplined field maneuver in every respect.
They were carefully moving into full combat again. None of them had realized how much they missed it. Even Hudson himself had forgotten the intense clarity that
