Black Friday (or Black Market) - James Patterson [130]
The man at the top of the table, a retired admiral whose bald head shone in the room like a bone, waved one hand at the Vice-president. “Sit down, Thomas. Sit. Please.”
The Vice-president sat.
The Admiral smiled and it wasn’t an expression of mirth. There was an immediate silence in the room.
“A year ago,” the Admiral said, “we met in this very room. Our mood that day was one of some agitation …”
There was a polite ripple of laughter. Self-satisfied laughter spread around the formal library table.
“We debated, I’m sure we all remember, the complex problem posed by the so-called Red Tuesday plan, the plan hatched—if that’s the word—by the oil-producing nations in Tripoli…. There were rather heated arguments that day.”
The Admiral smiled. Elliot thought he resembled a smug school principal on award day at a private academy.
“On that day we reached a decision—unanimous—to create what we called Green Band. I believe the name was something I suggested myself, a name with both financial and military connotations.”
A bird appeared against the casement window of the room, a bleak little sparrow that briefly looked in, then hopped off into the late afternoon light.
The Admiral continued in sanctimonious tones, “We are here today to confirm that the paramilitary operation called Green Band was a success. We created temporary panic in the economic system. A panic we were able to control.
“We usurped the terrorist plan known as Red Tuesday. The world will find Jimmy Hoffa before they locate the body of Francois Monserrat…. And with the destruction of Green Band, the inevitable death of our volatile associate, Colonel Hudson, the file should be closed on this unfortunate episode in our history…. We are making every effort to make certain that it is.”
Elliot shifted his body in his chair. The atmosphere in the large room was changing subtly. The men were beginning to loosen up, to move toward as celebratory an atmosphere as they might ever aspire to—which meant muted, quiet and, most of all, tasteful.
The Admiral said, “In approximately two weeks, Justin Kearney will dramatically resign his presidency…. He will be remembered chiefly as a scapegoat for the economic near-tragedy…. More importantly, though—” and here all eyes in the room turned toward Thomas More Elliot—”Thomas Elliot will ascend to that office…”
There was an outbreak of applause. Elliot looked around at the eleven men in the room. His own presence brought the number to an even dozen.
“Later,” said the Admiral, “there will be champagne and cigars. For the moment, Thomas, our congratulations to you…. And I think to everyone in this room …”
The Admiral looked reflective for a moment.
“In a few weeks, for the first time, one of us will occupy the highest office in the land. And that means our control is tighter, more sure than ever before …” The Admiral looked down at the white hair on the back of his hands. “Which means we will no longer need to contend with a President who doesn’t think the way we do … someone who imagines his power is independent of what we bestow.”
Thomas More Elliot stared off into the gray light that lay against the window. He blinked his pale eyes twice.
He licked his lips, which had become dry. He opened his mouth and his throat felt parched.
He realized that he was about to say something that would not contribute to the general mood of contentment within the room. But that couldn’t be helped. He didn’t like the prospect, but somebody had to deliver the news.
He said, “I have heard from our people in New York City.”
Eleven heads swiveled toward him.
“A man called Archer Carroll is in police custody there.”
A silent pause came to the room with all the suddenness of a stilled pulse.
“It is my information that he is talking…. That he’s telling his story to anyone who will listen…. And that media representatives are paying close attention.”
The silence was a long, unhappy thing.
Thomas More Elliot sipped his tepid