Black Friday (or Black Market) - James Patterson [14]
Now patrolmen Havens and Simmons were alone in the cavernous basement.
Suddenly gold was everywhere around them. Rivers of shining gold ran through the dust and rubble. Gold bars, more than they could possibly count, surrounded them. There was well over a hundred billion dollars at the day’s market price of $386 an ounce, all within their reach.
Patrolman Robert Havens was hyperventilating, taking enormously deep breaths that were almost yawns. His broad, flat face held almost no expression and hadn’t since he and Simmons had entered the Fed building.
Both emergency policemen stopped inching forward suddenly. Robert Havens unconsciously let out a sharp gasp.
“Christ Jesus! What the hell is this?”
An armed Security Guard was sitting in a caned wooden chair directly blocking their path from the gold section into the Fed’s main garage. The cane chair still smoldered.
The guard was staring directly into Robert Havens’ eyes.
Neither man spoke.
The Federal Reserve Bank guard couldn’t; he was beyond words. The man was horribly burned, charred a blistering charcoal black. The sight was so upsetting that the two policemen missed the most important clue at first …
Wrapped around the bank guard’s right arm was a shiny bright green band.
Chapter 10
AS ARCHER CARROLL maneuvered his battered station wagon along the Major Deegan Expressway, the words of the Atlantic Avenue restaurant owner came back to him with the persistence of an unanswerable philosophical question … And what are you?… What are you, please tell me, mister?
He glanced at his tired face in the rearview mirror. Yeah, what are you, Arch? The Rashids and Hussein Moussa are bad people, but you ‘re some kind of national hero, right?
He was drained, completely numb from the night’s carnage. He wanted everything to be quiet and still inside his throbbing head now.
And what are you, mister?
He turned on the car radio, looking for a diversion from his mood.
Almost immediately he heard the news about Wall Street, delivered by a voice edged in the hushed hysteria so favored by newscasters when they describe events of national importance. Carroll increased the volume and stared at the tiny light emitted by the radio.
He concentrated on the newscaster’s tensely delivered reportage. Then there were man-on-the-street interviews recorded against a brassy background of screaming sirens. It was impossible to mistake the shocked tones of the people who spoke.
Carroll tightened both of his hands on the car steering wheel. His mind was crowded with images of urban guerrilla destruction. He understood that Wall Street was a perfect target for any determined terrorist group—but he couldn’t make the necessary jump from his thoughts to the horrible reality of what had happened.
He didn’t want to think about it. He was almost home and he didn’t need to drag the world inside the last sanctuary left to him. Not tonight, anyway.
Chapter 11
MOMENTS LATER, CARROLL swung his stiff, aching body inside the familiar, musty front hallway of his house in the Riverdale section of the Bronx. Automatically, he hung his coat up on the hook under an ancient totem—the snoopy-eyed Sacred Heart of Jesus.
Turn out the night light. Home from the wars at last, he thought.
As he slumped into the living room, Carroll sighed out loud.
“Oh poor Arch. It’s almost eleven-thirty.”
“Sorry. Didn’t see you there, Mary K.”
Mary Katherine Carroll was sitting neatly curled up on one corner of the couch. The room was only dimly illuminated by an amber light from the dining parlor.
“You look like a scuzzy Bowery bag man. Is that blood on your sleeve?