Black Friday (or Black Market) - James Patterson [32]
He watched attentively. Nothing could have drawn his eyes away from her, short of a second Wall Street bombing raid…
There was a twinkle in her eyes, an unexpected hint of sweetness in her smile. Was it really sweetness though? How could she hold down the job she had if she was sweet? Sweet was not in the Wall Street lexicon.
She was chic—even in a conservative, salt and pepper tweed business suit.
Most of all, though, she looked untouchable.
That was the single word that seemed to sum up Caitlin Dillon best.
Untouchable.
His attention drifted back to her speech, which was a succinct description of the Green Band emergency, of the current state of Wall Street’s insufficient computer records, and the stoppage of all international transfers of funds.
She had some sobering and scary material up there on the podium.
“Surprisingly, there’s still been no further contact by the terrorist group. Whatever kind of group they are…. As you may know, no actual demands were made. No ultimatums. Absolutely no reason has been given so far for what happened on Friday.
“There’ll be another meeting after this, for my people and for the analysts. We have to get something going with the computers before the Market opens on Monday. If not…. I would expect major unpleasantness.”
The meeting room was suddenly still. The scraping of feet, all paper shuffling stopped.
“Are we talking about a Stock Market panic? Some kind of crash? What sort of major unpleasantness?” someone called out.
Caitlin paused before she spoke again. It was obvious to Carroll that she was choosing her next words with extreme care and diplomacy.
“I think we all have to recognize… that there is a possibility, even a likelihood of some form of Market panic on Monday morning.”
“What constitutes a panic in your mind? Give us a for-instance.” A senior Wall Street man spoke.
“The Market could lose several hundred points very quickly. In a matter of hours. That’s if they decide to open on Monday. In Tokyo, London, Geneva, the subject’s still under discussion.”
“Are we talking about a potential Black Friday situation? Are you saying there could actually be a Stock Market crash?” A voice rose from the back of the auditorium.
Caitlin frowned. She recognized the speaker, a stiff, stuffy bean counter from one of the larger Midtown New York banks.
“I’m not saying anything yet As I suggested before, if we had a more modem system of computers down here, if Wall Street had joined the rest of the twentieth century— we’d know a lot more. Tomorrow is Monday. We’ll all see what happens then. We should be prepared. That’s what I’m suggesting—preparedness. For a change.”
With that, Caitlin Dillon abruptly stepped down off the auditorium stage. As Carroll watched her walk alone to the back doors of the room, he became conscious of another figure approaching him from the side.
He turned in his seat and saw Captain Francis Nicolo from the New York City Bomb Squad, a cop who liked to think he was something of a dandy in his three-piece pinstriped suits and sleek, waxed moustache.
“A moment, Arch,” Nicolo said, and gestured for Carroll to follow.
They hurried out of the room and along various dimly lit Stock Exchange corridors, Carroll trailing behind.
Nicolo opened the door to a small inner office tucked directly behind the Trading Floor. He closed it with a secretive gesture when Carroll was inside.
“What’s happening?” Carroll asked, both curious and slightly amused. ‘Talk to me, Francis.”
“Check this,” Nicolo said. He pointed to a plain cardboard box propped on the desk. “Open it. Go ahead.”
“What is it?” Carroll hesitantly stepped toward the desk. He laid the tips of his fingers lightly against the box lid.
“Open it. Won’t bite your widgit off.”
Carroll removed the lid. “Where the hell did this come from?” he asked. “Christ, Frank.”
“Janitor found it behind a cistern in one of the men’s rooms,” Nicolo answered.
Carroll stared at the device, at the length of shiny green ribbon that was wound elaborately