Black Friday (or Black Market) - James Patterson [36]
Colonel Hudson paused. His eyes slowly roamed across the room.
“I think that’s all I have to say.… Except one important thing… I wish you all the very best luck possible. I wish you the best, in the future after this mission.… I believe in you. Believe in yourselves.”
Chapter 26
IT WAS THREE O’CLOCK on Sunday afternoon when Carroll kicked both weathered Timberland work boots up on his desk inside No. 13. He yawned until his jaw cracked.
He’d finished four draining and futile interrogations. He’d been lied to by the very best—the most dangerous provocateurs and terrorists from all around New York.
Carroll had purposely chosen a cramped office for himself, tucked away at the back of the Wall Street building. His small but hardy DIA group, a half-dozen unorthodox police renegades, two efficient and extremely resilient secretaries, surrounded the uninspiring office in a satellite of Wall Street-style cubicles.
Paint peeled from the walls of Carroll’s office like diseased skin; the windowpane had been shattered courtesy of Green Band. He’d tacked a square of brown paper to the hole but rain soaked through anyway.
The first four suspects Carroll had interviewed were known terrorists who lived in the New York City area: two FALN, a PLO, an IRA fund-raiser. Unfortunately, the four were no more knowledgeable about the Wall Street mystery man Carroll was himself. There was nothing circulating on the street. Each of them convincingly swore to that after exhaustively long sessions.
Carroll wondered how it could be possible.
Somebody had to know something about Green Band. You couldn’t calmly blow away half of Wall Street and keep it a state secret for over forty hours.
The scarred and rusted wooden door into his office opened again. Carroll watched the door over the smoking cardboard lid of his coffee container.
Mike Caruso, who worked for Carroll at the DIA, finally peeked inside. Caruso was a small, skinny, ex-office cop, with a black fifties pompadour pushed up high over his forehead. He habitually wore wretched Hawaiian shirts outside his baggy pants, attempting to create a splash of colorful identity in the usually drab police world. Carroll liked him immensely for his dedicated lack of style.
“We got Isabella Marqueza up next. She’s already screaming for her fancy Park Avenue lawyer. I mean the lady is fucking screaming out there.”
“That sounds promising. Somebody’s upset at least. Why don’t you bring her in?
Chapter 27
MOMENTS LATER THE Brazilian woman appeared like a sudden tropical windstorm inside the office.
“You can’t do this to me! I’m a citizen of Brazil!”
“Excuse me. You must be mistaking me for somebody who gives a shit. Why don’t you sit down. “Carroll spoke without getting up from his cluttered work desk.
“Why? Who do you think you are?”
“I said, sit down. I ask the questions, not you.”
Carroll leaned back in his chair and studied Isabella Marqueza. The Brazilian woman had shoulder-length, gleaming black hair. Her lips were full and painted very red. There was an arrogant tilt to her chin.
Her hair, her clothes, even her skin seemed expensive and cosmopolitan. She had on tight gray velvet riding pants, a silk shirt, cowboy boots, a half-length fur jacket Terrorist chic, Carroll thought.
“You dress like a very wealthy Che Guevara.” Carroll finally smiled.
“I don’t appreciate your attempt of humor, senhor.”
“No, well, join the crowd.” Carroll’s smile now broadened. “I don’t appreciate your attempts at mass murder.”
Carroll already knew this woman by reputation. Isabella Marqueza was an internationally renowned journalist and news-magazine photographer. She was the daughter of a wealthy man who owned tire factories in Sao Paulo, Brazil. Though it apparently couldn’t be proved,