Black Friday (or Black Market) - James Patterson [88]
‘I hope that it continues like this, and doesn’t come crashing down.”
Carroll was silent, studying the oddly uplifting scene in front of him. Somebody had found a tape player and the sound of Scottish bagpipers could be heard over the general din. Somebody was dragging in a couple of cases of champagne. There was something just a little forced in the celebration—but what the hell? These were people who’d been about to fall off the edge of their world and, slippery though it might be, they’d found temporary footing.
Still…
Still…
Even as Carroll sipped champagne, something inside kept him from getting too hopeful. This is all premature, he was thinking as the party heightened in intensity.
Where is Green Band? Is Green Band watching right now?
What are they thinking? Where are they taking us next? What kind of party are they having today?
Chapter 66
CARROLL HAD DECIDED to start at the beginning. Square one again. He thoroughly checked and rechecked every early lead, every hunch he’d ever had about Green Band. The task would take countless hours, he knew. It would require an intense search through the computers, even allowing for the fact that he had high-speed data at his disposal.
Ah, police work.
He asked for clearance from both the CIA and the FBI to make a search of their computer files. Neither organization gave him trouble, although Phil Berger imposed limitations on Carroll’s access.
Nearly eleven hours later, Carroll stood before a dozen or so computer screens inside the Emergency Room at No. 13 Wall. Carroll stared at the screens and his eyes ached from the dull green glow.
He glanced at Caitlin, who sat with her fingers raised over a computer keyboard, ready to type out a password for further access to the FBI’s files.
When the display screen answered, she typed again, this time requesting a readout of active and nonactive Viet Nam veterans who, for whatever reason, had been under police surveillance during the past two years—a time frame she and Carroll had agreed on.
She added the subcategory: Explosive experts. New York and vicinity. Possible subversive leanings.
There was a long pause, a spooky electronic pause, then the machine began its requested readout of American soldiers.
Carroll had been down this particular route of investigation, only not with the Crisis Room equipment and Caitlin’s help. American terrorist-related groups were out there, but none were considered powerful or well-organized. Phil Berger of the CIA had been investigating paramilitary groups himself. He had waved Carroll off that trail.
“Can you print out a list of the hard cases?” Carroll asked Caitlin.
“This is a computer. It can do anything if you ask nicely.”
The printer obligingly kicked back into life. Paper slid through it as the dot matrix clacked back and forward. A total count showed no more than ninety names of current soldiers and veterans with extensive explosives experience in Viet Nam; men who the FBI considered important enough to keep track of. Carroll ripped the scroll of paper from the printer and took it to a desk, spreading the thing out.
Adamski, Stanley. Corporal. Three-years VA Hospital, Prescott, Arizona. Member of left-wing oriented veterans group called the Rams, ostensibly a biker’s club.
Carroll wondered how much of this was standard FBI paranoia?
The list was filled with dizzying cross-references, he soon discovered. One name was connected to another, creating a mazelike effect. You could spend months working on all the permutations.
Keresty, John. Sergeant. Munitions expert. Discharged VA Hospital, Scranton, Pa., 1974. Occupation: custodian, plastics corp. Member of the American Socialist Party. Ridgewood, New Jersey. SEE: Rhinehart, Jay T.; Jones, James; Winston files.
The lists went on and on for pages.
Carroll massaged his eyelids. He went for two coffees, returned to the work desk and even more sprawling computer sheets.
He said, “Any one of these men, or two or three of them, working in tandem, could have helped blow up