Black Market

13

Paris, France

Paris… a powerful man named Michel Chevron… Green Band…

The idea of the magnificent city filled Carroll with something akin to dread. Even as he sat inside a dark blue State Department limousine, riding down the rue Saint-Honoré, Carroll didn't want to look out at the streets. He didn't want to acknowledge that he was truly back in the splendid French capital.

The street sounds he heard pressing against the limousine were like the rattling of old bones. For Carroll, this Paris was a city of sharply painful memories. This Paris was Nora and himself in another age and time. This Paris was a fading decal imprinted with the spectral shapes of two young, carefree honeymooners who wandered all the boulevards, holding hands, who stopped to kiss impulsively every so often, who couldn't keep from touching each other constantly even in the most casual of ways.

Carroll stared at the two American flags that flapped regally on the bumpers of the luxury car. Make believe you're somewhere else, he told himself.

Christ, though, the memories kept coming back like a forceful tide. Nora sipping café au lait on the crowded boulevard Saint-Germain. Nora smiling and laughing as they made all the tourist stops-the Eiffel Tower, Montparnasse, the banks of the Seine, the Latin quarter.

Carroll felt a tightening around his throat. It was a sense of the unfairness that had ended Nora's life, and it crowded him uncomfortably now.

Near the Sorbonne, a man with a reptilian face crouched and pretended to hurl a spoiled grapefruit at the smooth, cruising symbol of American wealth and power.

Seated in the gray velvet rear salon of the car, Carroll flinched at the sight of the man. But when the prospect of the grapefruit assault had passed, he relaxed a little and tried to shake his head free of the fog of overseas jet lag. He opened his bulky Green Band file and began to look over his scribbled notes. He knew work would be a salvation from the memories of this town. If he dug into his material on Green Band, he could make himself a foxhole safe from the scenes that passed by.

How could Green Band have isolated itself so well from the terrorist underground? How could there be no rumor, no concrete leads, anywhere out on the street? And what was the ultimate reason for the New York financial district bombing?

Something else occurred to Carroll: What if he was still looking in all the wrong places?

“Société Générale bank, monsieur. Vous êtes arrivé. You have arrived safely, comfortably, I hope… This is le Quartier de la Bourse.”

Arch Carroll climbed out of the limousine and slowly walked inside Société Générale.

The bank building itself, the cavernous lobby, the hand-operated elevators, were all carved stone and exquisitely gilded. Everything was regal and impressive, the kind of background against which American tourists would take pictures to later put in albums.

The prestigious French financial institution reminded Carroll quite powerfully of another era. Compared with Wall Street, it was visually softer and more civilized to behold. It was as if money were not the major game being played here. The aim was something less vulgar, something even spiritual, perhaps. In actuality, le Quartier de la Bourse occupied the former site of a Dominican convent. No matter the history of the place, no matter the artistic appeal, it was the same religion you found on Wall Street. Gentility and manners, these were only illusions.

Michel Chevron, Carroll thought, remembering why he was there. Chevron and the massive, secretive European black market.

The question was whether Chevron really fit into the frustrating Green Band puzzle and whether there was a bridge, even a frail one, linking Chevron with François Monserrat.

The bank executive's personal assistant was a thin, sickly-looking man of perhaps twenty-eight. He had white-blond hair, closely cropped, almost punk in style. He sat stiffly behind an antique desk, which in New York would have seemed inappropriate for anyone except a chief executive. He wore a double-breasted pin-striped suit, a funereal, mauve four-in-hand tie.

Carroll tried to imagine applying for a loan from this chilly character, something for home repair, maybe, a room extension, or an underground sprinkler system. He could just see the bank assistant sniffling over the application papers with an expression of mild disgust. He knew this particular assistant would turn him down flat, possibly even laugh at him.

“My name is Archer Carroll. I'm here from New York to see Monsieur Chevron. I spoke to someone yesterday on the telephone.”

“Yes, to me.” The bank assistant addressed him as a country gentleman would address a stable hand on the subject of a gelding's health. “Director Chevron has provided fifteen minutes… at eleven forty-five.”

Observing the bank assistant's manner and tone, Carroll had the impression that only a very few names could have been substituted for “Director Chevron” in the assistant's reply-names like de Gaulle or Napoleon. Maybe even the Lord God Almighty.

“Director has an important lunch at twelve. You will please wait. The sofa for waiting is there, Monsieur Carroll.”

Arch Carroll nodded his head slowly. Reluctantly he wandered over to a tight nest of art deco couches. He sat down and clenched his hands together. He was trying to fight back anger now, seething anger. On the telephone the bank assistant had set up a meeting firmly for eleven o'clock. He was right on time, and he'd traveled several thousand miles to be here.

Michel Chevron was right behind those heavy oak doors, he kept thinking, probably laughing up his well-tailored sleeve at the ugly American outside in reception…

He steadily drummed his fingers on his knee. His right loafer tapped against the elegant marble floor. At fifteen minutes to twelve, the bank assistant set down his slender silver fountain pen. He looked up from a thick sheaf of paperwork. He smacked his purplish lips before he spoke.

“You may see Director Chevron now. Will you please follow me?”

A moment or so later, Director Michel Chevron, a tall man with an equine face and shock of ink-black hair that stood up on his head like a fuzzy yarmulke, said, “Mr. Carroll, so good of you to come to Paris,” almost as if this transatlantic journey were something Carroll did every other day of the week.

Carroll was ushered into an intimidating, old-world chief executive's office. Tall, glass-enclosed bookcases filled with antiquarian books crowded one paneled wall. Along the other, there were crimson-draped casement windows looking out onto a narrow gray stone terrace. The ceiling was at least twelve feet high, beautifully sculpted, ornamented with grinning bronze cherubs. A glass chandelier hung down like the world's heaviest key chain.

Michel Chevron remained standing behind his massive desk. He was obviously impressed with himself, his position, and all the trappings of success that surrounded him. A regal Fragonard hung directly behind the bank executive.

The Frenchman began to speak rapid, excellent English as soon as his assistant left the room. His tone remained cool and superior, and Carroll felt inferior all over again.

“There is a slight problem, Monsieur Carroll. A regrettable circumstance, beyond anyone's control. I'm very sorry, but I have an important engagement at Taillevent. The restaurant, monsieur? The rest of my afternoon is equally bad… I can spare these few moments with you only.”

Arch Carroll could suddenly feel a very hot place in his stomach. He knew the sensation well, and he tried to ignore it, but a familiar fuse was burning. When the spark reached close to his emotional arsenal, there was very little he could do to stop the explosion.

“All right, then just shut the hell up now,” Carroll said, raising his voice suddenly. “I don't have time to be civil anymore. You kept me waiting through my polite and civil period.”

The French bank executive broke into a disdainful smile. “Monsieur, you don't seem to understand whose country you're in now. This is not America. You have no authority whatsoever here. I freely consented to see you, in the spirit of international cooperation only.”

Carroll immediately reached into his coat pocket and sent a light tan envelope spinning across Chevron's handsome desk.

“Here's your spirit of international cooperation. A warrant for your arrest. It's signed by the commissaire de police, Monsieur Blanche of the Sûreté. I met with him before I came here. The formal charges include extortion, bribery of public officials, fraud. I'm honored to be the one to deliver the good news to you.”

Arch Carroll couldn't help smiling. His only regret was that Chevron's huffy assistant wasn't there.

Michel Chevron sat down heavily on his chair.

He covered his face, now drained of all color, with his long, elegantly manicured fingers. His features appeared to have imploded, so that the face looked crinkled, like a concertina devoid of air. Carroll loved the look.

“All right, Mr. Carroll. You've made your point. Why exactly have you come here? What information is it that you wish to extract from me?”

Carroll eased himself onto the chair across from Michel Chevron. The Frenchman's voice was still cool and controlled, even if his features had undergone an unflattering transformation.

“For starters, I'd like to know about the European and Middle Eastern black markets. I need specific names, places, specific dates. How the black market is structured, the principals involved. And I want to hear all about Francois Monserrat.”

Chevron cleared his throat hoarsely. “You have no idea what you're saying, what you're asking of me. You have no idea the predicament you're placing me in. We are speaking of billions of dollars. We are speaking of participants of a less than savory nature… The French Corso… the Italian Cosa Nostra.”

Chevron seemed to wipe imaginary crumbs from his fingertips now. He sat back in his chair, and Carroll could see tiny stars of perspiration glistening on the man's forehead. Even the impressive black hair seemed to have lost its color. Carroll felt relaxed and confident for the first time since he'd arrived in Paris.

“I'm listening,” he said. “Keep going. I love stories about the Cosa Nostra.”

But Michel Chevron had already spoken the last words of his life. The oak doors into the executive suite splintered and crashed open.

For one frightening, incomprehensible moment Carroll imagined that what had happened on Wall Street was repeating itself in Paris. He jumped from his chair and turned to face the shattered door.

Three heavily armed men in trench coats had come from the director's reception area. Each had a machine pistol drawn. In the narrow corridor behind them stood Michel Chevron's blond assistant, armed with a small black Beretta.

Carroll's lingering jet lag suddenly left him. He was already diving across the floor. Glass and expensive wood were everywhere around him. Machine pistol explosions slashed through the previously secure and elegant office suite.

The terrifying volley nailed Michel Chevron against the wall. His body arched spastically, then spun to the floor. His blue suit was instantly blood soaked. Particles of bone and flesh floated through ghostly spirals of gunsmoke in the office suite.

The professional assailants now switched their attention to Carroll. Hollow-headed slugs thudded like hammer blows into the oak-paneled walls all around him.

His heart pounding, Carroll crawled beyond the heavy drapes, which fanned the air as bullets ripped through the fabric. Sharp needles of glass and wood pierced his hands.

He scrambled to his feet, the glass slivers slicing deeper with every movement. The outside terrace was a narrow stone catwalk, sixteen stories above the Paris street. The walkway seemed to stretch around the entire length of the floor.

Carroll inched toward the nearest corner of the building, bloodying the ancient stone. He could hear the deafening gunshots, followed by screams of incredulous terror and agony inside the bank offices. Machine pistols coughed and fired repeatedly, insanely.

French terrorists? The brigade? François Monserrat?

What was happening now?

Who had known he was going to be here?

Bullets were whistling past his head, nicking the brooding stone body of a crouching gargoyle. Behind him and to the left, he registered the direction of the gunfire and glanced over his shoulder.

Two of the assassins were closing fast, their leather trench coats flapping. They were the kind of European thugs he thought existed only in French movies. Painfully, Carroll raised his own gun. He fired, hearing the slightly unreal, muted spit of the silencer in his ears.

The man running in front grabbed his chest, then stumbled and fell over the stone wall, somersaulting sixteen stories to the street.

“Oh, goddammit!” Carroll suddenly clutched his shoulder. Blood spread instantly where he'd been shot. He felt sick and afraid. These could be the final seconds of his life. He could hardly breathe as he stumbled around the next stone corner of the building.

He moved now as if he were in a bad dream.

He weakly moved to another clear stretch of stone terrace. The walkway ended abruptly at a gray brick wall topped by severe iron fencing.

He was dizzy. He could taste warm blood in his mouth. Piercing chest pains came with each breath. The wounded arm ached with a deep, searing pain such as he'd never felt before.

To die suddenly here in Paris seemed ironic and appropriate.

To die here surrounded by memories of Nora.

He watched the sky slip away from him. The wintry sun was a hard uncaring disk.

Carroll used his good arm on the restraining wall and vaulted over the side. He saw a spinning flash of cars sixteen floors below. And cold concrete, as gray as a tombstone.

As he landed safely on the terrace six feet below, he struck his wounded shoulder hard against a slab of granite. The pain that exploded was a savage, biting agony. Blinded by it, he forced himself toward a casement door that opened as he leaned into it.

He was bleeding badly now. He could see a package-crowded stockroom, and he stumbled in. Crouched on trembling legs, he waited. Airborne Express mail was stacked all around. There was no possible place to hide if they came through. If they found him now.

He couldn't think clearly. Everything was blurry. His forehead, his cheeks, and the back of his neck throbbed from the splinters of glass embedded in his flesh. He felt dizzy and sick. And he was filled with rage.

Gunshot explosions and horrible screams continued to echo through the Société Générale building. Then warbling police sirens shrieked and howled outside. They filled the air with the sudden news of terrifying disaster. Carroll finally took off his shirt and wrapped it tightly around his bleeding arm.

Michel Chevron would be telling nothing about the powerful black market in Europe and the Middle East now. Nothing about what Green Band might be.

Who was behind this horrifying noonday massacre? What could the French banker Michel Chevron have possibly known?

Carroll was too weak to stand. He slumped against a plaster wall, his head down between his knees.

What could Chevron have possibly known?

What could be worth this terrifying massacre?

What in the name of God could justify this?