Black Market

44

Virginia

Thomas More Elliot's palms were unpleasantly dry and cold. He suppressed a nervous tic that was starting to pulse in his throat. He finally stepped out of the dark blue stretch limousine and into the chill Virginia winter air. Dead trees were silhouetted against the gray skyline, and in the distance there was the sound of bird hunters' gunshots.

He turned and walked up the fieldstone steps that led to the large double doors of an imposing thirty-room country house. He paused before going in and sucked air deeply into his lungs.

Inside, the cavernous front hall was badly overheated. He felt a trickle of sweat run along his collar. His footsteps echoed on the marble floor as he crossed to a great curving flight of stairs that led up to the floors above. It was not a house that Thomas More Elliot enjoyed. Its very size, its history of late, made him uncomfortable.

When he reached the landing, he came to an ornately carved walnut door. It shone so deeply from years of meticulous care that he could almost see his own indistinct reflection in it.

He opened the door and walked in.

A group of men sat around a long, polished oak table. They were dressed mostly in dark business suits. Some of them, including General Lucas Thompson, were retired military and naval commanders. Others were influential bankers, landowners, proprietors of TV stations, and highly respected newspapers.

The man at the head of the table, a retired admiral with a shining bald head, waved at the vice president. “Sit down, Thomas. Sit. Please.

“A year ago,” the admiral continued once Elliot had taken a seat, “we met in this very room. Our mood that day was one of some agitation…”

There was a polite ripple of laughter.

“We debated, I'm sure we all remember, the complex problem posed by the so-called Red Tuesday plan, the plan that was hatched-if that's the word-in Tripoli by the oil-producing nations… There were rather heated arguments that day.”

The admiral smiled. Thomas Elliot thought he resembled a rather smug school principal on award day at a private academy.

“On that day we reached a decision-unanimous, finally-to create what we called Green Band. I believe the name was something I suggested myself, a name with both financial and military connotations.”

The admiral continued in sanctimonious tones, “We are here today to confirm that the paramilitary operation called Green Band was a success. We created temporary panic in the economic system. A panic we were able to control. We took hundreds of millions of dollars back from the oil-producing cartel. We brilliantly usurped the terrorist plan known as Red Tuesday. The world will find Jimmy Hoffa before they ever locate the body of François Monserrat… And with the destruction of Green Band and the inevitable death of our volatile associate, Colonel Hudson, the file should be closed on this unfortunate episode in our history… We are making every effort to make certain that it is.”

Thomas Elliot shifted on his chair. The atmosphere in the large room was changing subtly. The men were beginning to loosen up, to move toward a celebratory atmosphere, one that was muted, quiet, and, most of all, tasteful.

The admiral said, “In approximately two weeks, Justin Kearney will dramatically resign his presidency… He will be remembered chiefly as a scapegoat for the economic near tragedy… More important, though”-and here all eyes in the room turned toward Thomas More Elliot-”Thomas Elliot will ascend to that office…”

There was an outbreak of mild applause. Elliot looked around at the eleven men. His own presence brought the number to an even dozen.

The twelve men who effectively ran America, the American Wise Men.

“Later,” said the admiral, “there will be champagne and cigars. For the moment, Thomas, our dry congratulations to you, and I think to everyone in this room…”

The admiral looked reflective for a moment. “In a few weeks, for the first time, one of us will occupy the highest office in the land. And that means our control is tighter, more sure than ever before…” He looked down the row of men. “Which means we will no longer need to contend with a president who doesn't think the way we do… someone who imagines his power is independent of what we bestow.”

Thomas More Elliot stared off into the gray light that lay against the window. His throat had become suddenly dry. He reached for the water pitcher on the table. He was about to say something that would not contribute to the general mood of contentment in the room. But that couldn't be helped. Somebody had to deliver the news.

“I have heard from our people in New York City. A man called Archer Carroll is in police custody there. I have been told that he is talking… that he's telling his story to anyone who will listen… and that certain media representatives are paying very close attention to what he is saying.”

Thomas More Elliot sipped his tepid water.

“What does he know?” the admiral asked eventually.

“Everything,” the vice president said.