Black Market by James Patterson Page B

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,” said a senior Wall Street man.
    “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.”
    “Several hundred points!” Quite a few of the brokers groaned. Carroll watched them envision their comfortable lives eroding. The stretch Mercedeses, the Westchester estates, the fashionable clothes-everything gone. It's so fucking fragile, he thought.
    “Are we talking about a potential Black Friday situation?” asked someone from the back of the auditorium. “Are you saying there could actually be a stock market crash?”
    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 like that yet. As I suggested before, if we had a more modern 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 see what happens then. We should be prepared. That's what I'm suggesting-preparedness. For a change.”
    With that, Caitlin Dillon stepped down from the stage. As Carroll watched her leave the room, he became conscious of another figure approaching him: Captain Francis Nicolo from the New York City Bomb Squad, a cop who liked to think he was something of a dandy with his sleek, waxed mustache and his three-piece pin-striped suits.
    “A moment, Arch,” Nicolo said, and gestured rather mysteriously 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 widget 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. “Scared the living piss out of the poor guy.”
    Carroll stared at the device, at the length of shiny green ribbon that was wound elaborately around it. Green Band.
    “It's harmless,” Nicolo said. “It was never meant to go off.”
    Arch Carroll continued to stare at the makings of a professional terrorist's bomb. It was never meant to go off, he thought. Another warning? “They could have totaled this place,” he said with a sick feeling.
    Nicolo made a clucking sound. “Easily,” he said. “Plastique, like all the others. Whoever did it knew what the hell he was up to, Arch.”
    Carroll wandered over to the window and peered down into the street, where he saw New York cops standing all over the place, where he saw the incomprehensible war zone.

9
    Using a tine of his fork, Sergeant Harry Stemkowsky punctured each of the three sunny-side-up eggs staring at him from his breakfast platter that Sunday morning. He lathered on a thick wave of ketchup, then buttered and spread strawberry preserves on a row of four hot toasted bialy halves. He was ready to rock and roll.
    The superb greasy-spoon meal was his usual breakfast: corned beef hash, eggs, and bialys. The place was the Dream Doughnut Coffee at Twenty-third Street and Tenth Avenue. The meal arrived at the table