by Tom Clancy
Placing the heavy clipboard on a table, Jody started out. Though it would have been faster to crawl under the tables, she was sure that if she did someone would see her.
At graduation, when Professor Ruiz had informed her that she'd gotten this internship, he'd said that Hollywood might try to discourage her ideas, her creativity, and her enthusiasm. But he'd promised that they would heal and return. He'd warned her, however, never to sacrifice her dignity. Once surrendered, that could not be reacquired. So she walked rather than crawled, deftly edging, leaning, and twisting her way through the maze.
According to the prop list, she needed to get a reversible winter uniform which actually had been worn by a sailor on the Tirpitz. It was hanging in the bathroom because the closet was full of vintage firearms. The local authorities had ordered the guns locked up, and the closet was the only cubicle with a key.
Jody sidled the last few feet to the lavatory. There was a heavy trunk and a heavier table beside it, and she could only open the door partway. She managed to squeeze in, though the door shut behind her and she gagged. The camphor smell was overwhelming, worse than it had ever been at her grandmother's apartment in Brooklyn. Breathing through her mouth, she began flipping through the forty-odd garment bags, looking at the tags on each. She wished she could open the window, but a tic-tac-toe design of metal bars had been welded across it to deter thieves. Reaching the latch and lifting the window would be a pain.
She swore silently. Could anything else possibly go wrong? she asked herself. The tags were written in German.
There was a translation sheet on the clipboard and, with another quiet oath and a mounting sense of urgency, she cracked the door and squeezed back out. As she renegotiated the maze, Jody was suddenly aware of voices outside the trailer. They were coming closer.
Never mind the enthusiasm and creativity, Professor Ruiz, she thought. Jody could see her career ending in about twenty seconds.
The temptation to crawl was great, but Jody resisted.
When she was near enough to the clipboard, she leaned over, hooked an index finger through the hole at the top, and pulled it toward her. Desperate, she began to hum, pretending that she was.on the dance floor and moving like she hadn't moved since the freshman orientation dance. And soon she was back inside the lavatory, the door shut, the clipboard on the sink as she frantically compared the clothes tags to the computer printout attached to the scene list.
CHAPTER SIX
Thursday, 10:07 A.M., Garbsen, Germany
Mr. Buba turned as he heard the voices from behind the trailer.
"…I'm one of those people who never has any luck," a woman was saying. Her voice was raspy and she was speaking quickly. "If I go to a store, it's right after a movie star has been there. If I'm at a restaurant, it's the day before a celebrity dines there. In airports, I miss them by minutes." Mr. Buba shook his head. My, how this woman did go on. Poor Werner.
"So here I am," she continued as they came around the corner. "I accidentally find myself on a movie set, just yards away from a star, and you won't even let me see one." Mr. Buba watched as they approached. The woman was standing directly in front of Werner, whose hat was pulled low, his big shoulders hunched forward. She was waving her arms, practically dancing with frustration. Mr. Buba wanted to tell her that seeing a movie star was no big deal. That they were just like other people, if other people were pampered and obnoxious.
Still, he felt sorry for the young woman. Werner was a stickler for rules, but maybe they could bend them so the poor lady could see a movie star.
"Werner," said his colleague, "since this woman is already our guest, why don't we—" Mr. Buba didn't get to finish his sentence. Stepping from behind the woman, Manfred swung Werner's billy club at the guard. The black wood crashed lengthwise against Mr.
Buba's mouth, and the guard gagged on blood and teeth as he fell back against the prop trailer. Manfred hit him again, on the right temple, spinning Mr. Buba's head to the left.
The guard stopped gagging. He slid to the ground and sat there, leaning against the trailer, blood pooling behind his neck and shoulders.
Manfred opened the door of the cab, threw Werner's bloody club in ahead of him, then climbed in. As he did, a man from the film crew shouted, "Jody!" Karin faced away from the set. She knelt, pulled off her backpack, and slipped out her Uzi.
The short man shook his head and began walking toward the trailer.
"Jody, what the hell are you doing there, our soon-tobe ex-intern?" Karin stood and turned.
The assistant director stopped. He was nearly fifty yards away.
"Hey!" he said. He squinted toward the trailer. "Who are you?" He raised an arm and pointed. "And is that one of our prop guns? You can't—" A confident pup-pup-pup from the Uzi dropped Hollis Arlenna on his back, arms splayed, eyes staring.
The moment he hit the ground, people began screaming and running. At the prompting of a young actress, a young actor tried to make his way to the fallen assistant director. As he crawled toward Arlenna, toward Karin, a second burst from the Uzi slammed into the top of the actor's head. He crumpled in on himself. The young actress shrieked and continued shrieking as she watched from behind a camera.
The trailer's powerful engine growled to life. Manfred revved it, drowning out the cries from the set.
"Let's go," he yelled to Karin as he shut the door of the cab.
The young woman walked backward, behind her Uzi, toward the open door of the trailer itself. Expressionless, she jumped in, pulled up the collapsible stairs, and closed the door.
As Manfred roared off through the woods, Mr. Buba's dead body flopped lifelessly to the ground.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Thursday, 10:12 A.M., Hamburg, Germany
Jean-Michel thought it fitting that his meeting with the leader, the self-proclaimed New Furhrer, was taking place in the St. Pauli district of Hamburg.
In 1682, a church dedicated to St. Paul was erected here, on the hilly banks of the Elbe. In 1814, the French attacked and looted the quiet village and nothing was the same thereafter. Hostels, dance halls, and brothels were built to cater to the steamship sailors who came through, and by the middle of the century the St. Pauli region was known as a district of sin.
Today, at night, St. Pauli was still that. Gaudy neon signs and provocative marquees announced everything from jazz to bowling, live sex shows to tattooists, waxworks to gambling. Innocent-sounding questions like "Do you have the time?" or "Have you got a match?" brought visitors together with prostitutes, while drugs were offered by name in low, careful voices.
It was appropriate that the representative of the New Jacobins should meet Felix Richter here. The new French incursion, and the union of their movements, would change Germany again. This time, for the better.
The Frenchman had left his two traveling companions asleep in the room and caught a taxi outside his hotel on An der Alster. The fifteen-minute ride to St. Pauli ended at Grosse Freiheit, in the heart of the lurid entertainment district. The area was deserted, save for tourists who wanted to see the sights without the enticements.
Jean-Michel pushed back his thick black hair and buttoned his moss-green blazer. Tall and slightly overweight, the forty-three-year-old executive vice president of Demain was looking forward to meeting Richter.
The few who knew him and the fewer who knew him well agreed on two things. First, Richter was dedicated to his cause. That was good. Monsieur Dominique and the rest of the French team were dedicated people as well, and M.
Dominique loathed dealing with anyone who wasn't.
Second, people said that Richter was a man of wild, sudden extremes. He could embrace you or decapitate you, as whimsy dictated. In that respect, Richter appeared to have much in common with Jean-Michel's own shadowy employer. M. Dominique was a man who either hated or loved people, was generous or ruthless as the moment dictated. Napoleon and Hitler were the same way.
It is something in the makeup of leaders, Jean-Mich
el told himself, which does not permit them to be ambivalent.
He was proud to know M. Dominique. He hoped he would be proud to know Herr Richter.
Jean-Michel walked up to the black metal door at the front of Richter's club, Auswechseln. There was nothing on the door save for a fish-eye peephole and a buzzer beneath it. To the left, on the jamb, was the marble head of a goat.
The Frenchman pressed the button and waited.
Auswechseln, or Substitute, was one of the most infamous, decadent, and successful nightspots in St. Pauli, Men had to come with a date. Upon entering, the couple was given one pink and one blue necklace with different numbers; whoever had the matching number was their new date for the evening. Only well-dressed, attractive people were admitted.
A rough voice came from the open mouth of the goat.
"Who is it?" "Jean-Michel Horne," the Frenchman said. He was about to add in German, "I have an appointment with Herr Richter, " but decided not to. If Richter's aides didn't know who was expected, then he was running a sloppy operation.
One from which Jean-Michel and his associates would be wise to walk away.
A moment later the door opened and a bodybuilder over six and a half feet tall motioned Jean-Michel in. The big man shut and locked the door and put a massive hand on the Frenchman's shoulder. He moved Jean-Michel to a spot beside the register, patted him down thoroughly, then held him there for a moment.
Jean-Michel noticed the video camera on the wall and the tiny receiver in the big man's ear. Someone, somewhere, was comparing his image with the fax which had been sent from M. Dominique's office at Demain.
After a moment, the giant said, "Wait here." Then he turned and disappeared into the darkness.
Efficient, Jean-Michel thought as the big man's heavy footsteps thumped across the dance floor. But caution wasn't a bad thing. M. Dominique hadn't gotten where he was either by being careless.
Jean-Michel looked around. The only light came from four red neon rings around the bar to his right. They didn't tell him much about what the club looked like or whether the big man had even left the room. All that the Frenchman knew for certain was that despite the hum of the air vents the place smelled. It was a slightly nauseating blend of stale cigarette smoke, liquor, and lust.
After a minute or two, Jean-Michel heard fresh footsteps. They were considerably different from the first.
They were confident but light and they tapped rather than scraped along the floor. A moment later, Felix Richter stepped into the red light of the bar.
Jean-Michel recognized the dapper thirty-two-year-old from the photographs be had seen. Not that the picture captured the dynamism of the man. Richter stood just under six feet tall, his blond hair short and carefully razor-cut. He was dressed in an impeccably tailored three-piece suit, highly polished shoes, and a black tie with red stripes. He wore no jewelry. Richter's people regarded that as effeminate, and there was no room in the party for that.
"Medals. That is all I allow our men to wear, " Herr Richter had said once in an editorial in his newspaper, Unser Kampf, Our Struggle.
More impressive than Richter's attire, however, were his eyes. The photographs hadn't captured them at all. Even in the red light of the bar, they were riveting. And once they found their target they didn't move. Richter did not seem the kind of man to avert his eyes from anyone.
As the German neared, his right hand moved as if he were drawing a gun slowly. It slid up the leg and hip, then shot straight out. It was a curious but elegant move. The Frenchman shook the hand firmly, surprised by the strength of Richter's grip.
"It was good of you to come," Richter said. "Yet I thought that your employer would be visiting as well." "As you know, M. Dominique, prefers to conduct business from his factory," Jean-Michel said. "With the technology available to him, there's very little reason to leave." "I understand," said Richter. "Never photographed, rarely seen, appropriately mysterious." "M. Dominique is mysterious but not uninterested," Jean-Michel pointed out. "He has sent me to represent him in these discussions, and also to be his eyes and ears during Chaos Days." Richter grinned. "And to make sure that the donation he generously gave to the celebration is being well spent." Jean-Michel shook his head. "You're wrong, Herr Richter. M. Dominique is not like that. He invests in people he believes in." The Frenchman released the German's hand and Richter fell in beside him. Richter took his guest's elbow and ushered him slowly through the darkness.
"Don't feel that you have to defend Dominique to me," Richter said. "It's good business to keep an eye on what your peers are up to." Peers? Jean-Michel thought. M. Dominique owned a billion-dollar manufacturing company and controlled one of the most powerful right-wing groups in France… in the world. He recognized a very select few as his peers. Despite their parallel interests, Herr Richter was not among them.
Richter changed the subject. "The hotel room we booked for you," he said. "It's acceptable?" "Extremely pleasant," Jean-Michel replied. He was still annoyed by Richter's arrogance.
"I'm glad," Richter said. "It's one of the few old hotels left in Hamburg. During the war, the Allies bombed most of the city to dust. Hamburg's misfortune for being a port. It's ironic, though, that so many of these old, wooden buildings survived." He swept his arm as if to embrace all of St. Pauli.
"The Allies didn't attack prostitutes and drunks, only mothers and children. Yet they call us monsters for atrocities like the mythical Holocaust." Jean-Michel found himself responding to Richter's impromptu passion. Though it was illegal in Germany to deny the Holocaust, he knew that while Richter was in medical school he used to do so with regularity. Even having his full scholarship revoked for making anti-Semitic remarks did not stop him. Judicial officials were reluctant to prosecute agitators who were otherwise non-violent, though they were finally forced to go after Richter when a foreign news crew videotaped his "Jewish Lie" speech at Auschwitz and aired it. He spent two years in prison, during which time his aides ran his young operation— making sure that Richter's personal legend grew.
Because of the man's courage and his devotion to the cause, Jean-Michel decided to forget their bad start. Besides, they had business to conduct.
They reached a table and Richter switched on a lamp in the center. Beneath the translucent shade was a small white Pan playing his pipes.
Jean-Michel sat down when Richter did. The light fell just short of the German's eyes, but Jean-Michel saw them anyway. They were almost as translucent as the shade. The man had made a fortune from this club and from a hostess service he operated in Berlin, Stuttgart, Frankfurt, and Hamburg. But the Frenchman was willing to bet that Richter had been a bastard even when he was poor.
The Frenchman looked up at the second floor. It was lined with doorways. Obviously, these were rooms for members who wanted to do more than dance.
"We understand you have an apartment here, Herr Richter." "I do," Richter said, "though I only stay here one or two nights a week. I spend most of my time at the 21st Century National Socialist Party suites in Bergedorf, to the south.
That's where the real work of the movement is done. Writing speeches, telephone solicitation, transmitting E-mail, radio broadcasts, publishing our newspaper— do you have this week's Kampf?" Jean-Michel nodded.
"Excellent," Richter went on. "It's all very legitimate.
Not like the early days, when the authorities hounded me for one alleged misdemeanor or another. So," he said, "you've come to honor Chaos Days. And to represent your employer in 'discussions,' as he called them in my one brief telephone connversation with him." "Yes, Herr Richter." Jean-Michel leaned forward and folded his hands on the table. "I am here with a proposition." Jean-Michel was disappointed. Richter didn't move.
"You have my attention," Richter said.
"It is not commonly known," said Jean-Michel, "but M.
Dominique has been quietly underwriting neo-Nazi groups around the world. The Razorheads in England, the Soldiers of Poland, and the Whites Only Association
in America. He's trying to build a worldwide network of organizations with a common goal of ethnic purity." "Together with his New Jacobins," Richter said, "that would put his strength at some six thousand members." "Close to that, yes," said Jean-Michel. "And when he goes on-line in America, those numbers are sure to increase." "Almost certainly," said Richter. "I've seen copies of his games. They're most entertaining." "What M. Dominique proposes, Herr Richter, is bringing your 21st Century organization into the fold. He will provide you with funds, access to Demain technology, and a role in shaping the future of the world." "A role," said Richter. "As in a play." "Not a play," Jean-Michel replied. "History." Richter smiled coldly. "And why should I accept a part in Dominique's drama when I can direct my own play?" Once again, Jean-Michel was shocked by the conceit of the man. "Because M. Dominique has resources the likes of which you can only dream of. And through his connections, he can offer you both political and personal protection." "Protection from whom?" Richter asked. "The government won't touch me again. The two years I was in prison made me a martyr to the cause. And my people are devoted." "There are other leaders," Jean-Michel said with a hint of menace. "Other potential New Fhrers." "Are there?" Richter asked. "'You're referring to someone in particular?" The Frenchman had been anxious to use a little muscle on the man, and this seemed like the perfect opportunity.
"Frankly, Herr Richter," Jean-Michel said, "there has been talk that Karin Doring and Feuer are the rising stars of the movement." "Has there been talk?" Richter said smoothly.
Jean-Michel nodded. The Frenchman knew that Felix Richter and Karin Doring had been outspoken adversaries two years before; when Karin came out of East Germany espousing terrorism while Richter, fresh from prison, was advocating political activism. The two criticized each other openly until members of Feuer ambushed and killed two members of Richter's group. The leaders finally held a summit in a Berlin hotel, where they agreed to pursue their own goals without criticizing the other. But there was still tension between the unvarnished East German guerrilla and the dapper West German physician.
