Games of State o-3

by Tom Clancy

  Rodgers parked and walked briskly toward the front door. The meeting with Senator Fox was scheduled for 8:30.

  It was already 8:25. The Senator was usually early. She was also usually pissed if whoever she came to see wasn't early.

  That will probably be strike one against me, Rodgers thought as he rode the elevator down. Strike two if she's in an unusually bad mood.

  When the General exited in the lower level, the sympathetic look on the face of Anita Mui, the lower-level sentry, confirmed that the count was 0-and-2.

  Well, he thought as he headed down the corridor, I'll have to find a way to deal with that. Commanders do, and Rodgers loved being a commander. He loved overseeing Striker and he loved running Op-Center when Hood was away. He loved the process of making things happen for America. Being even a small cog in that great machine filled him with indescribable pride.

  And part of being that cog is dealing with other cogs, he told himself. Including politicians.

  He stopped short as he passed Martha Mackall's office.

  The door was open and Senator Fox was sitting inside. He saw from the Senator's grim expression that he had struck out, even before he'd stepped to the plate.

  He looked at his watch. It was 8:32. "Sorry," he said.

  "Come in, General Rodgers," she said. Her voice was tight, clipped. "Ms. Mackall has been telling me about her father. My daughter was a tremendous fan of his music." Rodgers entered. "We all liked Mack's stuff," he said as he shut the door. "Back in 'Nam, we called him the Soul of Saigon." Martha was wearing her serious professional face.

  Rodgers knew it well. Martha had a habit of adopting the attitudes of people who could advance her career. And if Senator Fox was down on Rodgers, then Martha would be too. Even more so than usual.

  Rodgers sat on the edge of Martha's desk. Since Senator Fox wanted the home court advantage, she was going to have to look up at him.

  "Unfortunately," Senator Fox said, "I didn't come here to discuss music, General Rodgers. I came to discuss your budget. I was disappointed when Director Hood's assistant telephoned yesterday to say that Mr. Hood had a more pressing engagement— spending money he won't have. But I decided to come here anyway." "Paul and I worked closely together preparing the budget," Rodgers said. "I can answer any questions you have." "I have only one question," the Senator said. "When did the Government Printing Office begin publishing fiction?" Rodgers's stomach began to burn. McCaskey was right: Paul should have handled this.

  Senator Fox placed the briefcase in her lap and popped the latches. "You asked for an increase of eighteen percent at a time when government agencies are making across-theboard cuts." She handed Rodgers his own three-hundredpage document. "This is the budget I will present to the finance committee. It contains my blue-pencil reductions totaling thirty-two percent." Rodgers's eyes snapped from the budget to the Senator. "Reductions?" "We can talk about how the remaining seventy percent is to be apportioned," Fox continued, "but the cut will be made." Rodgers wanted to throw the budget back at the Senator. He waited a moment until the urge had passed. He turned and placed it on Martha's desk. "You've got nerve, Senator." "So do you, General," Fox said, unfazed.

  "I know," he replied. "I've tested it against North Vietnamese, Iraqis, and North Koreans." "We've all of us seen your medals," she replied politely.

  "This is not a mandate on courage." "No, it's not," Rodgers quietly agreed. "It's a death sentence. We have a top-flight organization and we still lost Bass Moore in Korea and Charlie Squires in Russia. If you cut us back, I won't be able to give my people the support they need." "For what?" the Senator said. "More adventures overseas?" "No," he said. "Our government's entire intelligence focus has been on ELINT. Electronic intelligence. Spy satellites. Eavesdropping. Photo reconnaissance. Computers.

  These are tools but they aren't enough. Thirty, forty years ago we had a human presence around the world. HUMINT— human intelligence. People who infiltrated foreign governments and spy organizations and terrorist groups and used judgment, initiative, creativity, and courage to get us information. The best camera in the world can't pull blueprints from a drawer. Only a human operator can break into a computer which isn't on-line. A spy satellite can't look into a terrorist's eyes and tell you if he or she is really committed or if he can be turned. We need to rebuild those assets." "A pretty speech," said the Senator, "but you do not have my support. We do not need this HUMINT to protect American interests. Striker stopped a Korean lunatic from bombing Tokyo. They saved the administration of a Russian President who has not yet proven that he is our ally. Why should American taxpayers underwrite an international police force?" "Because they're the only ones who can," Rodgers said.

  "We're fighting a cancer, Senator. You've got to treat it wherever it shows up." Martha said from behind him, "I agree with Senator Fox. There are other forums in which the United States can address international concerns. The United Nations and the World Court are chartered and funded for that purpose. And there's NATO." Rodgers said without turning, "So where were they, Martha?" "Pardon me?" "Where was the U.N. when that Nodong missile took off from North Korea? We were the surgeons who kept the Japanese from catching a fever of roughly eighteen million degrees Fahrenheit." "Again," said Senator Fox, "that was a job well done.

  But it was a job you needn't have shouldered. The United States survived while the Soviet Union and Afghanistan battled one other, while Iran and Iraq were at war. We will survive other such conflicts." "Tell that to the American families of terrorist victims," Rodgers said. "We're not asking for toys or luxuries here, Senator. I'm asking for security for American citizens." "In a perfect world we would be able to safeguard every building, every airplane, every life," the Senator said.

  She closed the briefcase. "But it is not a perfect world and the budget will be cut, as I've indicated. There will be no debate and no hearing." "Fine," Rodgers said. "When Paul gets back, you can start by cutting my salary." Senator Fox shut her eyes. "Please, General. We can do very nicely without the grandstanding." "I'm not trying to be dramatic," Rodgers said. He stood and tugged the hem of his jacket. "I just don't believe in doing anything half-assed. You're an isolationist, Senator.

  You have been since the tragedy in France." "This has nothing to do with that—" "Of course it does. And I understand how you feel. The French did not find your daughter's killer, didn't seem to care very much, so why help them? But you've let that get in the way of the larger picture, of our national interests." Martha said, "General, I didn't lose anyone abroad and I agree with the Senator. Op-Center was created to help other agencies, not to help other nations. We've lost sight of that." Rodgers turned and looked down at Martha. "Your father sang a song called 'The Boy Who Killed the Lights,' about a white kid who shut the lights in a club so a black singer could sing there—" "Don't quote my dad to me," Martha snapped, "and don't tell me that I'm lucky to be in'this club, General.

  Nobody helped me get this gig—" "If you'll let me finish," Rodgers said, "that wasn't the point I was making." Rodgers remained calm. He didn't raise his voice to women. That wasn't how Mrs. Rodgers had raised her son. "What I was trying to say before is that what Goschen called 'splendid isolation' simply doesn't exist anymore. Not in the music world and not in the political world. If Russia breaks down, it affects China, the Baltic republics, and Europe. If Japan suffers—" "I learned all about the domino theory in elementary school," Martha said.

  "Yes we all did, General Rodgers," Senator Fox said.

  "Do you really believe that General Michael Rodgers and Op- Center are the tent poles which hold the infrastructure up?" "We do our part," Rodgers said. "We need to do more." "And I say we already do too much!" Senator Fox shot back. "When I was still new to the Senate, U.S. warplanes were not permitted to fly over France en route to bomb Tripoli and Benghazi. The French are supposed to be our allies! At the time, I said on the floor of the Senate that we bombed the wrong capital. I meant it. More recently, Russian terrorists blew up a
tunnel in New York. Was the Russian Ministry of Security hot on the trail of these murderers? Did your new best friends at the Russian Op- Center warn us? Even today, are their operatives hunting for Russian gangsters on our shores? No, General, they are not." "Paul went to Russia to establish a relationship with their Op-Center," Rodgers, said. "We believe we'll get their cooperation." "I know," the Senator said. "I read his report. And do you know when we'll get their cooperation? After we've spent tens of millions of dollars making the Russian Op- Center as sophisticated as our own. But that's when General Orlov will be retired, someone hostile to the U.S. will take his place, and we'll be left, again, with an enemy whom we've helped to make stronger." "American history is full of chances taken and losses incurred," Rodgers said. "But it's also full of relationships which have been built and sustained. We can't give up optimism and hope." The Senator rose. She handed her briefcase to one of her aides and smoothed her black skirt.

  "General," she said, "your penchant for dictums is well known, and I don't appreciate being lectured to. I am optimistic and I am hopeful that we can solve America's problems. But I will not support Op-Center as a base for international troubleshooters. A think tank, yes. An intelligence resource, yes. A domestic crisis management center, yes. A team of international Dudley Do-Rights, no.

  And for what I've just outlined, you will need only the budget I've given you." The Senator nodded to Rodgers, offered her hand to Martha, then started to go.

  "Senator?" Rodgers called after her.

  The Senator stopped. She turned, and Rodgers took a few steps toward her. She was nearly as tall as Rodgers, and her clear blue-gray eyes held his.

  "Darrell McCaskey and Liz Gordon are scheduled to work together on a project," Rodgers said. "I assume you've heard about the terrorist group that attacked the movie set in Germany?" "No," Fox said. "There was nothing in this morning's Post." "I know," Rodgers said. The Washington Post and CNN were how everyone in government got news. He was counting on the fact that she didn't know. "It happened about four hours ago. Several people were killed. Bob Herbert is over there on business and has asked for our assistance." "And do you think that we should help German authorities investigate?" the woman asked. "What vital American interests are at stake? Is it cost effective? Which taxpayers will care?" Rodgers weighed his words with care. He had laid the snare and Fox strode right in. This was going to hit the Senator hard.

  "Only two taxpayers will care," Rodgers said. "The parents of a twenty-one-year-old American girl who may have been kidnapped by the terrorists." The woman's strong blue-gray eyes melted. The Senator trembled slightly as she tried to remain erect. It was a moment before she could speak.

  "You don't take prisoners, do you, General?" "When the enemy surrenders I do, Senator." She continued to look at him. All the sadness of the world seemed to be there in those eyes, and Rodgers felt like hell.

  "What do you expect me to say?" the Senator asked.

  "Of course help them save the girl. She's an American." "Thank you," Rodgers said, "and I'm very sorry.

  Sometimes American interests are hidden in the things we do." Senator Fox looked at Rodgers a moment longer, then shifted her gaze to Martha. Bidding the woman a good morning, the Senator walked quickly from the office, her aides trailing close behind.

  Rodgers didn't remember turning and picking up the budget, but it was in his hands as he started toward the door.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Thursday, 2:30 P.M., Hamburg, Germany

  Henri Toron and Yves Lambesc were not tired. Not any more. Jean-Michel's return had wakened the men, and the telephone call from M. Dominique had brought the two French bears to full attention.

  Full, belated attention.

  It was Jean-Michel's fault, of course. They'd been sent to be his bodyguards, but he had chosen to go by himself to the club in St. Pauli. The three had arrived in Germany at 1:00 A.M., and Henri and Yves had played blackjack until 2:30. If only Jean-Michel had wakened them, they'd have accompanied him— alert and ready to protect him from the Huns. But no. He'd let them sleep. What did he have to fear, after all?

  "Why do you think M. Dominique sent us with you?" Henri had roared when he saw Jean-Michel. "To sleep or to protect you?" "I didn't think I was in any danger," Jean-Michel had replied.

  "When dealing with Germans," Henri had said gravely, "one is always in danger." M. Dominique had called as Yves was putting ice cubes in a hand towel for Jean-Michel's eye. Henri took the call.

  Their employer did not raise his voice. He never did. He simply gave thiln their instructions and sent them on their way. The two knew that they would be disciplined with a month of extra duty for having overslept. That was standard for a first infraction. Those who failed the cause twice were dismissed. The shame of letting him down was far more painful than the fingertip they were forced to leave in the basket of one of M. Dominique's little guillotines.

  So they had cabbed to St. Pauli, and now they were leaning against a car parked down the street from Auswechseln. The streets were beginning to grow crowded with tourists, though the twenty-yard stretch between the Frenchmen and the club was relatively clear.

  Barrel-chested, six-foot-four Henri was smoking a cigarette, and the inch-taller, broad-shouldered Yves was chewing homemade bubble gum. Yves had a Beretta 92F pistol in the pocket of his jacket. Henri was carrying a Belgian GP double-action pistol. Their job was simple: to go to the club and get Herr Richter on the phone by any means necessary.

  For over two hours, Henri had watched the club door through the twisting smoke of cigarette after cigarette.

  When it finally opened, he tapped Yves on the arm and they hurried over.

  A giant slab of a man was walking out. Henri and Yves acted as though they were going to walk past him, then turned suddenly. Before the big man was even out the door, Henri had pushed the gun in his gut and told him to get back in.

  "Nein, " he said.

  Either the man was devoted to his boss or he was wearing a bullet-proof vest. Hemi didn't bother to repeat the request. He simply drove his heel down hard on the man's instep and pushed him back inside. The big man fell moaning against the bar and Henri put the gun to his forehead. Yves also pulled his gun and disappeared into the darkness, to the right.

  "Richter," Henri said to the man. "Ou est-il?" The Auswechseln bouncer told him to go to hell in German. Henri knew what H”lle meant. The rest he figured out from the man's tone.

  The Frenchman slid the gun down to the man's left eye.

  "Le dernier temps, " he said. The last time. "Richter! Tout de suite!" A voice said in French from the darkness. "No one enters my club with a gun and makes demands. Let Ewald go." Footsteps came toward them from the back of the club.

  Henri kept the gun pushed against the man's eye.

  A shadowy figure appeared at the end of the bar and sat on a stool.

  "I said let the man go," Richter repeated. "At once." Yves approached him from the right. Richter did not look at him. Henri did not move.

  "Herr Richter," Henri said, "my companion is going to punch in a number on the bar telephone and hand it to you." "Not while you're holding my employee at gunpoint," Richter said firmly.

  Yves reached Richter and stepped behind him. The German did not turn.

  Henri looked at Richter in the darkness. The Frenchman had two options. One was to let this Ewald go. That would give Richter his way and set a bad precedent for the afternoon's proceedings. The other was to shoot Ewald. That might rattle Richter, but it might also bring the police. And it was no guarantee of getting Richter to do what he was told.

  There was really only one thing to do. M. Dominique's instructions to them were to get Richter on the telephone and to do the other thing he had told them. They were not here to win a contest of wills.

  Henri stepped back and released the bouncer. Ewald rose indignantly, snatched a quick, angry look at Henri, then walked protectively toward Richter.

  "It's all right, Ewald," R
ichter said. "These men won't hurt me. They've come to deliver me unto Dominique, I think." "Sir," the big man said, "I won't leave while they're here." "Really, Ewald, I'm quite safe. These men may be French, but they aren't stupid. Now go. Your wife is waiting and I don't want her to worry." The big German looked from his employer to Yves. He glowered at the Frenchman for a moment. "Yes, Herr Richter. Once again, good afternoon to you." "Good afternoon," Richter said. "I'll see you again in the morning." With a final sharp look at Yves, Ewald turned and strode from the club. He brushed roughly against Henri as he left.

  The door clicked shut. Henri could hear his watch ticking in the silence. He cocked his head toward the black business phone sitting at the end of the bar.

  "Now," Henri said to his partner. "Do it." Yves lifted the receiver, punched in a number, and handed the phone to Richter.

  The German sat with his hands in his lap. He didn't move.

  "Put it on speaker," Henri scowled.

  Yves punched the speaker button and hung up. The phone rang over a dozen times before anyone picked up.

  "Felix?" said the voice on the other end.

  "Yes, Dominique," said Richter. "I'm here." "How are you?" "I'm well," he said. He looked at Henri, who was lighting a new cigarette with the old. "Except for the presence of your two henchmen. Why do you insult me, monsieur, with the threat of force? Did you think I wouldn't take your call?" "Not at all," Dominique said benignly. "That isn't the reason I sent them. To tell you the truth, Felix, they've come to close down your club." Henri swore he could hear Richter's back straighten.

  "Close down the club," Richter repeated. "For fleecing your lamb M. Horne?" "No," said Dominique. "What happened was his fault for coming alone. My intent is to show you the futility of refusing my acquisition offer." "By muscling me like a common mobster," Richter said.

  "I expected better from you." "That, Herr Richter, is your problem. Unlike you, I have no pretensions. I believe in maintaining influence through any means at my disposal. Speaking of which, don't bother to call your escort service this afternoon to check on tonight's schedules. You'll find that the girls and boys have elected to join a rival service." "My people won't stand for this," Richter said. "They won't be bludgeoned into submissiveness." Henri noted a change in Richter's voice. He no longer sounded smug. And he could feel Richter's eyes on him as he put his old cigarette down on the guest register.