by Tom Clancy
"What about Dominique's name?" Rodgers asked. "He changed it from Dupre. Was he ashamed of his family?" "Liz was working with me and wondered the same thing as the data came through," McCaskey said. "But there's no evidence of that. He was raised a strict Roman Catholic, and what Liz thinks is that he may have taken the name from St.
Dominic. The FBI's file says that he gives a lot of money to Dominican charities and to a school named after the most famous Dominican, St. Thomas Aquinas. Liz thinks that being one of the so-called Domini canes, the dogs of the Lord, would have appealed to Dupre's sense of orthodoxy and empire-building." "As I recall," Rodgers said, "Dominic also had a reputation as being something of an inquisitor. Some historians regard him as the brains behind the bloody massacre of the Albigenses of Languedoc." "Again, I'm out of my element," McCaskey said. "But now that you mention it, there is an interesting possible connection here," he said. He looked in the second dossier, which was marked Hate Groups. "Have you ever heard of the Jacobins?" Rodgers nodded. "They were thirteenth-century French Dominican friars. Because they set up headquarters in the Rue St. Jacques, they were called Jacobins. During the French Revolution, anti monarchists who met in a former Jacobin convent were called Jacobins. They were a violent, very radical factor in the Revolution. Robespierre, Danton, and Marat were all Jacobins." McCaskey frowned. "I don't know why I bother to try and tell you anything related to history. Okay. Now have you heard of the New Jacobins?" "Ironically, I have," Rodgers said. "Just today, in fact.
Alberto said something that a Colonel in the Gendarmarie Nationale was going after them." "That would be Colonel Ballon," McCaskey said. "He's an odd duck, but they're his pet cause. For seventeen years, the New Jacobins have targeted foreigners in France, mostly Algerian and Moroccan immigrants. They're the exact opposite of the glory hounds who call and claim credit for every kidnapping and hijacking. They strike hard and fast and then vanish." "Seventeen years," Rodgers said, thoughtfully. "When did Dominique change his name?" McCaskey smiled. "Bingo." Rodgers stared ahead as he followed the thread. "So Gerard Dominique may be involved with, possibly even head a group of French terrorists. Then if we know that, so must the French." "We'll have to wait and see what Ballon says," McCaskey said. "I'm told he's on a stakeout now and is in no mood to take calls." "It's going that well?" "Apparently," said McCaskey. "Dominique is as reclusive as billionaires come." Rodgers said, "But being reclusive doesn't make him untouchable. If you can't take him by a frontal assault, there's always a flanking maneuver. What about the money Dominique sent through Nauru? We might be able to get to him through that. It could be just one branch of a big damn tree." "Undoubtedly," said McCaskey. "A man like Dominique could be using hundreds if not thousands of banks to finance groups like that the world over." "Okay, but why?" Rodgers asked. "He's created a front that's worldwide and there has to be a weak spot. Is he power hungry? Doesn't sound like it. He's a French patriot.
So why would he care what happens in England or South Africa or anywhere else? Why would he spread himself out like that?" "Because he's also an international businessman," McCaskey said. "One of the first things lost in terrorist confrontations is confidence in the system. If it's an airplane hijacking, we lose faith in airport security. Air travel drops for a while. If it's a tunnel bombing, people take bridges or stay at home." "But the infrastructure recovers." "That's been true so far," McCaskey pointed out. "But what if several systems were to be weakened at once? Or the same system is hit repeatedly? Look at Italy. The Red Brigade kidnapped Prime Minister Aldo Moro and shook them up for months in 1978. Cut to 1991, when Albanian refugees began flooding Italy because of political turmoil at home.
Terrorists hit Italy again. Thirteen years had passed, almost to the week, yet the international business community started having flashbacks. To them, Italy was out of control again. There was no confidence in the government. Foreign investments began to drop almost at once. What would have happened if the terrorism had kept up or spread? The financial damage would have been immeasurable. Look at Hollywood." "What about it?" McCaskey said, "You think the studios began opening soundstages in Florida because it was sunnier there, or real estate was cheaper? No. They were afraid that earthquakes and racial unrest could destroy the film industry." Rodgers was trying to digest everything McCaskey had thrown at him. From McCaskey's own expression, so, obviously, was he.
"Darrell," Rodgers said thoughtfully, "how many white supremacist groups would you estimate there are in the United States?" "I don't have to estimate," he said. He flipped through several pages in the second file in his lap, the file marked Hate Groups. "According to the FBI's latest white paper, there are seventy-seven different white supremacist-neo- Nazi-skinhead groups, with a total membership of some thirty-seven thousand people. Of those, nearly six thousand people belong to armed militias." "What's the disbursement?" "Nationally?" McCaskey asked. "Basically, they're in every state of the union and in every major city of each state, including Hawaii. Some target blacks, some Asians, some Jews, some Mexicans, some all of the above. But they're everywhere." "That doesn't surprise me," Rodgers said. He was angry, but he refused to be daunted. He recalled, from his extensive readings in history, how the Founding Fathers themselves were bitterly disappointed that independence didn't mean an end to inequality and hate. Rodgers remembered one quote from a letter Thomas Jefferson wrote to John Adams. To attain that goal, Jefferson had written, "Rivers of blood must yet flow, and years of desolation pass over; yet the object is worth rivers of blood, and years of desolation. " Rodgers would not permit himself or anyone serving beside him to buckle under the load.
"What are you thinking?" McCaskey asked.
"How I want to kick a bunch of damn-fool ass for Thomas Jefferson." Rodgers ignored McCaskey's confused stare. He cleared his throat. "Did anything else turn up on the Pure Nation computer?" McCaskey went to the third and final folder. "No," he said, "and we're all kind of surprised how little new information there is." "Bad luck or did they manage to erase it?" 'I'm not sure," McCaskey said. "Everyone at the Bureau is afraid to look this gift horse in the mouth. It looks like it's going to be great PR, especially among blacks. No one was hurt and we've got some bad guys behind bars." "But it was a little too easy," Rodgers said for him.
"Yeah," McCaskey replied, "I think so. And I think the Bureau thinks so too. The biggest question is why an outside group was sent in to attack the Chaka Zulu people. One of the most virulent hate groups in the nation, the Koalition, is based in Queens. That's right over the East River, closer than Pure Nation was even in New York. Yet there appears to have been no contact between the two." Rodgers said, "I wonder if this is similar to what the Axis used to do." "What, disinformation?" Rodgers nodded. "Bob and I have a file on it. If you have time look it up— Das Bait. The essence of it is, if you want to mislead a foe, let them capture a unit loaded with misinformed soldiers. If the enemy buys into what they say, ten or twelve men can effectively tie up a division or even a whole army waiting for an invasion that never comes or hunkering down in the wrong place. The Allies refused to do this because of the harsh treatment accorded prisoners of war. But the Germans and Japanese did it regularly. And if the captured soldiers didn't know they were lying, there was no way the information could be drugged out of them. You had to put your people in the field and investigate. How many people did the FBI have on the case?" "Roughly thirty." "And now?" Rodgers asked. "How many people are checking down leads or investigating Pure Nation?" "About seventy or eighty nationwide." "And those are the top experts in white supremacist groups," Rodgers said. "So a handful of Pure Nationals gets taken and what happens? The FBI loses the guts of its antiwhite- supremacist force." McCaskey thought for a moment, then shook his head.
"That makes sense as a tactic, but it doesn't sound macho enough for the Pure Nationals. They believe in force of arms, not sleight of hand. They'd rather go down fighting." "Then why didn't they?" Rodgers asked.
"Oh, the bastards fought," McCaskey said.
"They tried to kill our guys—" "But they didn't," Rodgers said. "And they still let themselves get taken." "They were outgunned. The FBI can still fight," McCaskey added defensively.
"I know," said Rodgers. "But if Pure Nation's so macho, why did they surrender? Wouldn't it have helped their cause if they became martyrs and made the FBI look like ruffians?" "They aren't Kamikazes," McCaskey said. "They're brash and ruthless but they want to live." "Live," Rodgers said. "These people are barely going to suffer. What's the worst charge these people are facing?
They fired at federal agents. They plotted. They stockpiled arms. If they plea-bargain, they're looking at seven to ten years each in prison. Seven to ten years of cable TV and gyms. Out by the time they're thirty-five, forty years old.
They're hailed as heroes by their people. That would appeal to any attention-craving sicko." "Possibly," McCaskey said, "but it doesn't fit in with any of the profiles we've ever seen. Surrender to misinform, then sit in jail? No," McCaskey said, "I still say that isn't enough to satisfy these people." "And I say we may be looking at a new breed of white supremacist. One who may be adept at playing games." McCaskey looked at him. He started to say something, then stopped.
Rodgers said, "I know what you're thinking. You still feel we're giving them the benefit of too much forethought." "Of any forethought," McCaskey said. "I don't want to underestimate the enemy, but these are people governed by a bunker mentality and blind rage. Any variation would be an aberration." "They're also trained followers," Rodgers said. "If you dangle the right prize you can get them to do your bidding.
Think about that. What kind of a prize would get white supremacists to do what they're told?" "Freedom," McCaskey said. "The freedom to attack what they detest." "I'll buy that," Rodgers said. "And what gives any person a moral right to attack?" McCaskey said, "If they're attacked first." "Okay," Rodgers said. He was getting wound up.
McCaskey might not agree, but he felt that there was something here. "Assume you want to make a group attack you. You antagonize them. You make them feel threatened— " The phone beeped.
"The hate games," McCaskey said.
"That's not enough," Rodgers said.
There was sudden fear and understanding in McCaskey's eyes. "That, plus letting them know you intend to attack them. You let a black group know they're a target and that galvanizes all blacks. Christ, Mike," McCaskey said.
"There's the impetus for Pure Nation to let itself get arrested. To let Chaka Zulu know that they were a target, even if they weren't. Before you know it, all blacks are behind the militant Zulu group— and a lot of whites have no choice but to stand against them." Rodgers nodded vigorously as the phone beeped again.
He glanced at it. Ann Farris's calling code was on the LED display at the base.
"That's exactly what happened in the 1960s," McCaskey said, "when the Black Panthers became the militant allies of a number of civil rights groups." Rodgers said, "If all of this really does fit together— Dominique, his money, hate groups, and the destabilization of Europe and the U.S. — we'd have one serious worldwide disaster." Rodgers put the phone on speaker. "Sorry to keep you waiting, Ann." "Mike, Darrell told me you needed a check on press releases from Demain," she said. "I called D'Alton and D'Alton, their New York press people, and got the latest stuff faxed over." "And?" "It's all run-of-the-mill tub-thumping about games," Ann said, "except for one. It's about a new joystick." "What's it say?" "That with the new Enjoystick, you don't just play the game— you feel it." Rodgers sat up taller. "Go on." This was a perfect match with the hate games. He felt a chill in the small of his back.
Ann said, "It's FCC-approved and it's a new technology which stimulates nerve cells through a patented fingerprintoperated biolink. I guess that's to make sure you only use the link on your hands and not on other parts of the body. It says here that with an Enjoystick, you'll feel ail the thrills and excitement that your videogame character experiences on-screen." Rodgers said, "Along with the hate and love and all stops in between." "It doesn't say anything about that," Ann told him, "but I can't believe something like this exists. I feel like I'm in a science fiction movie." "You're not," Rodgers said. "A lot of people still don't understand the power of this technology, but it's there just the same. Thanks, Ann. This was a big help." "Any time, Mike," she said.
Rodgers hung up. Despite— or because of? he asked himself— the pressure of piecing together the Pure Nation puzzle, he was gratified by the short, pleasant exchange. He and Ann had never been charter members of each other's fan clubs. She made no secret of her infatuation with and unqualified defense of Paul Hood. That had often put her at odds with Rodgers, whose approach to crisis management was less diplomatic than Hood's. But Rodgers was working on that, and Ann was trying hard to accept that there was more than Hood's way of doing things.
There's probably a lesson for all of civilization in that, Rodgers thought. Unfortunately, this wasn't the time to don his purple robes and go proselytizing.
Rodgers looked at McCaskey, who was making shorthand notes on the cover of one file at his rapid 140- word-per-minute speed.
"It's all here, Mike," McCaskey said excitedly. "Dammit, it's all friggin' here." "Let's have it." McCaskey finished and looked up. "Let's say that Dominique uses bank setups like the one in Nauru to filter money to white supremacist movements. He throws us off the trail by giving us Pure Nation as busywork while at the same time he's quietly greasing the wheels of other groups.
He's also getting ready to download hate games, games which can be played with the Enjoysticks. People feel good going after minorities." He looked at Rodgers. "I agree with Ann— that's a little bit too Amazing Stories for me— but let's put it in the mix for now. It's really not that crucial." "Agreed," said Rodgers.
"Blacks are outraged by the games. Newspapers are outraged. Right-thinking citizens everywhere are outraged," McCaskey said. "Meanwhile, Pure Nation doesn't cop a plea, like you said. Uh-uh. They go to trial because a public forum is exactly what they want. And the trial happens soon because the evidence is compelling, the FBI pressures the courts to make room, and Pure Nation won't object to any jurors the prosecution wants. Their macho needs are satisfied by being the sacrificial lambs, They present their case articulately, and if they're good— and many of these people are— they actually sound rational." "I'll buy that," Rodgers said. "A core of whites will secretly buy into a lot of what they say. Whites who blame high taxes on welfare and unemployment, and blame welfare and unemployment on blacks." "Exactly. Black activists become more outraged as the trial progresses, and someone on either side, it doesn't matter which, does something to provoke an incident. The bottom line is rioting. Dominique's operatives make sure it spreads, that there are major explosions in New York and Los Angeles, Chicago and Philadelphia, Detroit and Dallas, and pretty soon the U.S. is on fire." "Not just the U.S.," Rodgers said. "Bob Herbert's up against the same problem in Germany." "There you are," said McCaskey. "Dominique raises hell everywhere in the world— except France. That's why the New Jacobins operate silently, efficiently, without publicity." McCaskey opened Dominique's file, riffled through the pages. "These guys are unique among terrorists because they truly do terrorize. There are very few reported incidents, but most of the time they threaten people with violence. And then they give specific orders: this group of people leave such-and-such town or when they return they'll make good their threat. It isn't something big, like get the British out of Ireland. They always order something manageable." "Surgical strikes which don't get much press," Rodgers said.
"Try no press," said McCaskey. "The French don't give a shit. So with everything else going on, France seems relatively stable. And with Dominique wooing banks and industry and investors, he becomes a serious world player.
Maybe the most serious player." "While anyone who tries to tie him to terrorism can't," said Rodgers.
"Or they get a nighttime visit from the New Jacobins for even trying," said McCaskey, reviewing the file. "These guy
s have all the earmarks of the old Mafia. Strongarm tactics, hits, executions, the works." Rodgers sat back. "Paul should be back at Richard Hausen's office in Hamburg by now." He looked at a notepad on his desk. "It's RH3-star on the autodial. Bring him up to date and tell him I'm going to try and get through to Colonel Ballon. Unless we've taken a few too many leaps of faith, Dominique is someone we need to get to. And Ballon sounds like the only man who can do that." "Good luck," said McCaskey. "He's pretty thorny." "I'll wear gloves," said Rodgers. "If I can swing it, and I think I can, I intend to offer him something he won't be able to find in France." McCaskey stood. "What's that?" he asked as he straightened a bad back slowly.
Rodgers replied, "Help."
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Thursday, 6:25 P.M., Wunstorf, Germany
Physically, this had been the most demanding, frustrating, and rewarding hour of Bob Herbert's life.
The terrain he'd had to cross was covered with sticks, rotting leaves and tree trunks, rocks, and thick patches of mud. There was one small stream, less than a foot deep, which slowed him further, and at times the ground sloped upward so steeply that Herbert had to get out of his wheelchair and drag it behind him as he worked his way up the incline. At several minutes past six it had begun to get dark in the heavy, unshadowed way that thick woods do.
Though his chair was equipped with a powerful flashlight beside each footrest, Herbert was unable to see farther ahead than the diameter of each wheel. That slowed him as well, since he didn't want to go rolling into a gorge and end up like that five-thousand year-old hunter who was found frozen face-down on a mountaintop somewhere.
God only knows what they'd make of me in five thousand years, Herbert thought. Though now that he considered it, he had to admit he relished the idea of a cadre of stuffy academics puzzling over his remains in A. D. 7000.
