by Tom Clancy
If he thought Herbert would listen, Hood would have ordered him back to the hotel. And if it weren't for two big "ifs," Hood would have gone so far as to ask Hausen to send some people to collect him: if he trusted Hausen's security, which he no longer did; and if he weren't afraid they'd blunder into an otherwise quiet stakeout and thus create a situation.
"Is Viens watching Herbert?" Hood asked.
"Unfortunately, no," McCaskey told him. "Steve's only got one eye in the region and he couldn't keep it tied up. As it was, he had to put Larry off to get Bob some of what he needed." "Thank him for me," Hood said sincerely, even as he was swearing inside. That was it, then. Hood was just going to have to let this play out, hope that Herbert remained anonymous and safe.
"Paul," McCaskey said then, "hold on a moment. I've got a priority call coming in." Hood waited. CNN was running on the hold fine. There was something about a celebrity's death in Atlanta. Hood only got to hear a few words about it before McCaskey was back.
"Paul," McCaskey said, "Mike's on the line as well. We may have a situation." "What is it?" Hood asked.
"I just heard from my contact Don Worby at the FBI," McCaskey said. "They've just been notified about five whiteon- black killings at the same time in five different cities.
New York, Los Angeles, New Orleans, Baltimore, and Atlanta. In each case, two-to-four young white males ambushed a black rap singer. In Atlanta, they got Sweet T, the number-one female rapper, as she was leaving her apartment—" "That must have been what I just heard," Hood said.
"Where?" McCaskey asked.
"On CNN." "Those bastards," McCaskey said. "Maybe we ought to hire HUMINT resources from them." Rodgers came on the line and said somberly, "Do you realize what we've just had here? Those attacks were a modern-day Kristallnacht." The connection hadn't occurred to Hood, but Rodgers was right. The assaults were similar to Crystal Night, when the Gestapo orchestrated acts of vandalism against Jewish houses of worship, cemeteries, hospitals, schools, homes, and businesses throughout Germany. Thirty thousand Jews were also arrested, beginning the Jewish incarceration in concentration camps like Dachau, Sachsenhausen, and Buchenwald.
The attacks were similar, he thought, yet there was something different— "No," Hood said suddenly with alarm. "This was not another Crystal Night. It was only a prelude." "How so?" Rodgers asked.
Hood said, "Neo-Nazis killed rappers. That'll enrage the so-called gangstas and their hard-core audience. They turn on whites, many of whom don't approve of rap to begin with, and you end up with more racial incidents, riots, and American cities on fire. That's when the neo-Nazis return.
When white America is tired of rioters being contained rather than attacked. When too few arrests are made. When the media shows black radicals demanding white blood. That's when the new Crystal Night, the coordinated, armed attacks, begins." "But how do the neo-Nazis benefit?" Rodgers asked.
"They can't break the law and then run for office." "The prettified ones can," said Hood. "The ones who distance themselves from the lawbreakers but not from the intolerance which motivates them." The plan made sense, and the more Hood thought about it, the more brilliant it seemed in its simplicity. He thought of his own daughter, Harleigh, whose musical mix included rap. Hood was in favor of free expression, but he insisted on hearing any album with a parent's advisory sticker— not to censor but to discuss. Some of the lyrics were pretty brutal, and in his soul he had to admit that he wouldn't mind if some of the rappers went into another line of work. And he was a one-time liberal politician. From talks with other parents at the school and at church, he knew that they felt much more strongly. If blacks started avenging dead rappers, he suspected that white, middle-class sympathies would be with the murderous whites, who would probably claim they'd been making pre-emptive strikes. And retaliatory attacks by blacks would only legitimize those claims. Riots might ensue, the police would be forced to hold back to some degree, and the neo-Nazis would become the violent angels of whites. Not to mention potential winners in future elections.
Less than fifty five years after Hitler's death, the monsters could actually become a political force in the U.S., Hood thought.
"Broken dreams of harmony instead of broken windows," Hood said. "It's a nightmare." Rodgers said, "Paul, we can still stop this thing. If we can expose Dominique's operation to the people, they'll see how they were manipulated." "If you can tell me how to get to him," Hood said, "I'll be happy to do it." "There may be a way," Rodgers said. "I've just spoken with Colonel Bernard Ballon of France's Groupe d'Intervention de la Gendarmerie Nationale. He's in Toulouse and he's after the same quarry as we are, albeit for different reasons." "Different how?" Hood asked as Hausen entered the inner office. The German looked distraught.
Rodgers said, "Ballon believes that Gerard Dominique is the head of a group of French terrorists known as the New Jacobins. Their activities against immigrants certainly fit what we know about Dominique." "And what does the Colonel plan to do with Dominique?" Hood asked.
Hood saw Hausen's eyes sweep past Nancy and lock on him when he mentioned the name.
"We didn't discuss that," Rodgers said. "Officially, I gather he's supposed to arrest him and his bunch. But with Dominique's money and influence, Ballon is obviously worried he'll get off." "Not necessarily," Hood said. He was still looking at Hausen and thinking about the murder of the two girls.
"What about unofficially?" Rodgers said, "From my talk with Ballon, he sounds like the kind of guy who'd love to see him accidentally-onpurpose fall down a flight of concrete steps." Hood said, "I take it, Mike, you've got some way we can work together." "Just one," said Rodgers. "He needs accurate information and satellite surveillance just isn't cutting it." "Say no more," said Hood. He glanced over at Matt Stoll's innocent-looking backpack. "How do I contact Colonel Ballon?" ' As Hood wrote down the telephone number, he watched Hausen. He had seen the German get agitated before, but now his face revealed something more. It was as though the veneer of two and a half decals had suddenly flaked away leaving only hate, naked and unashamed. Hood told Rodgers he" d let him know what was happening, and reminded McCaskey to keep him briefed on what Herbert was doing. Then he hung up and looked at Hausen.
"How did you make out?" Hood asked.
"Poorly," said Hausen. "The French Ambassador will 'let me know' if we can come in. Which in diplomatese means to go to hell." The eyes dug into him. "What is all this about Dominique?" Hood said, "There's a Gendarmerie Nationale officer who is in Toulouse and is eager to hand M. Dominique his head." He looked at Nancy. "Sorry, but that's how it is." Her mouth scrunched unhappily. "I understand," she said, "but I think I'd better be going." She turned to go. Hood stepped toward her and grabbed her hand.
"Nancy, don't go back there." "Why?" she asked. "You think I need someone's protection to survive a shitstorm?" Hausen turned toward Stoll and Lang and busied himself with learning about the game.
Hood led her a few steps away, toward the back of the office. "This shitstorm, yes," he said. "If Ballon gets in, everyone at Demain will be investigated, and as far back as possible." "There are statutes of limitations." "That's true," Hood said. "There won't be legal ramifications. But think about blacklists. What company will hire someone who has committed industrial espionage or embezzled or was involved in insider trading?" "A company just like Demain," she answered.
Hood took a step toward her. He was still holding her hand, and his grip softened. He was now holding the hand of a woman, not a captive. "There aren't very many companies like Demain," he said, "and thank God for that. What they're doing is wrong. And whatever happens, you mustn't go back there." "Every large corporation has a few demons." "Not like these," said Hood. "If this Pandora's box is opened, hundreds, perhaps thousands of people will die. The world will change, and not for the better." Though her eyes were at once defiant and sad, her touch was willing. Hood wanted to kiss her, shelter her, love her. And then he asked himself, Who am I to talk about immorality?
&nb
sp; "So," she said, "you don't want me going back. And you also want my help bringing Dominique to justice." Holding her hand, looking into her eyes, he said quietly, "I do." The wistful, tender way he'd spoken hit her almost as hard as the words he'd selected. She squeezed his hand. He squeezed back.
"Even if you get him, Dominique will get rich man's justice," Nancy said. "The kind the French government loves to dispense because it buys summer homes for officials." "Dominique won't be able to buy his way out of everything he's done," Hood promised.
"And what about me?" she asked. "Where does a whistle-blower go?" "I'll help you when this is all over," Hood said. "I'll see to it that you have work." "Well, golly gee and thanks," Nancy said. "Haven't you figured out yet that that's not what I need from you, Paul?" She half-turned, looked down, and ran her tongue across her upper lip. Hood continued to hold her hand. There was nothing he could say, nothing which wouldn't give her false hope.
After a moment, she faced him again. "Of course I'll help," she said. "Whatever you need I'll do." "Thanks," Hood said.
"Don't mention it. What are ex-fianc‚es for?" Hood touched her cheek, then turned to the pad on which he'd written Ballon's number. He didn't look back at Nancy as he placed the call. The yearning in his eyes would have given her the answer, and it wasn't an answer that would do either of them any good.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Thursday, 6:44 P.M., Wunstorf, Germany
The crack Bob Herbert heard was not the report of the gun. He knew that because the bullet would have struck his brain and shut it down before the sound of the gunshot reached him.
Also, he realized that the sound had come from above.
The branch fell heavily through the trees. Though the police officer hopped aside, out of the way, he couldn't avoid the young woman who dropped from the tree a moment later. She crashed down on him, spilling them both to the ground. But she had landed on top and got off first. Because he had managed to hold onto the gun, she rose, stepped on his wrist, and wrested it away.
"Here!" she said, pushing the weapon into Herbert's hands.
He aimed it at the police officer's head. When the man didn't stir, Herbert looked at the young woman. She was standing unsteadily to Herbert's left, obviously shaken by her plunge.
"Jody Thompson?" Herbert asked.
She nodded twice. She was nearly gasping. Her heart was probably racing from fear, poor thing.
"My name's Herbert. Bob Herbert. I work for the U.S.
government. I want to thank you for what you did." She said in breathless chunks, "It's not… the first time.
.. I've fallen for a guy." He smiled. She was pumped up by fear and maybe a little excitement. "I assume you didn't just fall from the tree—" "No," she said. "I'd been walking and got lost. I fell asleep up there. I woke when I heard you and saw what he was going to do." "I'm glad you're a light sleeper," Herbert said. "Now I think we'd better make sure our playmate is—" Jody screamed, "Look out!" Herbert hadn't turned his back on the police officer, but he'd made the mistake of looking at the girl. The German had pushed off from the ground before the American could fire. He dove for the gun. The wheelchair spilled over backward with the two men on it and four hands scrapped for the weapon.
Herbert lost the gun in the struggle, and decided not to try and find it. Lying on his back with the police officer on top of him, he reached under the right armrest and slipped the Urban Skinner from its sheath. Jody jumped toward the police officer, pulling at his coat. As she did, Herbert closed his fingers around the knife's palm-fitted hilt. The two-inch blade was sticking up from his right-hand fist, between his second and third fingers.
The police officer was fumbling around the wheelchair, around Herbert, his fingers digging and probing. As Jody screamed and tore at the German, Herbert's left hand shot up. He grabbed a handful of black hair to hold the German's head in place. Then he drove the knife up hard, into the soft flesh under his chin. He cut to the heart side, slicing both the internal and external jugular veins. The trapezius muscle, on the outside of the neck, stopped the knife from exiting.
The German stopped looking for the gun though he didn't stop moving. He tried to push the knife from his throat, but the combination of Herbert pulling down on his head and pressing up with the blade made that impossible.
Herbert didn't want him to open his mouth, to scream. He also didn't want Jody, who was still on top of him, to see his face or the wound.
Within a few seconds the police officer was finding it difficult to breathe. He tried to roll off Herbert as blood filled his mouth and dribbled from between his lips. But Herbert held him in the deathlock.
The German glared down with pain and shock as the soil beneath them turned muddy with blood. He made weak, babylike attempts to beat at Herbert, then spat blood and dropped limp on Herbert's chest.
This time, Herbert knew, he wouldn't be getting up.
When the German finally fell still, Herbert told Jody to back off and turn around.
"Are you sure?" she asked.
"I'm sure," he replied.
She rose weakly, and as soon as she'd walked off several yards Herbert pushed the German off. The intelligence chief wriggled to the side, out of his chair and away from the body. Then he cleaned his knife on the police officer's coat and slipped it back in its sheath.
"Are you all right, Jody?" She nodded. "Is he dead?" "Yes," Herbert said. "I'm sorry." She nodded again briskly.
He waited a moment, then said, "If you help me back into my chair, we can get out of here." Judy did. As she struggled to help. him up, she said, "Mr. Herbert—" "Bob," he said.
"Bob," Jody said, "what do you know about the people who tried to kill me?" Herbert thought back to the satellite view of the area.
"I believe they're at a lake north of here." "How far north?" "A few miles," Herbert said. He picked up his phone.
"I'm going to let my superiors know I've found you, get you to Hamburg, and fly you home from there." "I don't want to go yet," she said.
"Why?" he asked. "Are you tired— hurt? Hungry? I don't have any food—" "No, none of that," Jody said. "While I was up in the tree, I was thinking how much I hate them." "Me too," Herbert said. "People like them took away my legs and my wife for reasons that don't even matter any more." "And I was thinking," Jody went on, "that maybe I survived for a reason." "You did," Herbert said. "To go home to your folks." "If that's true," she said, "then I'll get home to them.
Only a little later. I want to do something about what's going on here." "Good," Herbert said. "When you get back to the States, sell the movie rights to your story. I'm serious. Let people know what's happening in the real world. Just make sure Tom Selleck plays me, okay? And that you hold on to creative control. Otherwise, it'll get all crapped up." "I studied film," Jody said, "and right now we haven't got a climax." Herbert made a face. "Bull," he said, and spread his fingers headline-size. He swept them to the side. "Long Island girl helps government agent kill German neo-Nazi police officer," he said. "Seems like a helluva climax to me." "It isn't," she replied. "A better one would be: American girl makes grandfather proud by fighting his old enemies.
More substance, less sensation." "You're loco," Herbert said as he began punching in a number. "As we used to say in Beirut, 'Gutsy but nutsy.' " "Sometimes you just have to do what you have to do." Jody walked over to the police officer. She picked up his gun and brushed off the dirt by wiping it on her jeans.
"Put that down," Herbert said. "We don't need it going off by accident and bringing reinforcements." Jody examined the weapon. "We were using a P38 like this in the movie," she said. "The prop man showed me how to work it." "Hooray for him. Did you fire it?" She nodded. "I hit a log from about ten yards away." "Nice," Herbert said. "But there are two things you need to know. First, that's a P5, not a P1— which is the official name of the Walther P38 you used. They're both 9-X- 19mm, and you'll find them remarkably similar. As for the second thing, logs don't shoot real well. People do a l
ot better." Herbert finished inputting the telephone number and waited. Jody pressed her lips together and stalked over. She touched the disconnect button.
"Hey!" he said. "Get that finger out of here." "Thanks for your help, Mr. Herbert— Bob— but I'm going." "No you're not. There are probably hundreds of psychomilitants out there and you don't know what they're like." "I think I do." "You don't!" he yelled. "That woman who captured you was Karin Doring. Do you know why she didn't kill you?
Woman-to-woman courtesy." "I know," Jody said. "She told me." "She won't make that mistake twice," Herbert said.
"And the bottom-feeders who work for her won't make that mistake once. Shit, you probably won't even get past the sentries." "I'll find a way. I can be sneaky." "Even assuming you are, or assuming the sentries are green or they choke or both, what'll you do if you get there?
Kill Karin?" "No," Jody said. "I don't want to be like her. I just want her to see me. I want her to see that I'm alive and unafraid.
She left me without anything in the trailer. No hope, no pride, zero. I've got to get that back." "But you have!" "What you're seeing now?" Jody asked. "This isn't pride, it's shame. The fear of shame. The fear that I'm too afraid to face her. I need to bite the ear of my torturer." Herbert was totally confused. "Excuse me?" "It's something my grandfather once did. If I don't do that I'll never be able to walk into a dark room or down a lonely street without being afraid. My grandfather also said that Hitler controlled people through fear. I want these people to know that they didn't scare me. I can't do that from anywhere but the camp." Herbert wheeled a half-turn closer to her. "There's some tiuth to what you're saying, but going back there isn't the way to accomplish anything. You'll have about ten seconds of glory before they cut you down." "Not if you help me," Jody said. She leaned toward him. "I just want to show my face. That's all. If I don't run from this, I'll never run from anything. But if I do run, then that witch will have succeeded. She'll have killed an important part of me." Herbert couldn't argue the point. If he was Jody, he'd want to do just what she was suggesting and then some.
