by Tom Clancy
"What was the movie?" Herbert said, "Tirpitz. About the battleship, I guess." Liz tapped into Pictures in Motion, a Web site listing movies in production around the world. After locating the film, she said, "The set was a political target, Bob. It was an American co-production." Herbert was silent for a moment. "So either the memorabilia was a bonus, or the American crew was." "You got it." "Look," Herbert said, "I'm going to have a chat with the authorities here, maybe pay a visit to one of these Chaos Days celebrations." "Watch it, Bob," Liz said. "Neo-Nazis don't hold doors for people in wheelchairs. Remember, you're different—" "You bet I am," he said. "Meanwhile, give me a buzz on the cellular if you come up with anything else on this lady or her group." "Will do," Liz said. "Take care and ciao," she added, using the other Italian word she knew.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Thursday, 11:52 A.M., Toulouse, France
The wood-paneled room was large and dark. The only light came from a single lamp which stood beside the massive mahogany desk. The only items on the desk itself were a telephone, fax machine, and computer, all of them collected in a tight semicircle. The shelves behind the desk were barely visible in the shadows. On them were miniature guillotines. Some were working models, made of wood and iron. Others were made of glass or metal, and one was a plastic model sold in the United States.
Guillotines had been used for official executions in France until 1939, when murderer Eugen Weidmann was beheaded outside St. Peter's Prison in Versailles. But Dominique didn't like those later machines: the guillotines with the large, solid buckets to collect the heads, screens to protect the executioners from the spray of blood, shock absorbers to cushion the thunk of the blade. Dominique liked the originals.
Across from the desk, lost in the ghostly dark, was an eight-foot-tall guillotine which had been used during the French Revolution. This device was unrestored. The uprights were slightly rotted and. the trestle was worn smooth from all the bodies that "Madame La Guillotine", had embraced.
Drawn nearly to the cross-beam on top, the blade was rusty from rain and blood. And the wicker basket, also the original, was frayed. But Dominique had noticed particles of the bran which had been used to soak up blood, and there were still hairs in the basket. Hairs which had snagged the wicker when the heads tumbled in.
It all looked exactly as it did in 1796, the last time those leather straps were fastened under the armpits and over the legs of the doomed. When the lunette, the iron collar, had held the neck of its last victim— held it within a perfect circle so the victim couldn't move. However much fear possessed them, they couldn't squirm from the ram and its sharp blade. Once the executioner released the spring, nothing could stop the eighty-pound deathblow. The head dropped into its basket, the body was pushed sideways into its own leather-lined wicker basket, and the vertical plank was ready to receive the next victim. The process was so quick that some bodies were still sighing, the lungs emptying through the neck, as they were removed from the plank. It was said that for several seconds, the still-living brains in decapitated heads enabled the victims to see and hear the ghastly aftermath of their own execution.
At the height of the Reign of Terror, executioner Charles Henri-Sanson and his aides were able to decapitate nearly one victim every minute. They guillotined three hundred men and women in three days, thirteen hundred in six weeks, helping to bring the total to 2,831 between April 6, 1793, and July 29, 1795.
What did you think of that, Herr Hitler? Dominique wondered. The gas chambers at Treblinka were designed to kill two hundred people in fifteen minutes, the gas chambers at Auschwitz designed to kill two thousand. Was the master killer impressed or did he scoff at the work of relative amateurs?
The guillotine was Dominique's prize. Behind it, on the wall, were period newspapers and etchings in ornate frames, as well as original documents signed by George Jacques Danton and other leaders of the French Revolution. But nothing stirred him like the guillotine. Even with the overhead lights off and the shades drawn he could feel it, the device which was a reminder that one had to be decisive to succeed. Children of nobles had lost their heads to that sinister blade, but such was the price of revolution.
The telephone beeped. It was the third line, a private line which the secretaries never answered. Only his partners and Home had that number.
Dominique leaned forward in the fat leather chair. He was a lanky man with a large nose, high forehead, and strong chin. His hair was short and ink black, a dramatic contrast to the white turtleneck and trousers he was wearing.
He hit the speaker button. "Yes?" he said quietly.
"Good morning, M. Dominique," said the caller. "It's Jean-Michel." Dominique glanced at his watch. "It's early." "The meeting was brief, M. Dominique." "Tell me about it," he said.
Jean-Michel obliged. He told him about the lecture he had been given under torture, and about how the German considered himself M. Dominique's equal. Jean-Michel also told him about what little he had picked up about Karin Doring.
Dominique listened to it all without comment. When Jean-Michel was finished, he asked, "How is your eye?" "I think it will be all right," said Jean-Michel. "I've arranged to see a doctor this afternoon." "Good," Dominique said. "You know you shouldn't have gone without Henri and Yves. That is why I sent them." "I know, monsieur," Jean-Michel replied, "and I'm sorry. I didn't want to intimidate Herr Richter." "And you didn't," Dominique said. His voice was tranquil and his wide mouth was relaxed. But his dark eyes were heavy with rage as he asked, "Is Henri there?" "Yes," Jean-Michel replied.
"Put him on," Dominique said. "And Jean-Michel? Be sure to take them with you tonight." "I will, M. Dominique," Jean-Michel replied.
So the little Fhrer is on the march, thought Dominique, bullying representatives. He wasn't terribly surprised. Richter's vanity made him ideally suited to believe his own press. That, plus the fact that he was German.
Those people did not comprehend the notion of humility.
Henri came on the line, and Dominique spoke with him for just a few seconds. When they were finished, Dominique punched off the speaker button and sat back.
Richter was as yet too weak to be a real force in Germany, but he would have to be put in his place before he became one. Firmly, and not necessarily gently. Richter was still Dominique's first choice, but if he couldn't have him he would have Karin Doring. She was also independent, but she also needed money. And after seeing what was going to happen to Richter, she would be reasonable.
The anger began to leave his eyes as he looked at the dark shape of the guillotine. Like Danton, who began his crusade against the monarchy as a moderate man, Dominique would become increasingly more severe.
Otherwise, his allies and enemies both would perceive him as weak.
It would be a delicate thing, making sure that Richter was disciplined without driving him away. But as Danton had said in a speech to the Legislative Committee of General Defense in 1792, "Boldness, and again boldness, and always boldness!" The boldness of the guillotine, the boldness of conviction. Then as now, that was what people required to win a revolution.
And he would win this. Then he would settle an old debt. Not with Richter but with another German. One who had betrayed him on that long-ago night. The man who had put everything in motion.
He would destroy Richard Hausen.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Thursday, 11:55 A.M., Wunstorf, Germany
It was the bathroom fire alarm which stopped Jody from screaming.
Wisps of smoke seeping through the vent had triggered the alarm. The high whine pierced her panic and, brought her back to the moment, to the situation at hand. She breathed in, calmed herself, then exhaled.
They're trying to blow the trailer up, she told herself.
As when she faced the gun, Jody knew that every second— any second— could be her last. Quickly, she went to the window and pushed her hand through the metal bars.
She threw the latch with her fingertips, put her palms to the frost
ed glass, and pushed up. She pressed her face to the bars and watched the twisted length of cloth as it burned. It wasn't stuffed into the gas tank. It was just lying there, air flowing around it, providing the catalyst for the fire. She pushed her arm out the window, tried to reach the wick. She fell over a foot short.
"God, no!" She threw herself back from the bars, pushed her hair from her eyes, and looked around. There had to be something she could use to reach it. Sink. Toilet. Nothing.
The Sink— She thought of dousing the fire, but there was nothing in the bathroom to use as a bucket or ladle.
"Think!" she screamed.
She turned around slowly. She saw the shower, but there were no bath towels. She tried to pull the towel bar off the back of the stall, couldn't, then noticed the showerhead.
It was attached to a hose.
Quickly turning on the water, she yanked the head from the hook and pulled it toward the window. It didn't reach, short by inches.
The flame had nearly covered the mouth of the gas tank when, snarling with frustration, Jody dropped the showerhead and grabbed the hand towel. She pushed it in the toilet, then ran back to the window. Extending her hand, she swung the wet towel up and let it fall. She heard a hiss, then put her face to the window.
The upper portion of the flame had bin extinguished.
Part of the underside was still burning.
There was only the one towel, and it was gone now.
Quickly pulling off her blouse, Jody plunged it into the toilet.
This time, however, she slapped it as hard as she could against the side of the trailer. She didn't drop it, but let the water trickle down the wall. Then she pulled in the blouse, wet it again, and slammed it even harder against the trailer.
The water ran down in a solid sheet, dousing the last of the flame and sending up a thin wall of smoke. It was the sweetest smell Jody had ever tasted.
"Screw you!" Jody shouted at the image of the woman in her mind. "I don't like killing women," she said. "Well you didn't, bitch! You didn't get me!" Jody pulled in her arm and put on the wet shirt. It was cold and felt good. She looked at the door.
"You're next," she said with fresh-earned confidence.
There was time, now, to work the towel bar from the shower stall. Putting her back against the front wall she kicked the bar free. Then she went to the bathroom door and put her shoulder to it. She opened it just enough to get the bar through, then used it as a lever. The door moved slowly, as Jody pulled against whatever had been pushed against it. After several minutes, she'd succeeded in opening a crack large enough for her to slip through.
She stepped over the upended table, ran to the door, and opened it.
"You didn't get me!" she said again, her jaw outthrust and her fists raised. She turned and looked at the trailer.
A shock sizzled down her back.
What if they're expecting to hear the explosion? she asked herself. And when they don't, will they come back?
Exhausted, Jody ran to the other side of the trailer. She used a twig to pull the smoldering cloth from the gas tank, then climbed back into the cab. She pushed in the cigarette lighter. While she waited for it to heat up, she tore strips of cloth from the inside lid of one of the trunks in the trailer itself. When the lighter was ready, she lit one of the pieces and walked toward the gas tank.
Jody used one strip to dry off the area; then laid another strip half in and half out of the tank. She used the burning strip to ignite the one in the tank, dropped it, and ran into the woods, away from the trailer. In all her years of movie watching, she'd seen a lot of cars and trucks blow up.
But those were rigged to blow with carefully placed explosives, not a full tank of gasoline. She had no idea how big, how loud, or how destructive the blast would be.
It occurred to her to put her hands over her ears as she ran.
Only a minute or so passed when she heard the muffled timpani boom of the blast, followed by the louder rending of metal and the deafening explosion of the tires. A heartbeat later she was hit by the concussive heat wave which rolled from the blast. Jody felt the intense heat through her wet blouse and against her scalp. But she forgot about the heat as hot shards of metal rained down, along with particles of glass. She thought of the burning hail from The Ten Commandments, how when she saw the movie she remembered thinking there was no way to protect yourself from that. She dropped to the ground and covered her head with her arms, bent her chest to her knees. A large piece of fender tore through the canopy of trees and slammed to the earth just inches from her foot and she jumped.
She swung toward a tree and hugged it, kneeling, thinking that the branches might offer some protection against the larger chunks of the trailer. She held the tree tightly, sobbing again, as though all the courage had been drained out of her. She remained there even after the downpour had stopped. Her thighs were shaking wildly and she couldn't stand. After a moment, she couldn't even hold the tree anymore.
Letting go, Jody walked for a while. She was exhausted and lost and decided to rest. Though the soft, green grass looked inviting, she pulled herself up into a tree. Cradling herself in two closely spaced branches, she put her head on one of the branches and shut her eyes.
They left me to die, she thought. They killed others.
What gives them the right?
The sobs came less frequently. The fear didn't go away.
But along with a realization of how vulnerable she'd been was a sense of the strength she'd managed to find as well.
I didn't let them kill me, she told herself.
She saw Karin's face in her memory, vivid and cold.
She hated it, hated how smug and confident the woman had been. Half of Jody wanted to let the monster know that they had nearly taken her life but not her spirit.
The other half of Jody wanted to sleep. Within a few minutes the sleep-half had won, though not without a struggle.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Thursday, 6:40 A.M., Quantico, Virginia
Mike Rodgers hadn't intended to visit Billy Squires until seven o'clock. But when he received a call from Melissa just after six, he pulled on his uniform, grabbed the comic books— he wanted to have something, and wouldn't have time to pick up anything else— and rushed over.
"It's nothing life-threatening," Melissa had said over the phone, "but could you come a little early? I want you to see something." Melissa had told him she couldn't elaborate since Billy was in the room. But when Rodgers got there, he'd see and understand.
The General hated mysteries, and during the fortyminute drive he'd tried to imagine everything it could be, from an infestation of ants or bats to something Billy might have done himself.
Nothing he considered even came close.
The Striker base was located at the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia. The team members were housed in apartments on the base; families had townhouses. Melissa and Billy lived in the largest of these, closest to the swimming pool. Regulations said that they would be allowed to stay in the commander's residence until a permanent new Striker leader was named. As far as Rodgers was concerned, they could live there as long as they liked and the new commander could stay somewhere else. There was no way he'd tear Billy from his friends until Melissa felt he was ready.
Besides, Rodgers thought as he showed his pass to the guard at the gate, the way the search is going it'll be the millennium before we have a new commander. The man he really wanted for the job, Colonel Brett August, had already turned him down twice. And he'd probably turn Rodgers down a third time when he called him again later.
Meanwhile, Major Shooter, on loan from Andrews Air Force Base, was the temporary leader. Everyone liked him, and he was a masterful strategist. But he had no combat experience. There was no reason to assume he'd choke in the field, but no reason to assume he wouldn't. On the kinds of world-in-the-balance missions Striker had drawn in North Korea and Russia, it was a risk they couldn't afford.
Rodgers parked his brand-new,
apple-red Blazer in the parking area and jogged toward the front door. Melissa opened it before he arrived. She looked okay, her posture relaxed, and Rodgers slowed down.
But then, the young woman had a habit of looking as if all was right with the world. Even when Charlie was alive, when he got riled up chicken-fighting in the pool or playing hockey in the rink or losing the spot for his seven-letter word in Scrabble, she was the portrait of composure. Now that her husband was gone, she did the picnics and outings with the rest of the Striker families, tried to keep life as normal as possible for her son. Rodgers could just imagine the tears she'd cried in the dark. But the operative word was "imagine." She rarely showed any of her sadness in public.
He hopped up the steps and they embraced warmly.
"Thanks for coming, Mike," she said.
"You smell nice," he smiled. "Apricot shampoo?' She nodded.
"Never smelled that one before." "I decided to change a few things." She looked down.
"You know." Rodgers kissed her on the forehead. "Of course." He stepped past her, still smiling. It was strange coming here in the morning and not smelling the gourmet coffees that Charlie always drank.
"Where's Billy?" Rodgers asked.
"Taking a bath. He burns off energy playing in the tub, so he's calmer in school." Rodgers heard the boy splashing now, upstairs. He looked back at Melissa. "Has he been acting up?" "Only the last few days," Melissa said. "That's why I asked you to come here a little early." Melissa crossed the small living room and motioned with a finger for Rodgers to follow. They entered the playroom, which was decorated with framed prints of warplanes. On top of the TV was a framed photo of Charlie with a black ribbon in the corner. Other photos of the family stood on the fireplace mantel and bookshelves.