by Tom Clancy
But that didn't mean he was going to go along with her.
Herbert said, "And how am I supposed to live with myself if anything happens to you? Besides, think about it.
You stayed calm. You fought back. You saved my life. You don't have anything to prove." "No," Jody said. "My demon is still out there. I am going and you can't stop me. I can outrun you." "Don't be fooled by the wheelchair, Jody Joyner- Kersee," Herbert said. "When I want to, I can fly." He removed her finger and began redialing. "Besides, I can't let you die. We're going to need you at a trial. I was with a German government official this morning, Deputy Foreign Minister Richard Hausen. He's devoted to their destruction.
Get your vengeance that way." "He's devoted to their destruction," Jody repeated.
"And they're probably devoted to his. Hundreds against one.
Who do you think is going to win?" "That depends who the 'one' is." She replied, "Exactly." Herbert looked at her. "Touch‚," he said, "but you're still not going." Jody's mouth twisted. She rose and started walking away. "Bullshit. Bullshit!" "Jody, quiet down!" Herbert hissed. "Judy— come back." She shook her head and kept walking. Swearing, Herbert hung up and started after her. As he rolled up the slight dirt incline in a small thicket of trees, twigs cracked behind him. He stopped, listened, swore again.
Someone was coming. Either they'd heard them or had come to check on the police officer. Not that it mattered.
Jody was about twenty yards off and still moving away. He couldn't call to her lest he give himself away. There was only one thing to do.
It was charcoal-gray dark beneath the leaves. Slowly, quietly, Herbert rolled behind one of the trees. He listened.
There were two sets of footsteps. They stopped moving just about where the body would be. The question was, would they continue or retreat?
After a moment the footsteps continued in their direction. Herbert slid his stick from beneath the armrest and waited. Jody's footsteps. retreated to the right. He was frustrated at not being able to call to her and tell her to stop.
He let his breathing fall to his abdomen to relax him.
"Buddah Belly" they had called it when he was in rehabilitation. When he was taught that a man wasn't measured by whether he could walk but whether he could act.
Two men walked past. He thought he recognized them from the van. Herbert waited until they had walked by. Then he quickly wheeled behind the second man, swung his stick sideways, and clubbed him hard in the thigh. The man doubled over. When his friend turned around, his submachine gun at his side, Herbert brought the stick swinging back into his left kneecap. The man dropped faceforward, toward Herbert. Herbert struck him hard on the head. As the first man groaned and struggled to get back to his feet, Herbert hit him on the back of the neck. He flopped down, unconscious. Herbert sneered as he looked down at the two men.
I ought to kill them, he thought, his hand reaching for the Urban Skinner. But that would make him as vile as they were, and he knew it. Instead, he returned his stick to the armrest. Picking up the compact submachine gun, a Czech Skorpion, he set it in his lap and wheeled after Jody.
Even though he rolled as quickly as possible through the blue-black darkness of the woods, he knew that she had probably gone too far to catch. He thought about calling Hausen for help, but who could Hausen trust? According to Paul, the politician didn't even know that his own personal assistant was a neo-Nazi. Herbert couldn't call the police.
He'd killed a man and would probably be hauled off before Jody could be extricated. And even if they were working on the side of the law, what understaffed group of peacekeepers would march into a remote camp of militant radicals at the height of Chaos Days? Especially radicals who had calmly decimated the crew of a movie set.
As he had been trained from his earliest days in intelligence work, Herbert took stock of the things he knew for certain. First, in this situation he could only rely on himself. Second, if Jody reached the camp before him she would be killed. And third, she was probably going to reach the camp before him.
Gritting his teeth against the pain of his bruises, he gripped, his wheels and hurried after her.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Thursday, 6:53 P.M., Toulouse, France
As Colonel Ballon sat watching the video monitor he thought, like most Frenchmen, how little he cared for Americans. Ballon had two younger sisters who lived in Quebec, both of whom were full of stories about how Americans were imperious and cocky and crude and just too damn near. His own experiences with tourists in Paris, where he was based, indicated to him quite clearly what the problem was. Americans wanted to be French. They drank, they smoked, and they dressed like the French did. They affected artistry and insouciance like the French did. Only they refused to speak like the French did. Even in France, they expected everyone to speak English.
Then there was the military. Because of Napoleon's disastrous Russian campaign and World War II, they assumed that members of the French armed forces were vastly inferior to American soldiers and deserved only the bones they signed to throw them.
But Bonaparte and the Maginot Line were aberrations in an otherwise proud military history, he told himself. Indeed, without the French military helping George Washington there would not be a United States. Not that the Americans would ever acknowledge that. Any more than they would allow that the Lumiere brothers, not Edison, invented motion pictures. Or that the Montgolfier brothers, not the Wright brothers, were the ones who enabled people to fly. The only good thing about Americans was that they gave him someone other than Germans to hate.
His phone beeped and he regarded it for a moment.
That would be him. Paul Hood. Ballon didn't really want to talk to this Mr. Hood, but he didn't want to let Dominique get away even more. Thus resolved— quickly, as with all things— he snatched up the phone.
"Oui?" "Colonel Ballon?" "Oui." The caller said without missing a beat, "Je suis Paul Hood. Vous avez besoin d'assistance?" Ballon was caught off guard by that. "Oui," he replied.
"Eh… vous parlez la langue?" he asked.
"Je parle un peu," Hood said.
He spoke a little French. "Then we'll speak English," replied Ballon. "I don't want to hear you murder my tongue.
I'm particular about that." "I understand," said Hood. "Six years of French in high school and college didn't exactly make me a linguist." "School does not make us anything," Ballon said. "Life makes us what we are. But talk is not life, and sitting in this room is not life. Mr. Hood, I want Dominique. I've been told you have equipment which will help me get him." "I do," Hood said.
"Where are you?" "Hamburg," said Hood.
"Very good You can fly here on one of the airbuses which made Dominique's father a fortune. If you hurry, you can be here in about two hours." "We'll be there," said Hood.
"We?" Ballon felt his passion leak away. "Who else is there?" Hood said, "Deputy Foreign Minister Richard Hausen and the two other persons in my party." Ballon had been glowering. Now he was sulking. It had to be a German, he thought. And that German in particular.
God does not love me as He promised He would.
"Colonel Ballon," Hood said, "are you there?" "Yes," he said glumly. "So now I don't have to just sit here for two hours. I can fight with my government to get an attention-hungry German government official into France on an unofficial visit." I take a different view of him," Hood said. "Attention can be selfless if it's for a worthy cause." "Don't lecture me about selflessness. He's a general. I fight in the trenches. But," Ballon added quickly, "this is pointless. I need you, you want him, so that is that. I'll make a few calls and I will meet you at the Aerodrome de Lasbordes at eight o'clock." "Hold on," Hood said. "You've asked your questions now I want to ask mine." "Go ahead." "We think Dominique's preparing to launch an online campaign designed to spread hate, inspire riots, and destabilize governments." "Your associate General Rodgers told me all about this chaos project." "Good," said Hood. "Did he also tell you we want him stopped, not
threatened." "Not in so many words," Ballon said. "But I believe that Dominique is a terrorist. If you can help me prove that, I will go into his factory and stop him." "I'm told he's avoided arrest in the past." "He has," Ballon said. "But I intend to do more than arrest him. Let me give you an overview which I hope will answer all of your questions. We French are very solidly behind our entrepreneurs. They've prospered in the winter of our economy. They've thrived despite government manacles. And I admit, with some shame, that a great many Frenchmen approve of the work of the New Jacobins. No one likes immigrants here, and the New Jacobins attack them like pack dogs. If people knew that Dominique was behind those attacks, he would be an even greater hero." Ballon's eyes burned through the image on the TV. He saw, in his mind, Dominique sitting smug and comfortable in his office.
"But while we French are an emotional people, most of us also believe in concord. In healing wounds. In harmony.
You Americans see that as waving a white flag, but I see it as civilized. Dominique is not civilized. He violates the laws of France and God. Like his father, he has a conscience made of diamond. Nothing scratches it. It is my intention to make him answer for his crimes." Hood said, "I believe in moral crusades and I'll back yours with the full resources of my organization. But you still haven't told me where this crusade is headed." Ballon replied, "To Paris." "I'm listening," said Hood.
"I intend to arrest Dominique, confiscate his papers and software, and then resign from the Gendarmarie.
Dominique's attorneys will see to it that he never goes to trial. But while that process is under way, I'll go to the press with a catalogue of his crimes. Murders and rapes he has committed or ordered, taxes he hasn't paid, businesses and properties he misappropriated, and more that I couldn't reveal as a government employee." "A dramatic gesture," Hood said. "But if French law is anything like American law, you'll be sued, drawn, and quartered." "That is correct," replied Ballon. "But my trial will be Dominique's trial. And when it's over he'll be disgraced.
Finished." "So will you." "Only this career," Ballon said. "I'll find other honorable work." "Do your teammates feel the same way you do?" "Not all," he admitted. "They're committed only to— what's the word? The limitations? Boundaries?" "Parameters," said Hood.
"Yes." Ballon snapped his fingers. "They're committed to the parameters of the mission. That's all I ask of you as well. If you help me prove what Demain is doing, if you give me a reason to go inside, we can bring Dominique down.
Today." Hood said, "Fair enough. One way or another, we'll get there." He added, "Et merci. " Ballon replied with a gruff thank you of his own, then sat holding the handset. He dropped his finger on the plunger.
"Good news?" asked Sergeant Ste. Marie.
"Very good news," Ballon replied without enthusiasm.
"We have help. Unfortunately, it's an American and a German. Richard Hausen." Ste. Marie moaned. "We can all go home. The Hun will take Dominique singlehandedly." "We'll see," said Ballon. "We'll see what his pluck is like when there are no reporters present to admire it." With a short aftershock of outrage— "Americans and a German," he declared— Ballon called the office of an old friend in the CDT, the Comite Departemental de Tourisme, to see if they could simply look the other way when the plane arrived, or if he'd have to tangle with the territorial carnivores in Paris.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Thursday, 6:59 P.M., Hamburg, Germany
Martin Lang was on his cellular phone as Hood helped Matt Stoll gather together his equipment. Lang was phoning the airport outside of Hamburg, ordering the corporate jet to be readied. Stoll was zipping up his backpack and looking anxious.
"Maybe I missed something when you were explaining it to Herr Lang," Stoll said, "but tell me again why I'm going to France." Hood said, "You're going to T-Ray the Demain factory in Toulouse." "That part I got," said Stoll. "But someone else is going to go inside, right? Professionals?" Hood looked from Stoll to Hausen. The German was standing in the doorway between the two offices, phoning to arrange for clearances for Lang's Learjet 36A. The aircraft held two crew members and six passengers and had a range of 3,151 miles. At an average speed of four hundred miles an hour, they should arrive right on schedule.
"Done," said Lang, hanging up. He checked his watch.
"The plane will be waiting at seven-thirty." Hood was still watching Hausen as a thought occurred to him. One which chilled and then annoyed him. Hausen's aide had turned on him. What if the office was bugged?
Hood pulled Stoll aside. "Matt, I'm getting sloppy. That kid who worked for Hausen, Reiner. He could have left a bug here." Stoll nodded. "You mean, like this one?" He reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew a folded-over piece of cellophane tape. Inside was a gumdrop-shaped object slightly larger than a pinhead. "I did a sweep of the room while you were away. I forgot to tell you in the heat of the hate game showing up and all that." Hood sighed and squeezed Stoll's shoulders. "Bless you, Matt." "Does that mean I get to stay here?" he asked.
Hood shook his head.
"Just thought I'd ask," Stoll said disconsolately.
As he walked away, Hood was angry with himself for having overlooked that. He turned to Nancy, who had walked over. They were going into a potentially dangerous situation where a screwup could cost them the mission, a career, or a life.
You've got to focus on the job, he remonstrated himself. You can't be distracted by Nancy and all the mighthave- been scenarios.
"Anything wrong?" Nancy asked.
"No," he said.
"Just standing around, beating yourself up." She smiled. "I remember the look." Hood flushed. He glanced up to make sure that Stoll wasn't watching.
"It's okay," Nancy said.
"What is?" he asked impatiently. He wanted to get out of here, break the tempting closeness.
"Being human. Making a mistake now and then or wanting something that isn't yours. Or even wanting something that was yours." Hood turned toward Hausen so as not to make it seem as if he were turning away from Nancy. But he was. And she obviously knew it because she stepped between the men.
"God, Paul, why do you put this burden on yourself?
This burden to be so perfect?" "Nancy, this isn't the time or place—" "Why?" she asked. "You think we'll have another?" He said bluntly, "No. No, we probably won't." "Forget me for a moment. Think about you. When we were younger, you worked hard so you could get ahead.
Now you are ahead and you're still pushing. Who's it for?
Are you trying to set an example for your kids or your subordinates?" "Neither," he said with an edge. Why was everyone always on his back about his ethics, work and otherwise?
"I'm only trying to do what's right. Personally, professionally, just what's right. If that's too simple or too vague for everybody, it isn't my problem." "We can leave," Hausen said. He put the phone in his jacket pocket and walked briskly toward Hood. He was obviously pleased, and unaware that he was interrupting anything. "The government has given clearance for us to leave at once." He turned to Lang. "Is everything set, Martin?" "The jet is yours," Lang said. "I won't be joining you.
I'd only be in the way." "I understand," Hausen said. "The rest of us had better be going." Stoll strugged into the backpack with the T-ray imaging unit. "You betcha," he said glumly. "Why go to the hotel where I can have room service and a hot bath, when I can go to France and fight terrorists?" Hausen extended an arm toward the door. He had the eager, impatient manner of someone hurrying dinner guests out into the night. Hood hadn't seem him so animated all day. Was this, as he suspected, Ahab finally closing in on the White Whale— or was it, as Ballon believed, a politician about to score an unprecedented public relations coup?
Hood took Nancy's hand and started toward the door.
She resisted. He stopped and turned back. She was no longer the confident woman who strode toward him in the park. Nancy was a sad and lonely figure, seductive in her need.
He knew what she was thinking. That she should be opposing them,
not helping them destroy what was left of her life. As he watched her stand there, he flirted with the idea of telling her what she wanted to hear, of lying to her and saying that they could try again. His job was to protect the nation and he needed her help for that.
And once you tell that lie, he thought, you can lie to Mike and your staff, to Congress, even to Sharon.
"Nancy, you'll have work," Hood told her. "I said I'd help you and I will." He was going to remind her again who walked out on whom, but what was the point? Women weren't consistent or fair.
"But that's my problem, not yours," Nancy said. It was as if she'd read his mind and was determined to prove him wrong. "You say you need my help if you get inside. Fine. I won't walk out on you a second time." Snapping her head the way she did in the hotel lobby, she walked toward Hausen. The long, blond hair swept to the side, as if it were brushing away doubt and anger.
Hausen thanked her, thanked them all, as the five of them entered the elevator for the quick ride to the lobby.
Hood stood beside Nancy. He wanted to thank her, but just saying it didn't seem to be enough. Without looking at her, he squeezed her hand and quickly released it. From the corner of his eye he saw Nancy blink several times, the only break in her otherwise stoic expression.
He couldn't remember when he felt both this close and this far from a person. It was frustrating being unable to move in one direction or the other, and he could only imagine how much worse it felt for Nancy.
And then she let him know by reaching over and squeezing his hand and not releasing it as tears crept from her eyes. The ping of the elevator as they reached the lobby broke their touch but not the spell as she released him and they walked, eyes ahead, toward the waiting car.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX