Games Of State (1996)

by Tom - Op Center 03 Clancy

  Jean-Michel did not speak.

  "Then there's just one other matter we have to discuss," Richter said. "How deeply I bite the lamb."

  Richter angled the knife so it was point-up. Jean-Michel tried to back away again, but the man behind him grabbed a fistful of hair and held him steady. Richter moved the blade higher until the tip was under the upper eyelid. He continued to move it up slowly, along the contour of the eye, as he spoke.

  "Did you know that I studied medicine before I founded the 21st Century party?" Richter asked. "Answer."

  "Yes." Hating himself for it, Jean-Michel added, "Please, Herr Richter. Please--"

  "I was a doctor," Richter said, "and I would have made a good one had I decided to practice. But I elected not to, and do you know why? Because I realized I couldn't give care to genetic inferiors. 1 mention this because, as you can see, I found another use for my training. I use it to influence. To control the body and thus the mind. For example, if I continue to push the knife upwards, I know I'll encounter the lateral rectus muscle. If I cut that muscle, you will find it extremely difficult to look up or down. It will be necessary for you to wear an eyepatch after that, or you'll be disoriented as your eyes work independently, and"--he laughed--"you will look rather freakish, with one eye staring straight ahead, the other one moving normally."

  Jean-Michel was panting, his legs wobbling violently. If the big man weren't holding him by the hair he'd have fallen. The knife was out of focus as the Frenchman looked at Richter's red-tinted face. He felt a prick above the eyeball.

  "Please, no," he sobbed. "Mon Dieu, Herr Richter--"

  Tears smeared his vision, and the trembling of his jaw caused the eye to shake. Each move caused a fresh and painful nick.

  Slowly, the German brought his left hand toward the knife. His fingers were facing down. He placed his palm against the bottom of the hilt, as though he were going to jam it up.

  "Did you also know," Richter asked calmly, "that what we're doing is part of the process of brainwashing? I've studied the techniques of the KGB, who worked miracles with them. What an individual is told in a state of pain and fear registers on the brain as truth. Of course, it has to be done over and over to be truly effective. Systematic and thorough."

  He pushed the knife gently upwards. The prick became a shooting pain that punched against the back of Jean-Michel's forehead.

  Jean-Michel screamed and then began to whine. Despite the shame he felt, he couldn't stop himself.

  "What do you think now about equality, my little lamb?" Richter asked.

  "I think," said Jean-Michel, swallowing hard again, "that you have made your point."

  "My point?" Richter said. "That's the first clever thing you've said, and I doubt it was intentional."

  Richter twisted the knife again, drawing a scream from the Frenchman.

  "My point, actually, is this. In the very near future, Dominique will need me far more than I need him. His New Jacobin soldiers are a small force, suited for local work. I, on the other hand, have the ability to become international. And I will. His new computer programs will be downloaded in American cities, but they can persuade only over time. I and my lieutenants can go to America, meet with and inspire American Nazis. We are people of the Fatherland, the home of the movement. You are a people who were conquered and learned to serve. The world will follow me and they will do so now, not five or ten or twenty years from now. Equally as important, they will give us money. And that, M. Horne, makes Dominique and myself more than just peers. It makes me his superior."

  Richter smiled, and a moment later let the knife fall into his palm. He stepped back; as he did so, he slipped the knife back in its sheath under his sleeve.

  Jean-Michel moaned, a combination of pain and relief.

  "So," Richter said. "When you contact Dominique, tell him that I've given you a lesson in humility. I'm sure he will understand. You can also tell him that no one, not Karin Doring or anyone else, will ever lead the movement in Germany. That is my destiny. Have we any other business?"

  The doorman relaxed his grip enough so that Jean-Michel could shake his head.

  "Excellent," Richter said as he turned. "Ewald will call you a taxi and give you a minute to collect yourself. I trust I will see you tonight. It will be an evening to remember."

  When Richter was gone, the big man released his captive. Jean-Michel crumpled to the floor, his entire body shaking as he rolled onto his side. His vision on the left side was blurry-red, as blood trickled from his upper lid and pooled on the lower.

  Lying in a heap, his legs still limp, Jean-Michel pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. Where it touched his eye the cloth was stained pale-rose, blood diluted by tears. He suffered a stinging pain every time he blinked. Worse than the physical pain, however, was the spiritual pain. He felt like a coward for having fallen apart the way he did.

  As Jean-Michel nursed his wound, he reminded himself that despite the abuse he'd taken, he'd done what M. Dominique had ordered. He'd made the offer and been rebuffed by a proudly unmanageable fop.

  Richter did not suspect, however, the real reason that M. Dominique wanted and was determined to bring him into the fold. It was not to further the movement of ethnic purity, but to create a genuine concern for the German government. M. Dominique wanted to destabilize Germany just enough to make the rest of Europe wary of allowing the nation to dictate the future of the European Community. That role must fall to France, and France's mind would be made up by a handful of its billion-dollar business leaders. And where the European Community went, Asia and the rest of the world would follow.

  And they will follow, he knew, especially with America in chaos. And when that goal is achieved, Jean-Michel thought, M. Dominique would dispose of Richter. As the French had learned over a half century before, it was a bad idea to let German fascists become too powerful.

  After several minutes, Jean-Michel managed to get to his knees. Then he pulled himself up on a chair and stood hunched over it. The wound was already beginning to scab and scratch the eye, and each blink renewed his hatred for the German.

  But you have to put that away for now, he thought. As a scientist, Jean-Michel had learned to be patient. Besides, as M. Dominique had told him before he left, even a misstep teaches you something. And this one had taught them a great deal about the new Fuhrer.

  Finally putting away his handkerchief, the Frenchman made his way to the door. He did not look to Ewald for assistance. Opening it, he shielded his wounded eye from the harsh sunlight and walked slowly to the waiting cab.

  EIGHT

  Thursday, 11:05 A.M., Hamburg, Germany

  The ride from the airport to the city center on the Autobahn took thirty-five minutes. As always when he traveled on business, Hood wished that he had time to stop and look at some of the buildings, monuments, and museums they passed. It was frustrating to catch just a glimpse, at ninety miles an hour, of churches which were old when the United States was young. But even if there had been time, Hood wasn't sure he'd be comfortable taking it. Wherever he went, he was adamant about doing the best he could on the business which brought him there. That didn't leave much time for sightseeing or play. His devotion to duty was one of the qualities which had earned him the sobriquet Pope Paul at Op-Center. He didn't know for sure, but he suspected that the nickname had been coined by Op-Center's Press Officer, Ann Farris.

  Hood felt a curious sadness as he watched the modern skyscrapers flash by the darkened window. Sadness for himself and for Ann. The young divorcee barely concealed her affection for Paul, and when they worked alone together he felt dangerously close. There was something there, an intoxicating, seductive pull to which it would have been easy to succumb. But to what end? He was married, with two young children, and he wasn't going to leave them. True, he didn't love making love to his wife any more. Sometimes, he hated to admit to himself, he'd just as soon skip it altogether. She wasn't the adoring, attentive, energetic Sharon Kent he had married. She was a m
ommy. She was a cable TV personality who had a life apart from the family and coworkers he knew only from Christmas parties. And she was older and more tired and not as hungry for him as she'd been.

  While you, at least in your heart, he thought, are still El Cid with his lance unsplintered and his stallion full of gallop.

  Of course, that was in his heart. He had to admit that in the flesh he wasn't the knight he'd once been either--except in Ann's eyes. Which was why he found himself getting drawn into them now and then.

  Still, he and Sharon had built memories together, and a different kind of love than they'd once had. The thought of going home to his family after creating a pocket relationship at the office would have made him feel--well, he knew exactly how he'd feel. He'd thought about it enough on those long drives home from Andrews after long nights of reviewing press releases with Ann. He'd have felt like a goddamn earthworm, low and hiding from the light and wriggling through the dirt for what he needed to survive.

  And even if he could've handled the guilt of it all, a relationship like that wouldn't be fair to Ann. She was a good woman with the heart of an angel. To lead her on, to give her hope where there was none, to become intimately involved with the lives of her and her son would have been wrong.

  None of which stops you from wanting her, does it? Hood asked himself. Maybe that was why he and Sharon both worked so hard. They were replacing the passion they'd once had with something they could still do enthusiastically, something that was fresh and different every day they did it.

  But Lord God, Hood thought sadly, what I wouldn't give for a night of what was.

  The Alster-Hof Hotel was situated between the city's two spectacular lakes, though Hood, Stoll, and Herbert barely had time to check in and wash up before heading back downstairs. Herbert glanced out the windows while Stoll did a quick electronic sweep to make sure the room hadn't been bugged.

  "We've got a pretty nice view, huh?" Herbert said as they rode the elevator down. He was absently twirling an eighteen-inch-long section of broom handle he kept under the wheelchair's left armrest for protection. He also kept a two-inch Urban Skinner knife tucked under the right armrest. "Those lakes remind me of the Chesapeake, with all the boats."

  "They're the Binnenalster and Aussenalster," a young German porter said helpfully. "The Inner Alster and Outer Alster."

  "Makes sense," Herbert admitted. He replaced his stick in the hooks under the armrest. "Though I probably would have called them the Big Alster and Little Alster. The big lake's what--about ten times larger than the other?"

  "Three hundred and ninety-five acres as compared with forty-five," the youth replied.

  "I was in the ballpark," Herbert said as the elevator reached the lobby. "I still think my names are better. You can always tell big from little. But you may get 'em mixed up if you don't know which end of the city's in and which end's out."

  "Perhaps you should place a note in the suggestion box," the porter said, pointing. "It's right over there, beside the letter box."

  Herbert looked at him. So did Hood, who couldn't tell whether the kid was being facetious or helpful. Germans weren't known for their sense of humor, though he'd heard that the new generation was learning a lot about sarcasm from American movies and TV.

  "Maybe I'll do that," Herbert said as he rolled out. He looked over at Stoll, who was bent beneath the weight of his backpack. "You've got the translator. What would those names be?"

  Stoll punched the English words into his paperback-sized electronic translator. Almost at once, the German equivalent materialized in the liquid crystal display.

  "Looks like they'd be called the Grossalster and the Kleinalster," Stoll informed him.

  Hood said, "Doesn't have a particularly elegant sound, does it?"

  "No," Herbert agreed, "but you know what? It beats hell out of what we have back in Philadephia, Mississippi. Dead Cat Pond, Mudworm Creek--"

  "I kind of like those," Stoll said. "They paint a picture."

  "Yeah, but not one you'd want on a postcard," Herbert said. "Matter of fact, all we've got in our metal twirly thing at the general store are postcards of Main Street and the old schoolhouse and nothing else."

  "I'd rather have the pond and the creek," Stoll said.

  As they made their way through the crowded lobby, Hood looked around for Martin Lang and Deputy Foreign Minister Richard Hausen. He had never met Hausen, but he was anxious to see the German electronics tycoon Lang again. They had spent some time together when Los Angeles hosted a dinner for international guests at a computer convention. Hood had been impressed with Lang's warmth, sincerity, and intelligence. He was a humanist who understood that without happy employees, he had no company. There were never any layoffs. Hard times were borne by the top levels of management, not the bottom.

  When it came time to price the construction of the new brainchild of Mike Rodgers and Matt Stoll, the Regional Op-Center or ROC, Lang was the first person who came to mind for the computers they'd need. His company's patented photon-based technology Leuchtturm, Lighthouse, was adaptable, cutting edge, and expensive. As with most things in government, though, Hood knew that getting the ROC constructed at all would be a delicate balancing act. It would be difficult to get the half-billion-dollar budget for the ROC through Congress under any circumstances, more so if they bought foreign components. At the same time, Op-Center would have a rough time getting the ROC into foreign countries unless it contained hardware from those countries.

  What it would ultimately come down to, Hood reflected, were two things. One, that Germany would soon be the leading country in the European Community. The ability to move a mobile spy center in and out with relative freedom would pre-position the U.S. to watch everything Europe did. Congress would like that. And two, Lang's company, Hauptschlussel, Main Key, would have to agree to purchase many of the materials they needed for this and other projects from American companies. A good portion of the money would thus remain in the United States.

  Hood felt confident that he could sell that to Lang. He and Matt were going to show him a new technology in which the Germans would surely want to become involved, something the small R&D division of Op-Center had stumbled upon while looking for a way to check the integrity of high-speed electrical circuitry. And though Lang was an honorable man, he was also a businessman and a patriot. Knowing all about the ROC's hardware and its capabilities, Lang could persuade his government to underwrite technological countermeasures for national security. Then Hood could go to Congress for the money to undermine those, money he would agree to spend with American companies.

  He smiled. As strange as it seemed to Sharon, who loathed negotiating, and to Mike Rodgers, who was anything but diplomatic, Hood enjoyed this process. Getting things done in the international political arena was like a big, complex chess game. Though no player came through it unscathed, it was fun to see how many pieces you were able to retain.

  They stopped near the house phones, away from the flow of guests. Hood took in the baroque decor of the lobby, as well as the thick, curious mix of smartly dressed businesspeople and casual tourists. Stepping out of the human traffic gave him the chance to appreciate the people, all of whom were focused on their own business, their own destinations, who they were with--

  The golden hair flashed at him from the front door. It captured his eye not because of the movement itself but because of the way it moved. As the woman left the lobby, her head cocked right and the long blond hair snapped left, fast and confident.

  Hood was transfixed. Like a bird darting from a tree, he thought.

  As Hood watched, unable to move, the woman disappeared to the right. For a long instant he didn't blink, couldn't breathe. The noise in the lobby, so distinct a moment ago, became a distant drone.

  "Chief?" Stoll asked. "You see 'em?"

  Hood didn't answer. Forcing his legs to move, he bolted toward the door, maneuvering around the people and stacked luggage, shouldering his way around guests who were standin
g still, waiting and chattering.

  A golden lady, he thought.

  He reached the open door and rushed through. He looked to the right.

  "Taxi?" asked the liveried doorman.

  Hood didn't hear him. He looked toward the north, saw a cab moving toward the main thoroughfare. The bright sunlight made it impossible for him to see inside. He turned toward the doorman.

  "Did a woman just get in that cab?" Hood asked.

  "Ja," said the young man.

  "Do you know her?" Hood demanded. Even as he said it, Hood realized he probably sounded a little scary. He took a long, deep breath. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to yell like that. It's just--I think I know that woman. Is she a guest here?"

  "Nein," said the doorman. "She dropped off a package and left."

  Hood pointed a thumb to the lobby. "Dropped if off in there?"

  "Not at the desk," said the doorman. "She gave it to someone."

  An elderly English woman came over, needing a cab.

  "Excuse me," the young man said to Hood.

  While the doorman walked to the curb and blew his whistle, Hood looked down and tapped his foot impatiently. As he did, Stoll strolled up beside him, followed by Herbert.

  "Hi," said Stoll.

  Hood was staring at the curb, fighting a storm of emotions.

  "You shoved off like a guy whose dog ran onto the highway," Stoll said. "You okay?"

  Hood nodded.

  "Yeah, I'm convinced," Herbert lied.

  "No, really," Hood said distantly. "I, uh--never mind. It's a long story."

  "So's Dune," Stoll said, "but I love it. Want to talk about it? You see somebody?"

  Hood was silent for a moment, then said, "Yes."

  "Who?" Herbert asked.

  Hood answered almost reverently, "A golden lady."

  Stoll clicked his tongue. "Ooookay," he said. "Sorry I asked." He glanced down at Herbert, who shrugged and gave him a don't-ask-me look.