Games Of State (1996)

by Tom - Op Center 03 Clancy

  "No," the caller said. "1 am more monstrous. Very much more. Because not only do I have the desire to execute my will, but now I have established the means."

  "You?" Hausen said. "Your father established those means--"

  "I did!" the caller snapped. "Me. All me. Everything I have, I earned. Papa was lucky after the war. Anyone with a factory became rich then. No, he was as foolish as you are, Haussier. Though at least he had the good grace to die."

  This is madness, Hausen thought. "Dupre," he said, "Or should I say Dominique. I don't know where you are or what you've become. But I, too, am more than I was. Very much more. I'm not the college boy you remember."

  "Oh, I know." The caller laughed. "I've followed your moves. Every one of them. Your rise in the government, your campaign against hate groups, your marriage, the birth of your daughter, your divorce. A lovely girl, by the way, your daughter. How is she enjoying ballet?"

  Hausen squeezed the phone tighter. "Harm her and I'll find you and kill you."

  "Such rough words from so careful a politician," the caller said. "But that's the beauty of parenthood, isn't it? When a child is threatened, nothing else matters. Not fortune nor health."

  Hausen said, "If you have a fight, it's with me."

  "I know that, Haussier," the caller said. "Alors, the truth is I've tried to stay clear of teenage girls. Such trouble. You understand."

  Hausen was looking at the tile floor but was seeing the young Gerard Dupre. Angry, lashing out, hissing his hate. He couldn't succumb to fury himself. Not even in response to calculated threats against his girl.

  "So you plan to judge me," Hausen said, forcing himself to calm down. "However far I fall, you'll fall farther."

  "Oh, I don't think so," said the caller. "You see, unlike you, I've put layers upon layers of willing employees between myself and my activities. I've actually built an empire of constituents who feel the way I do. I even hired one who helped me follow the life and works of Richard Hausen. He is gone now, but he provided me with a great deal of information about you."

  "There are still laws," Hausen said. "There are many ways in which one can be an accomplice."

  "You would know, wouldn't you?" the caller pointed out. "In any case, on that Parisian matter time has run out. The law can't touch me or you. But think of what it would do to your image when people find out. When photographs from that night begin appearing."

  Photographs? Hausen thought. The camera--could it have captured them?

  "I just wanted you to know that I plan to bring you down," the voice said. "I wanted you to think about it. Wait for it."

  "No," said Hausen. "I'll find a way to fight you."

  "Perhaps," said the caller. "But then, there is that beautiful thirteen-year-old dancer to consider. Because while I have sworn off teenagers, there are members of my group who--"

  Hausen punched the "talk" button to disconnect the caller. He shoved the phone back in his pocket, then turned. He put on a shaky smile and asked the nearest employee where the lavatory was. Then he motioned for Lang to take the others down without him. He was going to have to get away, think about what to do.

  When he reached the bathroom, Hausen leaned over the sink. He cupped his hands, filled them with water, and put his face in it. He let the water dribble out slowly. When his hands were empty, he continued to hold them to his face.

  Gerard Dupre.

  It was a name he'd hoped he never hear again, a face he never wanted to see again, even in his mind's eye.

  But he was back, and so was Hausen--back in Paris, back on the darkest night of his life, back in the shroud of fear and guilt it had taken him years to shake.

  And with his face still in his hands he cried, tears of fear ... and shame.

  SIXTEEN

  Thursday, 8 :16 A.M., Washington, D.C.

  After dropping Billy at school and giving himself a couple of minutes to shake off the adrenaline rush of two games of Blazing Combattle, Rodgers used his car phone to call Darrell McCaskey. Op-Center's FBI liaison had already left for work, and Rodgers caught him on his car phone. It would not have surprised the General if the two of them passed each other while talking. He was beginning to believe that modern technology was nothing more than some huckster's way of selling people two tin cans and a string for thousands of dollars. Of course, these tin cans were equipped with scramblers which switched high and low voice tones at one end and restored them at the other. Signals inadvertently picked up by another phone would be meaningless.

  "Morning, Darrell," Rodgers said.

  "Morning, General," McCaskey replied. He was his usual surly morning self as he said, "And don't ask me about last night's volleyball game. DOD nuked us bad."

  "I won't ask about it," Rodgers said. "Listen, I've got something I need you to check on. A group named WHOA--Whites Only Association. Ever hear of them?"

  "Yeah, I've heard of them. Don't tell me you got wind of the Baltic Avenue. That was supposed to be a deep secret."

  "No," Rodgers said, "I didn't know about it."

  A Baltic Avenue was the FBI's current code for an action being taken against a domestic adversary. They took the name from the game of Monopoly. Baltic Avenue was the first deed after passing "Go"--hence, the start of a mission. The codes changed weekly, and Rodgers always looked forward to Monday mornings when McCaskey shared the new ones with him. In recent months his favorite go-codes had been "Moses," which was inspired by "Let my people go," and "Peppermint Lounge," which came from the famous "go-go" discotheque of the 1960s.

  "Is WHOA the subject of the Baltic Avenue?" Rodgers asked.

  "No," McCaskey replied. "Not directly, anyway."

  Rodgers knew better than to ask McCaskey more on this particular mission. Even though the line was scrambled, that was only effective against casual listeners. Calls could still be monitored and descrambled, and some of these white supremacist groups were pretty sophisticated.

  "Tell me what you know about WHOA," Rodgers said.

  "They're big time," said McCaskey. "They have a couple of paramilitary training camps in the Southeast, Southwest, and Northwest. They offer everything from make-your-own-bullet classes to afterschool activities for the tykes. They publish a slick magazine called Puhrer, spelled like Fuhrer, which actually has news bureaus and ad sales offices in New York, L.A., and Chicago, and they sponsor a successful rock band called AWED--All White Electric Dudes."

  "They're also on-line," Rodgers said.

  "I know." McCaskey asked, "Since when do you surf the net?"

  "I don't," Rodgers said, "but Charlie Squires' kid does. He picked up a hate game about blacks getting lynched."

  "Shit."

  "That's how 1 felt," Rodgers said. "Tell me what you know."

  "Funny you should ask," said McCaskey. "I was just talking to a German friend in the Office for the Protection of the Constitution in Dusseldorf. They're all worried about Chaos Days, when all the neo-Nazis over there gather--the closeted ones in the open and the open ones in hiding, if you follow."

  "I'm not sure I do."

  McCaskey said, "Since neo-Nazism is illegal, admitted Hitlerites can't hold gatherings in public. They meet in barns or woods or old factories. The ones who pose as mere political activists, even though they're advocating Nazi-like doctrine, are able to meet in public."

  "Got it," Rodgers said. "But why aren't the admitted Hitlerites under surveillance?"

  "They are," said McCaskey, "when the government can find them. And even when they are found, some--there's this guy Richter, for example, who did jail time--go to court, claim harassment, and have to be left alone. Public sentiment against skinheads is high, but they feel that articulate, clean-cut jerks like Richter deserve to be left alone."

  "The government can't afford to alienate too many voters."

  "That," said McCaskey, "and make the neo-Nazis look like victims. Some of the Hitler wannabes have got sound bites and charisma that'd curl your toes. They play very well with the evening
news crowd."

  Rodgers didn't like what he was hearing. This media-playing-into-the-hands-of-criminals thing was an old beef of his. Lee Harvey Oswald may have been the last killer to protest his innocence on TV and get blamed in the court of public opinion anyway--though even that jury didn't come back with a unanimous verdict. There was something about the hangdog face of a suspect and the determined face of a prosecutor that drove the underdog-loving public to the suspect.

  "So what about this German friend of yours?" Rodgers asked.

  McCaskey said, "The OPC is worried because in addition to Chaos Days, they've got this new phenomenon called the Thule Network. It's a collection of about a hundred mailboxes and bulletin boards which allow neo-Nazi groups and cells to communicate and form alliances. There's no way of tracking the correspondence to its source, so the authorities are helpless to stop it."

  "Who or what is Thule?" Rodgers asked.

  "It's a place. The legendary northern cradle of European civilization." McCaskey laughed. "When I was a kid, I read a lot of fantasy novels, and a whole bunch of barbarian-type adventure stories were set there. Ursus of Ultima Thule, that sort of thing."

  "Manliness and European purity," Rodgers said. "That's an irresistible symbol."

  "Yeah," said McCaskey, "though I'd never have believed that a place which seemed so wondrous could come to stand for something so corrupt."

  Rodgers asked, "I take it this Thule Network has made inroads to America?"

  "Not per se," said McCaskey. "We've got our own homegrown demons. For about two years now, the Feds, the Southern Poverty Law Center in Alabama, and the Simon Wiesenthal Center have been closely monitoring the inroads hate groups have been making on the information highway. The problem is, like in Germany, the bad guys usually obey the law. Plus, they're fully protected by the First Amendment."

  "The First Amendment doesn't give them the right to incite violence," Rodgers said.

  "They don't. They may stink to the bone, but these people are careful."

  "They'll slip up somewhere," Rodgers said confidently. "And when they do, I want to be there to nail them."

  "So far, they haven't," McCaskey said, "and the FBI has been watching all the neo-Nazi Web sites--their five Internet playgrounds as well as the eight national computer bulletin boards. We've also got a reciprocal agreement with Germany to trade any information they pick up on-line."

  "Only Germany?" Rodgers asked.

  "Germany, England, Canada, and Israel," said McCaskey. "No one else wants to shake things up. So far, there's been nothing illegal."

  "Only immoral," Rodgers said.

  "Sure," said McCaskey, "but you know better than anyone that we've fought a whole lot of wars to give free speech to all Americans, including WHOA."

  "We also fought a war to prove that Hitler was wrong," Rodgers said. "He was and he still is. As far as I'm concerned, we're still at war with these dirtbags."

  "Speaking of war," McCaskey said, "I got a call from Bob Herbert before I left home. Coincidentally, he needs information on a German terrorist group named Feuer. Did you hear about the attack this morning?"

  Rodgers said that he hadn't watched the news, and McCaskey briefed him. The murders reminded him that neo-Nazis were as cold as the monsters who inspired them, from Hitler to Heydrich to Mengele. And he could not believe, would not believe, that people like these were on the minds of the Founding Fathers when they drafted the Constitution.

  "Have we got anybody looking into what Bob needs?" Rodgers asked.

  "Liz has more info on Feuer," McCaskey said. "I'm going to meet with her when I get to the office. I'll go over it and get the essentials right over to Bob, the CIA, and Interpol. They're looking for the perpetrators as well as the missing girl."

  "Okay," Rodgers said. "When you're done with that, bring the data and let's you and Liz and me have a talk. I don't think my meeting with Senator Fox will last very long."

  "Ouch," said McCaskey. "I've got to meet you after you see her?"

  "I'll be okay," Rodgers said.

  "If you say so," McCaskey said.

  "You don't believe that."

  "Paul's a diplomat," McCaskey said. "You're an ass-kicker. I've never seen a senator who responded to anything other than lips on their butts."

  "Paul and I talked about that," Rodgers said. "He felt that since we've proven ourselves in Korea and Russia we should take a harder line with Congress. We feel that because of Striker's performance and sacrifices, Senator Fox will have a tougher time saying no to me on the budget increase we've requested."

  "An increase?" McCaskey said. "General, Deputy Director Clayton at the Bureau tells me he's got to whack nine percent from his budget. And he got off lucky. Rumor is, Congress is talking a twelve-to-fifteen-percent cut for the CIA."

  "The Senator and I will talk," Rodgers said. "We need more HUMINT out there. With all the changes going on in Europe and the Middle East and especially Turkey, we need more assets in the field. I think I can make her see that."

  "General," McCaskey said, "I hope you're right. I don't think the lady has had a reasonable day since her daughter was murdered and her husband put a gun in his mouth."

  "She's still on a committee whose job is to help safeguard the country," Rodgers said. "That has to come before anything."

  "She also has taxpaying constituents to answer to," McCaskey said. "Anyway, I wish you luck."

  "Thanks," Rodgers said. He did not actually feel as confident as he'd sounded, nor did he bother to tell McCaskey what A. E. Housman said about luck: "Luck's a chance, but trouble's sure." And whenever the thorny Fox was involved with a project, trouble was sure.

  Two minutes later, Rodgers was off the expressway and headed toward the gate at Andrews AFB. As he drove the familiar roads, he phoned Hood on his cellular phone for the short morning check-in. He briefed him on what had happened with Billy, and told him that he was putting Darrell on the case to find out who was behind the game. Hood agreed completely.

  After hanging up, Rodgers thought about the hate groups and wondered if they were more pervasive than ever, or if the instant media coverage simply made people more aware of them.

  Or maybe it's both, he thought as he passed the sentry at the gate. The media coverage of these groups inspired like-minded racists to form their own groups, causing the media to report on the "phenomenon" of hate groups. One dirty hand washes the other.

  Rodgers parked and walked briskly toward the front door. The meeting with Senator Fox was scheduled for 8:30. It was already 8:25. The Senator was usually early. She was also usually pissed if whoever she came to see wasn't early.

  That will probably be strike one against me, Rodgers thought as he rode the elevator down. Strike two if she's in an unusually bad mood.

  When the General exited in the lower level, the sympathetic look on the face of Anita Mui, the lower-level sentry, confirmed that the count was 0-and-2.

  Well, he thought as he headed down the corridor, I'll have to find a way to deal with that. Commanders do, and Rodgers loved being a commander. He loved overseeing Striker and he loved running Op-Center when Hood was away. He loved the process of making things happen for America. Being even a small cog in that great machine filled him with indescribable pride.

  And part of being that cog is dealing with other cogs, he told himself. Including politicians.

  He stopped short as he passed Martha Mackall's office. The door was open and Senator Fox was sitting inside. He saw from the Senator's grim expression that he had struck out, even before he'd stepped to the plate.

  He looked at his watch. It was 8:32. "Sorry," he said.

  "Come in, General Rodgers," she said. Her voice was tight, clipped. "Ms. Mackall has been telling me about her father. My daughter was a tremendous fan of his music."

  Rodgers entered. "We all liked Mack's stuff," he said as he shut the door. "Back in 'Nam, we called him the Soul of Saigon."

  Martha was wearing her serious professional face. Ro
dgers knew it well. Martha had a habit of adopting the attitudes of people who could advance her career. And if Senator Fox was down on Rodgers, then Martha would be too. Even more so than usual.

  Rodgers sat on the edge of Martha's desk. Since Senator Fox wanted the home court advantage, she was going to have to look up at him.

  "Unfortunately," Senator Fox said, "I didn't come here to discuss music, General Rodgers, I came to discuss your budget. I was disappointed when Director Hood's assistant telephoned yesterday to say that Mr. Hood had a more pressing engagement--spending money he won't have. But I decided to come here anyway."

  "Paul and I worked closely together preparing the budget," Rodgers said. "I can answer any questions you have."

  "I have only one question," the Senator said. "When did the Government Printing Office begin publishing fiction?"

  Rodgers's stomach began to burn. McCaskey was right: Paul should have handled this.

  Senator Fox placed the briefcase in her lap and popped the latches. "You asked for an increase of eighteen percent at a time when government agencies are making across-the-board cuts." She handed Rodgers his own three-hundred-page document. "This is the budget I will present to the finance committee. It contains my blue-pencil reductions totaling thirty-two percent."

  Rodgers's eyes snapped from the budget to the Senator. "Reductions?"

  "We can talk about how the remaining seventy percent is to be apportioned," Fox continued, "but the cut will be made."

  Rodgers wanted to throw the budget back at the Senator. He waited a moment until the urge had passed. He turned and placed it on Martha's desk. "You've got nerve, Senator."

  "So do you, General," Fox said, unfazed.

  "I know," he replied. "I've tested it against North Vietnamese, Iraqis, and North Koreans."

  "We've all of us seen your medals," she replied politely. "This is not a mandate on courage."

  "No, it's not," Rodgers quietly agreed. "It's a death sentence. We have a top-flight organization and we still lost Bass Moore in Korea and Charlie Squires in Russia. If you cut us back, I won't be able to give my people the support they need."