Games Of State (1996)

by Tom - Op Center 03 Clancy

  Bullets scudded across the hood of the car and ricocheted

  off. Jody threw herself to the far left. Obviously realizing she'd trapped herself against the door, she dropped to her right side. A moment later bullets ripped through the car and buried themselves in the backseat.

  "Jody," Herbert yelled, "push in the cigarette lighter!"

  She did, then ducked back down. Herbert knew she wasn't going to be getting up again.

  Karin was about three hundred yards away. Apparently sensing that they were safe, the other Germans began moving forward.

  By this time, Herbert had opened the gas tank and was siphoning fuel into the bottles. Bullets began striking the car with greater frequency. Flashes rose from different parts of the crowd. In about half a minute, he and Jody were going to be Mr. and Ms. Frankenstein in the hands of angry villagers.

  He heard the click of the cigarette lighter. Jody wasn't going to be able to help him. Rolling forward quickly, seeing far too much firelight through the perforated front door, Herbert reached through the front passenger's side and pulled up some of the stuffing from the bullet-ridden seat. He set one of the bottles on the floor and jammed the stuffing into the other. Then he snatched the cigarette lighter from the dashboard, touched it to the padding, watched as nothing happened.

  And realized with horror that the damn stuff was flame resistant.

  With an oath, he pushed the padding in partway. Then he dropped the lighter into the bottle and threw it with a high, arcing stiff arm. He prayed the wadding would fall.

  It did. The Molotov cocktail exploded in mid-flight, showering the front of the mob with flaming droplets and shards of glass. Screams rose from where the burning splashes struck flesh or eyes.

  Jody looked up from the seat. Her fear was replaced by amazement. Her gaze shifted from the fireworks to Herbert.

  "I'm out of bombs," he said as he pulled himself in. "I suggest we move."

  Herbert shut the door as best he could as Jody backed the limousine away. Ahead, Karin Doring pushed through the crowd, firing after the car. Other guns joined in.

  "Oww--"

  Herbert looked to the left as Jody moaned. She slumped toward him. The car slowed, then stopped.

  He leaned over, saw that she'd been hit in the shoulder. Outside the rib, it looked like, under the clavicle.

  She was panting, her eyes pressed tightly together. He tried to shift himself so her arm was resting on his shoulder and there was no pressure on the wound. As he moved himself and her, he saw the cigarette pack in the pocket of her blouse. He quickly removed it, and his heart jumped when he saw the matches tucked in the cellophane wrapper.

  Laying Jody down on the seat, he scooted to the right, picked up the second bottle from the floor, and nestled it between his thighs. Karin had cleared the mob and was reloading her semi-automatic. Herbert pulled out his handkerchief, jammed it in the bottle, and struck a match. He touched it to the fabric, which flamed and disintegrated faster than he had expected.

  "Either they don't burn or they freakin' immolate you," he said as he leaned out the door and chucked the bottle toward Karin.

  The glass cracked audibly as the gasoline spread. A flame sparked, spread, and rose up. Like organ music, Herbert thought.

  He turned immediately to Jody. She was holding her shoulder. He knew that the area would pretty much have gone numb, and the worst pain she would feel was when she moved.

  Herbert folded his chair and pulled into the car, largely so he could have the phone if he needed it. He wasn't sure if the phone in the limousine had survived the gunplay. Then he helped Jody up.

  "Jody," he whispered, "I need you to do something. Can you hear me?"

  She nodded once, weakly.

  "I can't step on the gas. You'll have to do that for me. Do you think you can do that?"

  She nodded again.

  He wedged himself behind her slightly and took the wheel. He looked ahead and caught glimpses of a man holding Karin back from charging through the curtain of fire.

  "Jody? We don't have much time. I'll take care of you, but we have to get out of here first."

  She nodded again, licked her lips, and gasped as she extended her leg. Jody's eyes were shut, but Herbert watched as she felt around for the gas pedal.

  "There," he said. "You've got it. Now push."

  Jody did so, gently, and the car started back. His right arm across his chest, his hand on the steering wheel, Herbert turned around. He guided them along the rough-hewn path, through the trees, as the orange glow of the fire flashed dully on the rear window.

  Bullets clanged against the front of the car, but with less force than before. They were shooting through the fire, blindly, as somebody shouted for everyone to calm down.

  Chaos on Chaos Days, Herbert thought with some satisfaction. Feuer stopped by fire.

  The ironies would have been delicious if he had time to savor them.

  The car continued to move backward. The steering was awkward and they jerked on the broken front wheels and slammed the occasional tree as they retreated. Soon, the camp was just a glow reflected against the low-lying clouds of the evening sky. Herbert was beginning to think that they might actually get out of the woods alive.

  And then the car died.

  FIFTY-TWO

  Thursday, 9 :14 P.M., Wunstorf, Germany

  Karin Doring coolly brushed away the fiery beads of gas which rained down on her. Her mind was on the cowardly behavior of her followers, but she refused to allow that to distract her. Like a fox, her eyes were on her prey. She watched the retreating car through the flame and smoke, through the rushing, tumbling mass of her followers.

  Clever man, she thought bitterly. No headlights. He was backing away, driving by the dull glow of his braking lights. And then those lights went off. The SA dagger dangled from her belt hook by its metal clasp. The gun she held would be for the man. The dagger: that was for the girl.

  Manfred grasped her shoulder from behind. "Karin! We have wounded. Richter needs your help to restore--"

  "I want those two," she sneered. "Let Richter deal with the bedlam. He wanted to lead. Let him."

  "He can't lead our people," Manfred said. "They won't accept him yet."

  "Then you do it."

  Manfred said, "You know they'll only march into Hell for you."

  Karin rolled her shoulder to throw off Manfred's hand. Then she turned on him, her expression feral. "Into Hell? They scattered like cockroaches when the American turned on them. They were beaten back by one man in a wheelchair with only an hysterical girl to help him! They shamed me. I shamed myself."

  "All the more reason to put the incident behind us," Manfred said. "It was a fluke. We let down our guard."

  "I want revenge. I want blood."

  "No," Manfred implored. "That was the old way. The wrong way. This is a setback, not a defeat--"

  "Words! Bullshit words!"

  "Karin, listen!" Manfred said. "You can rekindle the passion another way. By helping Richter lead us all to Hanover."

  Karin turned. She looked through the flames. "I have no right to lead anyone while those two live. I stood by Richter and watched as my people, my soldiers, did nothing." She spotted a pathway through the shrinking fires and picked her way through the thinning smoke. Manfred lumbered after her.

  "You can't chase a car," Manfred said.

  "He's driving without headlights on a dirt road," she said. She broke into a slow jog. "I'll catch him or I'll track him. It won't be difficult."

  Manfred trotted after her. "You're not thinking," he said. "How do you know he's not waiting for you?"

  "I don't."

  "What will I do without you?" Manfred yelled.

  "Join up with Richter, as you said."

  "That isn't what I mean," he said. "Karin, let's at least talk--"

  She began to run.

  "Karin!" he yelled.

  She enjoyed the explosion of energy and the breathless dodging as she moved through
the trees and across the uneven terrain.

  "Karin!"

  She didn't want to hear anything else. She wasn't sure how much her supporters had failed her and how much she had failed them. All she knew was that to atone for her role in the debacle, to feel clean again, she had to wash her hands in blood.

  And she would. One way or another, tonight or tomorrow, in Germany or in America, she would.

  FIFTY-THREE

  Thursday, 9:32 P.M., Toulouse, France

  Hood was looking out the window as Hausen guided the jet to a careful, easy landing. Hood had no doubt about where they were headed. A bright spotlight mounted high on the small terminal shone down on a band of eleven men clad in jeans and workshirts. A twelfth man was dressed in a business suit. As he watched the young fellow check his watch repeatedly or brush down his hair, Hood could tell he wasn't a law-man. He didn't have the patience for it. Hood also knew right off which man was Ballon. He was the one with the bulldog expression who looked as though he wanted to bite someone.

  Ballon walked over before the plane had come to a complete stop. The man in the business suit scurried after him.

  "We didn't even get bags of peanuts," Matt Stoll said as he undid his seatbelt and drummed his knees.

  Hood watched as Ballon--and it was the bulldog he'd picked out--ordered his men to roll the stairway toward the jet. When the copilot finally opened the door, it was waiting.

  Hood ducked through the door. He was followed by Nancy, Stoll, and Hausen. Ballon glanced at them all, but his gaze lingered harshly on Hausen. It snapped back to Hood when he reached the tarmac.

  "Good evening," Hood said. He held out his hand. "I'm Paul Hood."

  Ballon shook it. "Good evening. I'm Colonel Ballon." He pointed with his thumb to the man in the business suit. "This is M. Marais of Customs. He wants me to tell you that this is not an international airport and that you are only here as a favor to myself and the Groupe d'Intervention de la Gendarmerie Nationale."

  "Vive la France," Stoll said under his breath.

  "Les passeports," M. Marais said to Ballon.

  "He wants to see your passports," Ballon said. "Then, hopefully, we can be on our way."

  Stoll said to Ballon, "If I forgot mine, does that mean I get to go home?"

  Ballon regarded him. "Are you the man with the machine?"

  Stoll nodded. "Then no. If I have to shoot Marais, you're coming with us."

  Stoll reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew his passport. The others produced theirs as well.

  Marais looked at each in turn, checking the faces against the photographs. Then he handed them back to Ballon, who passed them to Hood.

  "Continuez," Marais said impatiently.

  Ballon said, "I'm also supposed to tell you that, officially, you have not entered France. And that you will be expected to leave within twenty-four hours."

  "We don't exist but we do," Stoll said. "Aristotle would have loved that."

  Nancy was standing behind him. "Why Aristotle?" she asked.

  "He believed in abiogenesis, the idea that living creatures can arise from nonliving matter. Francesco Redi disproved it in the seventeenth century. And now we've disproved Redi."

  Hood had returned the passports and stood watching Marais. He could tell from the man's face that all was not well. After a moment, Marais took Ballon aside. They spoke quietly for a moment. Then Ballon walked over. His face was even unhappier than before.

  "What is it?" Hood asked.

  "He's concerned," Ballon said. He looked at Hausen. "He doesn't want this very irregular situation to receive any publicity."

  Hausen said coolly, "I don't blame him. Who would want to advertise that they are the home of Dominique?"

  "No one," Ballon replied, "except, perhaps, the nation which gave us Hitler."

  Hood's instinct in any confrontation of this type was to mediate. But he decided to stay out of the way of this one. Both men had been out of line, and he felt he could only make enemies by interfering.

  Nancy said, "I came here to help stop the next Hitler, not make cracks about the last one. Anybody care to help?"

  Shouldering past Ballon, Marais, and the other members of the Gendarmerie, Nancy headed for the terminal.

  Hausen looked at Hood and then at Ballon. "She's right," he said. "My apologies to you both."

  Ballon's mouth scrunched as if he weren't quite ready to let the matter go. Then it relaxed. He turned to Marais, who appeared deeply confused.

  "A demain," he said sternly, then signaled his men to go on. Hood, Stoll, and Hausen followed.

  As they walked briskly through the terminal, Hood wondered if it had been coincidental that Ballon had selected the salutation "See you tomorrow," which in French also reflected where they were going.

  Ballon led the group to a pair of waiting vans. Without undo fuss, he made certain that Stoll was comfortable between Nancy and Hood. Ballon got in front, beside the driver. There were three other men in the rearmost seat. None carried arms. Those were in the second van, along with Hausen.

  "I feel like the botanist on HMS Bounty," Stoll remarked to Hood when they were under way. "He had to transplant the breadfruit they were after and Captain Bligh really looked out for him."

  "Where does that leave the rest of us?" Nancy said with a scowl.

  "Bound for Tahiti," Hood said.

  Nancy didn't smile. She didn't even look at him. Hood had the impression of being on the Ship of Fools, not the Bounty, Without the romanticism of memory to obscure it, he remembered now, vividly, how Nancy would regularly get into moods. She'd go from sad to depressed to angry, as if she were sliding down a muddy slope. The moods wouldn't last long, but when they came over her things could get nasty. He didn't know what scared him more: the fact that he'd forgotten them or the fact that she was in one now.

  Ballon turned around. "I spent what was left of favors owed to me getting you into France. I had already used up most of them obtaining the search warrant to enter Demain. It expires tonight at midnight but I don't want to waste it. We've been watching the plant for days by remote video camera, hoping to see something that would justify entering. But so far, there's been nothing."

  "What do you hope we'll find?" Hood asked.

  "Ideally?" Ballon said. "Faces of known terrorists. Members of his terrible New Jacobin paramilitary force, a resurrection of the league which did not hesitate to murder old women or young children if they belonged to the upper classes."

  The Colonel used a key attached to his wrist to open the glove compartment. He handed Hood a folder. Inside were over a dozen drawings and blurry photographs.

  "Those are known Jacobins," Ballon said. "I need a match with one of them in order to go in."

  Hood showed the file to Stoll. "Are you going to be able to see a face clear enough to make a positive ID?"

  Stoll flipped through the pictures. "Maybe. Depends on what someone's standing behind, whether or not they're moving, how much time I have to do the imaging--"

  "Those are a lot of conditions," Ballon said irately. "I need to place one of these monsters inside the factory."

  "There's absolutely no leeway in the warrant?" Hood asked.

  "None," Ballon said angrily. "But I won't let poor resolution allow us to pretend an innocent man is a guilty one just so we can go inside."

  "Gee," Stoll said. "That doesn't put too much pressure on me, does it?" He returned the folder to Ballon.

  "That is what separates professionals from amateurs," Ballon noted.

  Nancy glared at Ballon. "I'm thinking that a professional wouldn't have let these terrorists get inside. I'm also thinking that Dominique has stolen, possibly killed, and is ready to start wars. But he gets the job done. Does that make him a professional?"

  Ballon replied evenly, "Men like Dominique disregard the law. We don't have that luxury."

  "Bull," she said. "I live in Paris. Most Americans are treated like shit by everyone from landlords to gendarmes. The laws do
n't protect us."

  "But you obey the laws, don't you?" he asked.

  "Of course."

  Ballon said, "One side operating outside the law is still just that. A rogue force. But both sides operating outside the law is chaos."

  Hood decided to get in the middle of this one by changing the subject. "How long until we reach the factory?"

  "Another fifteen minutes or so." Ballon was still looking at Nancy, who had turned away. "Mlle. Bosworth, your arguments are sound and I regret having spoken harshly to M. Stoll. But there is a great deal at stake." He looked at all of them. "Have any of you considered the risks of success?"

  Hood leaned forward. "No, we haven't. What do you mean?"

  "If we work surgically and only Dominique falls, his company and its holdings can still survive. But if they fall, billions of dollars will be lost. The French economy and its government will be seriously destabilized. And that will create a vacuum similar to those we have seen in the past." He looked past them toward the van behind them. "A vacuum in which German nationalism historically has flourished. In which German politicians stir the blood." His eyes shifted to Hood. "In which they look with greed at Austria, Sudetenland, Alsace-Lorraine. MM. Hood and Stoll, Mlle. Bosworth--we are on a tightrope. Caution is our balancing pole and the law is our net. With them, we will reach the other side."

  Nancy turned to look out the window. Hood knew she wouldn't apologize. But with her, the fact that she'd stopped arguing meant the same thing.

  Hood said, "I also believe in the law and I believe in the systems we've built to protect it. We'll help you get to the other side of that tightrope, Colonel."

  Ballon thanked him with a small nod, the first appreciative display he'd shown since they arrived.

  "Thanks, Boss," Stoll sighed. "Like I said, that doesn't put too much pressure on me, does it?"