Games of State - Tom Clancy [105]
"Exactly. Black activists become more outraged as the trial progresses, and someone on either side, it doesn't matter which, does something to provoke an incident. The bottom line is rioting. Dominique's operatives make sure it spreads, that there are major explosions in New York and Los Angeles, Chicago and Philadelphia, Detroit and Dallas, and pretty soon the U.S. is on fire."
"Not just the U.S.," Rodgers said. "Bob Herbert's up against the same problem in Germany."
"There you are," said McCaskey. "Dominique raises hell everywhere in the world-- except France. That's why the New Jacobins operate silently, efficiently, without publicity." McCaskey opened Dominique's file, riffled through the pages. "These guys are unique among terrorists because they truly do terrorize. There are very few reported incidents, but most of the time they threaten people with violence. And then they give specific orders: this group of people leave such-and-such town or when they return they'll make good their threat. It isn't something big, like get the British out of Ireland. They always order something manageable."
"Surgical strikes which don't get much press," Rodgers said.
"Try no press," said McCaskey. "The French don't give a shit. So with everything else going on, France seems relatively stable. And with Dominique wooing banks and industry and investors, he becomes a serious world player. Maybe the most serious player."
"While anyone who tries to tie him to terrorism can't," said Rodgers.
"Or they get a nighttime visit from the New Jacobins for even trying," said McCaskey, reviewing the file. "These guys have all the earmarks of the old Mafia. Strongarm tactics, hits, executions, the works."
Rodgers sat back. "Paul should be back at Richard Hausen's office in Hamburg by now." He looked at a notepad on his desk. "It's RH3-star on the autodial. Bring him up to date and tell him I'm going to try and get through to Colonel Ballon. Unless we've taken a few too many leaps of faith, Dominique is someone we need to get to. And Ballon sounds like the only man who can do that."
"Good luck," said McCaskey. "He's pretty thorny."
"I'll wear gloves," said Rodgers. "If I can swing it, and I think I can, I intend to offer him something he won't be able to find in France."
McCaskey stood. "What's that?" he asked as he straightened a bad back slowly.
Rodgers replied, "Help."
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Thursday, 6:25 P.M.,
Wunstorf, Germany
Physically, this had been the most demanding, frustrating, and rewarding hour of Bob Herbert's life.
The terrain he'd had to cross was covered with sticks, rotting leaves and tree trunks, rocks, and thick patches of mud. There was one small stream, less than a foot deep, which slowed him further, and at times the ground sloped upward so steeply that Herbert had to get out of his wheelchair and drag it behind him as he worked his way up the incline. At several minutes past six it had begun to get dark in the heavy, unshadowed way that thick woods do. Though his chair was equipped with a powerful flashlight beside each footrest, Herbert was unable to see farther ahead than the diameter of each wheel. That slowed him as well, since he didn't want to go rolling into a gorge and end up like that five-thousand year-old hunter who was found frozen face-down on a mountaintop somewhere.
God only knows what they'd make of me in five thousand years, Herbert thought. Though now that he considered it, he had to admit he relished the idea of a cadre of stuffy academics puzzling over his remains in A. D. 7000. He tried to imagine how they'd interpret the Mighty Mouse tattoo on his left bicep.
And he hurt. From the twigs that stuck him and the muscles that pained him and the chest that still hurt from where the seatbelt had pulled during the chase through Hanover.
Herbert picked his way through the woods, guided by the thirty-year-old Boy Scout pocket compass which had been around the world with him. As he did, he kept