Games of State - Tom Clancy [138]
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 arid 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.
CHAPTER 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 lawman. 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,"