Games of State - Tom Clancy [27]
"They probably move around in a bus or van," Herbert said. He sounded dejected. "Guerrilla groups that size used to travel in patterns to establish regular supply lines. But with cellular phones and overnight parcel delivery, they can arrange for pickups just about anywhere now. How many camps do we know about?"
"Just those three," Liz said.
The phone beeped. It had to be Monica calling for her messages. Her roommate would be frantic, but Liz wasn't going to answer.
"What about lieutenants?" Herbert asked. "Who does she rely on?"
"Her closest aide is Manfred Piper. He joined her after they graduated from high school. Apparently, she handles all the military matters and Piper does the fundraising, runs checks on aspiring members, that sort of thing."
Herbert was silent for a moment, then said, "We don't really have very much here, do we?"
"To understand her, yes," Liz said. "To catch her, I'm afraid not."
After a moment, Herbert said, "Liz, our German host thinks she may have pulled this heist off so she could pass out trinkets for Chaos Days, the little Mardi Gras of hate they have here. Considering her record of striking political targets, does that make sense?"
"I think you're looking at this the wrong way," Liz said. "What was the movie?"
Herbert said, "Tirpitz. About the battleship, I guess."
Liz tapped into Pictures in Motion, a Web site listing movies in production around the world. After locating the film, she said, "The set was a political target, Bob. It was an American co-production."
Herbert was silent for a moment. "So either the memorabilia was a bonus, or the American crew was."
"You got it."
"Look," Herbert said, "I'm going to have a chat with the authorities here, maybe pay a visit to one of these Chaos Days celebrations."
"Watch it, Bob," Liz said. "Neo-Nazis don't hold doors for people in wheelchairs. Remember, you're different--"
"You bet I am," he said. "Meanwhile, give me a buzz on the cellular if you come up with anything else on this lady or her group."
"Will do," Liz said. "Take care and ciao," she added, using the other Italian word she knew.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Thursday, 11:52 A.M.,
Toulouse, France
The wood-paneled room was large and dark. The only light came from a single lamp which stood beside the massive mahogany desk. The only items on the desk itself were a telephone, fax machine, and computer, all of them collected in a tight semicircle. The shelves behind the desk were barely visible in the shadows. On them were miniature guillotines. Some were working models, made of wood and iron. Others were made of glass or metal, and one was a plastic model sold in the United States.
Guillotines had been used for official executions in France until 1939, when murderer Eugen Weidmann was beheaded outside St. Peter's Prison in Versailles. But Dominique didn't like those later machines: the guillotines with the large, solid buckets to collect the heads, screens to protect the executioners from the spray of blood, shock absorbers to cushion the thunk of the blade. Dominique liked the originals.
Across from the desk, lost in the ghostly dark, was an eight-foot-tall guillotine which had been used during the French Revolution. This device was unrestored. The uprights were slightly rotted and. the trestle was worn smooth from all the bodies that "Madame La Guillotine", had embraced. Drawn nearly to the cross-beam on top, the blade was rusty from rain and blood. And the wicker basket, also the original, was frayed. But Dominique had noticed particles of the bran which had been used to soak up blood, and there were still hairs in the basket. Hairs which had snagged the wicker when the heads tumbled in.
It all looked exactly as it did in 1796, the last time those leather straps were fastened under the armpits and over the legs of the doomed. When the lunette, the iron collar, had held the neck of its last victim-- held it within a perfect circle so the