Games of State - Tom Clancy [38]
"There are still laws," Hansen 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? Hansen 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.
CHAPTER 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