Tom Clancy – Op Center 3 – Games Of State

Liz said, “Hate, by its very nature, is extreme. It’s intolerance pushed as far as it can go. It doesn’t seek an accommodation with the object of its loathing. Hate seeks its destruction. That press release is just too— fair.” “You call exiling a race of people fair?” McCaskey asked.

“No, I don’t,” she said. “But by the standards of Pure Nation, that’s downright decent. That’s why I’m not buying it.” “But Liz,” said McCaskey, “groups can and do change.

Leadership changes, goals change.” She shook her head. “Only the public face changes, and that’s a cosmetic alteration. It’s so right-thinking people give them a little rope so they can hang the objects of their hate.” “Liz, I agree. But some Pure Nationals do want black people dead. Others simply don’t want them around.” “This particular group is thought to have raped and lynched a black girl in 1994. I would say that they more than don’t want blacks around.” McCaskey said. “But even in hate groups, policies have to evolve. Or maybe there’s been a schism. Groups like these always suffer rifts and breakaway factions. We’re not exactly dealing with the most stable people on the planet.” “You’re wrong about that,” Liz said. “Some of these people are so stable it’s scary.” Rodgers said, “Explain.” “They can stalk a person or a group for months or more with a single-mindedness of purpose that’d shock you. When I was in school, we had a case of a neo-Nazi custodian in a Connecticut public school. He lined all the corridors, both sides, with plastique. Put it in behind the molding while pretending to scrape gum off the floor. He was found out two days before blowing up the school, and later confessed that he had snuck the plastique in a foot a day.” “How many feet were there?” Rodgers asked.

Liz said, “Eight hundred and seventy-two.” Rodgers had not taken sides during the debate, but he had always believed in overestimating an enemy’s strength.

And whether she was right or not he liked the hard line Liz, Gordon was taking against these monsters.

“Assuming you’re right, Liz,” Rodgers said. “What’s behind it? Why would Pure Nation write a press release like that?” “To jerk us around,” she said. “At least, that’s what my gut tells me.” “Follow the thread,” Rodgers urged.

“Okay. They set up a shop on Christopher Street, which is populated heavily by gay establishments. They targeted a black group for hostage-taking. The FBI busts them up, there’s a public trial, and gays and blacks are openly outraged.” “And attention gets focused on hate groups,” McCaskey said. “Why on earth would they want that?” Liz said, “Attention gets focused on that hate group.” McCaskey shook his head. “You know the media. You uncover one snake, they’ll want to do a white paper on the nest. You find one nest, and they’ll go after other nests.” “Okay,” Liz said, “you’re right about that. So the media shows us other nests. Pure Nation, Whites Only Association, the American Aryan Fraternity. We see a parade of psychos.

What happens then?” “Then,” said McCaskey, “the average American gets outraged and the government cracks down on hate groups.

End of story.” Liz shook her head. “No, not the end. See, the crackdown doesn’t end the groups. They survive, go back underground. What’s more, there’s backlash. Historically, oppression breeds resistance forces. The aftermath of this aborted Pure Nation attack— if there were, in fact, really going to be one, which we can’t be sure of— will be a rise in black militancy, gay militancy, Jewish militancy. Remember the Jewish Defense League’s ‘Never Again’ slogan from the 1960s? Every group will adopt some form of that. And when this widespread polarization threatens the infrastructure, threatens the community, the average white American will get scared. And ironically, the government won’t be able to help because they can’t crack down on minorities. They come down on blacks, then blacks cry foul. Come down on gays, Jews, the same thing. Come down on all of them, and you’ve got a goddamn war on your hands.” Rodgers said, “So the average American, normally a good and fair person, gets drawn toward the radicals. Pure Nation and WHOA and the rest of them start to look like society’s salvation.” “Exactly,” said Liz. “What was it that Michigan militia leader said a few years ago? Something like, ‘The natural dynamic of revenge and retribution will take its course.’ When word gets out about Pure Nation, and what they were planning, that’s what’s going to happen here.” “So Pure Nation takes the fall,” said Rodgers. “They get hunted, arrested, disbanded, and outlawed. They’re the martyrs to the white cause.” “And loving it,” Liz said.

McCaskey made a face. “This is like a surreal ‘House that Jack Built.’ ” He said in a singsong voice, “These are the white supremacists who sent out a group of their own to be caught and sacrificed, to breed minority backlash, which scares the whites, who create a groundswell of support for others in the white supremacist movement.” He shook his head vigorously. “I think you’re both attributing way too much forethought to these degenerates. They had a plan and it got busted up. End of story.” Rodgers’s phone beeped. “I’m not sure I buy all of what Liz is suggesting either,” he said to McCaskey, “but it’s worth considering.” “Think of the damage Pure Nation could do as decoys,” Liz said.

Rodgers felt a chill. They could, in fact, lead the proud, victorious FBI every which way but right. With the media following their every step, the FBI could never even admit that they’d been duped.

He picked up the phone. “Yes?” Bob Herbert was on the other end.

“Bob,” said Rodgers. “Alberto briefed me a few minutes ago. Where are you?” From the other end of the phone, Herbert said calmly, “I’m on a road in the middle of the boonies in Germany, and I need something.” “What?” Herbert replied, “Either a lot of help fast, or a real short prayer.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE Thursday, 4:11 P.M., Hamburg, Germany

Hamburg has a distinctive, very seductive radiance in the late afternoon.

The setting sun sprinkles light across the surface of the two lakes, raising a glow like a thousand phantoms. To Paul Hood, it looked as if someone had turned a bright light on beneath the city. Ahead, the trees in the park and the buildings to the sides were positively iridescent against the deepening blue of the sky.

The air in Hamburg is also different from other cities.

It’s a curious mix of nature and industry. There’s the taste of salt, which is carried from the North Sea by the Elbe; of the fuel and smoke of the countless ships which travel the river; and the countless plants and trees which thrive in the city. It isn’t noxious, Hood thought, as in some cities. But it is distinctive.

Hood’s reflection on the environment was brief. No sooner had they left the building and began walking toward the park than Hausen began talking.

“What has made this day so strange for you?” Hausen asked.

Hood didn’t really want to talk about himself. But he hoped that by doing so he could loosen Hausen’s tongue a little. Give and take, take and give. It was a waltz familiar to anyone who had lived and worked in Washington. This just happened to be a little more personal and important than most of those other dances.

Hood said, “While Matt, Bob, and I were waiting for you in the hotel lobby, I thought I saw— no, I could have sworn I saw a woman I once knew. I ran after her like I was possessed.” “And was it she?” Hausen asked.

“I don’t know,” Hood said. Just thinking about what had happened made him exasperated all over again.

Exasperated that he’d never know if it were Nancy, and exasperated because that woman still had a hold on him.

“She got into a cab before I could reach her. But the way she held her head, the way her hair looked and moved— if it wasn’t Nancy, it was her daughter.” “Has she one?” Hood shrugged but said nothing. Whenever he thought about Nancy Jo, he was upset by the thought that she could very well have a child or a husband, could actually have a life away from him.

So why the hell are you dwelling on it again? he asked himself. Because, he thought, you want to get Hausen to talk.

Hood took a healthy breath and blew it out. His hands were deep in his pockets. His eyes were on the grass.

Reluctantly, his mind went back to Los Angeles, nearly twenty years ago.

“I was in love with this girl. Her name was Nancy Jo Bosworth. We’d met in a computer class at USC in our last year of graduate school. She was this delicate and vivacious angel, with hair that was like layers of golden wings.” He grinned, flushed. “It’s corny, I know, but I don’t know how else to describe it. Her hair was soft and full and ethereal and her eyes were life itself. I called her my little golden lady and she called me her big silver knight. Man, was I smitten.” “Obviously,” Hausen said The German smiled for the first time. Hood was glad he was getting through; this was killing him.

Pages: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80

Leave a Reply 0

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *