Tom Clancy – Op Center 3 – Games Of State

Dominique’s wish for things to escalate as they did.” Richter’s eyes had been on Henri. They shifted to Jean- Michel, moving like tiny gears.

“Is that an apology?” the German asked.

Jean-Michel shook his head. “Consider it an olive branch,” he said. “One which I hope you’ll accept.” Richter replied unemotionally, “I spit on it and you.” Jean-Michel seemed slightly taken aback., Henri grumbled restlessly.

“Herr Richter,” said Jean-Michel, “you must realize that you cannot beat us.” Richter smiled. “Those are the same words Hauptmann Rosenlocher of the Hamburg police has used for years. Yet I’m still here. And thank you for the fire, by the way. The Hauptmann is so busy trying to figure out who wanted me dead that he and his overworked staff of uncorruptibles have allowed me to slip away.” Jean-Michel said, “M. Dominique is not a policeman. He has been a very generous benefactor. Your political offices were untouched and M. Dominique has made money available to you so that you can reestablish yourself professionally.” “At what price?” Richter asked.

“Mutual respect.” “Respect?” Richter snapped. “It’s subservience! If I do what Dominique wishes he’ll allow me to survive.” “You don’t understand,” Jean-Michel insisted.

“Don’t I?” Richter replied.

The German reached into his jacket pocket, and both Henri and Yves started forward. Richter ignored them. He withdrew a cigarette case, put a cigarette in his mouth, and replaced the case. He froze, looking at Jean-Michel.

“I understand you very well,” Richter said. “I’ve been thinking all afternoon, trying to understand why it was so important to keep me down.” He withdrew his hand, and before Jean-Michel saw that he was not holding a cigarette lighter, it was too late. The compact FN Model Baby Browning pistol spit twice, once to the left of Jean-Michel, once to the right. The bang was loud, drowning out the distinctive thunk as the bullet passed through the forehead of each bodyguard.

As the car turned left, both bodies slumped toward the driver’s side. His ears buzzing, Jean Michel made a long, frightened face as Henri flopped against him. Brownish-red blood pooled in the small, neat wound and spilled over. It streamed down the bridge of the dead man’s nose. Half screaming, half-moaning, Jean-Michel used a shoulder to nudge the body against the door. Then he looked at the dead Yves, whose bloody trickle had broken into spidery red lines on his face. Finally, Jean-Michel turned terror-wide eyes on Richter.

“I’ll have them buried in the woods when we arrive,” said Richter. He spat the cigarette to the floor. “By the way, I don’t smoke.” Still holding the gun, the German leaned forward. He removed the pistols in Yves’s and Henri’s shoulder holsters and placed one of the guns on the seat to his right. He examined the other.

“An F1 Target Pistol,” Richter said. “Army issue. Were these former army men?” Jean-Michel nodded.

“That would explain their incredibly poor reflexes,” Richter said. “The French military never did know how to train soldiers to fight. Not like the German military.” He set the guns down, patted Jean-Michel’s chest and pockets to make sure he had no weapons, then sat back. He crossed his legs and put his hands on his knee.

“Details,” Ricther said. “If you see them, smell them, hear them, remember them, then at worst you will survive and at best you will succeed. And trust,” he said darkly, “is something you should never give. I made the mistake of being honest with you, and I paid for it.” “You tortured me!” Jean-Michel practically screamed.

Jean-Michel was unnerved by the presence of the dead men, but he was rattled even more by the cavalier way with which Richter had dispatched them. The Frenchman fought the impulse to throw himself from the door of the limousine. He was M. Dominique’s representative. He must try to maintain his composure, his dignity.

“Do you really think that’s why Dominique attacked me?” Richter asked. He smiled for the first time, seemed almost paternal now. “Be wise. Dominique attacked me to put me in my place. And he has. He reminded me that I belong on top of the ladder, not in the middle.” “On top?” Jean-Michel said. The man’s gall was astounding. Indignation helped Jean-Michel forget his fear, his vulnerability. “You are on top of nothing but two corpses”— he shook his hands toward either side— “for which you will be made to account.” “You are wrong,” the German replied evenly. “I still have my fortune, and I’m on top of the largest group of neo- Nazis on earth.” “That’s a lie. Your group is not—” “What it was,” Richter interrupted. He smiled mysteriously.

Jean-Michel was confused. Confused and still very frightened.

Richter settled back into the thick leather seat. “This afternoon was quite an epiphany, M. Horne. You see, we all get caught up in business and objects and trappings. And we lose sight of our own strengths. Stripped of my livelihood, I was forced to ask myself, ‘What are my strengths? What are my goals?’ I realized I was losing sight of those. I did not spend the remainder of the afternoon mourning what happened today. I telephoned my supporters and asked them to come to Hanover this evening at eight o’clock. I told them I’ll have an announcement to make. One that will change the tenor of politics in Germany— in all of Europe.” Jean-Michel watched him, waiting.

Richter went on. “Two hours ago, Karin and I agreed to merge Feuer and the 21 st Century National Socialists. We will announce the union in Hanover tonight.” Jean-Michel sat forward abruptly. “The two of you? But this morning you said she wasn’t a leader, she—” “I said she wasn’t a visionary,” Richter pointed out.

“That’s why I will lead the new union and she’ll be my field commander. Our party will be known as Das National Feuer- — The National Fire. Karin and I will be meeting at her camp. We’ll lead her people to Hanover and there, with my followers, as well as the thousand or so believers who are already present, nearly three thousand of us will create an impromptu march the likes of which Germany hasn’t seen for years. And the authorities will do nothing to stop us.

Even if they suspect Karin of today’s attack on the movie set, they won’t have the courage to arrest her. Tonight, M.

Horne— tonight you will see the birth of a new force in Germany, led by the man you sought to humble this afternoon.” As Jean-Michel listened, he was struck with the numbing realization of what he had wrought, how he had let M. Dominique down. For a moment, the Frenchman forgot his fear.

Jean-Michel said quietly, “Herr Richter. M. Dominique has plans of his own. Grand plans, better financed and farther along than yours. If he can throw the United States into turmoil— and he can, and will— he can certainly fight you.” “I expect him to try,” said Richter. “But he won’t take Germany from me. What will he use? Money? Some Germans can be bought, but not all. We are not French.

Force? If he attacks me, he creates a hero. If he kills me he has to deal with Karin Doring, who will find him, I promise you. Do you remember how effective the Algerians were paralyzing Paris in 1995, bombing the subways and threatening the Eiffel Tower? If Dominique moves against us, the National Fire will move against France. Dominique’s organization is large, a very easy target. Our operation is smaller and more mobile. He can destroy a business today or an office tomorrow, and I’ll simply relocate. And each time, I’ll exact a greater price from his big elephant’s hide.” The limousine had been driving south from Hamburg, and day was fast becoming night. The world outside the darkened windows reflected the blackening feeling in Jean- Michel’s soul.

Richter took a long breath, then said barely above a whisper, “In just a few years this country will be mine. Mine to restore, just as Hitler built the Reich on the wreckage of the Weimar Republic. And the irony is that you, M. Horne, were the architect. You showed me that I was facing an enemy I didn’t anticipate.” Jean-Michel said, “Hen Richter, you mustn’t regard M.

Dominique as an enemy. He can help you, still.” Richter sneered, “You are the perfect diplomat, M.

Horne. A man burns down my business. Then you not only tell me but actually believe he is my ally. No,” said Richter.

“I think it’s fair to say that my goals are different from those of Dominique.” “You’re wrong, Herr Richter,” Jean-Michel said. He found courage in his desire not to disappoint M. Dominique.

“Your dream is to restore German pride. M. Dominique supports that goal. A stronger Germany strengthens all of Europe. The enemies are not here but in Asia and across the Atlantic. This alliance means a great deal to him. You know his love of history, of reestablishing old bonds—” “Stop.” Richter held up his hand. “I saw, this afternoon, what our alliance means. It means that he commands and I serve.” “Only because he has a master plan!” Fury seemed to envelope Richter. He exploded from his seat. “Master plan!” he roared. “While I was sitting in my office, shaking with anger and calling my supporters and trying to resurrect my dignity, I asked myself, ‘If Dominique is not the supporter of my cause, as he represented himself to be, then what is he?’ And I realized that he is a beekeeper. He is raising us here in Germany and America and Britain to buzz through the corridors of power to sting, to distract, to disorient. Why? So that the backbone of each nation, its business and industry, invests its capital and future in the only stable site in the west: France.” Richter calmed, but his eyes remained fierce. “I believe that Dominique wants to create an industrial oligarchy with himself at its head.” Jean-Michel said, “M. Dominique wants to expand his industrial power base, yes. But he doesn’t want it for himself or even for France. He wants it for Europe.” Richter snickered. “Lass mich in Ruhe,” he said dismissively. He sat back with the guns close by. Then he reached over to the bar between the seats, drank from a bottle of sparkling water, and shut his eyes.

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