CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT Thursday, 12:02 P.M., Washington, D.C.
After noting the information Hood needed, Rodgers farmed it out to Ann, Liz, and Darrell. Ordinarily, information requests went directly to the divisions responsible for surveillance, personal dossiers, code-breaking, and the like.
But Hood needed a lot of different information, and asking Rodgers for it was both convenient and an expedient way of bringing his number two up to date.
Rodgers told Hood he’d get back to him as soon as possible.
Moments later, Alberto phoned to tell Mike Rodgers what Bob Herbert was up to. Rodgers thanked him and told him that he didn’t want to bother Herbert with a return call.
Even if the ringer were off, the vibration might distract him.
Besides, the intelligence chief knew that his colleague would be behind him. As the only battle-tested warriors among the Op-Center elite, they enjoyed a very special bond.
Rodgers hung up, feeling an equal measure of pride and concern for Herbert. His instinct was to call for an extraction team to be flown in from one of the American bases in Germany. But during Chaos Days a stand down order had been issued to all American troops stationed in Germany, and all leaves cancelled. The last thing the governments of Germany and America wanted was an incident involving the military that might galvanize the neo- Nazis. It was best, under the circumstances, to let Herbert go in alone.
Rodgers was reflecting on Herbert’s chances for success when Darrell McCaskey arrived. He was wearing one of his pained looks and carrying a short stack of distinctive white FBI folders with the Bureau’s seal on front and “Eyes Only” stamped beneath.
“That was quick,” Rodgers said.
McCaskey sat heavily in an armchair. “That’s because we’ve got what Larry Rachlin would call bupkis on this Dominique character. Man, has he lived a careful life. I’ve got some other stuff for you too, but that was the big nothing.” “Let’s have it anyway,” Rodgers said.
McCaskey opened the top file. “His name was originally Gerard Dupre. His father ran a successful Airbus spare parts manufacturing plant in Toulouse. When the French economy imploded in the 1980s, Gerard had already moved the family business into video games and computers. His company, Demain, is privately held and worth an estimated $1 billion.” “That kind of money is not— what’d you call it?” “Bupkis, ” McCaskey said, “and no, it isn’t. But he looks clean as Lady Godiva’s horse. The only blot seems to be some money-laundering scheme he worked through the Nauru Phosphate Investment Trust Fund, and he got wristslapped for that.” “Tell me about it,” Rodgers said. Nauru sounded familiar, though he couldn’t figure out why.
McCaskey looked at the file. “In 1992, Dominique and some other French businessmen reportedly gave money to a nonexistent bank there, while the money actually went through a series of banks to Switzerland.” “And then where?” McCaskey said, “It was disbursed to fifty-nine different accounts throughout Europe.” “So funds could have gone from any of those fifty-nine accounts to anywhere else.” “Exactly,” said McCaskey. “Dominique was fined for not paying French taxes on the money, but he paid up and that was that. Since a couple of the intermediary banks were in the U.S., the FBI started keeping a file on him.” Rodgers said, “Nauru’s in the Pacific, isn’t it?” McCaskey read from the file. “It’s north of the Solomon Islands, about eight square miles big. It’s got a president, no taxes, the highest per capita income in the world, and one business. Phosphate mining. Used for fertilizer.” That was where he’d heard of it, Rodgers thought. He’d slumped down while thinking about Herbert, but was now sitting tall. “Yes, Nauru,” Rodgers said. “The Japanese occupied it during World War II and enslaved the natives.
And the Germans had it for sometime before that.” “I’ll have to take your word for it,” McCaskey said.
“What about Dominique’s name?” Rodgers asked. “He changed it from Dupre. Was he ashamed of his family?” “Liz was working with me and wondered the same thing as the data came through,” McCaskey said. “But there’s no evidence of that. He was raised a strict Roman Catholic, and what Liz thinks is that he may have taken the name from St.
Dominic. The FBI’s file says that he gives a lot of money to Dominican charities and to a school named after the most famous Dominican, St. Thomas Aquinas. Liz thinks that being one of the so-called Domini canes, the dogs of the Lord, would have appealed to Dupre’s sense of orthodoxy and empire-building.” “As I recall,” Rodgers said, “Dominic also had a reputation as being something of an inquisitor. Some historians regard him as the brains behind the bloody massacre of the Albigenses of Languedoc.” “Again, I’m out of my element,” McCaskey said. “But now that you mention it, there is an interesting possible connection here,” he said. He looked in the second dossier, which was marked Hate Groups. “Have you ever heard of the Jacobins?” Rodgers nodded. “They were thirteenth-century French Dominican friars. Because they set up headquarters in the Rue St. Jacques, they were called Jacobins. During the French Revolution, anti monarchists who met in a former Jacobin convent were called Jacobins. They were a violent, very radical factor in the Revolution. Robespierre, Danton, and Marat were all Jacobins.” McCaskey frowned. “I don’t know why I bother to try and tell you anything related to history. Okay. Now have you heard of the New Jacobins?” “Ironically, I have,” Rodgers said. “Just today, in fact.
Alberto said something that a Colonel in the Gendarmarie Nationale was going after them.” “That would be Colonel Ballon,” McCaskey said. “He’s an odd duck, but they’re his pet cause. For seventeen years, the New Jacobins have targeted foreigners in France, mostly Algerian and Moroccan immigrants. They’re the exact opposite of the glory hounds who call and claim credit for every kidnapping and hijacking. They strike hard and fast and then vanish.” “Seventeen years,” Rodgers said , thoughtfully. “When did Dominique change his name?” McCaskey smiled. “Bingo.” Rodgers stared ahead as he followed the thread. “So Gerard Dominique may be involved with, possibly even head a group of French terrorists. Then if we know that, so must the French.” “We’ll have to wait and see what Ballon says,” McCaskey said. “I’m told he’s on a stakeout now and is in no mood to take calls.” “It’s going that well?” “Apparently,” said McCaskey. “Dominique is as reclusive as billionaires come.” Rodgers said, “But being reclusive doesn’t make him untouchable. If you can’t take him by a frontal assault, there’s always a flanking maneuver. What about the money Dominique sent through Nauru? We might be able to get to him through that. It could be just one branch of a big damn tree.” “Undoubtedly,” said McCaskey. “A man like Dominique could be using hundreds if not thousands of banks to finance groups like that the world over.” “Okay, but why?” Rodgers asked. “He’s created a front that’s worldwide and there has to be a weak spot. Is he power hungry? Doesn’t sound like it. He’s a French patriot.
So why would he care what happens in England or South Africa or anywhere else? Why would he spread himself out like that?” “Because he’s also an international businessman,” McCaskey said. “One of the first things lost in terrorist confrontations is confidence in the system. If it’s an airplane hijacking, we lose faith in airport security. Air travel drops for a while. If it’s a tunnel bombing, people take bridges or stay at home.” “But the infrastructure recovers.” “That’s been true so far,” McCaskey pointed out. “But what if several systems were to be weakened at once? Or the same system is hit repeatedly? Look at Italy. The Red Brigade kidnapped Prime Minister Aldo Moro and shook them up for months in 1978. Cut to 1991, when Albanian refugees began flooding Italy because of political turmoil at home.
Terrorists hit Italy again. Thirteen years had passed, almost to the week, yet the international business community started having flashbacks. To them, Italy was out of control again. There was no confidence in the government. Foreign investments began to drop almost at once. What would have happened if the terrorism had kept up or spread? The financial damage would have been immeasurable. Look at Hollywood.” “What about it?” McCaskey said, “You think the studios began opening soundstages in Florida because it was sunnier there, or real estate was cheaper? No. They were afraid that earthquakes and racial unrest could destroy the film industry.” Rodgers was trying to digest everything McCaskey had thrown at him. From McCaskey’s own expression, so, obviously, was he.
“Darrell,” Rodgers said thoughtfully, “how many white supremacist groups would you estimate there are in the United States?” “I don’t have to estimate,” he said. He flipped through several pages in the second file in his lap, the file marked Hate Groups. “According to the FBI’s latest white paper, there are seventy-seven different white supremacist-neo- Nazi-skinhead groups, with a total membership of some thirty-seven thousand people. Of those, nearly six thousand people belong to armed militias.” “What’s the disbursement?” “Nationally?” McCaskey asked. “Basically, they’re in every state of the union and in every major city of each state, including Hawaii. Some target blacks, some Asians, some Jews, some Mexicans, some all of the above. But they’re everywhere.” “That doesn’t surprise me,” Rodgers said. He was angry, but he refused to be daunted. He recalled, from his extensive readings in history, how the Founding Fathers themselves were bitterly disappointed that independence didn’t mean an end to inequality and hate. Rodgers remembered one quote from a letter Thomas Jefferson wrote to John Adams. To attain that goal, Jefferson had written, “Rivers of blood must yet flow, and years of desolation pass over; yet the object is worth rivers of blood, and years of desolation. ” Rodgers would not permit himself or anyone serving beside him to buckle under the load.