Or are you just being paranoid?
After this long at any task, Ballon had heard that paranoia was an inevitability. He had once had one of Dominique’s men tailed, a longtime employee named Jean- Michel Horne. Horne had gone to a meeting whistling and Ballon’s first thought was that he was whistling to annoy Ballon.
He rubbed his face harder. It’s working, he thought as he exploded from the chair with disgust. He checked the urge to kick it through a ten-pane window that was older than he was.
The other men in the room jumped.
“Tell me, Sergeant!” Ballon demanded. “Tell me why we should not simply storm the place? Shoot Dominique and be done with it!” “I honestly don’t know,” replied Sergeant Maurice Ste.
Marie, who had been sitting beside him. “I’d rather die in action than die of boredom.” “I want him,” Ballon said, ignoring his subordinate. His hand became a fist and he rattled it at the TV monitor. He put his entire body into the shaking of the fist. “He is a corrupt, twisted maniac who wants to corrupt and twist the world.” “Unlike us,” said Sergeant Ste. Marie.
Ballon fired him a look. “Yes, unlike us! What do you mean?” “We are obsessed men who want to keep the world free so that it can continue to breed lunatics like Dominique.
Either way, it seems a hopeless tangle.” “Only if you give up hope,” said Ballon. He retrieved his chair, slammed it back into place, and sat down heavily. “I lose sight of that sometimes, but it’s still out there. My mother always hoped her family would forgive her for marrying my father. That hope was in every birthday card she ever sent them.” “Did they ever forgive her?” asked Sergeant Ste. Marie.
Ballon looked at him. “No. But hope kept my mother from becoming deeply depressed about it. Hope, plus the love she had for my father and me, filled that emptiness.” He turned back to the screen. “Hope and the hate I have for Dominique keeps me from becoming too depressed. I will get him,” he said as the telephone rang.
One of the young officers answered the phone. There was a scrambler attached to the mouthpiece, one which mixed high and low voice tones at one end and descrambled them at the other.
“Sir, it’s another call being routed from America.” Ballon screamed, “I told them before not to put anyone through. It’s either a bloody opportunist trying to ride our efforts across the finish line, or a saboteur trying to hold us back. Whichever it is, tell them to go to hell!” “Yes, Sir.” “Now they want to help me. Now!” Ballon muttered.
“Where have they been for seventeen years?” Sergeant Ste. Marie said warily, “Perhaps this is not what you think.” “What are the chances of that?” Ballon asked.
“Dominique has employees the world over. It’s better if we stay insulated, uncontaminated.” “Inbred,” Ste. Marie added.
The Colonel looked at the crisp color video picture of leaves moving slowly beside the wall of the ancient fortress which was now a factory. Ste. Marie had a point. These four days here had been totally unproductive.
“Wait!” Ballon barked.
The soldier repeated the command into the telephone.
His face was expressionless as he watched the commander.
Ballon rubbed his face. He wouldn’t know the answer to that unless he took the call. And what was more important?
he asked himself. Pride or getting Dominique?
“I’ll take it,” he said.
He walked briskly toward the phone, arm extended as Sergeant Ste. Marie watched with delight.
“Don’t look so pleased,” Ballon said to him as he passed. “It was my own decision. You had nothing to do with it.” “No, Sir,” Ste. Marie replied as he continued to look very pleased.
Ballon took the phone. “This is Ballon. What is it?” “Colonel,” said the dispatcher, “I have a phone call from General Michael Rodgers of the National Crisis Management—” “Colonel Ballon,” Rodgers cut in, “forgive the interruption but I need to talk to you.” “C’est evidement.” “Do you speak English?” Rodgers asked. “If not, give me a minute to get a translator—” “I speak English,” Ballon said reluctantly. “What is it, General Rodgers?” “I understand you’re trying to close in on a mutual enemy.” “Trying, yes.” “We believe,” Rodgers said, “that he’s planning to download computer software which will help to cause rioting in cities around the world. We believe he intends to use those riots to throw the economies of major American and European nations into chaos.” Ballon’s mouth began to go dry. This man was either a godsend or the pawn of Satan himself. “How do you know this?” Rodgers said, “If we didn’t, the government would take away all the money they give our team.” Ballon liked that too. “What about his terrorist squads?
What do you know about those?” he asked, hoping for some new information. Any new information.
“Nothing,” Rodgers admitted. “But we suspect he’s working closely with several neo-Nazi groups in America and abroad.” Ballon was silent for a moment. He still didn’t trust this man entirely. “Your information is interesting but not very useful,” he said. “I need evidence. I need to find out what’s going on inside his fortress.” Rodgers said eagerly, “If that’s the problem, I can help.
I was calling, Colonel Ballon, to offer you the assistance of a NATO commander in Italy. His name is Colonel Brett August, and his speciality is—” “I have read white papers by Colonel August,” said Ballon. “He is a brilliant counterterrorist operative.” “And a lifelong friend of mine,” said Rodgers. “He’ll assist you if I ask him. But I also have equipment in Germany which I’ll lend to you.” “What kind of equipment?” Ballon asked. He was getting suspicious again. This man seemed like too much of a good thing. A good thing he wouldn’t be able to resist. A good thing who might be taking his marching orders from Dominique. A good thing which might end in an ambush.
“It’s a new kind of X-ray device,” Rodgers said. “One with which my operator can probably work some nearmiracles.” “A new kind of X-ray,” Ballon said dubiously. “That isn’t going to help. I don’t need to know where people are—” “It might be able to read papers for you,” Rodgers said.
“Or lips.” Ballon was attentive but still wary. “General Michael Rodgers,” he said. “How do I know you’re not working with Dominique?” Rodgers said, “Because we also know about a pair of murders he committed twenty-five years ago. We know about them because we know the person who was with him at the time. I can tell you nothing more— except that I want Dominique brought to justice.” Ballon looked at his men, who were all looking at him.
“Watch the monitors!” he yelled.
They did. Ballon was dying to get out of there and into action.
“All right,” said the Colonel. “How do I get in touch with this miracle worker of yours?” Rodgers said, “Stay where you are. I’ll have him phone you there.” Ballon agreed and hung up. Then he told Ste. Marie to take three men outside and watch the building. If it looked as though anyone was staking them out or closing in on them, they were to radio him at once.
But Ballon had a feeling in his gut that General Rodgers was one of the good men, just as he’d had a feeling in his gut about Dominique being one of the bad men.
I only hope my gut is not getting soft, he said as Ste.
Marie and the men left and he continued to stand by the telephone.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE Thursday, 9:34 A.M., Studio City, California
He called himself Streetcorna, and he sold audio tapes from a panther-skin backpack. Every day for more than a year, around seven in the morning, the young man would leave his battered old Volkswagen in the parking lot behind the strip of stores off Laurel Canyon in Studio City, and walk toward Ventura Boulevard. As he walked, his black leather sandals dragged unhurriedly along the sidewalk, propelled by long, lean legs which were visible beneath the dried leaves of his Sudanese pagne. The skirt was held up by a shoulder strap made of leopard skin. Beneath the straps was a sweat-stained black T-shirt with white lettering which read “STREETCORNA RAP.” His hair was shaved around the sides, leaving only a large clump in the center which was woven with wood into a latticed cone. His eyes were invisible behind his wraparound shades. The tiny diamond studs in his nostrils and tongue shined. with perspiration and saliva.
Streetcorna always took his time as he walked to his spot. Heading out, he would smile as he drew on a joint to get ready for the day’s huckstering and performing. As the smoke loosened him up, he would move his spindly arms and bony hands with the rhythm in his head. His thighs began to move to the beat and he shut his eyes and clapped his hands slowly as he walked.