When white America is tired of rioters being contained rather than attacked. When too few arrests are made. When the media shows black radicals demanding white blood. That’s when the new Crystal Night, the coordinated, armed attacks, begins.” “But how do the neo-Nazis benefit?” Rodgers asked.
“They can’t break the law and then run for office.” “The prettified ones can,” said Hood. “The ones who distance themselves from the lawbreakers but not from the intolerance which motivates them.” The plan made sense, and the more Hood thought about it, the more brilliant it seemed in its simplicity. He thought of his own daughter, Harleigh, whose musical mix included rap. Hood was in favor of free expression, but he insisted on hearing any album with a parent’s advisory sticker— not to censor but to discuss. Some of the lyrics were pretty brutal, and in his soul he had to admit that he wouldn’t mind if some of the rappers went into another line of work. And he was a one-time liberal politician. From talks with other parents at the school and at church, he knew that they felt much more strongly. If blacks started avenging dead rappers, he suspected that white, middle-class sympathies would be with the murderous whites, who would probably claim they’d been making pre-emptive strikes. And retaliatory attacks by blacks would only legitimize those claims. Riots might ensue, the police would be forced to hold back to some degree, and the neo-Nazis would become the violent angels of whites. Not to mention potential winners in future elections.
Less than fifty five years after Hitler’s death, the monsters could actually become a political force in the U.S., Hood thought.
“Broken dreams of harmony instead of broken windows,” Hood said. “It’s a nightmare.” Rodgers said, “Paul, we can still stop this thing. If we can expose Dominique’s operation to the people, they’ll see how they were manipulated.” “If you can tell me how to get to him,” Hood said, “I’ll be happy to do it.” “There may be a way,” Rodgers said. “I’ve just spoken with Colonel Bernard Ballon of France’s Groupe d’Intervention de la Gendarmerie Nationale. He’s in Toulouse and he’s after the same quarry as we are, albeit for different reasons.” “Different how?” Hood asked as Hausen entered the inner office. The German looked distraught.
Rodgers said, “Ballon believes that Gerard Dominique is the head of a group of French terrorists known as the New Jacobins. Their activities against immigrants certainly fit what we know about Dominique.” “And what does the Colonel plan to do with Dominique?” Hood asked.
Hood saw Hausen’s eyes sweep past Nancy and lock on him when he mentioned the name.
“We didn’t discuss that,” Rodgers said. “Officially, I gather he’s supposed to arrest him and his bunch. But with Dominique’s money and influence, Ballon is obviously worried he’ll get off.” “Not necessarily,” Hood said. He was still looking at Hausen and thinking about the murder of the two girls.
“What about unofficially?” Rodgers said, “From my talk with Ballon, he sounds like the kind of guy who’d love to see him accidentally-onpurpose fall down a flight of concrete steps.” Hood said, “I take it, Mike, you’ve got some way we can work together.” “Just one,” said Rodgers. “He needs accurate information and satellite surveillance just isn’t cutting it.” “Say no more,” said Hood. He glanced over at Matt Stoll’s innocent-looking backpack. “How do I contact Colonel Ballon?” ‘ As Hood wrote down the telephone number, he watched Hausen. He had seen the German get agitated before, but now his face revealed something more. It was as though the veneer of two and a half decals had suddenly flaked away leaving only hate, naked and unashamed. Hood told Rodgers he”d let him know what was happening, and reminded McCaskey to keep him briefed on what Herbert was doing. Then he hung up and looked at Hausen.
“How did you make out?” Hood asked.
“Poorly,” said Hausen. “The French Ambassador will ‘let me know’ if we can come in. Which in diplomatese means to go to hell.” The eyes dug into him. “What is all this about Dominique?” Hood said, “There’s a Gendarmerie Nationale officer who is in Toulouse and is eager to hand M. Dominique his head.” He looked at Nancy. “Sorry, but that’s how it is.” Her mouth scrunched unhappily. “I understand,” she said, “but I think I’d better be going.” She turned to go. Hood stepped toward her and grabbed her hand.
“Nancy, don’t go back there.” “Why?” she asked. “You think I need someone’s protection to survive a shitstorm?” Hausen turned toward Stoll and Lang and busied himself with learning about the game.
Hood led her a few steps away, toward the back of the office. “This shitstorm, yes,” he said. “If Ballon gets in, everyone at Demain will be investigated, and as far back as possible.” “There are statutes of limitations.” “That’s true,” Hood said. “There won’t be legal ramifications. But think about blacklists. What company will hire someone who has committed industrial espionage or embezzled or was involved in insider trading?” “A company just like Demain,” she answered.
Hood took a step toward her. He was still holding her hand, and his grip softened. He was now holding the hand of a woman, not a captive. “There aren’t very many companies like Demain,” he said, “and thank God for that. What they’re doing is wrong. And whatever happens, you mustn’t go back there.” “Every large corporation has a few demons.” “Not like these,” said Hood. “If this Pandora’s box is opened, hundreds, perhaps thousands of people will die. The world will change, and not for the better.” Though her eyes were at once defiant and sad, her touch was willing. Hood wanted to kiss her, shelter her, love her. And then he asked himself, Who am I to talk about immorality?
“So,” she said, “you don’t want me going back. And you also want my help bringing Dominique to justice.” Holding her hand, looking into her eyes, he said quietly, “I do.” The wistful, tender way he’d spoken hit her almost as hard as the words he’d selected. She squeezed his hand. He squeezed back.
“Even if you get him, Dominique will get rich man’s justice,” Nancy said. “The kind the French government loves to dispense because it buys summer homes for officials.” “Dominique won’t be able to buy his way out of everything he’s done,” Hood promised.
“And what about me?” she asked. “Where does a whistle-blower go?” “I’ll help you when this is all over,” Hood said. “I’ll see to it that you have work.” “Well, golly gee and thanks,” Nancy said. “Haven’t you figured out yet that that’s not what I need from you, Paul?” She half-turned, looked down, and ran her tongue across her upper lip. Hood continued to hold her hand. There was nothing he could say, nothing which wouldn’t give her false hope.
After a moment, she faced him again. “Of course I’ll help,” she said. “Whatever you need I’ll do.” “Thanks,” Hood said.
“Don’t mention it. What are ex-fianc‚es for?” Hood touched her cheek, then turned to the pad on which he’d written Ballon’s number. He didn’t look back at Nancy as he placed the call. The yearning in his eyes would have given her the answer, and it wasn’t an answer that would do either of them any good.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE Thursday, 6:44 P.M., Wunstorf, Germany
The crack Bob Herbert heard was not the report of the gun. He knew that because the bullet would have struck his brain and shut it down before the sound of the gunshot reached him.
Also, he realized that the sound had come from above.
The branch fell heavily through the trees. Though the police officer hopped aside, out of the way, he couldn’t avoid the young woman who dropped from the tree a moment later. She crashed down on him, spilling them both to the ground. But she had landed on top and got off first. Because he had managed to hold onto the gun, she rose, stepped on his wrist, and wrested it away.
“Here!” she said, pushing the weapon into Herbert’s hands.
He aimed it at the police officer’s head. When the man didn’t stir, Herbert looked at the young woman. She was standing unsteadily to Herbert’s left, obviously shaken by her plunge.
“Jody Thompson?” Herbert asked.
She nodded twice. She was nearly gasping. Her heart was probably racing from fear, poor thing.
“My name’s Herbert. Bob Herbert. I work for the U.S.
government. I want to thank you for what you did.” She said in breathless chunks, “It’s not… the first time.
.. I’ve fallen for a guy.” He smiled. She was pumped up by fear and maybe a little excitement. “I assume you didn’t just fall from the tree—” “No,” she said. “I’d been walking and got lost. I fell asleep up there. I woke when I heard you and saw what he was going to do.” “I’m glad you’re a light sleeper,” Herbert said. “Now I think we’d better make sure our playmate is—” Jody screamed, “Look out!” Herbert hadn’t turned his back on the police officer, but he’d made the mistake of looking at the girl. The German had pushed off from the ground before the American could fire. He dove for the gun. The wheelchair spilled over backward with the two men on it and four hands scrapped for the weapon.