Tom Clancy – Op Center 3 – Games Of State

“Judy,” he whispered, “I need you to do something.

Can you hear me?” She nodded once, weakly.

“I can’t step on the gas. You’ll have to do that for me.

Do you think you can do that?” She nodded again.

He wedged himself behind her slightly and took the wheel. He looked ahead and caught glimpses of a man holding Karin back from charging through the curtain of fire.

“Judy? We don’t have much time. I’ll take care of you, but we have to get out of here first.” She nodded again, licked her lips, and gasped as she extended her leg. Jody’s eyes were shut, but Herbert watched as she felt around for the gas pedal.

“There,” he said. “You’ve got it. Now push.” Jody did so, gently, and the car started back. His right arm across his chest, his hand on the steering wheel, Herbert turned around. He guided them along the roughhewn path, through the trees, as the orange glow of the fire flashed dully on the rear window.

Bullets clanged against the front of the car, but with less force than before. They were shooting through the fire, blindly, as somebody shouted for everyone to calm down.

Chaos on Chaos Days, Herbert thought with some satisfaction. Feuer stopped by fire.

The ironies would have been delicious if he had time to savor them.

The car continued to move backward. The steering was awkward and they jerked on the broken front wheels and slammed the occasional tree as they retreated. Soon, the camp was just a glow reflected against the low-lying clouds of the evening sky. Herbert was beginning to think that they might actually get out of the woods alive.

And then the car died.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO Thursday, 9:14 P.M., Wunstorf, Germany

Karin Doring coolly brushed away the fiery beads of gas which rained down on her. Her mind was on the cowardly behavior of her followers, but she refused to allow that to distract her. Like a fox, her eyes were on her prey.

She watched the retreating car through the flame and smoke, through the rushing, tumbling mass of her followers.

Clever man, she thought bitterly. No headlights. He was backing away, driving by the dull glow of his braking lights. And then those lights went off. The SA dagger dangled from her belt hook by its metal clasp. The gun she held would be for the man. The dagger: that was for the girl.

Manfred grasped her shoulder from behind. “Karin! We have wounded. Richter needs your help to restore—” “I want those two,” she sneered. “Let Richter deal with the bedlam. He wanted to lead. Let him.” “He can’t lead our people,” Manfred said. “They won’t accept him yet.” “Then you do it.” Manfred said, “You know they’ll only march into Hell for you.” Karin rolled her shoulder to throw off Manfred’s hand.

Then she turned on him, her expression feral. “Into Hell?

They scattered like cockroaches when the American turned on them. They were beaten back by one man in a wheelchair with only an hysterical girl to help him! They shamed me. I shamed myself.” “All the more reason to put the incident behind us,” Manfred said. “It was a fluke. We let down our guard.” “I want revenge. I want blood.” “No,” Manfred implored. “That was the old way. The wrong way. This is a setback, not a defeat—” “Words! Bullshit words!” “Karin, listen!” Manfred said. “You can rekindle the passion another way. By helping Richter lead us all to Hanover.” Karin turned. She looked through the flames. “I have no right to lead anyone while those two live. I stood by Richter and watched as my people, my soldiers, did nothing.” She spotted a pathway through the shrinking fires and picked her way through the thinning smoke. Manfred lumbered after her.

“You can’t chase a car,” Manfred said.

“He’s driving without headlights on a dirt road,” she said. She broke into a slow jog. “I’ll catch him or I’ll track him. It won’t be difficult.” Manfred trotted after her. “You’re not thinking,” he said. “How do you know he’s not waiting for you?” “I don’t.” “What will I do without you?” Manfred yelled.

“Join up with Richter, as you said.” “That isn’t what I mean,” he said. “Karin, let’s at least talk—” She began to run.

“Karin!” he yelled.

She enjoyed the explosion of energy and the breathless dodging as she moved through the trees arid across the uneven terrain.

“Karin!” She didn’t want to hear anything else. She wasn’t sure how much her supporters had failed her and how much she had failed them. All she knew was that to atone for her role in the debacle, to feel clean again, she had to wash her hands in blood.

And she would. One way or another, tonight or tomorrow, in Germany or in America, she would.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE Thursday, 9:32 P.M., Toulouse, France

Hood was looking out the window as Hausen guided the jet to a careful, easy landing. Hood had no doubt about where they were headed. A bright spotlight mounted high on the small terminal shone down on a band of eleven men clad in jeans and workshirts. A twelfth man was dressed in a business suit. As he watched the young fellow check his watch repeatedly or brush down his hair, Hood could tell he wasn’t a lawman. He didn’t have the patience for it. Hood also knew right off which man was Ballon. He was the one with the bulldog expression who looked as though he wanted to bite someone.

Ballon walked over before the plane had come to a complete stop. The man in the business suit scurried after him.

“We didn’t even get bags of peanuts,” Matt Stoll said as he undid his seatbelt and drummed his knees.

Hood watched as Ballon— and it was the bulldog he’d picked out— ordered his men to roll the stairway toward the jet. When the copilot finally opened the door, it was waiting.

Hood ducked through the door. He was followed by Nancy, Stoll, and Hausen. Ballon glanced at them all, but his gaze lingered harshly on Hausen. It snapped back to Hood when he reached the tarmac.

“Good evening,” Hood said. He held out his hand. “I’m Paul Hood.” Ballon shook it. “Good evening. I’m Colonel Ballon.” He pointed with his thumb to the man in the business suit. “This is M. Marais of Customs. He wants me to tell you that this is not an international airport and that you are only here as a favor to myself and the Groupe d’Intervention de la Gendarmerie Nationale.” “Vive la France,” Stoll said under his breath.

“Les passeports, ” M. Marais said to Ballon.

“He wants to see your passports,” Ballon said. “Then, hopefully, we can be on our way.” Stoll said to Ballon, “If I forgot mine, does that mean I get to go home?” Ballon regarded him. “Are you the man with the machine?” Stoll nodded.

“Then no. If I have to shoot Marais, you’re coming with us.” Stoll reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew his passport. The others produced theirs as well.

Marais looked at each in turn, checking the faces against the photographs. Then he handed them back to Ballon, who passed them to Hood.

“Continuez,” Marais said impatiently.

Ballon said, “I’m also supposed to tell you that, officially, you have not entered France. And that you will be expected to leave within twenty-four hours.” ‘ “We don’t exist but we do,” Stoll said. “Aristotle would have loved that.” Nancy was standing behind him. “Why Aristotle?” she asked.

“He believed in abiogenesis, the idea that living creatures can arise from nonliving matter. Francesco Redi disproved it in the seventeenth century. And now we’ve disproved Redi.” Hood had returned the passports and stood watching Marais. He could tell from the man’s face that all was not well. After a moment, Marais took Ballon aside. They spoke quietly for a moment. Then Ballon walked over. His face was even unhappier than before.

“What is it?” Hood asked.

“He’s concerned,” Ballon said. He looked at Hausen.

“He doesn’t want this very irregular situation to receive any publicity.” Hausen said coolly, “I don’t blame him. Who would want to advertise that they are the home of Dominique?” “No one,” Ballon replied, “except, perhaps, the nation which gave us Hitler.” Hood’s instinct in any confrontation of this type was to mediate. But he decided to stay out of the way of this one.

Both men had been out of line, and he felt he could only make enemies by interfering.

Nancy said, “I came here to help stop the next Hitler, not make cracks about the last one. Anybody care to help?” Shouldering past Ballon, Marais, and the other members of the Gendarmerie, Nancy headed for the terminal.

Hausen looked at Hood and then at Ballon. “She’s right,” he said. “My apologies to you both.” Ballon’s mouth scrunched as if he weren’t quite ready to let the matter go. Then it relaxed. He turned to Marais, who appeared deeply confused.

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