This is madness, Hausen thought. 'Dupre,' he said, 'Or should I say Dominique. I don't know where you are or what you've become. But I, too, am more than I was. Very much more. I'm not the college boy you remember.' 'Oh, I know.' The caller laughed. 'I've followed your moves. Every one of them. Your rise in the government, your campaign against hate groups, your marriage, the birth of your daughter, your divorce. A lovely girl, by the way, your daughter. How is she enjoying ballet?' Hausen squeezed the phone tighter. 'Harm her and I'll find you and kill you.' 'Such rough words from so careful a politician,' the caller said. 'But that's the beauty of parenthood, isn't it?
When a child is threatened, nothing else matters. Not fortune nor health.' Hausen said, 'If you have a fight, it's with me.' 'I know that, Haussier,' the caller said. 'Alors, the truth is I've tried to stay clear of teenage girls. Such trouble.
You understand.' Hausen was looking at the tile floor but was seeing the young Gerard Dupre. Angry, lashing out, hissing his hate. He couldn't succumb to fury himself. Not even in response to calculated threats against his girl.
'So you plan to judge me,' Hausen said, forcing himself to calm down. 'However far I fall, you'll fall farther.' 'Oh, I don't think so,' said the caller. 'You see, unlike you, I've put layers upon layers of willing employees between myself and my activities. I've actually built an empire of constituents who feel the way I do. I even hired one who helped me follow the life and works of Richard Hausen. He is gone now, but he provided me with a great deal of information about you.' 'There are still laws,' Hansen said. 'There are many ways in which one can be an accomplice.' 'You would know, wouldn't you?' the caller pointed out.
'In any case, on that Parisian matter time has run out. The law can't touch me or you. But think of what it would do to your image when people find out. When photographs from that night begin appearing.' Photographs? Hansen thought. The camera— could it have captured them?
'I just wanted you to know that I plan to bring you down,' the voice said. 'I wanted you to think about it. Wait for it.' 'No,' said Hausen. 'I'll find a way to fight you.' 'Perhaps,' said the caller. 'But then, there is that beautiful thirteen-year-old dancer to consider. Because while I have sworn off teenagers, there are members of my group who—' Hausen punched the 'talk' button to disconnect the caller. He shoved the phone back in his pocket, then turned.
He put on a shaky smile and asked the nearest employee where the lavatory was. Then he motioned for Lang to take the others down without him. He was going to have to get away, think about what to do.
When he reached the bathroom, Hausen leaned over the sink. He cupped his hands, filled them with water, and put his face in it. He let the water dribble out slowly. When his hands were empty, he continued to hold them to his face.
Gerard Dupre.
It was a name he'd hoped he never hear again, a face he never wanted to see again, even in his mind's eye.
But he was back, and so was Hausen— back in Paris, back on the darkest night of his life, back in the shroud of fear and guilt it had taken him years to shake.
And with his face still in his hands he cried, tears of fear… and shame.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
After dropping Billy at school and giving himself a couple of minutes to shake off the adrenaline rush of two games of Blazing Combattle, Rodgers used his car phone to call Darrell McCaskey. Op-Center's FBI liaison had already left for work, and Rodgers caught him on his car phone. It would not have surprised the General if the two of them passed each other while talking. He was beginning to believe that modern technology was nothing more than some huckster's way of selling people two tin cans and a string for thousands of dollars. Of course, these tin cans were equipped with scramblers which switched high and low voice tones at one end and restored them at the other. Signals inadvertently picked up by another phone would be meaningless.
'Morning, Darrell,' Rodgers said.
'Morning, General,' McCaskey replied. He was his usual surly morning self as he said, 'And don't ask me about last night's volleyball game. DOD nuked us bad.' 'I won't ask about it,' Rodgers said. 'Listen, I've got something I need you to check on. A group named WHOA— Whites Only Association. Ever hear of them?' 'Yeah, I've heard of them. Don't tell me you got wind of the Baltic Avenue. That was supposed to be a deep secret.' 'No,' Rodgers said, 'I didn't know about it.' A Baltic Avenue was the FBI's current code for an action being taken against a domestic adversary. They took the name from the game of Monopoly. Baltic Avenue was the first deed after passing 'Go' — hence, the start of a mission. The codes changed weekly, and Rodgers always looked forward to Monday mornings when McCaskey shared the new ones with him. In recent months his favorite gocodes had been 'Moses,' which was inspired by 'Let my people go,' and 'Peppermint Lounge,' which came from the famous 'go-go' discotheque of the 1960s.
'Is WHOA the subject of the Baltic Avenue?' Rodgers asked.
'No,' McCaskey replied. 'Not directly, anyway.' Rodgers knew better than to ask McCaskey more on this particular mission. Even though the line was scrambled, that was only effective against casual listeners. Calls could still be monitored and descrambled, and some of these white supremacist groups were pretty sophisticated.
'Tell me what you know about WHOA,' Rodgers said.
'They're big time,' said McCaskey. 'They have a couple of paramilitary training camps in the Southeast, Southwest, and Northwest. They offer everything from make-your-ownbullet classes to afterschool activities for the tykes. They publish a slick magazine called P?hrer, spelled like F?hrer, which actually has news bureaus and ad sales offices in New York, L.A., and Chicago, and they sponsor a successful rock band called AWED— All White Electric Dudes.' 'They're also on-line,' Rodgers said.
'I know.' McCaskey asked, 'Since when do you surf the net?' 'I don't,' Rodgers said, 'but Charlie Squires' kid does.
He picked up a hate game about blacks getting lynched.' 'Shit.' 'That's how I felt,' Rodgers said. 'Tell me what you know.' 'Funny you should ask,' said McCaskey. 'I was just talking to a German friend in the Office for the Protection of the Constitution in D?sseldorf. They're all worried about Chaos Days, when all the neo-Nazis over there gather— the closeted ones in the open and the open ones in hiding, if you follow.' 'I'm not sure I do.' McCaskey said, 'Since neo-Nazism is illegal, admitted Hitlerites can't hold gatherings in public. They meet in barns or woods or old factories. The ones who pose as mere political activists, even though they're advocating Nazi-like doctrine, are able to meet in public.' 'Got it,' Rodgers said. 'But why aren't the admitted Hitlerites under surveillance?' 'They are,' said McCaskey, 'when the government can find them. And even when they are found, some— there's this guy Richter, for example, who did jail time— go to court, claim harassment, and have to be left alone. Public sentiment against skinheads is high, but they feel that articulate, clean-cut jerks like Richter deserve to be left alone.' 'The government can't afford to alienate too many voters.' 'That,' said McCaskey, 'and make the neo-Nazis look like victims. Some of the Hitler wannabes have got sound bites and charisma that'd curl your toes. They play very well with the evening news crowd.' Rodgers didn't like what he was hearing. This mediaplaying- into-the-hands-of- criminals thing was an old beef of his. Lee Harvey Oswald may have been the last killer to protest his innocence on TV and get blamed in the court of public opinion anyway— though even that jury didn't come back with a unanimous verdict. There was something about the hangdog face of a suspect and the determined face of a prosecutor that drove the underdog-loving public to the suspect.
'So what about this German friend of yours?' Rodgers asked.
McCaskey said, 'The OPC is worried because in addition to Chaos Days, they've got this new phenomenon called the Thule Network. It's a collection of about a hundred mailboxes and bulletin boards which allow neo-Nazi groups and cells to communicate and form alliances. There's no way of tracking the correspondence to its source, so the authorities are helpless to stop it.' 'Who or what is Thule?' Rodgers asked.
'It's a place. The legendary northern cradle of European civilization.' McCaskey laughed. 'When I was a kid, I read a lot of fantasy novels, and a whole bunch of barbarian-type adventure stories were set there. Ursus of Ultima Thule, that sort of thing.' 'Manliness and European purity,' Rodgers said. 'That's an irresistible symbol.' 'Yeah,' said
