get by. PSre Dupre had stolen money from the Americans after the War. So Gerard designed software to appeal to Americans, to have them give him their money. PSre Dupre hated the Communists. Which is why, as a student, Gerard was drawn to them. Everything he did was an act of defiance against his father.
But then something happened to the younger Dupre.
After leaving the Sorbonne, he began collecting historical documents. Ballon had talked to some of the autograph dealers from whom Dupre had made purchases. It seemed to amaze Dupre that he could own important letters written by the great figures of the past.
One dealer had told the Gendarmerie officer, 'Gerard seemed to feel as if he were looking over the shoulders of great men. Watching history unfold brought fire to his eyes.
' Dupre bought documents from the French Revolution, as well as actual costumes and weapons and memorabilia. He purchased religious letters that were even older. He even bought guillotines.
A psychiatrist who worked for the Gendarmerie said, 'It is not uncommon for people disappointed with the real world to cocoon themselves, to create a safe reality with letters or mementos.' 'And might he then wish to expand that?' Ballon had asked.
'Very possibly, ' he'd been told. 'Enlarge the haven, as it were.' When Dupre changed his name to Dominique, there was no longer any question in Ballon's mind that he had begun to see himself as a modern-day saint. The patron saint of France. Or else he had gone mad, or perhaps both.
And when the New Jacobins began terrorizing foreigners at the same time, Ballon had little doubt that they were the soldiers guarding Dominique's spiritual fortress— a France that was pure, as chaste as the original Jacobins had envisioned.
The Gendarmerie had refused to launch an official investigation into Dominique. It wasn't just because he was a powerful man. As Ballon quickly discovered, the Gendarmerie was only slightly less xenophobic than Dominique. The only reason he didn't resign was so that he could keep the idea alive that the law was supposed to serve the public— all of it. Regardless of national origin or religion. The son of a Belgian Jewish mother who had been disinherited when she married his poor, French Catholic father, Ballon understood what hate could do. If he quit the force, the bigots would win.
However, as Ballon watched the video of the factory, he wasn't certain that they hadn't already won.
Ballon pushed his strong fingers along his cheek. He savored the sandpaper roughness of his face. It was manliness that he felt nowhere else in his life. How could he feel manly as he sat inactive in this stuffy old room? As they reviewed procedure over and over in case they ever got inside. Code words. 'Blue' for attack. 'Red' for stay where you were. 'Yellow' for retreat. 'White' for civilians in danger. Light pulses via the radio in case audio would give someone away. One tone to close in. Two to stay where they were. Three to retreat. Emergency contingencies. He was beginning to wonder if Dominque knew about the investigation and was intentionally doing nothing in order to embarrass Ballon and put a stake in the heart of his investigation.
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
