organization. Finally, Hood felt a rush of pride. Herbert was doing something which distinguished Americans from most other nationalities. He was fighting injustice, regardless of who it was being directed against.
But righteous or not, Herbert was a semi-loose cannon, a U.S. government operative hunting neo-Nazis in Germany.
If he broke the law or even if he were found out, the neo- Nazis would spin it as if they were being persecuted, ganged up on. It would send a firestorm of criticism sweeping over Op-Center, Washington, and Hausen.
Then, of course, there was always the danger that the neo-Nazis would rather eliminate Herbert. The men in the van might not have known who he was. But even knowing, not all radicals wanted publicity. Some of them just wanted their enemies dead.
If he thought Herbert would listen, Hood would have ordered him back to the hotel. And if it weren't for two big 'ifs,' Hood would have gone so far as to ask Hausen to send some people to collect him: if he trusted Hausen's security, which he no longer did; and if he weren't afraid they'd blunder into an otherwise quiet stakeout and thus create a situation.
'Is Viens watching Herbert?' Hood asked.
'Unfortunately, no,' McCaskey told him. 'Steve's only got one eye in the region and he couldn't keep it tied up. As it was, he had to put Larry off to get Bob some of what he needed.' 'Thank him for me,' Hood said sincerely, even as he was swearing inside. That was it, then. Hood was just going to have to let this play out, hope that Herbert remained anonymous and safe.
'Paul,' McCaskey said then, 'hold on a moment. I've got a priority call coming in.' Hood waited. CNN was running on the hold fine. There was something about a celebrity's death in Atlanta. Hood only got to hear a few words about it before McCaskey was back.
'Paul,' McCaskey said, 'Mike's on the line as well. We may have a situation.' 'What is it?' Hood asked.
'I just heard from my contact Don Worby at the FBI,' McCaskey said. 'They've just been notified about five whiteon- black killings at the same time in five different cities.
New York, Los Angeles, New Orleans, Baltimore, and Atlanta. In each case, two-to-four young white males ambushed a black rap singer. In Atlanta, they got Sweet T, the number-one female rapper, as she was leaving her apartment—' 'That must have been what I just heard,' Hood said.
'Where?' McCaskey asked.
'On CNN.' 'Those bastards,' McCaskey said. 'Maybe we ought to hire HUMINT resources from them.' Rodgers came on the line and said somberly, 'Do you realize what we've just had here? Those attacks were a modern-day Kristallnacht.' The connection hadn't occurred to Hood, but Rodgers was right. The assaults were similar to Crystal Night, when the Gestapo orchestrated acts of vandalism against Jewish houses of worship, cemeteries, hospitals, schools, homes, and businesses throughout Germany. Thirty thousand Jews were also arrested, beginning the Jewish incarceration in concentration camps like Dachau, Sachsenhausen, and Buchenwald.
The attacks were similar, he thought, yet there was something different— 'No,' Hood said suddenly with alarm. 'This was not another Crystal Night. It was only a prelude.' 'How so?' Rodgers asked.
Hood said, 'Neo-Nazis killed rappers. That'll enrage the so-called gangstas and their hard-core audience. They turn on whites, many of whom don't approve of rap to begin with, and you end up with more racial incidents, riots, and American cities on fire. That's when the neo-Nazis return.
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?
