"General," she said, "your penchant for dictums is well known, and I don't appreciate being lectured to. I am optimistic and I am hopeful that we can solve America's problems. But I will not support Op-Center as a base for international troubleshooters. A think tank, yes. An intelligence resource, yes. A domestic crisis management center, yes. A team of international Dudley Do-Rights, no.
And for what I've just outlined, you will need only the budget I've given you." The Senator nodded to Rodgers, offered her hand to Martha, then started to go.
"Senator?" Rodgers called after her.
The Senator stopped. She turned, and Rodgers took a few steps toward her. She was nearly as tall as Rodgers, and her clear blue-gray eyes held his.
"Darrell McCaskey and Liz Gordon are scheduled to work together on a project," Rodgers said. "I assume you've heard about the terrorist group that attacked the movie set in Germany?" "No," Fox said. "There was nothing in this morning's Post." "I know," Rodgers said. The Washington Post and CNN were how everyone in government got news. He was counting on the fact that she didn't know. "It happened about four hours ago. Several people were killed. Bob Herbert is over there on business and has asked for our assistance." "And do you think that we should help German authorities investigate?" the woman asked. "What vital American interests are at stake? Is it cost effective? Which taxpayers will care?" Rodgers weighed his words with care. He had laid the snare and Fox strode right in. This was going to hit the Senator hard.
"Only two taxpayers will care," Rodgers said. "The parents of a twenty-one-year-old American girl who may have been kidnapped by the terrorists." The woman's strong blue-gray eyes melted. The Senator trembled slightly as she tried to remain erect. It was a moment before she could speak.
"You don't take prisoners, do you, General?" "When the enemy surrenders I do, Senator." She continued to look at him. All the sadness of the world seemed to be there in those eyes, and Rodgers felt like hell.
"What do you expect me to say?" the Senator asked.
"Of course help them save the girl. She's an American." "Thank you," Rodgers said, "and I'm very sorry.
Sometimes American interests are hidden in the things we do." Senator Fox looked at Rodgers a moment longer, then shifted her gaze to Martha. Bidding the woman a good morning, the Senator walked quickly from the office, her aides trailing close behind.
Rodgers didn't remember turning and picking up the budget, but it was in his hands as he started toward the door.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Henri Toron and Yves Lambesc were not tired. Not any more. Jean-Michel's return had wakened the men, and the telephone call from M. Dominique had brought the two French bears to full attention.
Full, belated attention.
It was Jean-Michel's fault, of course. They'd been sent to be his bodyguards, but he had chosen to go by himself to the club in St. Pauli. The three had arrived in Germany at 1:00 A.M., and Henri and Yves had played blackjack until 2:30. If only Jean-Michel had wakened them, they'd have accompanied him— alert and ready to protect him from the Huns. But no. He'd let them sleep. What did he have to fear, after all?
"Why do you think M. Dominique sent us with you?" Henri had roared when he saw Jean-Michel. "To sleep or to protect you?" "I didn't think I was in any danger," Jean-Michel had replied.
"When dealing with Germans," Henri had said gravely, "one is always in danger." M. Dominique had called as Yves was putting ice cubes in a hand towel for Jean-Michel's eye. Henri took the call.
Their employer did not raise his voice. He never did. He simply gave thiln their instructions and sent them on their way. The two knew that they would be disciplined with a month of extra duty for having overslept. That was standard for a first infraction. Those who failed the cause twice were dismissed. The shame of letting him down was far more painful than the fingertip they were forced to leave in the basket of one of M. Dominique's little guillotines.
So they had cabbed to St. Pauli, and now they were leaning against a car parked down the street from Auswechseln. The streets were beginning to grow crowded with tourists, though the twenty-yard stretch between the Frenchmen and the club was relatively clear.
Barrel-chested, six-foot-four Henri was smoking a cigarette, and the inch-taller, broad-shouldered Yves was chewing homemade bubble gum. Yves had a Beretta 92F pistol in the pocket of his jacket. Henri was carrying a Belgian GP double-action pistol. Their job was simple: to go to the club and get Herr Richter on the phone by any means necessary.
For over two hours, Henri had watched the club door through the twisting smoke of cigarette after cigarette.
When it finally opened, he tapped Yves on the arm and they hurried over.
A giant slab of a man was walking out. Henri and Yves acted as though they were going to walk past him, then turned suddenly. Before the big man was even out the door, Henri had pushed the gun in his gut and told him to get back in.
"Nein, " he said.
Either the man was devoted to his boss or he was wearing a bullet-proof vest. Hemi didn't bother to repeat the request. He simply drove his heel down hard on the man's instep and pushed him back inside. The big man fell moaning against the bar and Henri put the gun to his forehead. Yves also pulled his gun and disappeared into the darkness, to the right.
"Richter," Henri said to the man. "Ou est-il?" The Auswechseln bouncer told him to go to hell in German. Henri knew what H”lle meant. The rest he figured out from the man's tone.
The Frenchman slid the gun down to the man's left eye.
"Le dernier temps, " he said. The last time. "Richter! Tout de suite!" A voice said in French from the darkness. "No one enters my club with a gun and makes demands. Let Ewald go." Footsteps came toward them from the back of the club.
Henri kept the gun pushed against the man's eye.
A shadowy figure appeared at the end of the bar and sat on a stool.
"I said let the man go," Richter repeated. "At once." Yves approached him from the right. Richter did not look at him. Henri did not move.
"Herr Richter," Henri said, "my companion is going to punch in a number on the bar telephone and hand it to you." "Not while you're holding my employee at gunpoint," Richter said firmly.
Yves reached Richter and stepped behind him. The German did not turn.
Henri looked at Richter in the darkness. The Frenchman had two options. One was to let this Ewald go. That would give Richter his way and set a bad precedent for the afternoon's proceedings. The other was to shoot Ewald. That might rattle Richter, but it might also bring the police. And it was no guarantee of getting Richter to do what he was told.
There was really only one thing to do. M. Dominique's instructions to them were to get Richter on the telephone and to do the other thing he had told them. They were not here to win a contest of wills.