Games of State o-3

by Tom Clancy

  "Looks like they'd be called the Grossalster and the Kleinalster," Stoll informed him.

  Hood said, "Doesn't have a particularly elegant sound, does it?" "No," Herbert agreed, "but you know what? It beats hell out of what we have back in Philadephia, Mississippi.

  Dead Cat Pond, Mudworm Creek—" "I kind of like those," Stoll said. "They paint a picture." "Yeah, but not one you'd want on a postcard," Herbert said. "Matter of fact, all we've got in our metal twirly thing at the general store are postcards of Main Street and the old schoolhouse and nothing else." "I'd rather have the pond and the creek," Stoll said.

  As they made their way through the crowded lobby, Hood looked around for Martin Lang and Deputy Foreign Minister Richard Hausen. He had never met Hausen, but he was anxious to see the German electronics tycoon Lang again. They had spent some time-together when Los Angeles hosted a dinner for international guests at a computer convention. Hood had been impressed with Lang's warmth, sincerity, and intelligence. He was a humanist who understood that without happy employees, he had no company. There were never any layoffs. Hard times were borne by the top levels of management, not the bottom.

  When it came time to price the construction of the new brainchild of Mike Rodgers and Matt Stoll, the Regional Op- Center or ROC, Lang was the first person who came to mind for the computers they'd need. His company's patented photon-based technology Leuchtturm, Lighthouse, was adaptable, cutting edge, and expensive. As with most things in government, though, Hood knew that getting the ROC constructed at all would be a delicate balancing act. It would be difficult to get the half-billion-dollar budget for the ROC through Congress under any circumstances, more so if they bought foreign components. At the same time, Op-Center would have a rough time getting the ROC into foreign countries unless it contained hardware from those countries.

  What it would ultimately come down to, Hood reflected, were two things. One, that Germany would soon be the leading country in the European Community. The ability to move a mobile spy center in and out with relative freedom would pre-position the U.S. to watch everything Europe did.

  Congress would like that. And two, Lang's company, Hauptschlssel, Main Key, would have to agree to purchase many of the materials they needed for this and other projects from American companies. A good portion of the money would thus remain in the United States.

  Hood felt confident that he could sell that to Lang. He and Matt were going to show him a new technology in which the Germans would surely want to become involved, something the small R&D division of Op-Center had stumbled upon while looking for a way to check the integrity of high-speed electrical circuitry. And though Lang was an honorable man, he was also a businessman and a patriot.

  Knowing all about the ROC's hardware and its capabilities, Lang could persuade his government to underwrite technological countermeasures for national security. Then Hood could go to Congress for the money to undermine those, money he would agree to spend with American companies.

  He smiled. As strange as it seemed to Sharon, who loathed negotiating, and to Mike Rodgers, who was anything but diplomatic, Hood enjoyed this process. Getting things done in the international political arena was like a big, complex chess game. Though no player came through it unscathed, it was fun to see how many pieces you were able to retain.

  They stopped near the house phones, away from the flow of guests. Hood took in the baroque decor of the lobby, as well as the thick, curious mix of smartly dressed businesspeople and casual tourists. Stepping out of the human traffic gave him the chance to appreciate the people, all of whom were focused on their own business, their own destinations, who they were with— The golden hair flashed at him from the front door. It captured his eye not because of the movement itself but because of the way it moved. As the woman left the lobby, her head cocked right and the long blond hair snapped left, fast and confident.

  Hood was transfixed. Like a bird darting from a tree, he thought.

  As Hood watched, unable to move, the woman disappeared to the right. For a long instant he didn't blink, couldn't breathe. The noise in the lobby, so distinct a moment ago, became a distant drone.

  "Chief?" Stoll asked. "You see 'em?" Hood didn't answer. Forcing his legs to move, he bolted toward the door, maneuvering around the people and stacked luggage, shouldering his way around guests who were standing still, waiting and chattering.

  A golden lady, he thought.

  He reached the open door and rushed through. He looked to the right.

  "Taxi?" asked the liveried doorman.

  Hood didn't hear him. He looked toward the north, saw a cab moving toward the main thoroughfare. The bright sunlight made it impossible for him to see inside. He funned toward the doorman.

  "Did a woman just get in that cab?" Hood asked.

  "Ja, " said the young man.

  "Do you know her?" Hood demanded. Even as he said it, Hood realized he probably sounded a little scary. He took a long, deep breath. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to yell like that. It's just— I think I know that woman. Is she a guest here?" "Nein, " said the doorman. "She dropped off a package and left." Hood pointed a thumb to the lobby. "Dropped if off in there?" "Not at the desk," said the doorman. "She gave it to someone." An elderly English woman came over, needing a cab.

  "Excuse me," the young man said to Hood.

  While the doorman walked to the curb and blew his whistle, Hood looked down and tapped his foot impatiently.

  As he did, Stoll strolled up beside him, followed by Herbert.

  "Hi," said Stoll.

  Hood was staring at the curb, fighting a storm of emotions.

  "You shoved off like a guy whose dog ran onto the highway," Stoll said. "You okay?" Hood nodded.

  "Yeah, I'm convinced," Herbert lied.

  "No, really," Hood said distantly. "I, uh— never mind.

  It's a long story." "So's Dune," Stoll said, "but I love it. Want to talk about it? You see somebody?" Hood was silent for a moment, then said, "Yes." "Who?" Herbert asked.

  Hood answered almost reverently, "A golden lady." Stop clicked his tongue. "Ooookay," he said. "Sorry I asked." He glanced down at Herbert, who shrugged and gave him a don't-ask-me look.

  When the doorman returned, Hood asked quietly, "Did you happen to see who she gave the package to?" The doorman shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry. I was getting a cab for Herr Tsuburaya and didn't happen to notice." "It's all right," Hood said. "I understand." He reached into his pocket and gave the doorman a ten-dollar bill. "If she happens to come back, would you try to find out who she is? Tell her that Paul…" He hesitated. "No. Don't tell her who wanted to know. Just try and find out, okay?" "Ja," the doorman said appreciatively as he stepped to the curb to open the door of an arriving taxi.

  Stoll nudged Hood with his hip. "Hey, for ten bucks I'll wait here too. Double coverage." Hood ignored him. This was insane. He couldn't decide whether he'd walked into a dream or a nightmare.

  As the men stood there, a black stretch limousine pulled up. The doorman dashed over and a stocky, silverhaired man emerged. He and Hood saw each other at the same time.

  "Herr Hood!" Martin Lang said with a wave and a big, genuine smile. He came forward with short, quick strides, his hand extended. "It's wonderful to see you again. You look very, very well." "Washington suits me better than Los Angeles," he said.

  Though Hood was looking at Lang, he was still seeing the woman. The shift of the head, the blaze of hair— Stop it, he yelled at himself. You have a job to do. And you have a life.

  "Actually," Stoll muttered, "Paul looks good because he was able to sleep on the airplane. He'll be nudging Bob and me awake all day." "I sincerely doubt that," said Lang. "You're not old like me. You have vitality." As Hood introduced his associates, a tall, blond, distinguished-looking man in his middle forties emerged from the car. He walked over slowly.

  "Herr Hood," said Lang, as the man arrived, "allow me to introduce Richard Hausen." "Welcome to Hamburg," Hausen said. His voice was
resonant and refined, his English impeccable. He greeted each man personally with a handshake and a little bow.

  Hood was surprised that Hausen had arrived without a flock of assistants. American officials didn't go anywhere without at least two young, go-get-'em aides in tow.

  Stoll had a different first impression. "He reminds me of Dracula," the Operations Support Officer whispered.

  Hood tended to ignore Stoll's frequent under-thebreath comments, though this one was near the mark.

  Hausen was dressed in a black suit. His face was pale but intense. And he exuded a distinctive Old World courtliness.

  But from what Hood had read before leaving, Dracula's nemesis Dr. Van Helsing would have been more accurate for this man. But instead of prowling for vampires, Richard Hausen hunted neo-Nazis. Op-Center's Staff Psychologist Liz Gordon had used the resources of the United Nations Gopher information site on the Internet to prepare a paper on Hausen. She described him as having a "Captain Ahab-like hatred of right-wing radicals." Liz wrote that not only did Hausen see them as a threat to his nation's status as a member of the international community, but that "he attacks them with a fervor which suggests personal animus, perhaps something in his past. It could well have been born and nurtured in the bullying he probably took as a child, something which happens to many farm boys who are sent to a larger city to go to school." Martha Mackall had suggested, in a footnote, that Hood should beware of one thing. Hausen might be seeking closer ties with the U.S. to infuriate nationals and actually draw attacks on himself. She wrote, "That would give him a martyr image which is always good for politicians." Hood put that thought in the mental drawer marked "maybe." For now, he took Hausen's presence at the meeting as an indication of just how much the German electronics industry wanted to do business with the U.S.

  government.

  Lang led them to the limousine and what he promised would be the finest authentic German meal in Hamburg, as well as the best view of the Elbe. Hood didn't care what he ate or where. All he wanted was to quickly lose himself in work and conversation and get his feet back under him.

  As it happened, Hood enjoyed the food enormously, though as the dessert plates were being cleared away, Stoll leaned over and confided that the eel soup and blackberries with sugar and cream just didn't satisify the same way as a nice, fat taco and strawberry shake.

  The lunch was early by German standards, and the restaurant was empty. Conversation was characteristically political, sparked by discussion of the recent fiftieth anniversary commemoration of the Marshall Plan. In his nearly two decades of working with international executives, investors, and politicians, Hood found most Germans to be appreciative of the recovery program which had raised them from financial postwar ruin. He also found those same Germans to be staunch apologists for the actions of the Reich. Over the past few years, however, he'd also noticed that more and more Germans were also feeling proud about how they had accepted, fully, responsibility for their country's actions during World War II. Richard Hausen had taken an active hand in getting reparations for concentration camp victims.

  Martin Lang was proud, but also bitter.

  "The Japanese government didn't even use the word 'apology' until the fiftieth anniversary of the end of the war," Lang had said even before the appetizers were served. "And it took even longer for the French to acknowledge that the state had been an accomplice to the deportation of seventyfive thousand Jews. What Germany did was beyond imagining. But at least we, as a nation, are making an effort to comprehend what happened." Lang had noted that a side effect of Germany's soulsearching was a measure of tension with Japan and France.

  "It is as if by admitting our atrocities," he'd said, "we betrayed a criminal code of silence. We are regarded now as fainthearted, as not having had the strength of our convictions." "Which is why," Herbert had muttered, "the Japanese had to be A-bombed to the peace table." The other significant change Hood had noticed over the past few years was increasing resentment over the assimilation of the former East Germany. This was one of Hausen's personal Zahnschmerzen or "toothaches," as he politely described it.

  "It's another country," he had said. "It would be as if the United States attempted to absorb Mexico. The East Germans are our brothers, but they adopted Soviet culture and Soviet ways. They are shiftless and believe that we owe them reparations for having abandoned them at the end of the war. They hold out their hands not for tools or diplomas, but for money. And when the young don't get it, they join gangs and become violent. The East is dragging our nation into a financial and spiritual abyss from which it will take decades to recover." Hood had been surprised by the politician's open resentment. What had surprised him even more was their otherwise meticulous waiter openly grunting his approval as he filled their water glasses.

  Hausen had pointed toward the waiter. "One-fifth of every mark he earns goes to the East," he'd said.

  They did not discuss the ROC during the meal. That would take place later, in Hausen's Hamburg office.

  Germans believed in getting to know their partners before the seduction process began.

  Toward the end of the meal, Hausen's cellular telephone, chirped. He pulled it from his jacket pocket, excused himself, and half-turned to answer.

  His bright eyes dulled and his thin lips turned down. He said very little.

  When the call was finished, Hausen laid the phone on the table. "That was my assistant," he said. He looked from Lang to Hood. "There's been a terrorist attack on a movie location outside of Hanover. Four people are dead. An American girl is missing and there's reason to believe she has been kidnapped." Lang grew ashen. "The movie— was it Tirpitz?" Hausen nodded. The government official was obviously upset.

  Herbert asked, "Do they know who did it?" "No one has claimed credit," Hausen said. "But the shooting was done by a woman." "Doring," Lang said. He looked from Hausen to Herbert.

  "This can only be Karin During, the leader of Feuer. They're one of the most violent neo-Nazi groups in Germany." His voice was a low, sad monotone. "It's as Richard was saying.

  She recruits young savages from the East and trains them herself." "Wasn't there any security?" Herbert asked.

  Hausen nodded. "One of the victims was a guard." "Why attack a movie set?" Hood asked.

  "It was an American and German production," Hausen said. "That's reason enough for Doring. She wants all foreigners out of Germany. But the terrorists also stole a trailer filled with Nazi memorabilia. Medals, weapons, uniforms, and the like." "Sentimental bastards," Herbert said.

  "Perhaps," said Hausen. "Or they may want it for something else. You see, gentlemen, there is an abhorrent phenomenon, several years old, called Chaos Days." "I've heard of that," Herbert said.

  "Not through the media, I suspect," Hausen said. "Our reporters don't want to publicize the event." "Sort of makes them accomplices to Nazi-style censorship, doesn't it?" Stoll wondered.

  Herbert scowled at him. "Hell, no. I don't blame them.

  I've heard about Chaos Days from friends at Interpol. It really is a stinking business." "It is that," Hausen agreed. He looked at Stoll, then at Hood. "Hate groups from all over Germany and even from other nations converge in Hanover, one hundred kilometers south of here. They have rallies and exchange their sick ideas and literature. Some, including Doring's group, have made it a tradition of attacking symbolic as well as strategic targets during this time." "At least, intelligence leads us to believe that it's Doring's group," Lang put in. "She's quick and very, very careful." Herbert said, "And the government doesn't crack down on Chaos Days for fear of creating martyrs." "Many people in government are afraid of that, yes," Hausen said. "They are afraid of the increasingly open pride many otherwise right-thinking Germans have for what the nation, galvanized and mobilized under Hitler, was able to accomplish. These officials want to legislate radicalism out of existence without punishing the radicals themselves. During Chaos Days in particular, when so many antagonistic elements are out in force, the governm
ent treads carefully." "And how do you feel?" Hood asked.

  Hausen replied, "I believe we should do both. Crush them where we see them, then use laws to fumigate those who crawl under rocks." "And you think this Karin Doring, or whoever, wanted the memorabilia for Chaos Days?" Herbert asked.

  "Passing out those mementoes would tie recipients directly to the Reich," Hausen said, thinking aloud. "Imagine how that would motivate each and every one of them." "For what?" Herbert asked. "More attacks?" "That," Hausen replied, "or perhaps nothing more than a year of loyalty. With seventy or eighty groups vying for members, loyalty is important." Lang said, "Or the theft might swell the hearts of those who read about it in the newspapers. Men and women who, as Richard says, still privately revere Hitler." Herbert asked, "What's the scoop on the American girl?" Hausen said, "She's an intern on the film. She was last seen inside the trailer. The police believe she may have been abducted along with it." Herbert gave Hood a look. Hood thought for a moment, then nodded.

  "Excuse me," Herbert said. He wheeled himself from the table and patted the telephone on his armrest. "I'm going to find myself a nice, quiet corner and make some calls. Maybe we can add a little something to the intelligence pool." Lang rose and thanked him, then apologized again.

  Herbert assured him that there was nothing to apologize for.

  "I lost my wife and my legs to terrorists in Beirut," he said. "Each time they show their sick faces, it gives me a chance to hunt more of 'em down." He looked at Hausen.

  "These bastards are my toothache, Herr Hausen, and I live to drill the bastards." Herbert swung himself around and wheeled his way through the tables. With his departure, Hausen sat and tried to collect himself. Hood looked at him. Liz was right: something else was going on here.

  "We've been fighting this battle for over fifty years," Hausen said gravely. "You can inoculate against disease and seek shelter from a storm. But how do you protect yourself from this? How do you fight hate? And it's a growth business, Herr Hood. Every year there are more groups with more members. God help us if they ever unite." Hood said, "My deputy director at Op-Center once said you fight an idea with a better idea. I'd like to believe that's true. If not" — he cocked a thumb at Herbert, who was making his way onto a deck overlooking the river— "I'm with my intelligence chief over there. We hunt them down." "They're very well hidden," Hausen said, "extremely well armed, and quite impossible to infiltrate because they accept only very young new members. We rarely know in advance what they are planning." "Only for now," Matt told him.