Games of State o-3

by Tom Clancy

  He chose to stay.

  Herbert looked into the man's eyes. "Y'know, if I had been invited to your party," he said, "I wouldn't attend. I enjoy socializing with leaders, not followers." The German continued to lean on the armrest with one hand, holding his stein in the other. But looking into the German's blue-gray eyes, Herbert could see him deflating inside, his hubris leaking away like air hissing from a balloon.

  Herbert knew what was coming. He slipped his right hand under the armrest.

  The only weapon the German had left was his beer.

  With a look of contempt, he tipped the stein over and slowly poured the contents into Herbert's lap.

  Herbert took the insult. It was important to show that he could. When the neo-Nazi was finished and stood to only scattered applause, Herbert yanked his sawed-off broom handle from under the armrest. With a turn of the wrist, he pointed the stick at the neo-Nazi and jabbed him in the groin. The German cried out, doubled over, and staggered back against his colleagues. He was still holding the stein, clutching, it reflexively, as though it were a rabbit's foot.

  The crowd yelled and surged forward, threatening to become a mob. Herbert had seen that happen before, outside of American embassies abroad, and it was a frightening thing to behold. It was a microcosm of civilization unraveling, of humans regressing to territorial carnivores. He began to wheel back. He wanted to get to a wall, protect his flank, be able to bat at these Philistines like Samson with the jawbone of an ass.

  But as he rolled away, he felt a tug on the back of his wheelchair. He scooted back faster than he was wheeling.

  "Halt!" shouted a raspy voice from behind.

  Herbert looked back. A skinny police officer, about fifty years old, had stopped directing traffic and had run over. He was standing behind him, holding the grips of his chair, breathing heavily. His brown eyes were strong, though the rest of him seemed a little shaky.

  People began shouting things from the crowd. The police officer answered them. From the tone of their voices and the few words Herbert picked up, they were telling the officer what Herbert had done, and to mind his own business. And he was telling them that this was his business. Keeping the sidewalks orderly, as well as the streets.

  He was hooted and threatened.

  After the brief exchange, the officer said to Herbert in English, "Do you have an automobile?" Herbert said that he did.

  "Where is it parked?" Herbert told him.

  The police officer continued backing Herbert away.

  Herbert put his hands on the wheels to stop them from turning.

  "Why do I have to leave?" Herbert asked. "I'm the wronged party!" "Because my job is to maintain peace," the officer said, "and this is the only way I can do it. Our ranks are thin, spread out at rallies in Bonn, Berlin, Hamburg. I'm sorry, mein Herr, I don't have time to attend to the case of one man. I am going to take you to your automobile and so that you can leave this area of the city." "But those bastards attacked me," Herbert said. He realized he was still holding the stick, and replaced it before the police officer thought to take it away. "What if I want to press charges against them, expose the whole damn lot of them?" "Then you will lose," said the officer. He turned Herbert around, away from the crowd. "They say that man was offering to help you into the Beer-Hall and you struck him— " "Yeah, right." "They say that you caused him to spill his beer. At the very least, they wanted you to pay for that." "And you believe all this?" "It doesn't matter what I believe," the police officer said. "When I turned, that man was hurt and you were holding a stick. That is what I saw, and that is what I would have put in my report." "I see," Herbert said. "You saw one middle-aged man in a wheelchair facing two hundred healthy young Nazis and you concluded that I was the bad guy." "As far as the law is concerned, that is correct," said the police officer.

  Herbert heard the words and he understood their context. He heard it enough in the U.S. regarding other criminals, other punks, but they still amazed him. Both men knew that these bastards were lying, yet the group would get away with what they did here. And as long as no one in law enforcement or government wanted to put their own security in danger, they would continue to get away with it.

  At least Herbert took some comfort in the fact that he would get away with it too. And giving that pig a poke was almost worth the beer bath he took.

  As Herbert was wheeled away, car horns sounded in the traffic tie-up caused by the police officer's departure.

  They echoed the noise in his own soul, the noise of the anger and determination which filled him. He was leaving, but he resolved to get these goons. Not here and not now, but somewhere else and soon.

  One of the men had separated from the crowd. He went into the Beer-Hall, strolled through the kitchen, exited by the back door, and used a trash can to climb the picket fence. He crossed through an alley and emerged on the same street as Herbert and the police officer.

  They had already passed, headed toward the side sheet where Herbert had parked his car.

  The young man followed them. As one of Karin Doring's personal lieutenants, he had been instructed to watch anyone who might be watching them. That was something those who were unaligned with any specific faction would not think to do.

  He stayed well behind them, watching as the police officer helped Herbert into the car, as he placed the wheelchair in the back, as he stood there making sure that Herbert drove off.

  The man pulled a pen and telephone from the inside pocket of his blazer. He described the license tag and the make of Herbert's rented car. When the police officer turned and walked briskly back toward his beat, the young man also turned and went back to the Beer-Hall.

  A moment later, a van pulled out of a parking area located three blocks from Bob Herbert.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Thursday, 4:00 P.M., Hamburg, Germany

  "What's the problem?" Hood asked as he reached Stoll's side.

  Lang was looking pale and uncomfortable and Stoll was working the keys madly.

  "Something really sick is going on," Stoll said. "I'll show you in a second— I was running a diagnostics program, trying to figure out how it got here." Hausen stopped next to Hood. He asked, "How what got here?" Stoll said, "You'll see. I'm not sure I want to try and describe it." Hood was beginning to feel a lot like Alice after she went through the looking glass. Every time he turned around, people and events became more and more curious.

  Stoll said, "I was checking out your cache memory capacities and I found a file that was put in at one-twelve P.M. today." "One-twelve?" Hood said. "That's when we were having lunch." "Right." Hausen said, "But no one was here, Herr Stoll, except for Reiner." "I know," Stoll said. "And by the way— he's gone now." Hausen looked at Stoll strangely. "Gone?" "Split," said Stoll. He pointed into the reception area.

  "Soon as I sat down here, he took his shoulder bag and Italian-cut jacket and vamoosed. Your computer's been answering the phones ever since." Hausen's eyes went from Stoll to the computer. His voice was flat as he asked, "What have you found?" "For one thing," Stoll said, "Reiner left you a little love letter, which I'll show you in a minute. First, though, I want you to see this." Stoll's index fingers pecked out commands, and the seventeen-inch screen went from blue to black. White stripes slashed across the screen horizontally. They morphed into strands of barbed wire, then changed again to form the words CONCENTRATION CAMP. Finally, the letters turned red and pooled into blood which filled the screen.

  Introductory screens followed. First, there was the principal gate at Auschwitz with the inscription Arbeit macht frei.

  "Work liberates," Lang said from behind his hand.

  Next came a succession of clear, detailed, computer- animated snippets. Crowds of men, women, and children walking through the gate. Men in striped camp uniforms facing a wall while guards whipped them with switches. Men being shorn of their hair. A wedding ring being handed to a member of the SS Death's Head Unit in exchange for shoes.

  Searchlights in towers
piercing the early morning dark as an SS guard roared, "Arbeitskommandos austreten." "Working parties fall out," Lang translated. His hand was trembling now.

  Prisoners grabbing shovels and picks. Leaving the main gate and doffing their caps to honor the slogan. Being kicked and punched by the guards. Working on a section of road.

  A large party of men threw down their shovels and ran into the darkness. And then the game began. A menu offered the player a selection of languages. Stoll selected English.

  An SS guard appeared in close-up and spoke to the player. His face was an animated photograph of Hausen.

  Behind him was a pastoral setting of trees, rivers, and the corner of a red brick citadel.

  "Twenty-five prisoners have escaped into the woods.

  Your job is to divide your force so that you can find them, at the same time maintaining the productivity of the camp and continuing the processing of the bodies of subhumans." The game then jumped between vivid scenes of playercontrolled guards and dogs hunting men in the forest, and bodies piling up in the crematoria. Stoll ordered the game to play itself, since he said he couldn't bring himself to put the bodies on the pallets for incineration.

  "The letter," Hausen said as they watched the program.

  "What did Reiner's letter say?" Stoll hit Ctrl/Alt/Delete and killed the game. Then he went back into the computer to retrieve Reiner's letter.

  "The guy didn't talk much, did he?" Stoll asked as he jabbed the keys.

  "No," said Hausen. "Why do you ask?" Stoll said, "Because I have no idea what he wrote, but there sure wasn't much of it." The letter came up and Lang leaned closer. He translated for the Americans.

  " 'Herr Savior,' " he said, " 'I hope you enjoy this game, while it is still a game.' And it is signed, 'Reiner.' " Hood was watching Hausen closely. His back straightened and his mouth turned down. He looked like he wanted to cry.

  "Four years," Hausen said. "We were together four years. We fought for human rights in the newspapers, behind megaphones, on television." "Looks like he was there just to spy on you," Hood said.

  Hausen turned from the computer. "I can't believe it," he said sullenly. "I ate with his parents, at their home. He asked what I thought of his fianc‚e. It can't be." "Those are exactly the kinds of things moles use to build trust," Hood said.

  Hausen looked at him. "But four years!" he said. "Why wait until now?" "Chaos Days," Lang offered. His hand fell limply to his side. "It was his perverted statement." "I'd be surprised if that was the case," Hood said.

  Lang looked at him. "What do you mean? Isn't it obvious?" "No," said Hood. "This is a professional-quality game.

  My guess is that Reiner didn't produce it. He planted it for someone, someone who didn't need him here any longer." The other three men were shocked as Hausen put his hands on his face and wailed.

  "Christ, God," he moaned. His hands came down, became fists, shook tightly at his waist. "Reiner was part of the empire of constituents he was talking about." Hood faced him. "That who was talking about?" "Dominique," Hausen said. "Gerard Dominique." "Who is Dominique?" Lang asked. "I don't know that name." "You don't want to," Hausen said. He shook his head.

  "Dominique phoned to announce his return. Yet now I wonder if he was ever really gone. I wonder if he wasn't always there in the dark, his soul moldering as he waited." "Richard, please tell me," Lang implored. "Who is this man?" "He isn't a man," Hansen said, "he's Belial. The Devil." He shook his head as if to clear it. "Gentlemen, I'm sorry— I can't talk about this now." "Then don't," Hood said, putting a hand on his shoulder. He looked at Stoll. "Matt, can you download that game to Op-Center?" Stoll nodded.

  "Good. Herr Hausen, do you recognize that photograph of yourself?" "No, I'm sorry." "It's okay," Hood said. "Matt, have you got anything in your arsenal to handle this?" Stoll shook his head. "We need a program with a lot more muscle than my MatchBook. That diskette's only good for finding specific pictures. It's like a wordsearch." "I see," Hood said.

  "I'll have to run it through our photo file back home and see if we can find where it came from," Stoll told him.

  "The scenery behind Herr Hausen is also a photograph," Hood said.

  "A clear one too," Stoll said. "Probably not from a magazine. I can have my office run the Geologue and see what it tells us." The Geologue was a detailed satellite relief study of the world. From it, computers could generate an acre-by-acre view of the planet from any angle. It would take a few days, but if the photograph hadn't been tinkered with, the Geologue would tell them where it was taken.

  Hood told Stoll to proceed. The Operations Support Officer phoned his assistant, Eddie Medina, to let him know the images were coming.

  Hood squeezed Hausen's shoulder. "Let's go for a walk." "Thank you, no," Hausen replied.

  "I need it," Hood said. "This has been a strange morning for me too." Hausen managed a small smile. "All right," he said.

  "Good. Matt— call me on the cellular if you get something." "So let it be written, so let it be done," said the unflappable techno-whiz.

  "Herr Lang," said Hood, "Matt may need some help with the language." "I understand," Lang said. "I'll stay here with him." Hood smiled graciously. "Thanks. We won't be long." With his hand still on Hausen's shoulder, Hood and the German walked through the reception area to the elevator.

  Hausen was lying, of course. Hood had encountered his kind before. He wanted very much to talk about whatever was bothering him, but his pride and dignity wouldn't allow it.

  Hood would wear him down. It was more than a coincidence that what had just happened in the office was similar to what had happened this morning on Billy Squires's computer. And if this was happening simultaneously on two continents, then Op-Center needed to know why.

  Fast.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Thursday, 10:02 A.M., Washington, D.C.

  After his encouraging chat with Brett August, the morning sped by for Mike Rodgers. Matt Stoll's assistant Eddie briefed him on what was happening in Germany, and told him he'd put in a call for assistance to Bernard Ballon of the Gendarmarie Nationale. Ballon was on a mission against terrorists, the New Jacobins, and had not returned the call.

  Rodgers was more concerned about Herbert going to check on Chaos activities by himself. Rodgers wasn't worried because Herbert was in a wheelchair. The man was not defenseless. He was worried because Herbert could be like a dog with a bone. He didn't like letting go of things, especially unsolved cases. And there was only so much Op-Center could do to help him. Unlike the U.S., where they could listen in on telecommunications through local FBI, CIA, or police offices, it was difficult to mount broad surveillance immediately overseas. Satellites could focus on individual cellular telephones or even small regions, but they also picked up a lot of garbage. That was what he'd been trying to tell Senator Fox earlier. Without people on the scene, surgical operations were difficult.

  Herbert was a good person to have on the scene. Part of Rodgers worried about what Herbert would do without a moderating force like Paul Hood— though another part of him was excited by the prospect of Bob Herbert unleashed.

  If anyone could make the case for putting money into a crippled HUMINT program, it was Herbert.

  Liz Gordon arrived shortly after Eddies call. She updated the General on the mental state of the Striker team. Major Shooter had brought his 89th MAU charm— "more accurately," she said, "his lack thereof" — to Quantico and was drilling the squad by the book.

  "But this is a good thing," she said. "Lieutenant Colonel Squires tended to mix things up a lot. Shooter's regimentation will help them to accept that things are different now. They're hurting real bad and many of them are punishing themselves by drilling hard." "Punishing themselves for thinking they failed Charlie?" Rodgers asked.

  "That, plus guilt. The Survivor's Syndrome. They're alive, he isn't." "How do you convince them they did their best?" Rodgers asked.

  "You can't. They need time and perspective. It's common in situations like t
hese." "Common," Rodgers said sadly, "but brand-new to the people who are having to deal with it." "That too," Liz agreed.

  "Practical question," Rodgers said. "Are they fit for service if we need them?" Liz thought for a moment. "I watched them work out a little this morning. No one's mind wandered, and except for a lot of angry energy they seemed fine. But I have to qualify that. What they were doing this morning were rote, repetitive exercises. I can't guarantee how they'll react under fire." "Liz," Rodgers said, slightly annoyed, "those are exactly the guarantees I need." "Sorry," she said. "The irony is, I'm not concerned that the Strikers would be afraid to act. To the contrary. I'm worried that they would overact, a classic Guilt Counterreaction Syndrome. They would put themselves at risk to make certain that someone else isn't hurt, to ensure that what happened in Russia doesn't happen again." "Is there anyone you're particularly worried about?" Rodgers asked.

  Liz said, "Sondra DeVonne and Walter Pupshaw are the shakiest, I think." Rodgers tapped a finger on the desk. "We've got mission plans for bare-bones, seven-person teams. Do I have seven people, Liz?" "Probably," Liz said. "You probably have at least that." "That still doesn't help me." "I know," she said, "but right now I just can't give you any assurances. I'm going back this afternoon for individual sessions with several of the Strikers. I'll be able to tell you more then." Darrell McCaskey knocked and was told to come in. He sat down and opened his power book.

  "All right," Rodgers told Liz. "If you're unsure about anyone, give them leave. I'll call Shooter and have him second four or five backup members from Andrews. He can bring them up to speed in several key positions and move them in if he has to." Liz said, "I wouldn't have him bring them to the base just yet. You don't want to demoralize the people who are struggling to overcome guilt and grief." Rodgers loved and respected his Strikers, but he wasn't sure that Liz's way was the best way. Back in the sixties, when he was in Vietnam, no one gave half a damn about sadness and syndromes and God knows what else. Your buddy died in an ambush, you made sure you got your platoon the hell out of there, had a meal, a sleep, and a cry, and were back on patrol the next morning. You might still be weeping, and you were sure as shit a bit more careful or a little angrier or burning to inflict some collateral damage, but you were still out there with your M16, ready to work.