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, silver-haired 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-the-breath 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 seventy-five 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 soul-searching 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 Doring, the leader of Feuer. They're one o
f 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 government 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.
Lang looked at him. "What do you mean, Herr Stoll?"
"You know that backpack I left in the car?"
Hausen and Lang both nodded.
Stoll smiled. "Well, if we can all get together on this ROC thing, we're going to blow a lot of rotten slices right out of the bread box."
NINE
Thursday, 11:42 A.M., Wunstorf, Germany
When Jody Thompson heard the shouts outside the trailer, she thought Hollis Arlenna was calling for her. Standing in the bathroom, she flipped even faster through the garments, cursing the prop people who had labeled them in German and Arlenna for being such a dork.
Then she heard the gunfire. She knew it wasn't a scene from the movie. She had all the guns in here, and Mr. Buba was the only one with a key. And then she heard the cries of pain and fear, and knew that something terrible was going on. She stopped checking the garment bags and leaned an ear close to the door.
When the trailer engine first roared, Jody thought that someone was trying to get it away from whatever was happening on the set. Then the door slammed and she heard someone moving around inside. The person didn't speak, which she knew was a bad sign. If it were a guard, he'd be on his walkie-talkie.
Suddenly, the bathroom seemed very warm and close. Noticing that the door wasn't locked, she gingerly lifted the bolt and threw it. Then she squatted between the garment bags, holding on to them so she didn't fall over. She was going to stay put until someone came to get her.
She listened intently. Jody hadn't worn her watch, and her only sense of time passing was through sound. The intruder looking through the daggers on the far left table. Footsteps moving around the table filled with medals. Chests opening and closing.
Then, over the drone of the ceiling fan, Jody heard the intruder rattle the closet door on the other side of the trailer. A moment later there were four loud pops.
Jody squeezed the garment bags so tightly that her nails went through one of them. What the hell was going on out there? She backed against the wall, away from the door. Her heart was punching up against her jaw.
She heard the closet door bang open as the trailer turned a corner. A table leg scraped the floor as the person moved around it--not gingerly, as Jody had before, but roughly, impatiently.
The intruder was coming toward the bathroom door. Suddenly, it didn't seem like such a good idea to be in here.
Jody looked up, around, behind her. She saw the frosted glass of the window. But because of the metal bars, no one could get in. Or now, out.
Jody ducked down as the bathroom door handle jiggled. She hunkered down low behind the gently swaying clothes, then crept back beside the toilet. The tiny shower stall was to her rear and she leaned against the glass door. Her heart beat a heavy crunch, crunch, crunch in her ears. She started to whimper and bit the side of her thumb to keep from being heard.
A burst of gunfire drowned out the sound of her heart, of her whimpering. She screamed into her thumb as wood and plastic chips flew from the door, pelting the floor and garment bags. Then the door squeaked outward and a gun barrel pushed through the neat row of German uniforms
. It pushed them to the side and a face peered down at her. A woman's face.
Jody looked from the compact machine-gun-like weapon to the coldness in the woman's liquid gold eyes. The girl was still biting on her thumb.
The woman motioned up with the gun and Jody stood. Her hands dropped to her sides and perspiration poured down her thighs.
The woman said something in German.
"I--don't understand," Jody said.
"I said pick up your hands and turn around," the woman barked in thickly accented English.
Jody raised her hands face-high, then hesitated. She had read, in one of her classes, about how hostages were often shot in the back of the head.
"Please," she said, "I'm an intern. I was assigned to this movie a few--"
"Turn!" the woman snapped.
"Please don't!" Jody said, even as she did what she was told.
When she was facing the window, Jody heard the uniforms being moved aside and felt the warm metal of the gun against the top of her neck.
"Please ..." she sobbed.
Jody started as the woman patted her left side from breast to thigh, and then her right. The woman reached in front and felt along her waistband. Then she turned Jody around. The gun was pointing toward her mouth.
"I don't know what this is about," Jody said. She was crying now. "And I wouldn't tell anyone anything--"
"Quiet," the woman said.
Jody obeyed. She knew that she would do anything this woman told her. It was frightening to discover how completely her will could be suppressed by a gun and a person who was willing to use it.
The van stopped suddenly and Jody stumbled toward the sink. She hurried back to her feet, hands raised. The woman hadn't moved, didn't look as if her thoughts had been disturbed.
The trailer door opened and a young man walked over. He stood behind Karin and looked into the bathroom . He had a pale complexion and a swastika carved in his head.
Without taking her eyes off Jody, Karin turned slightly toward the young man and said, "Begin."
The man clicked the heels of his boots, turned, and started loading the relics into the trunks.
Games Of State (1996) Page 6
