He could see it in his mind, the human shapes, the bodies, the heads, but thankfully not the faces of the dead. He presently found himself walking along what the German guards had called Himmel Strafe, the Road to Heaven. But why had they called it that? Was it pure cynicism, or did they really believe there was a God looking down on what they did, and if so, what had they thought He thought of this place and their activity? What kind of men could they have been? Women and children had been slaughtered immediately upon arrival here because they had little value as workers in the industrial facilities that I. G. Farben had built, so as to take the last measure of utility from the people sent here to die—to make a little profit from their last months. Not just Jews, of course; the Polish aristocracy and the Polish priesthood had been killed here. Gypsies. Homosexuals. Jehovah’s Witnesses. Others deemed undesirable by Hitler’s government. Just insects to be eliminated with Zyklon-B gas, a derivative of pesticide research by the German chemical industries.
Ryan had not expected this to be a pleasant side-trip. What he’d anticipated was an educational experience, like visiting the battlefield at Antietam, for example.
But this hadn’t been a battlefield, and it didn’t feel like at all like one.
What must it have been like for the men who’d liberated this place in 1944? Jack wondered. Even hardened soldiers, men who’d faced death every day for years, must have been taken aback by what they’d found here. For all its horrors, the battlefield remained a place of honor, where men tested men in the most fundamental way—it was cruel and final, of course, but there was the purity of fighting men contesting with other fighting men, using weapons, but—but that was rubbish, Jack thought. There was little nobility to be found in war … and far less in this place. On a battlefield, for whatever purpose and with whatever means, men fought against men, not women and kids. There was some honor to be had in the former, but not. . . this. This was crime on a vast scale, and as evil as war was, at the human level it stopped short of what men called crime, the deliberate infliction of harm upon the innocent. How could men do such a thing? Germany was today, as it had been then, a Christian country, the same nation that had brought forth Martin Luther, Beethoven, and Thomas Mann. Did it all come down to their leader? Adolf Hitler, a nebbish of a man, born to a middle-grade civil servant, a failure at everything he’d tried … except demagoguery. He’d been a fucking genius at that…
… But why had Hitler hated anyone so much as to harness the industrial might of his nation not for conquest, which was bad enough, but for the base purpose of cold-blooded extermination? That, Jack knew, was one of history’s most troublesome mysteries. Some said Hitler had hated the Jews because he’d seen one on the streets of Vienna and simply disliked him. Another expert in the field, a Jew himself, had posed the proposition that a Jewish prostitute had given the failed Austrian painter gonorrhea, but there was no documentary evidence upon which to base that. Yet another school of thought was more cynical still, saying that Hitler hadn’t really cared about the Jews one way or another, but needed an enemy for people to hate so that he could become leader of Germany, and had merely seized upon the Jews as a target of opportunity, just something against which to mobilize his nation. Ryan found this alternative unlikely, but the most offensive of all. For whatever reason, he’d taken the power his country had given him and turned it to this purpose. In doing so, Hitler had cursed his name for all time to come, but that was no consolation to the people whose remains fertilized the grass. Ryan’s wife’s boss at Johns Hopkins was a Jewish doc named Bernie
Katz, a friend of many years. How many such men had died here? How many potential Jonas Salks? Maybe an Einstein or two? Or poets, or actors, or just ordinary workers who would have raised ordinary kids . . .
. . . and when Jack had sworn the oath of office mandated by the United States Constitution, he’d really sworn to protect such people as those, and maybe such people as these, too. As a man, as an American, and as President of the United States, did he not have a duty to prevent such things from ever happening again? He actually believed that the use of armed force could only be justified to protect American lives and vital American security interests. But was that all America was? What about the principles upon which his nation was founded? Did America only apply them to specific, limited places and goals? What about the rest of the world? Were these not the graves of real people?
John Patrick Ryan stood and looked around, his face as empty right now as his soul, trying to understand what had taken place here, and what he could—what he had to learn from this. He had immense power at his fingertips every day he lived in the White House. How to use it? How to apply it? What to fight against? More important, what to fight for.”
“Jack,” Cathy said quietly, touching his hand.
“Yeah, I’ve seen enough, too. Let’s get the hell away from this place.” He turned to the Polish guide and thanked him for words he’d scarcely heard and started walking back to where the car was. Once more they passed under the wrought-iron arch of a lie, doing what two or three million people had never done.
If there were such a thing as ghosts, they’d spoken to him without words, but done it in one voice: Never again. And silently, Ryan agreed. Not while he lived. Not while America lived.
C H A P T E R – 46
Journey Home
They waited for SORGE, and rarely had anyone waited more expectantly even for the arrival of a firstborn child. There was a little drama to it, too, because SORGE didn’t deliver every day, and they could not always see a pattern in when it appeared and when it didn’t. Ed and Mary Pat Foley both awoke early that morning, and lay in bed for over an hour with nothing to do, then finally arose to drink their breakfast coffee and read the papers in the kitchen of their middle-class home in suburban Virginia. The kids went off to school, and then the parents finished dressing and walked out to their “company” car, complete with driver and escort vehicle. The odd part was that their car was guarded but their house was not, and so a terrorist only had to be smart enough to attack the house, which was not all that hard. The Early Bird was waiting for them in the car, but it had little attraction for either of them this morning. The comic strips in the Post had been more interesting, especially “Non Sequitur,” their favorite morning chuckle, and the sports pages.
“What do you think?” Mary Pat asked Ed. That managed to surprise him, since his wife didn’t often ask his opinion of a field-operations question.
He shrugged as they passed a Dunkin’ Donuts box. “Coin toss, Mary.”
“I suppose. I sure hope it comes up heads this time.” “Jack’s going to ask us in … an hour and a half, I suppose.” “Something like that,” the DDO agreed in a breathy voice. “The NATO thing ought to work, ought to make them think things over,” the DCI thought aloud.
“Don’t bet the ranch on it, honey bunny,” Mary Pat warned.
“I know.” Pause. “When does Jack get on the airplane to come home?”
She checked her watch. “About two hours.”
“We should know by then.”
“Yeah,” she agreed.
Ten minutes later, informed of the shape of the world en route by National Public Radio’s Morning Edition, they arrived at Langley, again parking in the underground garage, and again taking the elevator up to the seventh floor, where, again, they split up, going to their separate offices. In this, Ed surprised his wife. She’d expected him to hover over her shoulder as she flipped on her office computer, looking for another brownie recipe, as she called it. This happened at seven-fifty-four.
“You’ve got mail,” the electronic voice announced as she accessed her special Internet account. Her hand wasn’t quite shaking when she moved the mouse to click on the proper icon, but nearly so. The letter came up, went through the descrambling process, and came up as clear-text she couldn’t read. As always, MP saved the document to her hard drive, confirmed that it was saved, then printed up a hard copy, and finally deleted the letter from her electronic in-box, completely erasing it off the Internet. Then she lifted her phone.