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 government treads carefully.” “And how do you feel?” Hood asked.