Upon reaching the doorway, Jody stopped suddenly and peered into the distance.
“Mr. Buba,” she said, “I think I saw someone moving around in the woods.” The guard rose on the balls of his feet and looked over.
“Where?” “About a quarter of a mile away. They aren’t in the shot yet, but I’d hate to be them if they ruin one of Lankford’s takes.” “I agree,” Buba said as he pulled the walkie-talkie from its belt-strap. “I don’t know how they could have gotten through, but I’ll have someone check on it.” As he radioed in the report, Jody returned to the trailer.
She tried to forget about Lankford and his snit as she reentered a darker world, a world where the tyrants carried weapons, not shooting scripts, and attacked nations instead of interns.
CHAPTER TWO Thursday, 9:50 A.M., Hamburg, Germany
Paul Hood awoke with a start as the big jet thumped down on runway two at the Hamburg International Airport.
No-! yelled something deep inside of him.
His head resting against the sun-warmed shade, Hood kept his eyes shut and tried to hold onto the dream.
Just a moment longer.
But the engines screamed to slow the aircraft, and their roar blew the remnants of dream away. A moment later, Hood wasn’t even sure what the dream had been, except that it had been deeply satisfying. With a silent oath, Hood opened his eyes, stretched his arms and legs, and surrendered to reality.
The lean, forty-three-year-old Director of Op-Center was stiff and sore after eight hours in the coach seat. At Op- Center, flights like these were called “shorts”— not because that was where they hurt, though they did, and not because the flights were short. They’d gotten the name because they fell short of the thirteen-hour barrier, the minimum flighttime requirement for a government official to buy a spacious business-class seat. Bob Herbert believed that Japan and the Middle East received so much attention from the U.S.
government because trade negotiators and diplomats liked flying in style. He predicted that the day twenty-four-hour flights earned officials a first-class seat, Australia would become the next trade or political battleground.
But cramped as Hood had been, at least he felt rested.
Bob Herbert was right. The secret to sleeping on airplanes had nothing to do with whether one reclined. He hadn’t, yet he’d slept wonderfully. The key was silence, and the earplugs had worked perfectly.
Hood frowned as he sat up straight. We’ve come to Germany at the invitation of Deputy Foreign Minister Hausen to look at millions of dollars of hi-tech equipment, and fifty cents worth of Brooklyn-made silicone makes me a happy man. There had to be a moral in that.
Hood removed the plugs. As he poked them into their plastic container, he tried to capture at least the contentment he’d felt in his dream. But even that was gone.
Hood raised the window shade and squinted into the hazy sunlight.
Dreams, youth, and passion, he thought. The most desirable things always fade. Could be that was why they were so desirable. In any case, he told himself, what the hell did he have to moan about? His wife and kids were happy and healthy and he loved them and his work. That was more than many people had.
Annoyed with himself, he leaned toward Matt Stoll. Op- Center’s portly Operations Support Officer was sitting in the aisle seat to Hood’s right. He was just removing his headphones.
“Good morning,” Hood said.
“Good morning,” Stoll said as he stuffed the headphones in the seat back. He looked at his watch, then turned his big, Kewpie-doll face toward Hood. “We’re twenty-five minutes early,” he said in his precise, clipped tones: “I really wanted to hear Rockin’ ’68 cycle through a ninth time.” “That’s all you did for eight hours? Listened to music?” “Had to,” Stoll said. “At thirty-eight minutes in, you get Cream followed by the Cowsills and Steppenwolf. It’s like Quasimodo’s beautiful ugliness— ‘Indian Lake’ sandwiched between ‘Sunshine of Your Love’ and ‘Born to Be Wild.’ ” Hood just smiled. He didn’t want to admit that he’d liked the Cowsills when he was growing up.
“Anyway,” Stoll said, “those earplugs Bob gave me melted right out of my head. You forget, we heavy people sweat more than you skinny people do.” Hood glanced past Stoll. Across the aisle, the grayhaired Intelligence Officer was still asleep.
Hood said, “Maybe it would’ve been better if I’d listened to music too. I was having this dream and then…” “You lost it.” Hood nodded.
“I know the feeling,” Stoll said. “It’s like a power failure which takes your computer data with it. You know what I do when that happens?” “Listen to music?” Hood guessed.
Stoll looked at him with surprise. “That’s why you’re the boss and I’m not. Yeah, I listen to music. Something I associate with good times. That takes me right to a better place.” From across the aisle, Bob Herbert said in his high Southern drawl, “Me? I rely on earplugs for peace of mind.
They’re worth stayin’ skinny for. How’d they work for you, Chief?” “Fantastic,” said Hood. “I was asleep before we passed Halifax.” “Didn’t I tell you?” Herbert asked. “You oughta try ’em in the office. Next time General Rodgers is in a funk or Martha goes into one of her bootlick rants, just slip ’em in and pretend to listen.” Stoll said, “Somehow, I don’t think that’d work. Mike says more with silence than he does with words, and Martha’s been E-mailing.her screeds all around town.” “Gentlemen, cool it on Martha,” Hood cautioned. “She’s good at what she does—” “Sure,” Herbert said. “And she’ll haul our asses into court for racial and sexual discrimination if we suggest otherwise.” Hood didn’t bother to object. The first aspect of leadership he’d learned during his years as Mayor of Los Angeles was that you didn’t change people’s minds by arguing with them. You just shut up. That put you above the fray and gave you an aura of dignity. The only way your opponent could reach that high ground was by surrendering some of the low ground, which meant compromise. Sooner or later, they all came around to that. Even Bob, though it took him longer than most.
As the jet came to a stop and the passenger bridge was swung over, Herbert said, “Hell, it’s a new world. I guess what we need are electronic earplugs. If we don’t hear what we don’t like, we don’t run the risk of being politically incorrect.” “The information highway is supposed to open minds, not close them,” Stoll said.
“Yeah, well, I’m from Philadelphia, Mississippi, and we didn’t have highways back there. We had dirt roads that flooded in the spring, an’ everyone pitched in to clean ’em up.” The seatbelt sign was turned off and everyone rose except Herbert. As people collected their carry-on luggage, he leaned his head back, his eyes fixed on the overhead reading light. It had been fifteen years since he’d lost the use of his legs in the Beirut Embassy bombing, and Hood knew he was still self-conscious about not being able to walk. Though no one who worked with Herbert gave his handicap a thought, Herbert didn’t like to make eye contact with strangers. Of all the things Herbert disliked, pity was at the head of the list.
“Y’know,” Herbert said wistfully, “back home, everyone started from the same end of the road and worked together.
Differences of opinion were settled by trying it one way. If that didn’t work you tried it another way and the job got done. Now,” he said, “you disagree with someone and you’re accused of hating whatever minority they happen to belong to.” Stoll said, “Opportunism knocks. It’s the new American dream.” “Among some,” Hood pointed out. “Only among some.” After the door was opened and the aisle had emptied, a German flight attendant came over with an airline wheelchair. Herbert’s customized chair, wig its cellular phone and built-in laptop, had been sent along as baggage.
The young attendant turned the chair around beside Herbert. She leaned across the chair, and offered him a hand, which he declined.
“Not necessary,” Herbert huffed. “I’ve been doing this since you were in grade school.” With his powerful arms, Herbert lifted himself over the armrest and dropped into the leather seat. As Hood and Stoll fell in behind, toting their carry-ons, he led the way through the cabin, wheeling himself.
The heat of the Hamburg summer permeated the passenger bridge, but it was mild compared to what they’d left behind in Washington, D.C. They entered the bustling, air-conditioned terminal, where the flight attendant turned them over to a government official Lang had sent to help them through customs.
As the attendant turned to go, Herbert grabbed her wrist.
“Sorry I snapped at you,” he said. “But me and these”- — he patted the armrest— “we’re old friends.” “I understand,” the young woman said. “And I’m sorry if I offended you.” “You didn’t,” Herbert said. “Not at all.” The woman took off with a smile as the government official introduced himself. He told them that a limousine was waiting to take them to the lakeside Alster-Hof Hotel once they were through customs. Then he pointed the way, standing well back as Herbert began wheeling through the terminal, past the window which looked onto busy Paul Baumer Platz.