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.