The wait was not a long one. Deirdre sent over a short article from the June 1980 issue of a magazine called Videogaming Illustrated. It read: GAMES OF TOMORROW Are you Asteroid-ed out?
Have you been Space Invader-ed to death?
Even if you still love yesterday’s hits, a new star in the video-game firmament, the French company Demain, which means “tomorrow,” has developed a different kind of cartridge to play on your Atari, Intellivision, and Odyssey home systems. Their first cartridge, the quest game A Knight to Remember, will be in stores this month. It is the first game which will be made available for the three leading video-game systems.
In a press release, company research and development head Jean-Michel Horne says, “Thanks to a revolutionary and powerful new chip we have developed, graphics and gameplay will be more detailed and exciting than in any previous game.” A Knight to Remember will sell for $34.00 and will be packaged with a discount coupon for the company’s next release, the superhero game Ooberman.
Hood took a moment to contemplate the article and weigh the implications. It helped to put together some pieces.
Nancy stole plans for a new chip and sold them to a company, possibly— no, probably— this Demain. Gerard, a racist, makes a fortune manufacturing video games. On the sly, he puts money into hate games.
But why? As a hobby? Certainly not. Little doses of hate like that would be too small and unsatisfying for a man like the one Richard Hausen described.
Assume he did make hate games, though, Hood thought. Charlie Squires’s kid surfed into one. What if that were Dominique’s? Could Gerard be using the Internet to send them around the world?
Again, Hood thought, assume yes. Why do that? Not just to make money. From what Hausen said, Dominique has enough of that.
He would have to have something bigger in mind, Hood thought. Hate games appearing on the Internet. Confident threats to Hausen. Were they timed to coincide with Chaos Days?
It all seemed to be going nowhere. Too many pieces were missing, and there was one person who might be able- — but willing?— to tell him what that could be.
“Herr Hausen,” Hood said, “would you mind if I borrowed your driver for a short while?” “Not at all,” Hausen said. “Do you need anything else?” “Not at the moment, thanks,” Hood replied. “Matt, please send this article to General Rodgers. Tell him that this Dominique may be our hate-game peddler. If there’s any more background to be had—” “We’ll get it,” Stoll said. “Your wish is my command.” “I appreciate it,” Hood said, patting Stoll on the back and already headed toward the door.
As he watched Hood move through the reception area, Matt Stoll folded his arms again. “There’s no doubt about it.
My boss is Superman.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE Thursday, 5:17 P.M., Hanover, Germany
“Bob,” said the caller, “I’ve got good news.” Herbert was glad to hear that his assistant Alberto had good news. Not only did he ache where the seatbelt had pulled at his chest, but the thought that his attackers would escape left him seething. Herbert had been unable to find the van, so he’d pulled over on a side street and used his cellular phone to call Op-Center. He’d told Alberto what had happened and asked him to have the National Reconnaissance Office try to find the van for him. When they did, Herbert intended to go to the site. The German police were spread so thin he knew he couldn’t count on them.
Herbert had to rely on himself to bring these people to justice.
Herbert was surprised when the phone beeped just six minutes after he’d called. It took five times longer than that to move a satellite eye from where it was to someplace else.
Alberto said, “You’re in luck. The NRO was already watching your area for Larry, who’s looking into the kidnapping of the film intern. He wants to beat Griff on this one. And it’s a good thing too. All our other satellites have been pressed into service watching a developing situation in the southern Balkans.” Larry was CIA Director Larry Rachlin. Griff was FBI Director Griff Egenes. Their rivalry was old and relentless.
Like Op-Center, both organizations had access to NRO data.
However, Egenes hoarded information like squirrels hoarded nuts.
“What’s the NRO got?” Herbert asked. He was uncomfortable talking to Alberto on an unsecure line, but there wasn’t any choice. He just hoped no one was listening.
“For Larry, nothing. No sign of the van, no sign of the girl. Darrell says Griff hasn’t got anything either, though.
None of his regular police sources seem to be around.” “I’m not surprised,” Herbert said. “They’re all in the field riding herd on neo-Nazis.” “Better that than riding with them,” Alberto observed.
“True,” said Herbert. “Now what about the van, Alberto? You stalling or something?” “As a matter of fact, I am,” he said. “Boss, you’re just one man with zero backup. You shouldn’t be going—” “Where is it?” Herbert demanded.
Alberto sighed. “Stephen found it, and it’s a definite match. It’s banged up just where you said it’d be. It’s headed west on one of the Autobahnen— though from just the photo, I can’t tell you which one.” “That’s okay,” said Herbert. “I’ll find it on the map.” “I know it’s a waste of breath to try and talk you out of it—” “You got that right, son.” “—so I’ll just tell General R. what you’re doing. Is there anything else you need?” “Yes,” Herbert said. “If the van gets off the autobahn, give me a jingle.” “Of course,” said Alberto. “Stephen knows you, Bob. He said he’ll have his people keep an eye on it.” “Thank him,” Herbert said, “and tell him he gets my vote for this year’s Conrad. On second thought, don’t. That’ll get his hopes up.” “Aren’t his hopes always up?” Alberto asked as he signed off.
Herbert hung up and grinned; after what he’d just been through, it felt good to smile. As he checked his map to find the roads to the east-west running Autobahn, he thought about the Conrads and his smile broadened. They were a fun, unofficial award given at a very private dinner each year by America’s leading intelligence figures. The daggerlike trophy honored the government’s top intelligence figure and was named in honor of Joseph Conrad. The author’s 1907 novel, The Secret Agent, was one of the first great espionage tales, about an agent-provocateur who worked the back streets of London. The dinner was just five weeks away, and it was always a blast— thanks in no small part to poor Stephen Viens.
Herbert noted the route he needed to take, then urged his wounded mechanical steed ahead. It went, albeit with some clanks and whines which weren’t there before.
Viens had been Matt Stoll’s best friend in college, and he was as serious as his classmate was flip. Since his appointment as assistant director and then director of the NRO, Viens’s amazing technical talents had been largely responsible for the facility’s increasing effectiveness and importance. During the past four years, the one hundred satellites under his command had provided detailed, blackand- white photographs of the earth at whatever magnification was required. Viens was fond of saying, “I can give you a picture covering several city blocks or the letters on a children’s block.” And because he was so serious, Viens took the Conrads so seriously. He really did want one, everyone knew it, and for that reason the voting committee colluded to keep it from him by one vote, year after year. Herbert always felt bad about the deception, but as CIA Chief and Conrad Chairman Rachlin said, “Hell; we are covert operatives, after all.” Actually, Herbert intended to lie to Larry and then vote for Viens this year. Not because of his body of work but for his integrity. Since the increase of terrorist activity in the U.S., the Pentagon had launched four hundred-milliondollar- apiece satellites code-named Ricochet. They were positioned a mean 22,000 miles over North America and were designed to spy on our own country. If they knew about it, everyone from the far left to the extreme right would have a problem with Big Brother’s eyes in the skies.
But because those eyes were under Viens’s command, no one who did know feared that they would be misused for personal or political gain.
Herbert got back on the Autobahn, though the Mercedes didn’t race as smoothly as it had before. He could only manage fifty miles an hour— “slower than mud,” as his Grandmother Shel used to say back in Mississippi.
And then the phone beeped. Coming so soon after Alberto called, Herbert guessed that this would be Paul Hood ordering him back. But Herbert had already decided he wouldn’t return. Not without somebody’s pelt being in somebody’s canoe.
Herbert answered the phone. “Yes?” “Bob, it’s Alberto. I just got a new photograph, a 2MD of the entire region.” A 2MD was a two-mile-diameter view with the van at the center. The satellites were pre-programmed to move in or out at quarter-mile intervals with simple commands.