Different incremental views required a different, more complex set of commands.
Alberto continued, “Your party has gotten off the Autobahn.” “Where?” Herbert said. “Give me a landmark.” “There’s only one landmark, Bob. A small, wooded area with a two-lane road leading northwest.” Herbert glanced along the horizon. “There are a lot of trees and woods out here, Alberto. Is there anything else?” “One thing,” said Alberto. “Police. About a dozen of them surrounding what’s left of a blown-out vehicle.” Herbert’s eyes fixed on a point ahead, but he didn’t see it. He was only thinking of one thing. “The movie trailer?” he asked.
“Hold on,” Alberto said. “Stephen’s downloading another photo.” Herbert clapped his lips together. Op-Center’s link with the NRO allowed Alberto to see the photograph at the same time as Viens’s people did. The CIA had the same capacity, though without operatives in the field here they wouldn’t be able to get anyone over, either officially or undercover.
“I’ve got a quarter-mile view,” Alberto said. There was chatter behind him. “I’ve also got Levy and Warren looking over my shoulder.” “I hear them.” Marsha Levy and Jim Warren were Op- Center’s photo reconnaissance analysts. They were a perfect team. Levy had an eye like a microscope, while Warren’s talent was the ability to see how details fit in the overall picture. Together, they could look at a photograph and not only tell you what was in it, but what might be under it or out of sight, and how everything got there.
Alberto said, “They tell me there are the remains of wooden furniture in there, which the movie trailer had.
Computer magnification of the wood, Marsha says the grain looks like larch.” “That would make sense,” Herbert said. “Cheap and durable for getting banged around the countryside.” “Right,” Alberto said. “Jimmy thinks the fire started on the right rear at what looks like the gas tank.” “A fuse,” Herbert said. “Give them time to run.” “That’s what Jimmy says,” said Alberto. “Hold on— we’ve got another one coming in.” Herbert looked ahead, watching for an exit. The van hadn’t had that much of a head start. It would have to be coming up soon. He wondered if it were by design or coincidence that the van had come this way.
“Bob,” Alberto said excitedly, “we just got a quartermile view to the east of the wreck. Marsha says she sees part of a rough dirt road and what could be a person in one of the trees.” “Could be?” Marsha came on. Herbert could picture the tough little brunette wresting the phone from Alberto.
“Yes, Bob, it could be. There’s a dark shape under the leaves. It’s not a branch and it’s too big to be a hive or bird’s nest.” “A scared kid might hide in a tree,,” Herbert said.
“Or a cautious one,” Marsha said.
“Good point. Where’s the white van now?” Herbert asked.
“It was in the picture with the trailer,” said Marsha.
“None of the police are looking over.” That’d be a kick in the head, thought Herbert. The local police in cahoots with the local neo-Nazi militia.
There was an exit coming up on the right. Beyond it, Herbert saw a wooded area, the beginning of a magnificent sprawl of countryside.
“I think I’m where I need to be,” Herbert said. “Is there any way to get to that tree without being seen by the police?” There was a muted conference on the other end of the line.
Alberto came on. “Bob, yes. You can exit, pull to the right off the road, and take that dirt road.” “I can’t,” Herbert said. “If the kidnappers headed into the woods instead of out, I don’t want to run into them. Or them into me.” “All right,” said Alberto. “Then you can circumvent them by going— let’s see, southeast… uh, roughly one third of a mile to a stream. Cross to the east, to about a quarter of a mile to… shit, there’s no landmark there.” “I’ll find it.” “Boss—” “I’ll find it. What’s next?” Alberto said, “Then you go northeast about seventy- five yards to a gnarly old whatever-it-is. Marsha says it’s an oak. But that’s pretty rough terrain.” “I once climbed the steps of the Washington Monument. I went up backwards, on my ass, and came down frontwards.” “I know. But that was eleven years ago, and it was here at home.” “I’ll be fine,” Herbert said. “You take a paycheck, you gotta do the shit work as well as the easy stuff.” “This isn’t ‘shit work,’ Boss. This is a man in a wheelchair trying to climb ledges and cross streams.” Herbert felt a flash of doubt, but he flushed it away.
He wanted to do this. No, he needed to do this. And in his heart, he knew he could.
“Listen,” Herbert said. “We can’t call the police because we don’t know if some of them are in with these gorillas.
And how long will it be before the girl decides to turn herself in because she’s hungry or tired? We don’t have any other options.” “We do have one,” Alberto said. “Larry’s people are probably drawing the same conclusions from these photos that we are. Let me call over and see what they want to do.” “Nix,” said Herbert. “I’m not gonna cool my seat while someone’s life is in danger.” “But you’ll both be in danger—” “Kid, I’ve been in danger just sitting in my damn car today,” Herbert said as he exited the Autobahn. “I’ll be careful and I’ll get to her, I promise. I’ll also be taking the phone. The vibrating ringer will be on, but I won’t be opening my yap if I’m worried that someone’ll overhear.” “Of course,” Alberto said. “I’m still against this,” he added, “but good luck, Boss.” “Thanks,” Herbert said as he pulled off the two-lane roadway. There was a rest station with gas, food, and rooms: no vacancies, the sign said, which told Herbert that they were either full of visiting neo-Nazis or that the owners didn’t want them around. He swung into the lot and parked behind the modern, one-story building, then crossed his fingers as he pressed the button to release his chair. He feared his bumper-car chase might have affected the mechanics of the Mercedes. But it didn’t, and five minutes later he was rolling up a gentle slope in the blue-orange light of approaching dusk.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX Thursday, 5:30 P.M., Hamburg, Germany
The stretch limousine arrived at Jean-Michel’s hotel promptly on the half hour.
The afternoon news had been full of the St. Pauli fire along with condemnation for the club’s owner. Feminists were glad and Communists were glad and the press behaved as though they had been vindicated. It seemed to Jean- Michel that Richter was as widely castigated for his career in the escort and social club trade as he was for his political beliefs. Old tape was run of Richter defending himself, claiming that he was in the “peace of mind” business. The company of females put men at ease so that they could meet great challenges. His businesses made this possible.
And Richter is no fool, Jean-Michel had thought as he watched the broadcasts. Condemnation by feminists, Communists, and the press— none of whom were much liked by the average German— only served to drive those men closer to Richter’s 21st National Socialist Party.
Jean-Michel had gone outside the hotel at 5:25.
Waiting under the awning, he had not been sure that Richter would come. Or if he did show up, that he wouldn’t arrive with a truck filled with militiamen to exact vengeance for the fire.
But that wasn’t Richter’s style. From what they’d heard, it was Karin Doring’s. Richter had pride, and after the limousine stopped and the doorman opened the door, Jean- Michel looked to his left. He nodded. M. Dominique had insisted that Henri and Yves go with him, and they climbed in with Jean Michel between them. They faced the rear of the car with their backs to the partition that separated them from the driver. Yves shut the door. Each man was an unhealthy gray in the dim light which passed through the dark-tinted windows.
Jean-Michel was not surprised to find Richter considerably more subdued than before. The German was sitting alone in the backseat, across from them. He sat quite still, looking at them but not speaking. Even when Jean- Michel greeted him, Richter nodded once but said nothing.
Once they were under way, the German didn’t take his eyes off Jean-Michel and his bodyguards. He watched them from the shadows, his hands in the lap of his fawn-colored suit pants, his shoulders erect.
Jean-Michel didn’t expect him to be talkative. However, as Don Quixote had said, it was the responsibility of the victor to minister to the wounds of the vanquished. And there were things which needed to be said.
“Herr Richter,” he said softly, “it was not M.