“Shit!” he yelled “Y’know, I was doing okay when I was alone—” “Deal with it,” Nancy said. She leaned over him and pushed the “down” arrow on the keyboard.
“Hey, what are you doing?” Stoll demanded. “Don’t mess with my game—” “You missed something,” Nancy said.
“I what?” As she held the button down, the dog drifted through the quicksand and emerged in an underground cavern. She switched between the left and right arrows, collecting Nazi memorabilia and racking up points.
Hood walked over. “How did you know that was there?” “This is an adapatation of a game I designed called The Bog Beast,” Nancy replied. “Same game screens— background, foreground elements, traps. Different characters and scenario, though. I had a swamp monster running from its creator and angry villagers. This is obviously very much different.” “But it’s definitely your game,” Hood said.
“Absolutely.” She turned the controls back to Stoll.
“Exit by crawling into the storm drain on the left,” she said.
“Thanks,” he huffed as he continued playing.
Hood stepped away. He resisted the urge to take Nancy’s hand and pull her along. But he’d noticed Stoll’s eyes dart toward them while they stepped toward the corner. For all its quality and top-level security clearances, Op-Center was no different from other offices. It talked. His people could keep state secrets, but the phrase “personal secrets” was almost an oxymoron.
Nancy came of her own accord. Hood could see the concern, love, and lingering disappointment in her eyes.
“Paul,” she said softly, “I know I screwed up in the past, but this isn’t my doing. Any number of people could have made these changes.” “You mean people in the inner circle of Dominique’s.” Nancy nodded.
“I believe you,” Hood said. “The question is, what are we going to do about it?” Hood’s cellular phone beeped and he excused himself.
“Hello?” “Paul,” said the caller, “it’s Darrell. Can you talk?” Hood said that he could.
McCaskey said, “I’ve met with Liz and Mike, and it looks to us like this fellow you were asking about is Mr. Hate himself. And powerful enough to avoid arrest.” “Explain.” “He appears to use a network of banks to launder money and finance hate groups worldwide. The law sniffs around him but never bites. Meanwhile, it looks like he’s getting set to introduce a new joystick which helps players feel as if whatever they’re seeing on the screen is very real.” “I assume this joystick is compatible with the hate games.” “Sure is,” said McCaskey. “But our immediate problem isn’t any of that. The Pure Nation team that got picked up this morning may have been a plant. It looks like they and the hate games could be part of a larger plan to turn U.S.
cities into racial war zones. Again,” he said, “we have no hard evidence. Only some tenuous links and gut feelings.” “Our gut feelings are usually on the money,” Hood said.
“Does it look like there’s any kind of timetable?” “Tough to say. The media are all over Pure Nation, and we think they’re going to milk that forum.” “Of course they will,” said Hood.
“The games are also ready to launch,” McCaskey said.
“If this is a coordinated effort, the coordinator isn’t going to let the fear grow cold. A couple of strikes against blacks and communities won’t just ignite, they’ll explode. I’ve just been talking with my associates at the Bureau. We agree that in a worst-case scenario, incidents could begin erupting within days, if not hours.” Hood didn’t bother to ask how a single foreign businessman had been able to put so much of what Rodgers called “bad news” in position without being discovered. He knew the answer. Dominique had money, autonomy, and patience. With money and patience alone, the Japanese Aum Shinrikyo cult had been able to operate from a Manhattan office from 1987 to 1995, buying everything from a computer equipment to a laser system capable of measuring plutonium to several tons of steel for the manufacture of knives. All of this was going to be used to help begin a war between Japan and the United States. Though it was unlikely the war would have occurred; the nuclear destruction of a U.S. city might well have been achieved if investigators of the Senate Permanent Investigations Committee, working with the CIA and the FBI, had not been able to penetrate and arrest the members of the doomsday cult.
Hood asked, “What are the chances of stopping this from your end?” “Obviously,” said McCaskey, “until we know the scope of the man’s ambitions or even specific targets, I can’t say.” “But you think— you feel— that all of this is being generated by one man?” McCaskey said, “That’s how it looks from here.” “So if we were to get to the one man,” Hood said, “we could put the brakes on everything.” “Conceivably,” McCaskey said. “At least, that’s the way it looks to me.” “Let’s work on that,” Hood said. “Meanwhile, has anybody heard anything from Bob?” McCaskey said, “Actually… yes.” Hood didn’t like the way that sounded. “What’s he doing?” McCaskey explained and Hood listened, feeling guilty as all hell for having let Herbert go off on his own. Chasing around the woods, a man in a wheelchair against a van-load of neo-Nazis. It was absurd. Then he got angry. Op-Center had lost Private Bass Moore in Korea and Lieutenant Colonel Charlie Squires in Russia. Herbert should have realized that if anything happened to him, Congress would chain the entire operation to a desk. Herbert had no right to jeopardize the entire organization. Finally, Hood felt a rush of pride. Herbert was doing something which distinguished Americans from most other nationalities. He was fighting injustice, regardless of who it was being directed against.
But righteous or not, Herbert was a semi-loose cannon, a U.S. government operative hunting neo-Nazis in Germany.
If he broke the law or even if he were found out, the neo- Nazis would spin it as if they were being persecuted, ganged up on. It would send a firestorm of criticism sweeping over Op-Center, Washington, and Hausen.
Then, of course, there was always the danger that the neo-Nazis would rather eliminate Herbert. The men in the van might not have known who he was. But even knowing, not all radicals wanted publicity. Some of them just wanted their enemies dead.
If he thought Herbert would listen, Hood would have ordered him back to the hotel. And if it weren’t for two big “ifs,” Hood would have gone so far as to ask Hausen to send some people to collect him: if he trusted Hausen’s security, which he no longer did; and if he weren’t afraid they’d blunder into an otherwise quiet stakeout and thus create a situation.
“Is Viens watching Herbert?” Hood asked.
“Unfortunately, no,” McCaskey told him. “Steve’s only got one eye in the region and he couldn’t keep it tied up. As it was, he had to put Larry off to get Bob some of what he needed.” “Thank him for me,” Hood said sincerely, even as he was swearing inside. That was it, then. Hood was just going to have to let this play out, hope that Herbert remained anonymous and safe.
“Paul,” McCaskey said then, “hold on a moment. I’ve got a priority call coming in.” Hood waited. CNN was running on the hold fine. There was something about a celebrity’s death in Atlanta. Hood only got to hear a few words about it before McCaskey was back.
“Paul,” McCaskey said, “Mike’s on the line as well. We may have a situation.” “What is it?” Hood asked.
“I just heard from my contact Don Worby at the FBI,” McCaskey said. “They’ve just been notified about five whiteon- black killings at the same time in five different cities.
New York, Los Angeles, New Orleans, Baltimore, and Atlanta. In each case, two-to-four young white males ambushed a black rap singer. In Atlanta, they got Sweet T, the number-one female rapper, as she was leaving her apartment—” “That must have been what I just heard,” Hood said.
“Where?” McCaskey asked.
“On CNN.” “Those bastards,” McCaskey said. “Maybe we ought to hire HUMINT resources from them.” Rodgers came on the line and said somberly, “Do you realize what we’ve just had here? Those attacks were a modern-day Kristallnacht.” The connection hadn’t occurred to Hood, but Rodgers was right. The assaults were similar to Crystal Night, when the Gestapo orchestrated acts of vandalism against Jewish houses of worship, cemeteries, hospitals, schools, homes, and businesses throughout Germany. Thirty thousand Jews were also arrested, beginning the Jewish incarceration in concentration camps like Dachau, Sachsenhausen, and Buchenwald.
The attacks were similar, he thought, yet there was something different— “No,” Hood said suddenly with alarm. “This was not another Crystal Night. It was only a prelude.” “How so?” Rodgers asked.
Hood said, “Neo-Nazis killed rappers. That’ll enrage the so-called gangstas and their hard-core audience. They turn on whites, many of whom don’t approve of rap to begin with, and you end up with more racial incidents, riots, and American cities on fire. That’s when the neo-Nazis return.