Games of State

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Bob Herbert spent a frustrating hour-plus on the phone.

Sitting in his wheelchair and using his private line, Herbert spent part of the time talking with his assistant at Op-Center, Alberto Grimotes. Alberto was fresh out of Johns Hopkins, a clever Ph.D. psychologist with good ideas. He was still very young and without a great deal of life experience, but he was a hard worker whom Herbert regarded as a kid brother.

Question one, Herbert said, was trying to figure out which of their intelligence allies they could tap for up-to-theminute information about German terrorists. The men suspected that the Israelis, the British, and the Poles would be the only ones who followed those groups closely. No other nations had quite the same visceral, enduring fear of the Germans.

Herbert held on while Alberto checked their HUMINT, Human Intelligence, database. This information from agents in the field was contained in what Herbert referred to as Op- Center's "pelt," the FUR file— Foreign Undercover Resources.

Herbert was always ashamed to go begging for intelligence scraps, but his own resources in Germany were slim. Before West and East Germany reunited, the U.S. was heavily involved with helping West Germany ferret out terrorist groups coming from the East. Since reunification, U.S. intelligence had virtually withdrawn from the country.

The German groups were Europe's problem, not America's.

With bone-deep budget cuts, the CIA, the National Reconnaissance Office, and other information-gatherers had their hands full trying to stay on top of China, Russia, and the Western Hemisphere.

So much for our crystal balls about the next big trouble spot, Herbert thought bitterly.

Of course, assuming that other governments did have German HUMINT, there was no guarantee that they would even be willing to share their information. Since the wellpublicized U.S. intelligence security leaks in the 1980s, other nations were reluctant to tell too much of what they knew.

They didn't want their own resources compromised.

"Hub and Shlomo have four and ten people in the field, respectively," Alberto said. He was referring to Commander Hubbard of British intelligence and Uri Shlomo Zohar of the Mossad.

Since this was an unsecured line, Herbert didn't ask for specifics. But he knew that most of Hubbard's agents in Germany were involved with stopping the flow of contraband arms from Russia, while the Israelis were watching the flow of arms to the Arabs.

"It looks like Bog's boys are still cleaning up the Russian mess," Alberto said. That was a reference to General Bogdan Lothe of Polish intelligence and the nearwar with Russia. "You want a laugh?" Alberto asked.

"I could use one," Herbert said.

"Looking over this list, the only help I see us getting is from Bernard." If the situation weren't so serious, Herbert would indeed have laughed. "Help from them?" he said. "It'll never happen. Never." "It might," Alberto said. "Let me just read this report from Darrell." Herbert tapped out "Alabamy Bound" on the armrest as he waited.

Bernard was Colonel Bernard Benjamin Ballon of France's Groupe d'Intervention de la Gendarmerie Nationale.

Historically, that law-enforcement organization was deaf and blind when it came to hate crimes, especially those committed against Jews and immigrants. The Gendarmerie also had an understanding with the Germans. If French agents stayed out of Germany, Germany wouldn't reveal the names of the thousands upon thousands of collaborators who had helped the Nazis during the War. Some of those men and women were now business and political leaders, and they leaned on French intelligence offices to mind their own business.

In his forties, Ballon himself was one of the most rabid hit-injustice-in-the-balls kind of guys Herbert had ever met.

And he was dragging the Gendarmerie, bucking and screaming, out of the muck of its own apathy.

Still, Ballon had a government to answer to. And that government was not fond of the United States. They were in the throes of intense, renewed nationalism, to the extent that they were tossing English words from their vocabulary, American foods off their menus, and Hollywood films off their movie screens. The idea that the French were in a position to help the U.S. was unsettling. The thought that he might have to go to those America-bashers was even more unnerving. The notion that they would even help the U.S.

was positively absurd.

Alberto said, "Bernard's got a problem at home and has been looking into a possible connection between hostile elements in France and Germany. He contacted the Big I last month, and they contacted Darrell. Darrell helped Bernard get some information he needed." "The Big I" was open-line slang for Interpol. Darrell was not only Op-Center's liaison with the FBI, but he interfaced with Interpol and other international anti-crime organizations as well.

"What kind of information did Bernard want?" Herbert asked. He was still drumming on the armrest. He really, really didn't want to go to the French.

"That data is not in the file," Alberto said. "It's eyes only. I'll have to go to Darrell for it." "Do," Herbert said, "and call me as soon as you have something." "Okay," Alberto said. "Is there a secure line you can get to?" "I won't have time for that," Herbert said. "You'll have to take a chance and call me on the chair. Also, brief General Rodgers." "Of course. And since he's going to ask, where do I tell him you'll be?" Herbert said, "Tell him I'm going to check out a few Chaos theories." "Ah," said Alberto, "it's that time of the year, isn't it?" "Right," Herbert said. "The annual diseased maniacs' convention. Which brings me to question number two. Have you got anything there on where the hub of these Chaos Days activities usually is?" "Like a hospitality suite?" Alberto said.

"Not funny," Herbert said.

"Sorry," Alberto said. "Searching." Herbert could hear the tap of the computer keys.

"Yes," Alberto said. "For the past two years, many conventioneers have kicked off events with a six P.M. toast at the Beer-Hall in Hanover." "Why am I not surprised," Herbert said. Munich's infamous Beer-Hall Putsch of 1923 was when Hitler had made his first, failed attempt at seizing power in Germany.

Only where Hitler failed, these men obviously intended to succeed.

The second half of Herbert's time on the telephone was spent tracking down an automobile with hand-operated gas and brake pedals. Several companies hired handicappedaccessible cars with drivers, but Herbert didn't want that. He intended to look for intelligence in the heart of the Chaos Days celebration, and didn't want to put a driver at risk.

He finally found a rental company which had a car, and even though it didn't have bulletproof glass and an ejection seat— he was just joking, he assured the humorless rental agent— they brought it to his hotel. Deciding to dress down, he took off his white shirt and tie and pulled on the My Name is Herbert… Bob Herbert sweatshirt his sister had given him. Then he donned his blazer and headed downstairs. With the help of the doorman, he put his wheelchair fully open in a special well in the seatless back.

Then, with a map open on the passenger's seat, his detachable wheelchair phone beside it, and Matt Stoll's electronic translator beside that, Herbert took his new Mercedes on the road.

It was ironic, he thought— sad and ironic— that a man with restricted mobility represented the sum total of American HUMINT in Germany. On the other hand, he was a man with experience, desire; and a solid organization behind him. People had gone into the field with less than that. Much less. And though he didn't exactly expect to be inconspicuous, he subscribed to the intelligence dictum "Never underestimate what somebody might know; and never underestimate what someone might say if he's careless, stupid, or drunk." At the Beer-Hall he was likely to find a healthy dose of all of the above.

More than savoring the independence, he was thrilled to be back in action. Now he knew just how Mike Rodgers must have felt getting back in the saddle in Korea.

The drive from the hotel took under two hours. It was a straight ride down the north-south running A1 Autobahn, where there was only a recommended speed limit, 100 to 130 km/h, though anyone going under 130 was considered a grafin a countess— slow, stately, and matronly.

Herbert clipped along at nearly ninety miles an hour.

He rolled down the front windows and felt the refreshing fury of the wind. Even at that speed, however, he missed none of the beautiful, green countryside of Lower Saxony. It was depressing to think that the intoxicating forests and centuries-old villages were the home of one of the most virulent hate movements in the history of civilization.

But that's Paradise for you, he knew. Always a snake or two in every tree.

He had felt differently about people and beauty when he first arrived in Lebanon with his wife. A gorgeous blue sky, ancient buildings ranging from the humble to the magnificent, devout Christians and Moslems. The French had withdrawn in 1946, and the religious "brothers" waged vicious war against one another. U.S. Marines helped put out the fire in 1958, but it erupted anew in 1970. Eventually, the U.S. returned. The skies were still blue and the buildings still awe-inspiring when a Moslem suicide-bomber attacked the American Embassy in Beirut in 1983. Fifty people died, and many more were injured. Since that time, beauty had never looked innocent or even especially appealing to Herbert.

Even life itself, once so rich and full of promise, was more like marking time until he and his wife could be reunited.

Hanover was a remarkable contrast to the countryside- and to itself. Like Hamburg, it had been heavily damaged by bombing during World War II. Plunked between the modern buildings and wide thoroughfares were pockets of sixteenth-century architecture, timbered homes beside narrow roads and old, Baroque gardens. It wasn't Herbert's cup of cocoa: he preferred the pure country in which he'd grown up. Ponds, gnats, frogs, and corner drugstores. But as he drove through the streets, he was surprised by these two strikingly different faces of Hanover.

Which is fitting, Herbert thought as he made his way to Rathenauplatz. This city is a place with two very different human faces as well.

Ironically, the quaint section of the city was where most of the caf‚s and restaurants were located. The charm hid the vipers. He got there simply by noticing and following three skinheads on motorcycles. He didn't for a moment imagine that they were going to the Sprengel Museum of modern art.

The drive took ten minutes. When he arrived, there was no mistaking the Beer-Hall. It was located in the middle of a row of coffeehouses and bars, most of which were closed. The tavern had a white brick facade and a simple sign with its name. The block letters were black and the background was red.

"Of course they are," Herbert muttered as he drove by.

Those were the colors of Nazi Germany. Though displaying swastikas was illegal in Germany, these people had invoked the likeness without breaking the law. Indeed, as Hausen had mentioned during lunch, while neo-Nazism itself was illegal, these groups got around the ban by calling themselves every euphemism they could think of, from the Sons of the Wolf to the 21st Century National Socialists.

But if the Beer-Hall wasn't a surprise, the people gathered in front of it were.

The ten round picnic-style tables in front failed to contain the group, whose numbers grew even as Herbert watched. Nearly three hundred mostly young men were standing or sitting on the sidewalk, curb, or street, or were leaning against cars whose owners had failed to get them out in time and wouldn't be able to retrieve them until after these three days were over. The few pedestrians who were out moved quickly through the crowd. Ahead, four police officers were directing traffic. Cars maneuvered carefully around the crowds milling and drinking on the curb outside the Beer-Hall.

Herbert had expected an army of skinheads and brownshirts— shaved heads and tattoos, or crisply pressed pseudo-Nazi uniforms with armbands. There was a smattering of punks in pockets of ten here and half a dozen there. But most of the men and the few women he saw were dressed in casual designer clothes with fashionable if slightly conservative hairstyles. They were laughing and at ease, looking very much like young stockbrokers or attorneys who had come to Hanover for a convention. The scene was frightening in its ordinariness. This could be Herbert's beloved hometown.

With his trained eye, Herbert divided the tapestry into manageable fragments and then swallowed each image whole, rather than examining individuals. Later, if need be, he could pick out important details from memory.

As he inched by, Herbert also listened through the open window. He wasn't fluent in German, but he picked up enough to understand. These people were talking about politicians, computers, and cooking, for Chrissakes. It wasn't the way he'd imagined it would be, young men singing old German drinking songs. No wonder the authorities kept their distance from Chaos Days. If they cracked down here, they might have to lock up some of the nation's leading doctors, attorneys, stockbrokers, journalists, diplomats, or God knows who else. And God help them all if these people were ever motivated to move against the government. They weren't strong enough or united enough yet. But if they were, German rule could quickly unravel and be rewoven into a tapestry which the world would have every reason to fear.

His bowels tightened. Part of him screamed inside, They have no right, the young bastards. But another part of him knew that they had every right. Ironically, the defeat of Hitler had given them the right to say or do a great deal, as long as there was no racial or religious incitement or public denial of the Holocaust.

Toward the end of the street, there was a registration table with a half-dozen men and women behind it. The crowd waiting at the table was swelling, no one pushing, no one complaining, nothing to disrupt die general air of fellowship. Herbert slowed and watched as the organizers took money and passed out itineraries and sold black-andred bumper stickers and lapel pins.

They've got a goddamn cottage industry going here, Herbert thought, amazed. All of it subtle, venomous, and legal. That was the problem, of course. Unlike the skinheads, who were considered low-caste neo-Nazis and spurned by people like these, the men and the few women here were smart enough to stay within the law. And when there was enough of them to field candidates and vote, Herbert had every confidence that they would change the law. Just as they'd done in March of 1933, when the Enabling Act gave Hitler dictatorial authority over the nation.

One of the hosts, a tall young man with sandy blond hair, stood stiffly behind the table. He shook the hand of each newcomer. He seemed less comfortable with the few grubbier skinheads than he did with the clean-cut men.

Even among the vermin there are castes, Herbert noted. He was intrigued as one of the scruffier new arrivals followed the handshake by throwing his arm in a traditional Nazi salute. It was an isolated, nostalgic gesture. The other men seemed uncomfortable with it. It was as though a drunk had come to the cash bar at a social function. They tolerated the salute but did not acknowledge it. Obviously there were schisms in the new Reich just as there had been in the old. Rifts which could be manipulated by outside forces.

Cars were piling up behind Herbert. Releasing the hand brake, he pressed his palm hard on the gas pedal and ripped down the street. He was angry: angry at these slick monsters, heirs to war and genocide, and angry at the system which allowed them to exist.

As Herbert rounded the corner, he saw that the side streets were closed for parking. He was glad there was no one here with a baton to direct traffic. That would have been too much, like a goddamn country fair.

Turning down one of the streets, he found a place to park. Then he pressed a button beside the radio. The left back door opened and the well in which the wheelchair sat slid to that side. The entire bucket emerged from the car and deposited the wheelchair on the ground. Herbert reached back and pulled it over. He also resolved to make a deal with these people to get cars like this into the U.S. They really made life a whole lot simpler.

Sliding into the wheelchair, he snuggled himself in like a top-gupner. Then he pressed a button in the car door to retract the bucket. When it was back inside, he shut the car door and began rolling down the street, toward the Beer- Hall.