Games of State

CHAPTER THIRTY

Bob Herbert had not phoned Mike Rodgers when he first saw the white van.

It had appeared in his rearview mirror while he drove around the city, trying to figure out what to do. He'd paid little attention to the vehicle as he tried to come up with some way of getting information about the kidnapped girl.

Though the straightforward approach had failed, he'd been thinking that bribery might work.

When Herbert turned off Herrenhauser Strasse onto a side street and the van turned as well, he gave it a second look. In the front and back of the van were faces wearing ski masks. Glancing at the map and speeding up, Herbert took a few sharp turns just to make sure the van was following him. It was. Someone must have watched him go and sent the goon platoon after him. As the city of Hanover darkened with the fast-falling night, Herbert phoned Op-Center.

Alberto put him through to Mike Rodgers.

That was when Herbert asked for fast help or a short prayer.

"What's wrong?" Rodgers asked.

"I had a run-in with some neo-Nazi back at a beer house," Herbert said. "Now they're after my ass." "Where are you?" "I'm not sure," Herbert said. He looked around. "I see lime trees, a lot of gardens, a lake." A large sign flashed by.

"Thank you, God. I'm at a place called Welfengarten." "Bob," said Rodgers, "Darrell's here. He's got the phone number of the local police. Can you write it down and call?" Herbert reached into his shirt pocket for a pen. He doodled on the dashboard to get the ink flowing. "Shoot," he said.

But before he could write it down, the van rammed his fender. As the car bolted forward, the shoulder strap of the seatbelt tore into his chest. Herbert swerved to avoid a car in front of him.

"Shit!" he yelled. He drove around the car and sped up.

"Listen, General, I've got troubles." "What?" "These guys are ramming me. I'm going to pull over before I cream a pedestrian. Tell the Landespolizei I'm in a white Mercedes." "No, Bob, don't stop!" Rodgers yelled. "If they get you into the van, we're screwed!" "They're not trying to kidnap me!" Herbert shouted back. "They're trying to kill me!" The van smashed into him again on the left rear side.

The right side of the car hopped onto the sidewalk, where Herbert nearly clipped a man walking his terrier. Herbert managed to swerve back onto the road, though his right front fender clipped a parked car. The collision tore the fender down and caused it to scrape noisily against the asphalt.

He stopped. Afraid the chrome might rend his tire, Herbert threw the car into reverse to try to rip the fender free. It came loose with a slow groan and a loud squeal, then clattered to the street.

Herbert looked in his side mirror to make sure he could pull away again. The scene was surreal. Pedestrians were running and cars were now racing past. And before he could safely return to the now-disordered flow of traffic, the van pulled up beside him, on the left. The figure in the passenger's seat faced him. He stuck a submachine gun from the open window and trained it on the car.

He fired.