Games of State

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

"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.

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.