Games of State

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Physically, this had been the most demanding, frustrating, and rewarding hour of Bob Herbert's life.

The terrain he'd had to cross was covered with sticks, rotting leaves and tree trunks, rocks, and thick patches of mud. There was one small stream, less than a foot deep, which slowed him further, and at times the ground sloped upward so steeply that Herbert had to get out of his wheelchair and drag it behind him as he worked his way up the incline. At several minutes past six it had begun to get dark in the heavy, unshadowed way that thick woods do.

Though his chair was equipped with a powerful flashlight beside each footrest, Herbert was unable to see farther ahead than the diameter of each wheel. That slowed him as well, since he didn't want to go rolling into a gorge and end up like that five-thousand year-old hunter who was found frozen face-down on a mountaintop somewhere.

God only knows what they'd make of me in five thousand years, Herbert thought. Though now that he considered it, he had to admit he relished the idea of a cadre of stuffy academics puzzling over his remains in A. D. 7000.

He tried to imagine how they'd interpret the Mighty Mouse tattoo on his left bicep.

And he hurt. From the twigs that stuck him and the muscles that pained him and the chest that still hurt from where the seatbelt had pulled during the chase through Hanover.

Herbert picked his way through the woods, guided by the thirty-year-old Boy Scout pocket compass which had been around the world with him. As he did, he kept track of the distance he covered by counting the turns of his wheel.

Each complete revolution was four yards. While he made his way, he also tried to make sense of the neoNazis' trip out here. They couldn't have radioed a police ally for assistance, since other officers would have heard. This was the only way to do it. But why did they need help? The only thing he could think of was that they needed someone to find him. That sounded grandiose, he knew, but it made sense. The neo- Nazis had fled at the siren, feared he might be able to I.D.

them, and wanted to get to him if he went to the station to file a report. A police officer would know who he was and where he was staying.

Herbert shook his head. It would be ironic if he found the girl here. He'd gone to Hanover to try to get information, and these jerks might have led him right to her without even knowing it.

He smiled. Who would have thought that a day which began in a coach-class airplane seat would grow old with him trudging through the wilds, hunting a lost girl, pursued by neo-Nazis?

After a few minutes more, Herbert arrived at the tree where Alberto thought the girl might be. It was unmistakable: tall, twisted, and dark. The tree was three hundred years old at least, and Herbert couldn't help but think about the tyrants it had seen come and go. He felt a flash of shame as he thought how foolish their antics must seem to this stately life.

Reaching down, Herbert removed the flashlight from the footrest. He shined it into the tree.

"Jody," he said, "are you up there?" Herbert felt a little foolish calling up a tree for a young woman. But he looked up into the leaves and listened. He heard nothing.

"Jody," he said, "my name is Bob Herbert. I'm an American. If you're up there, please come down. I want to help you." Herbert waited. Again, there was no sound. After a minute, he decided to go around the tree and have a look up the other side. But before he could move, he heard a branch snap behind him. Herbert looked back, thinking it was Jody.

He was startled to see a large figure standing in the shadows beside a tree.

"Jody?" he asked, though he could see from the hulking shape it wasn't her.

"Mein Herr," said a deep, masculine voice, "please raise your hands." Herbert obeyed. He lifted them slowly, face-high. As he did so, the man walked toward him through the darkness.

As he approached the wheelchair, fell within the glow of the flashlights; Herbert could see that the man was a police officer. But he wasn't dressed like any of the officers at the van. This man was wearing what looked like a police-issue blue overcoat and a cap.

And then it hit him. The siren. The sudden termination of the chase. The drive out here. The whole thing had been a setup.

"Nice," Herbert said.

The police officer stopped a few feet away— too far to reach even if Herbert could snatch his stick from under the armrest. The man stood with his legs shoulder-width, his expression hidden in the shadows under the brim Of his cap.

Through the open front of his coat, Herbert saw a cellular phone hooked to his black leather belt.

The intelligence chief just looked up at him and said, "They called you from the van when they were still in the city, didn't they? They pretended to run from your siren, knew I'd follow them, and then you followed me." The officer did not appear to understand. Not that it mattered. Herbert was disgusted with himself. It would have been easy for the police to find out who had rented the car.

He'd made it even worse for himself by using. his corporate damn charge card. National Crisis Management Center, U.S.A., the official name of Op-Center. That, coupled with his dramatic appearance in Hanover, told them he was probably looking for something. After calling Jody's name, they knew exactly what. The only way he could have made this any easier for them was by handing out copies of the NRO photographs.

He was glad, at least, that that hadn't been Jody the satellite saw in the tree. If she'd been here, she'd be seconds from death, along with him.

Herbert wasn't going to ask the man for his life. He didn't want to die, but he couldn't live with himself knowing he'd asked a dirtbag like this for anything. He'd gotten sloppy, and this was the price. At least, he told himself, he wouldn't have to schlep all the way back to the car.

I wonder if I'll hear the crack of the gun before the bullet hits, he thought. He was near enough. It would be close.

"Auf Wiedersehen, " the German said to him.