Games of State

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Paul Hood arrived at Hausen's office with Nancy walking a few paces behind him. She entered tentatively, as though she weren't sure whether she'd find friends or enemies here. What she found, at the moment, were people completely wrapped up in their own concerns.

Hausen was talking on a cellular phone in the reception area. He had obviously determined that the security of his office phones had probably been compromised. The cellular phone wasn't secure, but at least he wouldn't have to worry that the enemy was listening to everything he said.

Lang was sitting on the edge of the desk, lips pressed tightly together as he looked down at Hausen. Matt Stoll was still sitting at Hausen's computer in the main office.

Hausen was speaking forcefully in German with someone named Erwin. German always seemed harsh to Hood, but this conversation seemed especially so. And Hausen did not look pleased.

Lang walked over to them. Hood introduced him to Nancy. "This is Nancy Jo Bosworth. She's an employee of Demain." Even as he said it, he couldn't believe the words were coming from his mouth. He had to have been insane to have gone back to get her. Completely and utterly insane.

"I see," Lang said with a polite, pursed smile.

"I'm not a friend of Dominique's," she added. "I don't know him." "It appears that few do," Lang said, still smiling tightly.

Hood excused himself to introduce Nancy to Stoll. Then he left them together and returned to the outer office.

"What is Herr Hausen doing?" he asked Lang.

"He's talking with the French Ambassador in Berlin, trying to arrange an immediate trip to France to investigate the matter of this game and its maker. Herr Hausen wants to confront this man Dominique in the presence of French authorities." Lang leaned closer. "He tried calling Dominique directly but was unable to get through. He seems unusually agitated by all of this. He takes hate crimes so very personally." Hood asked, "How is it going with the Ambassador?" "It isn't going well at all," Lang said. "Dominique apparently has a great deal of influence over there. He controls banks and several industries and a horrifying number of politicians." Hood gave Hausen a short, sympathetic look, then stepped into the main office. He knew how difficult it was dealing with the system in Washington. He couldn't begin to imagine the red tape which had to exist between nations.

Especially nations with a longstanding hate-hate relationship such as these two.

He stood beside Nancy as she watched Stoll guide fluidly animated dogs running through a swamp. He found it difficult to concentrate on the game.

"How're you doing, Matt?" Hood asked.

Stoll hit "P" to pause. He turned. around, his eyebrows arched. "This is one nasty game, Chief. What the characters do to people with ropes, knives, and dogs is not to be believed. You'll be able to see for yourself later," he said.

"I've hooked up the VCR and I'm playing through. I'll watch the tape later in slow motion to see if there are subliminal messages or other clues or anything I've missed." Nancy said, "I take it this is the game Herr Hausen received." "Yup," Stoll said, unpausing the game. Almost immediately, one of the dogs he was controlling fell into quicksand and began sinking.

"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.

When white America is tired of rioters being contained rather than attacked. When too few arrests are made. When the media shows black radicals demanding white blood. That's when the new Crystal Night, the coordinated, armed attacks, begins." "But how do the neo-Nazis benefit?" Rodgers asked.

"They can't break the law and then run for office." "The prettified ones can," said Hood. "The ones who distance themselves from the lawbreakers but not from the intolerance which motivates them." The plan made sense, and the more Hood thought about it, the more brilliant it seemed in its simplicity. He thought of his own daughter, Harleigh, whose musical mix included rap. Hood was in favor of free expression, but he insisted on hearing any album with a parent's advisory sticker— not to censor but to discuss. Some of the lyrics were pretty brutal, and in his soul he had to admit that he wouldn't mind if some of the rappers went into another line of work. And he was a one-time liberal politician. From talks with other parents at the school and at church, he knew that they felt much more strongly. If blacks started avenging dead rappers, he suspected that white, middle-class sympathies would be with the murderous whites, who would probably claim they'd been making pre-emptive strikes. And retaliatory attacks by blacks would only legitimize those claims. Riots might ensue, the police would be forced to hold back to some degree, and the neo-Nazis would become the violent angels of whites. Not to mention potential winners in future elections.

Less than fifty five years after Hitler's death, the monsters could actually become a political force in the U.S., Hood thought.

"Broken dreams of harmony instead of broken windows," Hood said. "It's a nightmare." Rodgers said, "Paul, we can still stop this thing. If we can expose Dominique's operation to the people, they'll see how they were manipulated." "If you can tell me how to get to him," Hood said, "I'll be happy to do it." "There may be a way," Rodgers said. "I've just spoken with Colonel Bernard Ballon of France's Groupe d'Intervention de la Gendarmerie Nationale. He's in Toulouse and he's after the same quarry as we are, albeit for different reasons." "Different how?" Hood asked as Hausen entered the inner office. The German looked distraught.

Rodgers said, "Ballon believes that Gerard Dominique is the head of a group of French terrorists known as the New Jacobins. Their activities against immigrants certainly fit what we know about Dominique." "And what does the Colonel plan to do with Dominique?" Hood asked.

Hood saw Hausen's eyes sweep past Nancy and lock on him when he mentioned the name.

"We didn't discuss that," Rodgers said. "Officially, I gather he's supposed to arrest him and his bunch. But with Dominique's money and influence, Ballon is obviously worried he'll get off." "Not necessarily," Hood said. He was still looking at Hausen and thinking about the murder of the two girls.

"What about unofficially?" Rodgers said, "From my talk with Ballon, he sounds like the kind of guy who'd love to see him accidentally-onpurpose fall down a flight of concrete steps." Hood said, "I take it, Mike, you've got some way we can work together." "Just one," said Rodgers. "He needs accurate information and satellite surveillance just isn't cutting it." "Say no more," said Hood. He glanced over at Matt Stoll's innocent-looking backpack. "How do I contact Colonel Ballon?" ' As Hood wrote down the telephone number, he watched Hausen. He had seen the German get agitated before, but now his face revealed something more. It was as though the veneer of two and a half decals had suddenly flaked away leaving only hate, naked and unashamed. Hood told Rodgers he" d let him know what was happening, and reminded McCaskey to keep him briefed on what Herbert was doing. Then he hung up and looked at Hausen.

"How did you make out?" Hood asked.

"Poorly," said Hausen. "The French Ambassador will 'let me know' if we can come in. Which in diplomatese means to go to hell." The eyes dug into him. "What is all this about Dominique?" Hood said, "There's a Gendarmerie Nationale officer who is in Toulouse and is eager to hand M. Dominique his head." He looked at Nancy. "Sorry, but that's how it is." Her mouth scrunched unhappily. "I understand," she said, "but I think I'd better be going." She turned to go. Hood stepped toward her and grabbed her hand.

"Nancy, don't go back there." "Why?" she asked. "You think I need someone's protection to survive a shitstorm?" Hausen turned toward Stoll and Lang and busied himself with learning about the game.

Hood led her a few steps away, toward the back of the office. "This shitstorm, yes," he said. "If Ballon gets in, everyone at Demain will be investigated, and as far back as possible." "There are statutes of limitations." "That's true," Hood said. "There won't be legal ramifications. But think about blacklists. What company will hire someone who has committed industrial espionage or embezzled or was involved in insider trading?" "A company just like Demain," she answered.

Hood took a step toward her. He was still holding her hand, and his grip softened. He was now holding the hand of a woman, not a captive. "There aren't very many companies like Demain," he said, "and thank God for that. What they're doing is wrong. And whatever happens, you mustn't go back there." "Every large corporation has a few demons." "Not like these," said Hood. "If this Pandora's box is opened, hundreds, perhaps thousands of people will die. The world will change, and not for the better." Though her eyes were at once defiant and sad, her touch was willing. Hood wanted to kiss her, shelter her, love her. And then he asked himself, Who am I to talk about immorality?

"So," she said, "you don't want me going back. And you also want my help bringing Dominique to justice." Holding her hand, looking into her eyes, he said quietly, "I do." The wistful, tender way he'd spoken hit her almost as hard as the words he'd selected. She squeezed his hand. He squeezed back.

"Even if you get him, Dominique will get rich man's justice," Nancy said. "The kind the French government loves to dispense because it buys summer homes for officials." "Dominique won't be able to buy his way out of everything he's done," Hood promised.

"And what about me?" she asked. "Where does a whistle-blower go?" "I'll help you when this is all over," Hood said. "I'll see to it that you have work." "Well, golly gee and thanks," Nancy said. "Haven't you figured out yet that that's not what I need from you, Paul?" She half-turned, looked down, and ran her tongue across her upper lip. Hood continued to hold her hand. There was nothing he could say, nothing which wouldn't give her false hope.

After a moment, she faced him again. "Of course I'll help," she said. "Whatever you need I'll do." "Thanks," Hood said.

"Don't mention it. What are ex-fianc‚es for?" Hood touched her cheek, then turned to the pad on which he'd written Ballon's number. He didn't look back at Nancy as he placed the call. The yearning in his eyes would have given her the answer, and it wasn't an answer that would do either of them any good.