human traffic gave him the chance to appreciate the people, all of whom were focused on their own business, their own destinations, who they were with— The golden hair flashed at him from the front door. It captured his eye not because of the movement itself but because of the way it moved. As the woman left the lobby, her head cocked right and the long blond hair snapped left, fast and confident.
Hood was transfixed. Like a bird darting from a tree, he thought.
As Hood watched, unable to move, the woman disappeared to the right. For a long instant he didn't blink, couldn't breathe. The noise in the lobby, so distinct a moment ago, became a distant drone.
'Chief?' Stoll asked. 'You see 'em?' Hood didn't answer. Forcing his legs to move, he bolted toward the door, maneuvering around the people and stacked luggage, shouldering his way around guests who were standing still, waiting and chattering.
A golden lady, he thought.
He reached the open door and rushed through. He looked to the right.
'Taxi?' asked the liveried doorman.
Hood didn't hear him. He looked toward the north, saw a cab moving toward the main thoroughfare. The bright sunlight made it impossible for him to see inside. He funned toward the doorman.
'Did a woman just get in that cab?' Hood asked.
'Ja, ' said the young man.
'Do you know her?' Hood demanded. Even as he said it, Hood realized he probably sounded a little scary. He took a long, deep breath. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I didn't mean to yell like that. It's just— I think I know that woman. Is she a guest here?' 'Nein, ' said the doorman. 'She dropped off a package and left.' Hood pointed a thumb to the lobby. 'Dropped if off in there?' 'Not at the desk,' said the doorman. 'She gave it to someone.' An elderly English woman came over, needing a cab.
'Excuse me,' the young man said to Hood.
While the doorman walked to the curb and blew his whistle, Hood looked down and tapped his foot impatiently.
As he did, Stoll strolled up beside him, followed by Herbert.
'Hi,' said Stoll.
Hood was staring at the curb, fighting a storm of emotions.
'You shoved off like a guy whose dog ran onto the highway,' Stoll said. 'You okay?' Hood nodded.
'Yeah, I'm convinced,' Herbert lied.
'No, really,' Hood said distantly. 'I, uh— never mind.
It's a long story.' 'So's Dune,' Stoll said, 'but I love it. Want to talk about it? You see somebody?' Hood was silent for a moment, then said, 'Yes.' 'Who?' Herbert asked.
Hood answered almost reverently, 'A golden lady.' Stop clicked his tongue. 'Ooookay,' he said. 'Sorry I asked.' He glanced down at Herbert, who shrugged and gave him a don't-ask-me look.
When the doorman returned, Hood asked quietly, 'Did you happen to see who she gave the package to?' The doorman shook his head sadly. 'I'm sorry. I was getting a cab for Herr Tsuburaya and didn't happen to notice.' 'It's all right,' Hood said. 'I understand.' He reached into his pocket and gave the doorman a ten-dollar bill. 'If she happens to come back, would you try to find out who she is? Tell her that Paul…' He hesitated. 'No. Don't tell her who wanted to know. Just try and find out, okay?' 'Ja,' the doorman said appreciatively as he stepped to the curb to open the door of an arriving taxi.
Stoll nudged Hood with his hip. 'Hey, for ten bucks I'll wait here too. Double coverage.' Hood ignored him. This was insane. He couldn't decide whether he'd walked into a dream or a nightmare.
As the men stood there, a black stretch limousine pulled up. The doorman dashed over and a stocky, silverhaired man emerged. He and Hood saw each other at the same time.
'Herr Hood!' Martin Lang said with a wave and a big, genuine smile. He came forward with short, quick strides, his hand extended. 'It's wonderful to see you again. You look very, very well.' 'Washington suits me better than Los Angeles,' he said.
Though Hood was looking at Lang, he was still seeing the woman. The shift of the head, the blaze of hair— Stop it, he yelled at himself. You have a job to do. And you have a life.
'Actually,' Stoll muttered, 'Paul looks good because he was able to sleep on the airplane. He'll be nudging Bob and me awake all day.' 'I sincerely doubt that,' said Lang. 'You're not old like me. You have vitality.' As Hood introduced his associates, a tall, blond, distinguished-looking man in his middle forties emerged from the car. He walked over slowly.
'Herr Hood,' said Lang, as the man arrived, 'allow me to introduce Richard Hausen.' 'Welcome to Hamburg,' Hausen said. His voice was resonant and refined, his English impeccable. He greeted each man personally with a handshake and a little bow.
Hood was surprised that Hausen had arrived without a flock of assistants. American officials didn't go anywhere without at least two young, go-get-'em aides in tow.
Stoll had a different first impression. 'He reminds me of Dracula,' the Operations Support Officer whispered.
Hood tended to ignore Stoll's frequent under-thebreath comments, though this one was near the mark.
Hausen was dressed in a black suit. His face was pale but intense. And he exuded a distinctive Old World courtliness.
But from what Hood had read before leaving, Dracula's nemesis Dr. Van Helsing would have been more accurate for this man. But instead of prowling for vampires, Richard Hausen hunted neo-Nazis. Op-Center's Staff Psychologist Liz Gordon had used the resources of the United Nations Gopher information site on the Internet to prepare a paper on Hausen. She described him as having a 'Captain Ahab-like hatred of right-wing radicals.' Liz wrote that not only did Hausen see them as a threat to his nation's status as a member of the international community, but that 'he attacks them with a fervor which suggests personal animus, perhaps something in his past. It could well have been born and nurtured in the bullying he probably took as a child, something which happens to many farm boys who are sent to a larger city to go to school.' Martha Mackall had suggested, in a footnote, that Hood should beware of one thing. Hausen might be seeking closer ties with the U.S. to infuriate nationals and actually draw attacks on himself. She wrote, 'That would give him a martyr image which is always good for politicians.' Hood put that thought in the mental drawer marked 'maybe.' For now, he took Hausen's presence at the meeting as an indication of just how much the German electronics industry wanted to do business with the U.S.
government.
Lang led them to the limousine and what he promised would be the finest authentic German meal in Hamburg, as well as the best view of the Elbe. Hood didn't care what he ate or where. All he wanted was to quickly lose himself in work and conversation and get his feet back under him.
As it happened, Hood enjoyed the food enormously, though as the dessert plates were being cleared away, Stoll leaned over and confided that the eel soup and blackberries with sugar and cream just didn't satisify the same way as a nice, fat taco and strawberry shake.
The lunch was early by German standards, and the restaurant was empty. Conversation was characteristically political, sparked by discussion of the recent fiftieth anniversary commemoration of the Marshall Plan. In his nearly two decades of working with international executives, investors, and politicians, Hood found most Germans to be appreciative of the recovery program which had raised them from financial postwar ruin. He also found those same Germans to be staunch apologists for the actions of the Reich. Over the past few years, however, he'd also noticed that more and more Germans were also feeling proud about how they had accepted, fully, responsibility for their country's actions during World War II. Richard Hausen had taken an active hand in getting reparations for concentration camp victims.
Martin Lang was proud, but also bitter.
'The Japanese government didn't even use the word 'apology' until the fiftieth anniversary of the end of the war,' Lang had said even before the appetizers were served. 'And it took even longer for the French to acknowledge that the state had been an accomplice to the deportation of seventyfive thousand Jews. What Germany did was beyond imagining. But at least we, as a nation, are making an effort to comprehend what happened.' Lang had noted that a side effect of Germany's soulsearching was a measure of tension with Japan and France.
'It is as if by admitting our atrocities,' he'd said, 'we betrayed a criminal code of silence. We are regarded
