twenty public and private administration buildings. These sleek structures housed everything from the Hamburg Electricity Works to international computer firms, as well as shops, restaurants, and a hotel. Every weekday, over twenty thousand people commuted to City Nord to work and to play.
When they arrived, Richard Hausen's neatly groomed young male assistant Reiner showed them right into the Deputy Foreign Minister's office. Stoll took a moment to stare at the framed stereogram hanging on the assistant's wall.
'Orchestra conductors,' Stoll said. 'Clever. I've never seen this one.' 'It's my own design,' Reiner said proudly.
Hausen's Hamburg office was located at the top of a complex in the southeastern sector, overlooking the 445- acre Stadtpark. When they entered, the Deputy Foreign Minister was on the phone. While Stoll sat down to have a look at Hausen's computer setup, Lang watching over his shoulder, Hood walked over to the large picture window. In the deep gold light of late afternoon, he could see a swimming pool, sporting areas, an open-air theater, and the famed ornithological facility.
As far as Hood could tell from looking at him, Hausen was once again his strong, outspoken self. Whatever had been bothering him earlier was either taken care of or somehow had been back burnered.
Hood thought sadly, If only I could do the same. In the office, he was able to manage pain. He kept Charlie's death from getting to him because he had to be strong for his staff. He'd felt bad when Rodgers told him about the hate game in Billy Squires's computer, but there had been so much hate back in Los Angeles that it didn't shock him very much anymore.
All of that, he could manage, yet the incident in the hotel lobby was still with him. All those fine thoughts about Sharon and Ann Farris and fidelity were just that: thoughts.
Bullshit and words.
After just a few weeks, he had accepted Squires's death. Yet after more than twenty years she was still with him. He was surprised by the disorientation, the urgency, the near-panic he had felt speaking to the doorman.
God, he thought, how he wanted to despise her. But he couldn't. Now, as over the years, whenever he tried he ended up hating himself. Now as then, he felt that somehow he was the one who had screwed up.
Though you'll never know for sure, he told himself. And that was nearly as bad as what had happened. Not knowing why it had happened.
He absently ran his hand along the breast pocket of his sports jacket. The pocket with his wallet. The wallet with the tickets. The tickets with the memories.
As he looked out the window at the park, he asked himself, And what would you have done if it had been her?
Asked her, 'So. How've you been? Are you happy? Oh, and by the way, hon— why didn't you put a bullet in my heart to finish the job?' 'It's quite a view, is it not?' Hausen asked.
Hood was caught off guard. He came back to reality hard. 'It is a magnificent view. Back home, I don't even have a window.' Hausen smiled. 'The work we do is different, Herr Hood,' he said. 'I need to see the people I serve. I need to see young couples pushing baby carriages. I need to see elderly couples walking hand in hand. I need to see children playing.' 'I envy you that,' Hood said. 'I spend my days looking at computer-generated maps and evaluating the merits of cluster bombs versus other weapon systems.' 'Your job is to destroy corruption and tyranny. My arena is—' Hausen stopped, reached up as though plucking an apple from a tree, and pulled a word from the sky. 'My arena is the antithesis of that. I try to nurture growth and cooperation.' 'Together,' Hood said, 'we'd've made a helluva Biblical patriarch.' Hausen brightened. 'You mean a judge.' Hood looked at him. 'Sorry?' 'A judge,' he repeated. 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to correct you. But the Bible is a hobby of mine. A passion, really, since I was in a Catholic boarding school. I'm particularly fond of the Old Testament. Are you familiar with the judges?' Hood had to admit that he was not. He assumed they were like contemporary judges, though le didn't say so.
When he was running L.A., he had a plaque on his wall which read, When in doubt, shut up. That policy had served him well throughout his career.
'The judges,' Hausen said, 'were men who rose from the ranks of the Hebrew tribes to become heroes. They where what you might call spontaneous rulers because they had no ties to previous leaders. But once they took command, they were granted the moral authority to settle any and all disputes.' Hausen looked out the window again. His mood darkened slightly. Hood found himself seriously intrigued by this man who hated neo-Nazis, knew Hebrew history, and appeared, as the old game-show host Garry Moore might've put it, 'to have a secret.' 'There was a time in my youth, Herr Hood, when I believed that the judge was the ultimate and correct form of leader. I even thought, 'Hitler understood that. He was a judge. Perhaps he had a mandate from God.' ' Hood looked at him. 'You felt that Hitler was doing God's work, killing people and waging war?' 'Judges killed many people and waged many wars. You must understand, Herr Hood, Hitler lifted us from defeat in a World War, helped to end a depression, took back lands to which many people felt we were entitled, and attacked peoples whom many Germans detested. Why do you think the neo-Nazi movement is so strong today? Because many Germans still believe that he was right.' 'But you fight these people now,' Hood said. 'What made you realize that Hitler was wrong?' Hausen spoke in hard, unhappy halftones. 'I don't wish to appear rude, Herr Hood, but that is something I have never discussed with anyone. Nor would I burden a new friend with it.' 'Why not?' Hood asked. 'New friends bring new perspectives.' 'Not to this,' Hausen said emphatically.
Hausen's lids lowered slightly and Hood could tell he was no longer seeing the park or the people in it. He was somewhere else, somewhere depressing. Hood knew he was wrong. Together, they didn't make a patriach or a judge.
Together, they were a pair of guys haunted by things that had happened to them years before.
'But you are a compassionate man,' Hausen said, 'and I will share one thought with you.' From behind them, Stoll said, 'Hold on, sports fans.
What have we here?' Hood looked back. Hausen put a hand on his shoulder to stop him from going to Stoll.
'It says in James 2:10, 'For whoever keeps the whole law but fails in one point has become guilty of all of it.' ' Hausen removed his hand. 'I believe in the Bible, but I believe in that above all.' 'Gentlemen… meine Herren,' Stoll sail. 'Come hither, please.' Hood was more curious than ever about Hausen, but he recognized that familiar something's-wrong urgency in Stoll's voice. And he saw Lang with his hand over his mouth, as if he'd just witnessed a car crash.
Hood gave the stoic Hausen a reassuring pat on the back of the shoulder, then turned and hurried to the computer.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
'I thank you, General. I thank you very sincerely. But the answer is no.' Sitting in his office, leaning back in his chair, Mike Rodgers knew very well that the voice on the other end of the secure telephone was sincere. He also knew that once the owner of that strong voice said something, he seldom retracted it. Brett August had been that way since he was six.
But Rodgers was also sincere— sincere in his desire to land the Colonel for Striker. And Rodgers was not a man who gave up on anything, especially when he knew the subject's weaknesses as well as his strong points.
A ten-year veteran of the Air Force's Special Operations Command, August was a childhood friend of Rodgers who loved airplanes even more than Rodgers loved action movies. On weekends, the two young boys used to bicycle five miles along Route 22 out to Bradley Field in Hartford, Connecticut. Then they'd just sit in an empty field and watch the planes take off and land. They were old enough to remember when prop planes gave way to the jet planes, and Rodgers vividly remembered getting juiced up whenever one of the new 707s would roar overhead. August used to go berserk.
After school each day, the boys would do their homework together, each taking alternate math problems or science questions so they could get done faster. Then they would build model airplanes, taking care that the paint
