'Where is it parked?' Herbert told him.
The police officer continued backing Herbert away.
Herbert put his hands on the wheels to stop them from turning.
'Why do I have to leave?' Herbert asked. 'I'm the wronged party!' 'Because my job is to maintain peace,' the officer said, 'and this is the only way I can do it. Our ranks are thin, spread out at rallies in Bonn, Berlin, Hamburg. I'm sorry, mein Herr, I don't have time to attend to the case of one man. I am going to take you to your automobile and so that you can leave this area of the city.' 'But those bastards attacked me,' Herbert said. He realized he was still holding the stick, and replaced it before the police officer thought to take it away. 'What if I want to press charges against them, expose the whole damn lot of them?' 'Then you will lose,' said the officer. He turned Herbert around, away from the crowd. 'They say that man was offering to help you into the Beer-Hall and you struck him— ' 'Yeah, right.' 'They say that you caused him to spill his beer. At the very least, they wanted you to pay for that.' 'And you believe all this?' 'It doesn't matter what I believe,' the police officer said. 'When I turned, that man was hurt and you were holding a stick. That is what I saw, and that is what I would have put in my report.' 'I see,' Herbert said. 'You saw one middle-aged man in a wheelchair facing two hundred healthy young Nazis and you concluded that I was the bad guy.' 'As far as the law is concerned, that is correct,' said the police officer.
Herbert heard the words and he understood their context. He heard it enough in the U.S. regarding other criminals, other punks, but they still amazed him. Both men knew that these bastards were lying, yet the group would get away with what they did here. And as long as no one in law enforcement or government wanted to put their own security in danger, they would continue to get away with it.
At least Herbert took some comfort in the fact that he would get away with it too. And giving that pig a poke was almost worth the beer bath he took.
As Herbert was wheeled away, car horns sounded in the traffic tie-up caused by the police officer's departure.
They echoed the noise in his own soul, the noise of the anger and determination which filled him. He was leaving, but he resolved to get these goons. Not here and not now, but somewhere else and soon.
One of the men had separated from the crowd. He went into the Beer-Hall, strolled through the kitchen, exited by the back door, and used a trash can to climb the picket fence. He crossed through an alley and emerged on the same street as Herbert and the police officer.
They had already passed, headed toward the side sheet where Herbert had parked his car.
The young man followed them. As one of Karin Doring's personal lieutenants, he had been instructed to watch anyone who might be watching them. That was something those who were unaligned with any specific faction would not think to do.
He stayed well behind them, watching as the police officer helped Herbert into the car, as he placed the wheelchair in the back, as he stood there making sure that Herbert drove off.
The man pulled a pen and telephone from the inside pocket of his blazer. He described the license tag and the make of Herbert's rented car. When the police officer turned and walked briskly back toward his beat, the young man also turned and went back to the Beer-Hall.
A moment later, a van pulled out of a parking area located three blocks from Bob Herbert.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
'What's the problem?' Hood asked as he reached Stoll's side.
Lang was looking pale and uncomfortable and Stoll was working the keys madly.
'Something really sick is going on,' Stoll said. 'I'll show you in a second— I was running a diagnostics program, trying to figure out how it got here.' Hausen stopped next to Hood. He asked, 'How what got here?' Stoll said, 'You'll see. I'm not sure I want to try and describe it.' Hood was beginning to feel a lot like Alice after she went through the looking glass. Every time he turned around, people and events became more and more curious.
Stoll said, 'I was checking out your cache memory capacities and I found a file that was put in at one-twelve P.M. today.' 'One-twelve?' Hood said. 'That's when we were having lunch.' 'Right.' Hausen said, 'But no one was here, Herr Stoll, except for Reiner.' 'I know,' Stoll said. 'And by the way— he's gone now.' Hausen looked at Stoll strangely. 'Gone?' 'Split,' said Stoll. He pointed into the reception area.
'Soon as I sat down here, he took his shoulder bag and Italian-cut jacket and vamoosed. Your computer's been answering the phones ever since.' Hausen's eyes went from Stoll to the computer. His voice was flat as he asked, 'What have you found?' 'For one thing,' Stoll said, 'Reiner left you a little love letter, which I'll show you in a minute. First, though, I want you to see this.' Stoll's index fingers pecked out commands, and the seventeen-inch screen went from blue to black. White stripes slashed across the screen horizontally. They morphed into strands of barbed wire, then changed again to form the words CONCENTRATION CAMP. Finally, the letters turned red and pooled into blood which filled the screen.
Introductory screens followed. First, there was the principal gate at Auschwitz with the inscription Arbeit macht frei.
'Work liberates,' Lang said from behind his hand.
Next came a succession of clear, detailed, computer- animated snippets. Crowds of men, women, and children walking through the gate. Men in striped camp uniforms facing a wall while guards whipped them with switches. Men being shorn of their hair. A wedding ring being handed to a member of the SS Death's Head Unit in exchange for shoes.
Searchlights in towers piercing the early morning dark as an SS guard roared, 'Arbeitskommandos austreten.' 'Working parties fall out,' Lang translated. His hand was trembling now.
Prisoners grabbing shovels and picks. Leaving the main gate and doffing their caps to honor the slogan. Being kicked and punched by the guards. Working on a section of road.
A large party of men threw down their shovels and ran into the darkness. And then the game began. A menu offered the player a selection of languages. Stoll selected English.
An SS guard appeared in close-up and spoke to the player. His face was an animated photograph of Hausen.
Behind him was a pastoral setting of trees, rivers, and the corner of a red brick citadel.
'Twenty-five prisoners have escaped into the woods.
Your job is to divide your force so that you can find them, at the same time maintaining the productivity of the camp and continuing the processing of the bodies of subhumans.' The game then jumped between vivid scenes of playercontrolled guards and dogs hunting men in the forest, and bodies piling up in the crematoria. Stoll ordered the game to play itself, since he said he couldn't bring himself to put the bodies on the pallets for incineration.
'The letter,' Hausen said as they watched the program.
'What did Reiner's letter say?' Stoll hit Ctrl/Alt/Delete and killed the game. Then he went back into the computer to retrieve Reiner's letter.
'The guy didn't talk much, did he?' Stoll asked as he jabbed the keys.
'No,' said Hausen. 'Why do you ask?' Stoll said, 'Because I have no idea what he wrote, but there sure wasn't much of it.' The letter came up and Lang leaned closer. He translated for the Americans.
' 'Herr Savior,' ' he said, ' 'I hope you enjoy this game, while it is still a game.' And it is signed, 'Reiner.' ' Hood was watching Hausen closely. His back straightened and his mouth turned down. He looked like he wanted to cry.
'Four years,' Hausen said. 'We were together four years. We fought for human rights in the newspapers, behind megaphones, on television.' 'Looks like he was there just to spy on you,' Hood said.
Hausen turned from the computer. 'I can't believe it,' he said sullenly. 'I ate with his parents, at their home. He asked what I thought of his fianc‚e. It can't be.' 'Those are exactly the kinds of things moles use to build trust,' Hood said.
Hausen looked at him. 'But four years!' he said. 'Why wait until now?' 'Chaos Days,' Lang offered. His hand fell limply to his side. 'It was his perverted statement.' 'I'd be surprised if that was the case,' Hood said.
