the body. It says here that with an Enjoystick, you'll feel ail the thrills and excitement that your videogame character experiences on-screen.' Rodgers said, 'Along with the hate and love and all stops in between.' 'It doesn't say anything about that,' Ann told him, 'but I can't believe something like this exists. I feel like I'm in a science fiction movie.' 'You're not,' Rodgers said. 'A lot of people still don't understand the power of this technology, but it's there just the same. Thanks, Ann. This was a big help.' 'Any time, Mike,' she said.
Rodgers hung up. Despite— or because of? he asked himself— the pressure of piecing together the Pure Nation puzzle, he was gratified by the short, pleasant exchange. He and Ann had never been charter members of each other's fan clubs. She made no secret of her infatuation with and unqualified defense of Paul Hood. That had often put her at odds with Rodgers, whose approach to crisis management was less diplomatic than Hood's. But Rodgers was working on that, and Ann was trying hard to accept that there was more than Hood's way of doing things.
There's probably a lesson for all of civilization in that, Rodgers thought. Unfortunately, this wasn't the time to don his purple robes and go proselytizing.
Rodgers looked at McCaskey, who was making shorthand notes on the cover of one file at his rapid 140- word-per-minute speed.
'It's all here, Mike,' McCaskey said excitedly. 'Dammit, it's all friggin' here.' 'Let's have it.' McCaskey finished and looked up. 'Let's say that Dominique uses bank setups like the one in Nauru to filter money to white supremacist movements. He throws us off the trail by giving us Pure Nation as busywork while at the same time he's quietly greasing the wheels of other groups.
He's also getting ready to download hate games, games which can be played with the Enjoysticks. People feel good going after minorities.' He looked at Rodgers. 'I agree with Ann— that's a little bit too Amazing Stories for me— but let's put it in the mix for now. It's really not that crucial.' 'Agreed,' said Rodgers.
'Blacks are outraged by the games. Newspapers are outraged. Right-thinking citizens everywhere are outraged,' McCaskey said. 'Meanwhile, Pure Nation doesn't cop a plea, like you said. Uh-uh. They go to trial because a public forum is exactly what they want. And the trial happens soon because the evidence is compelling, the FBI pressures the courts to make room, and Pure Nation won't object to any jurors the prosecution wants. Their macho needs are satisfied by being the sacrificial lambs, They present their case articulately, and if they're good— and many of these people are— they actually sound rational.' 'I'll buy that,' Rodgers said. 'A core of whites will secretly buy into a lot of what they say. Whites who blame high taxes on welfare and unemployment, and blame welfare and unemployment on blacks.' 'Exactly. Black activists become more outraged as the trial progresses, and someone on either side, it doesn't matter which, does something to provoke an incident. The bottom line is rioting. Dominique's operatives make sure it spreads, that there are major explosions in New York and Los Angeles, Chicago and Philadelphia, Detroit and Dallas, and pretty soon the U.S. is on fire.' 'Not just the U.S.,' Rodgers said. 'Bob Herbert's up against the same problem in Germany.' 'There you are,' said McCaskey. 'Dominique raises hell everywhere in the world— except France. That's why the New Jacobins operate silently, efficiently, without publicity.' McCaskey opened Dominique's file, riffled through the pages. 'These guys are unique among terrorists because they truly do terrorize. There are very few reported incidents, but most of the time they threaten people with violence. And then they give specific orders: this group of people leave such-and-such town or when they return they'll make good their threat. It isn't something big, like get the British out of Ireland. They always order something manageable.' 'Surgical strikes which don't get much press,' Rodgers said.
'Try no press,' said McCaskey. 'The French don't give a shit. So with everything else going on, France seems relatively stable. And with Dominique wooing banks and industry and investors, he becomes a serious world player.
Maybe the most serious player.' 'While anyone who tries to tie him to terrorism can't,' said Rodgers.
'Or they get a nighttime visit from the New Jacobins for even trying,' said McCaskey, reviewing the file. 'These guys have all the earmarks of the old Mafia. Strongarm tactics, hits, executions, the works.' Rodgers sat back. 'Paul should be back at Richard Hausen's office in Hamburg by now.' He looked at a notepad on his desk. 'It's RH3-star on the autodial. Bring him up to date and tell him I'm going to try and get through to Colonel Ballon. Unless we've taken a few too many leaps of faith, Dominique is someone we need to get to. And Ballon sounds like the only man who can do that.' 'Good luck,' said McCaskey. 'He's pretty thorny.' 'I'll wear gloves,' said Rodgers. 'If I can swing it, and I think I can, I intend to offer him something he won't be able to find in France.' McCaskey stood. 'What's that?' he asked as he straightened a bad back slowly.
Rodgers replied, 'Help.'
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
