CHAPTER EIGHT
The ride from the airport to the city center on the Autobahn took thirty-five minutes. As always when he traveled on business, Hood wished that he had time to stop and look at some of the buildings, monuments, and museums they passed. It was frustrating to catch just a glimpse, at ninety miles an hour, of churches which were old when the United States was young. But even if there had been time, Hood wasn't sure he'd be comfortable taking it.
Wherever he went, he was adamant about doing the best he could on the business which brought him there. That didn't leave much time for sightseeing or play. His devotion to duty was one of the qualities which had earned him the sobriquet Pope Paul at Op-Center. He didn't know for sure, but he suspected that the nickname had been coined by Op- Center's Press Officer, Ann Farris.
Hood felt a curious sadness as he watched the modern skyscrapers flash by the darkened window. Sadness for himself and for Ann. The young divorcee barely concealed her affection for Paul, and when they worked alone together he felt dangerously close. There was something there, an intoxicating, seductive pull to which it would have been easy to succumb. But to what end? He was married, with two young children, and he wasn't going to leave them. True, he didn't love making love to his wife any more. Sometimes, he hated to admit to himself, he'd just as soon skip it altogether. She wasn't the adoring, attentive, energetic Sharon Kent he had married. She was a mommy. She was a cable TV personality who had a life apart from the family and co-workers he knew only from Christmas parties. And she was older and more tired and not as hungry for him as she'd been.
While you, at least in your heart, he thought, are still El Cid with his lance unsplintered and his stallion full of gallop.
Of course, that was in his heart. He had to admit that in the flesh he wasn't the knight he'd once been either— except in Ann's eyes. Which was why he found himself getting drawn into them now and then.
Still, he and Sharon had built memories together, and a different kind of love than they'd once had. The thought of going home to his family after creating a pocket relationship at the office would have made him feel— well, he knew exactly how he'd feel. He'd thought about it enough on those long drives home from Andrews after long nights of reviewing press releases with Ann. He'd have felt like a goddamn earthworm, low and hiding from the light and wriggling through the dirt for what he needed to survive.
And even if he could've handled the guilt of it all, a relationship like that wouldn't be fair to Ann. She was a good woman with the heart of an angel. To lead her on, to give her hope where there was none, to become intimately involved with the lives of her and her son would have been wrong.
None of which stops you from wanting her, does it?
Hood asked himself. Maybe that was why he and Sharon both worked so hard. They were replacing the passion they'd once had with something they could still do enthusiastically, something. that was fresh and different every day they did it.
But Lord God Hood thought sadly, what I wouldn't give for a night of what was.
The Alster-Hof Hotel was situated between the city's two spectacular lakes, though Hood, Stoll, and Herbert barely had time to check in and wash up before heading back downstairs. Herbert glanced out the windows while Stoll did a quick electronic sweep to make sure the room hadn't been bugged.
'We've got a pretty nice view, huh?' Herbert said as they rode the elevator down. He was absently twirling an eighteen-inch-long section of broom handle he kept under the wheelchair's left armrest for protection. He also kept a two-inch Urban Skinner knife tucked under the right armrest. 'Those lakes remind me of the Chesapeake, with all the boats.' 'They're the Binnenalster and Aussenalster,' a young German porter said helpfully. 'The Inner Alster and Outer Alster.' 'Makes sense,' Herbert admitted. He replaced his stick in the hooks under the armrest. 'Though I probably would have called them the Big Alster and Little Alster. The big lake's what— about ten times larger than the other?' 'Three hundred and ninety-five acres as compared with forty-five,' the youth replied.
'I was in the ballpark,' Herbert said as the elevator reached the lobby. 'I still think my names are better. You can always tell big from little. But you may get 'em mixed up if you don't know which end of the city's in and which end's out.' 'Perhaps you should place a note in the suggestion box,' the porter said, pointing. 'It's right over there, beside the letter box.' Herbert looked at him. So did Hood, who couldn't tell whether the kid was being facetious or helpful. Germans weren't known for their sense of humor, though he'd heard that the new generation was learning a lot about sarcasm from American movies and TV.
'Maybe I'll do that,' Herbert said as he rolled out. He looked over at Stoll, who was bent beneath the weight of his backpack. 'You've got the translator. What would those names be?' Stoll punched the English words into his paperbacksized electronic translator. Almost at once, the German equivalent materialized in the liquid crystal display.
'Looks like they'd be called the Grossalster and the Kleinalster,' Stoll informed him.
Hood said, 'Doesn't have a particularly elegant sound, does it?' 'No,' Herbert agreed, 'but you know what? It beats hell out of what we have back in Philadephia, Mississippi.
Dead Cat Pond, Mudworm Creek—' 'I kind of like those,' Stoll said. 'They paint a picture.' 'Yeah, but not one you'd want on a postcard,' Herbert said. 'Matter of fact, all we've got in our metal twirly thing at the general store are postcards of Main Street and the old schoolhouse and nothing else.' 'I'd rather have the pond and the creek,' Stoll said.
As they made their way through the crowded lobby, Hood looked around for Martin Lang and Deputy Foreign Minister Richard Hausen. He had never met Hausen, but he was anxious to see the German electronics tycoon Lang again. They had spent some time-together when Los Angeles hosted a dinner for international guests at a computer convention. Hood had been impressed with Lang's warmth, sincerity, and intelligence. He was a humanist who understood that without happy employees, he had no company. There were never any layoffs. Hard times were borne by the top levels of management, not the bottom.
When it came time to price the construction of the new brainchild of Mike Rodgers and Matt Stoll, the Regional Op- Center or ROC, Lang was the first person who came to mind for the computers they'd need. His company's patented photon-based technology Leuchtturm, Lighthouse, was adaptable, cutting edge, and expensive. As with most things in government, though, Hood knew that getting the ROC constructed at all would be a delicate balancing act. It would be difficult to get the half-billion-dollar budget for the ROC through Congress under any circumstances, more so if they bought foreign components. At the same time, Op-Center would have a rough time getting the ROC into foreign countries unless it contained hardware from those countries.
What it would ultimately come down to, Hood reflected, were two things. One, that Germany would soon be the leading country in the European Community. The ability to move a mobile spy center in and out with relative freedom would pre-position the U.S. to watch everything Europe did.
Congress would like that. And two, Lang's company, Hauptschl?ssel, Main Key, would have to agree to purchase many of the materials they needed for this and other projects from American companies. A good portion of the money would thus remain in the United States.
Hood felt confident that he could sell that to Lang. He and Matt were going to show him a new technology in which the Germans would surely want to become involved, something the small R&D division of Op-Center had stumbled upon while looking for a way to check the integrity of high-speed electrical circuitry. And though Lang was an honorable man, he was also a businessman and a patriot.
Knowing all about the ROC's hardware and its capabilities, Lang could persuade his government to underwrite technological countermeasures for national security. Then Hood could go to Congress for the money to undermine those, money he would agree to spend with American companies.
He smiled. As strange as it seemed to Sharon, who loathed negotiating, and to Mike Rodgers, who was anything but diplomatic, Hood enjoyed this process. Getting things done in the international political arena was like a big, complex chess game. Though no player came through it unscathed, it was fun to see how many pieces you were able to retain.
They stopped near the house phones, away from the flow of guests. Hood took in the baroque decor of the lobby, as well as the thick, curious mix of smartly dressed businesspeople and casual tourists. Stepping out of the
