Games of State o-3 Read online

  He remembered waiting for a Paul Newman movie to start in a Westwood theater while he and Nancy discussed the House Judiciary Committee's debate on whether President Nixon should be impeached. He could still smell the popcorn she had, taste the Milk Duds he ate.

  He remembered talking through the night about the future of technology after playing the black-and-white video game Pong for the first time. He should have known, by the way she whipped his butt, that that was the field she was destined to conquer.

  He hadn't thought of these things in years, yet he could recall so many of the exact words, the smells and sights, Nancy Jo's expressions and what she was wearing. It was all so vivid. So was her energy. He had been smitten with that, even a little intimidated. She was the kind of woman who looked under every rock, explored each new world, looked into every fresh field. And when that lovely dervish wasn't working, she was playing with Hood in discos and in bed, yelling herself hoarse at Lakers or Rams or Kings games, shouting with frustration or delight from behind a Scrabble rack or video-game joystick, biking through Griffith Park and hiking in Bronson Caverns while she tried to find the spot where Robot Monster was filmed. Nancy could barely sit through a movie without pulling out a pad and making notes. Notes she couldn't read later because they'd been scribbled in the dark, yet that didn't matter. It was the process of thinking, of creating, of doing which had always fascinated Nancy. And it was her energy and enthusiasm and creativity and magnetism which had always fascinated him. She was like a Greek muse, like Terpsichore, her mind and body dancing here and there as Hood followed, entranced.

  And goddamn you, he thought, you still are entranced.

  Hood didn't want to feel the things he was feeling again. The longing. The desire to wrap his arms around that whirlwind and rush madly into the future with her. Hold on desperately to make up for all the time they had lost. He didn't want to feel it, but a big part of him did.

  Christ, he yelled at himself, grow up!

  But it wasn't that simple, was it? Being an adult, being sensible, would only tell, him how things happened, not what to do about them.

  How did they happen? And how did Nancy manage to overwhelm the two decades of rage he felt and the new life he had built?

  He could follow, as if it were a staircase, each step that had brought him to where he was now. Nancy disappeared.

  He slipped into despair. He met Sharon in a framing store.

  She was there to get her cooking school diploma framed while he was selecting a matte for his signed photo from the Governor. They talked. They exchanged numbers. He called.

  She was attractive, intelligent, stable. She wasn't creative outside the kitchen she loved, and she didn't glow in that same supernatural way that Nancy did. If there were such a thing as past lives, Hood could imagine a dozen or more souls flowing through Nancy's veins. You couldn't see anyone in Sharon but Sharon.

  But that was good, he told himself. You want to settle down and raise children with someone who can settle down.

  And that wasn't Nancy. Life wasn't perfect now, but if he wasn't in heaven with Sharon all the time, he was happy to be in Washington with a wife and family who loved him and respected him and weren't going to run off. Did Nancy ever really respect him? What had she seen in him? During the months following her departure, when he'd done the forensics on their relationship and his love had turned to ash, he'd never really understood what he'd brought to the party.

  Hood reached the building lobby. He entered the elevator, and as the speed lift reached Hausen's floor Hood began to feel manipulated. Nancy had left, shown up a score of years later, and presented herself to him. Offered herself to him. Why? Guilt? Not Nancy. She had the conscience of a circus clown. A pie in the face, seltzer down the waistband, oops! A big laugh and all was forgotten, at least by her. And people accepted it because she was selfish but endearing, not malicious. Loneliness? She was never lonely. Eyen when she was alone she was with someone who could keep her amused. A challenge? Maybe. He could picture her asking herself, Have you still got it, Nancy old girl?

  Not that it really mattered. He was back in the present, back in the real world where he was in his forties, not twenties, living with his precious little planets instead of a wild, soaring comet. Nancy had come and she had gone, and at least he knew what had happened to her.

  And maybe, he thought suddenly and surprisingly, you can stop blaming Sharon because she isn't Nancy. Did some deep, regretful part of him feel that? he wondered. God, it scared him, the cobwebbed corridors to which that staircase of his had taken him.

  To complete his emotional buffet, Hood felt guilty for having left poor Hausen standing there, his soul exposed, a black part of his history on his lips. He'd left him without a shoulder or the help of the man to whom he'd just confessed.

  Hood would make his apologies and Hausen, gentleman that he was, would probably accept them. Besides, Hood had bared his own soul and men understood men that way.

  Where tragedies of the heart or mistakes of youth were concerned, men freely gave one another absolution.

  Hausen was standing beside Stoll in the main office.

  Lang was still at Stoll's right.

  Hausen met Hood with concerned eyes. "Did you get what you needed?" he asked.

  "Pretty much," Hood said. He smiled reassuringly. "Yes, thank you. Everything okay here?" Hausen said, "I'm glad we spoke." He managed to smile as well.

  Stoll was busy typing in commands. "Chief, Herr Hausen wasn't forthcoming about where you'd gone," he said without looking up, "but I find it strange that Paul Hood and Superman are never around at the same time." "Cool it," Hood warned.

  "At once, Boss," Stoll replied. "Sorry." Now Hood felt guilty for having jumped on him. "Never mind," he said in a gentler tone. "It's been a wicked afternoon. What have you found out?" Stop brought the game's title screen back on the monitor. "Well," he said, "as I was just telling Herrs Hausen and Lang, this game was installed with a time-release command by the Deputy Foreign Minister's assistant, Hans— " "Who seems to have vanished," Lang contributed. "We tried him at home and at his health club, and there's no answer." "And his E-mail address at home isn't receiving," Stoll said. "So he's definitely on the lam. Anyway, the photo of Herr Hausen is from coverage of a speech he gave to Holocaust survivors, while this landscape is from here." Stoll hit the recycle command, dumped the title screen, and brought up the photo downloaded from Op-Center's Kraken.

  Hood leaned forward and read the caption. " 'The Tarn at Montauban, le Vieux Pont.' " He straightened. "France or Canada?" he asked.

  "The south of France," Stoll said. "When you arrived, I was just about to bring up Deirdre's report on the place." He used the keyboard to bring up the file. Then he read, "It says, 'The route rationale, blah-blah, goes north and northwest with the River Garonne to meet the Tarn at Montauban, population 51,000. Town consists of such-andsuch' " — he skimmed the demographic makeup while scrolling the screen— "and— ah. Here. 'The building is a stronghold built in 1144 and has historically been associated with regionalism in the south. As a fortress, it helped fight off attacks by Catholics during the Religious Wars, and has remained a symbol of defiance to the locals.' " Stoll continued to scroll the screen.

  Hood said, "Does it say anything about who owns the place?" "I'm a-checkin'," said Stoll. He typed in the word "owner" and ordered a word search. The screen jumped several paragraphs and a name was highlighted. Stoll read, " 'Sold last year for the manufacture of software, with provisions that the owner not make alterations in— yadda, yadda. Here," he said, "owner. A privately held French company named Demain, which was incorporated in the city of Toulouse in May of 1979." Hood shot Stoll a look, then ducked toward the screen.

  "Hold on," he said, He read the date. "Tell Deirdre or Nat to get me more information on that company. Quickly." Stoll nodded, cleared the screen, and rang up "The Keepers of the Kraken," as he called them. He E-mailed for more information on Demain, then sat back, folded his arms
, and waited.

  The wait was not a long one. Deirdre sent over a short article from the June 1980 issue of a magazine called Videogaming Illustrated. It read: GAMES OF TOMORROW Are you Asteroid-ed out?

  Have you been Space Invader-ed to death?

  Even if you still love yesterday's hits, a new star in the video-game firmament, the French company Demain, which means "tomorrow," has developed a different kind of cartridge to play on your Atari, Intellivision, and Odyssey home systems. Their first cartridge, the quest game A Knight to Remember, will be in stores this month. It is the first game which will be made available for the three leading video-game systems.

  In a press release, company research and development head Jean-Michel Horne says, "Thanks to a revolutionary and powerful new chip we have developed, graphics and gameplay will be more detailed and exciting than in any previous game." A Knight to Remember will sell for $34.00 and will be packaged with a discount coupon for the company's next release, the superhero game Ooberman.

  Hood took a moment to contemplate the article and weigh the implications. It helped to put together some pieces.

  Nancy stole plans for a new chip and sold them to a company, possibly— no, probably— this Demain. Gerard, a racist, makes a fortune manufacturing video games. On the sly, he puts money into hate games.

  But why? As a hobby? Certainly not. Little doses of hate like that would be too small and unsatisfying for a man like the one Richard Hausen described.

  Assume he did make hate games, though, Hood thought. Charlie Squires's kid surfed into one. What if that were Dominique's? Could Gerard be using the Internet to send them around the world?

  Again, Hood thought, assume yes. Why do that? Not just to make money. From what Hausen said, Dominique has enough of that.

  He would have to have something bigger in mind, Hood thought. Hate games appearing on the Internet. Confident threats to Hausen. Were they timed to coincide with Chaos Days?

  It all seemed to be going nowhere. Too many pieces were missing, and there was one person who might be able- but willing? — to tell him what that could be.

  "Herr Hausen," Hood said, "would you mind if I borrowed your driver for a short while?" "Not at all," Hausen said. "Do you need anything else?" "Not at the moment, thanks," Hood replied. "Matt, please send this article to General Rodgers. Tell him that this Dominique may be our hate-game peddler. If there's any more background to be had—" "We'll get it," Stoll said. "Your wish is my command." "I appreciate it," Hood said, patting Stoll on the back and already headed toward the door.

  As he watched Hood move through the reception area, Matt Stoll folded his arms again. "There's no doubt about it.

  My boss is Superman."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Thursday, 5:17 P.M., Hanover, Germany

  "Bob," said the caller, "I've got good news." Herbert was glad to hear that his assistant Alberto had good news. Not only did he ache where the seatbelt had pulled at his chest, but the thought that his attackers would escape left him seething. Herbert had been unable to find the van, so he'd pulled over on a side street and used his cellular phone to call Op-Center. He'd told Alberto what had happened and asked him to have the National Reconnaissance Office try to find the van for him. When they did, Herbert intended to go to the site. The German police were spread so thin he knew he couldn't count on them.

  Herbert had to rely on himself to bring these people to justice.

  Herbert was surprised when the phone beeped just six minutes after he'd called. It took five times longer than that to move a satellite eye from where it was to someplace else.

  Alberto said, "You're in luck. The NRO was already watching your area for Larry, who's looking into the kidnapping of the film intern. He wants to beat Griff on this one. And it's a good thing too. All our other satellites have been pressed into service watching a developing situation in the southern Balkans." Larry was CIA Director Larry Rachlin. Griff was FBI Director Griff Egenes. Their rivalry was old and relentless.

  Like Op-Center, both organizations had access to NRO data.

  However, Egenes hoarded information like squirrels hoarded nuts.

  "What's the NRO got?" Herbert asked. He was uncomfortable talking to Alberto on an unsecure line, but there wasn't any choice. He just hoped no one was listening.

  "For Larry, nothing. No sign of the van, no sign of the girl. Darrell says Griff hasn't got anything either, though.

  None of his regular police sources seem to be around." "I'm not surprised," Herbert said. "They're all in the field riding herd on neo-Nazis." "Better that than riding with them," Alberto observed.

  "True," said Herbert. "Now what about the van, Alberto? You stalling or something?" "As a matter of fact, I am," he said. "Boss, you're just one man with zero backup. You shouldn't be going—" "Where is it?" Herbert demanded.

  Alberto sighed. "Stephen found it, and it's a definite match. It's banged up just where you said it'd be. It's headed west on one of the Autobahnen— though from just the photo, I can't tell you which one." "That's okay," said Herbert. "I'll find it on the map." "I know it's a waste of breath to try and talk you out of it—" "You got that right, son." " — so I'll just tell General R. what you're doing. Is there anything else you need?" "Yes," Herbert said. "If the van gets off the autobahn, give me a jingle." "Of course," said Alberto. "Stephen knows you, Bob. He said he'll have his people keep an eye on it." "Thank him," Herbert said, "and tell him he gets my vote for this year's Conrad. On second thought, don't. That'll get his hopes up." "Aren't his hopes always up?" Alberto asked as he signed off.

  Herbert hung up and grinned; after what he'd just been through, it felt good to smile. As he checked his map to find the roads to the east-west running Autobahn, he thought about the Conrads and his smile broadened. They were a fun, unofficial award given at a very private dinner each year by America's leading intelligence figures. The daggerlike trophy honored the government's top intelligence figure and was named in honor of Joseph Conrad. The author's 1907 novel, The Secret Agent, was one of the first great espionage tales, about an agent-provocateur who worked the back streets of London. The dinner was just five weeks away, and it was always a blast— thanks in no small part to poor Stephen Viens.

  Herbert noted the route he needed to take, then urged his wounded mechanical steed ahead. It went, albeit with some clanks and whines which weren't there before.

  Viens had been Matt Stoll's best friend in college, and he was as serious as his classmate was flip. Since his appointment as assistant director and then director of the NRO, Viens's amazing technical talents had been largely responsible for the facility's increasing effectiveness and importance. During the past four years, the one hundred satellites under his command had provided detailed, blackand- white photographs of the earth at whatever magnification was required. Viens was fond of saying, "I can give you a picture covering several city blocks or the letters on a children's block." And because he was so serious, Viens took the Conrads so seriously. He really did want one, everyone knew it, and for that reason the voting committee colluded to keep it from him by one vote, year after year. Herbert always felt bad about the deception, but as CIA Chief and Conrad Chairman Rachlin said, "Hell; we are covert operatives, after all." Actually, Herbert intended to lie to Larry and then vote for Viens this year. Not because of his body of work but for his integrity. Since the increase of terrorist activity in the U.S., the Pentagon had launched four hundred-milliondollar- apiece satellites code-named Ricochet. They were positioned a mean 22,000 miles over North America and were designed to spy on our own country. If they knew about it, everyone from the far left to the extreme right would have a problem with Big Brother's eyes in the skies.

  But because those eyes were under Viens's command, no one who did know feared that they would be misused for personal or political gain.

  Herbert got back on the Autobahn, though the Mercedes didn't race as smoothly as it had before. He could only manage fifty miles an hour— "slower
than mud," as his Grandmother Shel used to say back in Mississippi.

  And then the phone beeped. Coming so soon after Alberto called, Herbert guessed that this would be Paul Hood ordering him back. But Herbert had already decided he wouldn't return. Not without somebody's pelt being in somebody's canoe.

  Herbert answered the phone. "Yes?" "Bob, it's Alberto. I just got a new photograph, a 2MD of the entire region." A 2MD was a two-mile-diameter view with the van at the center. The satellites were pre-programmed to move in or out at quarter-mile intervals with simple commands.

  Different incremental views required a different, more complex set of commands.

  Alberto continued, "Your party has gotten off the Autobahn." "Where?" Herbert said. "Give me a landmark." "There's only one landmark, Bob. A small, wooded area with a two-lane road leading northwest." Herbert glanced along the horizon. "There are a lot of trees and woods out here, Alberto. Is there anything else?" "One thing," said Alberto. "Police. About a dozen of them surrounding what's left of a blown-out vehicle." Herbert's eyes fixed on a point ahead, but he didn't see it. He was only thinking of one thing. "The movie trailer?" he asked.

  "Hold on," Alberto said. "Stephen's downloading another photo." Herbert clapped his lips together. Op-Center's link with the NRO allowed Alberto to see the photograph at the same time as Viens's people did. The CIA had the same capacity, though without operatives in the field here they wouldn't be able to get anyone over, either officially or undercover.

  "I've got a quarter-mile view," Alberto said. There was chatter behind him. "I've also got Levy and Warren looking over my shoulder." "I hear them." Marsha Levy and Jim Warren were Op- Center's photo reconnaissance analysts. They were a perfect team. Levy had an eye like a microscope, while Warren's talent was the ability to see how details fit in the overall picture. Together, they could look at a photograph and not only tell you what was in it, but what might be under it or out of sight, and how everything got there.