Games of State o-3 Read online

  I was calling, Colonel Ballon, to offer you the assistance of a NATO commander in Italy. His name is Colonel Brett August, and his speciality is—" "I have read white papers by Colonel August," said Ballon. "He is a brilliant counterterrorist operative." "And a lifelong friend of mine," said Rodgers. "He'll assist you if I ask him. But I also have equipment in Germany which I'll lend to you." "What kind of equipment?" Ballon asked. He was getting suspicious again. This man seemed like too much of a good thing. A good thing he wouldn't be able to resist. A good thing who might be taking his marching orders from Dominique. A good thing which might end in an ambush.

  "It's a new kind of X-ray device," Rodgers said. "One with which my operator can probably work some nearmiracles." "A new kind of X-ray," Ballon said dubiously. "That isn't going to help. I don't need to know where people are—" "It might be able to read papers for you," Rodgers said.

  "Or lips." Ballon was attentive but still wary. "General Michael Rodgers," he said. "How do I know you're not working with Dominique?" Rodgers said, "Because we also know about a pair of murders he committed twenty-five years ago. We know about them because we know the person who was with him at the time. I can tell you nothing more— except that I want Dominique brought to justice." Ballon looked at his men, who were all looking at him.

  "Watch the monitors!" he yelled.

  They did. Ballon was dying to get out of there and into action.

  "All right," said the Colonel. "How do I get in touch with this miracle worker of yours?" Rodgers said, "Stay where you are. I'll have him phone you there." Ballon agreed and hung up. Then he told Ste. Marie to take three men outside and watch the building. If it looked as though anyone was staking them out or closing in on them, they were to radio him at once.

  But Ballon had a feeling in his gut that General Rodgers was one of the good men, just as he'd had a feeling in his gut about Dominique being one of the bad men.

  I only hope my gut is not getting soft, he said as Ste.

  Marie and the men left and he continued to stand by the telephone.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Thursday, 9:34 A.M., Studio City, California

  He called himself Streetcorna, and he sold audio tapes from a panther-skin backpack. Every day for more than a year, around seven in the morning, the young man would leave his battered old Volkswagen in the parking lot behind the strip of stores off Laurel Canyon in Studio City, and walk toward Ventura Boulevard. As he walked, his black leather sandals dragged unhurriedly along the sidewalk, propelled by long, lean legs which were visible beneath the dried leaves of his Sudanese pagne. The skirt was held up by a shoulder strap made of leopard skin. Beneath the straps was a sweat-stained black T-shirt with white lettering which read "STREETCORNA RAP." His hair was shaved around the sides, leaving only a large clump in the center which was woven with wood into a latticed cone. His eyes were invisible behind his wraparound shades. The tiny diamond studs in his nostrils and tongue shined. with perspiration and saliva.

  Streetcorna always took his time as he walked to his spot. Heading out, he would smile as he drew on a joint to get ready for the day's huckstering and performing. As the smoke loosened him up, he would move his spindly arms and bony hands with the rhythm in his head. His thighs began to move to the beat and he shut his eyes and clapped his hands slowly as he walked.

  Each day, he had a new lyric. Today it was, "IgotIgot Igot I got I got what I need if I got my weed. Smokin' gives me creed 'gainst the slick man's greed. Ana greed like his seed 'severywhere while I bleed. I'm not freed no indeed brother heed foll' my lead." Streetconna stopped walking at the corner, though he kept on moving. He doffed his backpack without losing the beat, unzipped it to reveal the prerecorded cassettes inside, switched on a small tape recorder, then continued his performance. He usually sold five or six tapes a day on the honor system. Since he was too busy to stop, a small, handwritten sign on a cardboard instructed potential customers to deposit what they wanted. Most left five dollars, a few one or two, some ten. He averaged thirty dollars a day, enough for smoke, gas, and food.

  "AllIallI allI all I need…." His biggest score was the day he was brought to the studios across the street on Radford Avenue. He appeared on an evening sitcom, in a street scene, and earned enough money to prerecord some music. Before that, everything was recorded live, in the street, as he sang it. Everyone who bought a Streetcorna tape had an original. Now, they had a choice.

  Streetcorna usually wrapped his day at eight or nine in the evening, after the video store down the street had rented most of what it was going to rent and the drugstore and bookstore closed and the traffic slowed, Then he returned to his car, drove to a side street or a grocery store parking lot, and read in his car by streetlight or candlelight.

  On the last day of his life, Streetcorna arrived at his post at 7:10 in the morning. He sold one tape for ten dollars during the next two hours, lit a joint at 9:15, and went into his rap, "I'm a dissin' the Districk, the ho's in Deecee. " As he rapped with his eyes shut, two young men crossed Laurel Canyon. They were blond, tall, and walking slowly as they ate pita sandwiches. They were wearing tennis whites and carrying gym bags. When they neared Streetcorna, one man stopped slightly behind him on his right, the other slightly behind him on his left. As pedestrians rushed by, trying to make the Walk signal on the light, the men calmly took tire irons from their bags and slammed them into the front of the man's knees.

  Streetcorna fell with a howl, his sunglasses shattering as his face hit the pavement. People began to slow and watch as the young man screamed again and curled painfully into a fetal position. Before he could turn and look at his attackers, however, the men raised the irons and brought them down viciously on the side of his head. His skull broke on the first strike, splashing the concrete with blood, but the men delivered two more blows apiece.

  Streetcorna jerked with each of the blows, then died.

  "Jesus!" a young woman screamed as the horrible reality of what had happened made its way through the crowd, like a serpent. "Jesus!" she screamed again, her face entirely white. "What have you done?" As one of the young men stood, the other patted their victim down.

  "Silenced his crap," said the man who had risen.

  An old black woman leaning on a well-worn cane yelled, "Someone call the police! Someone help!" The youth looked at her, then walked to where she was standing, by the drugstore. People moved out of his way.

  The old woman leaned her body away from him but her expression remained defiant.

  "Hey!" a middle-aged white man yelled, inserting himself between them. "Back, off—" The attacker drove his right heel down hard on the man's left instep. The middle-aged man crumpled in pain.

  The black woman backed against the window of the drugstore.

  The savage youth put his face in hers and said, "You shut your stinking hole." "Not as long as I'm breathing American air," she replied.

  With a sneer, the youth drove the front of the iron into her mouth. She doubled over and he pushed her down easily.

  The young white man lurched forward and threw himself over her.

  "Got them," said the other young man as he pulled the keys from Streetcorna's pocket. He rose.

  The assailant withdrew casually, as though he were returning to his corner to serve again after hitting a net ball.

  The two men stood side-by-side as a crowd gathered and formed a loose, threatening circle around them.

  "They can't get us all!" someone yelled.

  The man with the keys reached into his bag and withdrew a.45. "Like hell we can't," he said.

  The crowd didn't so much part as come apart. The men walked through, up Laurel Canyon, ignoring the glares of the pedestrians and the shouts of those in the back. They found Streetcoma's car and got in. They knew it from days of having watched the rapper. Turning onto Laurel Canyon, they headed up into the Hollywood Hills. Unpursued, they were quickly swallowed in the traffic headed toward Hollywood.

  Police arrived near
ly seven minutes later, and a helicopter search was ordered. The chopper spotted the car parked near the intersection of Coldwater Canyon and Mulholland Drive. It was abandoned and clean. Employees at the fire station on top of the hill remembered seeing a car idling on the side of the road, but no one could remember what kind it was or what the driver looked like. No one saw the Volkswagen arrive or the waiting car leave.

  When the police confiscated Streetcorna's bag, there were no tapes, just four hundred dollars and change.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Thursday, 6:41 P.M., Hamburg, Germany

  Paul Hood arrived at Hausen's office with Nancy walking a few paces behind him. She entered tentatively, as though she weren't sure whether she'd find friends or enemies here. What she found, at the moment, were people completely wrapped up in their own concerns.

  Hausen was talking on a cellular phone in the reception area. He had obviously determined that the security of his office phones had probably been compromised. The cellular phone wasn't secure, but at least he wouldn't have to worry that the enemy was listening to everything he said.

  Lang was sitting on the edge of the desk, lips pressed tightly together as he looked down at Hausen. Matt Stoll was still sitting at Hausen's computer in the main office.

  Hausen was speaking forcefully in German with someone named Erwin. German always seemed harsh to Hood, but this conversation seemed especially so. And Hausen did not look pleased.

  Lang walked over to them. Hood introduced him to Nancy. "This is Nancy Jo Bosworth. She's an employee of Demain." Even as he said it, he couldn't believe the words were coming from his mouth. He had to have been insane to have gone back to get her. Completely and utterly insane.

  "I see," Lang said with a polite, pursed smile.

  "I'm not a friend of Dominique's," she added. "I don't know him." "It appears that few do," Lang said, still smiling tightly.

  Hood excused himself to introduce Nancy to Stoll. Then he left them together and returned to the outer office.

  "What is Herr Hausen doing?" he asked Lang.

  "He's talking with the French Ambassador in Berlin, trying to arrange an immediate trip to France to investigate the matter of this game and its maker. Herr Hausen wants to confront this man Dominique in the presence of French authorities." Lang leaned closer. "He tried calling Dominique directly but was unable to get through. He seems unusually agitated by all of this. He takes hate crimes so very personally." Hood asked, "How is it going with the Ambassador?" "It isn't going well at all," Lang said. "Dominique apparently has a great deal of influence over there. He controls banks and several industries and a horrifying number of politicians." Hood gave Hausen a short, sympathetic look, then stepped into the main office. He knew how difficult it was dealing with the system in Washington. He couldn't begin to imagine the red tape which had to exist between nations.

  Especially nations with a longstanding hate-hate relationship such as these two.

  He stood beside Nancy as she watched Stoll guide fluidly animated dogs running through a swamp. He found it difficult to concentrate on the game.

  "How're you doing, Matt?" Hood asked.

  Stoll hit "P" to pause. He turned. around, his eyebrows arched. "This is one nasty game, Chief. What the characters do to people with ropes, knives, and dogs is not to be believed. You'll be able to see for yourself later," he said.

  "I've hooked up the VCR and I'm playing through. I'll watch the tape later in slow motion to see if there are subliminal messages or other clues or anything I've missed." Nancy said, "I take it this is the game Herr Hausen received." "Yup," Stoll said, unpausing the game. Almost immediately, one of the dogs he was controlling fell into quicksand and began sinking.

  "Shit!" he yelled "Y'know, I was doing okay when I was alone—" "Deal with it," Nancy said. She leaned over him and pushed the "down" arrow on the keyboard.

  "Hey, what are you doing?" Stoll demanded. "Don't mess with my game—" "You missed something," Nancy said.

  "I what?" As she held the button down, the dog drifted through the quicksand and emerged in an underground cavern. She switched between the left and right arrows, collecting Nazi memorabilia and racking up points.

  Hood walked over. "How did you know that was there?" "This is an adapatation of a game I designed called The Bog Beast," Nancy replied. "Same game screens— background, foreground elements, traps. Different characters and scenario, though. I had a swamp monster running from its creator and angry villagers. This is obviously very much different." "But it's definitely your game," Hood said.

  "Absolutely." She turned the controls back to Stoll.

  "Exit by crawling into the storm drain on the left," she said.

  "Thanks," he huffed as he continued playing.

  Hood stepped away. He resisted the urge to take Nancy's hand and pull her along. But he'd noticed Stoll's eyes dart toward them while they stepped toward the corner. For all its quality and top-level security clearances, Op-Center was no different from other offices. It talked. His people could keep state secrets, but the phrase "personal secrets" was almost an oxymoron.

  Nancy came of her own accord. Hood could see the concern, love, and lingering disappointment in her eyes.

  "Paul," she said softly, "I know I screwed up in the past, but this isn't my doing. Any number of people could have made these changes." "You mean people in the inner circle of Dominique's." Nancy nodded.

  "I believe you," Hood said. "The question is, what are we going to do about it?" Hood's cellular phone beeped and he excused himself.

  "Hello?" "Paul," said the caller, "it's Darrell. Can you talk?" Hood said that he could.

  McCaskey said, "I've met with Liz and Mike, and it looks to us like this fellow you were asking about is Mr. Hate himself. And powerful enough to avoid arrest." "Explain." "He appears to use a network of banks to launder money and finance hate groups worldwide. The law sniffs around him but never bites. Meanwhile, it looks like he's getting set to introduce a new joystick which helps players feel as if whatever they're seeing on the screen is very real." "I assume this joystick is compatible with the hate games." "Sure is," said McCaskey. "But our immediate problem isn't any of that. The Pure Nation team that got picked up this morning may have been a plant. It looks like they and the hate games could be part of a larger plan to turn U.S.

  cities into racial war zones. Again," he said, "we have no hard evidence. Only some tenuous links and gut feelings." "Our gut feelings are usually on the money," Hood said.

  "Does it look like there's any kind of timetable?" "Tough to say. The media are all over Pure Nation, and we think they're going to milk that forum." "Of course they will," said Hood.

  "The games are also ready to launch," McCaskey said.

  "If this is a coordinated effort, the coordinator isn't going to let the fear grow cold. A couple of strikes against blacks and communities won't just ignite, they'll explode. I've just been talking with my associates at the Bureau. We agree that in a worst-case scenario, incidents could begin erupting within days, if not hours." Hood didn't bother to ask how a single foreign businessman had been able to put so much of what Rodgers called "bad news" in position without being discovered. He knew the answer. Dominique had money, autonomy, and patience. With money and patience alone, the Japanese Aum Shinrikyo cult had been able to operate from a Manhattan office from 1987 to 1995, buying everything from a computer equipment to a laser system capable of measuring plutonium to several tons of steel for the manufacture of knives. All of this was going to be used to help begin a war between Japan and the United States. Though it was unlikely the war would have occurred; the nuclear destruction of a U.S. city might well have been achieved if investigators of the Senate Permanent Investigations Committee, working with the CIA and the FBI, had not been able to penetrate and arrest the members of the doomsday cult.

  Hood asked, "What are the chances of stopping this from your end?" "Obviously," said McCaskey, "until we know the scope of the man's ambitions or eve
n specific targets, I can't say." "But you think— you feel— that all of this is being generated by one man?" McCaskey said, "That's how it looks from here." "So if we were to get to the one man," Hood said, "we could put the brakes on everything." "Conceivably," McCaskey said. "At least, that's the way it looks to me." "Let's work on that," Hood said. "Meanwhile, has anybody heard anything from Bob?" McCaskey said, "Actually… yes." Hood didn't like the way that sounded. "What's he doing?" McCaskey explained and Hood listened, feeling guilty as all hell for having let Herbert go off on his own. Chasing around the woods, a man in a wheelchair against a van-load of neo-Nazis. It was absurd. Then he got angry. Op-Center had lost Private Bass Moore in Korea and Lieutenant Colonel Charlie Squires in Russia. Herbert should have realized that if anything happened to him, Congress would chain the entire operation to a desk. Herbert had no right to jeopardize the entire organization. Finally, Hood felt a rush of pride. Herbert was doing something which distinguished Americans from most other nationalities. He was fighting injustice, regardless of who it was being directed against.

  But righteous or not, Herbert was a semi-loose cannon, a U.S. government operative hunting neo-Nazis in Germany.

  If he broke the law or even if he were found out, the neo- Nazis would spin it as if they were being persecuted, ganged up on. It would send a firestorm of criticism sweeping over Op-Center, Washington, and Hausen.

  Then, of course, there was always the danger that the neo-Nazis would rather eliminate Herbert. The men in the van might not have known who he was. But even knowing, not all radicals wanted publicity. Some of them just wanted their enemies dead.