"And set up the dinner with Barb. You figure out how to get her to Washington." "Done," said Rodgers.
August thanked him and hung up.
Rodgers sat back. He smiled a big, comfortable smile.
After the run-in with Senator Fox and Martha, the General had felt like taking the Striker command job himself.
Anything to get out of this building, away from the political bullshit, to do something more than just sit on his ass. The prospect of working with August lifted him up. Rodgers didn't know if he should be glad or ashamed at how easy it was to get in touch with the little boy in him.
The phone beeped.
He decided that as long as he was happy and doing his job, it didn't matter whether he felt five years old or fortyfive.
Because as he reached for the phone, Rodgers knew that the happiness wouldn't last.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Bob Herbert huffed a little as he wheeled himself away from his car.
Herbert didn't have a motor on his wheelchair, and he never would. If he was ninety and frail, unable to wheel very far, he simply wouldn't go very far. He felt that being unable to walk didn't mean being incapacitated. While he was too old to try to do wheelies, like some of the kids in the rehabilitation center all those years ago, he didn't like the idea of puttering around when he could wheel himself. Liz Gordon once told him that he was using that to flagellate himself because he had lived while his wife had died. But Herbert didn't buy that. He liked moving under his own steam and he loved the endorphin rush he got from turning the millstone weight of the wheels. He had never been one to work out before the 1983 explosion, and this sure beat hell out of the biphetamines they used to take in Lebanon to stay awake in times of crisis. Which in Beirut was all the time.
As he guided himself up the slightly inclined street, Herbert decided against going to the registration desk and trying to sign up. He didn't know a helluva lot about German law, but he guessed he didn't have the right to harass these people. He did, however, have the right to go to a bar and order something to drink, which was what he intended to do.
That, plus find out what he could about the whereabouts of Karin Doring. He didn't expect to wrest information from anyone, but loose lips really did sink ships. Outsiders were always amazed at how much intelligence one picked up simply by eavesdropping.
Of course, he thought, first you've got to get under the eaves to catch the drops. The crowd ahead might try to stop him. Not because he was in a wheelchair: he wasn't born that way, he'd earned his disability serving his country.
They'd try to stop him because he wasn't a German and he wasn't a Nazi. But however much these hotshots wished it weren't so, Germany was still a free nation. They'd let him into the Beer-Hall or they'd have an international incident.
The intelligence chief wheeled himself up the street behind the Beer-Hall and came at it from the opposite side.
That way, he didn't even have to pass the registration area and see any more stiff armed salutes.
Herbert turned the corner and rolled toward the Beer- Hall, toward those two hundred or so men drinking and singing out front. The men nearest him turned to look at him. Nudges brought other heads around, a sea of youthful devils with contemptuous eyes and hard laughs.
"Fellows, look who is here! It is Franklin Roosevelt and he is searching for Yalta." So much for no one making a comment about my disability, Herbert thought. Then again, there was always one clown in every group. It puzzled him, though, that the man had spoken in English. Then Herbert remembered what was written on his sweatshirt.
Another man raised his beer stein. "Herr Roosevelt, you are just in time! The new war has begun!" "Ja, " said the first man. "Though this one will end differently." Herbert kept wheeling toward them. In order to reach the Beer-Hall, he was going to have to go through these natty Hitler Youths. Less than twenty yards separated him from the nearest men.
Herbert glanced to the left. The police officer was in the middle of the street, some two hundred yards past them. He was looking the other way, working hard to keep the traffic from stopping.
Did he hear what these cretins were saying, Herbert wondered, or was he also working hard to stay the hell out of whatever happened?
The men in front of him had been facing in various directions. When Herbert was just five yards away, they turned and faced him. He was two yards away. One yard.
Some of them were already drunk, and their body language suggested that many were enjoying their pack mentality.
Herbert guessed that only a quarter or so of the faces he saw had the intensity of people with convictions, warped as they were. The rest were the faces of followers. That was something a spy satellite couldn't tell you.
The neo-Nazis didn't move. Herbert rolled to within inches of their loafers and expensive running shoes, then stopped. In standoffs in Lebanon and other trouble spots, Herbert had always taken a low-keyed approach. There was an element of mutual assured destruction when standoffs ended prematurely: storm an airplane and you would get the hijackers but you might also lose some hostages. But no one could hold a hostage or stand in your way forever. If you waited long enough, a compromise could usually be reached.
"Excuse me," Herbert said.
One of the men glanced down at him. "No. This street is closed. It's a private party." Herbert could smell the alcohol on his breath. He wasn't going to be able to reason with him. He looked at another man. "I've seen other people walking through. Will you excuse me?" The first man said, "You are correct. You have seen other people walking through. But you are not walking so you may not pass." Herbert fought the urge to run over this man's foot. All that would have done was bring a sea of steins and fists raining down on him.
"I don't want problems," Herbert said. "I'm just thirsty and I'd like to get a drink." Several men laughed. Herbert felt like Deputy Chester Goode trying to enforce the law with Marshal Dillon out of town.
A man with a beer stein shouldered through the wall of men. He stood in front of them and held the beer straight out, over Herbert's head.
"You're thirsty?" the man said. "Would you like some of my beer?" "Thanks," Herbert said, "but I don't drink alcoholic beverages." "Then you are not a man!" "Bravely spoken," Herbert said. He was listening to his own voice and was surprised at how calm it sounded. This guy was a chicken-shit with an army two or three hundred strong behind him. What Herbert really wanted to do was challenge him to a duel, like his daddy once did to someone who'd insulted him back in Mississippi.
The Germans were still looking down at him. The man with the stein was smiling but he wasn't happy. Herbert could see it in his eyes.
That's because you just realized you don't gain much by pouring it on me, Herbert thought. You've already said I'm not a man. Attacking me is beneath you. On the other hand, this man had a beery brashness about him. He might just bring the heavy bottom of the stein down on his head.
The Gestapo consider Jews to be subhuman. Yet they used to stop Jewish men on the street and pull out their beards with pliers.
After a moment, the man with the stein brought it to his lips. He took a sip and held it in his cheeks for a moment as though contemplating whether or not to spit. Then he swallowed.
The man stepped next to the wheelchair, on the right side. Then he leaned heavily with one hand on the telephone armrest.
"You were told that this is very private party," the youth said. "You are not invited." Herbert had had it. He'd come here to reconnoiter, to gather intelligence, to do his job. But these guys had presented him with the "unexpected" which was very much a part of HUMINT operations. Now he had a choice. He could leave, in which case he wouldn't be able to do his job and he would lose all self-respect. Or he could stay, in which case he would probably get beaten all to hell. But he might— might— convince some of these punks that the forces which had defied them once were alive and well.