Introductory screens followed. First, there was the principal gate at Auschwitz with the inscription Arbeit macht frei.
"Work liberates," Lang said from behind his hand.
Next came a succession of clear, detailed, computer- animated snippets. Crowds of men, women, and children walking through the gate. Men in striped camp uniforms facing a wall while guards whipped them with switches. Men being shorn of their hair. A wedding ring being handed to a member of the SS Death's Head Unit in exchange for shoes.
Searchlights in towers piercing the early morning dark as an SS guard roared, "Arbeitskommandos austreten." "Working parties fall out," Lang translated. His hand was trembling now.
Prisoners grabbing shovels and picks. Leaving the main gate and doffing their caps to honor the slogan. Being kicked and punched by the guards. Working on a section of road.
A large party of men threw down their shovels and ran into the darkness. And then the game began. A menu offered the player a selection of languages. Stoll selected English.
An SS guard appeared in close-up and spoke to the player. His face was an animated photograph of Hausen.
Behind him was a pastoral setting of trees, rivers, and the corner of a red brick citadel.
"Twenty-five prisoners have escaped into the woods.
Your job is to divide your force so that you can find them, at the same time maintaining the productivity of the camp and continuing the processing of the bodies of subhumans." The game then jumped between vivid scenes of playercontrolled guards and dogs hunting men in the forest, and bodies piling up in the crematoria. Stoll ordered the game to play itself, since he said he couldn't bring himself to put the bodies on the pallets for incineration.
"The letter," Hausen said as they watched the program.
"What did Reiner's letter say?" Stoll hit Ctrl/Alt/Delete and killed the game. Then he went back into the computer to retrieve Reiner's letter.
"The guy didn't talk much, did he?" Stoll asked as he jabbed the keys.
"No," said Hausen. "Why do you ask?" Stoll said, "Because I have no idea what he wrote, but there sure wasn't much of it." The letter came up and Lang leaned closer. He translated for the Americans.
" 'Herr Savior,' " he said, " 'I hope you enjoy this game, while it is still a game.' And it is signed, 'Reiner.' " Hood was watching Hausen closely. His back straightened and his mouth turned down. He looked like he wanted to cry.
"Four years," Hausen said. "We were together four years. We fought for human rights in the newspapers, behind megaphones, on television." "Looks like he was there just to spy on you," Hood said.
Hausen turned from the computer. "I can't believe it," he said sullenly. "I ate with his parents, at their home. He asked what I thought of his fianc‚e. It can't be." "Those are exactly the kinds of things moles use to build trust," Hood said.
Hausen looked at him. "But four years!" he said. "Why wait until now?" "Chaos Days," Lang offered. His hand fell limply to his side. "It was his perverted statement." "I'd be surprised if that was the case," Hood said.
Lang looked at him. "What do you mean? Isn't it obvious?" "No," said Hood. "This is a professional-quality game.
My guess is that Reiner didn't produce it. He planted it for someone, someone who didn't need him here any longer." The other three men were shocked as Hausen put his hands on his face and wailed.
"Christ, God," he moaned. His hands came down, became fists, shook tightly at his waist. "Reiner was part of the empire of constituents he was talking about." Hood faced him. "That who was talking about?" "Dominique," Hausen said. "Gerard Dominique." "Who is Dominique?" Lang asked. "I don't know that name." "You don't want to," Hausen said. He shook his head.
"Dominique phoned to announce his return. Yet now I wonder if he was ever really gone. I wonder if he wasn't always there in the dark, his soul moldering as he waited." "Richard, please tell me," Lang implored. "Who is this man?" "He isn't a man," Hansen said, "he's Belial. The Devil." He shook his head as if to clear it. "Gentlemen, I'm sorry— I can't talk about this now." "Then don't," Hood said, putting a hand on his shoulder. He looked at Stoll. "Matt, can you download that game to Op-Center?" Stoll nodded.
"Good. Herr Hausen, do you recognize that photograph of yourself?" "No, I'm sorry." "It's okay," Hood said. "Matt, have you got anything in your arsenal to handle this?" Stoll shook his head. "We need a program with a lot more muscle than my MatchBook. That diskette's only good for finding specific pictures. It's like a wordsearch." "I see," Hood said.
"I'll have to run it through our photo file back home and see if we can find where it came from," Stoll told him.
"The scenery behind Herr Hausen is also a photograph," Hood said.
"A clear one too," Stoll said. "Probably not from a magazine. I can have my office run the Geologue and see what it tells us." The Geologue was a detailed satellite relief study of the world. From it, computers could generate an acre-by-acre view of the planet from any angle. It would take a few days, but if the photograph hadn't been tinkered with, the Geologue would tell them where it was taken.
Hood told Stoll to proceed. The Operations Support Officer phoned his assistant, Eddie Medina, to let him know the images were coming.
Hood squeezed Hausen's shoulder. "Let's go for a walk." "Thank you, no," Hausen replied.
"I need it," Hood said. "This has been a strange morning for me too." Hausen managed a small smile. "All right," he said.
"Good. Matt— call me on the cellular if you get something." "So let it be written, so let it be done," said the unflappable techno-whiz.
"Herr Lang," said Hood, "Matt may need some help with the language." "I understand," Lang said. "I'll stay here with him." Hood smiled graciously. "Thanks. We won't be long." With his hand still on Hausen's shoulder, Hood and the German walked through the reception area to the elevator.
Hausen was lying, of course. Hood had encountered his kind before. He wanted very much to talk about whatever was bothering him, but his pride and dignity wouldn't allow it.
Hood would wear him down. It was more than a coincidence that what had just happened in the office was similar to what had happened this morning on Billy Squires's computer. And if this was happening simultaneously on two continents, then Op-Center needed to know why.
Fast.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
After his encouraging chat with Brett August, the morning sped by for Mike Rodgers. Matt Stoll's assistant Eddie briefed him on what was happening in Germany, and told him he'd put in a call for assistance to Bernard Ballon of the Gendarmarie Nationale. Ballon was on a mission against terrorists, the New Jacobins, and had not returned the call.
Rodgers was more concerned about Herbert going to check on Chaos activities by himself. Rodgers wasn't worried because Herbert was in a wheelchair. The man was not defenseless. He was worried because Herbert could be like a dog with a bone. He didn't like letting go of things, especially unsolved cases. And there was only so much Op-Center could do to help him. Unlike the U.S., where they could listen in on telecommunications through local FBI, CIA, or police offices, it was difficult to mount broad surveillance immediately overseas. Satellites could focus on individual cellular telephones or even small regions, but they also picked up a lot of garbage. That was what he'd been trying to tell Senator Fox earlier. Without people on the scene, surgical operations were difficult.
Herbert was a good person to have on the scene. Part of Rodgers worried about what Herbert would do without a moderating force like Paul Hood— though another part of him was excited by the prospect of Bob Herbert unleashed.