Games of State - Tom Clancy [56]
More than savoring the independence, he was thrilled to be back in action. Now he knew just how Mike Rodgers must have felt getting back in the saddle in Korea.
The drive from the hotel took under two hours. It was a straight ride down the north-south running A1 Autobahn, where there was only a recommended speed limit, 100 to 130 km/h, though anyone going under 130 was considered a grafin a countess-- slow, stately, and matronly.
Herbert clipped along at nearly ninety miles an hour. He rolled down the front windows and felt the refreshing fury of the wind. Even at that speed, however, he missed none of the beautiful, green countryside of Lower Saxony. It was depressing to think that the intoxicating forests and centuries-old villages were the home of one of the most virulent hate movements in the history of civilization.
But that's Paradise for you, he knew. Always a snake or two in every tree.
He had felt differently about people and beauty when he first arrived in Lebanon with his wife. A gorgeous blue sky, ancient buildings ranging from the humble to the magnificent, devout Christians and Moslems. The French had withdrawn in 1946, and the religious "brothers" waged vicious war against one another. U.S. Marines helped put out the fire in 1958, but it erupted anew in 1970. Eventually, the U.S. returned. The skies were still blue and the buildings still awe-inspiring when a Moslem suicide-bomber attacked the American Embassy in Beirut in 1983. Fifty people died, and many more were injured. Since that time, beauty had never looked innocent or even especially appealing to Herbert. Even life itself, once so rich and full of promise, was more like marking time until he and his wife could be reunited.
Hanover was a remarkable contrast to the countryside-- and to itself. Like Hamburg, it had been heavily damaged by bombing during World War II. Plunked between the modern buildings and wide thoroughfares were pockets of sixteenth-century architecture, timbered homes beside narrow roads and old, Baroque gardens. It wasn't Herbert's cup of cocoa: he preferred the pure country in which he'd grown up. Ponds, gnats, frogs, and corner drugstores. But as he drove through the streets, he was surprised by these two strikingly different faces of Hanover.
Which is fitting, Herbert thought as he made his way to Rathenauplatz. This city is a place with two very different human faces as well.
Ironically, the quaint section of the city was where most of the cafés and restaurants were located. The charm hid the vipers. He got there simply by noticing and following three skinheads on motorcycles. He didn't for a moment imagine that they were going to the Sprengel Museum of modern art.
The drive took ten minutes. When he arrived, there was no mistaking the Beer-Hall. It was located in the middle of a row of coffeehouses and bars, most of which were closed. The tavern had a white brick facade and a simple sign with its name. The block letters were black and the background was red.
"Of course they are," Herbert muttered as he drove by. Those were the colors of Nazi Germany. Though displaying swastikas was illegal in Germany, these people had invoked the likeness without breaking the law. Indeed, as Hausen had mentioned during lunch, while neo-Nazism itself was illegal, these groups got around the ban by calling themselves every euphemism they could think of, from the Sons of the Wolf to the 21st Century National Socialists.
But if the Beer-Hall wasn't a surprise, the people gathered in front of it were.
The ten round picnic-style tables in front failed to contain the group, whose numbers grew even as Herbert watched. Nearly three hundred