Games of State - Tom Clancy [77]
Hood shook his head slowly. "I never heard of her either," he said. "I wanted to, out of curiosity. I didn't try anymore, though, because it would've been excrutiating. I have to thank her for one thing, though. I lost myself in work, made a lot of great contacts-- we didn't call it networking back then." He smiled. "And eventually I ran for and won the office of Mayor. I was the youngest in the history of Los Angeles."
Hausen looked at Hood's wedding band. "You also married."
"Yes," said Hood. He glanced at the gold ring. "I married. I have a wonderful family, a good life." He lowered his hand, rubbed the pocket with his wallet in it. He thought of the tickets which even his wife didn't know about. "But I still think of Nancy now and then, and it's probably a good thing it wasn't her at the hotel."
"You don't know that it wasn't her," Hansen pointed out.
"No, I don't," Hood agreed.
"But even if it was," said Hausen, "your Nancy belonged to another time. A different Paul Hood. If you saw her again, you would be able to deal with it, I think."
"Perhaps," said Hood, "though I'm not so sure this Paul Hood is all that different. Nancy was in love with the boy in me, the kid who was adventurous in life and love. Becoming a father and a mayor and a Washingtonian didn't change that. Inside, I'm still a kid who likes to play Risk and gets a kick out of Godzilla movies and who still thinks that Adam West is the only Batman and George Reeves is the only Superman. Somewhere inside, I'm still the young man who saw himself as a knight and Nancy as a lady. I honestly don't know how I'd react if I saw her face-to-face."
Hood put his hands back in his pockets. He felt the wallet again. And he asked himself, Who do you think. you're fooling? He knew damn well that if he saw Nancy face-to-face he'd fall for her all over again.
"So that's my story," Hood said. He was facing ahead, but his eyes shifted to the left, toward Hausen. "Now it's your turn," he urged. "Did that phone call back in your office have anything to do with a lost love or mysterious disappearances?"
Hausen walked in dignified silence for a short while, then said solemnly, "Mysterious disappearances, yes. Love, no. Not at all." He stopped and faced Hood. A gentle wind was blowing, stirring the German's hair, lifting the end of his coat. "Herr Hood, I trust you. The honesty of your pain, your feelings-- you are a compassionate man and a truthful one. So I will be honest with you." Hausen looked to the left and right, then down. "I'm probably mad to be telling you this. I've never told anyone. Not even my sister, and not my friends."
"Do politicians have any friends?" Hood asked.
Hausen smiled. "Some do. I do. But I wouldn't burden them with this matter. Yet someone has to know now that he has returned. They have to know in the event that anything happens to me."
Hausen looked at Hood. The agony that came into his eyes was like nothing Hood had ever seen. It shocked him, and his own pain evaporated as his curiosity intensified.
"Twenty-five years ago," said Hausen, "I was a political science student at the Sorbonne in Paris. My best friend was a fellow named Gerard Dupre. Gerard's father was a wealthy industrialist, and Gerard was a radical. I don't know whether it was the immigrants who took jobs from French workers, or simply his own black nature. But Dupre hated Americans and Asians, and he especially hated Jews, blacks, and Catholics. Dear God, he was consumed by hate." Hausen licked his lips. He looked down again.
It was clear to Hood that this taciturn man was struggling as much with the process of confession as he was with the memory of whatever it was he had done.
Hausen swallowed and went on. "We were dining at a café one night-- at L'Exchange on the Rue Mouffetard on the Left Bank, a short walk from the university. The café was inexpensive, popular with students, and the air there was always heavy with the smell of strong coffee and loud disagreements. It was just after our junior year had begun, and that night everything was annoying