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.