"I see," Herbert said. "You saw one middle-aged man in a wheelchair facing two hundred healthy young Nazis and you concluded that I was the bad guy."

"As far as the law is concerned, that is correct," said the police officer.

Herbert heard the words and he understood their context. He heard it enough in the U.S. regarding other criminals, other punks, but they still amazed him. Both men knew that these bastards were lying, yet the group would get away with what they did here. And as long as no one in law enforcement or government wanted to put their own security in danger, they would continue to get away with it.

At least Herbert took some comfort in the fact that he would get away with it too. And giving that pig a poke was almost worth the beer bath he took.

As Herbert was wheeled away, car horns sounded in the traffic tie-up caused by the police officer's departure. They echoed the noise in his own soul, the noise of the anger and determination which filled him. He was leaving, but he resolved to get these goons. Not here and not now, but somewhere else and soon.

One of the men had separated from the crowd. He went into the Beer-Hall, strolled through the kitchen, exited by the back door, and used a trash can to climb the picket fence. He crossed through an alley and emerged on the same street as Herbert and the police officer.

They had already passed, headed toward the side sheet where Herbert had parked his car.

The young man followed them. As one of Karin Doring's personal lieutenants, he had been instructed to watch anyone who might be watching them. That was something those who were unaligned with any specific faction would not think to do.

He stayed well behind them, watching as the police officer helped Herbert into the car, as he placed the wheelchair in the back, as he stood there making sure that Herbert drove off.

The man pulled a pen and telephone from the inside pocket of his blazer. He described the license tag and the make of Herbert's rented car. When the police officer turned and walked briskly back toward his beat, the young man also turned and went back to the Beer-Hall.

A moment later, a van pulled out of a parking area located three blocks from Bob Herbert.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Thursday, 4:00 P.M.,

Hamburg, Germany

"What's the problem?" Hood asked as he reached Stoll's side.

Lang was looking pale and uncomfortable and Stoll was working the keys madly.

"Something really sick is going on," Stoll said. "I'll show you in a second-- I was running a diagnostics program, trying to figure out how it got here."

Hausen stopped next to Hood. He asked, "How what got here?"

Stoll said, "You'll see. I'm not sure I want to try and describe it."