The young attendant turned the chair around beside Herbert. She leaned across the chair, and offered him a hand, which he declined.

"Not necessary," Herbert huffed. "I've been doing this since you were in grade school."

With his powerful arms, Herbert lifted himself over the armrest and dropped into the leather seat. As Hood and Stoll fell in behind, toting their carry-ons, he led the way through the cabin, wheeling himself.

The heat of the Hamburg summer permeated the passenger bridge, but it was mild compared to what they'd left behind in Washington, D.C. They entered the bustling, air-conditioned terminal, where the flight attendant turned them over to a government official Lang had sent to help them through customs.

As the attendant turned to go, Herbert grabbed her wrist.

"Sorry I snapped at you," he said. "But me and these"-- he patted the armrest-- "we're old friends."

"I understand," the young woman said. "And I'm sorry if I offended you."

"You didn't," Herbert said. "Not at all."

The woman took off with a smile as the government official introduced himself. He told them that a limousine was waiting to take them to the lakeside Alster-Hof Hotel once they were through customs. Then he pointed the way, standing well back as Herbert began wheeling through the terminal, past the window which looked onto busy Paul Baumer Platz.

"Well," Herbert said, "I think it's damned ironic."

"What is?" Hood asked.

"I can't find a square inch of common ground with my own people, yet I'm in an airport the Allies bombed to hell along with half of Hamburg. I'm here making nice with a flight attendant and getting ready to work on the same end of the road with guys who shot at my dad in the Ardennes. Takes some getting adjusted to."

"Like you said," Hood remarked, "it's a new world."

"Yeah," Herbert said. "New and darin' me to keep up with it. But I will, Paul. God in heaven help me, I will."

So saying, Herbert picked up the pace. He scooted around Americans, Europeans, and Japanese-- all of whom, Hood was sure, were running the same race in their own way.

CHAPTER THREE

Thursday, 9:59 A.M.,

Garbsen, Germany

Werner Dagover's lip curled with disgust when he rounded the hill and saw the woman sitting behind the tree.

That was fine, fine work by the road team, he thought, letting someone through. There was a time in Germany when careers were destroyed by slipups like this.