by Tom Clancy
"Karin is energetic, charismatic, bold," Jean-Michel said. "We have heard she planned and led the attack on the bank in Bremen, set the courtroom fire in Nuremberg—" "She did that and more, yes," Richter said. "Karin is good at warfare. She's a cat who leads other cats, an alley fighter, a field commander. But what you and her followers fail to realize is that she isn't someone who can build or run a political party. She still insists on participating personally in every one of her missions, and one day the authorities or a mishandled bomb will get her." "Perhaps," said Jean-Michel. "Meanwhile, in just two years, Feuer has acquired nearly thirteen hundred members with thirty full-time soldiers." "That's correct," said Richter. "But they're mostly East Germans. Animals. In five years, I've acquired nearly five thousand members from this side of the old border. That, M.
Horne, is the basis for a political movement. That," he said, "is the future." "Each has its place," said Jean-Michel. "M. Dominique believes that either of you would make a potent ally, which is why he has instructed me to talk with her as well." Those riveting eyes moved from the watch to Jean- Michel. They were like little machines, precise and unemotional. Jean-Michel watched them as Richter stood.
The brief audience was obviously at an end. The Frenchman was openly surprised.
"I will come for you at your hotel at five-thirty tonight," the German said. "She and I will both be appearing at tonight's rally in Hanover. Then you will see for yourself who leads and who follows. Until then, good morning." As Richter turned and walked away, the big doorman appeared from the shadows behind Jean-Michel.
"Excuse me, Herr Richter," Jean-Michel said boldly.
Richter stopped.
Jean-Michel rose. "I have been instructed to report to M. Dominique this morning, not this evening," the Frenchman said. "What do I tell him about his offer?" Richter turned. Even in the deep shadow, Jean-Michel could make out the nasty eyes.
"That I will consider his generous offer. In the meantime, I desire his support and friendship," Richter said.
"Yet you dismiss me," Jean-Michel said.
"Dismiss you?" Richter said. His voice was soft, flat, and dark.
"I'm not a clerk or a bodyguard," the Frenchman said.
"As a representative of M. Dominique, I expect courtesy." Richter walked slowly toward Jean-Michel. "A representative of Dominique—" "Monsieur Dominique," Jean-Michel said indignantly.
"You at least owe him that respect. He wants to help you—" "The French always support opposition leaders," Richter said. "You helped Dacko overthrow Bokassa in the Central African Republic in 1979; and you hosted the Ayatollah Khomeini while he was planning his return to Iran. The French hope for favors when these people come to power, though they rarely get them." He said icily, "I respect Dominique. But unlike you, M. Horne, I do not have to kowtow. He wants my help. I do not need his." This man is preposterous, Jean-Michel thought. He had heard enough. "You will excuse me," he said.
"No," Richter said quietly. "I will not. You do not walk out when I am facing you." The Frenchman glared at him for a moment, then turned anyway. He ran into the doorman. The big man grabbed Jean-Michel's neck and turned him around so he was facing Richter.
"Richter, are you insane?" Jean-Michel cried.
"Irrelevant," Richter replied. "I'm in command." "Don't you know that M. Dominique will hear of this?
Do you think he will approve? We—" "We!" Richter interrupted. The German looked into Jean-Michel's eyes. "All of this 'We understand…' and 'We have heard…" Richter raged. "We, monsieur? What are you?" Richter's arm moved then, just as it did when they met.
Only this time there was a knife in his hand. It stopped less than a quarter inch from Jean-Michel's left eye. Then he raised the knife so it was pointing straight toward the Frenchman's eyeball.
"I'll tell you what you are," Richter said. "You're a lapdog." Despite his anger, the Frenchman felt his insides weaken and liquify. This is madness, he thought. He felt as if he were in a time warp. The Gestapo couldn't exist here, in an age of video cameras and immediate international outrage. But here it was, threatening him with torture.
Richter glared at him, his eyes all too clear, his voice level. "You speak to me as if you were my equal. What have you done in your life other than to ride a visionary's rocket?" There was a lump of something in Jean-Michel's throat and he tried hard to swallow. He succeeded, but said nothing. Each time he blinked, the blade made a fine laceration in his eyelid. He tried not to moan but did, in spite of himself.
"I was wrong," Richter said. "You're not even a lapdog.
You're the lamb the shepherd has sent in his stead. To make me an offer, but also to see what kind of teeth I have. And if I bite you?" he asked. "Then Dominique has learned something about me. He's learned that I am not awed by his functionaries. He's learned that in the future, he will have to treat me differently. As for you" — Richter gave a little shrug— "if I bite too hard, he simply replaces you." "No!" Jean-Michel, said. Indignation momentarily overcame his fear. "You don't understand." "I do. I reviewed your credentials on my computer when you walked in the door. You joined Dominique's organization twenty-one years, eleven months ago and you rose because of your scientific knowledge. You received a patent for a four-bit video game chip which enabled Demain to sell highly advanced games at a time when other games were one or two bits. There was a bit of a row in the Unites States over that, because a California company said that your chip resembled one they were getting ready to market." Jean-Michel shifted on his feet. Was Richter simply reciting the facts, or was he suggesting he knew something more about Demain's origins.
"You have recently received a patent for a silicon chip which directly stimulates nerve cells, a chip which Demain will be using in its new computer software. But you were apolitical in school. When you were hired by Demain, you adopted Dominique's worldview. Only then did he bring you into the very special inner circle of his New Jacobins, to help him rid France of Algerians, Moroccans, Arabs, and our common enemy the Israelis. But the operative word is help, M. Horne. In the pecking order, ethnic wretches are dispensible. Devoted servants are higher, but they too are replaceable." Jean-Michel did not speak.
"Then there's just one other matter we have to discuss," Richter said. "How deeply I bite the lamb." Richter angled the knife so it was point-up. Jean-Michel tried to back away again, but the man behind him grabbed a fistful of hair and held him steady. Richter moved the blade higher until the tip was under the upper eyelid. He continued to move it up slowly, along the contour of the eye, as he spoke.
"Did you know that I studied medicine before I founded the 21st Century party?" Richter asked. "Answer." "Yes." Hating himself for it, Jean-Michel added, "Please, Herr Richter. Please—" "I was a doctor," Richter said, "and I would have made a good one had I decided to practice. But I elected not to, and do you know why? Because I realized I couldn't give care to genetic inferiors. I mention this because, as you can see, I found another use for my training. I use it to influence. To control the body and thus the mind. For example, if I continue to push the knife upwards, I know I'll encounter the lateral rectus muscle. If I cut that muscle, you will find it extremely difficult to look up or down. It will be necessary for you to wear an eyepatch after that, or you'll be disoriented as your eyes work independently, and" — he laughed— "you will look rather freakish, with one eye staring straight ahead, the other one moving normally." Jean-Michel was panting, his legs wobbling violently. If the big man weren't holding him by the hair he'd have fallen. The knife was out of focus as the Frenchman looked at Richter's red-tinted face. He felt a prick above the eyeball.
"Please, no," he sobbed. "Mon Dieu, Herr Richter—" Tears smeared his vision, and the trembling of his jaw caused the eye to shake. Each move caused a fresh and painful nick.
Slowly, the German brought his left hand toward the knife. His fingers were facing down. He placed his palm against the bottom of the hilt, as though he were going to jam it up.
"Did you als
o know," Richter asked calmly, "that what we're doing is part of the process of brainwashing? I've studied the techniques of the KGB, who worked miracles with them. What an individual is told in a state of pain and fear registers on the brain as truth. Of course, it has to be done over and over to be truly effective. Systematic and thorough." He pushed the knife gently upwards. The prick became a shooting pain that punched against the back of Jean- Michel's forehead.
Jean-Michel screamed and then began to whine.
Despite the shame he felt, he couldn't stop himself.
"What do you think now about equality, my little lamb?" Richter asked.
"I think," said Jean-Michel, swallowing hard again, "that you have made your point." "My point?" Richter said. "That's the first clever thing you've said, and I doubt it was intentional." Richter twisted the knife again, drawing a scream from the Frenchman.
"My point, actually, is this. In the very near future, Dominique will need me far more than I need him. His New Jacobin soldiers are a small force, suited for local work. I, on the other hand, have the ability to become international.
And I will. His new computer programs will be downloaded in American cities, but they can persuade only over time. I and my lieutenants can go to America, meet with and inspire American Nazis. We are people of the Fatherland, the home of the movement. You are a people who were conquered and learned to serve. The world will follow me and they will do so now, not five or ten or twenty years from now. Equally as important, they will give us money. And that, M. Horne, makes Dominique and myself more than just peers. It makes me his superior." Richter smiled, and a moment later let the knife fall into his palm. He stepped back; as he did so, he slipped the knife back in its sheath under his sleeve.
Jean-Michel moaned, a combination of pain and relief.
"So," Richter said. "When you contact Dominique, tell him that I've given you a lesson in humility. I'm sure he will understand. You can also tell him that no one, not Karin Doring or anyone else, will ever lead the movement in Germany. That is my destiny. Have we any other business?" The doorman relaxed his grip enough so that Jean- Michel could shake his head.
"Excellent," Richter said as he turned. "Ewald will call you a taxi and give you a minute to collect yourself. I trust I will see you tonight. It will' be an evening to remember." When Richter was gone, the big man released his captive. Jean-Michel crumpled to the floor, his entire body shaking as he rolled onto his side. His vision on the left side was blurry-red, as blood trickled from his upper lid and pooled on the lower.
Lying in a heap, his legs still limp, Jean-Michel pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. Where it touched his eye the cloth was stained pale-rose, blood diluted by tears. He suffered a stinging pain every time he blinked. Worse than the physical pain, however, was the spiritual pain. He felt like a coward for having fallen apart the way he did.
As Jean-Michel nursed his wound, he reminded himself that despite the abuse he'd taken, he'd done what M.
Dominique had ordered. He'd made the offer and been rebuffed by a proudly unmanageable fop.
Richter did not suspect, however, the real reason that M. Dominique wanted and was determined to bring him into the fold. It was not to further the movement of ethnic purity, but to create a genuine concern for the German government. M. Dominique wanted to destabilize Germany just enough to make the rest of Europe wary of allowing the nation to dictate the future of the European Community.
That role must fall to France, and France's mind would be made up by a handful of its billion-dollar business leaders.
And where the European Community went, Asia and the rest of the world would follow.
And they will follow, he knew, especially with America in chaos. And when that goal is achieved, Jean-Michel thought, M. Dominique would dispose of Richter.
As the French had learned over a half century before, it was a bad idea to let German fascists become too powerful.
After several minutes, Jean-Michel managed to get to his knees. Then he pulled himself up on a chair and stood hunched over it. The wound was already beginning to scab and scratch the eye, and each blink renewed his hatred for the German.
But you have to put that away for now, he thought. As a scientist, Jean-Michel had learned to be patient. Besides, as M. Dominique had told him before he left, even a misstep teaches you something. And this one had taught them a great deal about the new Fhrer.
Finally putting away his handkerchief, the Frenchman made his way to the door. He did not look to Ewald for assistance. Opening it, he shielded his wounded eye from the harsh sunlight and walked slowly to the waiting cab.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Thursday, 11:05 A.M., Hamburg, Germany
The ride from the airport to the city center on the Autobahn took thirty-five minutes. As always when he traveled on business, Hood wished that he had time to stop and look at some of the buildings, monuments, and museums they passed. It was frustrating to catch just a glimpse, at ninety miles an hour, of churches which were old when the United States was young. But even if there had been time, Hood wasn't sure he'd be comfortable taking it.
Wherever he went, he was adamant about doing the best he could on the business which brought him there. That didn't leave much time for sightseeing or play. His devotion to duty was one of the qualities which had earned him the sobriquet Pope Paul at Op-Center. He didn't know for sure, but he suspected that the nickname had been coined by Op- Center's Press Officer, Ann Farris.
Hood felt a curious sadness as he watched the modern skyscrapers flash by the darkened window. Sadness for himself and for Ann. The young divorcee barely concealed her affection for Paul, and when they worked alone together he felt dangerously close. There was something there, an intoxicating, seductive pull to which it would have been easy to succumb. But to what end? He was married, with two young children, and he wasn't going to leave them. True, he didn't love making love to his wife any more. Sometimes, he hated to admit to himself, he'd just as soon skip it altogether. She wasn't the adoring, attentive, energetic Sharon Kent he had married. She was a mommy. She was a cable TV personality who had a life apart from the family and co-workers he knew only from Christmas parties. And she was older and more tired and not as hungry for him as she'd been.
While you, at least in your heart, he thought, are still El Cid with his lance unsplintered and his stallion full of gallop.
Of course, that was in his heart. He had to admit that in the flesh he wasn't the knight he'd once been either— except in Ann's eyes. Which was why he found himself getting drawn into them now and then.
Still, he and Sharon had built memories together, and a different kind of love than they'd once had. The thought of going home to his family after creating a pocket relationship at the office would have made him feel— well, he knew exactly how he'd feel. He'd thought about it enough on those long drives home from Andrews after long nights of reviewing press releases with Ann. He'd have felt like a goddamn earthworm, low and hiding from the light and wriggling through the dirt for what he needed to survive.
And even if he could've handled the guilt of it all, a relationship like that wouldn't be fair to Ann. She was a good woman with the heart of an angel. To lead her on, to give her hope where there was none, to become intimately involved with the lives of her and her son would have been wrong.
None of which stops you from wanting her, does it?
Hood asked himself. Maybe that was why he and Sharon both worked so hard. They were replacing the passion they'd once had with something they could still do enthusiastically, something. that was fresh and different every day they did it.
But Lord God Hood thought sadly, what I wouldn't give for a night of what was.
The Alster-Hof Hotel was situated between the city's two spectacular lakes, though Hood, Stoll, and Herbert barely had time to check in and wash up before heading back downstairs. Herbert glanced out the windows while Stoll did a quick electronic sweep to make sure the room hadn't been bugged.
"We've got a pretty nice view, huh?" Herbert said as they rode the elevator down. He was absently twirling an eighteen-inch-long section of broom handle he kept under the wheelchair's left armrest for protection. He also kept a two-inch Urban Skinner knife tucked under the right armrest. "Those lakes remind me of the Chesapeake, with all the boats." "They're the Binnenalster and Aussenalster," a young German porter said helpfully. "The Inner Alster and Outer Alster." "Makes sense," Herbert admitted. He replaced his stick in the hooks under the armrest. "Though I probably would have called them the Big Alster and Little Alster. The big lake's what— about ten times larger than the other?" "Three hundred and ninety-five acres as compared with forty-five," the youth replied.
"I was in the ballpark," Herbert said as the elevator reached the lobby. "I still think my names are better. You can always tell big from little. But you may get 'em mixed up if you don't know which end of the city's in and which end's out." "Perhaps you should place a note in the suggestion box," the porter said, pointing. "It's right over there, beside the letter box." Herbert looked at him. So did Hood, who couldn't tell whether the kid was being facetious or helpful. Germans weren't known for their sense of humor, though he'd heard that the new generation was learning a lot about sarcasm from American movies and TV.
"Maybe I'll do that," Herbert said as he rolled out. He looked over at Stoll, who was bent beneath the weight of his backpack. "You've got the translator. What would those names be?" Stoll punched the English words into his paperbacksized electronic translator. Almost at once, the German equivalent materialized in the liquid crystal display.