It is something in the makeup of leaders, Jean-Michel told himself, which does not permit them to be ambivalent.
He was proud to know M. Dominique. He hoped he would be proud to know Herr Richter.
Jean-Michel walked up to the black metal door at the front of Richter’s club, Auswechseln. There was nothing on the door save for a fish-eye peephole and a buzzer beneath it. To the left, on the jamb, was the marble head of a goat.
The Frenchman pressed the button and waited.
Auswechseln, or Substitute, was one of the most infamous, decadent, and successful nightspots in St. Pauli, Men had to come with a date. Upon entering, the couple was given one pink and one blue necklace with different numbers; whoever had the matching number was their new date for the evening. Only well-dressed, attractive people were admitted.
A rough voice came from the open mouth of the goat.
“Who is it?” “Jean-Michel Horne,” the Frenchman said. He was about to add in German, “I have an appointment with Herr Richter, ” but decided not to. If Richter’s aides didn’t know who was expected, then he was running a sloppy operation.
One from which Jean-Michel and his associates would be wise to walk away.
A moment later the door opened and a bodybuilder over six and a half feet tall motioned Jean-Michel in. The big man shut and locked the door and put a massive hand on the Frenchman’s shoulder. He moved Jean-Michel to a spot beside the register, patted him down thoroughly, then held him there for a moment.
Jean-Michel noticed the video camera on the wall and the tiny receiver in the big man’s ear. Someone, somewhere, was comparing his image with the fax which had been sent from M. Dominique’s office at Demain.
After a moment, the giant said, “Wait here.” Then he turned and disappeared into the darkness.
Efficient, Jean-Michel thought as the big man’s heavy footsteps thumped across the dance floor. But caution wasn’t a bad thing. M. Dominique hadn’t gotten where he was either by being careless.
Jean-Michel looked around. The only light came from four red neon rings around the bar to his right. They didn’t tell him much about what the club looked like or whether the big man had even left the room. All that the Frenchman knew for certain was that despite the hum of the air vents the place smelled. It was a slightly nauseating blend of stale cigarette smoke, liquor, and lust.
After a minute or two, Jean-Michel heard fresh footsteps. They were considerably different from the first.
They were confident but light and they tapped rather than scraped along the floor. A moment later, Felix Richter stepped into the red light of the bar.
Jean-Michel recognized the dapper thirty-two-year-old from the photographs be had seen. Not that the picture captured the dynamism of the man. Richter stood just under six feet tall, his blond hair short and carefully razor-cut. He was dressed in an impeccably tailored three-piece suit, highly polished shoes, and a black tie with red stripes. He wore no jewelry. Richter’s people regarded that as effeminate, and there was no room in the party for that.
“Medals. That is all I allow our men to wear, ” Herr Richter had said once in an editorial in his newspaper, Unser Kampf, Our Struggle.
More impressive than Richter’s attire, however, were his eyes. The photographs hadn’t captured them at all. Even in the red light of the bar, they were riveting. And once they found their target they didn’t move. Richter did not seem the kind of man to avert his eyes from anyone.
As the German neared, his right hand moved as if he were drawing a gun slowly. It slid up the leg and hip, then shot straight out. It was a curious but elegant move. The Frenchman shook the hand firmly, surprised by the strength of Richter’s grip.
“It was good of you to come,” Richter said. “Yet I thought that your employer would be visiting as well.” “As you know, M. Dominique, prefers to conduct business from his factory,” Jean-Michel said. “With the technology available to him, there’s very little reason to leave.” “I understand,” said Richter. “Never photographed, rarely seen, appropriately mysterious.” “M. Dominique is mysterious but not uninterested,” Jean-Michel pointed out. “He has sent me to represent him in these discussions, and also to be his eyes and ears during Chaos Days.” Richter grinned. “And to make sure that the donation he generously gave to the celebration is being well spent.” Jean-Michel shook his head. “You’re wrong, Herr Richter. M. Dominique is not like that. He invests in people he believes in.” The Frenchman released the German’s hand and Richter fell in beside him. Richter took his guest’s elbow and ushered him slowly through the darkness.
“Don’t feel that you have to defend Dominique to me,” Richter said. “It’s good business to keep an eye on what your peers are up to.” Peers? Jean-Michel thought. M. Dominique owned a billion-dollar manufacturing company and controlled one of the most powerful right-wing groups in France… in the world. He recognized a very select few as his peers. Despite their parallel interests, Herr Richter was not among them.
Richter changed the subject. “The hotel room we booked for you,” he said. “It’s acceptable?” “Extremely pleasant,” Jean-Michel replied. He was still annoyed by Richter’s arrogance.
“I’m glad,” Richter said. “It’s one of the few old hotels left in Hamburg. During the war, the Allies bombed most of the city to dust. Hamburg’s misfortune for being a port. It’s ironic, though, that so many of these old, wooden buildings survived.” He swept his arm as if to embrace all of St. Pauli.
“The Allies didn’t attack prostitutes and drunks, only mothers and children. Yet they call us monsters for atrocities like the mythical Holocaust.” Jean-Michel found himself responding to Richter’s impromptu passion. Though it was illegal in Germany to deny the Holocaust, he knew that while Richter was in medical school he used to do so with regularity. Even having his full scholarship revoked for making anti-Semitic remarks did not stop him. Judicial officials were reluctant to prosecute agitators who were otherwise non-violent, though they were finally forced to go after Richter when a foreign news crew videotaped his “Jewish Lie” speech at Auschwitz and aired it. He spent two years in prison, during which time his aides ran his young operation— making sure that Richter’s personal legend grew.
Because of the man’s courage and his devotion to the cause, Jean-Michel decided to forget their bad start. Besides, they had business to conduct.
They reached a table and Richter switched on a lamp in the center. Beneath the translucent shade was a small white Pan playing his pipes.
Jean-Michel sat down when Richter did. The light fell just short of the German’s eyes, but Jean-Michel saw them anyway. They were almost as translucent as the shade. The man had made a fortune from this club and from a hostess service he operated in Berlin, Stuttgart, Frankfurt, and Hamburg. But the Frenchman was willing to bet that Richter had been a bastard even when he was poor.
The Frenchman looked up at the second floor. It was lined with doorways. Obviously, these were rooms for members who wanted to do more than dance.
“We understand you have an apartment here, Herr Richter.” “I do,” Richter said, “though I only stay here one or two nights a week. I spend most of my time at the 21st Century National Socialist Party suites in Bergedorf, to the south.
That’s where the real work of the movement is done. Writing speeches, telephone solicitation, transmitting E-mail, radio broadcasts, publishing our newspaper— do you have this week’s Kampf?” Jean-Michel nodded.
“Excellent,” Richter went on. “It’s all very legitimate.
Not like the early days, when the authorities hounded me for one alleged misdemeanor or another. So,” he said, “you’ve come to honor Chaos Days. And to represent your employer in ‘discussions,’ as he called them in my one brief telephone connversation with him.” “Yes, Herr Richter.” Jean-Michel leaned forward and folded his hands on the table. “I am here with a proposition.” Jean-Michel was disappointed. Richter didn’t move.
“You have my attention,” Richter said.
“It is not commonly known,” said Jean-Michel, “but M.
Dominique has been quietly underwriting neo-Nazi groups around the world. The Razorheads in England, the Soldiers of Poland, and the Whites Only Association in America. He’s trying to build a worldwide network of organizations with a common goal of ethnic purity.” “Together with his New Jacobins,” Richter said, “that would put his strength at some six thousand members.” “Close to that, yes,” said Jean-Michel. “And when he goes on-line in America, those numbers are sure to increase.” “Almost certainly,” said Richter. “I’ve seen copies of his games. They’re most entertaining.” “What M. Dominique proposes, Herr Richter, is bringing your 21st Century organization into the fold. He will provide you with funds, access to Demain technology, and a role in shaping the future of the world.” “A role,” said Richter. “As in a play.” “Not a play,” Jean-Michel replied. “History.” Richter smiled coldly. “And why should I accept a part in Dominique’s drama when I can direct my own play?” Once again, Jean-Michel was shocked by the conceit of the man. “Because M. Dominique has resources the likes of which you can only dream of. And through his connections, he can offer you both political and personal protection.” “Protection from whom?” Richter asked. “The government won’t touch me again. The two years I was in prison made me a martyr to the cause. And my people are devoted.” “There are other leaders,” Jean-Michel said with a hint of menace. “Other potential New Fhrers.” “Are there?” Richter asked. “‘You’re referring to someone in particular?” The Frenchman had been anxious to use a little muscle on the man, and this seemed like the perfect opportunity.