“Frankly, Herr Richter,” Jean-Michel said, “there has been talk that Karin Doring and Feuer are the rising stars of the movement.” “Has there been talk?” Richter said smoothly.
Jean-Michel nodded. The Frenchman knew that Felix Richter and Karin Doring had been outspoken adversaries two years before; when Karin came out of East Germany espousing terrorism while Richter, fresh from prison, was advocating political activism. The two criticized each other openly until members of Feuer ambushed and killed two members of Richter’s group. The leaders finally held a summit in a Berlin hotel, where they agreed to pursue their own goals without criticizing the other. But there was still tension between the unvarnished East German guerrilla and the dapper West German physician.
“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.