“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 also 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.