As Manfred roared off through the woods, Mr. Buba's dead body flopped lifelessly to the ground.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Jean-Michel thought it fitting that his meeting with the leader, the self-proclaimed New Furhrer, was taking place in the St. Pauli district of Hamburg.
In 1682, a church dedicated to St. Paul was erected here, on the hilly banks of the Elbe. In 1814, the French attacked and looted the quiet village and nothing was the same thereafter. Hostels, dance halls, and brothels were built to cater to the steamship sailors who came through, and by the middle of the century the St. Pauli region was known as a district of sin.
Today, at night, St. Pauli was still that. Gaudy neon signs and provocative marquees announced everything from jazz to bowling, live sex shows to tattooists, waxworks to gambling. Innocent-sounding questions like 'Do you have the time?' or 'Have you got a match?' brought visitors together with prostitutes, while drugs were offered by name in low, careful voices.
It was appropriate that the representative of the New Jacobins should meet Felix Richter here. The new French incursion, and the union of their movements, would change Germany again. This time, for the better.
The Frenchman had left his two traveling companions asleep in the room and caught a taxi outside his hotel on An der Alster. The fifteen-minute ride to St. Pauli ended at Grosse Freiheit, in the heart of the lurid entertainment district. The area was deserted, save for tourists who wanted to see the sights without the enticements.
Jean-Michel pushed back his thick black hair and buttoned his moss-green blazer. Tall and slightly overweight, the forty-three-year-old executive vice president of Demain was looking forward to meeting Richter.
The few who knew him and the fewer who knew him well agreed on two things. First, Richter was dedicated to his cause. That was good. Monsieur Dominique and the rest of the French team were dedicated people as well, and M.
Dominique loathed dealing with anyone who wasn't.
Second, people said that Richter was a man of wild, sudden extremes. He could embrace you or decapitate you, as whimsy dictated. In that respect, Richter appeared to have much in common with Jean-Michel's own shadowy employer. M. Dominique was a man who either hated or loved people, was generous or ruthless as the moment dictated. Napoleon and Hitler were the same way.
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
