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 F?hrers.' '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.
'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
