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.
'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 F?hrer.
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.
