Games of State

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Henri Toron and Yves Lambesc were not tired. Not any more. Jean-Michel's return had wakened the men, and the telephone call from M. Dominique had brought the two French bears to full attention.

Full, belated attention.

It was Jean-Michel's fault, of course. They'd been sent to be his bodyguards, but he had chosen to go by himself to the club in St. Pauli. The three had arrived in Germany at 1:00 A.M., and Henri and Yves had played blackjack until 2:30. If only Jean-Michel had wakened them, they'd have accompanied him— alert and ready to protect him from the Huns. But no. He'd let them sleep. What did he have to fear, after all?

"Why do you think M. Dominique sent us with you?" Henri had roared when he saw Jean-Michel. "To sleep or to protect you?" "I didn't think I was in any danger," Jean-Michel had replied.

"When dealing with Germans," Henri had said gravely, "one is always in danger." M. Dominique had called as Yves was putting ice cubes in a hand towel for Jean-Michel's eye. Henri took the call.

Their employer did not raise his voice. He never did. He simply gave thiln their instructions and sent them on their way. The two knew that they would be disciplined with a month of extra duty for having overslept. That was standard for a first infraction. Those who failed the cause twice were dismissed. The shame of letting him down was far more painful than the fingertip they were forced to leave in the basket of one of M. Dominique's little guillotines.

So they had cabbed to St. Pauli, and now they were leaning against a car parked down the street from Auswechseln. The streets were beginning to grow crowded with tourists, though the twenty-yard stretch between the Frenchmen and the club was relatively clear.

Barrel-chested, six-foot-four Henri was smoking a cigarette, and the inch-taller, broad-shouldered Yves was chewing homemade bubble gum. Yves had a Beretta 92F pistol in the pocket of his jacket. Henri was carrying a Belgian GP double-action pistol. Their job was simple: to go to the club and get Herr Richter on the phone by any means necessary.

For over two hours, Henri had watched the club door through the twisting smoke of cigarette after cigarette.

When it finally opened, he tapped Yves on the arm and they hurried over.

A giant slab of a man was walking out. Henri and Yves acted as though they were going to walk past him, then turned suddenly. Before the big man was even out the door, Henri had pushed the gun in his gut and told him to get back in.

"Nein, " he said.

Either the man was devoted to his boss or he was wearing a bullet-proof vest. Hemi didn't bother to repeat the request. He simply drove his heel down hard on the man's instep and pushed him back inside. The big man fell moaning against the bar and Henri put the gun to his forehead. Yves also pulled his gun and disappeared into the darkness, to the right.

"Richter," Henri said to the man. "Ou est-il?" The Auswechseln bouncer told him to go to hell in German. Henri knew what H”lle meant. The rest he figured out from the man's tone.

The Frenchman slid the gun down to the man's left eye.

"Le dernier temps, " he said. The last time. "Richter! Tout de suite!" A voice said in French from the darkness. "No one enters my club with a gun and makes demands. Let Ewald go." Footsteps came toward them from the back of the club.

Henri kept the gun pushed against the man's eye.

A shadowy figure appeared at the end of the bar and sat on a stool.

"I said let the man go," Richter repeated. "At once." Yves approached him from the right. Richter did not look at him. Henri did not move.

"Herr Richter," Henri said, "my companion is going to punch in a number on the bar telephone and hand it to you." "Not while you're holding my employee at gunpoint," Richter said firmly.

Yves reached Richter and stepped behind him. The German did not turn.

Henri looked at Richter in the darkness. The Frenchman had two options. One was to let this Ewald go. That would give Richter his way and set a bad precedent for the afternoon's proceedings. The other was to shoot Ewald. That might rattle Richter, but it might also bring the police. And it was no guarantee of getting Richter to do what he was told.

There was really only one thing to do. M. Dominique's instructions to them were to get Richter on the telephone and to do the other thing he had told them. They were not here to win a contest of wills.

Henri stepped back and released the bouncer. Ewald rose indignantly, snatched a quick, angry look at Henri, then walked protectively toward Richter.

"It's all right, Ewald," Richter said. "These men won't hurt me. They've come to deliver me unto Dominique, I think." "Sir," the big man said, "I won't leave while they're here." "Really, Ewald, I'm quite safe. These men may be French, but they aren't stupid. Now go. Your wife is waiting and I don't want her to worry." The big German looked from his employer to Yves. He glowered at the Frenchman for a moment. "Yes, Herr Richter. Once again, good afternoon to you." "Good afternoon," Richter said. "I'll see you again in the morning." With a final sharp look at Yves, Ewald turned and strode from the club. He brushed roughly against Henri as he left.

The door clicked shut. Henri could hear his watch ticking in the silence. He cocked his head toward the black business phone sitting at the end of the bar.

"Now," Henri said to his partner. "Do it." Yves lifted the receiver, punched in a number, and handed the phone to Richter.

The German sat with his hands in his lap. He didn't move.

"Put it on speaker," Henri scowled.

Yves punched the speaker button and hung up. The phone rang over a dozen times before anyone picked up.

"Felix?" said the voice on the other end.

"Yes, Dominique," said Richter. "I'm here." "How are you?" "I'm well," he said. He looked at Henri, who was lighting a new cigarette with the old. "Except for the presence of your two henchmen. Why do you insult me, monsieur, with the threat of force? Did you think I wouldn't take your call?" "Not at all," Dominique said benignly. "That isn't the reason I sent them. To tell you the truth, Felix, they've come to close down your club." Henri swore he could hear Richter's back straighten.

"Close down the club," Richter repeated. "For fleecing your lamb M. Horne?" "No," said Dominique. "What happened was his fault for coming alone. My intent is to show you the futility of refusing my acquisition offer." "By muscling me like a common mobster," Richter said.

"I expected better from you." "That, Herr Richter, is your problem. Unlike you, I have no pretensions. I believe in maintaining influence through any means at my disposal. Speaking of which, don't bother to call your escort service this afternoon to check on tonight's schedules. You'll find that the girls and boys have elected to join a rival service." "My people won't stand for this," Richter said. "They won't be bludgeoned into submissiveness." Henri noted a change in Richter's voice. He no longer sounded smug. And he could feel Richter's eyes on him as he put his old cigarette down on the guest register.

"No," Dominique agreed. "They won't be bullied. But they will follow you. And you will do as you're told, or you will lose more than just your livelihood." Within seconds, the register book began to smoke.

Richter stood and took a step toward it. Henri raised the pistol. Richter stood still.

"This is spite, monsieur, not good sense," Richter said.

"Who benefits if we bloody each other? Only the opposition." "You drew first blood," Dominique said. "Let's hope this is the last." A flame leapt from the page of the book and threw an orange light on Richter's face. His eyebrows were pulled in at the nose, his mouth turned down.

Dominique continued. "You have enough insurance to start again. In the meantime, I will see to it that your group has the money to continue. The cause will not suffer. Only your pride is hurt. And over that, Herr Richter, I will lose no sleep." As the register pages curled into bouquets of black ash, Henri carried the book to the bar. He wadded cocktail napkins onto the flame, then made a trail of them to the CO2 tank by the soda pump.

"Now I suggest you leave with my associates," Dominique said. "This is not the kind of feuer with which you want to get involved. Good day, Felix." The phone clicked off, and a dial tone buzzed from the speaker.

Henri stepped toward the door. He motioned the other men over. "There's only about two minutes of fuse," he said.

"We'd better go." Yves stepped from behind Richter. As he did, he took the gum from his mouth and stuck it under the bar.

Richter didn't move.

"Herr Richter," Henri said. "So that you are not tempted to put out the fire, M. Dominique has instructed us to make sure that you leave— or make sure that you do not. Which will it be?" Reflected flames burned in Richter's eyes as he glared at the men. Then his eyes snapped front and he walked briskly from the club. The men raced out behind him.

Richter didn't say a word as he walked down the street and hailed a cab. Henri and Yves set off in the other direction, hurrying toward the deep blue of the Elbe.

They didn't turn when they heard the explosion and the crash of debris and the screams of people who were hurt or frightened or calling for help.

When the cab driver heard the blast, he pulled over.

He looked back, swore, and jumped from the cab to see if he could help.

Felix Richter did not join him. He remained seated, staring ahead. Since he did not know what Dominique looked like, he didn't see a face. He saw only bright red hate. And there, in the close confines of the cab, he began to scream. He screamed from his abdomen until it was empty, screamed from his soul until it was drained, screamed until his throat and ears both ached. At breath's end, he filled his lungs and screamed again, pouring out hate and frustration through his voice.

When that breath was gone, he fell silent. Perspiration had formed on his forehead. It spilled into the corners of his eyes. He was breathing heavily, but he was calm and focused now. He stared ahead and saw the crowd which was gathering to watch the fire. Some of the people were staring at him and he glared back, unashamed and unafraid.

Looking at them, he thought, The crowds. They were the Fhrer's people. They were blood his heart pumped throughout the land. The crowds.

There was no way, absolutely none, that he would join Dominique now. He refused to be the man's pawn or his trophy. And there was no way that he would allow Dominique to get away with this outrage.

But he cannot be destroyed, Richter thought. The Frenchman must be humbled. Caught off guard.

The crowds. The people. The lifeblood of a nation. They must respond to a strong heart. And the government, the body, must obey their wishes.

And as he glanced into the rearview mirror and watched the flames consume his club, Richter knew what he was going to do.

Leaving the cab, Richter walked two blocks— away, reluctantly, from the thickening mob. He caught another taxi, then headed to his apartment to make a phone call. A call he was sure would alter the course of German history.

and that of the world.