Games of State

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 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 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.