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 Fhrer'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.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The three-story brownstone on Christopher Street in the West Village was built in 1844. The door, the windowsills, and the two-step stoop were the originals.
Though the decades-old coat of brown paint was peeling, the appointments were handsome in their timeworn way.
Because the building was so close to the shifting grounds by the Hudson River, floors had buckled slightly and many of the unpainted bricks had shifted. Their movement created gently waving, symmetrical lines across the building's facade. The mortar had been refilled where it had cracked and fallen out.
The building stood between a corner flower stand and a candy shop. Since coming to America in the early 1980s, the Dae-jungs, the young Korean couple who owned the flower stand, paid no attention to the men and women who came and went from the century-and-a-half-old building. Neither did Daniel Tetter and Matty Stevens, the middle-aged men who owned Voltaire's Candied Shop next door. Only a handful of times in the twenty-seven years that they'd been in business had Tetter and Stevens ever seen the offpremises owner from Pittsburgh.