He wanted to do this. No, he needed to do this. And in his heart, he knew he could.
"Listen," Herbert said. "We can't call the police because we don't know if some of them are in with these gorillas.
And how long will it be before the girl decides to turn herself in because she's hungry or tired? We don't have any other options." "We do have one," Alberto said. "Larry's people are probably drawing the same conclusions from these photos that we are. Let me call over and see what they want to do." "Nix," said Herbert. "I'm not gonna cool my seat while someone's life is in danger." "But you'll both be in danger—" "Kid, I've been in danger just sitting in my damn car today," Herbert said as he exited the Autobahn. "I'll be careful and I'll get to her, I promise. I'll also be taking the phone. The vibrating ringer will be on, but I won't be opening my yap if I'm worried that someone'll overhear." "Of course," Alberto said. "I'm still against this," he added, "but good luck, Boss." "Thanks," Herbert said as he pulled off the two-lane roadway. There was a rest station with gas, food, and rooms: no vacancies, the sign said, which told Herbert that they were either full of visiting neo-Nazis or that the owners didn't want them around. He swung into the lot and parked behind the modern, one-story building, then crossed his fingers as he pressed the button to release his chair. He feared his bumper-car chase might have affected the mechanics of the Mercedes. But it didn't, and five minutes later he was rolling up a gentle slope in the blue-orange light of approaching dusk.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The stretch limousine arrived at Jean-Michel's hotel promptly on the half hour.
The afternoon news had been full of the St. Pauli fire along with condemnation for the club's owner. Feminists were glad and Communists were glad and the press behaved as though they had been vindicated. It seemed to Jean- Michel that Richter was as widely castigated for his career in the escort and social club trade as he was for his political beliefs. Old tape was run of Richter defending himself, claiming that he was in the "peace of mind" business. The company of females put men at ease so that they could meet great challenges. His businesses made this possible.
And Richter is no fool, Jean-Michel had thought as he watched the broadcasts. Condemnation by feminists, Communists, and the press— none of whom were much liked by the average German— only served to drive those men closer to Richter's 21st National Socialist Party.
Jean-Michel had gone outside the hotel at 5:25.
Waiting under the awning, he had not been sure that Richter would come. Or if he did show up, that he wouldn't arrive with a truck filled with militiamen to exact vengeance for the fire.
But that wasn't Richter's style. From what they'd heard, it was Karin Doring's. Richter had pride, and after the limousine stopped and the doorman opened the door, Jean- Michel looked to his left. He nodded. M. Dominique had insisted that Henri and Yves go with him, and they climbed in with Jean Michel between them. They faced the rear of the car with their backs to the partition that separated them from the driver. Yves shut the door. Each man was an unhealthy gray in the dim light which passed through the dark-tinted windows.
Jean-Michel was not surprised to find Richter considerably more subdued than before. The German was sitting alone in the backseat, across from them. He sat quite still, looking at them but not speaking. Even when Jean- Michel greeted him, Richter nodded once but said nothing.
Once they were under way, the German didn't take his eyes off Jean-Michel and his bodyguards. He watched them from the shadows, his hands in the lap of his fawn-colored suit pants, his shoulders erect.
Jean-Michel didn't expect him to be talkative. However, as Don Quixote had said, it was the responsibility of the victor to minister to the wounds of the vanquished. And there were things which needed to be said.
"Herr Richter," he said softly, "it was not M.
Dominique's wish for things to escalate as they did." Richter's eyes had been on Henri. They shifted to Jean- Michel, moving like tiny gears.
"Is that an apology?" the German asked.
Jean-Michel shook his head. "Consider it an olive branch," he said. "One which I hope you'll accept." Richter replied unemotionally, "I spit on it and you." Jean-Michel seemed slightly taken aback., Henri grumbled restlessly.
"Herr Richter," said Jean-Michel, "you must realize that you cannot beat us." Richter smiled. "Those are the same words Hauptmann Rosenlocher of the Hamburg police has used for years. Yet I'm still here. And thank you for the fire, by the way. The Hauptmann is so busy trying to figure out who wanted me dead that he and his overworked staff of uncorruptibles have allowed me to slip away." Jean-Michel said, "M. Dominique is not a policeman. He has been a very generous benefactor. Your political offices were untouched and M. Dominique has made money available to you so that you can reestablish yourself professionally." "At what price?" Richter asked.
"Mutual respect." "Respect?" Richter snapped. "It's subservience! If I do what Dominique wishes he'll allow me to survive." "You don't understand," Jean-Michel insisted.
"Don't I?" Richter replied.
The German reached into his jacket pocket, and both Henri and Yves started forward. Richter ignored them. He withdrew a cigarette case, put a cigarette in his mouth, and replaced the case. He froze, looking at Jean-Michel.
"I understand you very well," Richter said. "I've been thinking all afternoon, trying to understand why it was so important to keep me down." He withdrew his hand, and before Jean-Michel saw that he was not holding a cigarette lighter, it was too late. The compact FN Model Baby Browning pistol spit twice, once to the left of Jean-Michel, once to the right. The bang was loud, drowning out the distinctive thunk as the bullet passed through the forehead of each bodyguard.
As the car turned left, both bodies slumped toward the driver's side. His ears buzzing, Jean Michel made a long, frightened face as Henri flopped against him. Brownish-red blood pooled in the small, neat wound and spilled over. It streamed down the bridge of the dead man's nose. Half screaming, half-moaning, Jean-Michel used a shoulder to nudge the body against the door. Then he looked at the dead Yves, whose bloody trickle had broken into spidery red lines on his face. Finally, Jean-Michel turned terror-wide eyes on Richter.
"I'll have them buried in the woods when we arrive," said Richter. He spat the cigarette to the floor. "By the way, I don't smoke." Still holding the gun, the German leaned forward. He removed the pistols in Yves's and Henri's shoulder holsters and placed one of the guns on the seat to his right. He examined the other.
"An F1 Target Pistol," Richter said. "Army issue. Were these former army men?" Jean-Michel nodded.
"That would explain their incredibly poor reflexes," Richter said. "The French military never did know how to train soldiers to fight. Not like the German military." He set the guns down, patted Jean-Michel's chest and pockets to make sure he had no weapons, then sat back. He crossed his legs and put his hands on his knee.