Games of State - Tom Clancy [46]
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 Führer'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
Thursday, 8:34 A.M.,
New York, New York
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