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.