What did you think of that, Herr Hitler? Dominique wondered. The gas chambers at Treblinka were designed to kill two hundred people in fifteen minutes, the gas chambers at Auschwitz designed to kill two thousand. Was the master killer impressed or did he scoff at the work of relative amateurs?

The guillotine was Dominique's prize. Behind it, on the wall, were period newspapers and etchings in ornate frames, as well as original documents signed by George Jacques Danton and other leaders of the French Revolution. But nothing stirred him like the guillotine. Even with the overhead lights off and the shades drawn he could feel it, the device which was a reminder that one had to be decisive to succeed. Children of nobles had lost their heads to that sinister blade, but such was the price of revolution.

The telephone beeped. It was the third line, a private line which the secretaries never answered. Only his partners and Home had that number.

Dominique leaned forward in the fat leather chair. He was a lanky man with a large nose, high forehead, and strong chin. His hair was short and ink black, a dramatic contrast to the white turtleneck and trousers he was wearing.

He hit the speaker button. "Yes?" he said quietly.

"Good morning, M. Dominique," said the caller. "It's Jean-Michel."

Dominique glanced at his watch. "It's early."

"The meeting was brief, M. Dominique."

"Tell me about it," he said.

Jean-Michel obliged. He told him about the lecture he had been given under torture, and about how the German considered himself M. Dominique's equal. Jean-Michel also told him about what little he had picked up about Karin Doring.

Dominique listened to it all without comment. When Jean-Michel was finished, he asked, "How is your eye?"

"I think it will be all right," said Jean-Michel. "I've arranged to see a doctor this afternoon."

"Good," Dominique said. "You know you shouldn't have gone without Henri and Yves. That is why I sent them."

"I know, monsieur," Jean-Michel replied, "and I'm sorry. I didn't want to intimidate Herr Richter."

"And you didn't," Dominique said. His voice was tranquil and his wide mouth was relaxed. But his dark eyes were heavy with rage as he asked, "Is Henri there?"

"Yes," Jean-Michel replied.

"Put him on," Dominique said. "And Jean-Michel? Be sure to take them with you tonight."

"I will, M. Dominique," Jean-Michel replied.

So the little Führer is on the march, thought Dominique, bullying representatives. He wasn't terribly surprised. Richter's vanity made him ideally suited to believe his own press. That, plus the fact that he was German. Those people did not comprehend the notion of humility.

Henri came on the line, and Dominique spoke with him for just a few seconds. When they were finished, Dominique punched off the speaker button and sat back.