They've got a goddamn cottage industry going here, Herbert thought, amazed. All of it subtle, venomous, and legal. That was the problem, of course. Unlike the skinheads, who were considered low-caste neo-Nazis and spurned by people like these, the men and the few women here were smart enough to stay within the law. And when there was enough of them to field candidates and vote, Herbert had every confidence that they would change the law. Just as they'd done in March of 1933, when the Enabling Act gave Hitler dictatorial authority over the nation.

One of the hosts, a tall young man with sandy blond hair, stood stiffly behind the table. He shook the hand of each newcomer. He seemed less comfortable with the few grubbier skinheads than he did with the clean-cut men.

Even among the vermin there are castes, Herbert noted. He was intrigued as one of the scruffier new arrivals followed the handshake by throwing his arm in a traditional Nazi salute. It was an isolated, nostalgic gesture. The other men seemed uncomfortable with it. It was as though a drunk had come to the cash bar at a social function. They tolerated the salute but did not acknowledge it. Obviously there were schisms in the new Reich just as there had been in the old. Rifts which could be manipulated by outside forces.

Cars were piling up behind Herbert. Releasing the hand brake, he pressed his palm hard on the gas pedal and ripped down the street. He was angry: angry at these slick monsters, heirs to war and genocide, and angry at the system which allowed them to exist.

As Herbert rounded the corner, he saw that the side streets were closed for parking. He was glad there was no one here with a baton to direct traffic. That would have been too much, like a goddamn country fair.

Turning down one of the streets, he found a place to park. Then he pressed a button beside the radio. The left back door opened and the well in which the wheelchair sat slid to that side. The entire bucket emerged from the car and deposited the wheelchair on the ground. Herbert reached back and pulled it over. He also resolved to make a deal with these people to get cars like this into the U.S. They really made life a whole lot simpler.

Sliding into the wheelchair, he snuggled himself in like a top-gupner. Then he pressed a button in the car door to retract the bucket. When it was back inside, he shut the car door and began rolling down the street, toward the Beer-Hall.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Thursday, 3:28 P.M.,

Toulouse, France

Dominique could feel victory. It had weight, it had presence, and it was near. Very near.