Not only that, when he tried to push the door open, he felt an opposite pressure. As if something was holding the door closed.
He pushed harder.
The obstruction moved. As it did so, an arm flopped into view beneath the half-open car door. The hand was covered in a sheen of bright red. Blood.
The president immediately yanked the door back. This was a security limousine. He would be safe inside.
The door was just inches from being shut when a black boot jammed into the opening between the door and the frame.
The president pulled harder, now with both hands. His knuckles grew white from the force he exerted. Shouts came from outside. He recognized the language immediately. German.
Scuffling. He could see them now. Their angry faces outside the window. He pulled more furiously. Hands curled in around the door frame, prying the door open. Though he struggled hard, there were too many of them. The president felt the handle being tugged away from him with a sudden wrench. The door sprang open wide.
His chauffeur was sprawled, dead, on the ground beside the car, still bleeding from the chest. His eyes were open wide, his face a macabre mask of shock.
The men outside the car reached in and grabbed the president of France roughly by the arms. They dragged him out into the cool morning air.
There were dozens of them. They wore the drab green German army uniforms of World War II. Each of them had a familiar old-fashioned curving helmet atop his bald head. Leather straps held the helmets in place.
On their arms were the chillingly familiar bands of Nazi soldiers. The black swastika--circled in white-on a red background.
There was no sign of the French troop on guard detail within the protected walls of the palace. These silent soldiers apparently had free rein.
The president was held fast beside his limousine. "I demand to know the meaning of this!" he sputtered indignantly.
The uniformed soldiers didn't react to his shouted words. They seemed unconcerned that his voice might bring assistance.
But his shout did have a reaction.
A lone man stepped from the doors that led into the interior of the palace-into the very heart of the French elected government.
Older than the rest, he wore a uniform slightly different than the others. He had the high-peaked cloth cap of a Nazi officer. A silver eagle perched atop the front of the mint-condition antique headgear. He came down the ornate outdoor staircase to the president's car.
"I apologize that we must meet under these conditions, Mr. President. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Field Marshal Fritz Dunlitz." He clicked his boots together in a gesture that rattled the black iron cross at his tightly buttoned uniform collar. "Please accompany me inside." He spread his hand toward the door to the palace.
"Unhand me!" the president insisted, twisting wildly.
Fritz nodded to the men. Obediently the soldiers released him.
"I demand that you-"
Fritz raised a black-gloved hand. He did it with such fury that the president halted his protestations. When the leader of France grew silent, a brittle smile broke across the face of the gaunt old German. Again he motioned to the door to the Palais de l'Elysee.
His next words gave the president of France an involuntary chill.
"The fuhrer wishes to meet you."
THEY HAD BEEN KIDNAPPED during the night and in the early hours of the morning. Each abduction was accomplished quietly, expertly. It was amazing even to Nils Schatz, considering the men with whom he had been forced to work.
But his army of skinheads with their aged Nazi leaders had proved their mettle in the most secret part of this shadow campaign.
On the floor of the small auditorium sat the mayors of the twenty arrondissements of Paris. With them was the prefect of the Seine and as many members of the senate and national assembly as could be found.
Those men in the room elected to national office were not as important to him as the others. They were, as the Americans said, gravy.
The mayors were the elected representatives of each division of France's most important city. They were the ones who separately controlled each small portion of Paris.
During the darkest hours of the morning, Schatz had persuaded all of them to sign an official document he had personally prepared. In order to do this, he had torn a page out of his own past history as Himmler's favorite torturer. Indeed, many of the men around him still tended the wounds he had inflicted upon them.
Schatz had enjoyed convincing them to see the wisdom of his position. The truth was, as he watched each man sign the important-looking scrap of paper, he had felt more alive than he had in years.
The document itself was only a few dozen lines, written both in German and in French. In effect it turned the city of Paris over to Nils Schatz. Now the fuhrer.
Schatz was sitting on a small dais at the front of the auditorium when the president of France and his Nazi entourage entered the room.
The new fuhrer placed onto the long table before him the document that relinquished control of the city to his army of skinheads. He rose politely as the French president was brought up onto the stage with him.
"Mr. President," Nils Schatz announced, clicking his heels formally.
"What is this outrage?" the president demanded. He noted the bruised and bloodied men and women seated near the far wall of the room. Guards sporting red-and-black-swastika armbands were posted all around them.
Schatz ignored the question. Instead, he continued speaking as if the French president were a silent guest.
"I thought that it would be more appropriate for us to meet in the railroad car of Marshal Foch," Schatz said. He shrugged helplessly. "However, there are still security issues for us."
"Foch?" the president echoed.
A national hero, Marshal Foch had received the surrender of the Germans in a railroad car at the end of World War I. Hitler had commandeered the car during World War II after the fall of Paris.
Schatz nodded. "Yes. His statue will, of course, be taken down at our earliest opportunity. For now I have a simple request. One your people have mastered over your long and-" distaste filled his face "-distinguished history. Please sign here."
Schatz drew the document toward the president. At the same time he offered the leader of France a gold pen.
The president quickly scanned the words on the large sheet of paper. He saw the signatories at the bottom. All of the highest authorities in the city. While Paris would certainly survive without them, their easy capitulation would be a major propaganda tool.
"Non," the president of France said, proud chin jutting forward. "I will not sign this."
Schatz nodded, as if his refusal wasn't unexpected.
"Technology is marvelous, would you not agree, Mr. President?" Schatz asked.
The president was baffled by this sudden change of topic. He remained silent.
Schatz continued. "I confess to being completely baffled by all of these new inventions. Satellites, cameras. Even television."
There was a large TV on a metal chassis at the end of the conference table. At a sign from Fritz, an armed skinhead switched the set on. The screen was filled with an image of the famous Paris Opera House. Still a relatively new addition to the city, it had been constructed during the tenure of the president's predecessor.