Beyond Revanche, page 10
“Did you mean what you said about killing Caillaux and Jaurès, my friend?”
“Of course.” I was determined to do that. All I needed was the means. “I meant every word. I see it as my mission.”
Knowing looks crossed the room. Judgments were made, although whatever Charles decided would be unquestioned. He approved.
“Maurice has a present for you. Take it home. Destroy the box. No one can connect you to us or us to you. Jaurès must be dead within 48 hours. If you cannot do this, we will be very disappointed. Listen well, Raoul. You carry the mark of a soldier of France on your forehead. You have clearly been chosen for greatness. When you do the deed, and it must be done, dispense with the evidence as quickly as possible. We will be watching you, like your guardian angel. If you are arrested, say nothing. Nothing. Blaming someone else would be a death sentence. You know what happens to men who blame others. They are punished. Silence will confirm you as the hero you are. All of Action française will stand by you. But only if you are silent. If you dare to betray the cause, you will die a most painful death and be cursed by the heroes of France. Raoul, do you understand?”
I looked at him with swelling tears. My mouth quivered. My heart pounded with pride. I was the chosen one. My guardian angel had descended from the heavens. Of course I understood.
Maurice gave me his present, saying pointedly, “This is from us. Do what must be done in our name.” An enormous sense of sanctity filled my spirit. I held the sacred present in both hands, as if it were a sacrament.
“For Jean Jaurès. His time has come.” I almost chanted my promise.
Charles raised a symbolic glass of red wine and replied, “For Action française, whose time has also come. Maurice, take our champion to the metro and make sure he is protected.” They bowed to each other like co-celebrants in a mystic charade and I was shepherded from Charles’s presence. The audience was over.
It all happened so fast. So many instructions. So much responsibility. Do this. Have that. Go there. Alone in my lodgings I opened the box and looked in wonderment at two pistols. I held them in my hands. Felt the weight, counted the bullets, personalized the butts.
Did you ever meet your guardian angel? No. Of course not. You don’t have one. I had three. I felt strangely hot. “I am a champion, you know.”
Yet caution intervened. What if I died in the attempt or was betrayed? Anything was possible. I wrote a will, not to be opened until my death, and took it to the one man in the world I trusted absolutely.
Thank God.
8
July 30, 1914 – Jean Jaurès
“Do we have a file on Jean Jaurès?” Pascal and Mathieu returned to headquarters empty-handed.
Commander Roux looked up from his desk and asked, “Official or unofficial?”
“There are two?” queried Pascal. He paused for a second, looked at Mathieu and asked, “Why?”
Roux went to his locked filing cabinet and removed two slim dockets. He carefully laid one on his desk and opened the other. “Jean Jaurès, Socialist Member of the National Assembly for Tarn, historian and philosopher, founder and editor-in-chief of the daily newspaper, L’Humanite, leader of the French section of the Socialist International, anti-militarist, campaigned against the three year service law, working class hero…that kind of thing.”
Mathieu looked at Jaurès’ official photograph pinned to the opened file. He’d never given thought to the politician as a person and would have struggled to recognize him in the street. Not tall, medium at best, but sporting a heavy torso, Jaurès looked like any affluent Parisian. His round head and bristling hair lent him an air of moderate distinction but the ruddy, weather-beaten face framed in a short grey beard housed a disarming smile. Underneath the photo was a handwritten description penned by someone of different political persuasion.
“Did you read this?” Mathieu laughed. “It says here that Jaurès ‘has a healthy appetite which often spreads onto his formal attire, bearing the evidence of previous dinners.’ Unnecessarily sarcastic, don’t you think?”
“Anytime I’ve seen him in the National Assembly,” Bernard Roux added, “his pockets were stuffed with books, notes, and pamphlets. Made him look scruffy. But, in fact, he is generous, kind, speaks extremely well, and people love him. He is idolized by the younger socialists. You won’t find that in the file.”
They didn’t.
“However, this,” he held up the second file, “is entirely different, compiled by the political section which serves President Poincaré.” Roux handed it to the lieutenant, unopened. Clearly the commander was familiar with its content. “Before you read it, be aware; Jean Jaurès is seen by many important and powerful Frenchmen as the enemy of France. And he is the enemy of their kind of France because of his outspoken criticism of the establishment. Action française hate him with a vengeance, but no less than the Russians. And if he is right, I can understand why. Read it. You first, Pascal, then you. We’ll discuss it after lunch.”
There were the usual comments about Jaurès’ links to the Dreyfus affair and Jewish-sympathizers, articles from newspapers about his involvement in international socialism, details and copies of reports and minutes of the Socialist Party of France, and records of meetings with socialists from all over Europe. But it was the Russian content which caught the eye, largely because much of it had been underlined for effect. On the first page, Jaurès’ most recent appeal to workers in Russia to go on strike in protest against President Poincaré’s visit had traitor scrawled across the whole article. There were cuttings about his drive to unite the workers of France and Germany to stop war. Down the side, someone had added, Must be stopped. He had insulted Isvolsky, the Russian Ambassador in Paris, mocking him as a poisonous mosquito that had infected every court in Europe. One piece referred to the “sinister co-operation” between Russia and France. The letter to which it was originally attached had been removed. There were papers from President Poincaré’s 1913 election which claimed that his funding had been sourced from Moscow. Scandalous if true.
Finally, a handwritten note contained numbers and letters 29 14 52 18 36 B 30 8 05 11 49 P.
“Your thoughts?” The commander put them to the test. Lunch had been sufficient though not excessive.
“Sir, do the prefect of police and the minister of justice know you have this information?” It was a bold query, but Mathieu knew the commander expected searching questions.
“I believe so. It came from their offices. Why do you ask?” He took refuge in a fresh Gauloises.
“Because the information has been gathered by two different sources for different purposes?”
Pascal agreed. “Has to be. But why?”
“What are these purposes? Seems unlikely to me.” So, Roux agreed with them. He had left thinking space inside the conversation. Both men knew he was testing them.
“The first file contains nothing of particular importance; the second is relatively recent and concentrates on our Russian allies.” Captain Girard tried to think beyond the obvious..
“Odd, that.”
“Why odd?”
“Odd that you were sent two files. Odd that one of them reads more like a list of reasons for eliminating Jaurès right away.”
“When you break it down the second file shows that certain people want him dead. The president? We know how anti-German he is. Bitter about Alsace-Lorraine. Fair enough. But Jaurès is saying that his election was funded by Russian money. That’s rot, surely?”
If he was looking for a reaction from Roux, Mathieu was disappointed. Two drags of his Gauloises later, the commander urged,” Go on.”
“So the Russians would want him out of the way. Especially Ambassador Isvolsky.”
Pascal Girard pointed to the obvious. “So does Action française and every other right-winged warmonger. Let’s face it. They all want Jaurès dead.”
“And the numbers on the note? Crack that and I’ll buy the drinks.” A rare promise indeed from the canny commander. Now there was a challenge. They had till 6:30 P.M. to solve that mysterious equation.
Pascal Girard sat at his desk in studious concentration. He had that look on his face usually reserved for choosing winners at Longchamps. Mathieu tried to concentrate, but numbers meant little to him. His thoughts centered on the Russian, Isvolsky. He should be further investigated. But where to start?
“Time.” Pascal Girard broke the silence.
“Nearly five o’clock.”
“No, the numbers. Time. Look at this.”
Mathieu scurried across to his colleague’s desk. A report sheet was covered in figures , with combinations reading backwards and forwards, additions vied with subtractions, arrows pointed to possible solutions but had been heavily scored through. Alphabetic substitutions appeared here and there, to no avail. The indecipherable had been made even more incomprehensible. He appealed for the answer.
“OK, let’s take two sets of numbers. What do you make of the sequences 14 to 36 and then 8 to 49?”
“Nothing.”
“I’ve already told you. Time. If these sequences are in hours and minutes, then you have 2:52 P.M. – 6:36 P.M. B and 8:05 A.M. – 11:49 A.M. P. See? Both sums total exactly 3 hours and 44 minutes.”
“How is that likely?
“Because, my young friend, the difference between the two sets is identical. If we are dealing with the sixty minute clock, it’s a journey between two fixed points at an identical rate.”
Pascal was half way up the corridor to the commander’s office before Mathieu warned, “What about the rest of it?”
Too late. He followed his jubilant friend, keen to see what next transpired.
“So?” queried Commander Roux.
“Not sure yet.” Pascal paused to make room for possible enlightenment. “If these are times, what takes 3 hours and 44 minutes?”
“A damned good lunch?” The chief actually smiled at his own joke.
“No, it’s a fair question.” Girard kept unpicking locks. “And if these figures indicate a time differential, then the numbers 29 and 30 might be dates?”
Bernard Roux broke the habit of a lifetime. He stubbed out a half-finished cigarette and launched himself at a pile of reports stacked neatly to his left.
“Of course!” he agreed, pulling one out, close to the bottom.
“Well done, Pascal. We’ve solved it. Look, boys, look. Jean Jaurès went to Brussels, B, on the 29th, that’s today, catching the 2:52 from Garde du Nord. He will return tomorrow, the 30th, to Paris, P, at 11:49. Excellent. Well done. Great teamwork!”
Mathieu had to insist that he had not contributed anything to the solution, but Girard resigned himself to a share of the glory. Pronouns always betray management thinking.
“But why? Why would a police file identify Jaurès’ travel arrangements in code?”
It was Mathieu’s turn to unlock another door. “Unless it’s not a police file.”
Roux smiled. Caught. He would have told them eventually, but Mathieu was sharp.
“Quite right. It’s not. Either someone in the Ministry secretly wanted us to see this or a clerk inadvertently shoved two files into one folder, and both were sent here. Doesn’t matter which. Jaurès has enemies in the highest offices of the land, and they are tracking his every movement, but he also has at least one friend who needs to stay anonymous.”
The captain dropped his head into his hands and groaned. “They are going to kill him when he gets back from Brussels.”
“We can’t be certain, and we certainly can’t share this information.” The chief drummed his fingers on the desk. “At 11:49 tomorrow, you will meet Jaurès from the train and stay with him all day.”
“That guarantees very little.”
“I know, I know. We’ll just have to do our best and try to stay one move ahead of the pack, whoever they might be. But in our favor, they don’t know we’ve worked it out.”
“Merde.”
Raoul’s Story
The Champion of Justice
Though it may be somewhat immodest to admit it, I looked the part of a man about town. Not overdressed but smart. Monied without flouting it. For once in my life I felt stylish, as if my new clothes cast a charm around me which announced a person of substance. Class even. When I caught a glimpse of myself in the freestanding mirror at the exclusive outfitters in Rue du Faubourg Saint Honore my first thought was, Would that my brother could see me now.
Maurice had insisted that he purchase a stylish suit. “We cannot have the champion of Action française dressed like a working man. You must look the part to be the part.” Maurice was clever with words. “Don’t worry about anything. Nothing can go wrong. This is your time.”
Old apprehensions dared to surface as we approached the outfitters. The attendants would take one look at me, shake their heads, and throw me out onto the street. Surely they could see beyond appearance? Not so. Maurice was greeted like a long lost cousin and we were guided into a private dressing room. He took charge. Two-piece suit, leather shoes, shirt, gloves, and stylish straw hat. I said nothing. I watched it happen around me, distanced from reality. Tape measures flashed with military precision across head, shoulders, waist, calf, and knee. The distance between collar and lower back assumed an importance of surgical acuity. A brief meeting was called to agree how the jacket might hang. Off the peg? Possibly, sir, but that has never been our style. A few adjustments, I think, and we will have precisely what you want. Breathe in. Breathe out. Chest measurement, followed by neck size, produced a perfect shirt. And I simply stood still, like draped royalty in a distant epoch.
“He’ll wear it to go.” A guardian angel can be so masterful.
A different man strode down Rue du Faubourg. A classier man. A man of outward confidence and determination. A man on a mission.
“A certain gentleman promised you a very special meal today. Follow me.” Though I had no recollection of such a promise I did as I was bid, but struggled to keep pace with Maurice. Two brief metro journeys brought us to the high level station on Quai de Grenelle, built on the former tax collection barrier on the left bank of the Seine. Though it was an architectural accomplishment in itself, with cathedral-like arches of renaissance beauty, the traveler’s eye rarely dwelt on the station. There was a rival attraction.
“I’ve never seen the Tower Eiffel from this angle,” I conceded. “It’s…it’s stunning.” There before us, in close-up, was the symbol of Paris in a new age, an iconic structure which I had learned to dismiss, simply because it was modern.
“Wait till lunch.” Maurice appeared to enjoy the moment. I was calm, confident and composed, as was the instruction.
I lunched in the Eiffel Tower, you know. Just me. On my own. My guardian angel had a number of tasks to complete but booked a table for one under the name Bonhomme. Can’t remember what I ate, but it was haute cuisine. Small portions of elegant delicacy. The views were awe-inspiring. So unusual to see Sacré Coeur from this height, stunning in the hot midday sun, whiter than purity itself.
Maurice sat in the cooler gardens below, in the shade of the Champs de Mars, reading L’Echo de Paris. Its front page headlines carried a story about a soldier who had been reprimanded for daring to say that politicians who wanted to return to a mere two years compulsory military service instead of three were either imbeciles or traitors. The second made mockery of a German offer to act as an intermediary between Russia and Austria-Hungary and included a claim that the German army had already mobilized in secret.
“Good news?” I asked hopefully
Maurice folded the newspaper into his pocket and punched me gently on the arm. “Not as good as tomorrow’s.” His conspiratorial grin was infectious. “Let’s walk back along the river. I want to make sure that you fully understand the plan.”
It was unbearably hot. Ask anyone about those days at the end of July and they will talk about the heat. We sat by the Seine in the shade of an awning and drank iced orange. Maurice repeated the plan…again.
“Jaurès has returned from Brussels. Did you read about it? Photographed with his arms around the Boches delegate to some socialist conference. Calling on all workers across Europe to go on strike. Bastard has an interview scheduled for this afternoon with the prime minister, but will be back in his office in the evening. You will take revenge on this insult to France by gunning down Jaurès as he stands, just as Madame Caillaux slew poor Calmette. Say nothing. Take both your revolvers. March up to him and fire as many rounds as you can into his body and make good your escape. We will be nearby. The workers will be so shocked that they will rush to him, not you. Down the stairs and into the street. Don’t run. Walk smartly across to the metro at Bourse and take the train to Saint-Lazare. We will follow and meet you outside Lazare on the Cour du Rome. Have no fears. We will be with you. Watching.”
I had no fears. Fear had left me. I had been born again as a champion of justice.
9
July 31, 1914 – The Last Supper
According to L’Humanite the meeting of the International Socialist Bureau in Brussels had not gone well. Representatives simply didn’t understand the disastrous abyss over which Europe was teetering. Yes, the assembled leaders had debated what they could do to avert war, but pessimism ruled the day. They were preaching to the converted. The rest of Europe had fallen under the spell of nationalist self-interest. Rosa Luxemburg and Kier Hardie tried to rouse the mass meeting in the evening, but even they struggled. Jean delivered an impassioned speech with his arm extended symbolically around his German colleague’s shoulder, insisting that the French wanted peace. A vast crowd of enthusiastic Belgians roared approval.
The train pulled into Gare du Nord just before midday. Mathieu and Pascal stood in the center of the exit from Platform 7 searching every face that passed. Trouble was, almost everyone disembarking was in a rush. Let that train be minutes late and the rush becomes a torrent. Middle-aged lawyers, shirts already damp from the relentless heat, shoved past shop assistants. Matrons with overdressed children tried valiantly to protect their brood. Holidaymakers, slowed by heavy luggage, stopped abruptly to check the city map, unaware that it was upside down. Youths with the strength to do everything at the double dived between fast-paced locals, all heading briskly towards the metro entrance. Nuns, swathed in black robes and white wimples, gathered like giddy sharks in a strange cesspool, feigning any need for help, safe in the knowledge that some good Catholic would come to their aid.
