Beyond Revanche, page 33
“Such rich pickings,” he mused.
I did not understand the comment. “What made rich pickings?”
“Pardon?” Carbolic was polite to a fault.
“You said it was all so easy.”
“Ah, did I?” Carbolic thought for a moment and reworded his comment. “I meant…so easy to be happy…gay…ecstatic…so natural. And all those young ladies, all wanting to kiss a soldier…or a sailor…or,” and he paused for effect, “a prison orderly…”
But I was still locked away.
One month on, nothing changed for me. Sometimes, in the pit of the night, I wondered if the authorities were playing games. They knew I was here. They occasionally sent a lawyer or warden to remind me that in theory I remain a favored son, but is it true? Have I imagined this? I will demand to meet with my legal team again. That’s what they call themselves. My legal team, indeed. Bloody lawyers. I must confess that I thought Georges Clemenceau would have ordered my immediate release, given the disgust we share for socialists and anarchists.
Carbolic amused me, though I have not yet worked him out. He appeared to be a simple man, but knew many surprising things. He could be, what’s the word…inappropriate. Yes, inappropriate. Sometimes he corrected me in a manner which made me feel that he is the educated man. On the previous day I had been talking about the end of the war and how the German surrender had been so sudden when he interrupted.
“The war has not ended, Sir. Only the fighting has stopped.” He did not look at me when he said this but I could feel the smirk on his face. “Peace is an illusion. A lull between wars so that both sides can replenish their armies.”
“Nonsense.” I shuddered at the thought. “It is over. We have won.”
I’d never heard him speak like this. Suddenly so certain, as if he was in the know. Who had he been listening to? I’d never seen him with a newspaper in his hand, so where did he get such ideas from?
“Have we, Sir? Have we really won? The north of our country right up beyond Flanders and into the heart of Belgium has been ripped out and left to rot. But look at Germany. Not a scratch on her great cities. Has her army been defeated? No. Did her navy suffer a single defeat over the last four years? No. Do the Germans feel remorse? No.”
“But we won,” I shouted back. It was self-evident. Everyone knew we had won the war.
“They have only signed a piece of paper called an Armistice. What does that mean? Do you know, Sir?”
“Yes, but Foch and Clemenceau and the English and the Americans will sort it out.”
“Of course they will, Sir…but what does that mean?”
“We have Alsace and Lorraine back again. Restored to their former glory. French again. Germany will pay for the costs of this war. The Allies are all committed to that. Reparations. They will suffer.”
“Of course, Sir.” His slanted bow made me uncomfortable. I felt… patronized. How odd.
“Life in this city has changed beyond imagination. Not for the rich, of course. No, it never does for them, but the poor are poorer, the sick are sicker, and the hungry are still dying.”
“For goodness sake, Carbolic, you sound like one of those whining anarchists or socialists.”
“How many years is it since you walked down Haussmann or Avenue Hoche, Sir? What do you imagine Paris has become while you have been lying in here? Imprisoned, I mean.”
It was a frightening thought. That out there is not what I imagine in my head. I had not considered a different Paris. Physical change has always alarmed me unless I can see for myself that all is well.
“And, Sir, stay well away from anyone with a fever. I’ve checked these corridors and we seem to be clear, for the moment.”
Carbolic had reached the cell door and was at the point of leaving. I couldn’t for the life of me understand what he was talking about.
“Clear of what, Carbolic?”
“Influenza…the flu…Don’t you know thousands are dying all across Paris? It’s far more deadly than the German shells ever were.”
Of course I’d heard about the Spanish flu, but I thought it was confined to the destitute, the elderly, and the war-wounded. Possibly children, too. From the far end of the narrow corridor a racking cough echoed out towards us and added a new fear to my private collection. We looked at each other, and a shiver crossed from my shoulders to my spine and down to my shaking legs. In a second I would be alone again and I did not welcome the solitude.
“Wait a moment, my friend.” I touched his arm but he gave an involuntary squirm. Carbolic was not to be persuaded to linger in the semi-dark where germs lurked in their multitudes.
“Do you think they have forgotten about me?” My words were so sincere that he found pity in his heart.
“Of course not, Sir. Believe me. Definitely not, definitely. Believe me, I know.”
The door slammed and he was gone. It took me some seconds to think through his parting words. Believe me…I know.
“Hey, what do you know? What do you know, Carbolic? Come back. Come back right now. What do you mean?”
I sank back on the floor, confused. Was he really an orderly? Were they watching me? No, that would be ridiculous. He’d be the worst spy in the world if he were a spy.
What do you think my friend? Did you ever meet a spy who smelled of Carbolic soap?
Part 3
The Icarus Strain
31
1918-1919 Containing The Tiger
In no. 36 Rue des Orfevres, Bernard Roux discarded the newspapers which littered his desk, drew a final drag on his Gauloises, and extinguished it with vigor as if he was rubbing someone’s nose in the vile ash. He walked through to the general office.
“Where do they get this from?”
Paul and Mathieu looked at each other, uncertain as to whom the question was addressed or what it was that the mysterious “they” had lain their hands on.
“The stories in today’s press. Every newspaper.”
“They print whatever suits them, Chief, you know that.” Dubois shrugged it off.
“What story in particular, Chief?”
“The proposed Peace Conference,” he retorted. “Where it’s to be held. According to Figaro, the Americans have proposed Switzerland; Geneva or Lausanne.” He grasped another journal. “L’Humanite has a full page on the Belgian government’s aim to have it in Brussels, backed by the entire nation from Cardinal Mercier and the Catholic Church to King Albert.” He threw it down in disgust. “La Croix claims that that Clemenceau is insistent that it be held in Paris, naturally, and is supported by Le Monde and Le Parisien, while according to L’Opinion, the British are happy with anywhere other than London.”
“You can’t fault Lloyd George there. Policing a bloody international peace conference will be a nightmare.” Dubois knew the pitfalls and wished them elsewhere.
“My point, gentlemen, is that nothing has been agreed. These discussions are supposed to be secret. Officially no decision has been taken. When the Germans see the terms which the foreign office want to impose, they may not agree to anything. Someone inside our sacred government has leaked confidential information to the press. Deliberately.”
Bernard Roux picked up the telephone and requested to speak with prime minister Clemenceau’s private secretary, Henri Mordacq at the war office. They talked at some length but it was impossible to read the chief’s inscrutable face as he paced up and down between the curtained windows, nodding from time to time, and grunting occasional but unrelated words. At length he finished, clearly satisfied.
“War Office doesn’t know either. Our allies have already started to fight amongst themselves for prime position in the wonderful pecking order of the new era. President Wilson’s minder, Edward House, has been in touch with both Lloyd George and Washington, saying that it would be better if a conference took place in neutral Switzerland. Don’t ask how we know. But we do.”
“Diplomatic telegrams…so easy to decipher.” Mathieu nodded at Dubois.
“Well, we are going to upset that particular cozy applecart. The diplomatic caste will shortly give the Americans sight of secret information which shows that the Swiss aren’t to be trusted. You know the drill. Full of spies and poisonous left-wing elements—possibly Bolsheviks—make them press their own panic button. Ambassador Sharp gets particularly agitated about Bolsheviks.”
Mathieu was not surprised. “The Tiger is nobody’s fool. He knows he will be in control if the peace conference is held in Paris. It’s as simple as that.”
“Merde.” Dubois hunched his shoulders, dropped his head, and spoke into his own lap. “He’ll be in control of the politics but who will control the revolutionaries? It’ll be murder to keep all those targets secure. It’s an anarchist’s dream.”
“It’ll be murder if we fail,” Mathieu joked, but the witticism whipped past Dubois without registering.
There was an added worry.
“This isn’t the place to hold an international conference.” Mathieu was sure of that. “The bloody English and Americans imagine that they’ll have a holiday. Look at the city. Where do we put everyone? Notre Dame will hardly make a great tourist attraction with its stained glass windows missing. Boulevards with shattered trees and great gaps where people have chopped them up for firewood. There are piles of rubble stored at every second corner and gaping bomb craters that haven’t been filled in. Even the Tuileries gardens have been ruined by the huge hole that looks like it goes right to the center of the earth.” He paused to change his angle of objection. “How do we feed the politicians and their hangers-on? We don’t have enough basics, do we? Coal? Milk? Bread?”
“That’ll be the least of our worries.” Roux was halfway through another Gauloises. “The Americans will make sure that there are plenty luxuries. But you’re both right, it will be virtually impossible to police. However, the bottom line is that the Tiger has made up his mind. He won’t contemplate its being held anywhere else, and frankly no one in France would either.”
“I’ll tell you what worries me most.” Mathieu had lowered his voice to a half whisper so that his message carried more menace. “We’ve got so much unfinished business already. Raoul Villain is still being kept out of court and he is strangely confident that he will be rewarded for murdering Jean Jaurès.”
“You know that for sure?” The question that the chief was really asking was, How do you know that? Mathieu did not answer, but continued to list his concerns. “There are so many unsolved crimes, unanswered accusations, victims who want payback…and I don’t mean from Germany. The left wing, socialists, anarchists, and their numbers continue to grow, and don’t forget, we walk a tightrope between revolution and loyalty. The irony is that the very man who could have kept them calm lies in his grave, murdered by the agents of the right.”
“If only we could prove that.” Roux dug deep into his jacket pocket, and with consummate ease, extracted yet another packet of Gauloises.
Mathieu nodded. “I think about it every day. Dream about it every night. Villain is an unexploded bomb and I can hear it ticking.”
They were all aware that the scars which tore across French society lacerated the streets of Paris and every other major city in the land. Once initial celebrations had passed, victory flags hung limp from the lampposts. It was shameful to see the limbless veterans and newly de-mobbed soldiers in worn, faded uniforms add only to the ranks of the unemployed. There had never been so many beggars embarrassed by the desperation of their fate. Once, they sat in these same street cafés, heroes; guardians of the nation. Now they were superfluous. Their youth and their value spent in the extravagance of war. And the man who claimed that he had caused the war all on his own, slept safely in La Santé. And this was justice?
At no. 36, security became the overwhelming priority. International delegates began to invade Paris like sports teams in the oddest of Olympic meetings, with advisers, experts, academics, and secretaries all requiring special attention and the best of accommodation. Dubois had been passed the impossible baton. He had to assemble a team to monitor, support, and keep safe the hundreds of foreign representatives who flooded the city to no apparent useful purpose. And the paperwork. Mon Dieu, the paperwork.
“Do you think this is a mistake, Mathieu?” He held up a letter embossed with the stamp of the American State Department.
“What?”
“This missive from the Americans. They’ve asked for a vast number of facilities to be made available. I know they have the economic clout to move entire mountain ranges, but why would they need the Hôtel de Crillon and a second hotel on the Boissy d’Anglas, close to their prestigious embassy? And they want both to be staffed by their own countrymen.”
Overkill? Who knows? They’re American.”
“But this letter is dated 30th October…and the Armistice wasn’t signed until 11th November?”
“Really? Can I see that?” Mathieu was intrigued. How the hell did they know nearly two weeks in advance of the announcement of an Armistice? For the second time in his life he thought of the conspiracy inside a conspiracy, and shivered. “And the American Red Cross intend to use their premises on the Place de la Concorde to house US delegates.”
“That organization has always been a front for the Americans in Europe, especially and increasingly, to cover their activities in Russia.” Bernard Roux had been aware of this for six months, but the bureau was forbidden to interfere. Dubois’s task was impossible. The best he could do was keep known troublemakers away from the delegates.
Mathieu’s main concern was the Tiger’s own security. Though Clemenceau was already in his mid-seventies and suffered from diabetes, his inner strength was legendary. He was said to have descended from a family of wolves, with all their cunning and lack of fear. The prime minister was, however, pestered by irritating eczema on this hands to the extent that he constantly wore gloves to cover the raw broken skin and had difficulty sleeping. His inner-circle of friends were much more important to him than any of the Allied leaders, yet even they were subject to close scrutiny.
“You’ve to organise a constant watch on Henri Mordacq, Andre Tardieu, and Louis Loucheur.” Roux announced, shaking his head. These were the men that Clemenceau dined with virtually every evening, his trusted confidants.
“Are they under threat? What information do we have? Is it reliable?” Mathieu was intrigued.
“Well, yes, you could say that. Certainly reliable. We are required to collate a report on their activities and have it on the Tiger’s desk by half past seven every morning.”
“What? Did he say why? Is there a leak from his office?”
Roux inhaled a short burst of nicotine. “Not as far as anyone is aware. He intends to hand it to them so that they know they are being closely watched.”
“What? Is he paranoid? His best friends?”
“I’ve thought about it. Clever idea. On the one hand they know they are being watched, the proof is there for them to read, and if it pleases them, check. In addition, if anyone is hanging about on the periphery with evil intentions, our boys are likely to become aware and take action.”
“We don’t have men to spare, Chief. It’s nonsense.”
“You tell him that,” Roux laughed.
32
February 19th 1919 – The Blond Assassin
As the weeks turned to months Mathieu Bertrand fell under the charm-spell which Clemenceau reserved for those he liked and trusted. Journeys back from Versailles became a constant source of laughter and scorn. Once he had ensconced himself in the back seat of the police Renault, the Tiger would remove his top hat, spread his ample rear across the well-padded fabric, and set to the task of ripping apart the characters of his so-called allied friends. He despised Woodrow Wilson.
“That priggish American thinks he can come over here and reorder Europe. He knows little of our language, even less about our culture, and positively nothing about our history. In fact, I don’t think he’s in charge at all. Firstly, he’s not fully recovered from that flu bug which seems to be everywhere. He has been ill. Rumors of a stroke persist, but I think he’s caught that flu which is killing thousands of the American troops before they even get to the battlefield. And most annoyingly, every single decision we agree upon is checked first with his dreadful sidekick, Colonel Mandel House, and then, and only then, do we proceed. And to cap it all, this House person is no colonel. Hasn’t even got a military background,”
Mathieu was aware that Mandel House was the power behind the American president’s office. A constant stream of diplomatic telegrams between House and government agencies in Washington was proof that he pulled the strings. What Colonel House suggested, became fact. What House disapproved of, was cast into the political waste bin.
“I was trapped between him and Lloyd George today. I tell you, it was like sitting beside Moses and Napoleon Bonaparte with his hemorrhoids down. The American clearly thinks that his ideas, all fourteen of them, are the new tablets of stone. And remember, Moses only brought ten commandments down from the mountain. Lloyd George never settles. He is the chameleon of truth. Telling one group what they want to hear, and another something completely different while all the time following his own agenda. Don’t listen to Wilson; don’t trust Lloyd George.” Mathieu could tell by the way Clemenceau spoke that he disliked the American but had a modicum of cautious respect for the Welshman.
Another happy participant was Jacques-Francois. He admitted that he had the best job in the country. Each morning as he eased the prime minister’s reinforced Renault RGA out of its special garage in the Pépinière barracks, he stroked the driving wheel as if it was an object of sexual gratification and breathed in the rich smell of fresh leather. It was his ritual, and to be fair, it made Mathieu smile, though little else did. First stop was at Rue Benjamin Franklin in the Sixteenth arrondissement to collect Clemenceau. The prime minister’s morning mood, predicated on how little he had slept and whether or not the fencing routine with his masseur had been a success, was difficult to anticipate. Whichever way, he had a story to tell.
