by Denis Pitts
This was not madness, he decided. It was logical to lance the boils and rid the system of its poison.
What he sought was not dictatorship, or even the domination of Europe by force, except for the very shortest period until a satisfactory management had been installed. And why not? His system worked; democracy, in his view, was harmless, but entirely wasteful. It allowed for, and even encouraged, inefficiency, which he despised.
He had seen the beginning of the breakup of Europe; the in-fighting, the nationalism of individual countries overriding everything. His organization, built up over so many years and after so many struggles, was now threatened.
To defend it was surely not madness.
*
The wide Georgian high street in the small town of Marlborough, in the west of England, had been closed on that Saturday afternoon to all through traffic and turned into a long and noisy array of merry-go-rounds, dodgem cars, Ferris wheels and other carnival rides. The normally staid Saturday shoppers had been displaced now by farmers and their families, freed from the harvest and standing in the rain determined to enjoy themselves.
It was the annual Mop Fair, a curious medieval anachronism, dating back to prehistory, of the sort that confirms foreigners’ beliefs that the English are quaint.
At one end of the high street is an imposing hotel, blue-washed and four stories high, a rare example of an English family hotel which had resisted takeover by chains threatening to destroy all the pleasantness of travel in England.
It was in a conference room of this hotel that, unknown to any members of the management or staff, the first moves were made in the takeover of the British army and air force. It happened against a background of tinny, reedy music from the Ferris wheel outside.
The sandy-haired bartender groaned as the bar began to fill toward closing time with a group of young men whom he guessed at first to be members of a touring football team. They all drank either Coca-Cola or fruit juice and they stood talking quietly, mostly about sport, until two-thirty, when they filed upstairs to the conference room.
They stood respectfully when the general entered the room and walked around to the head of the table.
“Good afternoon,” he said. He sat down and they sat back alertly. “Your complete attention, please, gentlemen. I think you should know, before I say anything further, that this operation is for real. By zero five hundred tomorrow, Standfast will have neutralized the British army and air force and will also have taken control of central and local government.
“The Prime Minister is already under arrest and there can be no turning back.
“In the next few minutes you will be handed your assignments, rendezvous points, strength of arms available and objectives.
“I shall establish a tactical headquarters here in this hotel until I am satisfied that everything is moving at the right pace in this division. I hope to be able to leave for London at midnight, at which time we will have achieved at least fifty percent of our political aims.”
The young men at the table listened with rock-faced intentness.
“I need not tell you that this is the most important division in the British Isles,” said the general. “Ninety percent of the British army on this island is in this very county. The Royal Air Force Support Command is wholly based at two airfields within thirty miles of this hotel. These bases must be contained by eighteen thirty hours this evening. This is essential if we are to prevent the rapid return of combat troops from Ireland.”
The gravity of what he was saying was etched on the general’s face. He spoke fast but deliberately, and the sharpness of his voice made it clear that there could be no misunderstanding.
“A quick word on the broad picture,” he continued. “This operation is being carried out simultaneously in France, Germany and Italy. The overall code word is Symphony. The British operation is from here in termed Presto. For your information, France is coded Allegro. Germany is Largo and Italy is Adagio.
“All communications will be by microwave or by landline until such time as we have secured police VHF and UHF frequencies. You will take Presto as your call sign with numerals that are indicated in your briefs.”
The general looked around the table. Some of the young men were actually smiling. There was apprehension, certainly, but he had known worse tension before big battles.
“One other thing, gentlemen. You alone in this division have been aware of the possibility of this operation for some time. You realize the consequences if we fail.
“It would be an inconvenience if any of you decided to drop out at this point. But even at this late stage, I am prepared to make allowance for conscience or whatever. Anyone who is not entirely satisfied with the aims of this operation must say so now. He will merely be kept in custody until we have succeeded, and then he will be freed. It is our aim to overthrow the governments of Europe with a modicum of bloodshed. We are not bloodthirsty people.”
The general paused. There was no movement.
“Excellent,” he said. “Now, before you open up your battle orders, are there any questions?”
A blond young man with a healthy pink face asked from the end of the table: “What about our weapons, sir?”
The general smiled.
“Thirty thousand automatic weapons are available at this organization’s farms throughout the country. There are also sufficient grenades and a substantial quantity of ammunition. You will find the pickup points completely described in your envelopes.”
The general stood up.
“You have half an hour to study the contents of the envelopes that are about to be distributed to you. Craddock here will be available to answer your queries.”
He walked around the table to the door.
“It is going to be a long night, gentlemen. I wish you well. As I don’t seem to have much to do for the next half-hour, you’ll excuse me while I try my luck on the shooting gallery at the fair. I hope, most earnestly, that these will be the only shots fired by Presto in the course of the next twenty-four hours.”
*
The atmosphere in the saloon of the motor cruiser was heavy and acrid with cigarette smoke. The ship had left the estuary and was cruising at a steady five knots over a choppy sea close to the flat, dull Paris-Plage.
There were twelve men in the saloon. Seven of them wore camouflage jackets; others were in casual weekend apparel. There were three women in the group. One of them was middle-aged, with a strong face and a distinct military bearing. She wore a light-blue uniform with VIGILANCE DE FRANCE emblazoned on both shoulders. The other two women were younger, strikingly feminine and attractive.
They all sat silently, reading documents they had taken from envelopes a few minutes earlier. Now and again eyebrows were raised. One of the men in camouflage said, “Jesus Christ,” softly. But mostly they sat in total concentration.
After fifteen minutes, the colonel, who had been smoking reflectively on the afterdeck, looked into the saloon. He smiled at their intensity.
“Has my study group finished?” he asked.
They looked up, and he read a gamut of emotions on their faces.
“That’s Allegro North,” he said. “West and South have similar tasks, except that they will be immobilizing the armored chasseur divisions at Le Mans and Clermont-Ferrand, as well as containing all paratroop movements at Pau. Maritime Division will be handling the navy at Marseilles, Toulon and Brest, and the Corsican division will be putting all aircraft out of operation so that we don’t get a sudden visit from the Foreign Legion bases there.”
“What will be the combined total of the force?” asked one of the women.
“We estimate one hundred thousand men and women fully mobilized by twenty hundred hours,” said the colonel. “The political wing will be moving in Paris simultaneously with our operation here. It is going to be quite a night.”
He lit a cigarette with a gold stormproof lighter. He spoke with the strong accent of the south of France.
; “As you have seen from your orders, part of this division is concerned with isolating Brussels and the EEC headquarters in order for it to be functioning normally by Monday morning — normally in the sense that it will be under the control of our own officials. For your information, they are already on their way to Brussels and will be foregathering at the Metropole Hotel, which will be my headquarters from midnight on.
“The other part of this division has the task of taking complete control of the Eurovision Television network by zero eight hundred hours tomorrow, so that Janine and Marcelle here can broadcast to France and Belgium.”
The men in the group glanced toward the two girls. They were both well-known television commentators.
“What is of paramount importance is that no unauthorized use of this network is made from zero eight hundred hours onward. No newsbreaks, no hint of anything abnormal happening.
“The function of the two girls is to soften up the audience with scripts that are contained in their orders. It is a big morning for Eurovision. They estimate an audience of one hundred and forty million viewers for the soccer match between Italy and West Germany. Questions?”
“At what time do we make the announcement, Colonel?” asked the woman in uniform.
“At twelve hundred hours. During the halftime period. It will be short and simple and, if I know anything about sports audiences, it will be assimilated very slowly during the next forty-five minutes of the match.”
“Who makes the announcement?”
“It has already been taped in the four principal languages; videotapes are on board this ship. They will remain in my control until time for their release.”
“What about regional and national stations?”
“They will be taken out at midnight. As you know, they are policed entirely by our own people, as are all radio stations and transmitters. As far as possible, we will be maintaining a bland service of broadcasting with the usual disc jockeys and religious programs until we are ready.
“Remember that this organization’s parent companies already own eighty percent of all commercial radio stations in Europe, and they have already been issued with tapes to take them through to the announcement.”
One of the television announcers spoke up.
“Just what exactly is this softening-up process, Colonel?”
“You will be spreading gloom and despondency,” he said, “by the simple process of reading the news as it stands. Except that there will be a gradual increase in editorializing right through the morning, until people are ready for anything. Fed-up and apathetic.”
The colonel smiled again. He was a handsome man and the ruthlessness in his face somehow emphasized the good looks. He called up to the helmsman.
“That’s it. Back into port, please, as fast as you like.”
As the engines roared into full power and the ship listed heavily with the wheel’s being swung around, a tall, dark young man asked the colonel; “Tell me, sir, was this boat ride absolutely necessary?”
The answering smile was even more broad.
“Good question. I assure you that it was not melodrama. Call it practical. It would have been the best place to handle any of you who decided to opt out at the last moment.”
“So there was no option?” the younger man asked.
“The English and the others have allowed for a little backsliding. Detention, but no sanctions. There is no room for that sort of nonsense in this operation.”
10
The young teacher from the Sorbonne resigned. In a note that combined sadness at the loss of a lucrative income with considerable admiration for his pupil, he wrote to d’Isigny: “This boy is very clever. He now knows more about algebra, geometry, physics and all the related branches of science that I can adequately teach him. It is almost impossible to keep up with his desire to learn.”
A new teacher was introduced to advance Jean-Paul’s knowledge of literature. He read Balzac and Flaubert and Rabelais and all the great writers of France; he read Dickens and Hemingway and Henry James in English; and he surprised the teacher by his capacity to translate the poetry of Rimbaud into modern Greek.
D’Isigny wrote eventually to the psychological-assessment division of the leading educational institute in Paris. They spent a week examining the boy, giving him a number of intelligence tests and a prolonged intellectual interrogation.
They replied: “We have pleasure in enclosing our report on Jean-Paul d’Isigny. He is exceptionally intelligent — an IQ easily at the upper limits of the genius range. We would not recommend special schooling of any kind; we feel that, with his unusual maturity, he would fit well among older students.”
That autumn, Jean-Paul was enrolled at L’École des Hautes Études Commerciales. By the time he was eighteen, he had achieved a degree in banking and related subjects.
They were good years for Jean-Paul.
He grew physically and he learned to care for his body. He was neither arrogant nor overwhelming in his extraordinary abilities. He changed rapidly into a young man with enormous self-possession and charm; and such was the personality he developed that his background was rarely questioned, and he gathered a circle of friends. They came mainly from the college, but also from the hordes of young socialites paying constant and loving court to Claudine, who had grown into an exquisitely beautiful young woman.
In only one respect did he cause concern. The love he had discovered at the most critical time in his life was perhaps too strong and enveloping; he was apt to fret if he was away from the family for any length of time. D’Isigny was sometimes concerned at his dependency on their company.
None of them knew, except possibly Eva d’Isigny, the level of happiness that had engulfed him during these years of the deep and sure-felt love he had for them; and the terrible fears, lingering still, that he might be snatched from them and returned to the blackness that used to be.
At the age of twenty, Jean-Paul d’Isigny was awarded the prix d’honneur in French law at L’École des Sciences Politiques.
It was during the ceremony, as he walked proudly back to the family, in seats reserved for distinguished visitors, that he realized that he was totally in love with Claudine d’Isigny.
Eva d’Isigny knew about Jean-Paul’s love for her daughter, perhaps even before her adopted son himself did. She broached the subject, as she had so many others, over the Wedgwood china at tea time.
“You are not ill, you know,” she said.
“Sorry, Mama?”
“Being in love, Jean-Paul.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand.”
“I don’t think you do, either. Being in love with Claudine isn’t a sickness. You don’t have to walk around all day like a whipped animal. I can understand your love for Claudine very well. After all, there are five hundred young men in this city who hang about this house day and night and they are all in love with her, too.”
“I have very strong feelings.”
He did not know what else to say.
“Strong? Oh my dear young man, I would say that, in your case, they were overwhelming — so blinding that I envy you. There is nothing so powerful as young love. The question is, what are we going to do about it?”
He sat dumb and helpless.
“Have you told Claudine?”
“No.”
“Of course you haven’t. You aren’t one for telling people anything about what goes on inside you. You’ll talk happily to Papa d’Isigny all day and night about liquidity and compound interest, but none of us knows what your heart is thinking.”
“What do I do?”
“You are very grown up when it comes to most things, but I would guess Claudine is twenty years older than you when it comes to matters of the heart. The answer to your question is to do nothing. It is awful advice, I know, but do nothing. Enjoy the agony and let the world wash over you and you will slowly sort yourselves out. Remember that you are young, and so is Claudine. No matter how strong the feel
ings are now, they may be the wrong feelings — and they could lead to catastrophe. And remember, too, Jean-Paul, this is springtime, and we do live in Paris.”
She leaned over and touched his hand gently with hers. Her eyes were laughing.
“Love is the most exquisite barbarity ever devised by God; I know. It drives people to extraordinary acts. It drove me to walk through a hail of machine-gun fire, all starry-eyed and convinced that I couldn’t possibly be hurt. Such was my love for Jacques d’Isigny.”
She slapped his hand firmly.
“Come on, my lovesick petit. Go and play squash or tennis or something and work it out of your system. Isn’t that what men are supposed to do?”
*
That night, in bed, she talked to her husband.
“Of course you haven’t noticed,” she said. “Men don’t. The boy is sick, crazy. And he hasn’t a hope in hell of getting over it in this house. Not while Claudine is around, anyway.”
“Does Claudine know?”
“Of course she does. Women always do. But she can cope. The question is whether or not he can survive.”
“Does she love him?”
“That, my dearest, is one question I cannot answer. I’m scared. It would be a tragedy if one child made a bad marriage. For both to do so would be an unspeakable disaster.”
“I had better talk to him.”
Eva turned in the bed and opened the front of her nightdress and pulled his head gently to her breast.
“No, you won’t,” she said lightly. “You are going to start looking at me the way he looks at your daughter. If you must know, I am jealous.”
*
On Jean-Paul’s twenty-first birthday, the family lunched at Maxim’s together. The presents were produced over d’Isigny champagne, which they drank from tall, slender glasses. Eva d’Isigny gave Jean-Paul a gold wristwatch which was guaranteed not to lose more than a second in five hundred years. Claudine, who had arrived late and breathless, gave him an aluminum horseshoe.
“I’ll probably get around to buying a present before the party tonight,” she said. “But don’t count on it because I’m broke, and Papa won’t let me overdraw at the bank. He’s mean. It is our bank, isn’t it?”