Increasingly frustrated with his isolation, Etienne had taken to departing the ministry early in the afternoon after a late morning arrival. His free time was split between complaining to Laval, who was unsympathetic, or grumbling to his long-time companion Lisle, who was exceedingly sympathetic. It was during an early April evening in her company that his plans were interrupted by a call from the ministry. Reaching it he was ushered into the Salon de l’Horloge. The Salon was an oversized “clock room” known best for its statuary and a fireplace that was superfluous on one of the warmest spring nights in Etienne’s memory.
Etienne nodded at one of the phalanx of assistants who worked in the foreign ministry. Most remained a mystery after a mere three weeks in office but one drew a feeling of pity and amusement in him. Francois was a helpful young man who quivered in his presence. A fresh graduate of the Institut d’etudes Politiques in Paris, Francois assumed his position because of the “Sciences Po” reputation for training the future of French diplomacy. Etienne was doubtful, less than enamored with the benefits of university education and Francois only deepened his skepticism toward book learning over life experience.
Francois guided him to the chair in the “clock room” then scurried away before Etienne could question him. Sitting against a wall in a rickety chair, present for appearances rather than comfort, he waited for an explanation for his presence. He surmised his summons was connected to the German occupation of the remainder of Czechoslovakia and the predictable British reaction. Prime Minister Chamberlain had delivered a sermon on the sanctity of signed agreements and the inviolability of international borders. Etienne knew that angering the British brought a lecture but humiliating them, much as Hitler had in violating the Munich Accords, could lead to worse.
Time passed and Etienne remained alone, the abundance of clocks relentlessly marked the passage of every minute. He had left his longtime companion, Lisle, in the midst of her culinary delight and was in no mood to wait. A quick meeting and he might salvage an enjoyable evening.
A door at the far end of the room opened and Etienne turned to see Francois. He nodded at the boy, not having been in a position of authority long enough to ignore those around him and treat them as mere peasants.
“Do you require refreshment?” Francois queried, remaining partly hidden behind the door, squeaking voice bouncing about the high ceilinged room. “I was unavoidably detained.”
Francois did not inquire about the delay. “A water,” he murmured. Something more powerful might have been appropriate but the April heat had dehydrated him. Francois left then returned after several moments, narrow face sweating, eyes glancing toward and then away from the new deputy foreign minister. Etienne nodded approvingly at the Perrier offered him and tipped the bottle into his glass, hand steady even as Francois observed his pouring technique with a critical eye. Etienne looked up quickly, catching his assistant’s eye for a moment before he looked away.
“How is your night?” Etienne asked. It seemed the best way to calm the boy, ask him a question he could answer.
“It is fine,” the boy replied.
Etienne sipped his sparkling water. “Is there a reason I was summoned?”
Francois jumped. “Yes sir,” he said, without thinking.
“You know?” Etienne felt the irritation rising in him. A junior adjutant knew more than the deputy foreign minister.
“Uh, no sir,” Francois said.
Etienne nodded appreciatively. “You will make it far in the world of diplomacy, able to speak two opposing concepts at precisely the same time.”
Francois wet his lips. “Pardon sir, I misspoke.”
Etienne answered his own question. “It is about Czechoslovakia,” he said. “The Anglos are upset.”
“Cham –ber-lain.” Francois struggled with the British prime minister’s name.
Another slight nod. “He is angry, feels betrayed. Hitler promised in Munich not to seize the rest of the country.”
“Hitler.” Francois stared at the floor. “The British want war with him.”
“Chamberlain is an Anglo,” Etienne said, grimacing at the mention of France’s neighbor across the channel. “Anglos are full of moralism, lying is considered a breach of diplomacy,” he sniffed.
“What will France do?” Francois asked.
Etienne frowned, the teacher dismayed the student had asked a question he could not answer. “Chamberlain has guaranteed the Polish border. He seeks French support, Bonnet’s support.”
“Foreign Minister Bonnet,” Francois said. “He is at the Hotel Matignon, I saw him depart earlier this evening.”
Etienne nodded, not surprised at the news. The foreign minister was at the prime minister’s official residence. The Hotel Matignon had been built as Napoleon’s political headquarters but had suffered from a decline in leadership since the emperor’s exile. The current occupant, Deladier, was a mere figurehead leading a weak coalition government that had made the French Third Republic a laughingstock in Europe.
Francois noticed the nearly empty green bottle. “Another?” He asked, motioning.
Etienne waved him from the room. Talk of Deladier and the current government only exacerbated his irritation.
Francois returned shortly with a second Perrier. He stood a few feet away and again watched the deputy foreign minister pour it into a glass and sip. They remained fixed in place as Etienne considered what was happening in the Hotel Matignon. War seemed unlikely. Hundreds of millions of Francs had been poured into building the Maginot Line, the defensive wall protecting the French homeland and perversely the German Reich. With the French Army static they could not attack the barely constructed German Siegfried Line.
Francois fidgeted, nervous about the future and the secrets held by the deputy foreign minister’s mind. He asked. “Are we going to war?” It was the question of a worried young man of draft age even if his work in the foreign ministry was deemed essential to the nation and exempted him from combat.
Etienne smiled at Francois’ concern. “We will never join Britain in another war,” he said. “The Great War is not forgotten and no one wants another million French dead.”
Etienne’s outward confidence concealed churning emotions. Those outside the Hotel Matignon could only speculate about the discussions inside it. French politics was confusing to everyone including French politicians; especially French politicians. The decisions this evening were as important as those in July 1914, before war; those same discussions changed Etienne’s life as he headed to the battlefront in August 1914. The decisions made this evening would likely have a similar effect on the middle aged man sipping his Perrier in the foreign ministry.
He eyed the young man shifting his weight from foot to foot and could not quell the need to offer advice. “Francois, there is one critical element to international diplomacy that will never be taught at the university.” He paused until Francois’ eyes met his and he was certain the young man was listening. “Appearance.” Etienne pushed to his feet, pressed his hands hard against his jacket and trousers to remove unsightly wrinkles, and then straightened his tie before he ran his fingers through his thinning hair.
Francois blinked, puzzled for a moment then followed Etienne’s example though with uneven results. Etienne stepped close, smoothed his assistant’s tie then considered Francois’ hair and determined it required the aid of a professional. “Better,” he murmured, stepping back and eying his creation.
Francois smiled, some of the nervousness lifting even as the deputy foreign minister wagged a finger at him. For a moment Etienne assumed the role of his former school administrator warning young Mr. Descoteaux that bed check was a serious rule that could not be broken, not even for a brief visit with a fifteen year old female known for her casual morality.
“A diplomat must always look fresh and able, never harried or worried. Your opposite’s first contact is through your expression and appearance.” Etienne reached over and tugged on Francois’ tie. It proved stubbo
rn, retaining its crooked state. “Do you have a woman?”
Francois’ eyes widened at the sudden change in topic. “Uh, no sir.”
“A man your age, this is Paris,” Etienne said unnecessarily.
“The women in Paris are intimidating,” Francois said
“They might say the same about a young man on the rise in the Quai d’ Orsai.” Etienne nodded. “Get a girlfriend, a wife then a mistress. They offer the best fashion advice.” He smiled. It was important to maintain appearances and the reputation of French politicians for enjoying unofficial companions.
“Yes sir,” Francois said, standing straighter. It was his first assigned duty from the new deputy foreign minister. If only Etienne had offered advice on taking the first step.
Etienne returned to his seat and bottle of water. Francois barely noticed. He could not shake free of the images of girls who might bear interest in an assistant to the French foreign minister. The ticking of the clocks marked the passage of the evening and Etienne’s missed time with Lisle. Only profuse apologies would save his over decade long dalliance with the beauty.
Francois turned at the sound of noise from the ministry entrance. It was rare for the foreign minister to use that door, preferring the privacy and safety of the courtyard. Francois stepped into the doorway of the clock room and peered down a long hallway. He spotted Foreign Minister Bonnet and his entourage returning from the Hotel Matignon.
Noting Francois’ interest, Etienne rose, heart beating, sweat forming on his forehead then cheeks. He wiped his face, shedding the perspiration and struggling to compose himself as Bonnet approached. Always thin, the foreign minister seemed a more shrunken figure. His Roman nose commanded his sagging face even as he struggled to tame his comb over as he faced his deputy.
“We are leaving the British,” Bonnet murmured, unable to look at his subordinate.
Etienne blinked. It was not an unexpected announcement, but Bonnet’s sad expression disturbed him.
“Deladier accepted my resignation.” Bonnet announced, raising his head slightly. “Laval is in line for the Foreign Ministry. Marshal Petain will be war minister.” He smirked. “A war minister who will not fight a war.” He returned to looking at his patent leather shoes. “Perhaps Laval will do better negotiating with the Germans. “
Etienne hid his pleasure at the news by biting down hard on his lip.
“You will serve as foreign minister until Laval takes office, a week at the most.” Bonnet removed a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wiped his face.
Etienne was not watching him, grasping the back of a chair to steady his nerves. Foreign minister even for a day, a few hours, was a responsibility that had crowded his daydreams. After only a few short weeks in office, he was making decisions that could determine if his country went to war or remained at peace.
“It is time for you to prepare,” Bonnet said, eyes narrowing at Etienne, drenched in sweat. “Are you feeling well? Do you require water?”
“Francois will get my water,” Etienne murmured.
Bonnet tilted his head. “Pardon?”
Etienne recovered his senses. “It does not matter.” He waved at the door to the clock room and the general direction of Francois. “I must gather my staff,” he said, drawing himself up to his full height. “There will not be war.”
“Yes,” Bonnet murmured. “Peace will be preserved.”
Etienne, though, was not listening. He wandered away from the now former foreign minister, leaving Bonnet to consider his failures. Ideas about the future of France rushed to his head as he searched for Francois, finding his assistant in the fireplace room, tie askew, hair bulging from one side of his head.
“Foreign Minister Bonnet has resigned,” Etienne revealed passing the young man. “Laval will be replacing him, but until he can assume his duties I will be making policy.”
Francois spun on his heels squinting in puzzlement.
Etienne continued walking. “We are not joining the British in guaranteeing Poland,” he called to his deputy. “We must prepare a statement, a thorough explanation of our decision for approval by Laval when he arrives.”
“We are not joining the British?” Francois asked, disbelief in his tone. “What are we to do to about the alliances, the agreements with the British, the Russians and the Poles?”
Etienne halted and turned to him. “An agreement to fight for what?” He asked. “The British Empire, the Communists, the Polish Corridor? We allowed the Germans to take Czechoslovakia and what happened? The French government is not going to send French boys to die on the Siegfried Line to protect what has been German soil for a thousand years. If the Poles want to fight the Germans, let them.” Etienne continued toward his “desk” in the fireplace room. “Paper, “he demanded.
Francois rushed to find some letterhead sheets and an ink pen. He placed them on the table with the blotter, dipping the pen into the inkwell and waiting for the new foreign minister. Etienne hesitated, drawing concern from Francois. “Is there difficulty?” He asked. “Do you require more water?”
Etienne sighed. His deputy had fixated on water as a cure all without regard to the ailment. “I am considering my tone, whether we should be aggressive or conciliatory.”
“Not conciliatory,” Francois blurted. “France should never surrender its principles.”
Etienne was impressed with his assistant’s nationalism. “Then it is aggressive,” he said. He snatched the pen from his assistant and began scribbling. Etienne did not look up from his paper as he rattled off the reasons France would not go to war for a distant peoples barely touched by civilization. The words flowed, the French pride ingrained in him by his legacy bleeding into the message.
Francois watched, squinting at the handwriting that he would have to type. “I cannot see what you write,” he said, leaning close.
Etienne cleared his throat. “No Frenchman will die for a Pole.” His gravity of his words left him breathless then he resumed writing, body tingling with the realization he was making history.
2
August 9, 1939
James John Reilly jerked awake, eyes cloudy, mind disoriented as he failed to recognize his surroundings. He sniffed and recognized the same odor of mold that greeted him when first entering his hotel room.
Reilly swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, calculating the door’s location. He stumbled toward it and slammed his right leg into a table. “Shit.”
He found a light switch and flung it to the “on” position without result. Reilly rubbed his leg. While physically fit, Reilly would not be confused with Superman. He shifted his weight. A sudden pain in his leg jolted free memories of the previous months and his current location. He was in Kharkov, in the Soviet Union where nothing worked, everything was decrepit and the whole country stank, except for the beautiful Natasha.
Reilly sat on the bed and rubbed his temple. He closed his eyes and imagined Natasha’s smooth complexion and dazzling smile. Her white teeth were unusual for a Russian. Reilly ached to touch her, caress her neck and feel her substantial breasts. The cadence of his fantasy was interrupted by a stabbing pain behind his eyes and a rumbling in his stomach, the result of too much Russian vodka with his hosts and too little sleep afterwards. Reilly reluctantly stood and shuffled to the sole window in the room. He peered into the courtyard, and reflected on the long, strange trip that led him to this pathetic hotel room without lights in the God forsaken and Godless Worker’s Paradise.
In a month he would turn forty. It was simple to remember his age as for nine months out of the year it corresponded with the year. Born on September 9, 1899 or 9/9/99, the easy mnemonic device caused his youthful friends to fix him with the nickname “Nines.”
Twenty years earlier Reilly had graduated from Lehigh University in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania at the top of his class and entered the real world as a mechanical engineer, an expanding field made lucrative by the rise of the American car industry. He secured an entry level en
gineering position at Ford Motor Company near Detroit. It was close to his boyhood home in Chicago, allowing visits to his family on his rare vacations. He loved Ford but after five years in the same position Reilly grew restless and by 1927, sought new challenges.
An article in a trade journal sparked his interest in U.S. Wheel Track Layer Corporation, an emerging company with a focus on armored cars and tanks. The mayhem of the Great War and the introduction of tanks by the Allies had fascinated Reilly. He examined every available photo of battle tanks while pouring over technical manuals and came to realize the best cure for his malaise was a position with a weapons manufacturer.
Reilly interviewed with U.S. Wheel Track Layer’s founder, J.W. Christie. He was excited about Christie’s concept for a design that combined road wheels with a removable track system. The problem of creating a fast moving and durable war machine was a challenge any engineer would yearn to solve and Reilly joined the company.
His mix of technical expertise, boyish charm and determination impressed Christie, who placed his young engineer in control of sales and technical support. In 1929 the Amtorg Trading Company contacted Reilly about purchasing some of their new tanks. When told of the request, Christie realized Amtorg was merely a front for the Soviet government. With a trade embargo in effect, conducting business with the Russians was a tricky, but potentially lucrative opportunity. Christie was little concerned with legalities, only wanting to sell tanks.
Reilly and Christie had travel to New York to meet Amtorg’s representative, Innokenti Andreyevich Khalipsky, who was a Red Army general, his official status murky. Christie explained the novelty of his model T-3’s removable track system. Tank tracks were notoriously prone to breaking and the Russians were well aware of their undeveloped country’s primitive road system. Christie promised that the T-3 could advance rapidly on its wheels and then install tracks on the edge of the battlefield. The Soviets were impressed and ready to buy. While Christie negotiated, Reilly had sat in the hotel room, tales of revolution, death and duplicity swirling in his head. Amtorg sought the prototype, the plans and the technical expertise for the Christie tank, also known as the T-3.
French Betrayal (Reich Triumphant Book 1) Page 2