Cauldron

CHAPTER 2 Minuet

Paris lay oddly quiet beneath a cloudless blue sky — its wide, tree-lined boulevards and parasol-shaded outdoor cafés empty and deserted. For most Parisians, August was a time for vacations, for a month-long flight from their government jobs, factory floors, and schools. But now the tourists who would ordinarily have taken their places were gone, too — discouraged by the visa restrictions, high prices, and official harassment that were part of the world’s ongoing trade war. Only the growing armies of the unemployed and the homeless were left in the capital. And they were too busy looking for work or food to saunter through the abandoned fashionable districts.

The Place du Palais-Royal showed its own signs of abandonment. The shops and kiosks that normally catered to foreigners eager for postcards and subway maps were padlocked. Instead of block-long lines of sightseers and chattering schoolchildren, only a few scattered art lovers wandered in and out through the Louvre’s north gate, dwarfed by the museum’s gray bulk. A handful of bored cabdrivers loitered near the Métro stop’s escalators, exchanging gibes and the latest gossip through a thin haze of cigarette smoke.

Across the square, the Palais-Royal seemed wrapped in the same kind of August inertia. Soldiers in full dress uniform stood motionless behind the tall iron gates that blocked access to its inner courtyard and main entrance. Others, clothed more comfortably in camouflaged battle dress and fully armed, manned rooftop observation posts. Pairs of hard-faced policemen patrolled the pavement along the fence, looking for beggars or street Arabs to muscle.

Most of the massive building’s windows were either shuttered or blocked by heavy drapes. Few official cars were parked in the inner courtyard, and most of those were covered by tarpaulins to keep the dust and city grime off while their usual passengers and assigned drivers were away on vacation. Despite the tight security, the Palais-Royal appeared as deserted as its surroundings.

But appearances were, as usual, deceiving.

Built during the 1600s, the Palais-Royal had first served as the residence of the Red Eminence, the Cardinal Richelieu. As the twentieth century drew to a close, it contained offices for several high-ranking French officials.

Nicolas Desaix’s private office had its own aura, one matched perfectly to its master — an air of close-held power and restrained elegance. A carpet worn thin by a hundred years of use and embroidered in rich tones of royal blue and scarlet covered the floor. A tapestry commissioned by Richelieu himself graced the wall behind a massive oak desk, and paintings of famous French military victories filled the other walls, on permanent loan from the Louvre. As head of the French intelligence service, the DGSE, Desaix had two other suites — one at the Élysée Palace itself, close to that of the republic’s President, and another at his directorate’s headquarters. But this history-filled sanctuary was the place he preferred for important work.

Now the late afternoon sun slanted through its tall windows, filling half the room with rectangles of red-tinged gold and leaving the rest in shadow.

Alexandre Marchant paused by the door, momentarily dazzled by the sharp contrast between light and dark.

“My dear Marchant! Come in. Come in.” Desaix rose from behind his desk and strode forward, motioning him toward a pair of high-back armchairs off to one side of the room. “You’re looking well.”

“As are you, Director.” Marchant sat down gladly. Years of devotion to good food, good wine, and desk work had saddled him with increasing weight and an expanding waistline. Few of his old schoolmates would have recognized him as the same short, skinny young aeronautical engineer who had once dreamed only of designing the world’s most advanced aircraft. Now those dreams were dead — crushed by the day-to-day considerations of profit margins, costs, and personalities involved in managing the huge industrial conglomerate called Eurocopter.

The man who took the chair across from him couldn’t have been any more different in physical appearance. Nicolas Desaix had the same tall, slender build and prominent, jutting nose his countrymen still associated with France’s last great leader, Charles de Gaulle. It was a resemblance Marchant was sure the intelligence chief valued.

“You’ve seen Major Duroc’s preliminary report?”

Marchant nodded, remembering the blank-faced motorcycle courier who’d hand-carried the document to his home, stood waiting while he read it, and then retrieved it for immediate shredding at the DGSE’s headquarters. That, more than the report’s cold, factual words themselves, had rammed home the dreadful seriousness and secrecy of this matter. What had been planned as a fairly simple act of self-inflicted sabotage had escalated into gunfire and sudden killing.

Desaix seemed to read his mind. “I regret the unfortunate… complications, Alexandre. Especially your security guard’s death.” He shook his head sadly. “He had a wife, I understand?”

“Yes. In Lyons.”

Desaix sighed. “A great pity.” He looked up. “She will be provided for?”

“Of course.” Marchant folded his hands across his lap. “We carry life insurance policies on all our employees, and in this instance my personnel people are organizing a special compensation fund.”

“Good.” Desaix nodded his approval. “France must care for all her fallen sons. No matter how they fall.”

Eurocopter’s chief executive was struck by the evident sincerity in his voice. A few simple words transformed young Monnet’s death into an act of patriotic sacrifice. It was astonishing. This man had more charisma and command presence than the President and the rest of the cabinet combined. Half his talents were wasted in his present position.

Desaix sighed again and then shrugged. “Still, such tragedies are probably unavoidable. We live in an imperfect world and we must use imperfect tools to achieve our ends.” He looked up. “And those ends were achieved, true?”

“Yes.” Marchant felt himself on firmer ground now. Work force changes, production schedules, and profit margins could be managed and controlled. Mental images of grieving widows could not. He sat forward in his chair. “Your major’s bomb caused only minor damage — as promised. Nothing that significantly affected our rotor output. Nevertheless, my directors are appalled by just how close this ‘Hungarian’ terrorist group came to wrecking our Sopron operation.”

Both men smiled at that.

“Then you foresee no serious opposition to our proposals at tomorrow’s board meeting? No second-guessing?”

Marchant shook his head. “None. I already have all the votes we need in my pocket.”

Desaix looked pleased. He’d approved Major Duroc’s “special action” as a means of solving two serious problems with one small bang. And Nicolas Desaix was a man who fully enjoyed being proved right.

Despite the favorable tax and wage agreements offered by Hungary’s military government, Eurocopter’s Sopron plant was still a money-losing proposition for France. Government protection ensured a steady stream of European aircraft industry orders for its rotors. Overseas sales were a different story. Fierce competition from America’s Boeing and the Japanese meant a need for continuing and expensive government subsidies. With the world mired in what seemed a perpetual economic slump, French companies like Eurocopter desperately needed ways to cut their costs. Naturally, cutting wages for their foreign workers in eastern Europe was far more politically palatable than slashing pay packets at home.

Unfortunately Sopron’s Hungarian work force was showing signs of increasing militancy over French control and supervision. Work stoppages, “sick-outs,” and muttered strike threats were already raising tensions along its rotor assembly lines. Further wage reductions were bound to be violently opposed — at a high cost in factory downtime and lost orders. Other companies operating in Hungary, Croatia, and Slovenia faced the same kinds of labor force unrest.

That was the first problem.

The second also involved foreigners. To be more precise, foreigners living in France. During the past four decades, hundreds of thousands of “guest” workers and their families had swarmed into the country from Algeria, Tunisia, Turkey, Portugal, and half a dozen other poor nations. Lured by a severe labor shortage during the 1950s and 1970s, they were now unnecessary. With millions of native-born Frenchmen out of work, the “Arabs” were seen as a dirty, dangerous, and shiftless source of social friction and political trouble. Public opinion blamed them for every increase in the crime rate and for diseases like AIDS. Bloody skinhead rampages through their shabby, poverty-stricken neighborhoods were becoming commonplace.

To put it bluntly, France wanted the foreigners out.

And so Nicolas Desaix had seen a golden opportunity to aid his nation, benefit its powerful industrial conglomerates, and boost his own political career — all in one fell swoop.

Replacing their troublesome eastern European workers with low-wage “guest” laborers would help Eurocopter and other French companies cut their manufacturing costs. It would also reduce the government subsidies now used to keep their prices below market levels. Even better, as documented aliens with French work permits, the new factory workers would pay their taxes directly into Paris’ revenue-starved coffers. They would also be off French soil and under strict control in guarded, fenced-off, and isolated compounds.

On paper, it was the perfect solution. And Sopron was the first step toward putting it into practice.

Frightened by the first signs of a “terrorist” campaign against French-owned facilities, other manufacturers were sure to quickly imitate Eurocopter’s worker replacement program. The Germans would probably fall in line as well, Marchant thought. The Boche had their own problems with unwanted immigrants.

The Hungarians and the other client-state governments would undoubtedly protest these moves, but their protests would be futile. They needed continued French and German financial aid, backing, and goodwill far more than. France or Germany needed them. Any threat to end that aid or close the factories should be enough to cow them. Or so Marchant hoped.

He cleared his throat. “One thing still troubles me, though.”

Desaix frowned slightly. “And what is that?”

“This Hungarian policeman Duroc mentioned. Hrad…” Marchant stopped, unable to fit his tongue around the police colonel’s unmanageable name.

“Him?” The DSGE director snorted. He waved a hand in airy dismissal. “He’s nothing. A provincial nobody without influence in Budapest. Don’t waste time worrying about that fellow, Alexandre. If he causes too much trouble, I’ll have him suppressed.”

Marchant nodded his understanding. The French security services had poured a great deal of time, money, and training into their Hungarian counterparts. As a result, they exercised a great deal of both overt and covert control. Hungary’s current rulers owed their power to Paris — something Desaix and his colleagues never let them forget. An official who offended the military government’s chief sponsors wouldn’t last long in his job.

He stood up, surprised as always at the effort it took to lift himself upright. “In that case, I’ll take my leave, Director. I’m sure that I’ve already taken up too much of your valuable time.”

Desaix stood up with him, an easy, companionable smile on his lips. “Not at all, Alexandre. Not at all. My door is always open to you. Remember that.”

Eurocopter’s chief executive officer looked up at the taller man. “You have my thanks, monsieur. And those of others as well.”

Neither man felt a need to say more.

Everyone knew that France’s aging and ineffectual President was on the verge of one of his periodic cabinet reshuffles. Backing by some of the nation’s largest industrial firms would help Nicolas Desaix win whatever ministry he wanted to head. It was a quid pro quo Marchant offered gladly. With Europe and the world in economic and political turmoil, France needed more leaders courageous and cunning enough to seize every opening fortune held out to them.

Empires were won by bold action, not cringing caution.

With the ink barely dry on Eurocopter’s press release, more than a dozen French-owned companies have announced similar plans to replace workers at their eastern European manufacturing sites. What began as a surprise move at one factory is fast becoming a trend.

The latest figures show more than 50,000 jobs affected by these announcements, and one senior official in Paris estimated that figure will grow rapidly in the days and weeks ahead as fresh French and German firms join the race to cut labor costs. Other experts put the numbers of Algerians, Turks, and Tunisians slated to be shipped out of France at more than a quarter of a million — with men, women, and children all being uprooted in a modern-day Exodus.

Heated protests have erupted all across Hungary, Croatia, and Romania — the nations most affected. In the most severe attack, workers in Brasov, north of Bucharest, stormed a foreign worker’s hostel, killing thirteen Arabs and wounding scores more. Four Romanians and several police were also killed.

But the protests are not confined to those whose livelihoods are threatened. Nationalist beliefs drive many of the actions. One French trade union leader stalked out of a recent meeting in evident rage, growling that “these jobs should go to true Frenchmen, not bastard Arabs.”

The public outcry in France took a violent turn on Wednesday as neo-Nazi skinheads and leftist union workers poured into Marseilles’ immigrant neighborhoods. Several hours of street fighting, beatings, and arson left six people dead and dozens more injured. Onlookers have complained that the police did little to contain the violence or to arrest those responsible.

Despite these warning signs, France’s top-ranking corporate and governmental leaders show no evidence of any intention to reverse course. Whether driven by racial arrogance or economic necessity, this forced mass migration seems likely to continue.…

Colonel Zoltan Hradetsky stood on a grassy hill overlooking the Budapest-Vienna highway, glowering down at a scene that was every policeman’s worst nightmare come to life — a riot spiraling out of control. Static and frantic voices crackled over his command vehicle’s radios as his junior officers fought to regain some measure of control over their own men.

The highway looked like a battlefield. A kilometer-long column of buses sat stalled bumper-to-bumper, each packed with replacement workers and their families headed for the Sopron rotor-fabrication factory. Frightened faces stared out through steel mesh screens welded over shattered glass windows.

Thick, black smoke hung over the whole area, billowing from truck tires stacked and set afire as makeshift barricades. The smoke mingled with gray wisps of tear gas rising over rock-throwing rioters surging back and forth across the road. Policemen wearing gas masks and carrying nightsticks and Plexiglas shields raced from trouble spot to trouble spot, clubbing protesters away from the buses before they could pry doors or windows open. Trucks waiting to cart off prisoners to the city jail stood empty. Nobody had any time to make arrests. They were too busy fending off total disaster.

Hradetsky swore under his breath. Damn that idiot Gellard and his arrogant masters in Paris! They hadn’t bothered to inform him of their plans until earlier this morning, far too late to put together any kind of coherent crowd control plan. As a result, his first police units hadn’t been in time to stop Eurocopter’s enraged workers from blocking the bus convoy.

Angry shouts, screams, and the muffled thump of more tear gas launchers being fired drifted uphill on the wind. More smoke stained the sky, rising from behind the stalled column now. Rioters had cut off the convoy’s line of retreat.

He turned on his heel and stalked toward the worried-looking officers clustered around his command vehicle. “Radio Kapuvar and tell them we need reinforcements now, not next week! And find out where those bloody water cannon are! We’re running out of other options fast.”

“Your panic may not be necessary, Colonel.” Francois Gellard, the factory’s general manager, folded his arms across his chest. Somehow he managed to look bored despite the confusion spilling over the highway only a few hundred meters away. Two of his own security guards stood nearby, cradling short, compact FA MAS assault rifles.

“And just what the hell do you mean by that?”

The Frenchman smiled thinly and pointed at the western sky. “I’ve already taken steps that should bring this farce to a quick end.”

Hradetsky followed his outstretched arm and saw three black specks on the horizon, specks that took on shape and size as they closed at high speed. Helicopters with Eurocopter corporate markings.

Moments later the helicopters flashed by low overhead and slid downhill toward the highway, rotors howling as they decelerated. Each had its side doors open and men leaning outward over the struggling throngs only fifty meters below.

Moving slowly now, the Eurocopter aircraft flew eastward along the highway, trailing bright white flashes and a rattling, thumping series of ear-splitting bangs as the stun grenades their crews were lobbing exploded on the ground and in the air. High-pitched screams rose in their wake. Policemen and rioters alike were knocked down by the blasts and then trampled as the panicked mob broke and scattered away from the road.

Turbines whining, the helicopters spun through a tight turn and made another pass. More explosions hammered at Hradetsky’s ears. And more men and women were left lying broken and bleeding on the highway.

He whirled round to face Gellard. “You fucking bastard! How dare you order this… aerial massacre!” He stabbed a finger toward the bodies littering the pavement and roadside.

“Calm down, Colonel. Most of those people aren’t seriously hurt at all — simply breathless and stunned.” The French factory manager nodded toward his orbiting helicopters. “In any event, your vaunted police were losing this battle. And my men and machines have won it. I doubt you’ll find very many of your superiors willing to second-guess my actions.”

Hradetsky felt his face grow red with barely suppressed rage. “I don’t give a damn what those toadies in Budapest say or don’t say. You’re operating on my territory now — not your precious factory grounds.”

He moved closer to Gellard, watching as the manager and his bodyguards tensed, obviously unsure of what to expect from this short-tempered Hungarian. “I’m putting you under arrest, monsieur. The charges will include murderous assault on my police officers down there and on other citizens of this district. I will not allow anyone — no matter how powerful — to take the law into his own hands. Not while I command this post.”

Gellard shrugged. “Then you may not command here for long, Colonel.” The Frenchman turned away, more interested in watching the buses carrying his new workers edging their way past abandoned barricades.

Hradetsky swore again and moved downhill, already issuing the instructions needed to bring some kind of order out of the bloody chaos along the highway.