Fabvier looked at the two implacable Hungarians, then away from them as though a solution to the dilemma they posed might lie off to one side. It didn’t. “Very well, we will disarm,” he said, refusing to face them.
Six hours later, 25,000 French troops marched into temporary captivity. Tens of thousands more left stranded in Germany and Poland met the same fate before nightfall.
Abandoned by his closest associates and subordinates, Nicolas Desaix sat alone in his private office. Ever the opportunist, Morin had vanished as soon as the news of Germany’s defection reached his desk. Guichy was dead. Shamed by failure and fearful of the future, the Defense Minister had shot himself after learning that all French units in Germany and Eastern Europe had capitulated.
Desaix grimaced. Both the DGSE chief and the Defense Minister had chosen a coward’s way out. He had not yielded so easily. For hours he had worked frantically, trying his best to restore order — to salvage something for France from the wreckage of his ambitious schemes. He had failed.
His orders were ignored. His telephone calls went unanswered. France was tired of Nicolas Desaix and all his works.
Not that there was very much he could have done anyway, he reflected sourly. Spread thin from the Mediterranean to the Channel ports, the tattered remnants of the French Army and Air Force were no match for the armies arrayed against them. At last report, U.S., British, and Belgian troops were already past Cambrai, advancing cautiously toward Paris against pitiful resistance. Most Frenchmen seemed content to sit at home waiting for a change of government — whether imposed from the outside or altered from within.
Cloaked in his own despair, Desaix barely noticed the four tough-looking men file in from his outer office. Even wearing civilian clothes they couldn’t hide the air of complacent authority common to policemen or special security agents.
“You are M. Nicolas Desaix?” one of the men asked in a bored, unhurried voice.
Desaix glanced up sharply. Idiots! Who else would he be? His fingers drummed sharply on his desk. “I am.”
“Then I must inform you that you are under arrest.”
Something of his old fire flashed through Desaix. He drew himself up haughtily. “I am a minister of the republic! By whose authority do you arrest me?”
In answer, the senior plainclothesman handed him a sealed warrant.
Signed by all his cabinet colleagues except for Guichy and Morin, it also bore the signature of the President. Desaix stared down in utter astonishment. Having at last nerved themselves to act against him, the little worms had even roused Bonnard from his senile torpor long enough to plant this dagger in his back. Determined to save themselves, the President and the others were throwing him to the wolves.
Numbed by constant disaster, Nicolas Desaix allowed his captors to lead him out to a waiting unmarked car.
His downfall preceded the complete collapse of the French Fifth Republic by only a matter of hours.
CHAPTER 38
New Beginnings
The President’s smiling face was the first thing Ross Huntington saw when he walked into the Oval Office. It was hard to recognize him as the same coldly determined leader who had sent him off to Europe to break EurCon to pieces. “Ross! Come on in and take a pew.”
Huntington dropped lightly into a chair, amazed to find himself feeling better than he had in years. Considering how he’d spent the past few weeks, that was strange: First the sleepless days and nights at sea off an enemy coast. Then the twenty-hour days he’d spent shuttling between European capitals to patch together a temporary armistice. And finally the long, red-eye flight home. By any rational measure, he should be dead on his feet. Maybe even dead, period — given his prior medical history. But victory and the prospect of a lasting peace seemed to be a better tonic than bed rest.
He said as much to the President.
The other man nodded, still grinning. “Damn right. I feel like a kid again myself.”
That wasn’t quite true, Huntington thought, studying his longtime friend carefully. New lines and creases on what had once been a boyish face showed where the strains and stresses of war had taken a permanent toll.
Still, the President’s essential optimism remained intact. It came roaring to the surface as the two men talked about what came next. “At least now we’ve got a real chance to put the world back on the right track! A real window of opportunity.”
Huntington nodded. Thoroughly discredited by the war, the apostles of ultra-nationalism and protectionism were in retreat around the globe. Shocked by the sight of so many new blood-soaked battlefields, politicians and peoples alike seemed ready to lay aside old hatreds and misguided ambitions. But how long would that last? “That window could slam shut pretty damn fast, Mr. President,” he warned.
“I know.” The President’s gaze turned inward. “We’ve paid a high price for
Huntington knew what he meant by that. Transfixed by domestic squabbles after the cold war ended, the world’s industrial nations had turned inward and against each other. Recessions had bred resentment — resentment against “foreigners” and “foreign”-made products. And cynical politicians had made use of those resentments for their own gain. Protective tariffs had spawned more tariffs and more trade restrictions in a vicious cycle of retaliation and counter-retaliation. The trade wars and festering racial and ethnic hatreds had all been part of a long, ugly, melancholy slide toward real war — wars between neighbors and between nations.
He asked, “What exactly do you have in mind?”
“A new alliance among nations. An alliance based on four firm principles: free trade, free enterprise, free markets, and free governments. An alliance that isn’t limited to a single continent or a single ocean.” The President laughed self-consciously. “Not much to ask, is it?” He turned serious. “It’s the only real way I know to promote peace, Ross. Prosperous democracies don’t make war on one another. All the treaties and solemn pledges in the world don’t mean anything unless they’re backed by goodwill and shared interests.”
Huntington nodded. “Building something like that won’t be easy.”
“Nope. It sure won’t,” the President agreed. “But since this is the third time we’ve picked up the pieces in Europe this century, the United States has a lot of moral authority and practical power right now. And I plan to use every last bit of it.” He glanced toward the phone on his desk. “I just finished talking with the British, and we’ve agreed to jointly sponsor talks in London beginning as soon as possible.”
“Who’s invited?”
The President smiled. “Since we plan to start small, just Europe, Canada, Mexico, and the United States for now. Eventually? Say in a few months? The whole world. It’ll take a hell of a lot of hard work and some fancy footwork — especially from whoever gets the unenviable task of shepherding the conference through to completion.” The President’s smile grew wider as it became clear that Huntington was his choice for the job.
Huntington felt the first flicker of alarm.
“So, what do you say, Ross? Have any other urgent plans? Golf? Tennis? A summer by the shore?”
He shifted awkwardly in his chair. “But… you can’t be serious, Mr. President. I’m not a statesman.”
“I’m perfectly serious,” the President said firmly. “You’re honest. You’re intelligent. You don’t put up with bullshit. And that’s exactly the kind of statesman the world needs right now.” He got up from behind his desk and laid a hand on Huntington’s shoulder. “You’ve served your country in the shadows long enough, Ross. It’s time to step out into the light.”
Feeling stiff and awkward in his new dress uniform, Zoltan Hradetsky stood among a host of other dignitaries on the tarmac — waiting impatiently while the British Airways jetliner from Paris taxied off the runway and turned toward them. The twin silver stars on each shoulder board that proclaimed him a major general seemed to weigh a ton apiece. Give me enough time, he thought, and I will become accustomed to them. The rank bothered him. The
