Bright Hair About the Bone (35 page)

And if one of his savants had been able to interpret it and use it to unveil the future for him? D'Aubec wasn't entirely certain that it would have been possible even for a Champollion, but the Emperor would have been appalled at what he saw. Death and disaster in snow and in desert, on land and on sea. Loyal Frenchmen dying by the uncounted thousands for years in his service. And, at the end of all the slaughter—the bloody English, left strutting about, cock of the walk! Never again. The next attempt to secure supremacy—and the peace it would bring—would be short-lived, unexpected, and delivered with the precision of a surgeon's scalpel. Good thought! He scribbled on his notepad. Yes, he'd mention the scalpel…

Timing! It was all in the timing, and d'Aubec wasn't prepared to be restricted by the predictions of some worm-eaten old piece of astrological rubbish. He'd worked out a perfectly timed scheme without the aid of oracles or computation or even advice from anyone. A scheme that stunned by its simplicity.

François had been left gabbling with astonishment and approval when he'd confided it to him, and with his support he intended to put it before the gathering. Constantine was unaware; d'Aubec longed to see his expression when the plan unfolded before him. All the key players were here. A decision could be arrived at before they rose from the table. D'Aubec smiled, grim but elated. The security of Europe—perhaps the world—would be decided by his words in the coming minutes. He was no orator. He would keep it short and blunt. The substance of his proposal was shattering enough to pin them to their seats. He squared his shoulders, cleared his throat, and resolved to speak slowly.

His uncle caught his eye. “And now, I believe Edmond has a proposal of a practical nature to put before us…Edmond?”

D'Aubec set aside his notes and looked around, waiting until all eyes were turned on him. The eyes were chill and reserved. He caught expressions ranging from outright suspicion to his mother's lightly questioning wariness.

“Gentlemen, you have your diaries? I'm going to ask you to enter some dates.”

At his prosaic opening, stiff postures began to relax. Diaries and workbooks were duly opened, fountain pens uncapped.

“You will already have noted an entry for July the fourth last year? The day of the National Socialist rally in Weimar? Larger than their Munich assembly in '23. The movement, as we had predicted, is growing at a pace to make our graphologists gasp. I want you now to note down the twentieth of August of this year.”

No one wrote. Pens poised, they stared at him, waiting.

“The third Party Conference is to be held this summer in Nuremberg. They have booked the Leitpold arena, where they are to stage what they are calling their ‘Day of Awakening' rally.”

François gave a knowing and cynical laugh. “We have had sight of their arrangements. No secret. And their organisation has never been difficult to infiltrate. Our information is of the best. François?”

His cousin rose and went to a display board installed at the end of the room and pinned up a poster-sized sheet. He returned to his seat. François had learned the importance of the visual image in manipulating perception. And the carefully chosen press photograph he'd had enlarged and printed spoke volumes.

D'Aubec allowed time for everyone to absorb the subject, noting the grunts of disgust and amused titters that ran round the table.

“A group photograph of the leading lights at last summer's shindig,” said d'Aubec. “Hardly impressive. What a crew! Take a look at the circus-master in the centre. I leave a moment for you to fall victim to the pastoral charm of the costumes—the hearty socks, the woollen knickerbockers, the feathered hats. And—take a further moment to be entertained by the leader's theatrical pose. I've seen the same gestures on a flic directing the Paris traffic!” His tone was amused but full of scorn.

“But our instinctive reaction of frivolous dismissal, though understandable, is—unwise. It is less easy to speak lightly of the muscled, brown-shirted legions who step and strut before him in increasing numbers. No, we are not deceived. Nor is his government who look anxiously on, indecisive and impotent.” He waited for and received a regretful nod of assent from the German politician. “His following grows. Thousands are expected to turn up at Nuremberg in August. The height of summer. The crowds will be in holiday mood. We may confidently expect to find there, packed into the arena, the whole of the Nazi party, their followers from every corner of Germany, and—since a recruiting drive for his SS brigade is to follow at the end of the proceedings—all the strong-arm bullyboys in the country who are sympathetic to his cause. For that one day, the city of Nuremberg will become the pest-hole of the western world.”

He paused for a moment, enjoying their puzzlement.

“Gentlemen, the rats will follow the Pied Piper. And on the twentieth of August they will all be conveniently gathered together in one place, cheering their leader, Herr Hitler. Gathered onto less than one square kilometre of German soil.”

CHAPTER 33

A
uguste exchanged sharp glances with Constantine. The countess looked fearfully at her son but did not interrupt.

“We have been watching this…this…boil grow and gather until it is bursting with pus! I reach for the scalpel! This is the moment.” D'Aubec spoke with calm certainty.

He nodded at each man around the table. “Your gas, Erhard, will be delivered by one of
your
aeroplanes, Eric, using
your
detonating device, Claude, into the centre of this arena. No need to be concerned about the vagaries of the wind. Sufficient explosive power will be used to spread it over a neatly calculated area. In minutes we will have rid Europe of the menace of National Socialism. ‘Day of Awakening,' gentlemen? ‘Hour of Oblivion' is perhaps the phrase we may expect to feature in their obituary in the footnote of history that will be accorded them.”

No one spoke.

“Eight weeks' preparation time is what we will have if we decide today on this action. We have the time, the resources, the skills, the right men with us, to achieve our aim. I need only to be assured we have the will. The practicalities will follow the decision.”

“But the scandal, d'Aubec!” objected the German politician. “The aftermath! The Weimar Democratic Republic can not be expected to sit down and accept the wholesale slaughter of a section—albeit a despised section—of its own population! Enquiries would be made, reprisals taken. They would have to take action. Action involving the Great Powers. You would not be taking on one small political group, d'Aubec. You'd be cocking a snook at the world!”

“And the world will seek you out and crush you,” added the French senator. “I doubt anyone will mourn the loss of this vermin, but there must be a risk of obliterating innocent bystanders and we…
you
…will be pursued for indiscriminate slaughter. You bring your own country into danger, man! Can you not see that?”

“Of course, of course,” Constantine interposed, smoothly placatory. “But, as I'm sure Edmond was about to explain…if I may, Edmond?…Two points. Firstly: Our calculations will ensure a clean and clinical excision. The total loss will amount to a mere fraction of the casualties on any single day of combat in the last war. Millions of lives will be bought at the cost of a handful. Secondly: The plane we use will be German, flying, undisguised, in Weimar Republic livery. The pilot and his aide likewise, verifiably German. The machine will, sadly, crash—conveniently for the investigator—a few kilometres from the site, and the crew will be found dead in the wreckage. Nothing discovered at the scene of this disaster will lead back to us.”

Constantine's hard gaze silenced d'Aubec.

François picked up the baton. “And, naturally, our newsmen will be on the spot to record the event. It is their photographs which will appear at once in the press, both in Germany and in France. Headlines all over Europe—and the world—will reveal the duplicity and desperation of the Weimar Republic, which found itself compelled to take this drastic step—to deal with this canker growing within its struggling state. The Great Powers who have watched from the sidelines—impotent leeches that they are!—will be loud in their condemnation, but they will heave a silent sigh of relief. We will be giving them news they want to hear. They will swallow the story with gusto! It'll slip down their gullets like the first oyster of the season!”

The young had all spoken. The older members had remained silent throughout, listening. Finally, all eyes on him, the chairman, Auguste d'Aubec, responded. He began to murmur approval in his rich, urbane baritone: “We all acknowledge that we are engaged, not in a formal duel…rapiers at dawn in the Bois, eye-to-eye, toe-to-toe…or a medieval joust where our target is clear—and targeting us. We use the devices, the techniques, and the tactics the twentieth century has placed in our hands. And our purpose is to destroy a noxious growth which threatens to overwhelm a neighbouring country. We must look on this as part of our sacred duty. As part of our stewardship.”

“And then—” Edmond d'Aubec took up again, grateful for his uncle's pronouncement and eager to avoid alienating the older faction around the table: “With this threat…this distraction…removed, an embattled and weakened democratic republic will be helped to struggle to its feet—once more.” He nodded to the Weimar man, directing his next comment at him: “And perhaps, in the turmoil, there will rise to the top a more enterprising, more co-operative breed of politician? And a fresh government will have the chance to grow, uncontaminated. Other weeds may spring up—I suspect they are endemic in that soil—but we will be consolidating here and we will keep a watchful eye out. As my uncle says: This is our sacred duty,” he finished piously, pleased with the effect his speech had made on the company.

“And once free of this immediate menace,” Constantine was fast gathering up the reins, “we can all turn our attention to achieving our real aims. A slower procedure, but the one sure way of making certain that Europe, with France properly at its centre, flourishes unimpeded, unthreatened, for centuries to come.”

If the young were intent on shaking the earth in a literal way, the older generation was working towards an earth-shaking shift in religious focus, with Constantine keeping the balance and the peace. Pivotal to the whole movement, in touch with both factions. Well, d'Aubec could pay lip service to this harmless pursuit of religious fervour. He knew that any energy could be channelled if you had the tools and the sense of direction to guide it. And he would do almost anything to head off the schism he sensed was approaching.

The family was experiencing a divergence of aims. He glanced around the table once again, assessing strengths and allegiances. The chair his cousin Gabrielle should have occupied had been removed. As usual. And no loss. There was no support to be expected from her. She showed no interest in the family's business as long as her generous allowance continued to be paid. All the same, she had been the first successfully to challenge the older generation, he acknowledged with a rush of annoyance. The scene she had staged yesterday morning before the arrival of the guests had been alarming but impressive, and she had got what she wanted: the family consent to the official engagement she had set her heart on. And the wretched girl had instantly taken off to make her arrangements, which signalled an intensive shopping spree and endless telephonic gossiping with her friends. His mother and uncle had been doubtful and, predictably, had urged a further delay, but in the face of Gabrielle's determination and d'Aubec's compliance, they had conceded.

But at least he'd made sure the girl understood that in return for his lack of opposition—he could hardly call it support—she was now in his debt.

His mother was looking tired, he thought. He smiled encouragingly at her, sitting at the head of the table opposite Father Anselme. She rallied and, rising to her feet, issued an invitation to everyone to accompany her to the salon, where aperitifs would be served. Always the impeccable hostess, though increasingly weary. D'Aubec remembered the sacrifice of his mother's necklace of rose diamonds, a gift to a long-lost countess of Brancy from Cardinal Mazarin, a sacrifice which had set them on the road to financial recovery. One day he'd locate those stones and get them back for the family, whatever the cost. For a brief moment he allowed himself the sensuous indulgence of imagining them around the white neck of Laetitia Talbot.

He lingered behind as the room emptied and was joined by Constantine.

When they were alone, d'Aubec spoke casually. “The senator is not with us…”

“I had observed. Leave it to me, Edmond.”

Reassured, Edmond went back to his vision of Laetitia. She was still in his thoughts when a manservant entered and sought him out. Leaning forward, he murmured that the count was urgently requested to come to the telephone.