Reincarnated: Vive La France

Two men sat in leather chairs facing one another.

The glasses in their hands held the last of the red wine.

Renaud poured the final drops into his glass.

"You used to be different," Renaud said, watching Moreau, who hadn't moved in minutes. "You remember that? From '35 to '37, you were relentless."

Moreau didn't respond.

His eyes stayed fixed on the fire.

"I mean it," Renaud pressed. "You were on the radio every week. In the papers. At every damn podium. Screaming about fascism, about Hitler, about not repeating the mistakes of '14. You had fire back then."

Moreau swirled his glass slowly. "Maybe I got tired of shouting into a crowd that covers its ears."

"That's bullshit, Étienne. This isn't you." Renaud leaned forward. "You're not the man who backs down from noise. Now Germany's tearing Czechoslovakia apart like it's leftover game meat, and all you do is sit here and sip wine?"

Moreau blinked, then said softly, "I want him to take it."

Renaud stared. "You what?"

"I want Hitler to take the Sudetenland."

"Have you lost your goddamn mind?"

"I'm completely clear," Moreau said.

His tone didn't shift.

"You're saying, with a straight face, that you want that madman to swallow another sovereign country and roll his tanks in like it's just another Tuesday?"

"Yes."

Renaud got to his feet, pacing. "Jesus Christ. This is cowardice. Or worse."

"It's strategy."

"No. It's surrender, dressed up like chess."

Moreau stood and walked to the window. "Let him win. Let him taste power without consequence. That's when men like him grow reckless."

"You think that's clever?"

"It's necessary."

"You sound like you're writing a fable. This is Europe. This is now."

Moreau turned to face him. "This is exactly why we can't move yet. If we strike now, all we do is prove his paranoia right. We feed his myth. I need him to believe we're weak. I need him to believe I'm Chamberlain with a French accent."

Renaud stared at him. "You're serious."

"I've never been more serious."

There was a pause, then Renaud muttered, "This is how tyrants win. Because the good men decide to wait."

"No," Moreau said sharply. "This is how tyrants lose. When the trap closes not on their rise, but on their overreach."

"You're gambling. With people. With nations."

"I'm building."

"God. You know, it's like something out of a nightmare. You sit still, let him believe no one's watching hoping he'll walk straight into it."

Moreau tilted his head. "That's the idea."

"But watching without acting? That's a kind of cruelty, too."

"I'm not hoping," Moreau said. "I'm counting."

Renaud shook his head. "And when he rolls into Prague?"

"He won't stop there."

"So what's next?"

"Poland."

Renaud raised an eyebrow. "Poland?"

"Yes."

"That's not the same. Czechoslovakia is fractured easy to carve. Poland has teeth. Allies."

Moreau nodded. "And Hitler has memory. The Polish Corridor, Danzig it haunts him. He sees it as unfinished business."

Renaud laughed, dry and hard. "You're speaking like you've seen the ending already."

"I've seen the man. I've studied him more than anyone else in this government. He's not a mystery. He's not a genius. He's a pattern. He pushes until someone pushes back."

"And the Soviets?"

"They'll watch. For a while."

Renaud refilled his glass and drank deeply. "So we do nothing now, just let the map shrink."

"Not nothing," Moreau said. "We prepare. Quietly. Aggressively. I've had conversations with our generals. I've ensured lines of supply are fortified. But publicly, we give him nothing. We let him think we're soft."

"You want him arrogant."

"I want him inflated with his own invincibility."

Renaud sat down slowly, eyes narrowed. "And when he takes Poland?"

Moreau looked straight at him. "Then we make our move. Publicly. Fully. Without hesitation."

"And what if Britain doesn't follow?"

"They will. Not for us. For Poland. The English public will demand it. And Roosevelt is watching. Quietly. Like we are."

Renaud sighed. "And if this all goes sideways?"

"Then we fall. But not asleep."

There was a long pause.

"I've known you too long, Étienne," Renaud said. "And I've seen you get like this before. Cold. Calculated. Like the world's a puzzle you can out-think."

"It is. Until someone flips the table."

"You're betting everything on one man's hunger."

"I'm betting on him being human. Predictable. That's more than I can say for half the people in our own government."

Renaud chuckled. "You ever think you've just become what you hated?"

"I've thought it every night."

"And?"

"I do it anyway. Because hate is a luxury we can afford later. Right now, I need to be what this country needs not what it likes."

Renaud finished his drink and poured another. "You know what this reminds me of?"

"What?"

"Something my father once said You either die with clean hands, or you live long enough to get blood on them."

Moreau smiled faintly. "Then let them think mine are soaked."

Renaud's face turned serious again. "Do you trust me with this?"

Moreau nodded. "You're the only one who's ever told me the truth when it hurt."

"And if I break that trust?"

"Then I chose wrong. But I'd rather risk that than walk blind into war."

Renaud swirled the brandy in his glass. "You've changed, Étienne. You're colder now."

"No," Moreau said. "Just clearer."

"Does anyone else know your plan?"

"No one."

Renaud stared into his drink. "Then I suppose that makes this a very dangerous room."

"I suppose it does."

There was a silence.

"I hope you're right," Renaud said.

"I don't need to be right," Moreau replied. "Just prepared."

Renaud looked up. "Then here's to preparation."

"No," Moreau said. "Here's to timing."

They raised their glasses and drank.

Outside, Paris remained asleep under the pile of snow.

Somewhere east, borders were being redrawn.

Plans being made.

Railways prepared.

And inside the Élysée, two men sat with firelight on their faces one holding the match, the other watching the fuse.