Freedom Club (25 page)

“This one, Henry. It controls all westbound air traffic, right?”

“Ah, yes, that’s correct.”

“All the Bengaluru flights go through it?”

“Yes.”

“Bring it down.”

“What? Right now?”

“Yes, kill all westbound traffic and make it so bad that no flights get to Bengaluru for at least two days.”

Henry David stared at Shinzou, nonplussed. “Are you mad? A direct intervention of this nature is quite unusual. I thought we agreed to discontinue that practice.”

“I know,” Shinzou said apologetically. “But I don’t want him to get away. What does your propensity meter tell you? Without any flights home, he’s not going to stay there. Forced downtime will convince him to pursue our offer.”

Henry brought up a model and updated key parameters. He slowly nodded with agreement.

“Maybe, but I must protest! Why should we take this kind of risk? We’re bringing commercial payment systems down all over the globe, you know. Though promising as a Freedom Club member, there’s no telling if he’ll actually join.”

“Your model says he will. If we can get him over here, face to face. Get him more involved.”

“True, but the model doesn’t calculate how much operational risk to shoulder.”

“Those risks are minimal.”

“Even so, we agreed not to commit sudden interventions unless the situation was dire. That certainly is not the case right?”

Shinzou made no response.

“Right?” Henry demanded.

Looking away, Shinzou returned quietly to his web chair and crumpled down in despair. Momentarily placing his head between his knees, Shinzou thought for some time before popping back up with new vigor.

“You’re right Henry! But for some reason I still want to go ahead. I can’t explain it. Call it a hunch, gut feelings, intuition, what have you. I’m convinced we need to do this.”

Henry looked on disapprovingly, unsure what to do. The two had been together so long, rarely was there a reason to refuse any request. Even in situations which appeared dubious.

“Very well,” Henry relented. “Give me a few minutes.”

Good to his word, Henry initiated a viral cascade which crashed the target system. Utter chaos erupted as all westbound flights were cancelled. Airport-controlling Sentients went haywire. A mild riot took place as travelers found themselves stranded.

The entire while, Shinzou waited patiently for his benign ambush to take effect. With nothing else to do, he dawdled about for an hour until Sumeet finally rang. Pausing for affect, he looked at Henry, who still lacked any visible exuberance.

“Don’t keep him waiting,” Henry said gesturing with an outstretched palm. “The worst that can happen is that we’re caught, arrested, and put to death.”

Shinzou ignored the remark. Beaming with felicitous pride, he picked up the line and immediately engaged Sumeet about his incredible travel misfortune.

Humans, Henry thought to himself playfully. So easy to manipulate. Child’s play, really.

Simple child’s play.

Post Liberated France: 1944
Cafe de Flore, Paris

F
anning a Panama hat, Jean-Paul checked the time by tugging at the stopwatch in his piquet vest. It was twenty after six. Ach, how much longer? Folding back the watch to its pocket, he mused over his options if the man didn’t arrive. More Gauloises at minimum. Maybe even a snack.

And who was this man, anyway? Jean-Paul’s information described him as a resistance liaison who agreed to be interviewed for Combat magazine. Just the man he was looking for. Jean-Paul eagerly planned a piece about resistance activities in the rural areas outside Paris. And with many unsubstantiated rumors of sporadic violence, he wanted someone who had experienced things first hand. A good idea, but Jean-Paul would later realize things were more violent than he imagined. Nothing that would mortify his soul. That wasn’t possible. But it might make for good reading.

Half past the hour. This is ridiculous! Might as well order something, he thought to himself. But just as he began to raise his hand, a middle-aged gentleman suddenly appeared. Slightly heavy set with a receding hairline, the man approached cautiously. Looking at the stranger up close, Jean-Paul noted his melancholy eyes and uncomfortable gait.

“Monsieur Sartre?” the man politely asked.

“Yes, please sit.” Jean-Paul said, gesturing to the chair directly across the small coffee table.

The man looked around cautiously, noting few patrons on the second floor of the cafe. He sat down stoically and draped his jacket across his lap. Both men avoided grandiose introductions. Perhaps it was modern day manners or just low-key habits that had evolved under the watchful eyes of the Gestapo.

“Thank you for coming,” Jean-Paul continued. “Would you like something to drink? A coffee?”

“Perhaps later,” the man said dryly.

Jean-Paul unfolded a notebook and unscrewed his pen. The man looked on somberly, and Jean-Paul noted his pensive countenance. Strange. Something was troubling him. It seemed out of place given the enthusiasm and euphoria of liberation.

“Your name, Monsieur?”

A moment of silence lingered as the man thought. “Yes. My name is Jacques.”

As Jean-Paul’s hand casually rested on paper, ready to take notes, Jacques could not help staring. It all reminded him of recent events that had taken place on his farm.

Unpleasant events.

“Your name for the record, monsieur?” asked the judge.

Once again Jacques didn’t respond. His mind was distracted by the blackened sten gun wavering in the hands of several impromptu bailiffs. Thankfully, the guns weren’t pointed at him.

For the moment.

Instead, the well-oiled barrels wafted toward three Gaullian resistance fighters bound to rickety chairs in the center of the Tribunal’s makeshift courtroom. The court, so called, was brought to order using available barn items. What normally provided shelter for sleeping animals or unused equipment did a fine job accommodating the needs of a Communist military tribunal. And the tribunal, so called, claimed authority in the Bordeaux region. And the barn.

It all happened so fast. Jacques and his local resistance fighters were caught off guard when the door was abruptly kicked in. Quite an efficient legal system they had now! Summoned in this questionable fashion, they were all immediately surrounded and bound to chairs.

All except Jacques. His affiliation with the Marxist community spared him, and he was instead put to work as a witness. Lucky me, he thought to himself repugnantly.

From the side he looked on with heightened angst. The three bound men were close to him, farmers he had worked with in the resistance and known quite well over the years. Watching them tied up was painful, and he did all he could to clamp down the dread that coursed through him. What madness was this!

Having to repeat himself, the judge looked irritated. “For the record, your full name and occupation, monsieur?”

J
acques looked up shaken. “Pardon?”

Observing Jacques’s inattentiveness with interest, Jean-Paul waited patiently. Why does he hesitate? Perhaps he’s disturbed. A strong possibility these days, given the war.

“I can consider you an anonymous source if you’re uncomfortable,” Jean-Paul finally said as smoke exited his nose. “I normally ask for it as a matter of protocol.”

“Anonymous? Yes, that sounds best. I farm potatoes near Bordeaux.”

“I see,” Jean-Paul said and began to write. “May I ask which side you sympathize with?”

“Which side?”

“Are you a Gaullist?”

“I...well, I consider myself Marxist,” Jacques admitted sheepishly. “Though not that active politically.”

Good! Now we’re getting somewhere. Jean-Paul pulled out another cigarette and lit it with cupped hands.

“I’m a Marxist too,” Jean-Paul said. “Perhaps we have much in common.”

“Do we?”

“But of course! Is it not a glorious period? Marxism will finally be recognized.”

Jacques looked on dumbfounded while Jean-Paul waited for a reaction. An uncharacteristic stillness smoldered from the ashtray.

“Recognized as what?”

Jean-Paul grinned audaciously. “Why, a superior system, of course! So tell me, I wish to learn what’s been happening. The resistance is mobilizing, yes? What have you seen?”

Jacques looked at the floor despondently. “I don’t know. Well, I suppose there’s been a fracturing of ideology.”

“Really?” Jean-Paul said curiously. “How so?”

Jacques considered thoughtfully. “Marxists are well organized. Ready to do more....politically.”

“I see,” Jean-Paul said, jotting down notes. “And it’s a good time to act politically, you think? Bring about improvements, yes?”

“Improvements?”

“Yes. Now that we’re rid of the Germans. Men are now free to change society. Marxism will finally prove itself our salvation.”

Jean-Paul again waited as Jacques reminisced. The man claimed to be a Marxist, but why would he doubt things so? Jean-Paul would only realize, much later in life, the tragic irony of his remarks.

“I witnessed something,” Jacques admitted. “But...”

“Yes?”

Silence once again. This was going to be good, Jean-Paul mused while steadying his pen. Hurry up, for God’s sake!

Jacques relented. “Well, I wouldn’t necessarily characterize it as...improvement.”

The judge peered carefully through reading glasses. “The defendants are hereby accused of breaking the norms of society, supporting Bourgeois nationalists, and helping construct the illegal government of Charles de Gaulle.” Looking up toward the defendants, the judge appeared to show earnest conviction. “How do you plead?”

One of the three captives mustered up courage and addressed the court. He fought against his ropes and sneered with animal revulsion.

“How do I plead? Not guilty! Before liberation you fought alongside us. But now that we’re free, what do you do? You murder anyone that opposes your sick ideology! Go to hell, you communist pig!”

With unbridled contempt, the bound resistance fighter spat harshly on the ground. Had he been closer, he certainly would have aimed at his accuser’s face.

The Marxist judge ignored the derogatory threat. “Remarks presented by the accused make clear the guilt of all defendants. I hereby make a summary judgment and find them guilty as charged.”

What!? Jacques didn’t move. His mind reeled with fear as his eyes darted around. First the judge, then toward his eight cohorts. All with weapons drawn and hateful stares aimed at the three bound men who sat in stony silence.

Gesturing with one free hand, the judge spoke authoritatively. “The witness will note the legal claim of the tribunal’s summary judgment, passed in good faith, for the betterment of French society.”

“The betterment of society?” Jacques stammered.

“Y
es, Communism will clearly do great things,” Jean-Paul explained while scribbling down notes. “There may be some violence. But it’s a motor of history, necessary to fight systematic oppressors like the Bourgeoisie. Violence, you see, is the truth of Marxism. And is really just a preparatory phase.”

“Preparatory?”

“Before the creation of a moral and free society.”

Jacques sat frozen. He didn’t understand what Jean-Paul was talking about. How could violence be the foundation of a moral society? Wasn’t it man’s morality that did away with violence?

Jean-Paul said, “Isn’t it the word of God to love your brother in peace?”

Jean-Paul stopped writing abruptly, and put down his pen. Ach, God once again! Drawing out another cigarette, he looked disdainfully at Jacques, who could do nothing other than meekly wait as Jean-Paul exhaled smoke toward the ceiling.

“If God exists,” Jean-Paul asserted, “then man is not free.”

Jacques was utterly confused. “Why do you say that?”

“Because we’d have a prefabricated nature, created by God.”

“You mean our souls?” Jacques offered.

“Exactly. The whole concept of a transcending soul is ridiculous. Existence itself precedes our very nature, or essence if you will. As such, we have no predetermined blueprint that must be followed. We are completely free to act and make the world as we like. Even when we think there’s no available option, we are still free to act. And if the outcome is not to our liking, we have no one but ourselves to blame.”

“I see,” Jacques whispered. “No one to blame but ourselves...”

Outside the barn in an open field, the three Gaullists stood in a row with their hands bound tightly. They looked on defiantly as the Marxists readied their weapons. Drawn bolts produced metallic clacking sounds. Then each man took aim as an eerie silence engulfed them, broken only by thunder rumbling in the far distance.