Winter 1982 Jardin du Luxembourg, Paris 6th 05:00 in the morning
Pain is information. This is the only thing Lazarus kept repeating to himself as his lungs burned as if he had swallowed crushed glass.
He ran along the gates of the Senate. He was not wearing a neon nylon tracksuit or cushioned running shoes. He was wearing an F2 military fatigues, bought in surplus from the Bastille, rigid leather rangers who had made his feet bleed the first week, and an Alice backpack. Inside the bag: twenty kilos. No cast iron. Books. Four volumes of the Grand Larousse Illustré and two Latin dictionaries recovered from the orphanage's library before his departure. Knowledge weighs heavily. Literally.
There was no one there. Paris slept under an icy drizzle that transformed the asphalt into an ice rink. Lazare was not looking for cardio. He wasn't looking for endurance. He was looking for Wolff's Law. In his previous life, he had learned this in war medicine: bone is a piezoelectric material. If a strong and repeated mechanical stress is applied to it, it becomes denser. It creates additional bone trabeculae to withstand the load. He was in the process of transforming his slender adolescent skeleton into a framework capable of withstanding shocks.
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He stopped at the Medici Fountain. He put his hands on his knees, gasping for breath, steam coming out of his mouth with each hoarse exhale. His back was screaming. His shoulders were sheared by the straps. He looked at his Casio watch. 42 minutes. He had gained two minutes on the day before.
An iron curtain rose with a crash on the other side of the Boulevard Saint-Michel. A baker opened his shop. The man, floured, stopped on the doorstep with a cigarette in his mouth. He saw this soaking wet boy, in paramilitary uniform, loaded like a mule, motionless in the night. They looked at each other for a second. The baker shook his head, crushed his cigarette and went back to the warmth. He had classified Lazarus in the category "madmen" or "voluntary enlistments". Lazarus didn't care. He put his bag back in place. Another three kilometres.
Boxing Club "La Salle" Rue de la Glacière, Paris 13th Three evenings a week
The smell took him by the throat as soon as he climbed the stairs. A rancid mixture of dried sweat, patinated leather and camphor oil. It was the smell of truth. Here, differential equations saved no one.
Lazarus pushed open the swinging door. The room was low-ceilinged, lit by sizzling yellowish neon lights. At the back, two rings with relaxed ropes. Everywhere else, punching bags hung from metal beams, hammered by guys who didn't seem to be studying Plato.
The owner, a certain Marco, a former member of the Legion, was wiping the counter. He had the flat nose of a bulldog and cauliflower ears. "Are you still here, the nerd?" "Always, Marco."
Lazarus put down his sports bag. He began to bandage his hands. Methodically. Squeeze the wrist. Crossing on the go. Protect the metacarpals. It was a ritual. He wasn't there to learn how to hit. He knew how to kill a man with a pen or wrench. He had the technique engraved in his procedural memory as a Commando. The problem was the engine. His body did not have the power of his mind. If he hit hard, he was injured. If he took a hit, he would fly. He was there for hardening.
"Hey, the Cleric! Shall we shoot? It was Driss. 85 kilos. A mover who boxed as a heavy-light amateur. He loved Lazarus because Lazarus never cried. "We're turning, Driss." But slowly on the hills, I have a math glue tomorrow.
They got in the ring. Driss did not give any gifts. The first jab went off quickly. Lazarus saw him arrive in slow motion. His brain analyzed the trajectory, the angle of the shoulder, the weight transfer. Left Rotary Dodge. Hook back to the liver. The order came from the brain. The body executed. But with a fraction of a second delay. Driss's glove slammed into Lazarus' forehead. The impact was heavy. Lazarus wavered, his vision blurred.
Stay standing. High Guard.
He took it. He blocked the second blow with his forearms. The pain went up to the elbows. He took advantage of the opening to place a direct to the plexus. Driss grunted, surprised by the surgical precision of the blow, even if it lacked power. "Nice, the intellectual." You have the eye. But you don't have any juice.
The round lasted three minutes. Lazarus ended up with a split lip and an emerging hematoma under his left eye. He had hit Driss four times. Driss had touched him fifteen times. At last Lazarus did not sit down. He remained standing, breathing through his nose, staring straight into Driss's eyes. That was his victory. Don't show pain. Do not show fatigue. In the locker room, as he was getting dressed, Marco poked his head in. "You're boxing weirdly, kid. He looks like an old man who has lost his strength but remembers everything. Lazarus buttoned his shirt. "That's exactly it, Marco. That's exactly it.
Louis-le-Grand refectory The next day at noon
The hubbub in the canteen was unbearable. Three hundred brains in turmoil who talked about competitions, grades and rankings. Lazare ate alone, reading the Financial Times that he had stolen from the CDI. His left eye had turned dark purple, turning yellow. A beautiful signature.
Hubert de La Rochefoucauld placed his tray in front of him. Hubert was impeccable. Blonde hair styled back, sky blue cashmere sweater, white shirt. He looked at Lazarus' eye, then at his plate, then at Lazarus.
"My God. Who did you fight with? A bear? Lazarus did not look up from his newspaper. — A mover. He won on points. I won by attrition. "But—" Why? We're in prep school, Lazare. We are supposed to preserve our neurons, not shake them in a skull. — Physics, Hubert. F = a.i. If you don't understand the impact on your flesh, you don't understand the world. You remain a theoretician. And I hate theorists.
Hubert shook his head, fascinated. For the three months that they had shared the corridor of the boarding school, Lazare had remained a total enigma. He solved math problems faster than the teacher, he disappeared at night, and he came back with war wounds. "You're a psychopath, Bonaparte. A brilliant psychopath, but a psychopath. "Eat your spinach, Hubert." You lack iron.
Hubert pricked a steamed potato. He seemed to hesitate, then went for it. "Listen... This Saturday, my parents are organizing something. A "rally". Well, not really, it's my aunt's wedding anniversary, but all the cream of the crop will be there. Avenue Foch. "No. "Wait! I know you hate it. I know that you despise worldliness. But you told me the other day that you were interested in semiconductors, right? Lazarus folded up his newspaper. He stared at Hubert with his good eye. "So what?" "Then Vianney's father will be there." Mr. Delacroix. "Who is Vianney?" "A guy in my class." We don't care. But his father is Jean-Luc Delacroix. The Director of Strategy at Thomson-CSF.
Time stopped for a second for Lazarus. Thomson. The French defense electronics giant. Those who manufactured radars, missiles, communications. Those who had the factories. Lazare knew that Thomson was going to go through a major crisis in 1982-1983 before being 100% nationalized. It was the perfect time to plant a seed.
He looked at Hubert. This boy may have been born with a silver spoon, but he knew how to use it to open doors. "What's the dress code?" — Tuxedo. Do you have one? "No. I have fatigues and jeans with holes. "I suspected it. Come to my room tonight. My brother left his things, he's the same size as you. Well... (he looked at Lazarus' shoulders which had widened in three months) ... he was the same size as you before you decided to become Conan the Barbarian.
Lazarus smiled. A rare, light smile. "Agreed, Hubert. I will go to your ball. But if the music sucks, I'm leaving. "The music will be classical, Lazarus." "Perfect. It will help me calculate.
Saturday evening Boarding School of Louis-le-Grand, Hubert's Room
Hubert's room was a mess of Burlington socks, Dunhill packets, and crumpled physics classes. On the bed, a black cover was placed like a shroud.
"It's my brother Henri's tuxedo," Hubert explained, looking for his cufflinks in an overturned drawer. He has gained ten kilos since he has been at Rothschild. That should be fine with you, since you've decided to become a mirror cabinet.
Lazarus took out the garment. A black woollen sheet, silk lapel. A classic, timeless cut. He put it on over a white shirt with a broken collar that he had ironed himself with a travelling iron. The pants fell well. The jacket was a little loose at the shoulders.
Lazarus said nothing. He took a box of safety pins that he had brought. He stood in front of the full-length mirror. "What are you doing?" asked Hubert, a varnished shoe in his hand. — Structural adjustment.
With the dexterity of a seamstress — or surgeon — Lazarus pinched the excess fabric in the back, inside the lining, and locked it with three invisible pins. The fabric stretched. The jacket hugged his torso, emphasizing the new width of his shoulders and the thinness of his waist. He tied the black bow tie. Not a pre-tied. A real knot, which he executed in four seconds without looking, a muscular memory of the galas of the Naval School of another life.
He turned around. Hubert dropped his shoe. The boy in front of him was no longer the odd stock exchange who ate alone. It was a razor blade in a silk scabbard. Lazarus had smoothed his black hair back. His black eye, turning yellow and purple, did not make a "victim". He was a "duel".
"Fuck, Bonaparte," whispered Hubert. You don't look like a student. "What do I look like?" "To a hitman who has just buried the body." Mothers will love it, fathers will check if their wallet is still there. "Perfect. Let's go hunting.
10:30 pm Avenue Foch, Paris 16th Apartment of the Delacourts
The private elevator opened directly into a marble vestibule that was larger than the entire floor of the orphanage. The worldly hubbub hit them hard. Crystal clear laughter, the tinkling of champagne flutes, the smoke of cigars floating under the chandeliers with tassels. It was the "Rally". The rite of passage of the Parisian upper bourgeoisie. Here, we didn't come to have fun. We came to check who was "from our world" and who was not.
Lazarus took a cup from a waiter in livery. He doesn't drink. He scanned the room. He saw the groups. The young girls in taffeta dresses who giggled by the window (the marriage market). The young people who talked loudly about their future business schools (the next generation). And in the small library room, the mature men, cigar in hand (power).
"Come, let me introduce you to my aunt," said Hubert, already caught up in the atmosphere. "Later." Where is Delacroix?
Hubert sighed and discreetly pointed to a tall, gray-haired man with a weary face, who was politely listening to a banker by the fireplace. "Over there." But don't approach him now, he seems to be bored, he's going to send you out to pasture. "Exactly. Boredom is a security breach.
Lazarus crossed the drawing-room. He didn't apologize when he brushed against people. He glided between conversations like a spectre. He reached the level of Jean-Luc Delacroix, Director of Strategy at Thomson-CSF. The man stared at the bottom of his glass of whiskey as if it contained the solution to his company's abysmal deficits.
Lazarus stood beside him, looking at the same painting—a nineteenth-century seascape hanging on the wall. "The problem with this ship," said Lazarus in a calm voice, "is that she has too much sail for the coming storm. He capsized.
Delacroix turned his head in surprise. He saw this young man with a scarred face, in an impeccable tuxedo. "Excuse me?" Are you talking about the painting or Thomson? Lazarus turned his gray gaze towards him. — Thomson has bet on Betamax and European standards. The Japanese are flooding the market with VHS at production costs that you can't match, because your factories in Angers have an 18% waste rate on silicon wafers. Sony is at 4%.
Delacroix stiffened. Her glass stopped halfway to her lips. "Who are you?" How do you know our waste rates? This is confidential data. — I'm someone who reads Japanese technical magazines in the text. And I know that if you don't pivot to digital military within two years, you will be nationalized for a symbolic franc.
It was brutal. It was true. Delacroix put down his glass. Boredom had disappeared from his face, replaced by acute attention. "Are you at Sciences Po?" At the ENA? — Louis the Great. Maths Sup. — An engineer... And do you have a solution for our wafers, young man? "No. The hardware is lost for this generation. The solution is to sell the civilian factories to the Koreans now, before they are worth zero, and put everything on the guidance software and encryption. The value is no longer in the silicon, it is in the code that runs on it.
Lazare drank a sip of champagne. He saw that he had planted the bait. We shouldn't have shoehorned right away. "But I am only a student, Monsieur Delacroix." I'll leave you to your evening.
He nodded slightly and walked away before Delacroix could answer. He felt the director's gaze follow him through the crowd. First contact made. The seed was sown.
02:00 in the morning Avenue de la Grande Armée
The night was freezing. They were walking on the deserted sidewalk. Hubert had his cravat untied and walked in a zigzag pattern. He had drunk too much champagne and was laughing to himself. "Did you see Caroline's face when I told her you were a prince in exile?" She looked for you everywhere! "You're an idiot, Hubert.
Lazarus, on the other hand, was perfectly sober. His senses were alert. Other people's alcohol made him paranoid. They passed by an entrance to an underground car park. Three shadows stood out from the wall. Leather jackets, hands in pockets, swaying gait. Classic urban predators. They barred the pavement.
"Good evening, bourgeois," said the tallest, a guy with a scar on his lip. Do you have a fire? Hubert stopped, a blissful smile on his lips. "Uh... No, sorry, I don't smoke. "Too bad." What do you have then? A watch? A portfolio? Come on, don't be stingy, daddy is rich.
Hubert sobered up suddenly. Fear, cold and sudden, replaced drunkenness. He took a step back, his hands feverishly searching in his pockets. "Yes... Yes, here. I have two hundred francs. Let us pass.
He held out a trembling note. The guy laughed and approached to grab Hubert's wrist, eyeing his gold watch. — Pretty tocante. Give that too.
Hubert was paralyzed. Lazarus took a step forward. He did not strike a fighting pose. He did not cry out. He simply entered the critical distance. "Let him go," he said. It's a family watch.
The chief turned to Lazarus, amused. "And you, the penguin?" Want to play hero? Go back to your box before I get the other eye on you again.
The thug threw a wide, telegraphed hook, typical of street fighting. For Lazarus, it was like watching a movie in slow motion. He didn't have the strength of Mike Tyson. He had the precision of a watchmaker.
He stepped aside (outside pivot). His left hand grabs the wrist of the guy in mid-flight. His right hand, open, struck violently in the throat of the attacker, just above the Adam's apple. Not strong enough to crush the trachea (murder). Just enough to cut off breathing (panic). The guy made a horrible gurgling sound, put his hands to his throat and fell to his knees, gasping for air.
The other two froze for a second, stunned. Lazarus did not give them time to think. He advanced on the second. A low, sharp kick to the kneecap. The sound of the joint cracking (hyperextension) echoed in the empty street. The guy screamed and collapsed.
The third, seeing his two friends on the ground in less than three seconds, took out a switchblade knife. The blade glistened under the lamppost. Lazarus stopped. He did not back down. He stared at the guy. His gaze was empty of all fear, empty of all anger. It was the look of a man who has already killed and who calculates whether he should do it again. "You have a chance of leaving," said Lazarus. Only one. Course.
The thug looked at his friends on the ground, looked at Lazarus' gray eyes, and his courage evaporated. He put the knife away, spat on the ground, and ran away towards the Star.
Lazare leaned over to Hubert, who was leaning against the wall, white as his blouse. Lazarus adjusted his cufflinks. "There we go." It will start to rain.
02:30 Rue Saint-Jacques, near Louis-le-Grand
They had walked in silence for twenty minutes. Hubert was no longer drunk at all. He glanced furtively at his comrade, as if he were walking next to an unexploded nuclear bomb.
They arrived in front of the heavy wooden door of the school. Lazarus took out his key. "Lazarus?" "Yes?"
Hubert stopped under the porch. "What you did just now—" It wasn't judo. It wasn't a fight. You crushed his throat without even blinking. "He will breathe in ten minutes." He will be in pain for a week. It's educational.
Hubert shook his head. "Stop your. Who are you? Really? An orphan doesn't know Thomson's trash rates and doesn't fight like a commando.
Lazarus put his hand on the handle of the door. He looked at Hubert. He lives fear, but he also lives admiration. He saw the rising loyalty. He needed a lieutenant. He needed someone who knew the codes of this world he was going to conquer. "Let us say that I have an old soul, Hubert. And that I learned very early on that the world is divided into two: those who hold the weapon, and those who dig. I don't dig anymore.
Hubert swallowed his saliva. "Okay. (He took a breath). Listen. I don't know where you're going, but I know you're going to rise high. You need people. You need... cover. I know all of Paris. I can open the doors for you. I can talk to idiots for you.
Lazarus smiled. This was the offer he had been waiting for. "Do you want to be my press officer, Hubert?" "I want to be your partner." When you set up your company. I want 10%.
Lazarus laughs softly. "You're greedy." We'll see what you're worth. For now, start by getting me Delacroix's personal direct number. Not that of his secretary. "I'll have it on Monday."
Lazarus pushed open the door. "Welcome to the team, Hubert. Try not to vomit your champagne on your shoes.
They entered the silent courtyard of the school. Two shadows in the night. The Architect had found his Diplomat. The steel was tempered. It was time to sharpen it.