Location: Berlaymont building, headquarters of the European Commission, Brussels
Date: Mid-November 1989
Point of view: Omniscient (Focus on the French diplomatic apparatus)
The cathode ray televisions embedded in the woodwork of the large reception room of the Berlaymont were running in a loop, spitting out images that seemed to defy reality.
Under the harsh light of the floodlights, thousands of Berliners, drunk with joy, climbed the concrete covered with graffiti. With pickaxes, hammers and chisels, they attacked the Wall of Shame. The East German border guards, dazed, had lowered their weapons. The border between the two worlds no longer existed. The Soviet Union, that monster of iron and ice that had terrorized the West for more than forty years, collapsed live, to the cheers of a tearful crowd.
In the luxurious lounges of the headquarters of the European Economic Community in Brussels, the atmosphere was electric, saturated with euphoria, cigar smoke and the smell of champagne.
An emergency meeting of Foreign Ministers had been convened to take stock of the earthquake. But for the time being, diplomacy had given way to celebration. Historical resentments were forgotten. The senior officials embraced each other.
"This is the end of history!" exclaimed the West German minister, his face red with emotion and alcohol, as he raised his crystal cup. "The free world has won! Communism is dead, gentlemen! Soon, Germany will be reunified, and the whole of Europe will live in peace under the umbrella of our allies! »
The usually phlegmatic British Secretary of State nodded with a beaming smile, patting his German counterpart on the shoulder.
"To the United States of America!" the Briton shouted, raising his own glass to the assembly. "To Washington, to NATO, and to the steadfastness of our Atlantic allies who never trembled in the face of the Soviet Bear! It's their victory as much as ours! »
A murmur of approval ran through the living room. The glasses clinked with a joyful clink. Atlanticism triumphed. In the minds of these diplomats, America was the great benevolent shield, the saving nation that had just liberated half the continent from communist tyranny without firing a single shot.
A few steps away, slightly set back near a huge bay window whipped by the autumn rain, the Minister of Foreign Affairs of the French Republic was observing the scene.
He held an intact glass of champagne. He wasn't smiling.
François Mitterrand's emissary contemplated this naïve fervour with the clinical detachment of a biologist observing guinea pigs getting drunk in their own cage. He watched the German minister cry with joy, he listened to the Briton praise the greatness of the White House, and he felt a form of cynical pity invade him.
They were blind.
These statesmen, renowned for their intelligence, sincerely believed that the end of the Cold War marked the advent of eternal peace. They thought that the West was one big family united by the values of democracy and the free market.
The French Minister, for his part, knew that the truth was infinitely darker.
In the secrecy of the Jupiter Communist Party, a few weeks earlier, President Mitterrand had opened his eyes. The collapse of the Soviet bloc did not mean the end of the war; it simply meant that the battlefield had just changed dimension. Without the Communist enemy to justify its protection, the American Empire was not going to retreat wisely across the Atlantic. He was going to seek to consolidate his absolute hegemony. It was going to devour its own allies in the economic and technological field.
The Minister looked at the bubbles of his glass of champagne.
He thought back to the classified photographs that the President had shown him. Charred armored vehicles on this laterite road in Senegal. The phantom smell of white phosphorus. And above all, the blood of the seven French mobile gendarmes, coldly murdered by the very people that the assembly was determined to celebrate tonight.
America had been so afraid of the Volta S.A. project and Lazare Bonaparte's architecture that it had crossed the red line. It had killed in order to seize the secrets of European silicon.
And tonight, while Europe was celebrating the fall of the Berlin Wall, CIA and Intel engineers were probably disassembling the VESLA-II processors stolen from Dakar, preparing the next chain of the continent's digital enslavement.
The French Minister placed his cup on the silver tray of a waiter who was passing by.
His mission, dictated directly by the "Florentine", was not to share the joy of his counterparts. His mission was to inoculate the venom. He had to break this blissful admiration for Washington. He was to make them understand that, in the new world that was opening up that evening, Europe would only survive if it learned to distrust its so-called savior, and to forge its own weapons. And the only weapon Europe had to counter American hegemony was born in a factory in the suburbs of Paris.
The French diplomat adjusted the collar of his double-breasted jacket and walked slowly towards the small group formed by the German Minister and the British Secretary.
He displayed a smile of circumstance, courteous, perfectly controlled.
"Hans. Richard," he said in a calm voice, placing a friendly hand on the arm of the German diplomat. "It's a historic night, indeed. Our fellow citizens have every reason in the world to celebrate this deliverance. »
"Ah, my friend!" exclaimed the German. "This is a great day for Europe! A great day for our alliance! »
"No doubt," the Frenchman nodded with poisonous gentleness. "The fall of the Soviet Bear is a blessing. But now that the great beast is dead... We have to think about the management of the inheritance. History abhors a vacuum, gentlemen. »
The Brit frowned slightly, picking up on the unusually serious nuance in his counterpart's tone. "What do you mean?"
The French Minister glanced briefly around them, making sure that no adviser or interpreter was within earshot. He lowered his tone half an octave, adopting the confidential whisper of state secrets.
"I mean that the end of the Warsaw Pact reshuffles cards whose nature may still escape you. The military war ends tonight in Berlin, but another war has already begun. A war where uniforms and flags are much more deceptive. »
He pointed with his chin to a mahogany door at the back of the living room, flanked by two Commission security guards. It was access to a private room, swept away from wiretapping, reserved for restricted crisis interviews.
"I have received from the Élysée a file whose content is to be communicated to you in person," murmured the French diplomat, his gaze changing from British to German. "This is a matter of European internal security of absolute gravity. Please allow me ten minutes in the secure lounge. Without your employees. »
The euphoria of the fall of the Wall instantly evaporated from the face of the German Minister. British phlegm froze. The tone of the Frenchman was the one used to announce the beginning of a major conflict.
"Of course," replied the British Secretary of State, putting down his glass.
The three most powerful men in European diplomacy walked away from the party, walking briskly towards the heavy mahogany door. The French Minister knew that by crossing this threshold, he was committing an act of geopolitical heresy. He would destroy their innocent faith in America, and plant the seed of a saving paranoia. The sovereignty of the Volta Empire depended on it.
Location: Secure Crisis Room, Berlaymont Building, Brussels
Date: Night of 9 to 10 November 1989
Point of view: Omniscient (Focus on the French diplomatic apparatus)
The heavy mahogany door closed with a dull sound, sealing the small living room tightly. The hubbub of the reception, the laughter, the clinking of champagne glasses and the clamor coming from the televisions were instantly cut off, replaced by the oppressive silence of a room designed to absorb the waves and thwart the directional microphones.
The contrast was dizzying. The three men went in a second from the blinding light of historic victory to the confined shadow of state secrets.
The living room was soberly furnished: a round smoked glass table, three black leather armchairs, and no porthole to the outside. The air was filtered, artificial, almost clinical.
The French Minister of Foreign Affairs walked up to the table, put down his diplomatic briefcase and invited his two counterparts to sit down with a wave of the hand.
Hans, the West German minister, sat down, wiping a bead of sweat on his forehead, the euphoria of imminent reunification fighting against the anguish that had just aroused the Frenchman's tone. Richard, the British Secretary of State, took his place with that phlegmatic stiffness which served as the armour of His Majesty's diplomacy.
"Good," the Briton began, crossing his legs. "We are among ourselves. The whole of Europe is celebrating the end of the bipolar world, and you are locking us up in a Faraday cage. What is going on in Paris to justify such a melodrama, my friend? »
The French Minister did not respond to the provocation. He composed the code for his briefcase, blew off the metal latches and took out a gray cardboard folder, stamped with the seal of the Eagle and the Sword, the emblem of the French armed forces.
He opened the file and spread out three color photographs on the glass table, under the harsh light of the hanging lamp.
The silence became heavy.
The images showed the carcasses of armored vehicles totally charred, the sheet metal twisted by extreme heat, in the middle of a red dirt track. In the third photo, we could make out the charred remains of human bodies, covered with military tarpaulins.
The German Minister recoiled, his complexion suddenly pale. The smell of champagne seemed to have evaporated from his palate.
"My God... Hans murmured. "What is that? A Hezbollah attack? »
"It was a French diplomatic convoy. In Dakar, Senegal, at the end of August," the French minister explained in a monotone, emotionless voice, like a forensic doctor detailing an autopsy. "Seven of our mobile gendarmes, most of them fathers, were massacred. The official report, which we leaked to the press, speaks of an attack by local rebels or coupeurs de route. »
The Briton frowned, leaning over the shots. "It's tragic, obviously. But with all due respect to your losses, why show us that tonight? West Africa is unstable, it is an area of post-colonial turbulence... »
"Because the official version is a state lie, Richard," the Frenchman cut him off coldly. "These men were not killed by rebels. They were executed by professionals. »
He pointed a finger at the traces of charring around the tank.
"Our experts from the Directorate of Military Intelligence and the DGSE are formal. The fire was caused by white phosphorus grenades. A tactical signature of special forces, intended to vitrify the crime scene. The attackers were heavily armed, perfectly coordinated, and they had precise satellite intelligence on the route of our convoy. »
Hans looked up from the photos, incomprehension mingling with horror. "Special forces? But for what? Senegal is not in open war. What was this convoy carrying to justify such an operation? »
"Computer servers," replied the French Minister.
He let silence weigh on him for a few seconds to make sure that the apparent absurdity of the answer was imprinted on the minds of his interlocutors.
"Waiters?" choked the Briton, an incredulous smile on his lips. "You want us to believe that an elite commando massacred seven of your soldiers with phosphorus to steal computer equipment that can be bought commercially? This is absurd. If they were looking for money, they would have robbed a bank. »
"It wasn't commercial material, Richard." The Frenchman's tone hardens, cutting short any derision. "This convoy was carrying two computing units equipped with the VESLA-II processor. It is a sovereign, ultra-classified architecture, developed by a French company called Volta S.A., led by an engineer named Lazare Bonaparte. This chip has no equivalent in the world. In terms of pure computing speed and cryptographic security, it is between five and eight years ahead of anything Silicon Valley is capable of producing today. This is the future of global computing. »
The Frenchman leaned forward, anchoring his gaze on those of his allies.
"The attackers used phosphorus to destroy the carcasses, but the ballistic ceramics in our processors don't melt at that temperature. We have not found any silicon ash. The fleas did not burn. They were methodically extracted before the fire. Someone ordered this massacre to steal our architecture and reverse engineer. »
The British Secretary drew back in his chair. His analytical mind set in motion.
"If what you say is true, it is an act of industrial warfare of the utmost gravity. The Soviets? The KGB has been trying to make up for its technological backwardness by flying for decades. Did they strike your men? »
It was time. The tipping point. The moment when the poison had to be injected, not with brutality, but with the surgical precision that François Mitterrand had taught him.
The French Minister gave a sad, almost pitiful grin, as he looked at his two allies.
"Look around, Richard. The Soviet Union no longer even had the means to pay the border guards of the Berlin Wall. The KGB was in full decline, its officers were trying to save their privileges. They have neither the logistics nor the black funds to deploy invisible commandos in Senegal in August. The Bear is dead. »
He slowly picked up the photographs, forcing the two men to focus solely on his words.
"In geopolitics, when there is a crime, you have to look at who benefits from the stolen technology," the diplomat whispered, his voice slipping. "Ask yourselves the question, gentlemen. Which nation, today, has an almost absolute monopoly on the computer industry? What nation would see its global economic hegemony collapse, its military-industrial complex threatened, and its Silicon Valley champions ruined if a small European company suddenly imposed an infinitely higher standard? »
The German Minister ceased to breathe. Her gaze shuttled between the Frenchman's briefcase and the padded wall of the living room. The enormity of the insinuation hit him hard. Her hands began to tremble slightly on her knees.
"You... you can't say such a thing," stammered Hans, his face pale, refusing to believe it. "You don't have the right... Not tonight. Not the day they helped us bring down the Wall. »
"What the hell are you insinuating?" the Briton growled, his voice suddenly strained, his phlegm pulverized by the silent accusation. "You accuse the United States of America? You are insinuating that the CIA had seven soldiers of the Atlantic Alliance murdered to steal a fucking microprocessor? This is pure and simple paranoia! This is an insult to our closest allies! »
"I am not accusing anyone officially, Richard," replied the Frenchman with abysmal coldness. "Because I don't have any material evidence that the White House would listen. The work was done with frightening cleanliness. But Paris knows. The Élysée knows. And now, you know. »
The Briton stood up abruptly, nervously smoothing his jacket. "It's a conspiracy delirium, typical of your intellectual arrogance. You can't stand Washington dictating the course of the free world, so you invent false flag operations! You have no proof that the Americans are involved! »
"And you have no proof that they are not," replied the Frenchman, unperturbed, looking up at His Majesty's Secretary of State. "Wake up, Richard. You are celebrating the end of history tonight, but history is a carnivorous beast. She just changes prey. The American Empire has just lost its great Soviet enemy. What do you think they are going to do with this huge intelligence machine, these thousands of spies and these unlimited budgets? They will turn them against us. Against Europe. »
The French diplomat then turned to the German, whose country was the keystone of the European economy.
"Hans, your country is going to be reunified. You will become the leading economic power on the continent. Do you believe for a moment that Washington will let you build Airbuses, develop your telecommunications or design your own computer without trying to sabotage you? The attack in Dakar was not an accident. This is a warning. This was the beginning of the all-out economic war. »
The German Minister sank into his chair. His Atlanticist diplomat brain, formatted to see America as the great protector of the FRG, was bugging in the face of the implacable logic of Mitterrand's realpolitik. The poison was doing its work. The beautiful illusion of the unified free world was dissipated in the acid of industrial cynicism.
"Why tell us that?" asked Hans at last, his voice breaking, and suddenly looking very tired. "If you don't have evidence, if NATO can't do anything... Why shut us up here to tell us that our protector is a murderer? »
The French Minister closed his diplomatic briefcase with a sharp click.
"Because you are our true allies. France, Germany, Great Britain. The fate of Europe is being played out in the coming months. »
He placed his hands flat on the briefcase.
"Lazare Bonaparte and his company Volta did not die in Dakar. They have accelerated the pace. Soon, France will offer the European and global civilian market a computer system of absolute power, sovereign, hermetic to the NSA's eavesdropping and the influence of Silicon Valley. When that day comes, the United States will do everything, and I mean everything, to convince you not to adopt it. They will threaten you with commercial retaliation. They will blackmail you diplomatically. They will claim that Intel or Microsoft products are the only free and acceptable standard. »
The Frenchman stood up, his gaze shifting from British to German with prophetic intensity.
"That evening, you will have to remember the seven gendarmes who died in the Senegalese laterite. You will have to remember that America is ready to shed European blood to protect its profit margins. »
He walked to the mahogany door, his hand resting on the brass handle.
"The Berlin Wall has fallen, gentlemen. We are finally free of the red menace. Let us try not to celebrate this freedom by voluntarily putting on the digital channels that Washington is in the process of forging for us. Have a good evening. »
The French Foreign Minister opened the door and left the crisis room, plunging back into the joyful tumult, the light and the music of the reception at the Berlaymont.
Behind him, in the secure living room, Hans and Richard were left alone.
The Briton dropped back into his chair. He wanted to utter a contemptuous sentence to sweep away French arrogance, to reaffirm the "Special Relationship" between London and Washington. But the words stuck in his throat.
The German, on the other hand, stared at the reflection of the smoked glass table. The image of Berliners celebrating their freedom on the television screens in the lobby suddenly seemed to have lost its colour.
François Mitterrand had succeeded in his masterstroke. He had asked for no embargo, no reprisals, no public declaration. He had done much worse. He had inoculated doubt.
The blind trust that bound Europe to America had just suffered its first structural fracture. The psychological ground was now prepared. When Lazarus Bonaparte's empire struck, Europe would be ready to welcome it, no longer as a mere technological alternative, but as the last bastion of its independence.