Chapter Two
René Roccard spent the night after
receiving authorization from the French Consulate in New York in a state of
restless anticipation. His request to travel to France had finally been
approved, yet the news brought him little peace. Sleep eluded him. Whenever he
drifted toward it, thoughts of French Cameroun pulled him back to wakefulness.
Too much had happened
during his years away.
Too many questions
demanded answers.
The territory he had once
known so intimately was changing rapidly, driven by nationalist aspirations,
political rivalries, and the uneasy transition from colonial rule to an
uncertain future. There were developments to understand, influential personalities
to assess, alliances to evaluate, and strategies to formulate. The stakes were
high, and René knew it.
By dawn, he had managed
only a few hours of broken sleep.
Still, excitement carried
him forward.
He arrived in Paris in
the closing weeks of spring without informing friends, relatives, or former
colleagues of his return. He preferred discretion. The fewer people who knew of
his presence in France, the better. He checked into a modest hotel, spent the
evening reviewing his notes on recent developments in French Africa, and
reported the following morning to the Ministry of Overseas Territories.
An appointment had been
arranged with the newly appointed minister.
The meeting was scheduled
for Thursday.
René was in unusually
good spirits when he arrived at the former Hôtel Majestic, a grand Parisian
establishment that had once welcomed diplomats, aristocrats, and wealthy
travelers from every corner of Europe. Time and politics had transformed the
magnificent building into an administrative center devoted to matters of empire
and diplomacy.
As he approached its
imposing façade, memories stirred within him.
How different France
seemed now from the country he had left behind.
The scars of war were
fading, yet the nation still appeared burdened by its responsibilities
overseas. Across Africa and Asia, demands for self-determination were growing
stronger. Colonial administrators who had once governed with confidence were
increasingly forced to confront difficult political realities.
René wondered whether the
men inside truly understood what was unfolding.
A secretary greeted him
politely and escorted him through a series of corridors before bringing him to
the minister's office.
The meeting began
cordially enough.
It did not remain so.
Within minutes, René
sensed that Minister André Colin possessed only a superficial understanding of
the situation in French Cameroun. The minister's questions struck him as poorly
informed. Some of his observations revealed an alarming lack of familiarity
with the personalities and developments that were reshaping the territory.
René struggled to
maintain his composure.
Several times, he caught
himself tightening his jaw.
Years of service had
taught him discipline, but discipline was being severely tested.
By the time the
conversation drew toward its conclusion, he had become convinced that the
meeting had accomplished almost nothing. He left his chair deeply disappointed
and inwardly furious.
Had Paris truly entrusted
African affairs to men who knew so little about them?
The thought appalled him.
For a fleeting moment, he
even considered reporting his concerns to higher authorities.
The irritation showed on
his face as he rose to leave.
Yet something unexpected
happened.
André Colin stood up as
well.
Instead of ending the
meeting formally, the minister walked around his desk and extended a hand.
René hesitated before
returning the gesture. Standing beside the minister, he was reminded that he
towered over the man physically. Yet the minister's next words immediately
changed the mood, brining a smile to his face for the first time that afternoon.
"I don't believe
anyone has informed you," André Colin said, accompanying him toward the
door, "but Monsieur Pierre Messmer has asked to meet with you."
René stopped.
For a moment, he wondered
if he had heard correctly.
"Messmer?" he
asked, narrowing his eyes with surprise.
"Oui, René," the minister replied. "Pierre Messmer himself. In
fact, he personally requested that I arrange a meeting."
René's disappointment
vanished entirely in an instant. Pierre Messmer was a different matter
altogether.
"When?" René
asked.
"Tuesday,"
André Colin answered. "Three o'clock. Right here in this office."
René nodded slowly.
"I will certainly be
here."
The days that followed
seemed unusually long.
Although René occupied
himself reviewing reports and gathering information, he found his thoughts
repeatedly returning to the upcoming meeting.
Unlike André Colin,
Pierre Messmer was a man René respected immensely.
Their paths had crossed
years earlier in French Cameroun, during the first year of Messmer's tenure as
High Commissioner. René had quickly recognized in him a rare combination of
intelligence, courage, and administrative competence. Messmer understood Africa—not
as an abstraction discussed in ministerial offices, but as a living reality
shaped by peoples, traditions, ambitions, and grievances.
It therefore came as no
surprise when the French government elevated him five months earlier to the
strategically important position of High Commissioner of French Equatorial
Africa.
If anyone in Paris
possessed a realistic understanding of French Africa's future, it was Pierre
Messmer.
And if René hoped to
influence events in French Cameroun, there was no better person to speak with.
On that Tuesday, René
arrived thirty minutes early.
The great building
appeared quieter than during his first visit.
He spent several minutes
studying the bustle of officials and secretaries moving through the halls
before a young secretary finally approached him.
"Monsieur
Roccard," she said with a polite smile, "Monsieur Messmer will see
you now."
His pulse quickened
slightly.
The secretary led him
through familiar corridors and opened the office door exactly one minute before
the appointed hour.
René stepped inside.
Immediately, he noticed
the difference.
André Colin was nowhere
to be seen.
Instead, standing near
the large window overlooking Paris, hands clasped behind his back, was Pierre
Messmer.
The former commander was
gazing thoughtfully at the city below.
For a brief moment,
neither man spoke. Then Messmer turned around and smiled.
The years seemed to
vanish at once.
“René, René le
formidable!” Pierre Messmer bellowed, his voice carrying the booming,
authoritative resonance of a man accustomed to commanding rooms and shaping the
destiny of peoples.
He threw his arms wide, a
stark contrast to the stifling diplomatic protocol of Paris, and strode forward
to envelop René Roccard in a warm, anchoring bear hug.
“Mon Commandant,” René muttered, a genuine smile
breaking across his weathered face as he yielded to the embrace, feeling the
solid, reassuring frame of his former superior.
“Look at you. Aside from
a few more gray hairs earned in the diplomatic trenches, you haven’t changed a
bit,” Messmer chuckled, stepping back just enough to appraise him with sharp,
assessing eyes.
For a few suspended
heartbeats, the two men fell silent. They didn’t need words; the heavy, shared
history of veterans who had bled for the tricolor bridged the gap between them.
“I feel deeply honored
that you carved out precious time for me today,” René said, his tone measured
and respectful. “Especially given the relentless crises you have to manage on a
daily basis.”
Messmer waved a
dismissive hand, walking toward a sleek mahogany sideboard. “What are you
talking about, René? If I can’t clear my schedule for someone like you—a man
who shares the burdens of state and the deep worries keeping me awake about the
future of France—then who else is there?”
“I suppose there is a
great deal we need to wrestle with.”
“I am entirely at your
disposal. We have all the time in the world this evening. Monsieur Colin was
thoughtful enough to make arrangements for a proper vintage; it should keep our
spirits high while we grapple with the dark forces currently haunting our republic.”
“Magnifique! Cognac?”
“Bien sûr que oui! Now, if my memory isn’t failing me, you have always had an exquisite
palate for brandy. Even back in the day, your taste buds were remarkably sharp.
You might not have realized it then, but you constantly amazed me with your
ability to distinguish the subtle notes and qualities of a fine cognac without
missing a beat.”
“Ah, what a magnificent
drink,” René sighed appreciatively.
“Excellent! Mon Dieu!
How we lived on that stuff back in the day. Brandy was liquid gold—so painfully
scarce during those brutal months in Indochina,” Messmer reminisced, pouring
the amber liquid into two crystal tumblers.
At the mention of
Indochina, René’s grin widened, flickering with a complex web of nostalgia and
bitter memories. Like Messmer, he had been thrust into the steaming,
treacherous jungles of Southeast Asia right after the cataclysm of the Second
World War. Their official mission: to restore absolute French sovereignty to
the colonial territories following the sudden vacuum left by the capitulation
of Japanese occupiers, and to decisively crush the rising, ideological tide of
Ho Chi Minh’s Marxist Vietminh forces.
It had been René’s maiden
posting to the mysterious, volatile East. The environment offered few
distractions from the relentless heat, the oppressive humidity, and the
constant threat of ambush—that is, until he developed an unshakeable fondness
for the local brandies and the exotic, captivating allure of oriental women. It
was deep within the steamy Indochinese interior that he first discovered his
profound attraction for women of a rich, high degree of pigmentation, a
preference that had since followed him across continents.
“Brandy is still my
enduring vice,” René confessed, his eyes twinkling with amusement.
René Roccard listened to
Pierre Messmer as he small-talked. He never took his eyes off his former boss
as he picked up two glasses from the open cabinet and poured them both a drink.
Then Pierre Messmer handed him a glass and toasted.
“Vive la France,”
René echoed softly.
They clinked glasses, the
sharp crystal ring cutting through the quiet office, before both men brought
the amber liquid to their lips.
“Well!”
“Merci!” René responded after taking a long,
deeply appreciative gulp. “C’est merveilleux!”
“Certainement! It
tastes infinitely better than the harsh swill we choked down our throats over
there. You probably won't believe this, but I experienced an almost agonizing
craving for brandy during the two months I chafed in Vietminh captivity.”
“I understand
completely,” René said, his voice dropping an octave as he locked eyes with
Messmer, an unspoken pact of mutual survival flashing between them.
“I know you understand,
René. Because you endured the exact same degrading ordeal.”
“Five months,” René
muttered, closing his eyes for a second as the phantom memory of bamboo cages,
humid prison walls, and relentless interrogation flashed behind his eyelids.
Messmer’s expression
darkened, the warmth of the reunion yielding to the hard, unyielding steel of
old grievances. “I take it you know what all of this means—for you, for me, and
for our brothers-in-arms who marched in glory through Paris. Remember the Parisians
lining the grand boulevards, cheering us until their throats were raw for
restoring the national honor that Hitler’s jackboots had trampled upon during
four wretched years of German occupation? We didn't stop at the capital. We
swept through the provinces, achieving victory after victory, buoyed by the
unstoppable spirit of the liberation. The sheer vindication of chasing the
fleeing Nazis all the way back across the Rhine into Germany...”
“Merveilleux!” René breathed, the memory of France’s and Europe’s liberation still capable of
quickening his pulse.
“And yet, look at what
happened mere years after that glorious ride to victory.”
“Well—”
“I am talking about the
sheer, unadulterated humiliation of finding ourselves trapped in primitive
bamboo cages, guarded by swarthy, illiterate insurgents whose concept of
warfare belonged to the Dark Ages. And then—to cap it all off—we ended up
losing Indochina to those savages entirely because our spineless politicians in
Paris lacked the collective will to fight. Utterly humiliating!” Messmer
growled, his fist tightening around his glass.
“I understand your
bitterness.”
“I knew you would. We
fought side by side across the blood-soaked battlefields of France, Germany,
and Indochina. We returned home expecting a renewed nation, only to find France
tearing itself apart in political chaos. Yes, René! I took this diplomatic post
as a deliberate escape from my beloved France because I could no longer stomach
the endless squabbling of politicians, especially those dangerous elements on
the left.”
“I did much the same
thing,” René interjected, swirling the remaining cognac in his glass.
“Ah, yes. You sought
sanctuary and peace of mind in America. But it was always obvious to those who
knew you that you never truly stopped worrying about our cherished France. You
never stopped wrestling with the profound existential challenges confronting
our nation.”
René nodded slowly, his
expression solemn. “Certainement!” he murmured, his eyes half-closed.
Messmer suddenly
straightened, clearing his throat as he shifted back to business. “Now, René,
le formidable! Let us cut to the core purpose of this meeting.”
“Bien sûr!”
“When the intelligence
reports crossed my desk and I learned of your persistent, formal requests to be
reassigned to Cameroun, I said to myself—Here is the exact man we need for this
powder keg.”
“I honestly care not to
count the number of times I submitted that request before anyone in Paris
deigned to listen.”
Messmer’s voice softened,
losing its bureaucratic edge. “René, René, René! Consider the human cost. Your
kid brother, Marc, was actively serving right there in Cameroun. How much blood
and sacrifice could France possibly demand from a single family?”
René dropped his gaze to
the dark amber liquid in his glass, shaking his head in silence.
“I am deeply sorry about
Marc.”
René looked up, his jaw
set, his eyes flashing with a cold, resolute determination. “He is dead, and we
have a war to win. Those communist-backed bandits in the jungles and grasslands
there must not be allowed to succeed.”
“I am glad you are
committed to the land your brother sacrificed his life for. The New France
won’t be led to flee French Cameroun or Algeria as left-led France abandoned
Indochina to Ho Chi Minh’s red bandits. Général Charles De Gaulle is
back, and so too is our glory.”
“I like your language,”
René said, sipping his brandy and licking his lips.
“You won’t believe it if
I tell you that the first native we put there as prime minister wanted me to
authorize the army to use Napalm on Um Nyobé’s people. He wanted us to ‘wipe
the Bassa people out’, as he put it.”
“André-Marie Mbida, you
mean?”
Messmer nodded. “André-Marie Mbida himself.”
“He is a moron.”
Messmer nodded again. “His
utterances against Um Nyobé and his UPC partisans is making our campaign look
bad.”
“Good, you understand the
liability we created. He certainly is a bad son of a bitch, but he is our son
of a bitch for all I know. The Americans have a better way of phrasing it,
don’t they?”
René nodded. “My
experiences in Cameroun taught me that Mbida’s ethnic group is not fond of the
Bassa people. So, you understand why I think getting rid of this Mbida guy was
the right thing to do. All the same, we must not ostracize the other Beti groups
or the collective Beti people in the process. They are a strategic asset in our
control of that land.”
“You are right about the
Beti factor. Andre-Marie Mbida is gone, and now we have our new man as the prime
minister there. He would be a lot more useful in serving our designs. If you
ask me, getting rid of André-Marie Mbida was the only good thing Jean Ramadier
did when he replaced me as the High Commissioner of Cameroun.”
“The bastard! I heard he
was planning to lift the ban on the UPC and make it legal again.”
“Had Jean Ramadier
succeeded, our entire project in Central Africa would have been put in disarray,”
Pierre Messmer said grimly. “In barely three weeks, he managed to set us back
years. Legalizing the UPC would have opened the door for our enemies to seize our
Cameroun.”
Messmer paused, his
expression darkening.
“What's more alarming is
that we learned of his intentions almost as soon as he arrived there. The man
had maintained exceptionally close relations with Sékou Touré during his tenure
as High Commissioner in Guinea. Touré was already a symbol of anti-colonial defiance
throughout French Africa at the time. Once we put the pieces together, it
became obvious. Ramadier had to be removed from Cameroun, and quickly.”
“I never trusted the
left,” René replied. “That distrust goes back to the Resistance years. Men like
Ramadier always place ideology above national interest.”
“A trait he inherited
from his father,” Messmer said.
“Like father, like son.”
“Indeed.”
For a moment, Messmer
stared into his glass.
“Although,” he said
thoughtfully, “the son has gone even further than the father. Paul Ramadier
remains a puzzle to me. In 1947, as Prime Minister, he broke with the
Communists and expelled their ministers from government. Yet his son seems
incapable of drawing such distinctions. He embraces African communists.”
“You have a point there, Mon
Commandant.”
Messmer nodded.
“Still, despite all his
faults, Jean Ramadier did accomplish one useful thing. He pulled the rug out
from under André-Marie Mbida. Beyond that, however, the real work remains
before us. Our long-term plans for Cameroun and the rest of French-speaking Africa
are far from complete.”
“How is Ahmadou Ahidjo
progressing?”
A faint smile crossed
Messmer's face.
“Good. Better than
expected, in fact. I see you've been keeping up with developments in our
Cameroun. So far, he has been serving his purpose admirably.”
“Excellent.”
The room fell silent for
a moment.
Then Messmer leaned
forward.
“René, we are entering a
new age. Across Africa, the colonies and territories are demanding a greater
say in their own affairs. They know where they want to go, or at least they
think they do. The question is whether they will arrive there under our influence
or under someone else's.”
“It must not end as it
did in Indochina,” René said sharply. “Today, the communists roam freely across
Vietnam.”
“I couldn't agree more. Général
Charles de Gaulle shares that view. France is preparing to loosen its grip,
but not to abandon its responsibilities. There is a difference.”
Messmer's voice hardened.
“The British seem content
to walk away. They grant independence and then turn their backs as if nothing
more concerns them. Meanwhile, Soviet influence spreads through Asia and
Africa. Nasser challenges the West in Egypt. Ghana speaks the language of non-alignment
while entertaining Eastern bloc interests. Burma drifts uncertainly between
worlds. Everywhere, Moscow searches for opportunities.”
René exhaled heavily.
“Our leaders showed the
same weakness when they allowed Indochina to slip away.”
“Yes,” Messmer replied.
“And if we lose our nerve again, Africa may follow. What seems like a ripple
today could become a tidal wave tomorrow.”
The words hung in the
air.
“Look around us.
Nationalist movements are multiplying. The winds of decolonization are
gathering strength from Dakar to Brazzaville, from Tunis to Douala. If our
Cameroun and Algeria are lost, the consequences will reach far beyond those
territories.”
He tapped a finger
against the table.
“France has strategic
interests in Africa, René. Economic interests. Military interests. Political
interests. Once relinquished, they cannot simply be reclaimed. If France wishes
to retain influence after we let go of our empire, then the Algerian rebels and
the Kamerunian nationalists must be defeated.”
“You're right,” René
said, nodding slowly. “During my years in America, I learned an important
lesson. The heart of power lies not in ideals but in interests. Wealth,
influence, prestige, security, all flow from the ability to identify and defend
what matters to you. Nations are no different. Those that cannot protect their
interests eventually become subject to the interests of others.”
He leaned back.
“France has immense
interests in Africa. Whether we preserve them or surrender them is entirely our
choice. That decision cannot be based on sentiment alone. Like it or not, our
destinies have become intertwined with those of the francophone territories. We
shaped their institutions, their economies, their administration. We are bound
together by history.”
Messmer's lips curled
into a faint, approving smile.
“I couldn't have said it
better.”
René continued, his voice
growing more reflective.
“Perhaps history assigns
responsibilities to nations just as it does to men. France was drawn into the
destiny of these peoples long ago. Through education, infrastructure, law,
language, and administration, we helped reshape their societies. Whether one
views that legacy with pride or criticism, it cannot simply be erased.”
He looked directly at
Messmer.
“To walk away now,
pretending no bond exists, would not free us from responsibility. It would
merely postpone the consequences.”
Messmer laughed softly
and spread his hands.
“René, my friend, you've
expressed the matter beautifully. There is both philosophy and strategy in what
you've said.”
His eyes gleamed with
satisfaction.
“Yes, I like your
philosophy very much.”
René nodded with a smile.
“Merci, Mon Commandant!”
“I want you by my side in
French Cameroun,” Pierre Messmer began, cracked his knuckles, and then
continued, “I need someone who can direct the wind while I am away as my duties
expand to French West Africa. I see a lot of political developments taking place
in Francophone Sub-Saharan Africa by the end of the year. Général
Charles De Gaulle, you, I, and a host of other like-minded patriots think we
should have the right order and the right Africans in place before we allow the
colonies and territories there to become members of the United Nations Organization.”
“You are right.”
“Our purpose should be
for the new France,” Pierre Messmer intoned and rested his hand on René’s
shoulder.
René nodded. “I agree
with you.”
“That’s why I think you
have a strong shoulder to lean on,” Pierre Messmer said, dropped his hand and
caressed his chin. Then he nodded and added, “I see your focus is on French
Cameroun. I cannot count the number of times I told the buffoons who were in
power in Paris that the war in our Cameroun is winnable. Very few of the
leftist sissies in the past governments believed me. Oh!
They disheartened me. I am glad they are gone.”
“I understand your
position. Believe me, I do.”
“I have devised a
strategy,” Pierre Messmer said, a faint guttural chuckle escaping his throat.
“In truth, I look forward to working with you and other loyal patriots to
refine and carry it out. Cameroun presents us with a rare opportunity, René, to
put into practice the lessons and theories of counterinsurgency warfare forged
in Indochina. What we learned in Vietnam need not be lost.”
“How?” René asked, his
eyes narrowing with curiosity.
Messmer leaned forward in
his chair.
“This is how we shall
proceed. Across French Cameroun, we will establish what I call pacification
zones. Once those zones are in place, we will sever the link between the
civilian population and the rebels hiding in the forests and hills. Villagers
scattered across remote hamlets will be relocated to organized roadside
settlements within these secured areas. There, they will live under the
protection of our troops and of loyal French Cameroonians who accept the
authority of France.”
He paused before
continuing.
“Without food,
intelligence, recruits, or shelter from the local population, the guerrillas
will find themselves isolated. Their strength comes from the people. Remove
that support, and their resistance will gradually wither. The zones themselves
need occupy no more than two percent of the territory. Yet within that small
portion of land, we shall concentrate and control the population that sustains
the rebellion.”
René stared into his
glass.
“We must not lose again,”
he said quietly.
Messmer's expression
hardened.
“We will not. Defeat is
not an option.” He fixed René with an unwavering gaze. “There are many reasons
I have chosen you, but above all it is because of your resolve. You possess the
determination required to secure victory for France in Cameroun.”
He rose and slowly
crossed the room.
“Our mission in Africa is
not merely political, René. Nor is it simply a matter of tradition or national
interest. Men may explain it in different ways, but I believe it belongs to
something larger than ourselves. It rests upon conviction, upon faith in France
and her civilizing destiny. Such a belief leaves little room for doubt.”
“I agree with you, Mon
Commandant,” René replied.
He reached for the brandy
bottle and refilled their glasses. The amber liquid glowed beneath the
lamplight.
“Vive la France!” he
declared, his words carrying the force of a battlefield cry.
“Vive la France!” Messmer
echoed.
He drained his glass in a
single swallow. For a moment silence settled between the two Frenchmen. Then,
almost instinctively, he began humming the melody of LE CHANT DES PARTISANS―Chant
de la Libération (THE SONG
OF THE PARTISANS ― Song of the Liberation) by the Russian-born French singer-songwriter
and guitarist Anna Marly, which became the anthem of the French Resistance and
the Free French Forces during the dark years of the Second World War. The song
had traveled from occupied France to battlefields across Europe, becoming a
symbol of defiance, sacrifice, and national redemption.
René recognized the tune
at once. His voice joined Messmer's, and together they sang the words that
generations of French patriots had carried into struggle:
Ami, entends-tu Mate, do you hear
Le vol noir des corbeaux The dark flight of the crows
Sur nos plaines? Over our plains?
Ami, entends-tu Mate, do you hear
Les cris sourds du pays The muffled clamor
Qu'on enchaîne?
Of enchained countries?
Ohé! partisans, Hey, partisans,
Ouvriers et paysans, Workers and peasants
C'est l'alarme! This is the signal
Ce soir l'ennemi Tonight the enemy
Connaîtra le prix du sang Will know the price of blood,
Et des larmes!
And tars!
Montez de la mine, Join the sabotage,
Descendez des collines, Get off the hills,
Camarades!
Comrades!
Sortez de la paille Get out of the straw
Les fusils, la mitraille,
The rifles, the grape-shot,
Les grenades... The Grenades…
Ohé! les tueurs,
Hey, killers,
A la balle et au couteau, With a bullet or by knife,
Tuez vite!
Kill swiftly!
Ohé! saboteur, Hey, saboteur,
Attention à ton fardeau: Pay attention to your burden:
Dynamite!
Dynamite!
C'est nous qui brisons
It's us who are smashing
Les barreaux des prisons The prison bars
Pour nos frères, For our brothers,
La haine à nos trousses,
The hatred at our heels,
Et la faim qui nous pousse, And the hunger that drives us,
La misère...
The misery…
Il y a des pays There are countries
Ou les gens au creux de lits Where people deep in
their beds,
Font des rêves; Weave dreams;
Ici, nous, vois-tu, Here, we, you see,
Nous on marche et nous on tue, We march, We kill,
Nous on crève.
We die.
Ici chacun sait Here everyone knows
Ce qu'il veut, ce qui'il fait What he wants, what he does
Quand il passe... When it takes place…
Ami, si tu tombes Mate, if you go down,
Un ami sort de l'ombre A mate out of the shadows,
A ta place.
Takes your place.
Demain du sang noir
Tomorrow black blood
Séchera au grand soleil Will be drying under the sun,
Sur les routes.
On the roads,
Sifflez, compagnons, Whistle, companions,
Dans la nuit la Liberté At night, freedom
Nous écoute... Is listening to us…
"Merveilleux," René whispered at the final,
haunting notes of the song, his head shaking in a slow, hypnotic rhythm.
"How it moves us. It was that very fire that drove us to claw back our
honor from the Germans."
Pierre Messmer nodded,
his knuckles whitening as his grip tightened around his glass until the muscles
in his forearm strained. "And now they dare to borrow our ghosts. They
call themselves Maquis—as if cloaking themselves in the name of our rural guerrilla
bands from the Occupation will somehow launder their treachery into
respectability."
"As if there is a
single drop of common blood between them and us," René growled, the memory
of real sacrifice souring his tongue.
"The vermin,"
Messmer snarled.
"Merde."
Silence stretched between
the two men, heavy and suffocating, until Messmer slammed his glass down, the
amber liquid sloshing over the rim.
"Damn the UPC! Damn
Um Nyobè! Damn Moumie! Damn Kingué! Damn Ouandie! Damn Osendé Afana!" he
exploded, the names tearing from his throat like shrapnel.
Hours later, René stepped
out into the crisp Parisian night and into the shadow of the imperial ministry
building, a sharp, triumphant smile cutting across his face.
For weeks—ever since his
disembarkation from the United States—a gnawing uncertainty had eaten at him.
He had spent every waking hour wondering if the Overseas and Defense Ministries
would bury him in bureaucracy or, worse, pass him over entirely for the French
Cameroun posting. He had needed this. He needed to be the hand that crushed the
Cameroonian insurgency once and for all.
And just as despair had
threatened to take root, Pierre Messmer had materialized from the smoke-filled
halls of power, dropping a high-profile, lethal commission straight into his
lap. Trust territory or not, French Cameroun was about to become a battleground—and
René was going to lead the charge.
