Paris burned, not with fire, but with whispers.
Beneath its marble floors and wide ceilings, the heart of the Republic rang in terror, paranoia, and betrayal.
There were no headlines screaming panic, no decrees from the president just eerie silence.
It began quietly, like a silent poison, the morning after Moreau received his medal.
Minister of Procurement Dion adjusted his coat as he left his Montmartre townhouse.
The sky was gray, droplets of rain falling in the cobblestone.
His driver waited impatiently down the alley.
Dion was halfway across when two strangers approached one held a folded newspaper under his arm, the other carried a bouquet of lilies.
Dion halted, annoyed. "Excuse me, gentlemen, what is this about?"
The man with the flowers smiled politely, eyes cold. "Just a gift, Minister."
Dion frowned, unsettled. "From whom?"
"General Delon sends his regards."
