The Last President- The Complete Trilogy Read online

  — You never leave her.

  — What's that?

  — Your Commonwealth cockade.

  — No, it's a gift from my grandfather. I know every detail of it, down to the smallest scratch.

  — That's what I liked about you, your attention to detail.

  — I don't leave anything to chance. And you should know, since you obviously didn't know, that this cockade has a twin... which my poor mother gave to your late husband. I imagine it was burned in the accident. But let's not talk about that anymore!

  Claire follows the Bailiff, who carries a candelabrum in his hands. She feels like she's taken a time machine back in time. Outside, the Revolution rumbles, the heads of the Ancien Régime fall on the Place de la Concorde. And this strange and penetrating feeling of being trapped, in the very center of the spider's web. Suddenly, the Bailiff opens a richly decorated room for him.

  Here she is alone at last.

  Claire quickly takes in all her clothes and finds herself completely naked. Her bruised, wounded, vulnerable body wanders across the royal blue carpet to the bathroom. At last she can relax and take stock of the situation she finds herself in. Here, at the centre of power, as the hurricane is devastating everything, there is only luxury, calm, and pleasure. The soft scent of the soap on her skin cleanses her wounds. Her brown hair smells good and the dark water disperses in the bathtub with dark thoughts. Why didn't she meet anyone at the Elysée Palace, except the Bailiffs? Claire comes out of the bathroom and gets dressed. Her new clothes fit her perfectly and she finally finds shoes.

  She's hungry.

  Direction the kitchen of the Elysée, taken by the Bailiff who guarded the door of his room.

  — I feel like you're part of the walls.

  — It's what I do for a living, ma'am.

  — You must know a lot of secrets.

  — That's what they say... right this way, ma'am.

  Chapter 18

  Claire finds herself in the huge, empty kitchens of the Elysée Palace. A meal awaits her, served by candlelight. It is a chicken supreme, accompanied by fried potatoes and fine green asparagus. Delicious, with Loire wine, Saint-Nicolas de Bourgueil. One glass in hand, Michèle Desrivières arrives in the kitchen.

  — What do you think?

  — It's great, thank you.

  — No, I'm talking about the bombing.

  — I'm sorry... It's scary, really disturbing, I didn't think in France you could go that far.

  — We're not old enough, we've always known peace, you and I. To the point of forgetting our roots. Our ancestors fought a war without end. Every generation of men and women in our family tree has known war, inside or outside. We've behaved, collectively, like spoiled children. Peace must be earned, we must be hungry for peace. Look at this palace, seemingly so peaceful. It's only on the surface... There, just below us, hundreds of collaborators are preparing to fight back.

  — The retaliation?

  — Yeah, I'm gonna hit it hard. And I want you by my side. You know the meaning of sacrifice. I had a chance to speak with your late husband before he disappeared. I know how much moral value you shared for him, and I'm delighted to have received your application for this position. Can I trust you?

  Instinctively, Claire clutches the spy cockade in her pocket. She knows that she will not be allowed to make a mistake, she doesn't want to stay here any longer, for fear of being unmasked.

  — Yes, of course.

  Suddenly, Claire gets up and slides out. Stumbling, she clings to Michèle's blouse and tears off her cockade. How did she do that? Where did she find the strength and madness to do it? Here she is already on all fours, apologizing. Michèle saw nothing but fire.

  — No, Claire, I get it. I'm the abuser. Get some rest, and meet me as soon as you can in the basement in the Security Council chamber. Mathieu will accompany you there.

  — I found it!

  — Oh, perfect, thank you very much, my little one. Take a rest.

  It's done.

  It's done! Claire can't believe her eyes.

  Could the Desrivières empire fall on such a small thing? But we mustn't stay here, how do we get out of this golden prison? Mathieu takes her back to her room and carefully closes the door to stay out front. She's on the first floor. She could jump. But outside it's a state of war, she'd get arrested. She has her Elysée pass... If Mathieu doesn't notice anything, she can leave... By some miracle, in the little briefcase, there are comfortable shoes and not those damn pumps.

  — Mathieu!

  — Yes ma'am," he said as he opened the door, "what can I do for you?

  — I don't know where my bracelet is, it must have fallen in the kitchen, would you mind...

  — I'll go and check for you, don't leave the room under any circumstances.

  — Of course!

  But as soon as Mathieu disappears at the end of the corridor, Claire takes advantage of the opportunity to sneak into the dark corridors of the Elysée Palace. She thinks she perceives voices. Are they already looking for her?

  There she is in the garden, plunged into the dark night.

  — Ma'am!

  Claire goes on, acts like she didn't hear anything.

  — Ma'am, don't move! You don't belong here!

  — Yes, of course, I was wrong, where's the exit? I drove back... through the Champs-Elysees.

  — Why are you going out?

  — Michèle asked me to, do you want me to call her?

  — No, no, don't bother her. I'll accompany you to the pedestrian exit by Gabriel Avenue, hurry, there are already five snipers following us, you risked your life, never do that again! Normally, a bailiff should accompany you! What a mess today!

  — Exactly! Come on, I'm in a hurry, hurry up, hurry up!

  — Yes, ma'am.

  Claire has very little time.

  When Mathieu comes back, there is a chance that he will notice the deception and sound the alarm. She'll be cooked.

  She ran the bath water... to make it look like she was there. It'll turn out she takes showers a lot... It's simple, but it may only work for a while. She's already going through security at Gabriel's, where a military police officer takes her through one, then two checkpoints on the Avenue. Claire has an adrenaline rush, at any moment now, she can get arrested.

  — Well, here I can no longer ensure your safety, where's your taxi?

  — He must be late... I'll start the walk... I know it by heart...

  — Ok, tonight nothing is normal, take care! The streets of Paris are not safe for people like us!

  — Thank you, good night.

  Claire walks on the Parisian sidewalks, walking up the Avenue Gabriel, past the sleepy Marigny theatre and straight ahead.

  She's free, never felt better. She's speeding up the pace anyway, by instinct. Suddenly, at the level of Cirque Street, a car makes headlight calls. Once, twice... A man comes out and goes to meet her.

  — Claire?

  — Yes... Who are you?

  — Did you make it?

  — Yeah... she's wearing it. Who are you people?

  The man takes off his hood. It's Erwan. She didn't even recognize his voice.

  — That's great. Now we can go to phase two. Get in the car.

  — Erwan, damn it, is that you?!

  Once comfortably settled in, Erwan takes out a briefcase, and removes a touchpad from it.

  — Do you want to do it?

  — What?

  — Didn't Pierre explain?

  — Yes, it's to keep track of Michèle...

  — Because... France tonight will be reborn. I leave you the honor of initiating the procedure, we're at a good distance, we just have to wait for it to come up from the basement.

  — They're gonna find out I'm running away! We have to get out of here, you can do this later, damn it! We've already given enough, haven't we?!

  — No! It's our only chance! There are rumors of large-scale arrests by the French police and army of thousa
nds of political opponents in the night. Another October 5th worse!

  — Yes... She told me about it...

  Suddenly, an alarm sounds in the direction of the Elysée Palace.

  — Okay, that's it, they're looking for you.

  — Damn, Erwan I'm afraid ... What have we done?!

  — Look, the chip says she went to the surface! Start the procedure by pressing here.

  — Okay, I'm gonna kill her, that's it.

  — Yes.

  Claire, feel her vengeance at your fingertips. She shakes like a leaf.

  — Do you want me to do it?

  — No! May she rot in hell! She killed hundreds of innocent people!

  She slides her finger on the tablet, the system locks up. She does it again.

  — What the hell is going on?!

  — Do it again!

  She's slipping her finger again. The chip stopped transmitting.

  — What's up?

  — Then it's done! We're out of here now!

  The electric car starts up quietly and quietly and drives off into Paris.

  — Is she dead?

  — I don't know, apparently so, we're about to find out! But the chip is no longer broadcasting!

  — Is that a good sign?

  — Yes, rather!

  — Damn, but Erwan, are you there?!

  — Yes... Yes!

  Claire starts laughing, nervously, her body spasms. It's stronger than her. They both laugh. In laughter, everything passes. No need for words.

  Chapter 19

  Claire and Erwan can't get out of Paris, at least for now.

  They meet in a small hotel, give a false name, with false papers and walk up the six floors. Claire doesn't say anything. She follows Erwan. This ghost back from the dead. He's there, walking up the stairs with her. Like any couple on vacation, Erwan opens the bedroom door and puts his stuff on the bed. Like any couple on holiday, Erwan unbuttoned his shirt and took off his shoes, then turned on the television, to finally sit on the edge of the bed. Except that it's not just any couple. Claire is married. There's something instantly pinched in her heart. She feels like she's cheating on Benedict and the idea is suddenly unbearable for her.

  The news channels only talk about the attack on the President's campaign headquarters, on a loop. Nothing on Michèle, they still don't know if their plan worked. Suddenly, Claire's phone vibrates.

  It's Pierre, finally. One of his sources confirms that Michèle is dead. Her heart exploded, literally.

  The news will be made official, but above all Claire must not show up. They're looking for her. She has to wait a few hours for the Senate President to be officially named Acting President. He's one of them. It'll all be over. Long live the Republic.

  Vive la France.

  — What about Benedict? And the children?

  Pierre reassures her.

  — They're on a boat to Morocco. It's all right. It's all right. It's all right.

  Claire's hanging up.

  Erwan shaves his beard, long, which he has maintained for five years.

  Little by little, he looks like the one who left too soon and was buried by her.

  Too much death, too much stress, too much emotion.

  Erwan's shirtless, he's considerably muscled. She's looking at him from behind. His first love, his smell, yes it's him. He caresses her neck. She shivers, but withdraws.

  — No. It's over.

  Time has stood still. Erwan says nothing. Now she knows. Suddenly, the alarms in Paris sound again. Erwan's sweet eyes understood. Claire smiles.

  — Will you be my best friend?

  — Yes.

  — Thank you. Thank you.

  — Thanks for picking me up.

  She tilts her head and kisses his cheek, tenderly.

  Claire leaves him in the bathroom and slowly closes the door.

  Chapter 20

  The cicadas are singing, it's hot, very hot. After an unprecedented Regime crisis, France convened a Constituent Assembly and adopted a new Constitution. The VIth Republic was born on the ashes of the previous one.

  Lana's 10.

  She's a stubborn, sulky pre-teen girl, but it never lasts too long. Benedict uncorked a bottle of Bandol that he had put in the fridge. Théophile is back from San Francisco for the holidays and is taking care of the barbecue, the American way. It seems that his ribs are falling to the ground.

  Claire has put on her little sky blue dress and puts the seventh plate on the long wooden table in the garden under the arbour.

  — Well... But what are they doing?

  — Leave it, they're always late, reassure Benedict.

  Suddenly, the bell rang.

  — Well, there you go! When one speaks of the wolf, Theophilus sings.

  — I'll go get them," Lana rejoices.

  A woman, elegant and redheaded, with straight hair, gets out of the car, followed by a five-year-old boy.

  — Victoria ! throws Lana at him and throws herself in his arms.

  Suddenly, Erwan comes out of the vehicle.

  — The most beautiful!

  — it's me ! Lana said.

  Claire's stepping forward decisively.

  — Well, it took you long enough!

  — These self-contained cars can't drive... they're not perfected yet.

  — Here, give me that," said Claire as she picked up their things. Have you thought about what I said to bring?

  — Yeah, look in the trunk.

  Erwan, his wife, Lana and Henry the youngest meet Benedict and Théophile around the table. Claire opens the safe. She finds a wicker basket. Her hand shakes a little. It's there. It's Lana's cuddly toy, the first one, the one she never had. Erwan finds Claire on the side and gives it to her. Suddenly he looks serious, and he's talking very quietly.

  — The departure is advanced. We're leaving tonight.

  — Okay, that means they failed.

  — They're counting on us, we have to infiltrate them no matter what. We don't change the scenario. Our cover works perfectly. You ready to be my wife again for two weeks?

  — All set.

  Erwan sketches his little smile.

  On her way back to the festive table, Claire meets Benedict's gaze. He understood. He has no right to ask her questions, but he knows he can trust her. Total trust.

  Claire and Erwan are the best agents for this mission.

  Thank you for buying THE LAST PRESIDENT 2: Under the Ashes

  Did you like it? Send me a short message or follow the novel on the official social networks and share your discovery, see you soon!

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  As the characters and situations in this story are purely fictional, any resemblance to existing or former persons or situations can only be fortuitous...

  THE LAST PRESIDENTTrilogy 2 of 3:

  Under the Ashes

  Revision from french version of 09 December 2017

  THE

  LAST

  PRESIDENT

  III

  Christophe Martinolli

  Revolution

  To my children Ana and Luca

  "War is a massacre of people who don't know each other, for the benefit of people who do,

  but don't slaughter each other. ”

  Paul Valéry

  Chapter 1

  Claire slowly awakens from her torpor by the sirens of Paris, at five forty in the morning. She would have liked to make this dream, or this premonitory vision, last a little longer. Everything was so pleasant, so perfect. Everything seemed so real. The freshness of that glass of water, the warmth of the midday sun, which she could almost feel warming her neck, and making droplets of sweat beads. She would have liked to smell, a little more, the smell of the barbecue and the herbs of Provence. Yet a
nother of her dreams stands there. He is very real. Erwan's body curled up next to her. He slept on the floor, on the purple carpet of the hotel room they took over last night. The sirens of Paris fell silent. He's still asleep. That didn't wake him. Erwan has always been a deep sleeper. Claire smiles. With one hand, she looks for the TV remote control and launches France Info. On the giant wall-mounted screen, the summary is displayed: the investigation is advancing into the attack on the campaign headquarters of President Michèle Desrivières and is focusing on radical small groups accused of plotting against the Head of State. But nothing, no blindfold, no news flashes about her death or disappearance. So her death hasn't been made public yet? Or worse, has it really happened? Claire has the unpleasant feeling that she woke up in a parallel universe. What happened last night? Erwan grunts, he has trouble waking up. He's there, looking at her now, with his sweet eyes of a sleeping myopic.

  — Erwan, I have a bad feeling.

  He grabs his round glasses, puts on a white T-shirt and dives into his smartphone notifications. Nothing either, except Pierre's last call, which, according to his source, confirmed that the President had had her "heart exploded". He hasn't called back since, neither to deny nor to confirm. Erwan has been instructed not to try to reach him. The wait is unbearable.

  Erwan looks at her, worried. He's not a dream, he's not a ghost. He's beautiful, deliciously beautiful.

  — Erwan, all this is not good for me. What if she didn't die last night? Why isn't anyone talking about it this morning? Why did the sirens of Paris start screaming?

  — I don't have any more answers for you, Claire. I just don't get it.

  — What about my children, my husband?

  — They're fine, Pierre assured us yesterday.