Location: Bonaparte family apartment, rue d'Assas (Paris 6th)
Date: April 1985
Point of view: Focus on Uncle Henri Dufresne
The spring of 1985 stretched over Paris with an insolent sweetness, budding on the plane trees of the Jardin du Luxembourg. In the apartment on rue d'Assas, this seasonal renaissance found a timid echo. Since Augustus' spectacular awakening from the limbo of his coma, the wake atmosphere that had suffocated the family had slowly dissipated.
The patriarch was still hospitalized at the Val-de-Grâce, beginning a long and painful rehabilitation to relearn how to make his atrophied muscles obey, but he was alive. His mind, intact and sharp, reigned again. For Madeleine, this medical miracle had acted as a balm. She regained some color, a semblance of a smile, even if the daily trips to the hospital often left her exhausted, drained of all nervous energy.
It was in this context of family convalescence that Henri Dufresne, Madeleine's older brother, decided to pay a courtesy visit on a beautiful Tuesday afternoon in April.
Henri was the archetype of the great industrial bourgeois of the Glorious Thirty. At the head of a thriving textile empire based in northern France with lavish offices in Paris, he wore the three-piece suit with the natural arrogance of someone who has never had to worry about making ends meet. Henri had always secretly despised Auguste, whom he considered a vulgar cop, a brutal civil servant of the DST incapable of offering his sister the lifestyle she deserved.
As for his nephews, he looked down on them. Especially Lazarus. True, the boy was a mathematical genius, but Henri had always considered him a practical tool. A "little technician" who can be used at will, very useful for repairing the first computer terminals and the capricious accounting machines of his textile factories, in exchange for a ticket slipped into his pocket at Christmas.
Sitting on the velvet sofa in the living room, Henri stirred his coffee with a silver spoon.
"You look better, Madeleine," he conceded in a paternal tone, crossing his legs elegantly dressed in gray flannel. "Auguste is hanging on, it's good. He is a robust man, despite everything. »
"He has an iron will, Henri," Madeleine smiled faintly, smoothing her skirt. "The doctors can't believe it. Lazare goes to see him every evening after his classes. »
Henri stifled a condescending chuckle.
"Ah, Lazarus. Always with his nose in his equations. He has to think about his future, this boy. If he passes his competitive examinations, I may be able to find him a position as an IT executive in my group. We are in the process of modernising logistics, I need young people who know about machines. »
Madeleine hesitated. She didn't know the immensity of what her son was doing in the shadows, but she felt that Lazarus had long since passed the stage of a student looking for his first job. She preferred to change the subject.
Suddenly, Henri glanced at his solid gold watch.
"Damn. It is four o'clock. I have a very important call to make to my suppliers in Belgium," said the industrialist as he stood up. "Can I use the office phone, Madeleine? I need a little calm. »
"Of course, Henri. But... Be careful. This is Lazarus' domain now. He is extremely maniacal with his business. Don't move anything. »
Henri brushed off the warning with an amused backhand. That an eighteen-year-old kid should take over his father's office almost touched him. He walked across the hallway and lowered the brass handle.
When he entered the room, the uncle's condescending smile immediately faded.
Henri expected to find a haphazard teenager: piles of prep school books, illegible drafts, maybe electrical wires lying on the floor.
Instead, he faced an intellectual cold room. Augustus' former smoky lair had been purged of all sentimentality. The smell of brown tobacco had been replaced by that of new paper and ink. On the heavy oak desk, there was absolutely nothing that was not justified. A black leather desk pad, perfectly aligned with the edge of the furniture. A corded telephone. A banker's lamp. And a single stack of three cardboard files, closed, filed with military rigor.
The atmosphere of the room was not student-oriented. It oozed, with power and secrecy.
Impressed, in spite of himself, Henri sat down in the leather armchair, which now seemed to be molded for a different build than Auguste's. He picked up the phone and dialed the number of his Belgian factory. The line rang in the void.
While he waited, the industrialist mechanically looked for a pen to record the prices of the wool he had to negotiate. There were none on the desk. Annoyed, he pulled the first drawer out of the right cabinet.
He found a fountain pen there. But as he grabbed it, his eye was drawn to a thick cardboard folder, left ajar in the drawer.
On the cover, stamped in black ink, stood out an inscription:
VOLTA S.A. – INDUSTRIAL LEASE CONTRACT (IVRY-SUR-SEINE).
Curiosity, that ugly bourgeois defect, took precedence over propriety. The Belgian telephone line was still ringing in his ear, but Henri stopped listening to it. He put the handset back on its base.
He pulled out the cardboard folder, placed it on the leather desk pad, and opened it.
The first page was a lease contract for a warehouse of one thousand two hundred square meters located in Ivry-sur-Seine. Henri, as a good captain of industry, knew the prices of industrial real estate in the inner suburbs. His eyes scanned the lines. Monthly rent, charges, security deposit. The sums were considerable.
But what made him dizzy was the identity of the signatory at the bottom of the page, above the company's stamp.
Lazare Bonaparte, Chairman and Chief Executive Officer.
Henri frowned, convinced that it was a complex joke, or perhaps a large-scale economics assignment for the school. Then he turned the page.
He came across a certified copy of the Kbis extract, issued by the commercial court. Date of registration: September 1984. Share capital: 417,000 Francs. Legal form: Public limited company.
The textile industrialist's throat tightened. Four hundred and seventeen thousand francs of capital. It wasn't pocket money. It wasn't a student project. It was a real company, with a financial mint that many of its own subsidiaries would envy.
With a suddenly sweaty hand, Henri pushed aside the Kbis extract and discovered the following document.
It was a typed letter, written on luxurious letterhead. The logo, a sharp, aggressive "V", was enthroned at the top of the page. The letter was not yet signed or mailed. It was just a finished draft, waiting to be sent.
Henri read the name of the recipient at the top left.
To the attention of Mr. Henri Dufresne, CEO of Textiles Dufresne.
His own name.
With his heart pounding, the uncle read the contents of the missive.
"Sir,"
The text did not say "My dear uncle". From the outset, he established a polar distance, exclusively professional.
"I hereby inform you that I am obliged to cease, with immediate effect, all voluntary maintenance, hardware repair and software optimization operations that I have been carrying out until now on the computer equipment of your production subsidiaries.
The accelerated development of VOLTA S.A. and the security deployments currently underway on the core networks of national banking institutions (in particular Crédit Lyonnais and other entities whose identity is subject to industrial secrecy) are mobilizing all of my engineering resources.
The volume and demands of these contracts no longer allow me to devote time to second-rate office installations. I therefore invite you to contact a local IT service provider to monitor your accounting terminals.
Please accept, Sir, the expression of my distinguished greetings. »
Henri let go of the paper. She fell gently back onto the desk.
The sixty-year-old man felt the ground give way under his waxed feet. The shock was of unprecedented violence, calling into question decades of family and social hierarchy.
His nephew didn't play with soldering irons. His nephew was not preparing for the exams to become a little engineer under his thumb.
Lazare Bonaparte, barely eighteen years old, had just rented a factory. He capitalized nearly half a million francs, equipped Parisian banks with technologies "subject to secrecy", and dismissed him, the millionaire uncle, with the sovereign contempt reserved for an insignificant customer.
"Second-class office installations." "A neighbourhood IT service provider."
The words resonated in Henri's head like slaps. The text oozed, with the arrogance of a predator of the new economy watching an industrial-age dinosaur graze on its grass. Henri believed that he dominated his world with his spinning factories and velvet warehouses. But Lazare was already operating in another dimension: that of data, silicon, and seven-figure contracts stamped with state secrecy.
The small computer repairman had turned into a titan. And the uncle, from the height of his Parisian bourgeoisie, had just realized with terror that he had been relegated to the rank of a simple shopkeeper.
The front door of the apartment slammed heavily in the hallway, followed by the sharp sound of keys being placed on a piece of furniture.
Henri jumped. He hurriedly put the letter and the leases back into the cardboard folder, closed the document with trembling hands, and pushed the drawer back. He rose, wiped a drop of cold sweat from his forehead with his silk handkerchief, and left the office.
In the hallway, Lazarus was taking off his cloak.
The young CEO, tall, straight, with a hard jaw, slowly turned his head towards his uncle who was emerging from his sanctuary. Lazarus' black eyes were bottomless pits. There were no surprises. He scanned the industrialist's pale face, his gaze evasive.
Lazarus knew exactly what his uncle had just read. He had intentionally left that drawer unlocked that morning, knowing that Henri would come to see Madeleine and that his crass curiosity would push him to rummage around. It was a breach of contract by proxy. A surgical humiliation, without even having to say a word.
"Good morning, Henri," said Lazare simply, his voice sluggish, taking off his leather gloves. "A problem with your Belgian factories? You are very pale. »
The uncle swallowed. He tried to regain his confidence, to puff out his chest, to call him a "kid", but he was unable to do so. The ghost of millions of francs and the lease of Ivry-sur-Seine crushed him.
"No... No, Lazarus. Everything is very well," stammered Henri, retreating towards the drawing-room to find his sister's protection. "I was just on the way out."
Lazarus nodded slowly. An imperceptible smile, sharp as a blade, stretched across his lips.
"Excellent. Have a good trip, then. And remember: if your typewriters have a problem, check the phone book. I'm afraid I'm no longer available for family DIY. »
Henry did not answer. He greeted Madeleine hastily, and almost fled from the apartment.
In the deserted corridor, Lazarus looked at the closed front door. The past had just been officially settled. The family leeches were cut down. There were no more condescending uncles, no more incredulous professors, no more haughty bankers. The vacuum was created around him.
But Lazarus knew full well that this psychological victory masked a much crueler reality. He had humiliated the older generation, certainly. But the Ivry-sur-Seine factory that he had just rented was not just a tool of pride. It was an ogress of steel and epoxy that was devouring their cash at terrifying speed, and the war for Volta S.A.'s financial survival had only just begun.
Location: Volta S.A. assembly plant, Ivry-sur-Seine (Val-de-Marne)
Date: May 1985
Point of view: Omniscient (Slippery Focus on Karim and Lazarus)
Ivry-sur-Seine, in the spring of 1985, was still the beating heart of the Parisian red belt, a working-class suburb bristling with brick chimneys and sheds with jagged roofs. It was there, in the shadow of the old factories in decline, that Lazare Bonaparte chose to set up the first industrial heart of Volta.
Behind the anonymous façade of a former auto parts warehouse, the black magic of silicon was at work.
Karim Belkacem was standing on a metal walkway overlooking the main workshop. The scholarship student, who was now wearing suits of a much more acceptable cut, held a plastic cup of coffee in his hand. He watched the scene below with shining eyes, a blissful smile stretching his features drawn by fatigue.
The space of one thousand two hundred square meters had been transformed. An entire section had been insulated by glass partitions to create a rudimentary clean room, pressurized to drive out dust. Inside, twelve workers and technicians, dressed in immaculate antistatic gowns and caps, were busy around a U-shaped assembly line.
At the beginning of the line, a brand new wave welding machine, several meters long, spewed a light cloud of ozone. She deposited a liquid and perfect tin ribbon on the blank printed circuits. Further on, technicians flashed the EPROM chips with Karim's sovereign code, before inserting them into the silicone molds. At the end of the line, the vacuum bells would rumble, sucking air out of the alumina-saturated epoxy resin.
It was magnificent. It was the materialization of the spirit.
The first fifty black monoliths of the Courcelles bank contract were being packed, ready to be delivered and invoiced.
"We are the kings of oil, Bonaparte," Karim whispered, without even looking back, hearing his boss's light, measured steps echoing on the gratings of the bridge. "Watch them work. The factory is running. Five million francs, Lazarus. We have five fucking millions in the account. I will never eat cold ravioli in my maid's room again. »
Lazarus stopped by her side. He put both hands on the icy metal railing. The young CEO was not smiling. His black eyes, sounding out the activity of the factory, expressed neither triumph nor relief. They were the reflection of an insoluble equation.
A heavy dull noise echoed on the railing.
Lazare had just dropped a thick register with a black cover, filled with columns of figures drawn by hand with monastic rigour. The ledger of accounts.
"That's the problem with software developers, Karim," Lazare said, his voice sluggish, cutting through his CTO's euphoria. "You don't understand physics. And by extension, you don't understand the economy of matter. »
Karim turned to him, frowning, his cup of coffee hanging in the air.
"What? What are you talking about? We just signed the biggest contract two guys our age have ever seen! »
"In your world, software, production is free," Lazarus explained, opening the registry to a page marked with a red bookmark. "You write a line of code once, and you can copy it a million times on blank diskettes that cost five francs each. Your profit margin is ninety-nine percent. Software is the illusion of infinity. »
The sixty-year-old engineer pointed an imperious finger at the shop below, at the welding machine and the drums of toxic chemicals.
"But here, we don't sell ideas. We sell atoms. We sell hardware. And the material world is a hungry predator. »
Lazarus tapped the registry page.
"You think we're rich because we have five million in turnover. Let me tell you about our Working Capital Requirement. »
Karim swallowed. Lazarus' tone was not that of an associate sharing good news, but that of a doctor announcing an incurable disease.
"The monthly rent of this warehouse: forty thousand francs," Lazare enumerated, his voice falling like a cleaver. "The welder to the German wave at the bottom? One million two hundred thousand francs, paid in cash. Military-grade epoxy resin drums and alumina powder? Three hundred thousand. The batches of EPROM chips purchased by the pallet to ensure that there is no shortage of stock? Eight hundred thousand francs. »
The list went on, implacable.
"Add to that the salaries of our twelve specialized workers, the crushing employer contributions, the building insurance, the industrial electricity bills to run the polymerization furnaces, and the safety equipment."
Lazarus closed the ledger with a sharp snap that startled Karim.
"Of the five millions of the Baron de Courcelles, four millions have already been swallowed up, pledged or burned. We have less than a million euros left in available cash. »
The cup of coffee trembled in Karim's hand. The scholarship student, who thought he had won the lottery, had just hit the wall of industrial reality.
"Four million... Karim stammered, his eyes blank, staring at the welding machine as if it had just turned into a monster. "It's not possible. But we delivered all fifty modules! The contract is fulfilled! »
"That's the cruelty of the equipment, Karim. To have the right to produce these fifty modules, I had to size a factory capable of producing five thousand. The welding machine does not cost less because it is only used for one hour a day. The rent doesn't go down because we only take up a third of the space. »
Lazarus turned to his partner. The intensity of his gaze nailed Karim to the spot.
"Courcelles' money bought us the right to exist on an industrial scale. He didn't buy us rest. This plant is a steel abyss. It is a blast furnace that must be fed constantly. Our fixed costs are one hundred and fifty thousand francs per month, even if we produce absolutely nothing. If we do not sell new modules within the next three months, we are in default of payments. We lose the factory, we lose the machines, we go back to your maid's room. And the sovereign project dies here, in Ivry. »
Karim leaned heavily against the railing, dizziness taking hold of him. He understood Lazarus' constant coldness. Lazarus knew, from the first day, that every victory was but a reprieve.
"It's a headlong rush... Karim whispered. "We need other banks, Lazare. Quickly. Le Crédit Lyonnais, la Société Générale... We are doing the trick of the digital hostage-taking in their boards of directors! »
"No," said the Patriarch of the Rue d'Assas. "The stunt only works once. The banking world is a small village; the rumour of our "demonstration" at Courcelles is already circulating. They locked down physical access to their server rooms. And even if we sign another bank, it won't be enough to feed the beast in the long run. Banks are ordering by the dozens. We need a customer who orders by the thousands. »
Lazarus looked up at the dusty glass roofs of the factory's roof, his mind already operating on a dizzying macro-economic scale.
"We can no longer be satisfied with the private sector. We have the industrial tool, we have the production capacity, and we have the absolute product of asymmetric warfare. »
Karim, fearing the answer, dared to ask:
"Who, then? Who has enough money and paranoia to command thousands of invulnerable monoliths? »
Lazarus' cold, predatory grin reappeared. The youthful face melted into that of the Service Action operator, the man who knew the secret workings of the Republic.
"The French State, Karim. The Army. The Ministry of the Interior. The Quai d'Orsay. The public administration has hundreds of thousands of vulnerable terminals. If they adopt the Volta module as a national safety standard, the factory will run at full capacity for ten years, and our cash flow will become unquenchable. »
"But Lazarus... the State does not buy from an unknown start-up! These are public contracts locked by Thomson, by Bull, by Alcatel! They are protected by laws, thousand-page calls for tenders, lobbies! You can't just show up at the Ministry of Defense with a black brick and demand a check! »
"I don't intend to bid, Karim," Lazarus replied with utter arrogance, turning away from the railing to pick up his heavy ledger. "Calls for tenders are made for the losers. We are going to impose ourselves by absolute urgency. »
Lazare slipped the register under his arm. He adjusted the cuffs of his shirt.
"Finalize the details of the V-1.2 core tonight. Tomorrow, the hunt begins again. This plant is hungry for silicon, and I intend to force the state to pay for the meal. »