Location: Training room, Level -2 of the Bunker, Volta S.A. factory, Ivry-sur-Seine
Date: March 1991
Point of View: Omniscient (Focus on Lazare Bonaparte)
The thud of leather against leather resounded at regular intervals in the confined room on Level -2. The space, strictly utilitarian, smelled of sweat and ozone from the ventilation systems. In the center of the room, illuminated by the harsh glow of an industrial neon light, Lazare Bonaparte was hitting a heavy sandbag.
Left jab. Right hook. Uppercut.
The sequence was lethally fluid. Since the assassination attempt perpetrated by the CIA team led by Marcus Vance, Lazare had resumed combat sports. He had reawakened his military reflexes—the same ones he had been forced to restrain years earlier in front of Instructor Rossi. His silicon empire would not protect him from a .308 caliber bullet. His twenty-four-year-old body, although athletic, had to be sharpened to obey without a fraction of a second's hesitation.
A pneumatic hiss suddenly broke the monotony of the impacts. The heavy armored door of the room opened.
Lazare stopped his fist a few millimeters from the punching bag. He spun slowly, breathing heavily, his body glistening with sweat.
Commander Vasseur was standing in the doorway. The DGSE liaison officer wore a grey suit with a severe cut that seemed to float around his slender, almost reptilian figure. His face was devoid of the slightest emotion, and his eyes possessed the absolute, disturbing fixity of a cold-blooded predator. Vasseur was not there on a courtesy visit.
"You continue to train as if the threat were right behind the door," Vasseur said in a monotone voice as he walked into the room.
"It is, Commander," replied Lazare, removing the hand wraps that protected his knuckles. "The water of the Seine was not enough to wash away Langley's grudge. To what do I owe this visit to the basement?"
Vasseur stopped a meter away from the young CEO, clasping his hands behind his back.
"The secret conflict that began with the United States last year is still ongoing, Bonaparte. It is a war of attrition, and it is as deadly as ever. Our agents are hunting in Europe, and the White House is still choking on the humiliation of the ambush on the ring road. They are patient, and they are enraged."
The DGSE officer fixed his polar gaze on Lazare's.
"That is why the President of the Republic has made a radical decision. We will take absolutely no risks with you. The State classifies you as a 'Level 1 National Strategic Asset.' From this minute on, you are formally and absolutely prohibited from leaving French territory."
The sentence fell in the training room like an anvil. Lazare was supposed to present the Volta Nomad—the most revolutionary product of the decade—at COMDEX in Chicago.
"You are placing me under house arrest in my own country," Lazare said, his face perfectly impenetrable.
"If you set foot in the United States, the CIA will shoot you, and we won't be able to stop it," Vasseur said with surgical coldness. "Jerry Sanders will take the stage in Chicago for you. You will remain alive in Ivry. It's non-negotiable."
Lazare held the officer's gaze. There was no rebellion. He integrated the variable instantly. The ban was logical, mathematical. If he left, he died.
The young CEO grabbed a terry towel from a bench and wiped his face. As he caught his breath, his mind—shaped by decades of clandestine operations in his past life—recalled a chronic problem that plagued the DGSE in the 1990s.
"The State protects me, that's a fact," Lazare began softly, tossing the towel aside. "But this shadow war is costing you a fortune. With the fall of the Eastern Bloc, your budgets are being slashed. You are facing the CIA, the richest agency on the planet, with bottomless black budgets. You're going to bleed yourselves dry."
Vasseur's mask slipped a millimeter. Secret financing was the sinews of war, the gaping wound of the French intelligence services.
"Our means do not concern you, Bonaparte."
"On the contrary. If they go down, my security goes down."
Lazare stepped forward. He was no longer just the computer genius; he was the man who had recently racked up billions from sales of the V-1 towers, the State contract, and royalties from Sony's PlayStation.
"I refused to distribute the company's dividends to my shareholders last month," the Builder said in a voice charged with gravity. "I have personal money. A lot of money. I offer you a pact, Commander."
Vasseur narrowed his eyes slightly, intrigued in spite of himself by the sheer arrogance of this kid.
"I am going to transfer one billion francs, from my own dividends, to offshore accounts controlled by the DGSE's Action Division."
The silence that followed was of a suffocating density. Vasseur's eyes widened, losing his reptilian composure for the first time. One billion francs. A staggering sum. A twenty-four-year-old civilian was proposing to double the operational budget of the French Republic's secret services with his pocket money. It was unconstitutional. It was entirely illegal.
"You... you want to finance the Action Division with your own funds?" the officer almost stammered, struggling to comprehend the geopolitical scope of the proposal.
"Reasons of State have their budgetary limits, Commander. Volta S.A. has none left," Lazare replied with a smile devoid of any warmth. "Buy your weapons, pay your informants, recruit killers. If the Americans want an unlimited war, give them an unlimited war. I'll be the one paying for the bullets."
Location: Locker rooms on Level -2 / Lazare's office, Volta S.A. factory
Date: March 1991
Point of View: Omniscient (Focus on Lazare and Vasseur)
In the humid confines of the changing rooms, the only sound was water flowing into a nearby shower. Lazare had sat down on a wooden bench, a towel around his neck, watching Vasseur, who remained standing motionless like a gray marble statue among the metal lockers.
The DGSE officer did not blink. The number was still echoing in the silence of the room. One billion.
"A billion francs," Vasseur repeated, his usually stable voice betraying a tiny crack. "Do you realize what you are saying, Bonaparte? This is not a subsidy. It is not an arms contract. It is the direct secret financing of an intelligence service by a private citizen. It's a political bombshell. If Matignon or the Élysée learn about it without having been consulted, it is high treason. For you, as well as for me."
Lazare wiped his hands, his black eyes fixed on the Commander.
"Matignon and the Élysée are busy celebrating the 'end of history' and cutting your budgets, Commander. I've been in the Box, in another... configuration. I know how it works. The fall of the Wall has blinded politicians. They believe that peace is a given, and that the Action Division is an expensive relic. They will reduce you to impotence while the real war has only just begun."
The Builder stood up. He towered over Vasseur with all his stature—not by his physical size, but by the natural authority he exuded.
"The CIA has unlimited black budgets thanks to its global operations. They can buy armies of mercenaries, bribe entire governments, and fund advanced technologies without ever being accountable to Congress. You have to beg for every block of C4 and every plane ticket. With this billion, I give you autonomy. I am giving you the means to win this war of attrition."
Vasseur let out a sigh that sounded like the hiss of a pressure valve. His reptilian mask was cracking, revealing the fatigue of a man who watched his agency wither away for lack of means.
"Why?" he finally asked. "What is the price, Lazare? No one gives such a sum out of simple patriotism."
"The price is simple, Vasseur: my freedom of movement and the absolute protection of my interests. If I can't leave France because the CIA is hunting me down, then I want you to hunt them back. I want the Action Division to become my shield and my sword. This money will be used to create a special unit dedicated exclusively to securing Volta's assets around the world. They will be your agents, paid by the State, but equipped and financed by me."
Lazare stepped closer, his voice dropping a tone, almost becoming a conspirator's whisper.
"I am no longer a simple industrialist protected by the Republic, Commander. I am the driving force behind French sovereignty. If Volta falls, France becomes an American digital colony for the next fifty years. This billion is not a donation; it is an insurance premium for the nation. And for you, it is the assurance that you will never again see one of your men die because he lacked adequate equipment."
Vasseur remained silent for several minutes. He weighed the risks of illegality against the guarantee of efficiency. In the shadow world, morality was a civilian luxury. Only results counted.
"I want offshore accounts in Luxembourg, the Caymans, and Singapore," the Commander finally stated, his gaze resuming its polar fixity. "The transfer must be fractional, untraceable, and disguised as losses on bogus research contracts. If we get caught, I don't know you."
"It's already been arranged," Lazare replied with Olympian calm. "My financial experts have set up the structure. The money will be available within forty-eight hours of your green light."
Vasseur gave a dry, almost military nod. The pact was sealed. The French State had just sold a portion of its sovereignty to the Ogre of Ivry, but in exchange, it received the ammunition necessary to fight the war of the century.
"I'll arrange your 'iron security' for COMDEX," Vasseur added, heading for the door. "Since you can't go there, we're going to make Chicago the most heavily monitored area on the planet. If an American sneezes a little too close to your booths, my men will know before he does."
The officer left the room without another word. Lazare was left alone in the locker room. He looked at himself in the moisture-fogged mirror. He saw a man of twenty-four, but in his eyes shone the archives of tomorrow and the coldness of a conqueror.
He had just bought himself a shadow army. The Nomad could now conquer the world. He would not need to be physically present in Chicago for his shadow to loom over Silicon Valley.
The cage was gilded, of course, but Lazare Bonaparte had just proven that he held the key.