Roland,” he said. “But I’m not here for that.”
Never one for small talk, Jacques.
Jacques’s gaze drifted over the framed butterflies, but lingered on Pascal’s 1978 commendation. Pascal, the youngest
député
in the history of the Assemblée Nationale.
“Please take this as coming from a friend,” Jacques said. “I’ve known you, what, twenty years?”
Roland nodded. “Twenty-one. We met at Pascal’s funeral.”
Jacques’s hand went to his forehead, shading his eyes for a moment. Then he looked up, his thick brow furrowed. Jacques was genuinely worried.
“
Et alors
, it’s serious. Why are you here? Get to it, Jacques.”
“Off the record, you understand.” Jacques leaned forward. The Louis Philippe chair creaked. “You’re a friend, I knew your family. This concerns Pascal.”
“My brother?” Roland said. “Talking from beyond the grave?”
“Roland, I wanted to warn you,” said Jacques. “You won’t like this, but the editor’s going ahead with an exposé.”
“Another scandal?” Roland folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. “What do you ever print but scandals?”
“There’s a memoir coming out.
Libération
is going to run an accompanying article about governmental corruption, and Pascal’s mentioned. Often.”
Roland’s jaw clamped. “He died twenty-one years ago. Such old news, your editor must be desperate.”
Jacques twisted in the chair. He took his case and stood. Roland had never seen this seasoned journalist look so uncomfortable before.
“Bad idea, let’s forget I came,” said Jacques. “I’ll let you get back to work.”
Worried, Roland shook his head. “Please tell me what you feel I need to know. I’m sorry, I see this isn’t easy for you.”
Instead of sitting back down, Jacques walked to Pascal’s framed presidential commendation, then to the window overlooking the Seine. His bald crown shone in the sun. Perspiration glimmered on his neck.
“Minister Chalond’s former teenage boy lover wrote a memoir—not even that scandal-worthy, given that Chalond’s long dead and the remaining family all senile. This now mature man has cirrhosis of the liver.” Jacques paused.
“Pascal? Gay?” Sunlight slanted onto the Aubusson rug and warmed Roland’s arms. “
Au contraire
.”
“The issue being that he serviced others in the ministry as well. Others who are very much alive.” Jacques paused. “It has other implications. This boyfriend heard pillow talk and gossip, attended dinners. He overheard deals being made—promised ministerial posts, do-this-and-the-ambassadorship’s-yours favors, bribes disguised as foreign-delegation junkets.”
Roland folded his arms tighter against his chest. “So? Why would the public believe a boy prostitute with twenty-year-old stories?”
“The issue, Roland, is that the exposé was thoroughly researched, all allegations verified. Pascal led two of those foreign delegations.”
Roland shrugged. “That’s all part of the public record, Jacques.”
“Cover-ups can still do damage twenty years later. They’re a threat to certain officials. I know Pascal was your older brother and you—”
“Idolized him? Say it, my father always did.”
Jacques averted his gaze. He pulled several stapled sheets from his case, set them on Roland’s desk. “I never gave you this, Roland.”
Roland didn’t want to look. Wouldn’t. Then his eye caught on “… honeypot sting … police hush money … homicide of Pascal’s Gypsy lover … reputed ‘suicide.’ ”
Good God. The fear he’d smothered all these years made him break out in a cold sweat. His arms tingled and blood rushed to his head. Dizzy, he gripped his desk, knocking the papers to the floor. Could it be true? Had Pascal’s suicide been a murder?
“I just didn’t want you blindsided,” said Jacques. “I’m sorry. It goes to print next week. I heard rumors of an investigation.”
Roland bent to pick up some papers, trying
Never one for small talk, Jacques.
Jacques’s gaze drifted over the framed butterflies, but lingered on Pascal’s 1978 commendation. Pascal, the youngest
député
in the history of the Assemblée Nationale.
“Please take this as coming from a friend,” Jacques said. “I’ve known you, what, twenty years?”
Roland nodded. “Twenty-one. We met at Pascal’s funeral.”
Jacques’s hand went to his forehead, shading his eyes for a moment. Then he looked up, his thick brow furrowed. Jacques was genuinely worried.
“
Et alors
, it’s serious. Why are you here? Get to it, Jacques.”
“Off the record, you understand.” Jacques leaned forward. The Louis Philippe chair creaked. “You’re a friend, I knew your family. This concerns Pascal.”
“My brother?” Roland said. “Talking from beyond the grave?”
“Roland, I wanted to warn you,” said Jacques. “You won’t like this, but the editor’s going ahead with an exposé.”
“Another scandal?” Roland folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. “What do you ever print but scandals?”
“There’s a memoir coming out.
Libération
is going to run an accompanying article about governmental corruption, and Pascal’s mentioned. Often.”
Roland’s jaw clamped. “He died twenty-one years ago. Such old news, your editor must be desperate.”
Jacques twisted in the chair. He took his case and stood. Roland had never seen this seasoned journalist look so uncomfortable before.
“Bad idea, let’s forget I came,” said Jacques. “I’ll let you get back to work.”
Worried, Roland shook his head. “Please tell me what you feel I need to know. I’m sorry, I see this isn’t easy for you.”
Instead of sitting back down, Jacques walked to Pascal’s framed presidential commendation, then to the window overlooking the Seine. His bald crown shone in the sun. Perspiration glimmered on his neck.
“Minister Chalond’s former teenage boy lover wrote a memoir—not even that scandal-worthy, given that Chalond’s long dead and the remaining family all senile. This now mature man has cirrhosis of the liver.” Jacques paused.
“Pascal? Gay?” Sunlight slanted onto the Aubusson rug and warmed Roland’s arms. “
Au contraire
.”
“The issue being that he serviced others in the ministry as well. Others who are very much alive.” Jacques paused. “It has other implications. This boyfriend heard pillow talk and gossip, attended dinners. He overheard deals being made—promised ministerial posts, do-this-and-the-ambassadorship’s-yours favors, bribes disguised as foreign-delegation junkets.”
Roland folded his arms tighter against his chest. “So? Why would the public believe a boy prostitute with twenty-year-old stories?”
“The issue, Roland, is that the exposé was thoroughly researched, all allegations verified. Pascal led two of those foreign delegations.”
Roland shrugged. “That’s all part of the public record, Jacques.”
“Cover-ups can still do damage twenty years later. They’re a threat to certain officials. I know Pascal was your older brother and you—”
“Idolized him? Say it, my father always did.”
Jacques averted his gaze. He pulled several stapled sheets from his case, set them on Roland’s desk. “I never gave you this, Roland.”
Roland didn’t want to look. Wouldn’t. Then his eye caught on “… honeypot sting … police hush money … homicide of Pascal’s Gypsy lover … reputed ‘suicide.’ ”
Good God. The fear he’d smothered all these years made him break out in a cold sweat. His arms tingled and blood rushed to his head. Dizzy, he gripped his desk, knocking the papers to the floor. Could it be true? Had Pascal’s suicide been a murder?
“I just didn’t want you blindsided,” said Jacques. “I’m sorry. It goes to print next week. I heard rumors of an investigation.”
Roland bent to pick up some papers, trying
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