able to direct you …
Gabriel lowered his voice.
—It’s rather confidential …
Her expression was as hypocritical as that of a mother leading her child to the dentist’s chair.
—I assure you, it’s no accident that I’m sitting at this desk … I work closely with the director, Monsieur Brignard. Every file passes through my hands … I know everything that goes on here.
Gabriel pretended to gather his courage.
—All right … After the recent death of my father, I inherited a lot of family papers. Photo albums, collections of postcards, packets of letters …
He noticed that she was showing signs of impatience.
—There were also a lot of documents from the period of the Occupation … Files that had been examined by my grandfather, notebooks filled with intelligence never before seen … All I’ve done so far is try to put them in some kind of order, but I think there is enough material to make an explosive book …
He now had the full attention of Brignard’s deputy.
—What kinds of files, what kinds of intelligence? Relating to what region?
—My grandfather was the archivist of the Rhône prefecture, in Lyon, and from what I’ve been able to understand, he kept copies of all the internal documents concerning the Militia and the Franc-Garde …
She asked him to follow her to the second floor and handed him off to a short man with beady eyes who introduced himself as the literary director of Éditions Gaston Lémoine. Gabriel continued to play the role of the dutiful grandson carrying out a family obligation. He promised to return the next day with some samples from the Lyon documents. Before letting him leave, the beady-eyed man asked how he’d become aware of his enterprise and the ideological war it was waging.
—I subscribed to
Continental Furor
for many years, and I was always aware that it was printed here …
Reassured, and eager to cement his hold on the heir, the beady-eyed man turned confessional.
—Our role wasn’t limited to that …
—It’s too bad it’s disappeared …
—Yes. We owned nearly fifty percent of the paper. Forty-eight percent, to be precise. Our director, Victor Brignard, had even taken over its editorship for several years … We could have done great things if the founder of the
Continental Furor
, Kevin Kervan, hadn’t suddenly gone mad, blinded himself … It never pays to cut corners …
The beady-eyed man left him in the second-floor hallway, near the stairway. Gabriel descended it slowly, with one eye on the publications exhibited in small, glassed-in nooks. It wasn’t pornography, but it was thoroughly obscene: Hitlerian, Mussolinian, Pétainian. Nothing here belonged in the hands of citizens between the ages of seven and seventy-seven. He froze at the top of the last flight of stairs when he heard the receptionist whispering into the telephone.
—You ask Roger to fill in for you. No … Listen, Francis, you’ll do what I say, ok? We need to find out more about this guy. If there’s no other way, bring him to your meeting … The boss wants to know what to expect from these archives … We can’t let this pass us by … Understood? Don’t slip up. Find a way.
Gabriel waited for a long moment on the landing before descending briskly, with a casual air. The receptionist flashed him a broad smile that lasted through his “See you tomorrow.” The skinhead was in the parking lot, laboring over an all-terrain motorcycle that was apparently refusingto start. He lowered the kickstand and walked over to Gabriel, who was opening the door to the Peugeot.
Excuse me, but my bike won’t start … Are you driving to Paris?
—Yes …
—Do you think you might be able to drop me off at the Porte d’Asnières? It’s on the way …
In order to sit down, he had to move André Sloga’s papers to the backseat. Two sheets slipped out. While gathering them from the floor, the skinhead caught a few choice phrases from
Gabriel lowered his voice.
—It’s rather confidential …
Her expression was as hypocritical as that of a mother leading her child to the dentist’s chair.
—I assure you, it’s no accident that I’m sitting at this desk … I work closely with the director, Monsieur Brignard. Every file passes through my hands … I know everything that goes on here.
Gabriel pretended to gather his courage.
—All right … After the recent death of my father, I inherited a lot of family papers. Photo albums, collections of postcards, packets of letters …
He noticed that she was showing signs of impatience.
—There were also a lot of documents from the period of the Occupation … Files that had been examined by my grandfather, notebooks filled with intelligence never before seen … All I’ve done so far is try to put them in some kind of order, but I think there is enough material to make an explosive book …
He now had the full attention of Brignard’s deputy.
—What kinds of files, what kinds of intelligence? Relating to what region?
—My grandfather was the archivist of the Rhône prefecture, in Lyon, and from what I’ve been able to understand, he kept copies of all the internal documents concerning the Militia and the Franc-Garde …
She asked him to follow her to the second floor and handed him off to a short man with beady eyes who introduced himself as the literary director of Éditions Gaston Lémoine. Gabriel continued to play the role of the dutiful grandson carrying out a family obligation. He promised to return the next day with some samples from the Lyon documents. Before letting him leave, the beady-eyed man asked how he’d become aware of his enterprise and the ideological war it was waging.
—I subscribed to
Continental Furor
for many years, and I was always aware that it was printed here …
Reassured, and eager to cement his hold on the heir, the beady-eyed man turned confessional.
—Our role wasn’t limited to that …
—It’s too bad it’s disappeared …
—Yes. We owned nearly fifty percent of the paper. Forty-eight percent, to be precise. Our director, Victor Brignard, had even taken over its editorship for several years … We could have done great things if the founder of the
Continental Furor
, Kevin Kervan, hadn’t suddenly gone mad, blinded himself … It never pays to cut corners …
The beady-eyed man left him in the second-floor hallway, near the stairway. Gabriel descended it slowly, with one eye on the publications exhibited in small, glassed-in nooks. It wasn’t pornography, but it was thoroughly obscene: Hitlerian, Mussolinian, Pétainian. Nothing here belonged in the hands of citizens between the ages of seven and seventy-seven. He froze at the top of the last flight of stairs when he heard the receptionist whispering into the telephone.
—You ask Roger to fill in for you. No … Listen, Francis, you’ll do what I say, ok? We need to find out more about this guy. If there’s no other way, bring him to your meeting … The boss wants to know what to expect from these archives … We can’t let this pass us by … Understood? Don’t slip up. Find a way.
Gabriel waited for a long moment on the landing before descending briskly, with a casual air. The receptionist flashed him a broad smile that lasted through his “See you tomorrow.” The skinhead was in the parking lot, laboring over an all-terrain motorcycle that was apparently refusingto start. He lowered the kickstand and walked over to Gabriel, who was opening the door to the Peugeot.
Excuse me, but my bike won’t start … Are you driving to Paris?
—Yes …
—Do you think you might be able to drop me off at the Porte d’Asnières? It’s on the way …
In order to sit down, he had to move André Sloga’s papers to the backseat. Two sheets slipped out. While gathering them from the floor, the skinhead caught a few choice phrases from
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