The overnight drizzle was mutating into a mist which resisted the pallid efforts of the sun to break through. In the flat light the indistinct edges of the apartment buildings across the road faded into a uniform grey smudge and the moisture deadened the normal morning pedestrian noise into a mechanical drone. A watcher could feel detached from reality by the experience, believing himself to be alone in a world whose light was slowly but inexorably being smothered.

And it is being smothered René thought as he stared at the dreary scene outside the kitchen window. Smothered by the greed of those who serve themselves at the expense of others. The familiar anger at the government, at the authorities, at those who portrayed themselves as protecting the weak while exploiting them mercilessly, was tempered by a weary ache of futility. The poor were too busy struggling to survive to act, those in power just kept gaining more, and the middle classes who stood between them were too immersed in the hunt for an illusory prosperity to listen.

Stories in the newspapers throughout the year had only deepened his discontent. The French economy was being shredded in the name of globalisation, American cultural imperialism meekly accepted in the name of multi-nationalism, French influence diminished in the name of European unity. Why don't the fools see what is being done to our country, our heritage? René raged silently. Why won't they listen? He sighed as the burst of passion ebbed, knowing the answer only too well. With the media touting the line of the government and big business the masses were insulated from the truth. More, they were encouraged, even brainwashed, into believing the distorted reality presented to them was the truth, and dissenters like himself were the delusional ones.

René's fist curled and an urge filled him to run from the sanctuary of his apartment to immerse himself in the moist cocoon which shrouded it: a primitive urge to fight the enemy with his bare hands. It would achieve nothing, however, and melancholy washed through him. He had achieved nothing. L'Heure Sanguine had been his zenith, and that was fifteen years ago. His failure to find the prominence he deserved in the time since was his greatest source of frustration.

Leaning his forehead against the window frame, René watched the ghostly forms of the living below as he faced the ghosts of the dead in his own past. With grand dreams he and like-minded comrades had formed the protest group L'Heure Sanguine at a time of turmoil in French politics, with the upheaval in the universities proving the ideal recruitment ground. It had been a glorious time, for all the hardships they'd suffered. Their early activities were humble, their resources limited, yet with good planning and total commitment they had succeeded in gaining attention for their cause. René was honest enough to attribute that success to his friend and confidant, L'Heure Sanguine's strategist, Michel. Michel's dedication and passion had been an inspiration to them all. Michel's death, the first and not the last of René's losses, had been devastating.

René shivered as the memories consumed him with a hurt and humiliation which had barely diminished with time. The bombing had been everything they'd hoped, gaining the attention of the media and the authorities, shaking the bourgeoisie from their complacent somnolence. Michel's arrest had been unanticipated, however, catching all of them unprepared. René had run, and kept running, unable to believe he would not be the next, letting his fear of capture rule him as he scurried from the hunt like a cockroach from the light.

Michel did not betray him, did not betray any of them, going to prison wrapped in stubborn silence. René could only imagine what pressures he must have resisted in the process, and was miserably uncertain he could have done the same, had their positions been reversed. Then word came of Michel's ``suicide''. René had not believed it for a moment. Murder. He was absolutely and unshakeably certain of that, even now. Of course nothing could be proven - the prison authorities had arranged it after all. The government's revenge.

The thought still evoked a bitter sense of helplessness. Michel had left an orphaned sister, and René had provided for her: it was the least he could do in the face of so noble a sacrifice. He wiped his hand wearily across his eyes as the weight of inadequacy, the legacy of Michel's martyrdom, settled deeper on his spirit.

"René?" Jeanine's voice was thick, sleepy. He turned to see her run her hands through her disordered hair as her dark eyes squinted to find him in the dim light. Some of the darker greys in his soul lightened at the sight. René went to her, wrapping his arms around her in a grateful embrace, inhaling the vibrant life of her, using it to chase the ghosts away.

"What's wrong?" she asked, resting her head on his shoulder.

"Nothing," he murmured. As she pulled back to study his face he qualified his answer with a smile. "Nothing now," he assured her.

She frowned at him. "Was it the dreams again?" René's smile grew. Jeanine did not suffer fools, nor would she allow him to evade her concern. Forceful and forthright, she was his anchor and his salvation.

"No. I was just thirsty." Her scepticism was plain and he sighed in resignation. "It was the mist. Looking out at it..." his voice faded into the gloom of the sparsely furnished room.

"You were thinking of the past," she finished gently. René was grateful for her understanding. When he sought to take her back into his embrace, however, she stepped away.

"What are you planning to do?" Jeanine's voice was still soft, but there was a distinct note of challenge.

"Do?" he asked, confused.

She took a half-step toward him again, her eyes asking him to listen, not just hear. "You've been drifting for months, René, losing yourself in your memories more and more often," she explained.

René closed his eyes in dismay as he realised she was right. "I'm sorry," he told her, sadly.

"Don't be!" His eyes snapped open in surprise and concern. Jeanine put her arms around him in reassurance. "Didn't you once tell me it's better to act than react? Our friends feel the same way you do about the direction things are going. There must be something we can do," she insisted.

René stared at her in open doubt. Jeanine straightened, her chin raised in sudden anger. "You speak of past glories. Now it's time for new ones. You made them listen then. Make them listen again." Her passion fanned a spark within him, a spark he sometimes feared he'd lost.

He considered the prospect soberly as he lost himself in the passionate conviction of her eyes. It was possible - he had the contacts, created and maintained over the years - but money would be a problem. So I would let such a mundane thing stop me? he thought, disgusted at himself. Perhaps this was what he needed. Perhaps it would allow him to banish the feelings of failure.

"Yes," he finally whispered. "We will make them listen."

*****

The sun struggled against the thin cloud, creating a diffuse glare which subtly lightened the shadows cast by the tall walls of the museum René was standing outside. While it was still cold, the frigid breeze of the early morning had died down, only the odd fitful flurry causing people to clutch their coats around themselves. The relatively benign conditions had drawn people out of their homes, eager to make the most of a mild winter day. Stuffing his gloved hands into the pockets of his jacket, René meandered around the outdoor exhibits of the inappropriately named Cloud Garden, finally heading upstairs to observe from the deeper shadows of an alcove. Water sheeted down the wall behind him to pool in a fountain down at the ground level, the susurrus it made filling his ears like white noise. Below, a group of primary school students boisterously exited the museum, their teacher lagging behind to guide the stragglers.

René watched the woman try to talk to her young class about the history of the statues in the museum's garden, but while some of the children were submissively attentive, others were restlessly exploring the courtyard. He kept a close eye on the strays, as well as the adults who were randomly roaming the area, but it was the main group of children who ended up clustered around the sculpture he'd chosen to hide the bomb under. The placement wasn't entirely to his liking as the solid base would deflect some of the power of the blast away from the open area. On the other hand, he mused, the nails would dramatically increase the damage the explosion would inflict on unprotected flesh. He assessed the flow and size of the crowd once more. They can't ignore carnage like this he decided.

There was a deep satisfaction, a feeling of returning to his roots, as he waited. Their resources were certainly limited, but he could have packed more explosive than he did. Several of his group had urged that he do so, not realising the devastation this simple configuration could wreak as their experience with explosions was limited to those depicted in movies. René resisted their pleas, deliberately choosing to make this first bomb of a new campaign an exact match of the bombs L'Heure Sanguine had made so long ago. It was a tribute to those times, and those who'd given their lives, willingly or not, to the cause.

A man dressed in black strode purposefully into the courtyard, headed directly for the bomb's hiding place. René straightened in interest, watching the man's broad back as he ignored the children to kneel and peer into the space under the sculpture. His attention was suddenly caught by a tall blonde woman, also dressed in black, who was urgently speaking to the teacher, whose response was immediate alarm.

"Come on, children. Come on. Inside. Come on, quickly everyone, inside. Quickly, run, quickly," the teacher called, anxiously chivvying her charges towards the building, a muted note of panic evident. René spotted two men, one in a brown trenchcoat, one an Asian in a long black woollen coat, who were man-handling the reluctant out. Glancing around he spotted two burly men in black leather jackets also hustling visitors out of the garden. They don't look like gendarmes. Indeed, they looked more like the sort of men he'd seen guarding the arms dealers he'd encountered.

His attention returned to the woman, who turned and surveyed the garden, clearly unhappy with the progress of the evacuation. She shouted to the people milling around in mild confusion. "Get out of the park! There's a bomb. Get back!" He tried to place her accent, wondering who she worked for. Definitely not European or American... South African perhaps? The mystery deepened.

At her call people hurried to leave the garden. The woman watched, clearly concerned, then turned and looked up directly at him as he stood observing the panic. René fought to keep his expression one of concerned interest. He had not expected to be noticed and he did not want to be remembered. She called to him, her posture one of exhortation as she gestured wildly. "Please! Run! Get out of the park! Run!"

The woman's attention was drawn away from him by a little girl who had slowed to a walk, clearly upset by the fuss. René started to move slowly toward the exit, unwilling to draw more attention by staying, as the woman hurried the girl toward the Asian man for escorting back to the class. He could see that the first man he'd noticed had drawn the bag containing the bomb out from behind the sculpture's base.

Lingering as long as he dared, he watched the blonde go to the man's side, talking to him insistently. He appeared to be ignoring her as he carefully opened the bag. René tried to get a look at the man's face but it was averted and obscured. He left quickly then, knowing the bomb would detonate soon.

He listened for the explosion but, as he expected, it was a muffled whump instead of a clean blast. The man a government agent? had extracted the Semtex and gotten it into the water of the fountain in time to dissipate most of its force. René was sure the entire incident would be hushed up, which was not what he had planned. On the other hand, he certainly had the attention of the authorities. The question was, how?

*****

Jeanine was waiting for him at a café a few blocks from the museum, her eyes anxiously running over him as if looking for injuries. "I'm fine," he assured her with a smile as he sat at the table. She'd ordered coffee for him and he savoured the aroma before sipping, relaxing as the warmth spread through him.

She leaned across the small table, darting a glance at the handful of other patrons. "I heard no sirens. No alarms. What happened?" she asked softly and urgently.

René sighed. "I'm not certain," he admitted. "There were... people... who came and got everyone out."

Jeanine's concerned expression turned to alarm. "They knew?" she asked incredulously.

"Yes," he nodded. "I don't know how," he said, anticipating her next question.

Jeanine shook her head, sitting back to mull over what she'd learned. René watched as the fingers of her left hand came up to play with her lower lip, a sure sign she was disturbed by her thoughts. He suddenly realised she hadn't heard his earlier hesitation.

He leaned over and caught her hand, and thereby her attention. "The people who came. They were not police," he told her.

"Then who?" she asked, confused.

René shook his head, holding her eyes. "I don't know." She bit her lip, unsure what to make of this. "They did not wear uniforms, and one was a woman with an unusual accent." He shook his head. "They might be some kind of government agents, but not like any I've heard of."

"So what do we do now?" Jeanine asked, deeply concerned.

He'd been wondering that himself, but there seemed to be only two options: continue or stop. Stopping was not an attractive choice. It could be interpreted as fear, and he'd let fear rule him once before. Never again.

"We continue," he said decisively. "I have a meeting tonight with Piotr at the warehouse."

"Is that wise?" she asked uneasily.

René gave a fatalistic shrug. "We need the timer and he's the only dealer willing to sell just one." He felt bitter that their resources were so limited that he could not bargain with the bigger dealers. The better ones, however, only worked with those who could afford to buy in bulk. Single piece deals were too risky and yielded too little profit, so they sold to the smaller dealers who were willing to live off the thinner margins.

Jeanine shook her head, clearly unhappy, although she did not argue the point. René kissed the hand he still held, his eyes conveying his affection for her. "I'll take Suzette and Jean-Pierre. They'll keep an eye out for trouble."

She studied him intently for a few moments before giving a half-smile of acquiescence. "What do we tell the others?" she asked.

René shrugged. "That the government won this round, but that we will win the next," he confidently told her.

****

Jean-Pierre entered the warehouse on Impasse de L'Arsenal first, René and Suzette following when he pronounced the area empty. As René ventured deeper into the building, eyeing the lattice-work of beams and walkways, his friends stayed near the door, glancing around uncomfortably. Piotr wasn't due for another quarter hour, and would come through the other entrance. René liked being a little early as it gave him time to look around the area. He was in the open area beyond the entry when, unexpectedly, a knock was heard at the door behind Suzette.

Suzette glanced at him, then drew her gun and opened the door. René couldn't hear what was said, but Suzette was suddenly pushed back into the warehouse, falling as two bullets ripped through her body. René drew his gun in alarm and retreated deeper into the building even as Jean-Pierre fell to another well-placed bullet. Abandoning all thoughts except escape, René headed for the stairs at a run, leaping up them two at a time.

"René, arrêt!" called a voice behind him as he raced across the catwalk, desperately aware of the exposed nature of his position. Gaining cover at the opposite end, René ducked down and turned, pointing his gun at his pursuer, who'd paused at the top of the stairs. The man walked slowly towards him, his weapon tucked out of sight, stopping about halfway along the walkway.

René could not believe his eyes as he finally got a good look at the man. The hair was shorter and darker, but the long lines of the face were unmistakable. Astounded, confused, he stood up and tentatively approached a man he'd believed had been killed fifteen years earlier.

Michel?

"Is it really you?" René breathed, disbelieving his eyes.

"It is," Michel affirmed.

René went to Michel and tearfully hugged him, needing the touch to assure him this was no dream. Michel did not return the embrace, to René's consternation, but he didn't try to pull away either.

"Why didn't you let me know you were still alive?" René demanded, upset.

"I couldn't," Michel answered. René was confused. Could not?

"Why not?" he asked plaintively.

"I can't explain it ... and if I could I'm afraid you wouldn't understand," Michel answered obliquely. René puzzled over his words for a moment, uneasy at the implication that he'd be upset at what he heard. What is it you can't tell me?

"Why are you here?" he asked cautiously.

"The bomb at the museum. I recognized your work," Michel stated. René realised it had been Michel he'd seen extracting the bomb. Had the woman who'd seen him described him to Michel?

"How did you find me?" he asked.

"The details are not important. I have access to... people... in the community." The pauses were significant, and he could not ignore what Michel was telling him. He turned and stepped away from Michel, feeling physically unwell.

"You're on the other side," he stated flatly, still hoping for a denial.

Michel paused before answering. "Yes," he said baldly. The finality of the confirmation left him feeling defeated.

"And you've come here to what? Arrest me?" He fought to keep the pain from his voice.

Another pause. René wondered what was going through Michel's mind. His face was unreadable, giving René no clues. "No, I'm not here to hurt you, René."

An anger made more complex by its multiple causes rose. "Then please, tell me what is so important? Why did you have to kill two of my friends? Huh? To tell me what?" he demanded.

Michel appeared unmoved. "To ask you to stop."

René blinked, amazed, then gave a small, caustic laugh. "To stop," he stated disdainfully. He shook his head sadly, raising his hand to rub it over his forehead, trying to dispel the riot of conflicting thoughts and emotions. He sighed.

"It's ironic, isn't it? We always fought them, the oppressors. And now... You are what I fight against. The policeman." It was so hard to believe.

"Not exactly," Michel hedged.

"I see little difference," René observed.

"A policeman has rules." A chill ran through René at the toneless words. He glanced down toward the door where the still forms of Suzette and Jean-Pierre lay. Michel had made his point. What exactly was he involved in? Perhaps, however, it was better not to know.

"So," he sighed, letting the question go to turn to the future. "What now, my old friend?" I no longer know you, do I?

"Go back home," Michel advised.

And live once more in obscurity? No, you won't steal this chance from me. "My home is wherever people are oppressed," he sneered, repeating a mantra Michel would remember.

Michel slowly approached René, his voice becoming a little softer. "They don't know who you are yet. I can protect you, but you have to do exactly as I say."

René's smile was bitter. "You mean sell out everything I believe in so I can save myself? Please! Michel! You know me better than that." Is that the true irony?, he wondered. I believed you died rather than sell out, then wondered if I'd sold out by abandoning L'Heure Sanguine. Now I find you committed the ultimate betrayal in the name of survival, and I'm ready to defend my beliefs to the death if necessary.

Michel studied him for a moment before warning him, "Don't make me come after you, René. If you strike again I will find you."

René was unimpressed by the warning, and he decided to goad Michel when it became clear the other man was leaving. The old song they'd insulted the ignorant middle classes with came back to him.

"Les bourgeois c'est comme les cochons.
Plus ça devient vieux plus ça devient bête.
Les bourgeois c'est comme les cochons.
Plus ça devient vieux plus ça devient... "
He stopped singing when Michel walked down the stairs, ignoring him.

René followed Michel part-way down the steps, enraged at the lack of response. As Michel passed the still bodies of René's comrades near the door, René shouted another taunt, a variant of the song. "The greedy bourgeois are just like pigs! The older they are, the dumber they get!" It had no visible effect on Michel.

Once Michel was gone René hurried down the remainder of the steps to check on Suzette and Jean-Pierre, but, as he'd feared, they were dead. His head slumped forward as he sat back against a wooden railing, contemplating the strange turn events had taken. Suddenly he glanced around, thinking he'd heard something, but he could see no movement in the shadows. Looking at the bodies again, he wondered what he should do with them.

Shaking his head, he rose and walked sadly toward the back of the building. He had a meeting to attend, and a timer to acquire, before he could do anything else. The only certainty was that this was a long way from over.

*****

"Dead?" Jeanine, aghast at the news, stopped packing coffee grounds into the bodem and came around the bench from the kitchen into the living area. René understood the stunned surprise she felt. He fingered the timer on the table, more intent on trying to come to terms with seeing Michel again than with the death of his comrades.

He pulled out a chair and slumped down into it, propping his temple onto one fist, still playing with the timer, his eyes looking through it to the recent past. She grabbed at his free hand, demanding his attention.

"Why?" she asked intensely, needing answers he wasn't sure he had.

"A warning," he said bitterly. It was not something he wanted to discuss further yet, so he redirected the conversation. "They had no family, but they had friends who should be told."

"I'll arrange it," she assured him. "Where are the bodies?"

"I took them to Etienne. He'll see to the burial." Jeanine nodded her agreement with this arrangement. Etienne owed René a favour, and while he would have preferred to keep that favour in reserve, the need to dispose of the bodies of two murdered people had necessitated its use.

"Suzette was a good woman," Jeanine sighed regretfully. "I'll miss her determination."

"And Jean-Pierre?" he asked gently, knowing her rather maternal fondness for the earnest young man. To his surprise her face hardened.

"He was a traitor," she stated coldly. René straightened from his slumped posture in surprise. "I checked the history files on his computer. He was on the Internet this morning. He sent a warning two hours before the detonation was due."

René was perturbed. "How much did he reveal?"

"Not a lot," she grudgingly admitted. "He warned of further attacks, but was not specific."

René frowned over her words. Jean-Pierre had been an intense young man in his mid-twenties, the type who listened intently to the free-ranging conversations of their group and took their words very seriously. René thought it likely that Jean-Pierre had been earnestly trying to gain them prominence, without realising the consequences of his action. Typical of him René thought wryly.

"He seemed normal tonight. I doubt he realised that the intervention at the museum was due to his warning," René said with a shake of his head. Jean-Pierre could, after all, make no further mistakes now. Jeanine gave a disgusted and disgruntled sound, unwilling to be in the least forgiving of such stupidity.

"What now?" Jeanine asked tiredly. René could see that the surprises of the day had taken their toll on her.

"I still have to arrange the detonators," he sighed, then gave her an assured smile in case she mistook the sigh for reluctance to continue.

"Should you lay low for a while?" Jeanine concernedly asked.

"There's no point. We'll go ahead as planned, just more carefully." She wanted to argue the point, he could tell, but after studying him closely for the moment she dropped it. He was grateful for her forbearance when she chose instead to kiss his forehead gently and went to the bedroom, leaving him to his thoughts.

Michel alive! The concept utterly upset his equilibrium. He'd replayed every moment of that reunion with Michel over and over throughout the drive home, and had reluctantly come to the conclusion this was a man he didn't know and couldn't predict. That Michel might have been forced, as payment for his life, to abandon his principles was understandable, yet profoundly disappointing. As a martyr Michel had been perfection in René's eyes. The destruction of his idol was deeply painful.

Bringing both hands to his face, he scrubbed his eyes tiredly. Michel had given him a warning. Two people had died in the process, which meant it was to be taken seriously. Perhaps Jeanine is right. They are people to be reckoned with, whoever 'they' are. Who had the power, as Michel strongly implied, to operate outside the law? Some government agency, no doubt, that had exceeded their authority. Such is the way of power.

No, such extrajudicial activities should be brought to light. How many innocents were dying at their hands, unacknowledged? He decided he could do nothing but continue with their original plans. Once the media's attention had been gained, then he could rouse the people. For that they'd go ahead with the clinic bombing. This time there would be no warnings.

*****

René concluded the negotiations for the detonators with a handshake, nominating the delivery address as he handed over the payment. They don't know who you are yet. Michel's words had dogged him through a restless night. The implication was "they" would know about him, one way or another and probably sooner rather than later. Prudence dictated that he ensure his group could still collect the detonators if he were to become "unavailable" for any reason. Those were the vague words he'd given Jeanine, but the fear in her eyes showed she understood that they meant "if he disappeared".

I can protect you. René had rejected the offer at the time, then overlooked it when sorting through his chaotic emotions. Michel had offered to protect him, for no other reason than their shared past. Fifteen years was a long time, but he himself had not changed so much. Perhaps, underneath that indifferent exterior he'd presented, Michel had not either. The thought had raised his confidence and he'd proceeded with the meeting as planned.

Pulling on a knitted cap to keep the night's chill at bay, he made his way toward the front door of the small hotel, stopping when he saw two men enter, their eyes searching the vestibule. They were of the same stamp as those in the museum garden: burly, dressed in black with leather jackets, determined expressions. René didn't wait to see if that determination was being directed at him. If the front entrance was being covered, so were all the other ground floor exits. René immediately went up the stairs, headed for the higher floors. From there he could use the external fire stairs to get to the alley behind the building. He was hoping any pursuers would follow him up, leaving the alley clear.

He cursed himself for his lack of fitness as he panted his way onto the upper level, heading for the alcove with the emergency exit. Opening the window, René pulled himself out and onto the ledge of the metal fire escape, quickly descending to the bottom. To his dismay he found himself over three meters above the ground. Realising he didn't have time to unhook the last part of the ladder to drop it, René climbed over the rail and made a desparate jump onto the roof of the car parked below.

His knees collapsed with the impact, pitching him forward into a clumsy roll, not in command of his momentum, which ended with a heavy drop onto the bitumen. Breathless from both the exertion and the impact, he rolled from side to side helplessly, unable to rise. Two men rushed to him from the building's back entrance and hauled him up, one at each shoulder. "Get up," one of them ordered sharply as René slumped in their grasp, his legs still unsteady. They punctuated the command by thrusting guns into his chest.

Regaining his breath, René looked up and saw Michel calmly walk around the corner, coming to a stop in front of him. Although this had not been unexpected, René was incensed. Warning him was one thing, but he'd still resisted the thought Michel would go so far as to detain him. What of that offer of protection? It was simply incomprehensible.

"Shame on you! After all I've done for you? Eh? I was mistaken when I said you were still alive!" René angrily spat the words at Michel, searching the other man's face for a reaction to his harsh words, some kind of acknowledgement of his own pain, but there was nothing in the clear green eyes that met his unflinchingly.

No reaction, no expression. The Michel he'd known had been a vibrantly passionate man who would not, could not, have left such an insult from a friend unanswered. This one was a silent cipher. Who, or what, could have wrought such a transformation? For the first time since he'd seen Michel again René felt real fear.

René recognised the voice of the woman from the museum garden as she spoke harshly from behind him. "Get him out of here." He half turned his head toward where she stood. A reaction at last He'd have preferred it from Michel, but any reaction at all was a reassurance these grim people were flesh and not machines.

A large black van was parked in the shadows near the entrance to the alley. As he passed the front René glanced toward the driver's compartment, but tinting prevented him from seeing anyone. It gave the vehicle a sinister impersonal feel, which René shook off irritably. This was not the time to be whimsical.

He silently submitted to the hood and restraints, concentrating on his other senses as he was firmly, but without undue force, handled into the vehicle. It has no windows. Why do they want me blind? It had to be some psychological ploy to put him off balance. He wryly admitted that it did unsettle him.

Shortly after the van started moving he'd heard Michel quietly say "Target acquired", presumably reporting to his superiors, but they were the only words spoken by anyone. René briefly contemplated trying to bait a comment out of one of these silent people. Judging from their two encounters so far, however, the attempt would not succeed on Michel, and he didn't know how the others would react. There was no need to precipitate anything... physical.

While the journey to their mysterious destination could be prolonged so as to mislead him as to its location, it could not be shortened. René realised with some surprise that they were probably still in Paris when the trip proved reasonably brief. For no good reason he'd been expecting to be taken somewhere remote. It somehow seemed... more appropriate... for a secretive organisation.

Hauled out of the van, he noted several pressure changes as he went through an obvious airlock and either up or down some kind of elevator. Whichever direction it was, it seemed a long way. Just on general principles, he was betting it was down. A loud clang of another door opening, then he was stopped. His guess was he was being scrutinised and he tried for a nonchalent pose, but the hood and restraints seriously cramped his effort. He was then passed off to a new pair of escorts and marched along a faintly echoing corridor. The silence of the people around him was oppressive.

He could not control the flinch as a loud metallic screech abruptly ripped apart the quiet he'd been shrouded in. The restraints on his hands were removed as another, strong pair of hands propelled him inexorably forward, then around and down into a chair. Metal he realised as manacles clamped his legs and arms to the structure. The hood was removed and René squinted at the glaring white light which caused his eyes to tear. Blurrily he saw dark forms leave, the ear rending sound revealed to be the door as it shut. With its closure the lights mercifully dimmed, allowing him to blink his eyes clear and look around.

Stark was the word which came to mind as he surveyed the tiled walls. There were metal protuberances whose function he couldn't immediately guess, and had no desire to speculate on. Clinical which was a far from reassuring impression. Considering the professionalism displayed so far, he was rather surprised he hadn't been stripped of his clothes before being strapped to the chair. Such an act would have been both degrading and uncomfortable. Perhaps there is not so much to fear after all?

On the other hand, the wine he'd drunk with dinner was starting to make its presence felt on his bladder. Were he to be left in this cool room for long enough, he would eventually soil himself. The shame, programmed in from childhood, would be immense. Subtle. Patient. He decided the interrogators here probably did know their business after all. René set himself to the difficult exercise of disciplining his mind away from the terrors it wanted to envisage. There was nothing else to do while waiting.

****

René was flexing his wrists within the rigid manacles when the mournful groan of the door cut through his thoughts. The lights automatically brightened, causing a moment of discomfort before he could clearly see his visitor. The woman who now stopped in front, and slightly to one side, of him was, he judged, older than himself, and quite beautiful. She must have been extraordinary when young, he thought.

His thoughts diverted for a moment. Girls had never given him a second look whenever he'd been with Michel: while his friend had been athletically slim, René had been... skinny. His looks and colouring were not as striking as Michel's either. He'd often joked to Jeanine that he'd learned to be an excellent orator because it was the only way to get female attention when Michel was in the vicinity. Now words were his only remaining defence. He was prepared to use them well.

The woman stood silently, a slight smile on her lips as her dark eyes studied him. Why use a lovely woman for questioning? Do they think I'll succumb to her charms? It was an absurd idea and his confidence rose. They'd have a better chance with the blonde, he thought, amused.

René glanced at the door, centering himself for the battle to come, before he looked up at her and observed, "The mind is an amazing thing."

Her smile remained undisturbed by his, hopefully, unconventional opening but her eyes sharpened. "Sometimes," the woman answered, her voice reminding him of the creamiest chocolate. The accent surprised him. American? Canadian? he wondered. The organisation was turning out to be a small United Nations, making him revise his theories on which government it belonged to. Concentrate.

"While I sat here waiting, knowing what's to come, the strangest thoughts came to me. Did it rain last Thursday? Suddenly, knowing that was critical." René gave a small, not quite voiced, laugh. "Why would that concern me, here, now? Strange." He looked for her reaction to his prattle, but found none.

After studying him for a moment longer the woman walked across the front of him at a leisurely pace, her footfalls echoing in the small space. "Perhaps it's your fear looking for a place to hide," she suggested. A thread of anger flickered at her insult. You think I fear you?

She halted on the other side of him, and he made a non-committal sound as he let his eyes roam up her body in blatant assessment. "Perhaps," he said, his tone and direct, fearless meeting of her eyes a defiant rebuttal.

Her mouth quirked slightly at his show of attitude. "What group has contracted you to do these bombings?" she asked, abandoning the word play. It was possible the question wasn't meant as another insult - she might have been unaware he was his own man - but he was starting to suspect she knew very well who he was.

He gave a humming exhalation, a swallowed "hmmm", as he realised she wanted him angry - and imprudent. "I see my charm is insufficient to distract you from the business at hand," he said, switching to playfulness. She is more dangerous than I realised.

That seemed to amuse the woman, whose smile brightened for a long moment, though he was still uncertain of its sincerity. "I'm afraid so," she replied.

"Too bad." he laughed, then paused, deciding to shift to an attempt at disinformation. "What was your question?"

"The group you are working for," she prompted. There was no trace of impatience in her mellifluous voice: he didn't doubt she could play this game better than he.

"Red Cell," he stated confidently, wondering what she'd make of this assertion.

"Red Cell?" she questioned, her tone unmistakably doubtful.

"You don't believe me?" he asked. Show me why. She'd given away nothing so far, René realised, not even her name, and that lack of information was hampering his strategy.

She walked slowly, her gait too graceful to be called an amble, back to her original position as she replied. "Well, Red Cell is sophisticated, global. Your record suggests more... provincial activity." The delicate pause was insulting, as was the palpable disdain of the last two words.

René's face hardened in anger for a moment, unable to hide his reaction to her goads. With an effort he schooled his face to a slightly apologetic, "c'est la vie", expression. "One must face the realities of a modern world. Mergers, takeovers - even in the resistance movement," he airily explained.

The smile had disappeared and the woman was watching him closely. Such dispassionate eyes in so lovely a face was a chilling dichotomy. "What are their targets?" she asked, apparently taking his statement at face value.

"We planted devices in every major city in the world. We'll begin detonating them one at a time," he boasted, his small smile smug.

"I see," she said mildly. She studied him for another few moments before she gave a slight nod, then turned and left, the lights dimming again as the door closed with that extraordinary shriek.

René sighed, unable to tell whether she'd believed him, and tried flexing his wrists once more against the restraints. He grimaced as they remained firm, starting to vent a curse at his situation before he caught himself. Looking at a point high along the walls he tried to find the cameras he suspected were monitoring his every move, but they were well concealed.

He closed his eyes for a moment to examine the memory of the woman's face. For all her charm, there had been a ruthless edge there. Opening his eyes again, René fought a frisson of fear, concluding that whatever was coming next would be far from pleasant. At war with him was the hope it would not be soon, and the wish that they'd just get on with it.

Above all, he hoped his people had not balked at his loss, that they were preparing for the strike he'd planned. If he never made it out of this place alive, then it would serve as his epitaph. At least his death would serve the cause. It was an uplifting thought, but it failed to dislodge the hollowness in his gut.

***

A cacophony of alarms almost drowned out the door's metallic screech as it opened. To René's surprise it was Michel who entered, briskly dropping René's coat into his lap and moving purposefully behind the chair imprisoning him.

"Michel!" he exclaimed, confused.

"Do exactly as I say," Michel ordered tersely and released the manacles which bound René's legs to the uncomfortable chair.

"Where are we going? What's happening?" René asked uncertainly. There was obviously an emergency, but René needed to find out more if he were to exploit any opportunity for escape.

Michel walked around to face him, using a remote control device to release the bindings confining René's wrists.

"I'm getting you out of here." Michel said baldly. René was startled, and not entirely convinced of his veracity, but decided to go along with Michel. He stiffly stood, pulling on his coat as he convinced his legs to stretch and straighten, and followed Michel out the door. Anything was better than remaining confined in that room.

Michel quickly led René through a maze of anonymous corridors to a steep set of ramps punctuated regularly with one-way emergency exits. René was gratified to find his guess that they were underground was correct, but tired quickly from the unremitting climb. He noticed that Michel wasn't showing any signs of exertion. He wasn't even breathing heavily. There was a flash of envious resentment, but René firmly reminded himself that intellect was more important than a fit body. He firmly squelched the treacherous thought which pointed out Michel had both.

It was with intense relief he felt cold air lash his face, signalling the end of the climb. René staggered slightly on the level ground, his legs protesting their abuse. Michel did not spare him a glance, his intense focus a warning that they were not yet safe, but René had noticed that he'd slowed on the last leg of the climb, allowing René to catch his breath.

René was too tired to pay more than desultory notice to the buildings around him. Trailing behind Michel, he concentrated on staying on his feet and wondered where they were headed. When Michel stopped René looked up, and watched as his friend broke into an old, slightly dilapidated white Citroën. They'd passed several cars of higher quality - and potential speed - so René guessed that being inconspicuous was the primary objective. He offered no opinion: Michel would know best how to evade his erstwhile captors.

Gratefully sinking into the passenger seat, he watched as Michel manouevered through the traffic, guiding them onto the highways leading out of Paris.

"Are we safe?" René asked once he felt better.

"Not yet. We have to get out of the local radius," Michel answered.

"How did you do this?" René was curious about the alarms he'd heard.

"I uploaded a pseudo alarm. They've discovered it by now, but it'll give us time to reach a blind spot. From there we can get out of the country," Michel explained.

"They'll track you down," René observed. He strongly doubted that the organisation he'd just escaped would blithely ignore one of their people walking away.

There was a slight pause. "Doesn't matter," Michel said. He agrees. More, he expects them to succeed.

"They'll kill you." He spoke the realisation out loud. Why would you work for such people? René sighed. "Join us, Michel. Give your life some meaning again - or death some purpose."

Michel's voice was a near whisper. "It's not possible." René ached at the defeat in his tone. It was as if, having redeemed himself with René's rescue, he was now prepared to give up and die. As if he deserved to. How can I reach you Michel? How can I show you there's another way?

"Why not? It will be what we always wanted. We're older, smarter. We can do it right this time." René let his enthusiasm at the vision shine through. With what you know of the opposition, we could elude them. We could achieve great things! Understanding of what could be theirs should Michel join them was just starting to dawn. René knew he had to gain Michel's co-operation.

Michel remained focussed on the immediate future. "Once we're out of the country, I'll take you somewhere safe. You know a place?" It was the opportunity he'd been groping for.

"I do. I'll have the others join us there. Meet them, listen to them. Then, if you're not convinced, I'll help you disappear where no one can ever find you. Huh?" René was certain Michel would join them. He just needed to be reminded of who he was.

Michel did not reply, but René was not discouraged. Once he met the others, understood why they were fighting, he'd see the justice of their cause and willingly join with them. It was inevitable.

***

René got back into the Citroën with a sigh. His body was decidedly unhappy with him and took every opportunity to remind him of that fact. The sharp cold that had bitten into him as he scurried to the phone booth had not helped either. Not enough for snow, but the moist touch of the air suggested sleet might soon start falling.

"It's done," he told Michel, who waited patiently in the driver's seat. "They'll be there in about two and a half hours."

Michel nodded. "It'll take us about four hours to get there," he said. "We can't take the direct route."

René accepted the news resignedly. They had stopped to allow him to call Jeanine, who would organise the other members of L'Heure Sanguine to meet them at an apartment in Belgium. He settled back into the seat, letting his thoughts drift to Jeanine. She'd been worried about him: he suspected she wouldn't stop until he saw him with her own eyes. He understood that feeling, and longed to hold her in his arms again. Closing his eyes, he let himself doze.

He was aware first of movement, a gentle jostling, then sound, the low thrum of an engine and the sloppily sibilant sound of tyres on a wet road. Opening his eyes he was assaulted by brightly lit shopfronts, some luridly painted in neon in a bold and blatant attempt to draw attention. Like whores he thought, stirring himself when he recognised a particularly garish grouping. They were close.

Most of the buildings had several floors of apartments above the shops, and one of those unremarkable sets of rooms was their destination. Glancing at the clock he saw that Michel's estimate had been accurate as they pulled into a laneway that snaked between and behind the buildings. Shaking away the last of the fog his nap had deposited in his brain, René led the silent Michel into the building and then the antiquated elevator.

As the antiquated elevator started, with a groaning protest, to rise, René studied Michel's profile. Michel was facing the metal gates, seemingly lost in his thoughts. He was always quiet with people he didn't know. With friends he always spoke his thoughts. It seemed that natural reserve had been hardened into armour and used to fend off friends and foes alike. René was at a loss as to how to break through. Perhaps the only way forward is back. He looked forward and closed his eyes with a sentimental smile.

"What?" Michel asked, as he'd hoped.

"I was remembering '84, the transportation strike. We were all dreaming of the 'great cause' and the role we might play. We spent most of our time delivering fresh underwear and toilet paper to the strikers." He chuckled at the memory.

"We rode those beat-up Lambrettas," Michel remembered.

René nodded and smiled. "Those were the good times. You must agree on that, no?"

Michel's eyes shied away but not before René saw the deep sadness they held. "We were young. Everything seemed good then," he answered quietly, making René's heart ache.

The elevator stopped with a lurch and a crunch of metal. René huffed out a deep breath of frustration at Michel's intransigence and stepped forward to open the gates and the doors behind them. Three of his comrades stood ready, the guns in their hands attesting to their anxiety.

"Hey, hey, René," Luc embraced him and René felt warmed by the comfort it gave. For the first time he realised that Michel had only touched him once - to steady him when he rose from that terrible chair. He dismissed the thought, and let himself bask in the glow of friendship that surrounded him, opening his arms to include the grinning Alonso.

After a long moment he realeased them and stepped forward to hug the shy Yvonne, who was hanging back, a huge smile on her face. "Salut," she said.

"It's good to see you," he said with heartfelt joy.

He turned when he sensed the tense uncertainty of the men, knowing Michel had stepped out of the elevator. His expression turned serious as he motioned to Michel to follow him down the hall.

"Come on. Come." he urged.

He gave a knock at the door, and Jeanine opened it. He smiled at her tenderly and she lifted a hand to her head in utter relief as a smile eased the stressful lines her face had been set in. She stared at René, her eyes tearful as they embraced tightly. As she was not normally given to emotional displays, her reaction spoke eloquently of the fears she'd harboured. There had been moments when René had not expected to see her again either and he treasured the love her desperate hold imparted.

Their hold loosened enough for a brief but loving kiss, Jeanine's hand stroking over his head and face, their foreheads resting against each other for a long moment. Even after he released her, Jeanine's eyes remained fixed on his face, as though fearful of never seeing it again.

René directed her attention to the man who moved to stand beside him. "This is Michel," René made the introduction.

He had told her on the phone that Michel had rescued him, and she gave a grateful smile and offered Michel her hand. "René has spoken about you often. Welcome."

René reclaimed her attention, placing his hand on her arm and leading her deeper into the apartment. "Are we still on schedule for Tuesday?" he asked urgently, pleased to see the maps and building diagrams that adorned the walls.

Jeanine nodded as she answered. "We just got the detonators last night. Claude is preparing them." She gestured to the partially assembled bomb which lay spread across the table. She caught René's glance at the blueprints that lay scattered. "We're studying the layout of the clinic now," she explained.

The National Assembly was debating legislative changes which would grant increased access to abortions. It was a deeply emotive issue and while France's laws were among the most conservative in Europe, many citizens felt they already went too far. The Socialists argued that France needed the changes to bring it into line with its neighbours, but many, both conservative and moderate, disagreed.

For René the debate provided a marvellous opportunity. Whereas the museum would have been indiscriminate carnage, which might have cost them support, the clinic would be another story. Many would accept the rightness of the action, and therefore be inclined to listen to his message. While their interference had been, at the least, irritating, his captors had done him a favour in thwarting that first bombing. The only negative was that it had wasted precious resources, a fact he now regretted.

"Our material is limited. We can't level the building. Plant the charges where they'll kill the most people," René instructed.

René looked back over his shoulder to see Michel lingering behind. "I have something for you," he said with a slight smile and a gesture to follow.

Rummaging on the desk in the next room, he found the photograph of Michel's sister and gave it to Michel, who stood on the other side of a half height wall which served to partition the room. He looked eagerly for a reaction, but, to his consternation, Michel's expression was blank as he examined the picture.

"What did you tell her about me?" he asked, staring at the picture. Ah, that is what concerns him.

"The truth," René reassured him. "That you were a great hero. She married a chef. They live in the country with their young son."

"Yes, I know. I check on them," came the surprising reply. Michel could not tear his eyes away from the photograph, and René was confused.

"So, you've seen them?" René asked.

"Not in person. I monitor them through our system," Michel answered, finally looking up. He handed the photo back to René who glanced at it fondly.

"Huh, it's not the same. You have to see them." he told Michel, but Michel showed no enthusiasm for the prospect, which frustrated René. You were so alive Michel. What has happened to you?

"He's a beautiful boy, Michel," René said by way of encouragement. He gave up in the face of Michel's silence. Still stubborn, I see. He gave a shrug. Michel would come round. It was just a matter of time.

"Let's have some wine!" René said more loudly, and his friends started to pour and pass around glasses. René took one and offered it to Michel, who declined with a slight shake of the head.

"Not yet," he said, ambiguously, and moved away from René.

René gave a small laugh, confused as he watched Michel wander around to his side of the partition. "Not yet means... you will soon?" There was no reply.

René gave up trying to understand that odd exchange and prepared to make a toast in Michel's honor. He wanted everyone there to celebrate his presence, and to recognise how valuable Michel's reclamation was. Particularly Michel.

"We stand on the brink of great success," he told them all. "And with Michel aboard, you will understand the meaning of the word `commitment'. There's no one like him. There never was." Jeanine nodded at his words and they both looked over to the wall Michel had finally settled near, not looking up at any of them. He did not seem comfortable with the attention.

René raised his glass to Michel, trying to gain eye contact. "A ton retour," he toasted.

René had just raised his glass when first the window, then his glass exploded. René threw himself to the floor, rummaging in a nearby drawer for the gun which should be there. Grabbing the cold metal tightly, he rolled over onto his back to find Michel, who had not moved a muscle, the only person standing.

"Everyone's been hit. Cease fire," Michel said.

René partially raised himself from the floor, watching in horror as Jeanine slid down the wall, painfully gasping her last breaths. He felt overwhelmed by a sense of disbelief and betrayal as realisation of Michel's perfidy sank in.

"How could you?" he asked, shock making his voice soft. "Huh?" he demanded, aiming the gun at Michel when the other man didn't answer.

"I'm sorry," Michel told him quietly, his expression unchanged. Sorry? You're sorry?? Anger boiled up to displace the shock.

"You have no soul, no honor!" René spat.

René reached across his body, grabbing a gun lying on the floor under his shoulder and slid it over to Michel. It hit his shoes and lay there, Michel making no move to pick it up or draw his own weapon. It was clear Michel was willing to let René kill him in atonement for this heinous crime, but that would make his death somehow noble and René could not stand that thought. If Michel were armed then it would be self-defence on René's part, and therefore acceptable.

"Defend yourself!" René demanded. "I SAID DEFEND YOURSELF!" he screamed, thrusting his gun threateningly at Michel.

He scrambled up, and Michel continued to stand motionless, defenceless, simply looking at him. Waiting to die. Very well. You shall receive your wish. Die like the dog you are. He took a two handed grip of the weapon to steady his shaking hands. Tears were welling in his eyes but he fought them back, unwilling to show his betrayer weakness.

"You once said that a person defines themselves by what they are willing to die for. I will die for a belief." He released the safety on the gun. "And you will die because you have none!" he finished, painfully.

Michel simply closed his eyes as though he welcomed the release death would bring, or accepted it as his due. René ignored a sudden movement behind Michel: this moment belonged only to them. A moment of absolute justice.

His finger was tightening on the trigger when a shot sounded from behind Michel. A force threw him back and down even as agony registered. Rolling onto his back he, fleetingly, recalled Jeanine's face as his sight failed. I will die for a belief. Should he have lived for love instead? There was no time to think of an answer. As he helplessly shuddered out a deep breath which seemed to go on forever there was only an overwhelming pain, and a darkness that clawed at him, then, inexorably, claimed him.

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