Chapter 41: Continental Drift — Part 1
[Charles de Gaulle Airport, Paris — December 8, 2010, 10:00 AM]
The croissant was perfect.
James bought it from a vendor in the arrivals terminal—warm, buttery, flaking in layers that dissolved on the tongue. He ate it standing at the currency exchange, watching travellers negotiate the particular chaos of a French airport, and appreciated the fact that in this life he could eat a croissant in Paris and mean it.
He texted Molly a photo—the croissant, a paper cup of coffee, the edge of an airport window showing grey Parisian sky. Paris for work. Wish you were here. 🥐
Her reply came in forty seconds: Lucky! Bring me back something French. Not cheese though. Toby ate the last brie and was sick for two days. 🧀🐈❌
He pocketed the phone. Adjusted the Alex Richter identity—different suit, mid-range, the kind of clothing that said competent European businessman rather than London criminal or society consultant. The passport was in the name of Alexander Richter, Irish-born British citizen, Director of Apex Risk Solutions. Priya's work—the identity deep enough to survive border checks, shallow enough to abandon if compromised.
Moran was waiting at the Hertz desk, carrying two bags and the expression of a man who regarded all foreign countries with the professional suspicion of someone who'd conducted operations in seven of them.
"Renard?" James asked.
"Confirmed for two PM. Restaurant in the Marais. His turf."
"Of course it is. That's where we start."
---
[Restaurant, Le Marais — December 8, 2010, 2:15 PM]
Claude Renard was fifty-three, silver-haired, and wore his Frenchness the way other men wore cologne—as a deliberate, cultivated signature that announced itself before he spoke. His suit was Parisian—not Savile Row structure but something looser, more elegant, cut for a man who moved between conversations rather than boardrooms. He sat at a corner table in a restaurant that had no menu because the chef decided what you ate, and waited.
James sat across from him. Moran took a table near the door—visible enough to demonstrate that James had security, distant enough to permit private conversation.
"Monsieur Richter." Renard's English was precise, accented, the product of an expensive education and thirty years of criminal commerce conducted in four languages. "Your reputation arrives before you. The London market speaks well of your... consulting work."
"I'm gratified."
"Gratification is premature. London and Paris are different animals. London has order—your kind of order, imposed from above. Paris has..." He waved a hand, encompassing the restaurant, the street, the city beyond. "Paris has pride. Every district, every faction, every family believes it is the centre of the world. Imposing order here is like teaching cats to march."
"I'm not here to impose order."
"Then what?"
"Connection. London generates operations that require continental logistics. Paris generates operations that require London access. Currently, these needs are met through ad hoc arrangements—unreliable, insecure, expensive. I'm proposing a permanent channel. You handle Paris; I handle London. Cross-channel operations benefit both."
Renard studied him. The assessment was different from English assessments—less about what James said, more about how he held himself, how he ate, whether his wine appreciation was genuine or performed. The French evaluated character through aesthetics. James, who'd learned this in his previous life's business school case studies, let the assessment proceed.
"And my independence?" Renard asked.
"Absolute. I'm not buying Paris. I'm renting a corridor through it. Your operations remain yours. Your clients remain yours. The only shared space is the channel between us."
"Who else has this arrangement?"
"No one. Paris is the first continental node."
Renard liked this. The flicker was subtle—a tightening at the corners of his mouth that wasn't quite a smile—but James caught it. First-mover advantage appealed to French pride the way it appealed to market logic.
"A trial," Renard said. "Two Corsican factions—the Ferretti family and the Lucchesi operation. Both need the same shipping route through Marseille. Neither will negotiate with the other. Historical grudge—something about a woman and a fishing boat in 1987. If you can broker an arrangement that satisfies both without requiring them to occupy the same room, I'll consider the partnership viable."
"Timeline?"
"A week. Less, if you're as good as London claims."
---
James solved the Corsican problem in four days. The solution was architectural—the same kind of structural design he'd applied to every problem since the Millbrook job. Two separate booking windows on the same shipping route, staggered so neither faction's cargo occupied the port simultaneously. Revenue sharing through a blind trust administered by Renard, so neither faction saw the other's name on any document. Operational separation maintained; economic benefit distributed.
The Corsicans accepted. Renard was impressed—or as impressed as a Frenchman would permit himself to appear to a foreigner, which was roughly equivalent to anyone else's standing ovation.
"The corridor is open," Renard said, over cognac in his apartment overlooking the Seine. "What comes through it?"
"Information first. Then logistics. Then, when trust is established, operational coordination. We build slowly. Rushing continental partnerships is how empires get overextended."
"You speak like a man who's studied history."
"I speak like a man who's studied failure." James finished his cognac. The apartment was beautiful—high ceilings, books in three languages, a view of Notre-Dame's scaffolding that reminded him that even the most permanent structures required constant maintenance. "I'll be in Berlin next month. After that, perhaps Rome."
"Rome is difficult. The Italians are—"
"I know what the Italians are. That's why Rome comes third."
Renard smiled. The full version this time—warm, genuine, the smile of a man who'd recognised a peer. "You're welcome in Paris, Monsieur Richter. Don't abuse the hospitality."
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