Reincarnated: Vive La France-Chapter 71: "Ubojice govore francuski." “The killers speak FrenChapter ”

Chapter 71: "Ubojice govore francuski." “The killers speak French.”

The November fog coiled thick and low over Villacoublay Airfield, muffling the crunch of boots on tarmac and the distant sound of morning drills.

The wind was sharp, cutting through coats and clenching fingers numb.

Étienne Moreau stood beside the sleek silver body of a Bloch MB.120, the diplomatic aircraft designated for his mission.

The engines roared low, preheated and waiting.

Bloch MB.120 a modern aircraft for its time, with three engines and a passenger cabin built for diplomatic missions.

It was no luxury liner, but it was better than most.

Beside him, Renaud rubbed his gloved hands together. "You know what I’ll never miss about Paris? The wind that feels like it’s arguing with your bones."

"You’ve said that before," Moreau said, not looking at him.

"And I’ll keep saying it until someone installs central heating in the sky."

Moreau gave a small grin.

From across the runway, a group approached.

At the center walked a tall man with a sharp mustache, long scarf, and the bearing of someone used to commanding attention with a raised brow.

The French ambassador to Yugoslavia Charles Dufort.

He extended a hand to Moreau. "Capitaine Moreau, I presume."

Moreau returned the handshake and saluted with formality. "Ambassador Dufort. An honor."

"No salutes today," Dufort said with a small smile. "We are diplomats now, whether we like it or not. And in diplomacy, raised hands are best kept away from holsters and brows."

"Capitaine Moreau," he continued "You carry fewer medals than I expected, given the noise around your name."

"I tend to wear them in battle, not in airports," Moreau replied dryly. "Sir."

Renaud nodded in greeting. "Liuetenant Renaud. Sidekick, bodyguard, bad influence."

Dufort chuckled. "Very good. We’ll need at least one person who can make a hostile dinner party tolerable."

He turned toward the plane. "Let’s speak in the air. Less frost there."

The Bloch MB.120 took off smoothly, slicing through clouds like a whisper.

Inside, the passenger cabin was quiet, carpeted, with thick curtained windows and a simple table for documents.

A map of Europe was already unfurled...Coffee was poured.

Moreau sat beside Dufort.

"You follow Yugoslav politics closely?" Dufort asked, eyes on the map.

"I try to. Balkan history’s like trying to memorize a family feud when the cousins keep changing names and stabbing each other."

Dufort chuckled. "That’s not far off. Most officers I meet barely understand the borders. You seem better informed."

Moreau gave a modest shrug. "I read. A lot. And war has taught me to keep my eyes on the quieter fronts. The loud ones already have someone watching them."

Dufort smiled faintly, approving. "Let’s test you, then."

He pointed to the Balkans. "King Alexander’s assassination is a disaster. But why, politically?"

"Because he was the glue," Moreau answered. "The Serbs held the kingdom together through royal authority. Now, with the king gone, Croat nationalists will push harder. Slovenes will watch from the wings. And Hungary and Italy will start playing chess."

The ambassador’s smile widened. "I was hoping you’d say that."

Renaud, half-dozing nearby, opened one eye. "Can we at least have a simpler war next time?"

Dufort nodded, impressed. "Let’s broaden it. What’s your read on India right now?"

Moreau leaned forward. "India’s under wraps, barely. The British crushed Gandhi’s Salt March a few years ago, but the ideas civil disobedience, Swaraj they’ve seeped into the people. The INC is reorganizing, and Nehru’s star is rising."

"You think the British Empire’s at risk?"

"Only from within," Moreau replied. "The Raj still has the muscle, but the soul’s slipping away. Give it a decade, the cracks will show. Especially if another war pulls British attention west."

Dufort tapped his knuckles on the table. "Interesting. And China?"

"Falling apart," Moreau said. "Chiang Kai-shek’s army is split between fighting Communists and keeping the Japanese out. After Manchuria, Japan won’t stop. They’re carving out puppet states. China’s massive but divided. There’s going to be a civil war inside a foreign invasion."

Dufort looked slightly shaken. "You speak like a prophet."

"No, sir. Just someone who knows where the flood will break if the dam leaks."

The ambassador poured more coffee. "Alright then. What about Germany?"

Moreau paused. "We’re watching a coup unfold in slow motion. Hitler’s consolidating everything. The military swore personal loyalty to him. The SA is broken. Goebbels controls the press. The Reichstag’s just a puppet show now."

"You think they’ll invade?"

"They don’t have to yet. First comes Austria. Then Czechoslovakia. They’ll play nice until Europe blinks. And then they’ll strike."

Dufort sat back, fingers steepled. "Where were you educated, Capitaine?"

"Verdun," Moreau replied. "And in the silence between war drums."

The aircraft began to lower, slicing through thick cloud cover.

Belgrade came into view gray, rigid, silent. Black cloth banners draped across lampposts.

Funeral marches floated through the air.

The runway was wet, lined with solemn-faced soldiers.

As the Bloch’s wheels touched down, Renaud muttered, "This place gives me chills, and we haven’t even opened the door yet."

At the bottom of the stairway, a Yugoslav liaison officer waited, face unreadable.

"Welcome to Belgrade," he said coldly. "Your presence is noted. You will be escorted to the diplomatic compound."

Dufort didn’t even flinch. "Not welcomed. Noted. That’s a first."

As the convoy of black cars rolled through the capital, Moreau observed everything..

Posters of King Alexander lined the walls. Flowers below.

Graffiti beside them.

One in red caught his eye:

"Ubojice govore francuski."

"The killers speak French."

Renaud whispered, "That aimed at us?"

"No," Moreau said. "At our ghosts."

Dufort glanced sideways. "Half the city thinks we killed their king by negligence. The other half thinks we just didn’t care."

"Are they wrong?" Renaud asked.

"Doesn’t matter," Dufort said. "Perception makes policy now."

As the cars stopped in front of the French embassy, guards opened the door for them.

Before stepping out, Dufort turned to Moreau.

"You might be the youngest man in the room tomorrow, but you’ve got the oldest view of this continent I’ve heard in years."

Moreau simply replied, "Then let’s hope I can stop it from aging any faster."