Troubles of the Hinterland

[Serenierre]

Ville de Croin
Province of Arrière-pays
People's Republic of Serenierre
​

For a month, the People's Military had maintained a tight curfew over this Burgundian village in the north-eastern province. The soldiers were in full battle gear, usually patrolling the idyllic streets with their assault rifles ready to fire at anyone moving too quickly. In hushed tones, in the pews of the Church every Sunday, the townsmen and women would come to hear of quiet visits by agents of the dreaded Unit 74 - the Party's own intelligence service, superseding even the military intelligence apparatus. Every so often, in this intensely religious village, someone or the other would be pointedly absent from the service; their women trying, but failing, to keep up a strong front; their eyes reddened with nights spent crying. In times such as this, where one could not be sure if any act of decency might be seen to be some covert signal, the rest of the people kept a cool distance, all the while their hearts aching at seeing the plight of people they had known for years. Throughout this ethnically Burgundian province, the story was the same, young men and women were vanishing. Some pointed a cautious finger at the cruel arm of Unit 74, others still were hopeful for a resistance forming in the forests, while the remaining were growing more frightened day by day.

In this environment of tension, stepped Captain Charles Bernard, a strong willed, ambitious officer in the Army, who had been appointed in charge of the 150 man strong company patrolling the area. This part of the province was especially restive, with unnervingly frequent clashes between the Burgo-nationalist militias and the local contingents of policemen. In fact, the police has given up on this particular district some time ago. Well aware of the delicate situation, Captain Bernard was driven into the village's community center, where he met with the few people who had been specially summoned to meet the man. They stood silently in the main hall and Captain Bernard walked up to the stage.

Few words were exchanged but a cold warning was given: "The Party demands absolute loyalty and on that account this village has been lagging behind especially badly. The Army will not stand for any subversives here. The reason you all have been dragged here is that you all are the leaders of this community, respected and valued members of this backwater." He paused. "I will say this clearly and I will only say this once: Control your sons and daughters or the People's Military will act and shall do so decisively."

Such visits were common and usually were the precursor to a harsh wave of retribution on part of the Villesen leaders. As the Captain had walked out, the local villagers, who stood in that small chamber, knew that trouble was brewing. And as the jeep pulled away, the group stepped out and walked into the main square.

"Brother," the Mayor spoke to the milkman, "We need to go into hiding. Them guntoters have never been this upset with us."
The milkman walked behind the Mayor, followed by the butcher, and the local teacher. "Monsieur Mayor," he responded, "Do you have any connection with the forest folk? Can we tell them we're in danger?"
"You know I don't and they are so hidden, they don't trust anyone - let alone someone like me," the Mayor pointed to his lapel pin, which had the village's seal on it.

***
​

In the depths of the forests surrounding the village, where the trees grew thick and rose up high, the mountains were deep and the rivers wide, the rag tag guerillas sat carefully at the edge of the hill which overlooked the town. One of the women was sitting on a rock and had her binoculars pointed in the direction of the town.
"The branleur is driving away."

The other listened quietly. The bunch of them in the forests had, in the past few weeks and months, been taking greater and greater liberties with the Serenien administration. Perhaps, it had come to bite them in the back side. The Serenien military had cracked down hard against many Burgundians and with the border with [MENTION=26]Bourgogne[/MENTION] sealed, this militia and many others like it were troubled by the sudden evaporation of their main source of weaponry and other supplies. Just the other day, according to one of the masked figures, they had seen more troops pulling into the district. In the air, some patrol craft had also started making more regular sorties over the more open areas in the forest. Thank God for the trenches they had dug in advance. These were frightening times.

 

[Serenierre]

Cite de Villesen
Capital Territory
People's Republic of Serenierre
​

Some months ago, Auguste Benoit - Professor of Philosophy at the University of Villesen - had been sitting in his office at the campus on a cold mid-winter morning. On his desk, an innocent looking brown dossier. A file which would prove to be most dangerous. It had arrived a few weeks ago but he had only on the 5th of January decided to look into this collection dropped off by an old friend of his. The only reason he even remembered that he had this dossier was when he had heard from his wife that the friend, who shall remain unnamed for now, had been arrested by the black men, as many referred to the Unit 74 agents. Only on hearing that he remembered that in his possession could be something very dangerous, and on reading it he discovered that that was exactly the case.

In a few hundred pages, of interviews and handwritten notes, the friend had given Professor Benoit a painfully vivid account of what was occurring in the Burgundian provinces of the People's Republic. The brutality of the curfews, the executions, the abductions, and the cruelty all laid bare before him. On reading the file, Professor Benoit cried. For a good five hours he couldn't control his emotions as he reflected over what he had read; though in all honesty he did not cry for what the Burgundians were going through, but rather, the possibility of a visit from the shadowy Unit 74 men. Composing himself, he thought, maybe he should burn the file. No, he had negated that thought. What if my friend returns, he answered himself, what would I tell him? So that afternoon, he had decided to hide it in his office, behind a wall of books and papers. And there it had stayed for four months.

But since then, things had changed. His friend had been released but had died mysteriously at the hands of a freak train accident. Scared and shaken as he was, the moral burden weighed heavily on his soul. And so, this morning, so many months later, as he stood in line to step off the ship on @

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's international seaport, Professor Benoit had the dossier with him in his briefcase. Invited to speak at a conference for theological philosophy, the Professor had taken a chance to bring the documents with him across the sea to this neutral land. He knew that here, possibly, he could get the dossier into the hands of someone who could truly make a difference.

In his mind, as he had planned it, he had thought it best to find some professor from Bourgogne and to hand over the files to him somehow. But that had proved rather hard to do. He had the distinct feeling that one of the other members of the delegation were keeping an unnecessarily close eye on him - or perhaps he was being paranoid. Then, he saw a familiar face, his counterpart from the University of Trier in @

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, he walked up to him and embraced him. In the middle of the embrace, he whispered that, there was a need for some private discussion. The quizzical look on the Eiffellander man's face quickly faded away upon seeing the seriousness on the Serenien's face.

 

[Rheinbund]

Not used to living in a dictatorship, Prof. Dr. Ewald Tillich’s face indeed got a worried expression, and at first he thought that Prof. Bénoît’s wife had died, or something comparable. Then he realised that also something political could be the matter. It lasted some time, but the two professors managed to meet in private. At least Tillich thought that nobody had noticed. He arranged a dinner with himself and Prof. Bénoît. During the dinner, the dossier with the documents about the events in Northern Serenierre was handed over under the table.

Later on in his hotel room, Tillich started to read the dossier. “Heilige Mutter Gottes,” was the first thing he said (Holy Mother of God). Then he reached for the telephone to arrange a taxi to the Eiffellandian embassy.

 

[Serenierre]

Ville de Mouseaux
Province of Arrière-pays
People's Republic of Serenierre
​

The village was the northern most settlement in the Burgundian heartland in the People's Republic, and as such had long been under curfew, as the Frontier Rangers - the border paramilitary force - had taken charge of the entire district. With barbed wires rising high, much of the northern perimeter of the village was just opposite the Grand Duchy of [MENTION=26]Bourgogne[/MENTION], such was the nature of the border. Just past a no-man's land, the men in the guard towers and the pillboxes on this side would be staring at the calm Grand Duchy. Though that evening, it was raining and a gentle fog had formed on the horizon. And it was at the moment when the guards on Tower 12 were in the process of being relieved and their replacements coming to replace them, a siren had rung out as a group had been spotted trying to make a run towards the Grand Duchy.

From their vantage point in a tower, infantrymen Francois and Henri saw movement and began to fire their machine guns. It was risky to do this, seeing how close the enemy was in this region of the frontier, but two of the escaping group fell to the ground; dead. The group, now just five strong, had kept on going. Before them was the barbed wire, here another man was shot dead. But the remainder carried on and rather quickly cleared the barbed wires and were now in the no man's land.

"Be careful," Henri had said. "Landmines may blow up or a bullet may land in enemy territory."

Francois carried on, he managed to shoot another, while two died in a land mine explosion. So by the time the guns stopped firing, only one man survived and it was only he who managed to cross over to the Grand Duchy.

"Radio in the Platoon command."

Cite de Villesen
Capital Territory
People's Republic of Serenierre
​

Elisabeth Martinique had been at home, still asleep when the call had come from her assistant. As foreign minister, she was a fairly high ranking state official, but being as she was the de-facto successor to Philippe Serazin, she had her hands in many proverbial pots. It had not taken her long to zip straight to the Generalissimo's Palace, where it had been her who had informed a sleepy Serazin about the happenings in the frontier.

"Should I call Chagny?"
"No, let's wait and see what the Burgundians do. But call Ivar, they should know directly from us, not from the press."
"General Mazarin has already increased the border security and we are prepared for any mass attempts by the Burgundian traitors."
"Good. But also have an immediate increase in raids. I want all trouble makers killed. Even if there is a little information implicating them, have them punished."
"Directive 44?"
"No, not that. At least not yet."

 

[Holy Frankish Empire]

Border Police Station 78 near Gizeaux

"Christ" said Sergeant Luvois, lowering his binoculars. Turning over his shoulder he told one of the other two border guards at the station to call the regional headquarters. "Get the truck" he said to the other.

Luvois picked up the receiver- "we have a problem" he said, as he heard the truck turnover outside the two room station. He heard it start to race off to scoop up the single man who made it across. "It's starting" he said, almost annoyed. "They fucking gunned them down trying to cross". There was silence on the phone and a 'Merde' could be heard in the background. Luvois nodded, listening to the other end of the phone. "We have one" he said as the truck drove back fast over the quarter mile to the little hut that served as a station. "No, no shots crossed as far as I can tell" he responded. There was silence on the other end for a few moments, then a deafening click. Luvois stood, his ear to the phone for a few moments, listening to the unique Burgundian rat-tat-tat rat-tat-tat of a dead phone line. "Christ" he said again, shaking his head and putting the phone down. "I suspect this won't be the last time we see this" he said aloud.

 

[Rheinbund]

The fact that Gouw Marken lacked an airport made it difficult to get documents like the reports by Prof. Bénoît out of the country quickly. The technique would not be a problem: Eiffelland had aeroplanes which could even land on and take-off from a bumpy field. But how to land such a plane without raising suspicion? Alternatively, the documents that had already been nicknamed “Das Arrière Dossier” (The Arrière File) could be handed over to a transport ship, but that was considered risky for a different reason: It was difficult to guard there. No, a different approach was needed if the Arrière File would have to leave Gouw Marken.
That alternative approach was found. The Eiffellandian Embassy had a speedboat in the harbour of Markstad. That speedboat could travel over sea, but it could not reach Burgundy. It would be possible, however, to travel to a military vessel in the open sea and hand the file over to the captain of that vessel. The only complicating factor was that Eiffelland did not have a naval presence in the Thaumantic Ocean. The option to request permission to Burgundy to build a naval base there had never been considered; apart from the fact that the Eiffellandian Navy was not big enough for both defending the country and being present elsewhere, maintaining a naval base in a sea thousands of kilometers away was considered a decadent luxury. But now at least the Eiffellandian ambassador in Gouw Marken thought that a different kind of base in either Gouw Marken or Burgundy should be considered. Now the file had to be taken to Burgundy first by means of a passenger vessel, and then flown to Eiffelland with a regular passenger flight. That took some time to arrange.

But now the file was at the desk of the Chancellor.

“Heilige Mutter Gottes.” Holy Mother of God.

Chancellor Von Seydewitz, Minister for Foreign Affairs and Vice-Chancellor Kögler, Minister for Defence Clausewitz, Minister for Justice Steinhauer and Minister for Internal Affairs Möller were the five ministers of the core cabinet. They were the ones in charge in case of severe emergencies, for instance in case of war, a disaster hitting large parts of the country or large-scale civil unrest. But Chancellor Von Seydewitz discussed less serious matters with the core cabinet as well, especially when he wanted to keep things a secret.

“The first thing I ask myself is, why did Prof. Tillich come to us instead of going to a journal?” Clausewitz asked.
“Maybe he didn’t have the nerve to get this over the border himself,” Kögler said. “So he went to the ambassador. But I think this would have been made public much sooner if he indeed would have gone to the press.”
“Indeed,” the Chancellor said. “But I think it is also good to notify the Burgundians that this is coming. We can expect a reaction from Villesen when this is published. And that reaction can go into each and every direction.”
“Are we going to make this public?” Steinhauer asked.
“I think yes. At least we will hand this over to a newspaper in Eiffelland, combined with some evidence on the matter we have ourselves,” the Chancellor said.
“Do we have such evidence?” Steinhauer asked.
“Yes, we have,” the Chancellor said. “This report more or less confirms the reports from the Staatsschutz. We only did not know yet that it was this bad.”
“So we are going to make this public?” Jung asked.
“Yes. But first we notify the Burgundians,” the Chancellor said.

 

[Holy Frankish Empire]

Burgundian Embassy. Trier, Eiffelland

Stephane Joubert was an aging intelligence officer. Between himself and two attaches, Joubert was responsible for direct intelligence sharing between the two governments. Generally, the information was less than exciting. Most big picture intelligence sharing went through the respective agencies themselves. The embassy intelligence staff was thus mainly focused on law enforcement intelligence and small functionary tasks. The office was so small that all the desks were crammed together in a line against the room's long back wall. Joubert was lucky enough to have the corner with the single window. The walls were a hideous pale yellow and were plastered by sheets of paper tacked up. Some were old and were used as stationary scratch paper, covered in phone numbers and addresses. The rainy summer morning began with Joubert taking a few sheets from the directory desk on the ground floor which he passed out to his associates. A few hours of calls to local police forces near Trier located a smuggling suspect and he would be tracked by Eiffellander police. The team went on lunch at 11 in the morning and didnt return until 1. Joubert could hear his phone ringing from outside the door. He sat down without any sense of urgency, the phone ringing several more times before he was able to lazily pull his seat closer to the desk. Picking up the phone, he answered by only saying "Joubert...go".

Helmut Koch was a low level functionary and contact of Jouberts. Koch never passed along intelligence but sometimes gave Joubert a heads up when something was going on. Koch was usually calm but was clearly agitated. "Something is going on Stephane. Can you meet?"

Joubert was quiet for a second. "Hotel Friedrich, 15 minutes".

The piece of shit car took forever to start to it actually was closer to a half hour before the beige sedan squealed to a halt on a side street near the hotel. Joubert jogged slowly through the rain before entering the hotel's oversize lobby. The parkay floor was overly ornate for the current hotel. Once a thriving haven for celebrities and diplomats in the 1920's and 30's, it was now home to quite low end clientele. However, the lobby remained in good shape but was largely empty except from an old man reading a newspaper. Whenever Joubert had been in there in the past, the old man had been in the same spot, reading a book or paper. After inquiries, it was discovered the old man had lived there since the 1940's. Thus he was never paid attention to. In the back corner, Koch sat also reading a paper.

Joubert approached skeptical. "What can I do for you Helmut" he asked as he approached. Koch put the paper down gingerly on the table in front of him as Joubert took a seat. Koch drew in his breath. "There is a file" he began. Joubert who had been leaning back in his seat continued to be lackadaisical. "Oh?" he asked, crossing his arms. "I dont know what the file says exactly but I know it is a report. It concerns your nation. I know it went immediately to the Chancellor's office" Koch began as Joubert perked up. "Closed door meeting. I heard from my contact in the defense ministry that it was a high level meeting".

Joubert was quiet. "Who knows about this?" he asked. Koch shrugged. "Only a handful. I doubt your government even knows aside from you. I expect it is something serious". As the old man looked up from his newspaper, Koch caught his glance. Easily spooked, he stood as Joubert was about to speak. "That's all I know". With that Koch was gone and Joubert was left wondering.

 

[Serenierre]

Ville de Croin
Province of Arrière-pays
People's Republic of Serenierre​

The Mayor of this Burgundian town, Madame Margaret Clarisse sat at a desk with a cigarette placed delicately in between her dry, thin lips. The woman was sitting rather thoughtfully. On the desk just opposite her, a young man was sitting at a typewriter, waiting for her to continue. It had been clear that the big boys in the provincial Party headquarters were adamant about keeping a tight grip over all of this district in the restive province.

"Let us continue," she said, "In conclusion," she waited for her secretary to catch up, "The situation in the village is tense but remains in control. News has spread across the woodlands of the border patrol attacks in Mouseaux but the anger has been contained. The municipal government, under my charge, is committed to the Revolution and the Police Constables have also been provided an increased supply of ammunition. However, the only point of concern I must draw is the presence of hooligans in the hills around the village. They may become problematic in time if they are not dealt with promptly. With sincere devotion, Mme. Clarisse."

"That should be it, Charles," she rose up and walked towards the typewriter. "Just give it a read over and post it to Bouenville."

The mood in the village was, in fact, much more dire than she led on in the letter. Though the matter of the killings at the border had not touched the village directly; just across the valley, in the village of Sant-Maire-aux-Cré - three of the dead were from there - a heavy curfew had been imposed. The perimeter of the village had been sealed by the soldiers and the main road connecting the village to the highway was blocked by a couple of tanks. Several of the more robust citizens from this village had tried to get to the other one for the funerary prayers at the church for the fallen but the measures by the military were far too hard to crack, at-least for the passionate, yet simple people of these parts.

Though, according to the rumours, one person from here managed to break into the other village. How exactly, it was unknown, but the rumours indicated that the funeral was quick and there had been a clash between mourners and the soldiers. No one was killed but the brute force of the military had been enough to quell the troubles. Smoking her cigarette, she stepped out into the courtyard. Her village was quiet. No trouble at all, other than the bunch of thieves in the forests around the settlement. She wondered whether quitting the nunnery had been worth it. The uncertainty hung heavily in the air. She dropped her cigarette on the ground and snuffed it out with her heel.

Cité de Bouenville
Province of Arrière-pays
People's Republic of Serenierre
​

The provincial capital of the Burgundian majority province had started its life as a fortified citadel on the crossroads of a major trading route some seven hundred years ago. Frequently fought over, this was a city used to living through the assault of history. The last such period had come in 1819, when after a war between the two Gallic nations, the city was forcibly included into Serenierre by the marauding armies of Roi Charles III. Since then, the city had been fortified afresh by the new masters of the land. And today, in this cool mid-summer day in 1956, the city was once again the home of a heavy military presence. Tanks, armoured personnel carriers, and soldiers were everywhere.

In the old, stone-faced building along Avenue de Serenierre which had been the headquarters of the Governor in the former royalist era but since the Revolution had become the seat of the provincial headquarters of the ruling party. In one of the rooms on the fifth floor, the one from where one could see much of the city's old quarter from the window, the Provincial Secretary of the Communist Party, Jean-Baptise Gagnon was chairing a meeting of the provincial committee - the highest ranking executive body in the province.

"Monsieur Nouvé," he spoke to the Security Secretary, "Have the bodies been deposited to their families?"
"Oui, Monsieur Secretary. The families have been provided with the coffins."
"Any reports on how the locals are reacting in the villages from where these deserters were from?"
"The military is stationed and there is a curfew. But there have been some incidents of stray attacks on patrols in the forests."
"Oh," he arched his eyebrow, "And is anything being done about these disturbances in the forests?" Secretary Gagnon looked at Major Philippe Deson, the military liaison for the provincial government.
"We have reviewed the matter," Major Deson said plainly, "But only the most troublesome sectors have been targeted. But at this time we cannot say that these miscreants pose much of a threat against the might of the People's Army."
"But we cannot have a situation where such outright displays of treason are allowed to flourish."
"I understand that, Monsieur Nouvé, but the military is currently preoccupied with the frontier and the larger threats."

The Provincial Secretary abruptly turned his attention away from the military man. All these men in uniform were always a headache for provincial governments, they refused to ever consider the local perspective, and served only the Villesen Government's diktat. "Is there anything we can do to haemorrhage this threat to the law and order in our province?" He knew how weak he must have sounded just then. The fact is a lot depended on how he handled the crisis in the province. Gagnon knew that in Arriere fortunes were made or lost. It was here all the great officers in the military and party would be despatched to test out their metal. Though Gagnon knew he had been transferred as the provincial secretary on the direct orders of the Generalissimo on the advice of the Politburo, which had felt the need to chastise him for some, admittedly, brash comments he had been foolish enough to make. If he could control the situation, he knew, Villesen would welcome him and his place on the Politburo would be assured. Perhaps, he dared to think, if he could control the lands this side of the Lac le Aphrodité, he could maybe even displace Elisabeth Martinique's near absolute stranglehold on the Politburo. It was a dangerous game.

"If I may," the Security Secretary Nouvé spoke up again, "Perhaps we can mobilise the police, use the emergency powers under Article 134 to utilise the Home Defence arsenal-"

"I would advise against that," Major Deson interjected.

"With all due respect, Major," Gagnon snapped at him, irritated, "This is not a matter for you to comment on. That provision is within our right as a provincial government under the Generalissimo's curfew order and might I remind you," he pointed at the uniformed man with his fountain pen, "You are not a commissar nor a deputy. You are simply a liaison. Your opinion or advice is relevant only if we," he waved the pen around the room to gesture to the members of the Provincial Committee, "require your perspective. Kindly remember that fact."

"I apologize Monsieur Secretary," he responded, obviously taken aback by the harshness from Gagnon.

Provincial Secretary Gagnon gestured Nouvé to continue, who continued from where he left off: "Yes, as I was saying, we could have the police be equipped with an enhanced arsenal from the Home Defence quota and we could enhance their numbers in the communes and districts. Since it is the police, they remain under this committee's jurisdiction and perhaps might be a better way of cracking down on the miscreants who think they can defy the will of the Revolutionary party."

"I think this is promising. Look into this. I will be heading out to Villesen on Friday... there is a meeting of the Provincial Secretaries' committee and I hope that I will have some draft proposal to work with by then."

"Oui, Monsieur Secretary."

"That's all, meeting adjourned."

 

[Serenierre]

Cité de Chagny
Grand Duchy of [MENTION=26]Bourgogne[/MENTION]
​

Auguste Mitteroun was a strange breed. The unwanted son of a good-for-nothing exiled aristocrat and a common Burgundian prostitute. His mother had died of an opium overdose and his father had been forced to take him in when confronted by the young woman's anguished mother. Though, that was the extent of his kindness - if one could call it that. Cash strapped and still in want of his usual standards of service, he had not wasted any time in putting the young Auguste to work to fill the gap left by the servants he had been unable to retain. It had been a sad life. Though that sadness had only prefaced the sheer misery that would follow.

As Auguste stood in the Burgundian capital one mid-summer day, a few months ago, he had looked down at the body of his father slumped on the floor in a pool of blood. The knife with which he had stabbed him was still in his hands. The sheer rage with which he had attacked the now dead man had shocked him. He had no idea what overcame him that evening. It was just an explosion of hatred. He had simply snapped. Though, for that momentary loss of all control, while deeply satisfying insofar as ending the torment in his life, that moment had had its own strange and unexpected outcome. He had expected to turn himself in and face whatever punishment a murderer would face. But, instead of calling the police that night, he had called his father's friend, another exiled royal, who was quick to come and inspect the scene. And in that moment, his life truly changed.

Now, in October, he sat next to that very man in a small car parked in one of the dark narrow alleys of the Burgundian capital. Due to his compromised position, he had had to agree to what was to transpire here. He had had no choice.

A motorbike pulled up next to the car. Without a word, the man on the motorbike looked inside the car and gave a questioning look. The door swung open and the older man gestured Auguste to step out, which he did. He had barely gotten out of the car before the driver pressed the accelerator and zipped out of the alley and back into the busy road. He looked at the man on the motorbike, who handed him a helmet. Nothing was said. He got on the bike and the two of them were off.

It was a long ride. Auguste would have guessed that the ride took well over an hour and had them cross some significant distance from the city. By the looks of it, they were rather deep in the countryside. Lush fields and wide open spaces. All throughout his heart was beating incredibly fast. He thought he would just die. But when they were close to whatever the destination was, the man infront of him finally spoke up, "We're almost there."

The bike slowed down as they approached an imposing gate of stone, which lead up to a château. The plaque on the stone wall read, "VILLE DE DUC DE ROUSETTE"

 

[Serenierre]

Cité de Bouenville
Province of Arrière-pays
People's Republic of Serenierre
​

Sitting in his office, Provincial Secretary Gagnon sat with a glass of whiskey in his hand and a half eaten sandwich on the table in front of him. He had met with the commanders of the three infantry divisions that had been deployed under the direct command of Generalissime Serazin to handle the disturbances, which had gotten progressively much worse. Frequently, far too often, he would find himself unable to sleep at night after reading the reports from the rural areas, where day by day police were losing control of the situation. And though nothing concrete had come to him in the form of hard evidence, he knew that the police force had been compromised. Even he, hidden away in the fortified governmental quarters, knew the rumours and whispers of desertions. His strategy, his desperate attempt to salvage the peace and earn his place on the Politburo was at an end. He had been living in denial for quite a few months but when the three major-generals had barged into his office and waved a new decree in his face. That, in fact, had been the moment when he had to accept it.

It was, in many ways, the most dishonourable kind of rebuke that Villesen could send to a duly appointed provincial secretary. A courtesy call from the Politburo was always the norm for deployments of even the smallest of units from the Military. But now, three entire divisions, more than thirty thousand men now in his province and his authority stripped. Though he sat in the grand office of a provincial secretary, he was impotent, powerless, pathetic.

It was that night. A cold winter night when Gagnon decided to kill himself. He downed the remaining whiskey and stood up. His revolver was on the desk and he was ready to pick it up. But that very moment, a knock on his door. A strong male voice said, "Comrade Gagnon." That was odd. No one ever called him that any more, at-least not in this province. He lurched slightly, his feet unsteady, as he walked to the other end of his office. He unlocked the door and peaked out into the corridor.

"Comrade Gagnon, you are hereby under arrest on orders of the Politburo for failing to carry out that which was expected of you by the Generalissime of this People's Republic." Three soldiers barged into his office. He was confused. Gagnon fell. The three soldiers, who looked like Rifle Infantry, manhandled him as they got him back on his feet. In his inebriated state, he did not notice the handcuffs that came out of the blue and shackled him.

"What is the meaning of this? I am a Provincial Secretary, you goons cannot arrest me like this!"

Silence. They nudged him and almost dragged him out of the office.

As he was dragged away, he cursed the day he was born. Had these goons come just a few moments later they would have found him dead. And though now, they too were dragging him to his eventual death, this death would be that of a criminal. He knew he was about to become one of the mysterious deaths that plagued this nation infested with spies. Quite ironic.

***​

Major General Delacourt had been briefed about the situation by his intelligence officer. Within hours, he left his base and headed for the Provincial Capital to assume command of this godforsaken province full of Burgundian vermin. It had been just a few hours since his predecessor had been removed. The half eaten sandwich, the empty glass, and the gun were still on the desk. He left them be. He sat down on the sofa in the corner, next to the window which looked out over an inner courtyard in the building and waited for the call from Villesen.

 

[Serenierre]

Cité de Trier
Kingdom of [MENTION=18]Eiffelland[/MENTION]
​

Roland Blaizot was a prominent dissident in the community of Serenierrese refugees in the grand capital of the Germanic kingdom. He was nervous. A few days after the infamous raid on the Associated Press and the European Press Association in Villesen, he had received a call from one of his contacts in Serenierre. A meeting had been hastily arranged and so, this fat middle-aged man sat in the private compartment at a fairly popular restaurant in the better parts of town. With a cup of coffee steaming in front of him, he scanned through one of the Eiffellander daily newspapers that he had started reading to improve his grasp over the language of his adopted home. At exactly 6.15, the man whom he had been waiting for stepped into the compartment and the door behind him was closed.

"Roland, my friend," the man said to him, "We must stop meeting like this," he joked.
"Oui, oui," he responded masking his irritation at the forced pleasantries. "Forgive me for not being in good humour, one is still rather shocked by what has been happening in Serenierre." This was true.
The man sitting opposite him shifted in his seat. He reached into his coat pocket and took out an envelope. "A letter from a friend."
"A friend?"
"Yes, that friend."

Roland quickly took the envelope. The friend in question was his source in the European Press Association office in Villesen which Roland had expected was none other than the editor of the place. It was rather risky for him to contact an outsider like Roland in the wake of the raid by Directive 44. But it must have been important. He placed the envelope in his own pocket and extracted another packet from his own pocket, a packet full of unmarked banknotes, and handed it in exchange. With that, the other man left the compartment without another word. And Roland, himself, too was quick to leave.

It was 7.00 by the time Roland arrived at his apartment where he finally ripped open the letter. The contents of which were as follows:
"My friend, I am writing to you in difficult circumstances. As you are well aware, the situation in Villesen has become untenable for those who seek the truth. I have no idea when this letter will arrive in your hands but I must be quick. Lives are on the line. The Directorate agents have arrested all the foreign staff members of the Associated Press here. They amount to something around 25 or 28. While I cannot comment about the exact number for each nationality, I can say for sure that the majority is from [MENTION=18]Eiffelland[/MENTION], [MENTION=254]Telora[/MENTION], [MENTION=414]Nichtstein[/MENTION] and a few from @Pelagasia and [MENTION=32]Huaxia[/MENTION]. Please, spread the word. Do something before their bodies turn up in sacks on the side of a road."

Roland was quick to read it. He sat still for a few seconds. He then picked up the phone and started to make calls to his connections in the diplomatic community in Trier.

 

[Holy Frankish Empire]

Council of State

Chagny

It was by all accounts an unpleasant day in the national capital. A mixture of rain and snow had been falling on the city since the early morning- resulting in streets and sidewalks being covered in a soupy mess of slush. The former Ducal Palace, now a museum and government offices, was the selected meeting place. The council had been meeting more frequently over the past few weeks rather than the 2 or 3 times a week.

Count Andre Dampierre, the Burgundian Foreign Minister, shifted in his seat. He was well respected inside of and outside Bourgogne. Even by his counterpart in Ivar. Yet Dampierre faced a difficult position. He now had to answer for everything that occurred between Bourgogne and Serenierre. It was his advice which largely steered the Burgundian foreign policy ship. The cumbersome vessel was in danger of running aground, or so most on the council thought. Ironically, his biggest opponent on the council was Pierre Derain, the minister for education and health. Derain in the past had hinted that Bourgogne needed to shift to a policy of deterrence and neutrality. Today, Derain had come out and simply stated his own plan for a Burgundian move to neutrality. To Dampierre, it was a direct challenge. The Grand Duke had not responded- expecting the council to respond. When none had spoken, the Grand Duke simply inhaled sharply and slowly exhaled.

"Minister Derain, the policy of Bourgogne is not to hang our allies out to dry and let the communists know they have significantly less in the way of opposition. Yet, you make excellent points. These points are misguided. We do not want war. If we do not stand tall we will have war. The communists refuse to live with us in peace. Their appetite for red imperialism is generous. They will have it their way or no way unless they meet true resistance. Every day I look at the map of the world. And every day I see how delicate it is. Remember, it is the communists who are the catalysts. We cannot possibly allow the acid of communism to corrode our friends. But we cannot start firing guns simply because we can. This business in Arrière is being forced upon us. Serenierre is playing a game of astounding proportions. The only solution as far as I can see is to talk this out. We must find an amicable solution" said the Grand Duke as Dampierre watched Derain almost shrink into his seat. All knew that Derain's gamble had failed utterly. It would only be a week or so until his Ministry would be under new leadership.