Paris, March 2015 – Boulevard Mortier.
Inside a meeting room: a round table, six chairs, five officers.
Four of them are furious — at the fifth.
A camera is fixed directly on him.
General Armand Delcourt of the DGSE begins:
— “We are gathered here to determine whether the Adrar operation was a success… or a fiasco.”
He adjusts his glasses, then continues, firm-voiced:
— “Let us first honour those who died for France: Lieutenant Armand Lemaire, posthumously promoted to Captain. Sergeant Thomas Perrin, posthumously promoted to Warrant Officer. Private First Class Malik Benali, posthumously promoted to Corporal.”
He folds the paper, crumples it, and throws it onto the table.
— “Now, gentlemen, your intelligence reports,” says Colonel Saint-Clair from the DRM.
Colonel Gabriel Montreuil replies sharply:
— “Why? They proved accurate. There were rebels — now they’re dead.”
Colonel Henri Renaud from the General Staff leans forward:
— “Dead? You call that a success? Should we remind you of our dead and wounded? And those who resigned afterwards?”
— “It was a necessary cost,” Montreuil retorts. “That’s war.”
— “No, that was incompetence,” snaps Colonel Étienne Le Goff of the Special Operations Command. “Your plan was careless. The team was too small. It needed a full section, and proper support.”
Montreuil shrugs.
— “Would that have changed anything? People die in war. Accept it.”
Le Goff slams the table.
— “Accept your mistake, you mean?”
Renaud interrupts:
— “Do you want me to read you Lieutenant Lemaire’s last report?”
He unfolds a page.
His tone hardens.
— “Dear Colonel Desmoulin,
I must report the absurd order I’ve received from Colonel Montreuil: he commands a reconnaissance mission with insufficient strength. If I return alive, I will file a formal complaint.”
Renaud looks up.
— “He knew it was suicide. He went anyway. And he died for it.”
Silence.
Montreuil sits motionless, jaw tight.
General Delcourt’s voice cuts through:
— “Well? You have nothing to say?”
Montreuil’s eyes flare.
— “Yes. I do. You accuse me of negligence, but look at the facts. They failed to follow protocol — vehicle spacing is fifty metres, and they didn’t have it. Their own negligence cost their lives.”
Renaud stares in disbelief.
Montreuil continues, tone icy:
— “And if he had been there, the mission would have succeeded.”
Le Goff frowns.
— “He? Who?”
— “The killer. The demon. The one whose reputation terrifies everyone.”
Saint-Clair intervenes, calm but firm:
— “He’s a weapon, not a political pawn. His reputation already causes enough damage. Using him recklessly will only make it worse.”
At that moment, the door opens.
A man in a dark suit enters — polished shoes, thin glasses, neatly combed hair.
He walks straight to the empty chair and sits.
— “François Meunier, Ministry of Defence,” he announces.
His voice is measured, bureaucratic.
— “The Minister instructs that this session is hereby closed. All recordings are to be deleted. Any attempt to reopen this case will result in dismissal without compensation. Colonel Montreuil is cleared of all suspicion. He is free to go. Gentlemen, good day.”
He rises.
Montreuil stands, gathers his papers, and follows him out.
Silence fills the room.
Colonel Renaud explodes:
— “The Minister clears him! Another protected darling of the system!”
He slams his fist on the table.
— “Once again, we clean deserts — but never the offices.”
He puts on his cap and leaves.
One by one, the others follow — except Saint-Clair.
He quietly reaches for the recording device, removes the memory card, slips it into his briefcase, and walks out without a word.
This story is a work of fiction inspired by real-world contexts.
It was conceived and written by Raulgarth, with the support of Sergeant-Chief Marcel1 for editing, documentation, and narrative development.
Translated with grit and caffeine by Sergeant-Chief Marcel.
Apologies for any translation errors that may have occurred.
You can find the original French version of this story at raulserv.fr.
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