Pierre Chiron did not believe in miracles.
He always stayed behind when she went to the Shrine, not at home in Paris, but at a hotel in the nearby city. He knew from experience that she would be gone all day, and upon returning shortly after dusk, she would be eager to put her faith to work. Chiron had come to think of the yearly pilgrimage as a sort of holiday. If the weather was accommodating, he would lay by the pool and read a bestseller from cover to cover. When conditions were inclement, he would take a walking tour, safe beneath the capacious dome of his umbrella, darting from one café to the next until his veins were almost humming with caffeine and sugar. On such days, his stimulant-induced insomnia permitted Collette to repeatedly test whether her prayers would be answered.
Today was such a day, but Chiron no longer cared to hyper-stimulate his nervous system. He was getting old and missed sleep was now something he regretted. He nursed his café au lait rather than gulping it down, and lingered at his table, idly browsing through the morning edition of the Courrier International. Even at that, he ran out of coffee before he was ready to leave. Sighing, he folded the paper under his arm and stepped out into the rain. In defiance of Collette’s God, he left his umbrella furled, letting the angry raindrops pelt his face and thinning hair. He was blinking rapidly to clear his vision when a limousine pulled alongside.
He started momentarily. The vehicle had appeared almost as if by magic. He shook his head, trying to rid himself of such deluded musings, and continued walking. The limousine kept pace with him, creeping along in the street less than a meter away.
When he was certain that the presence of the oversized car was no coincidence, he stopped, turned and peered at the tinted glass. A dark line appeared across his reflection and descended slowly as the window was lowered. Then he recognized the face gazing at him and instantly regretted his initial irritation.
“Bonjour, Pierre.”
“Madame?” He fumbled for words. “This is a great honor.”
The woman smiled wryly. “Get in.”
The driver of the vehicle, a large man whose barrel chest strained the seams of his immaculate black uniform, circled around to open the door for Chiron, who climbed in without hesitation and laid his umbrella on the spacious floor. The limousine eased forward, cruising slowly along the narrow streets, but for Chiron, the world beyond the darkened interior of the vehicle had ceased to exist.
The woman scrutinized him for several moments as he settled into the plush interior, and Chiron stared back, his blood roaring with an unexpected surge of adrenaline. Though they had never met, he had no doubts concerning her identity. He recognized her by reputation alone. Like Sophia Loren, only more so, he had been told. The whispered, anonymous rumors were not very specific on the latter point, but he had developed his own interpretation, which he now found to be slightly in error. She indeed bore a striking resemblance to the Italian-born movie star, although considerably younger. And yet there was something in her that was like nothing he had ever seen in that actress, or for that matter in any woman: A fire of purpose…No, he thought. It’s rage. But at what? It was not altogether unattractive. Chiron did not even realize that he had put all thoughts of his wife’s struggle and his own divinely directed ire out of his head.
Thankfully, the woman’s simmering wrath did not seem directed at him. Despite the fire behind her eyes, she gave him a reserved smile, then reached into a cabinet alongside the broad seat. “Cognac?”
Normally, he would not have dreamed of drinking so early in the day, but he surprised himself by accepting the offer. The warm brandy soothed his anxious nerves, allowing him to breathe and speak with more ease. “As I said, madame. You have paid me a great honor. I had not expected to meet you in person.”
“It was convenient,” she replied, explaining nothing. “I expect you have been eager to learn the status of your…shall we say, application?”
“After six months, I had come to accept the worst—”
”These things take time, Pierre. Six months is not even a tick on the clock of the universe. Besides, our enemies continue to multiply and ever seek to infiltrate our ranks. Our vetting process must be thorough.”
“Then I…I don't understand why—”
“You may consider this a final interview, Pierre.”
He gulped and suddenly even the cognac wasn’t enough to calm his nerves. “I see.”
“Tell me,” she continued, as if his anxiety was irrelevant. “Have you determined the identity of your sponsor?”
He grimaced. “I’m sorry, I know I’m not supposed to have that information, but I could not resist trying to figure it out. I believe it is one of two men in the Ministry of—”
”It’s not whom you imagine it to be,” she said with a hint of dismissive irony. Then she told him.
“Mon dieu! He is one of you?” He had never met the person she named, a noted inventor and marine explorer, though he had corresponded with the man a few years previously in an effort to end atomic testing in the South Pacific.
“I did not say that, and you would be wise not to fuel such a rumor. Suffice it to say, he brought you to our attention — whether directly or indirectly, I cannot reveal.”
Chiron raised the snifter to his lips once more, only to realize in dismay that he had already drained its contents. “Then I am doubly honored.”
“We will speak no more of how this honors you.” There was an edge to her voice. “Ours is not some gentlemen’s drinking club where we sit around and congratulate each other on achievements of avarice and notoriety. Our goals are lofty, our purpose transcendent. You bring to our cause something of extraordinary import. All of us contribute something essential, or else no invitation is extended. You cannot buy your way in or know the right people; you must be the right person.”
Her oration in no way diminished Chiron’s sense of accomplishment, but he withheld further banalities. “And what do I have that will serve your cause?”
“Our cause,” she reproved, but with a smile. “That is no great mystery, Pierre. Before you took your current post, you were the foremost scientific advisor to the French government. You still have a certain degree of influence in an area that is currently of great concern. We need you to do something, a very small something, but of considerable importance to an ongoing experiment.”
“Yes?”
She shifted in her seat, banking her inner fire as the discussion became more business-like. Outside, the world was a blur of green; they were well beyond the city, cruising through the countryside. “On the fifth of September, the French Army will detonate a device in the Fangataufa atoll testing grounds.”
Before her words could sink in, Chiron felt his heart lurch in his chest. “I cannot prevent that,” he said hastily. “God knows I have tried.”
“You misapprehend. The test must go forward on schedule, no matter what other forces conspire to postpone or cancel it, and they will try. We require only that you alter the order of the tests.”
“Alter…I don’t understand.”
“The September fifth test must be conducted underground, in the Mururoa proving grounds. The Fangataufa test may take place on the second of October, the date originally set aside for Mururoa. Additionally, you must modify the yield specifications for the first test. The device must not exceed ten kilotons.”
Now he understood her earlier declaration. This was indeed no platform for social climbing. He was not even a member of their ranks and already they were demanding sacrifice, a sacrifice that stood in opposition to everything he had worked for. “Madame, I fear that you have overestimated my influence. I have already petitioned President Chirac to suspend these tests he has planned. My advice was not heeded. Our new president insists on reminding the world that France is also a global power. Why do you think anyone will listen now if I make this demand?”