This is a repost - I just fixed a sentence that was wrong grammatically and gave the wrong impression. Thanks to Shiny silver grl for pointing it out.

A/N: Well finally I get to update. Sorry it's been so long, but its exams here so I've been madly studying/writing essays for the last two weeks! I finally got everything done though, and I am now officially finished with uni! Provided I pass (which I reckon I will), I'm going to graduate! Crazy.

Thanks for the reviews, good to see a couple of people have come on board after reading my other fics… please keep with it and review if you haven't already so I know that you care (please review even if you have already!)

I hope you like this one! Oh and warning for coarse language (in both French and English)

Part 6 – Treachery and Heroism (depending on your point of view)

Place du Capitol, central Toulouse

Maurice Papon was sitting with his friends, listening intently to the wireless radio mounted high on the wall of the Toulousain café. His dramatic shock of greying hair fell unabated across his forehead as he concentrated on the transmission. The wrinkles forming in his middle age seemed to deepen in those moments where he learned of the latest atrocity. There had been a horrible act of persecution – a demonstration of the Communist tyranny that had overrun the State and all its vestiges of power. Five people had been arrested on charges of plotting against the Republic. He knew they must be, like he, advocates of order and progress through traditional means. He knew they must be victims of the Internationalist conspiracy against good Frenchmen; the conspiracy that was threatening to tear their country apart, leaving only a satellite of Moscow in its wake.

He knew that he must help them – and he knew he wouldn't be alone in that line of thought. Without speaking, he stood up from the small table, leaving some coins in his wake to satisfy the waiter. As he moved, he saw others like him rise to their feet, nodding curtly to each other – they couldn't risk anything public before they had a plan.

As he moved along the streets it seemed as if all eyes were on him – but then he had been increasingly paranoid in the last weeks and months. Despite the apparent weakness of the treacherous government that was slowly killing France, there was no sign of its imminent demise. To make matters worse, the Communist traitors were closing in on the noble forces of the right – the Cagoule was all-but dissolute. In all likelihood, he was being watched.

Finally reaching his destination, a non-descript bar just across from the Canal du midi, a canal which ran through the northern tip of central Toulouse, Maurice allowed himself one more furtive sweep of the street surrounding him before stepping into the dim light of the smoky atmosphere. The bar was almost full, decoy patrons he knew well. It appeared that others had had the same reaction as he. Nodding to his good friend serving drinks, he slipped behind the bar and down through a trap door to the vast basement that lay underneath.

"Messieurs. Gentlemen." He said crisply as soon as he emerged from racks of ageing wine to face the core group of about 10 prominent industry leaders of the southern city. "I apologise for my lateness, however I was not nearby when the news got to me."

"C'est pas grave Maurice, it's ok," a man, shrouded in the shadow of the far corner, said with power in his voice. "Now we can begin in earnest, although I am sure you all know what it is I am to propose."

"We are enacting our plan of defence for our brothers?" a small man, sitting at what looked like a card table, spoke through the cigar that was perched precariously at the corner of his mouth.

"Exact." The shadowy figure nodded, before motioning to Maurice. "I trust you can gather the requisite forces for the morning?"

"We could even do so for this evening, Master." Maurice nodded curtly, the eagerness to please evident in his eyes.

"No no," the man swooped his hand across the empty space in front of him in an emphatic gesture. "This must take place by the light of day – for all the Communist filth to witness." He rose to his feet, moving into the dim light that shone from the ceiling. Uncharacteristically for a Frenchman, he was tall – over six feet in height. His light complexion and bristly flaxen hair contrasted sharply with the largely Mediterranean complexions of the men surrounding him. The authority he possessed caused every man in his audience to hold their breaths as their leader spoke. "Tomorrow, gentlemen, we shall demonstrate our disgust to the entire nation – and liberate our comrades from their Communist imprisonment."

Police holding cell, Toulouse

Jack looked up as he heard the cell door open from the outside for what must have been the 100th time since they got there. A whole night had passed – a cold, hungry, uncertain night – and now the new day was beginning. He'd spent the time thinking, turning everything over in his mind, plotting and formulating possible escape scenarios. Every time he came up against the same problem: Sam. Well, Sam and Élodie actually. No plan he came up with could work without knowing where Sam and Élodie had been taken. For the moment, he had to rely on Daniel's attempts to get information out of the guards.

Yet again, the man who entered the room spoke in an excessive cacophony of incomprehensible French. His nostrils and eyes flaring as he moved in first on Teal'c, who merely stared back at him. The brute then approached Jack, bearing down on him while he continued to should what Jack imagined could only be torrents of abuse. Jack stared back at the guy, gritting his teeth in an attempt not to retaliate. The men who had followed the guard into the office now had their weapons trained steadfastly on Daniel.

"Daniel," he growled out of the corner of his mouth. "Tell this guy for the umpteenth time that I do NOT speak French!"

These words only elicited further anger on the part of the guard, who now thrust his forearm against Jack's neck, pinning him to the wall he had been dejectedly slumped against.

"Ça suffit!" a voice from the hall filtered into the room. "Whether they are German or not – it is evident they do not speak French."

"Et alors? So? A fascist is a fascist by any other name." The guard growled back, not loosening his grip on Jack at all.

"J'ai dit – ça SUFFIT!" the man repeated his command with more force this time, prompting the guard to remove his forearm from Jack's neck, only to shove him roughly to the ground before turning to look at the man who had entered the room.

"Oui commissaire, yes commissioner." The guard said hastily, having now seen who exactly had emerged from the hall. "May I ask to what we owe your presence sir?" he added after a moment of awkward silence in the cell. The prisoners were looking to each other with questioning looks on their faces – as were the guards even – equally confused at the appearance of the highly-ranked policeman.

Confident that order had been momentarily restored to the cell, Commissaire Lucien Gregoire cast a discerning eye on the prisoners cowering against the walls. He didn't understand who they were or what they were doing there – but he knew of no-one quite as reliable as Philippe Coulomb when it came to matters of protecting France against the varied security risks of the time. He trusted the revered Radical when he said these people were working for the Cagoule. It was in fact their connection to the Cagoule which had prompted him to appear in person at the police-station. It was imperative that they be moved immediately. Cagoule prisoners had a tendency of disappearing without reason. Worse still, news of their capture had somehow been leaked to the press and a crowd was gathering on the other side of the central Place – behind the protective barricades that were now permanently in place in front of the precinct. it wouldn't be long before right-wing politicians came banging on his door in protest.

"Vous allez les transférer à Paris. You will transport them to Paris." Commissaire Gregoire said crisply to the men in the room. "The women as well – but only after I have had a chance to… interrogate… them," he winked to the guard standing over Jack.

"Like hell you will!" Daniel hissed to himself quietly before relaying what the Commissaire had said to Jack. Just as Jack was about to struggle in protest against their captors everyone in the room was shocked by a large bang, accompanied by a profound shuddering of the building.

"Il est trop tard! Too late!" The Commissaire shouted, moving quickly back in the corridor. "You two with me – we'll get them out the back way." He motioned to two of the guards who had been standing on each side of the doorframe. "The rest of you, hold off the hordes!"

Jack didn't wait to ask Daniel what was going on or where most of the police guards had gone suddenly. The loud crash told him all he needed to know: this was their chance. Seeing that the head police officer was planning to shackle them for transport, he nodded quickly to Teal'c and, in unison with the tall Jaffa warrior, thrust his arm out, fist clenched into a tight a ball he could make it, knocking the guard to the floor.

"Go Daniel!" he shouted as Teal'c disposed of another guard, before moving towards the police commissioner who was now brandishing a weapon, about to shoot.

Daniel ducked down and skirted around the wall to the door just as Teal'c reached the policeman, who had fatally hesitated before firing. Teal'c grabbed the gun in his hand and latched onto his arm at the same time. He wrenched the upward before twisting it out of the man's hand, breaking his forearm in the process. Teal'c then shoved the man to the ground, knocking him unconscious against the wall.

"Let's get outta here." Jack growled as he brushed passed Teal'c, holding a gun he'd taken from one of the police guards now lying on the ground. The three of them moved quickly out of the cell.

Place du Capitole, outside the police headquarters

Maurice Papon had indeed managed to rally an impressive show of force, literally overnight. The large square, which usually housed the biggest market in southern France, was brimming with reactionary demonstrators intent on reversing the tyrannical injustices brought about by the Red Republican forces. The sun had only risen an hour before, and the morning light reflected off the western buildings' façade, giving an orange-tinge to the space.

The crowd had been greeted by hundreds of armed riot police, protecting the police headquarters. But the police could only do so much against such a dedicated force. At precisely 8am, the attack had been launched, and the first of many home-made bombs available to them had blown a hole the size of a large truck in the side of the police station.

The explosion had been greeted by a roar of approval on the part of the crowd and a roar of indignation on the part of the police. As he surged forward with the rest of them, Maurice smirked to himself at the complete disarray that was the riot police. They had seemed completely unprepared for such an explosion, and for the moment looked as if they were pawns without a master. The speed with which the crowd surged around the now gaping hole in the side of the building was no match for the small police contingent. They throwing of tear-gas canisters, and their spraying of the masses with water from a fire truck did nothing to assuage the onslaught.

The Rightists' orders had been clear, and despite the chaos of the mass of people, the directive not to enter the police headquarters was observed. Instead, the crowd massing around the opening formed a blockade against the police who attempted to dissipate them, and assured that no police attempted to exit. Maurice and his associates passed easily through the throng – they were identifiable by their distinctive hats that showed their status. Besides which, most people could recognise the famous Maurice Papon, patron of all conservative forces in the south of France.

Nodding to the men as he reached the barricade surrounding the headquarters, Maurice and four other men passed through effortlessly. Weapons at the ready, thick padding providing some protection against any bullets that may come their way, they entered the police station in search of their wrongfully-imprisoned brothers.

Police holding cell, Toulouse

Sam snapped to attention at the sound of the explosion. Within a fraction of a second, she was on her feet and at the ready, every body in her muscle tensed to perfection. Élodie had had a somewhat different reaction to the explosion, and was looking wildly around her in fear, pressed tightly into the dank corner of the prison cell.

"Alors c'est vrai ce que j'ai appris, so what I learned is true," Sam said, still listening intently the goings on outside their cell. "Toulouse really was one of the most reactionary cities towards the end of the Third Republic…"

"Toute la France – all of France is reactionary." Élodie nodded timidly from the corner. That's why I tried to get help – the strength of the fascists is too great."

"That may be," Sam replied pragmatically, "but I think it's going to play in our favour this time – they're coming to our rescue."

"I don't WANT to be rescued by these traitors!" Élodie's eyes flashed with indignation, regaining some of the strength she had lost with the shock of the explosion.

"If you knew what I did, you'd be even more horrified…" Sam murmured under her breath. What was currently going on outside their cell was nothing compared to the atrocities that were going to be committed in the Second World War .

Before Élodie could ask what Sam had said, there were louder noises approaching them, hushed voices and hurried footsteps sounded in the corridor. Sam instinctively pressed herself against the wall next to the door, ready to surprise whoever came through. The figure that burst through the door with force was not who she'd expected to see.

"Maurice Papon." Both Sam and Élodie whispered in horror in unison. Élodie looked at Sam quizzically, if the woman from the future appeared just as horrified as she, then the man now standing before them, triumphantly, must really have done something awful – apparently he was remembered by history.

"Allez, on en a répréré deux, ok, we've found two of them – go find the men!" Maurice barked to two of his companions. They nodded quickly before continuing down the corridor at speed.

"Mademoiselle Chabrol." He nodded towards Élodie, who had staggered to her feet, but was still leaning into the corner. "I never imagined that you might be one of us – the Bib must have great plans for you for me not to know of your allegiance to our cause."

Élodie dare not speak, for she knew of this man's notoriety and of how she and Philippe had cursed his name in private. He was the leader of all reactionary Right-wing forces for the region, and rumour had it he was deeply involved in many a terrorist plot against the Republic.

"Et Madame," he nodded towards Sam. "I don't believe I know you, however word has it you are the cell leader for your operation." He nodded slightly. "I salute you."

Sam had no idea where he'd got his information from, but found it quietly bizarre that she had been labelled the leader of their 'terrorist cell' – but then she was the most proficient of SG1 in speaking French, and Élodie was clearly a civilian. She decided to play to the assumption, and quickly assumed the role Papon had attributed to her.

"Les autres? The others?" she asked firmly, holding her hand out in demand of a weapon, which the man standing next to Papon gave to her unquestioningly.

"Les voilà. Here they are." A voice from the corridor said clearly. Everyone in the prison cell paused to see the two militia Papon had sent to find the men return, Jack, Daniel and Teal'c in their tow. "They speak only English or bad French." The militiaman added incredulously. "Are we sure of the information provided to us, boss?" he looked to Maurice, his mistrusting eye flitting constantly to look at the male contingent of SG1.

"Ce n'est pas à vous d'être au courant de nos ordres. It's not up to you to be aware of our orders." Sam snapped at the guard, engendering instant respect from her tone of voice. "The Red threat concerns people of all nations – and our mission requires specific knowledge that only these men possess." There was no sense in revealing that she too wasn't a native French speaker.

Maurice had been watching the prisoners carefully during this exchange. The news that they were Anglophones was certainly troubling, but the look of relief on Élodie's face at seeing the men enter the cell – as well as the look of tenderness that the man with glasses gave her – convinced him of their allegiance to the right cause.

"Ta gueule! Shut it!" he hissed at the guard who has questioned them. "They are with us and the Bib places his imminent trust in them – I have seen the order."

Sam inwardly sighed in relief, the forged documents they had organised in Spain may have resulted in their capture, but they were serving to ensure their escape as well. Thinking quickly, she took control of the situation again – it appeared that Papon was waiting for her to do so.

"Faut y aller. We need to go," she snapped quickly. "I trust you have an escape plan and cover?"

"Bien sûr, of course." Maurice nodded curtly, motioning to his companions to lead them out of the building. "We've got a secure location nearby where we can talk and salvage your mission – hopefully that Republican scourge Coulomb hasn't fucked everything up."

"We had reason to want to use him." Sam protested, sensing the note of disdain in Papon's voice. "He shouldn't have been aware of Élodie's true allegiance – they were once lovers." She tried to ignore the look on Élodie's face – it was essential that they kept up the charade.

As they moved quickly down the corridor, flanked by the eminently capable militia men, Sam caught Jack's eye. He merely raised his eyebrows but didn't question what was going on. She nodded to him in gratitude. Explanations could wait – for the moment, they were getting out of there.

Elsewhere in the station

Commisioner Grégoire roared in frustration as he regained consciousness. He leapt to his feet, ignoring the screeching pain in his right arm and hurtled into the corridor, which was now full of officers running to and fro. The consensus shouts that were ringing throughout the building were not good. "Ils se sont enfuis! They've escaped!"

"Putain de merde! Fucking hell!" the Commissioner cursed to himself, running down the corridor. He was moving towards the main entrance when suddenly a breeze and the sound of an angry mob to his left stopped him in his tracks. Looking to his left, down another long corridor, he saw an enourmous gaping hole in the side of the building. There were hundreds of protestors, armed with hand grenades, masks over their fasces to shield them from the tear gas. A thin line of police officers lined the opening to the outside world, but Grégoire realized that if the reactionary forces had wanted to overrun the station, they would already have done so – this had definitely been a rescue mission.

He looked hopelessly around him as officers made their reports of what was going on. The crowd wasn't advancing, but any attempt to disperse or pushed them back resulted in more explosives being hurled at the building. The army had been called in, but wouldn't be there for about an hour. Little matter, he thought to himself bitterly. Reportedly the most dangerous terrorists in the Cagoule had been allowed to escape in a barrage of fire. The republic was in grave danger. Turning back on his heels, he headed to the back entrance to make a retreat. He needed to call the Prime Minister.

To be continued…

A/N: Ok, I don't know how I do it, but everything seems to be constantly getting more complicated! I've frequently made this comment with my writing… the thing is that in my head there's not just a story, but an entire UNIVERSE, and I'm trying my best to transmit that to you all without missing anything.

One comment about this chap: Maurice Papon was a real person, although obviously his actions in this are COMPLETELY fabricated. He was tried for Crimes against Humanity in the 1990s for his complicity in the deportation of the Jews from France under the Vichy regime during the war – not a nice guy. Sam knows this, and will prolly explain it in some way to the others at some point, but I just thought I'd let you all know.

Let me know if anything seems not to make sense… I think I've managed to get it all together in a somehow cohesive manner, but then you might not think so! Please review anyway. I tend to struggle with action sequences, I dunno why – I just find them hard. So feedback would be well appreciated!