BOOK 2 – FRENCH IMMERSION (PRINTEMPS)
Chapter 1 – People Like Us
Gerard was sitting at the breakfast table, waiting for his father to come in from his home office. Benoit had informed his son that he was going to make more of an effort to spend a little more time together, even if it was just to eat a meal and talk to each other for a few minutes. The demands of the Presidential office were such that his father didn't have much time to spare, but Benoit shouldn't use that as an excuse. Gerard was his son, and he should make time for him, the President told the boy. Besides, his father had teased, their carefree bachelor days were just about at an end. Soon, Benoit and Michelle would be married, and Gerard would have a mother. Wasn't he looking forward to that?
Actually, Gerard was. His father had no idea how much. The boy was no longer the innocent little child Benoit had adopted, but he still led a very sheltered life. He was beginning his adolescence, now. Ever since being taken from the compound, Gerard had been cloistered here in Benoit's mansion, with very little human contact, to speak of. The formula that Dr. Roarke had developed to keep the boy's powers in check had worked wonders, but still, to this day, the staff members who had been in Monsieur Levesque's employ since his adopted son's arrival avoided little Jerry, whenever possible. New staff members, as few as they were, learned pretty quickly not to go out of their way to spend time in the boy's company, even if they were unsure as to why. As a result, Gerard was lonely and restless. Benoit had been unwilling to send the boy to private school, because of the potential havoc his powers could cause. So his son had a computer, and shelves and shelves of reference books, but the boy had never had any formal education. He was precocious, though, and fairly bright, despite his limited opportunities.
When Gerard's father wasn't around, which was most of the time, Gerard spent his time reading, surfing the net, and playing by himself on the grounds of the mansion. But all of this was about to change, and soon. Soon, he would have a companion: Maman Michelle. Benoit had assured his son that his new bride, Gerard's new stepmother, would be spending a lot of her time at home, doing fund-raising for various charities. Gerard had been over the moon to hear that. He had only met Michelle a couple of times, but she had been kind to him, playing games with him, and making him cookies. Not that remarkable in the larger scheme of things, but to a child as starved for companionship and affection as Gerard was, it was a big deal. Maybe she would even take him to the city, once in a while. He had seen photos of the Eiffel Tower online. Wouldn't it be neat to go up there, and look out at the city? Maybe they could even go as a family, all three of them. Gerard knew that his father was very busy running the country, but Maman Michelle had been able to persuade his Papa to take the occasional day off when she'd been here before.
Yes, everything was going to change once Gerard's father and Michelle got married, and it was going to change for the better. There was only one thing that could be a problem, but Gerard was already taking steps to take care of that. One day just recently, he had overheard a couple of the kitchen staff talking about the special medicine that was to be added to the child's juice every morning, and to his glass of milk in the evening. It was vitally important, the older woman had told the new employee. It kept the boy calm.
Gerard had been taken aback for a moment, but then he'd thought about it and realized what was going on, here. At first, he'd thought it was a good thing. Truthfully, Jerry's powers had scared even him, sometimes. It seemed like every time he got upset, someone got hurt. A few years ago, one of the girls who had volunteered to tuck him into bed had ended up gravely wounded, simply because the child had been angry at his Papa for working so much. After that, even though Gerard still got agitated from time to time, there had been no further incidents of that nature.
But, as glad as Gerard was that nobody else had been hurt, he had also realized that the medicine they'd been giving him was the reason he felt so sleepy, for so much of the time. The last time Maman Michelle had been here, he had nodded off a few minutes after she had made them a big bowl of popcorn and put on a movie. The next thing Gerard knew, he was waking up in his bed the next morning, and his Papa told him over breakfast that Michelle had gone back to America. Then his Papa had left for work, and Gerard had been left alone to eat, as usual.
He'd felt terrible about missing out on such a rare family night, and then, when Gerard had made the connection between feeling so lethargic and the medicine they had apparently been giving him this whole time, he'd known what he had to do. After all, Gerard was about to have his prayers answered. He was going to get a mother.
He'd had a biological mother, of course, but she had been uninterested in motherhood, to say the least. "April" was the name she'd used, but no one knew the woman's real name, not even Jerry. Vincent probably hadn't, either. The only thing the Voodoo Priest had been interested in was how attractive the woman had been. She had reminded him of Placida, in a way, without the sense of entitlement. Vincent had known how April earned her living, and though he was hardly one to judge, he probably wouldn't have trifled with the woman under normal circumstances. A guy like Vincent could get any woman he wanted to do pretty much anything he wanted. But one night, he'd seen something that had made him change his mind. April had been standing on a street corner, waiting for the light to change. A man had driven by in a car with the windows rolled down and whistled at her, calling her a whore. April had calmly watched the car roll down the street for a moment, and then suddenly, it had burst into flames. April had smiled widely, and then continued on her merry way. Vincent had been intrigued, to say the least. So he had followed April home and seduced her, and nine months later, little Jerry had come along. Since April had had no interest in being a mother, she had dumped the baby outside the front door of the free clinic she used sometimes, and kept on going. And by the time Jerry had been brought to the compound, he had been passed from foster home to foster home, like a radioactive football.
As he had grown from infanthood, Jerry had not grown in maturity, though. He had never quite been able to make the connection between the fact that he had never been able to stay in one home for very long, and the fact that people tended to sustain serious injuries every time the boy became upset. Even now, all that Gerard could think about was his desire to finally have a real family.
So when the girl who brought him his breakfast had left the kitchen area to go on her break, Gerard took his orange juice in there and dumped the liquid down the sink. Then he poured another glass for himself from the pitcher, and by the time his Papa sat down at the dining room table, Gerard was already halfway through his meal. And he was smiling.
Sam had been doing some Internet research on Benoit Levesque, and when the group stopped by Frank's house before going overseas, the younger Winchester was telling everyone what he had found out about the man's background, and his politics.
"He's done an excellent job of whitewashing his past, no pun intended," Sam said dryly. He'd been grateful to have this mission to focus on, right now. The more research Sam was able to do, the less opportunity his mind had to wander. Bobby and Cas had combined to take the sharpest edges off of Sam's memory of Damien, but he still felt as if a piece of himself was missing. It didn't do any good for the younger Winchester to remind himself that Damien wasn't actually his son. For the longest time, ever since Becky had stood up at Cas and Gail's house following Christmas dinner and announced that she was having his baby, Sam had been operating under that premise. He'd done so much planning and anticipating for a time when Damien, or as Sam had known him, Brian, would be old enough to do things with. Teach stuff to. But now, none of that would ever happen. Sam was in mourning for the loss of a son who had never even been his, in the first place. How did you work your way through THAT kind of thing?
By doing the things that he did best, Sam supposed. "There's no mention in any of his official biographies about Les Rebelles Blancs," Sam went on. "The only thing I was able to find was one of those blind items in the tabloids, hinting around about it. So then I dug deeper, and I found one report that Levesque was accused of being the mastermind of that group in a press conference once, when he was running for office. He denied it, of course, and the reporter who brought up the subject went missing after the press conference."
"Well, isn't that convenient," Frank said sarcastically. "I guess the guy did Nazi that coming, did he?"
Silence. No one really felt like joking about the subject, least of all the four of them who had infiltrated the white supremacist organization.
"There aren't too many details about his background," Sam continued, "and what there is available to read here sounds like a canned press release. Born to wealthy parents, went to private school, ran the family business. Inherited millions when his parents died, ran for office because he wanted to make a difference, blah, blah, blah."
"Did it cause a Fuhrer when he announced he was running for President?" Frank piped up again, and Gail let out a frustrated breath.
"Could you just...not?" she exclaimed irritably. "You're not being funny, you're being insensitive."
"Really?" her brother retorted. "To who? The Nazis? Is it more politically correct to call them white supremacists? How about pigmental objectionists, then?"
"That's enough, Frank," Cas said wearily. "Please."
Mercifully, Gail's brother stood down for the moment. He'd only been doing what he always did, using black humour to try to defuse the tension in the room. But he hadn't been there with them, Gail thought, giving Frank a baleful stare. He hadn't seen and heard all of the hateful things that Benoit's group had done and said. No, it wasn't funny. Not at all.
"It's not even clear how old this guy is," Sam pressed on. "The propoganda says he's 50, but I find that hard to believe. He looked at least that old when we knew him."
"I'm sure he must be older than that," Henri chipped in. Cas had asked their Angel friend to come, to see if there was anything he could contribute to the intel they were attempting to gather. "I spent years compiling information on him and his group, and when I started, he looked the same as he does now. If I didn't know better, I'd swear he's got a water cooler set up in his office that dispenses water from the Fountain of Youth," Henri added, shaking his head.
Cas and Gail exchanged sharp glances at that. It was obvious that Henri was only being facetious, but what he'd said sounded a little too much like Vincent for their liking.
"You're right, Sam; he must have spread a nice pile of that so-called 'family money' around, to suppress a lot of things in his background," Henri mused. "Levesque's father was a known racist, but even though the man was on public record as an anti-Semite who practiced Petainism, there's no mention of that in any of those biographies."
"'Petainism'? What's that?" Dean inquired.
Henri smiled grimly. "It's a long story, and we're not really here for a history lesson. Suffice to say, it means ultra, ultra conservative. Basically, those people have the viewpoint that: If it ain't white, it ain't right. They're against...well, pretty much everything. Gay marriage, abortion, womens' rights, you name it. The only thing they're in favour of is the death penalty. But only for minorities, of course."
They were all silent again, digesting this. If these were the ideologies that Benoit had grown up being taught, no wonder he was the way he was, now. It was a little hard to believe that someone who held such repugnant beliefs had not only been allowed to run for the highest office in the land, but had been elected to it, the humans and the Angels remarked. Henri said nothing, but he didn't necessarily agree. Looking at the situation from the viewpoint of a person whose skin was a different colour than theirs, to Henri, it made perfect sense. France had been besieged by terrorist attacks in recent years, and the government that had been in place before Benoit had come along had seemed powerless to stop them. Then along had come a fresh face, talking plainly, pointing a finger at the immigrants and telling the people that he had a concrete plan in place to put an end to the violence. And, lest the prospective voters think him to be a racist, Monsieur Levesque would then parade his young black son in front of the press corps. Yes, Henri could understand it all too well.
That was pretty much all the information that they had been able to come up with on Benoit Levesque, and after some discussion, it was determined that it would be impossible to do anything to stop him. Not by using legal means, anyway. There was absolutely no evidence of any wrongdoing, on his part. Likewise, there was no way that they were going to be able to convince Michelle not to marry the man; not on their say-so, alone. The only thing they could do would be to go to France, and attempt...what? None of them were sure, exactly. Could they expose his true beliefs to the public, somehow? Prevent Michelle from marrying him? Or should they consider a more radical solution?
Rob and Gail had sat down with the files, to try to definitively establish the identities of Vincent's offspring who were in Benoit's service. There was little Jerry, of course, who was the child that Benoit had trotted out in public, seemingly whenever the hint of racism had arisen. Jerry would be an adolescent, now. The others who they had been able to identify were young adults, in the 18-30 year old range. These individuals had all tested well in the compound when it came to various talents, Gail advised the group. The trouble was, she had the feeling they'd only scratched the surface when it had come to assessing those abilities. They had better be prepared.
"For what?" Dean asked her, and Gail looked at him for a moment.
"For anything," she said grimly.
Jillian and Benoit were in his office at work, having a chat about his upcoming wedding. It was a mystery to Jillian: why on earth would a wealthy, seemingly independent woman such as Michelle Delacroix fly across the ocean to marry a man like her boss? The staff had all met the future First Lady, of course, and she seemed like a nice enough woman. But Jillian had the feeling that Benoit's fiancee really had no idea what she was getting herself into. It was none of the young woman's business, though. She was pretty much indifferent about the whole thing. The instant that Jillian's foster father had molested her for the first time, any hopes or dreams she may have harboured in her naïve little childish heart about romance had been crushed under the heel of the man's work boot. Jillian's childhood traumas had followed her into young adulthood, and she was a bitter and spiteful person, as a result.
Benoit had been able to identify that quality in her, and he knew exactly how to exploit it. As he had promised the girl, once Levesque was elected he had relieved her of her duties at the reception desk and given her a much more important role to play in his administration. Whenever the President held a rally, made a public speech, or had a press conference, he made sure to have Jillian circulating among the crowd. Then, as Levesque revealed the latest step in his aim to rid his country of the vermin once and for all, Jillian would discreetly touch some of the onlookers at random and they would call out, supporting his initiatives. So far, it had worked like a charm. Those people who she had touched were backing Benoit to the hilt, but as his policies became more and more objectionable, the President would have to see just how influential Jillian's powers could be.
Vincent had done ritual after ritual to try to find the False Prophet, but so far, the results had been underwhelming. All he had been able to see was a large, wooden cross, and a whole lot of trees. Great. Big deal. Not exactly earth-shaking. The sight of the cross wasn't particularly surprising; whoever the guy was, he obviously practiced some kind of religion, as perverted as it might be. That didn't bother Vincent. Strictly speaking, Voodoo was a religion, too. He would just have to keep at it.
One bright spot was that he had Damien back in the fold, now. At first, Vincent had been taken aback at the sudden poolside appearance by his son, and then, he had been annoyed. Hadn't the object been to infiltrate the God Squad? But then, Damien had told his father how the whole thing had fallen apart, piece by piece, until the situation had become untenable. He probably embellished the story a little, but not that much. And after his initial flash of anger, Vincent realized he shouldn't have been too surprised. This was a game they were playing, after all. How much fun would it be if the score was too lopsided?
So Vincent had welcomed Damien back by pouring the boy a drink of the overproofed rum the island featured, diluting it with cola. Many people would probably disapprove of a nine-year-old boy being introduced to alcohol, but Vincent didn't give a damn. He had some time to kill while he tried to figure out where the Prophet was, and Damien was his son, after all. Vincent planned on introducing the boy to a lot of things. Once the Prophet was located and joined the team, Papa Legba wanted Damien to be able to use his power to its full potential.
"To God," Vincent toasted, startling Abbadon, who had come out from the cabana to greet Damien. She toasted, but raised her eyebrows while she was doing it.
Vincent laughed. "Hey, I have to hand it to the guy. Point to Bobby. That's OK; I'll let him have this one. Now, drink up. We'll have a barbecue on the beach tonight. Eat, drink and be merry, kid," he added, lifting his glass to Damien. "Tonight, you become a man."
Damien grinned. Now, this was more like it.
Kim was standing in front of the mirror in the Executive washroom, practicing. He could pretty much morph into anyone he wanted to, now. He closed his eyes for a moment, concentrating, and a minute later, he was a short Filipino woman, with a bamboo purse in the crook of her arm.
One of the cabinet members came into the mens' room, and he did a double-take upon seeing Kim. The young man laughed. Then, his fellow cabinet member looked at the symbol on the door, making Kim laugh even harder.
The young man morphed back into his original form. "Sorry; I was just having a little fun," he told the man.
Pierre shook his head slowly. Never in a million years had he ever thought that he would be seeing some of the things he'd seen here. As one of the inner circle, Pierre Tetriault was privy to more things than most, so he knew that Benoit had brought some young people here with him from the United States, and that they had special abilities. But what he was witnessing now was out of the realm of science fiction. Not for the first time, Pierre wondered what the hell kind of cabinet Monsieur Levesque had assembled. He himself was a straight-arrow politician, a longtime Nationalist. Pierre had known and admired Benoit's father, and he regarded the son just as favourably. It was high time that someone actually took action against the filthy immigrants that were invading the country Pierre loved so much.
With one more look at Kim, Monsieur Tetriault moved to the urinal. "We have that press conference in five minutes," he said in a businesslike tone. "Monsieur Levesque wants us all there, as a show of solidarity."
Kim rolled his eyes. The humourless old fuddy-duddy. But he knew that Benoit had to have some older people in his government, because there were a lot of old-school voters who didn't trust anyone under 50. "OK, I'll be right there," he told the man. "I just have to...you know." He gestured to the urinal. "This is one advantage we have over women, right?"
Pierre stared at the young man for a moment. Kim was back to his usual appearance now, a young Asian man wearing a shirt and tie. At least Benoit had his young staff members dressing properly for the office, anyway.
The older man relieved himself and then left the washroom. Kim let out the laugh he'd been holding in, then followed suit a moment later.
Benoit stood at the podium, facing the members of the press. He had just unveiled the plan to have all of the immigrants that had come into the country tattooed, identifying them as such. He and his cabinet had discussed this late last year, but the logistics had taken a while to iron out. Now, the program was ready to go, and Benoit's intention was to be transparent about it. He knew that there was going to be some controversy regarding the program. Some of the members of his own cabinet had even expressed a distaste for the procedure. But it was Benoit who was the President, and he meant to implement it.
Predictably, there was a fair amount of commotion among the press corps, although probably not as much as there should have been. Jillian was weaving in and out of the assembled group, doing her thing.
But Eileen was in the back of the room, and she was livid. Her sister Cecile was standing along the wall with the other cabinet members, playing her part, and they exchanged a quick glance. Cecile had warned Eileen that this was coming, but the leader of the Resistance was still outraged. She elbowed the reporter next to her, signing furiously.
Charles wasn't a member of Eileen's group, per se, but he was definitely a sympathizer. Because he was a journalist, though, he had to appear to be impartial. But the announcement had outraged him, as well.
"Those are just concentration camp tattoos, called by a different name!" Eileen fumed, her fingers flying. "Get him to admit it! I should know; most of my family died in those camps!"
Charles nodded to placate her. Yes, he knew that. But he also knew that it would be career suicide to say so out loud. Still, he wouldn't be doing his job properly if he didn't say something. So, he called out: "Aren't you concerned that what you're talking about sounds like - "
Benoit was way ahead of him. "No, they're not like concentration camp tattoos, Monsieur Dallaire," he said calmly. The calmer his tone, the more hysterical anyone who shouted would sound. "That is what you were going to allege, is it not?" the President added. He was a big believer in the pre-emptive strike. It was a tried-and-true way to take the sting out of any accusation.
"I can address your concerns, Charles," Benoit continued. He made it a point to learn as many of their names as he could. "The situation is completely different. The mark that we are proposing wouldn't be visible to the naked eye. Therefore, we aren't infringing upon anyone's civil rights. Designated government representatives will carry hand-held units that can scan the mark, under a special light. So you see, that's not the same thing, at all. It's just so that we know who these people are, and where they are. The system is for everyone's protection."
Eileen's hands were moving again. "Yeah?" she signed to Charles furiously. "What kind of sense does that even MAKE? What's the difference who they are, or where they are? If they're not criminals, they have the right to be anywhere they damn well please!" Oh, how she wished she wasn't deaf right now, Eileen thought fervently. There would be nothing she would love better than to stand in the middle of the room and rail at that Nazi bastard. But, strictly speaking, she wasn't even supposed to be here. Charles had brought her in here with him, and when the guards at the door had asked for her press credentials, she had looked at them blankly, and then began signing with her hands. They had given up on her then, and Eileen had smirked. Being deaf was a double-edged sword, sometimes. But, just why were there guards at a press conference, anyway? What was this, The Sound Of Music, or something?
Charles had been just about the rephrase Eileen's remarks more diplomatically for the President to address when another reporter spoke up: "Well, I think it's a terrific idea," Maxime said firmly. Jillian had passed by the woman a moment ago, deliberately joggling the reporter's arm. "It's about time we took control of our own country," Maxime continued. "I walk downtown along the Champs Elysees, and there they are, those Muslims with their prayer rugs, kneeling in the square. I don't even feel like I live in Paris, any more."
The room erupted then, half of the people in it objecting to what she'd just said, and the other half lending their support to it. Benoit looked down at them all from his podium, and he was amused. It was amazing what people would accept, especially once the thing was presented as a fait accompli. For every person Jillian had touched, infusing that individual with hateful thoughts, there were others who she hadn't laid a finger on who were also parroting Maxime's racist rhetoric. Benoit didn't have to say another word; his constituents were speaking volumes. At one point, the President and his cabinet had discussed just how easy it would be to persuade the good people of France to vote for a literal nuclear option, in the instance of some of the countries that were considered to be a threat to the Western world. Almost too easy, they had agreed. France had nuclear capability, as did many other countries, these days. Secretly, Benoit had briefly and seriously considered that as an option. But, in the end, it was entirely too risky. Some other country might involve themselves, and retaliate. Like most bullies, Benoit was at heart a craven coward, who only really cared about his own skin. As President, he knew he would be taken care of, but he did not want to lose everything he had so carefully built. It was best just to stick with the original plan.
Benoit excused himself, leaving the podium abruptly. The reporters scarcely noticed.