On Tuesday morning, Alex found himself in the office of an extremely senior civil servant at the Ministry for Foreign Affairs.

The Foreign Ministry owned several buildings in central Paris, the most important an imposing mid-nineteenth-century building on the left bank of the Seine, between the Chamber of Deputies and the grassy esplanade of the Invalides. The office was furnished in chrome and leather and glass, but the ceiling mouldings, the wood panelling, the doors and the windows were all perfectly preserved examples of Second Empire design. The combination was a strange mixture of luxury and austerity. Alex wasn’t sure he liked it.

Soon after dawn he had sent a formal email, stating his intention to resign. It had taken only four hours to filter up to Claudine Poiret, a woman with direct authority over External Security within French government. Poiret had immediately sent an official car to pick him up. For almost an hour they’d been talking in circles.

‘I haven’t taken the decision lightly,’ he repeated.

Poiret leaned back in her chair, a calculating look in her eyes. ‘You have two months left in your current tour of duty?’

‘Yes.’
‘What will you do then?’

Alex declined to be drawn. ‘With respect, that’s my business.’

Poiret picked up a screen-stylus and tapped it on the smoked-glass desk. ‘You say you no longer believe your work is helping people. But surely you understand that what a government says for domestic consumption does not correspond to policy? Events move quickly. Actions are determined by the national interest.’

‘By “actions”, you mean robberies?’ His tone was acid. ‘Extrajudicial killings?’

‘Actions that usually turn out to be justified.’

‘Is that the only policy?’ Alex asked. ‘The “national interest”?’

‘It isn’t a bad policy.’
‘When Iran bombed Haifa in 2024, was that in the national interest?’

Poiret looked confused. ‘That had little to do with French intelligence.’

‘France publicly condemned Israel to gain political advantage,’ he reminded her. ‘The consequences might have been nuclear conflict.’

‘There was no certainty that Iran was capable of detonating a nuclear device.’

‘You’re deliberately missing the point,’ said Alex, angrily. ‘In any case, I’m not asking you to dismantle the DGSE. I am simply resigning.’

She left a beat before asking, ‘How old are you, remind me?’

‘I am thirty-two.’

‘You were nineteen years old in 2024. Why did Haifa come into your mind?’

He made an impatient gesture. ‘When I joined the service, I wrote a study of the events that led to the Israel–Iran War.’

She nodded. ‘For Professor Fayard, I know. I’ve read your file. On the strength of it, he asked you to join the diplomatic service. Yet you refused. Why?’

Alex paused. It was a good question. His academic achievements had equipped him perfectly for a life of strategy and theoretical decision-making.

‘I used to believe in the power of action,’ he said.

‘And now you are experiencing a loss of faith.’

He considered this assessment – looking for the truth in it. ‘I lost faith when I was a child. This is different. The future is...’ He stopped.

Poiret looked genuinely interested. ‘Is what?’

He met her gaze. ‘On our current path? Dark.’

Silence fell and lasted so long he could hear a blackbird singing in the lime tree outside the windows.

Was she right? Should he stay and fight? Try and create better policies from within?

‘You know, this is what the psychologists call an abcès de fixation,’ she told him suddenly. ‘You are choosing resignation as if it can mend all of your regrets and resentments. But this would mean abandoning everything you’ve worked for...’ She stopped, as if another thought had occurred to her. ‘I wonder, is it an aspect of your special skill?’

‘I have no special skills,’ Alex said.

‘Don’t you?’ Poiret activated a holoscreen. Several documents appeared. ‘Your career is studded with commendations for your “extraordinary intuitive understanding”, your “exceptional ability to foresee outcomes”. Wouldn’t you say that was a special skill?’

Alex watched her cautiously before replying. ‘They overestimate me.’

‘I doubt that.’ Poiret shut down the holo. ‘On reflection, I think redeployment would be a better option.’

Alex frowned. ‘And why would I agree to that?’

Poiret smiled. ‘Oh, you must allow me some secrets, Monsieur Lamarque.’