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Post by Ad Absurdum on Oct 20, 2016 23:24:42 GMT -5
Ocean's 1919
“The assembly will now hear the case of Antonin Bryzohaty, primary delegate and ambassador of the Republic of Odor”
The words, spoken by United State President Woodrow Wilson, took Bryzohaty almost completely by surprise. Four days now of being forced to entertain the various ramblings and pleas of other delegates, the buzz of bureaucratic speak had all but bleached away into a fuzz of white noise.
Finally.
Really, the only reparations available so far had been the bar open during the recesses, consistently coming in more frequent durations as the conference had progressed. It had more than aided him for the first three days, a simple aperitif to make politics all the more digestible, but Bryzohaty had refrained on the fourth, assuming that by the end of today, Odor’s case would be heard, or he’d shoot himself–any excuse to get away from Orlando’s increasingly fanatical gospel.
Ah, yes. The Big Four. Wilson, Orlando, George, and Clemenceau. They sat more like an Inquisitorial Court than a proper Democracy right now, self-righteous over-bearing, justice spouting zealots, looking upon the lesser nations, taking it upon themselves to decide who earned what piece of the post-war German buffet, whether it be resources, some colonial fodder, or straight up money.
Amusingly, Bryzohaty had noticed Germany was all but absent from the proceedings. A trial in which the defendant stayed in the corner, only receiving the occasional scrap of news. Truly, the Paris Peace Conference was a front, a cheap banner tactic to mask what was really a front for a den of wolves.
Unfortunately, there was only one sheep to go around.
“Did I pronounce that correctly…Odor?”
“More on the lines of, Odoer, actually,” Bryzohaty’s Flemish accent was sharpened with from nearly two weeks of pulling off the ruse. He kept his English pronunciations with the appropriate amount of kitsch. “But I will say you fare better than most, the average Englishman seems to associate it more along olfactory terms.”
Wilson kept his smirk clinical. George disguised his annoyance with a cough.
“You come before the assembly today seeking reparations correct? On the amount of–“ Wilson’s eyes fell to the folder on the bench before him. As Bryzohaty expected, his eyebrows raised up to nearly his temples.
“The amount is correct, fine gentlemen of the court.” Bryzohaty let his eyes wander the assembly hall; a room seemingly pulled straight form the renaissance. Of course, that was Europe for you embracing the anachronistic, with France being the guiltiest party. Gold accented nearly every possible feature of the room, to an almost nauseous degree. Above, the ceiling was painted with the judgmental eyes of saints, angels and cherubs–the whole Christianity parade, all ready to condemn him on the spot. Around him, the room was flanked with flocks of old posh gentlemen, whose eyebrows were now mirroring Wilson’s.
“This is quite the amount you are seeking. Notably for a–“
“Small nation?” Bryzohaty pressed. “Naturally, I do not blame you, goodsir, hardly at all. Although, of course one would not expect the President of the United States to be the most fine tuned to this continent’s fine intricacies.”
Wilson’s face now tipped into a similar plateau of annoyance as George, but Bryzohaty wasn’t bothering to look. The statement would serve as a fine litmus test, to see where the picket lines had been forming. Certainly more than a few European leaders weren’t completely flush with ‘the king of North America’ taking charge, certainly a notable amount must have been fed up with this Fourteen Points of Peace Babble. And certainly…
Ah, perfect.
Clemenceau’s poker face had withered under the bombardment of crushing bureaucracy, and a slight jest at the United States’ leader suddenly made him re-ignite.
There’s the specimen, we’ll get to the hook momentarily.
“Proceed, then. State your case,” Wilson’s usual optimism had defaulted to a straight-to-business approach. Bryzohaty hardly cared, pawns had to be lost, after all.
“You will note indeed, my fellow delegates. That the amount is substantial. Yet in consideration of my reparations I only ask one question. Where will you all return to when this conference is finished?”
The room was silent. Eyes moved from the papers onto him. Of course they had taken the question as rhetorical. Bryzohaty smirked, before rising from his seat, slithering his way into the middle of the floor.
“Prime Minister Orlando. Surely Paris has been pleasing to the eye…but where will you turn to once this is all over?”
The Italian man scoffed. “Back to Roma of course.”
“Naturally.” Bryzohaty circled around the room. He had done his homework, each and every other delegate here, he had their names and countries memorized. While his faux Flemish would falter on other words, each and every name he had uttered had been with razor sharp precision. “Marquess Kinmochi? Will you stay in Europe?”
“Back to Tokyo.” The Japanese delegate replied.
“Of course, of course…” Bryzohaty drummed his fingers along the table as he strolled past, before whirling around to face the rest of the assembly. “It’s expected, gentlemen, that all of you. Every last of one of you, will return your home countries. To your cities, relieved of the burden and happy to leave this war behind you. I…I have no such fortune….Meritz, the projector.”
His ‘associate’, ‘Caden Meritz’ ‘Foreign Affairs Minister’ of the ‘Republic of Odor’, strolled forward from his own position on the desk. He himself snapped his fingers, and the doors to the hall burst open, two more smartly dressed men coming in, both pushing a rather large projector to the centre of the room.
“Lights.” The lights blinked out, another man executing his cue in clockwork fashion.
Dominate the environment. Leave no variables. Bryzohaty exhaled, the darkened room hiding his half grinning face. The, the projector turned on, and the world bloomed sepia.
The bar of light sliced across the room, emblazoning itself on to one of the portions of the walls which was miraculously bare. Meritz was already pushing the first slide into place.
“Our beloved Odor occupied–emphasis on that word gentlemen–a small sliver of land between Belgium and Germany. Tired of the monarchal ramblings of larger nations, its establishment of a sovereign state was in 1819, although such a thing was only formally acknowledged by Belgium and to this day, we support that acknowledgement with the utmost respect.” Bryzohaty nodded towards Prime Minister Leon Delecroix, who himself stood up abruptly, the chair screeching on the floor beneath him.
“Yes….yes…of course! Belgium has always admired Odor’s persistence, a tenacious little nation it is. Yes, aha! Quite!” Bryzohaty watched expectantly as Delecroix’s fingers scratched at his mustache, an excuse to briefly match stares with him. The expression was telling enough.
Good enough?
Bryzohaty nodded. For now. He spun to the wall, looking at the image now projected along the wall. It was Delecroix and another man, shaking hands rather enthusiastically some other political office.
“Here you can see our late elected President; Narcisse Trelemphere. Of course the man on the right means no introduction. Although from what I hear the relationship between the two leaders was quite sound.” Just as we rehearsed you old dog.
Delecroix was playing his part magnificently. “He was quite the opinionated man and I dare say one could well drink me under the table…” His belly laughter was met with silence.
“Unfortunately, Trelemphere passed away in 1914, months before this bastard of conflict spewed out. I will not go into depths on his opinions here, but I have no doubt that he would have been an invaluable ally in the conflict…”
“And you are the standing President then?” Wilson asked, leaning forward from his chair.
“Technically, yes. The process for an election was postponed…indefinitely, due to–if it isn’t obvious already–invasion.” Bryzohaty stepped in front of the projector, hoping his silhouette would give the sentence the appropriate amount of dramatic flair.
Politics or acting, it was all theatrical. All grandstanding.
It was George this time who spoke up. “Pardon my ignorance, but…a country as a sliver you say. What is your population?”
“Was, sir. Was…but, to put your question and place it at the beginning of the war, I would say seven thousand.”
“Seven thousand?”
“That is correct…”
“And yet you expect to claim the sum amount of–“
Bryzohaty did not blink. “That is also correct.”
“Based on what other countries have asked for, and have gotten, do you find this calculus reasonable?”
“I do.”
“I am sorry. But I must say that I find your claims to be–to put it kindly–preposterous.”
The waxing on had clearly bleached most leaders of a sense of respect. Still, Bryzoharty was undeterred. “Sorry…my English, while better than most, misses a few words every now and then…you say…preposterous?”
“Absurd. Ludicrous.”
“Of course…of course…”
“You cannot honestly expect to have a case,” George shook his head. “Germany is a country, not a buffet. We are here to take reparations, not to pluck a carcass clean.”
“” I do expect to have a case. And I expect you to listen.”
“And you truly think you’ll persuade this council?”
“Prime Minister George and my dear fellow delegates,” Bryzohaty stepped forward towards the projector, so that his shadow behind him grew until it engulfed the narrow frame of light. Once again he had to smile, he couldn’t resist. ”I assure you that I intend to claim every last cent.”
~ ~ ~
The Republic of Odor is a tragic tale. A fleeting puff of non-monarchical integrity that was eliminated in a War that was arguably started by the very thing it stood against. Encompassing really just two cities and a splotch of rural area, Odor would be the first causality in a long war, essentially road kill, as Germans smashed into Belgium.
Bryzohaty shows the slides. All pictures of the two quaint cities. Canals here. Cafes there.
Shoved between the quaint is the filth. For each picture of a city, an echo also occurs. Before and after. The same place in ruins. Smoldering rubble, collapsed building. Crying, sobbing citizens standing amidst the fatal wreckage of their homes. All of it all the more effective in the stark chiaroscuro of the projector.
Weeks of debating from the top officials can have a numbing effect, after all. Sometimes, one has to take the necessary steps to remind people what the war was truly about. Who it truly affected.
This isn’t a fluke. Bryzohaty is doing this for a reason. Although the delegates here have successfully signed Germany as taking blame for most of the war, deep inside their smug little hearts, they know better.
They all know better.
The Republic of Odor is the perfect mechanism to deliver that.
And it only came into existence four days ago.
~ ~ ~
“We’re a bust,” Meritz snarled as they entered the bathroom.
“Hardly, my dear. It’s a mere suspicion perhaps, but nothing more.” Bryzohaty hopped himself up onto the sink counter, plucking a cigarette from his pocket. Every room of the chatea was ornate, and the bathroom was no exception. Every surface was polished copper, curved and smoothed to an absurd degree, reflecting warped versions of their already warping disguises.
The assembly had called for a brief recess halfway through their presentation. Allegedly, the sobering reminder of the true causalities of war had called for a quite sortee to the bar.
“A suspicions that they no doubt all share. It’s on their minds, if not just about to dance off their tongues, “Meritz looked into one of the copper surfaces, nervously slicking his hair back again, the copious amount of oil he had applied was now making noticeable progress down across his forehead.
“Which won’t happen I assure you,” Bryzohaty found his lighter, and brought his cigarette to life, the scent of tobacco mixing with the perfumes of the bathroom as well as gasoline mixed with water. “That’s the thing about politicians. You can’t appears like an idiot, not even for one second. You think any one of those leaders will actually question if there is a Republic of Odor, at the risk of sounding like an idiot? We have the immunity of formal manners here, Lewis.”
Lewis Ambrosse, a.k.a Caden Meritz didn’t reply at first, still fervently examining his reflection like Narcissus in heat. Booker Talbot a.k.a Anton Bryzohaty, savoured the silence for as long as he could, letting his cigarette char between his fingers.
“We really shouldn’t have ran the Poseidon’s Peril…” Ambrosse finally said. “Too much reliance on anger.”
Talbot shook his head. “It’s been the plan for the last fortnight. It’s the only way to get cozy with the leaders.”
“As I’ve been saying from saying the start, the Albino Sloth would have worked spades on them.”
“Nonsense. Neither of us speak Portuguese that well.”
“The Ravenous Irishman then, “Ambrosse persisted, finally turning away from his own reflection.
“We could never get a brothel set up in such a short time period.”
“We got a bloody country!”
“Pictures of a few forgotten ruined towns are hardly a country. Although they really have made quite an impression. No, Poseidon’s Peril gets us to our weak link. It’s by far our best chance. If you had taken me on for this proposition then perhaps you’d get a higher say, but since it is my idea and my capital, we will be doing it my way.”
Ambrosse opened his mouth, closed it. Opened it again, choked out half a consonant, before promptly spinning around and tending to his hair again.
Punching his cigarette into the marble countertop, Talbot got back to his feet again. His remarks would keep Ambrosse in line for at least the next session, but his associate was getting increasingly lavish ideas of ambition.
They had been partners on two cons before hand. Talbot liked him enough for the sole reason that Ambrosse could out-act a Shakespeare company in near any role. The man had flexibility, and his bland facial features meant his costumes could express that sentiment.
Chameleonic was key. Ambrosse had made a grand President for Odor, nobody even questioned the reliability of the photograph, but his claim to fame with Meritz, remained to be seen.
Let me write the script, and you just act the bloody thing. Talbot himself had been doing the gig since he had learned to walk. His first con was as clear as a diamond in his mind; selling magic coins to the other children at school to protect them from the resident swamp monster.
The monster, of course, had been his own creation. Every thing in the 20th century had buckled under laissez-faire markets. It was supply and demand, and his own profession was no different.
“Any other pressing questions, then?” He finally asked. The recess time was short lived, but there was still a change to salvage a drink. It would certainly help with the next part
Ambrosse chewed his lip, pacing across the bathroom. God, he needed to stop sweating. “I just think–“
“Poseidon’s Peril ran fine in London. It’ll run fine here,” Talbot shot his partner a withering glance, really hoping to extinguish all further questions.
“Why is it even called the Po–“
“If you have to ask that, you’re not ready to know. Now, it would be most undermining to simply hide away from the rest of the delegates, so if you’ll excuse me–“
~ ~ ~
The moment Booker Talbot exited the bathroom, he ceased to exist. The role of Anton Bryzohaty coalesced onto him, sculpting onto his figure. His gait adjusted slightly–more brisk, more business like. His tongue flirted with his teeth, a silent charade where he let the accent sprout up again.
His eyes squinted slightly, Bryzohaty was a man with corrosive sight, but his pride prevented him getting glasses just yet. And, above all else, Bryzohaty would always–
“Hello…Booker,” the voice sliced through his train of thought like barbwire, chewing up Bryzohaty and spitting out Talbot. He turned, slowly; coming to face whom he already knew was the source.
Conrad Petrov always seemed to get shorter with each and every encounter, a phenomenon Talbot could not quite place. Yet at the same time, this seemed to make him more intimidating, more dangerous, as if the compacting of Talbot’s number one adversary merely concentrated the amount of malice into a lesser volume.
Talbot did away with formalities, that could only end in insults against each other’s mothers, and he simply had no time for that. Instead: “How’d you know?”
“You have a peculiar habit of scratching your chest.”
“Quite…”
“Although, I do hear they have more than a few remedies for heartburn nowadays. Amazing what the War can help us produce,” Petrov detached himself from the wall, but ignoring Talbot entirely he came to a stop at one of the vast windows over looking the property, staring out into the country side beyond
“How kind of you to think of my health.”
“Communism, as you must have heard, leaves no man behind. My home country seems to be embracing that quite well now.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
“Then, that begs the question,” Talbot waltzed forward, coming to a stop beside his rival. The blonde haired bastard always had something against intimacy, and Talbot could always relish his visible discomfort whenever he got too close. “Why they hell are you here?”
“Because I am no Communist.”
“A noble stance, although I’d expect motive to lie a bit more in the, ah, personal realm,” Talbot shuffled closer. A short man himself, it was a rarity to dwarf another human. But the fact that one of them just so happened to be his primary adversary was too delicious to pass up.
“You expect me here on revenge terms, yes?”
“I do remember leaving you with naught but a camel and half of a passport.”
“Only after I threw you into a canal in Venice.”
The verbal riposte caused a distinct taste of sewage water to dance along Talbot’s tongue. His brow furrowed. “I recall you only doing that because I jabbed a nifty splinter into the fake masquerade deal you had going on…a noble enterprise, but flawed.”
“It was not you–“ Petrov stopped himself as the bathroom door opened again, and this time Ambrosse came stumbling out.
“Tal-ton…Anton…Anton Bryzohaty, I…” Ambrosse’s words came out in short staccato plunges. For whatever reason, the portly man seemed to be proving a surplus of sweat and a shortage of breathe, making his slip all the more transparent. “…Though I’d find you at the bar.”
“Just catching up with a good acquaintance, Caden. I’ll meet you back in the assembly hall in, what is it now…five?”
Ambrosse out on quite the show of checking his watch. “Yes, er, yes. Five indeed!”
“Splendid,” the rapport established between the two on their last few cons had let to more than a few buzzwords connoting different meanings. In this case, splendid, had the innocuous duty of stating ‘get the fuck out.’
Ambrosse did just that.
“You have picked fantastic associate,” Petrov’s breathe was a foul cauldron of cigar smoke and whatever Eastern European cuisine he managed to engulf for breakfast. It hit Talbot’s nostril like a German Ace.
“He’s reliable…generally speaking. Perhaps the pressure may prove too much, but damn, I got him to agree to seventy five twenty five odds.”
“You truly are cheap bastard.”
Talbot took a step back, surrendering territory admittedly, but damn, he felt he needed a breath mint now“I prefer pragmatic. It runs in the family. How else would one gain a profit in this damn business?”
“By perhaps being a little less ludicrous. Truly, Booker, this is hilarious. The Republic of Odor? You created something a week ago–“
“Four days ago, official speaking.”
“Four days. And you truly expect this to work?”
“It’s been going swimmingly. So far.”
“So far.”
Talbot forced a terse smile. Naturally, Petrov being here would force a new variable into the mix; those two words implied everything he needed to know. “What are you a parrot? Or should I constitute that as an actual threat?”
Petrov didn’t answer, slowly turning to a nearby table, taking time to examine the it instead. “The Belgium Prime Minister, what did you blackmail him with?”
“Tut, tut, Conrad, that would be telling.”
“I know you like to boast, like typical American. What will you do? Who will you tell? Delegates instead?”
“Cheeky, but reasonable…” In this case, Talbot knew Petrov was spot on. But again, what was the harm in divulging a little slice of what was to come? “Our lovely Belgian delegate apparently has quite the thing for women’s stockings…”
“I presume he at least wears them well?”
“I presume that the press wouldn’t care if that story were to so leak,” Talbot smirked. The pictures hasn’t been easy to obtain, a few too many nights in the seedier parts of Amsterdam, but hell if they didn’t deliver.
“And Odor’s refugees? I doubt you and your associate could place themselves into multiple shoes on all of those pictures you showed.”
Oh, Petrov certainly was digging. Talbot couldn’t help but feel a bubbling rise of smugness, as delectable as a fine champagne. Let him, for now. “The Romani won’t do everything for a fair amount of coin, but posing for a few photographs isn’t in that realm.”
“Gypsies?”
“Hell, Europe practically considers them refugees to begin with,” Talbot shrugged. “And more then a few them know a trick or two, I daresay I learned a couple.”
Petrov shook his head, a feisty spastic little motion. “Even if you pull this off, fool every single other nation in that board–you are pulling the hooded Robin I presume?”
“Poseidon’s Peril, actually.”
A sigh, long and ragged. “Why do they even call it that?”
“It’s complete nonsense, there’s no meaning.”
“Ah, heh. Even if you do convince them off it all. The this ‘Republic’ of Odor actually happened to exist…what you have asked for is absurd. There are even talks now, that Italy will get a fraction of what it desires. And yet, here, you expect to take every last cent?”
“Correct.”
“With a fucking Poseidon’s Peril?”
“Also correct.”
Petrov laughed, and this time the ragged choking could do little to hide the mocking undercurrents. “I laugh now, and I will watch and laugh again when you fail.”
“Ah, Conrad.” For the first time during their conversation, Talbot managed to catch his opponent’s eye. Iced cobalt reflecting his own forest green. Neither of them blinked I do expect you to hang around. I’m sure it will be well worth the spectacle.”
~ ~ ~
“You say Odor lost nearly all of its resources, wealth, general assets, giving us general approximations of the net loss. Your population, or whatever you say survived the initial artillery shelling, has practically emigrated into Belgium and other surrounding nations. Yet does anything of value remain in the hands of the government?” Wilson flipped back and forth between pages, his mouth twitching into a frown every other moment.
Bryzohaty, hands clasped behind his back, bounced upon his heels. Beside him, Meritz had recovered slightly, but was still a train wreck under even the mildest grain of scrutiny. “Our last elected Prime Minister, Trelemphere had a considerable collection of art. He was an avid fan of several European painters, devoting several of the main parliamentary building’s rooms to feature an exclusive artist.”
“And you have salvaged any of these paintings?” Wilson asked.
“Just two, it brings me great sorrow to say. The actual canvasses we have in storage in our quarters. We’ve become quite nomadic, Meritz and I, since the lose of nearly all our territory, no use going back to what is trench and mud. So we practically take the Republic as we go–some would say–mobile…”
Silence. Bryzohaty was hoping for a dry chuckle or two, but nobody took the hook.
“You can see the certificates of authenticity, though. Of the two recovered canvasses, just on the next page there. While neither Meritz nor I have much tenure in the artistic world, Trelemphere seemed to display a great deal of pride in these two.”
Now, we wait.
And if Meritz would just tapping his foot beside him that would just be bloody splendid.
Wilson, the typical Political Scientist and Academic, feigned interest for a polite ten seconds, and then passed them on to George.
George, gave them a smoldering five second look, before shrugging and passing them to Clemenceau.
Here we go.
Clemenceau took a look at the first, giving a small nod, before turning the page over and eyeing the second. Bryzohaty kept his grin muzzled as he saw the French Prime Minister’s eyes widen.
“Pascale Lévesque?” The word detonated in the empty room, a genuine expression of astonishment that quenched any further doubts of Bryzohaty. Perfect.
“Trelemphere was a collector of Pascale Lévesque?” The astonishment only increased, and now, Bryzohaty knew he had the French Leader by the throat.
“That he was, I believe. I can remember him mentioning the artist fondly. He often held his main cabinet meetings–only six of us mind you–I believe that held the Lévesque paintings.”
“He had multiple!?!?”
“We managed to salvage the other certificates of authenticity. You can view them if you’d like,” Bryzohaty was already nudging his head towards Meritz, who moved towards their desk, extracting one binder from the colony of them that occupied their seating area.
“Yes, yes please!” Clemenceau practically leaned over the bench to snatch the binder from Meritz’s hands. Quickly, he burst it open, ruffling through at a brisk speed. “How did he manage to acquire these?”
Bryzohaty made a show of biting his lip and giving a sideways glance at Meritiz. His associate, seemingly fortified at the unfolding sight of the French Leader’s seduction, matched his glance. “Well, uh, slightly embarrassing point here. Although Odor takes a great pride in being a Republic, our dear President did previously hold the title of Count.”
“I see…” Clemenceau was brushing through the pages of certificates, his eyes only occasionally flickering upwards to acknowledge the conversation.
“This left him with a substantial fortune, which he mostly either invested into Odor itself, or spent it on the accumulation of the art collection, which went public domain. Otherwise, the collection would have passed to his sole daughter, Isabelle Trelemphere. We only have one photograph of her, which you’ll see in the final section of the primary binder already on your desk.”
“And where is she now?” Wilson cut back into the frame of conversation. Bryzohaty hardly expressed any surprise, the man couldn’t seem to keep himself from talking for over five minutes.
“Dead or lost in one of your countries, presumably. Frankly, I haven’t the slightest clue. But rest assured, the paintings were under the ownership of the state of Odor.”
Clemenceau took the reigns again, nodding vigorously now, still scanning through the certificates. “Lévesque is a treasure, a mythical man. His paintings are the most prized portrayals of the French Revolution and its proceeding fallout. They’re priceless, in the eyes of our nation.”
“It surprises me, then. That it seems we manage to acquire four of his works.”
“Hardly a surprise to the French. The mysterious early years of Levesque make some of the allure. He worked covertly until his fourties. No one precisely knew how many he produced in this time, but heavens one was just discovered last year. And to know this…that this man…”
“Our President.”
“Yes, yes forgive me, he managed to obtain four?”
“That is correct. And your revelation of these facts only gives me a heavier heart now to restate what is but a certainty, that the rest of these paintings were destroyed. Hell, the very first Artillery strike by the Germans practically demolished the Government building–“
“I see…” Clemenceau’s face had now become overcast, the shadows of the room engulfing his features as he leaned back into his seat.
Once again, Bryzohaty and Meritz exchanged glances. The crispness had returned to his partner’s face, the crescendo of his own expression barely concealable. All of it, he had emote in a small nod.
Flawless.
Wilson, being quite the thorn at this point in Bryzohaty’s eyes, again spoke. “With that matter settled–“
“It’s hardly settled,” Clemenceau said.
“Pardon?”
“To say the paintings are of importance to France is a gross understatement. Woodrow, with all due respect, this matter is far from settled. From the evidence that I can see here, the German have not only destroyed a nation, by they have also destroyed a cultural touchstone for France and, frankly, the entirety of Europe.”
Ah, Bryzhoaty practically could have kissed Clemenceau at this point.
“Well I must think–“
“As much as I’ve disagreed with the French Prime Minister on other affairs,” George’s accent cut through Woodrow’s statement and left it to die on the floor, a permanent blotch on the transcript. “I must say I sympathize on this issue, and demand for further inquiry.”
“Well perhaps we ought–“
“This is cultural homicide! A clear act! Entirely unprecedented!” How glorious, Clemenceau was nearly shouting now, Bryzohaty would certainly kiss him.
He gestured to Meritz, and both of them took a few steps back, leaning on the desk behind them, joining the rest of the spectating delegates. Some already had their mouths agape.
Bryzohaty let his fingers drums across the wood, a cadence to accent every word the Big Four were now uttering. There was no need to wade into such a quarrel, he had done his job.
Clemenceau, he was certain, would do the rest.
~ ~ ~
Emerging into the foyer, two drinks in hand, Ambrosse once again saw Talbot engaging in an elaborate pantomime with that Russian.
Not a delegate. That much was clear.
Pantomime was the appropriate word for the spectacle. Bryzohaty’s alter ego, in the time they had spent together coalescing the machinations for this con, had a habit of exaggerating his words.
Not in character. This was enough to inform Ambrosse. Talbot was playing Talbot. His partner with conversing with someone from his knotted past. Never a good sign.
Petrov, it had to be.
He crept forward, lowering the drinks and slinking behind one of the pillars. The two of them were on the opposite side of the hallway. His partner had informed him enough about his rival that Ambrosse had practically developed a crystalline mental imagine in his brain–an ideal type of Russian menace, a towering hulk of blonde haired, ‘w’ vacuity.
Unfortunately, it seemed Petrov occupied the no man’s land between five and six feet, nothing close to impressive. Heck, he even made Talbot look tall.
The two now we more animated, circling each other like predators. Yet nothing discernable could be heard. Ambrosse wanted to step forward, yet at the same time he knew that would spoil the spectacle, tarnish the theatrics that he had realized were so common in this field of work.
And with even thinking that, it ended. The punctuation mark being a curt slap across Talbot’s cheek. Ambrosse watched his partner step backwards, his mouth slewing out a volley of curse words, his Flemish accent apparently being left back in the assembly hall.
Mercifully, there were only a few others loitering about the foyer, and barely any of them spared a glance over. The whole conference had been frosted over with moments such as these, and all of it had culminated in quite a ragged dogfight that had only just been put on intermission ten minutes before.
Ambrosse did have to hand it to his partner now. Things were going better. Much better.
Petrov had seemingly retreated into the shadows and now he approached, drink in hand. “Making friends I see…”
Talbot moved his gloved hand across his mouth, wiping away the blood but not his grimace. “Not quite. Although ,there may now be a difficulty. An unexpected variation thrown into the mix. It seems that–“
“I know who it is.”
That remark did manage a dry smile. “Paying attention to my drunken tales have you? You really aren’t so bad, Ambrosse.”
“Meritz,” he cast an eye around the room warily, looking at other the scattered conversations
“Ah, don’t be so uptight. The hard part is behind us.” Talbot plucked one of the glasses from Ambrosse’s hands, taking a large gulp. “Both Clemenceau and George are now representing our side, and every last European country is behind them, how is that for solidarity, eh? The Australians as well, which I consider a bonus didn’t quite consider them the artful type.”
“Wilson truly is backed into a corner.”
“It’s hysterics. A true conundrum. But I expect our reparations for–as they have oh so gloriously put it–‘Cultural Homicide’ to approved in the first motion tomorrow. We’ll be collecting our checques by the end of the week.”
“A toast to that.” Their glasses clinked and Ambrosse took a bit more of a conservative sip. Although the brash confidence of his partner was amusing, they weren’t quite out of the woods yet. After his own slip up today, Ambrosse felt it was best toe the line on the side of caution.
“As I suspect, the Clemenceau will cause us to a private meeting tonight. He’ll be manufacturing some behind the scenes machinations for sure for the final slew of votes.”
“Naturally.”
“I think you should go alone, Ambrosse.”
His eyes furrowed as he watched Talbot down the rest of his drink. Was that the alcohol speaking already? “I hardly think that’s appropriate…”
“I can trust you enough on this part. We don’t want to make poor Clemenceau feel outnumbered in his own office, plus the rest of the forgeries aren’t quite done, and I’m farther better at that than you are.”
“I mean–“
“Yes?” Talbot pressed, and Ambrosse, searching for objections but ultimately defaulting to mute agreement, nodded slowly. “Flawless. Agree to be part of his voting bloc on any further policy decisions, they’ll hardly affect a non-existence country anyways. Bring the forged Lévesque painting as well. He’ll naturally ask for it in exchange for an unconditional acceptance on all reparations. Let him have it, along with the other certificates.”
They fell silent for a moment as two men passed by, both blistering drunk and nearly tripping on the polished marble floor.
“What if I encounter Petrov? What if he tries to make a scene?”
Talbot squinted for a moment, as though entertaining the thought.
“Throw cinnamon at him, he hates the stuff.”
~ ~ ~
“The painting is yours, as a token of our gratitude. With these funds, we truly hope to rebuild Odor into something that can serve as a functional and valuable alley of this new League of Nations.”
Clemenceau cracked his knuckles eagerly, yanking himself over the table to shake hands with Caden Meritz.
They had met in his t main office. The perks of hosting conference in your city was a natural home field advantage. While the other delegates had to return to their cramped hotel rooms to discuss battle plans, Clemenceau had the full weight of his cabinet behind him, and he never had to step outside out of the chateau if he so chose to.
It was amazing how much could get done on bilateral grounds. Two men, behind closed doors, discussing terms. That was how real politics was accomplished. The art of the backroom deal. None of this grandstanding bloat that was the farce of every assembly hall meeting.
The thought of it made Clemenceau’s lip curdle. And that fool of a President. Wilson. How comfortable for him to sit in his ivory tower, comfortably across an entire ocean, and state it was unreasonable to punish Germany?
That scab had no idea.
Nations had suffered. Europe had splintered.
And now this? Revelation of an attack on the most famous artist in European history?
Clemenceau knew Pascale Lévesque was more than admired. He was loved.
The reparations for Odor, he knew, would set a standard. It would sky rocket respect for the arts, with the added bonus of crippling the damned Germans further.
All of these though thundered through Clemenceau’s mind as he grasped Meritz’s hand.
This was where the true politics were done.
Honest and transparent. It was good to have another ally on his side.
~ ~ ~
Morning, The early wafts and mood of Paris began to flirt in through the open windows,. Curtains swayed slightly in the breeze, and the air flirted with the scents of fresh cappuccinos and croissants
Talbot drank it all up, his form sliding through onto the balcony, taking a seat at the small table that had consumed most of the space. The sun seared Seine was literally an eyesore, but other than that, the city was as spectacular as ever.
Thank heavens the Germany infantry never made it here.
He had been up for an hour, preparing for the final stages of this little comedy. It had been fun, and inevitably he was certain it would be a triumph. To him, the money was already in his pocket. The rest was a footnote, some texture to liven up the final day of negotiations. Some last minute waffling between that tripartite of leaders, and Italy as well–how cute of them to think they’d leave this conference satisfied.
There was a knock at the door. Scratching his chest, Talbot called out: “Come in, Lewis.”
Ambrosse crept in slowly, peering through with his head first to check his surroundings. Gosh the man could be paranoid, but Talbot quenched the annoying quirk, knowing good news was about to certainly be deposited.
If it was bad news, Ambrosse would have already fled the bloody country.
“And?”
“Clemenceau drank it up. We have a deal, a list of votes for us to make in exchange for a guarantee of full payment of all reparations,” his associate gave a toothy grin, and for a second, Talbot thought he was going to move in for a hug.
“Excellent, excellent. I completed rest of the necessary documents, banking details and the like. Sealed envelope on the bed. We just have to be an obedient little Republic then for the rest of today, easy enough I’d suppose. How much time do we have?”
“Another hour, at least.”
“More than enough time for a hearty breakfast of cigarettes and coffee. I’d offer whiskey as well, but you do seem dogmatic on remaining straight as an hour until at least noon.”
“Ah, well. Perhaps I may indulge just this once,” Ambrosse moved out onto the balcony, taking a seat on the opposite side, the magnetic Paris skyline also catching his gaze.
Talbot followed suite. If he had the choice, he could see himself spending nearly all damn day out here. “It’s a shame. After this job is done, we’ll probably have to avoid this city, if not the country, for the better part of a decade.” He reached down on to the table, pulling two cigarettes from his pack. Ambrosse graciously took one and then leaned forward for the light. Talbot did the same for himself.
Ambrosse’s laugh was infectious. “I’m sure with the money were hemorrhaging off of a poor Germany will be enough to build out own city, if we so choose. Heavens, Talbot, there’ll be plenty more spots in the world with a scorching view, I’m certain.”
“Perhaps.”
“Do you have any thoughts on how to spend your shares? Settle down? Find a few exotic whores to take to town?”
“What makes you think I’ll settle?”
“You can’t possibly be thinking of–“ Ambrosse coughed once, eyes blinking. He pulled the cigarette from his mouth, tapping it over the ashtray. “I mean, you can’t possibly–“ Ambrosses coughed again, but this time he followed it with a stunned expression, one of mercurial brain freeze.
And with that expression bronze on his face, he slumped to the floor.
Talbot slowly took his own cigarette from his mouth. His own thoughts were becoming fuzzy. Slow. The world moved like molasses around him.
He stared at the smoldering but for a moment.
Ah, there it was.
And then the world kaleidoscoped, Paris multiplying into a million reflections, until it was the horizon, the landscape, and every inch in between.
He fell to the floor himself, and everything went black.
~ ~ ~
“Monsieur? Monsieur!”
A polite but persistent pressure, on his knee. Far too persistent.
“Monsieur?”
His eyes opened, a stripe of Paris shuttering in between his eyelids, and then the ripe, youthful face of hotel attendant, looming right over him.
“Oh magnifique! That would not have looked good….no, not at all.”
Talbot slowly sat up, winching as he went. His lungs felt like they had just traversed through a forest fire, and his head felt like one particular burning log had scored a direct hit on his temple.
“I’m very sorry to disturb you, Monsieur. I was going to knock, but the door was open and he couldn’t help but peak inside and then saw you like this! I was worried to say the least!”
Talbot nodded slowly, refusing to take the attendant’s hand just yet. The world was still spinning, a rippling violent maelstrom around him. If he even tried it, he knew he would hurl.
The culprit lay at his side, the cigarette long extinguished. And judging by the sun above him, it was now close to fucking noon.
“Why…” He nearly gagged out the word, his mouth felt like cotton. “Why were you knocking?”
“To serve brunch monsieur, of course! Compliments of the penthouse suite!” The attendant gestured towards the bed, and following his hand, Talbot saw an ample feast laid out, clearly meant for at least four people.
To his wry amusement, a bottle of champagne also had nestled itself amidst the ranks of pastries.
“Compliments of…of the penthouse?”
“Oui monsieur, and they also wanted me to deliver this note.” The attendant’s palm bloomed open, conjuring forth a card
Frowning, Talbot took it. Flipping it over, he could see four words, both written it overtly florid calligraphy.
I still laugh,
Petrov.
~ ~ ~
Wilson tapped his watch impatiently for the third time in the last four minutes. He looked to the other three sharing the bench with him, each also in their own stages of dissatisfaction, impatience, or outright nervousness. The rest of the assembly beyond was beginning to reflect one of those sentiments as well, many of the members eager to proceed with what was supposed to be the final day of negotiations
“Gentlemen, we are now forty minutes behind schedule. I must insist we proceed with the agenda at hand. Perhaps when the delegates of Odor show up we can return to that matter, but I truly think–“
“They will be here,” Clemenceau hissed.
“Five more minutes,” George added.
“I mean, really, a slight breach in schedule is not akin to heresy. We can adjust. I’m certain–“
The door to the assembly hall suddenly burst open, and a lone figure strolled in, a single envelope in hand. Brisk, sharp steps cut off all other noise, sounding loudly as they snapped across the floor.
Taking his seat, the delegate of the Republic of Odor straightened his tie and let out a toothy grin.
“”Ah, there we are,” Clemenceau was beaming ear to ear. “Are we ready to begin?”
Steeping his fingers, delegate Caden Meritz leaned forward and cleared his throat. “Yes, I think I am.”
~ ~ ~
Ambrosse, to his own credit, had done some soul searching in this last week, trying to see what guilt he possessed in inevitably betraying Talbot.
He found none.
A shame, really. He had to give credit where credit was due. Talbot was genius, rightly so. The construction of the Con was nearly entirely his doing. It was flawless.
Well, almost entirely flawless.
The fault naturally was internalized. A blindside from the right. A pity for one of the greatest Con artists he had met to get slain by one measly cigarette. But often, the mightiest of Empires had to be brought down in to the most humiliating of fashions.
Heck, look at Germany.
Of course, Ambrosse had at least promised to not twist the knife any further. He wouldn’t drag Talbot through the mud, that humiliation would be spared. That, hopefully, would be enough to warrant forgiveness.
It had been easy to palm the cigarettes. Out on the balcony, Paris could do nothing short but to steal all of your attention. Ambrosse had found his own eyes shifting as he switched Talbot’s pack for ones containing something of a more potent substance.
“Do you have any thoughts on how to spend your shares? Settle down? Find a few exotic whores to take to town?” He pretended to take a drag, but just one. Apparently this stuff could tranquilize an elephant in the space of a minute. Ambrosse kept the cigarette in his hand, otherwise, a fair distance from his face.
Still, he pretended to fall first. A convincing one at that. He managed to rightly bruise his elbow.
This was part of it, throw the blame on the Russian. Here he would be, Ambrosse the innocent. Ambrosse the fellow victim. Ambrosse the man who fled back to the U.K after fearing for his life.
Talbot fell, quite convincingly, the chair going with him.
Such a poor soul.
Ambrosse give it a good two minutes before he finally rose up and even then it was with the slightest of movements. Talbot was supposedly in a coma, but he treated it more to a light sleep, tip toeing across the carpet and taking the envelope mean to seal the Odor deal.
Coming to the door, he took one final look back at Talbot, still out cold.
Much apologies, good chap. But twenty five percent truly is lackluster.
~ ~ ~
“Let’s get right into it,” Wilson didn’t even bother to hide the resignation dragging along all of his words. Although the conference was formally scheduled to end today, the sudden case of Odor, now delivered on the plate like a wholly unexpected dessert, only added to the bloat.
Rumor had it that Clemenceau had spent the better part of the night assembling a voting bloc, seeing this as another nail to hammer into Germany’s coffin. Wilson himself couldn’t think of a worse mistake, the damn country was already hanging on by a thread. At the end of the day it was a country, not virgin for these fucking vampires.
Truly, he had no more flattering words to say to them. He wouldn’t miss being absent from the League of Nations meetings.
The delegate of Odor, Caden Meritz had only just sat down, but now immediately bounced back up, making his way into the middle of the assembly hall, one envelope clutched between his fists.
“I have the additional documentation here. As requested. Payments and acquisition of the paintings, all signed by Levesque himself. Plus, taxes and income statements from the Telemphere estate. Giving that is where most of our capital was lost. I felt it was appropriate to start there. You’ll see from these that our estimations for the reparations lie squarely in line with what we have lost.”
Wilson rubbed his eyes, thrusting his hand out in a blunt fashion. “Alright, alright. Send it over.”
The servants meant to collect and pass documents had slowly dwindled as the conference had trudged on, and now on the last day, there was no one left. Meritz himself shuffled forward, placing the enveloped into Wilson’s hand.
Completely ignoring the delicacy of the seal, Wilson tore and disemboweled the envelope straight down the middle spilling its contents on the surface in front of him. The action seemed to cause one important looking letter to slide right in front of him, and this is where he started.
He pulled the paper up for a moment, scanned it briefly and frowned. Slowly, wordless, he put it down again.
“What is it?” George spoke in a hushed whisper beside him. Pointless, the whole assembly could hear a candy wrapper open in this silence.
Still, he pushed the letter towards George, letting him examine it for himself.
The British Leader picked it up gingerly. He gave it a cold look for only a mere second, before his eyes snapped up towards Meritz.
“Now, if it would please the delegate of Odor. Could he please describe the primary language of his country?”
Meritz blinked, but was otherwise unwavered. “It’s a variation of Flemish of course, with English also having a considerable sway.”
“Then, would you be so kind to explain why I have a document written in German contained in this envelope?”
That did elicit a reaction. “Sorry?”
“One that also happens to have the stamp of the German government and the signature of Kaiser fucking Wilhelm?”
There was a motion now. A wave of it, a tremendous silence, as every single head turned towards the British Prime Minister.
Save for Wilson, he was taking a moment to examine the rest of the documents placed on his desk.
"All of them, actually. All of them are written in German."
Meritz opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again, and then promptly bolted for the exit.
Wilson looked to George and Orlando, who expressed similar expression of bewilderment. Clemenceau, on the other hand, was tapping his knuckle on the armrest, his face illuminated with smug acknowledgement.
"No reason to get up, I assure you. I have the authorities waiting outside. They'll arrest him on the spot."
Wilson heard his voice joined by two others. Three distinct accents, all of them asking the same question. "How did you–"
"Call it..." The French Leader yawned, pausing for a moment. A smirk cracked across his face. "....a premonition in the night."
~ ~ ~
Exiting the assembly hall yesterday and pulling himself away from the wake up tarnished egos and the shouting match that he himself caused, Talbot excused himself from Meritz, claiming to go to the bathroom. Instead he doubled back, heading into the main foyer.
There, he found Conrad Petrov.
“Laughing yet?”
Petrov, as expect didn’t answer the question. “You found me again just to be smug, yes?”
“I prefer to be a sore winner over a sore loser.”
“How’d you know I’d still be here?”
Talbot gestured to tapestry emblazoned on the wall in front of them. On it was gruesome depiction of revelation, the dead swarming on the streets to capture the remainder of the living. “You’ve always been a man of the macabre. A bee to honey, really.”
Petrov gave a thin smile. “So you have learned a thing or two.”
“I’ve learned enough. I know you’re not here to merely observe the proceedings. You’ve never been much of a passive spectator, Conrad.” Talbot let his eyes wander the room. For him, the macabre would never do. Dreary ridden sludge. He’d rather not have such guilt trips steer his moral compass back onto a path of honesty. Where would the fun be in that? The fact that Petrov kept it up must have been exhausting.
“That is true. I was invited.”
“By Ambrosse?”
“By Ambrosse,” Petrov’s smile widened a bit more, and suddenly his eyes shifted to one of the entrances. As if waiting a stage command, one Lewis Ambrosse, still in full Meritz regalia came striding through. “So you know he plans on betraying you, then.”
“What am I, blind and deaf? Of course he has been.”
“Ah, you saw it. Then. He’s been pulling the Lame Bison I presume?”
“Actually the Chivalrous Frenchmen. Typical amateur move.” Talbot scoffed, shaking his head, while eyeing Ambrosse from the corner of his eye. Taking his hand to his mouth and feigning a cough, he whispered. “Act animated.”
Immediately Petrov’s body movements got more exaggerated, his voice rising to match it. Yet, still, the topic of conversation remained the same. “This whole Odor thing then, it’s just smokescreen. I will laugh now–”
“Well, not quite.”
“Admit it, you never could really pull it off.”
“I mean, yes Wilson is the dominant opposing force, but still–“
“I was right. All of this was just false trail.”
“Nonsense,” Talbot stamped his foot, and raised his voice for next part, still not quite enough for discernibility, though. “Still, tell me. Why are you here?”
Petrov shrugged. “It seems your friend tipped me off anonymously that you would be here, hoping I’d come and take you off his scent. He thinks I can be some sort of tool. He is idiot.”
“And yet you’re here.”
“Really, just to warn you.”
Talbot raised his hands in faux agitation. “How compassionate.”
“Not really. But if anyone will cause your downfall, it will be me. Not some shit amateur.”
It was difficult for Talbot not to grin. Instead he contorted his face in a fit of spite. “Should I be flattered?”
“No…you are amateur yourself.” With that Petrov’s hand came up, swiping Talbot across the face.
Taking him by surprise, Talbot nearly spun about, the force of the hit almost knocking him against the floor. “What the fucking hell, you fucking prick?”
Petrov shrugged. “Your acting is shit. Pain will help.” With that, he weaseled his way back into the labyrinth of the chateau, just as Meritz approached.
“Making friends I see…”
~ ~ ~
It was only a few minutes after Meritz left his office, leaving no trace in the middle of the night, that another knock came to Clemenceau’s door.
He was in the midst of admiring his newly acquired painting, Levesque’s Ropespierre at the Guillotine, and presumed that would be the last business for the night. He ignored the knock, hoping its source would reconsider.
Yet, it came again.
Clemenceau rolled his eye. “Yes?”
The voice of his servant. “Sir, there’s somebody here to speak to you.”
“I have no interest. The hour is late. I’m planning to retire soon.”
“She says it’s urgent.”
She?
Well, that would be a nice palate cleanser after the pure weeks of chauvinism. It took Clemenceau only a moment to reconsider.
The door swung open, and a figure waltzed in. Indeed a lady, her face illuminated in the orange smear of the lantern’s flame, her brown hair slick from the rain outside. Yet with the clothes she was wearing, an ample dress, one would expect her to at least carry an umbrella.
Clemenceau squinted. He had never seen this woman in his life before.
And yet…
Yet, there was something far, far too familiar.
“And who might you be?”
When she spoke, it came with the weight of exhaustion and a lick of anger.
“My name is Isabelle Trelemphere, daughter of Narcisse Trelemphere, and you, sir, have been played like a fool.”
~ ~ ~
When in the acquaintance of Booker Talbot, there will be a moment that one will realize that he trusts them.
And that is the moment when he reveals that there is no Booker Talbot.
A fiction. Another persona.
Deconstruct him. Take away the mustache, un-slick the hair unsheathe him from the clothes of the time period. Remove the chest bindings.
And you have Amelia Ritze.
Ambrosse never got that far. He was never meant to. Call it a litmus test of personality. Of trust. In all spades, Ambrosse failed.
All the more reason for Ritze to hire him.
Odor at face value was never going to succeed. Reparations themselves were a dead end, a bureaucratic court of dodgeball that she simply couldn’t entertain the risk of. One wrong vote, one vengeful seeking Italian delegate, and the whole domino stack would fall.
The plan was different from the beginning. Poseidon’s Peril never required a fall guy. This one–so sorry Ambrosse–did.
And it happens like this.
First, sweep into the target’s house at the late hours of the night, portraying a convincing caricature of a character already mentioned. Make them feel rewarded for remembering said character being mentioned earlier. Cater and embellish their good memory, ever explicitly, though.
Second, do them a favour. Reveal the sweeping machinations of the con occurring right around them. Pull the rug beneath their feet. Show them the true scope of the scam. Show that those pesky delegates from Odor are really just German loyalists, procuring a way to help neutralize reparation payments. Show that all of this is just to install Odor as a puppet State in the League of Nations. Let the victim’s imagination run wild. Let the story play to their emotions. Let the villain be somebody that the victim absolutely despises.
Third, reveal an alternative. Show them a fellow victim. Show them Isabelle Trelemphere. Show her having escaped assassination by those German dogs in that brutal coup attempt. Show her fleeing from country to country, with the gaping maws of war always desperate to bite down on her.
Fourth, showcase the good news. No, the great news. Show that the current painting just bought by the French Prime Minister is fraud. Show him that the whole story of the bombing was an exercise of laziness, as Germany couldn’t be bothered to forge three other paintings.
Show him the ‘real’ Robespierre at the Guillotine. Give him a lesson in the construction of art forgeries. Make up the facts, but wrap it all up in a convincing rhetoric, who is he to deny her? Politics is his field, not art. Show him the differences in brushwork, the small little flaws and tics in the frame, the obvious cover up of mistakes–they were made by her anyways. Any statue rotted wood is made all the more appealing when showcased next to a statue of dogshit.
Show him the three other paintings. Republique, Ropespierre at the Court, and The Terror. Let him match them with the certificates of authenticity he just had placed on his desk minutes ago by her associate. The timing of the reveal is key. Only in context does it flesh out. Any sort of stranger waltzing in claiming to own a Pascale Levesque would be kicked straight through the upper window. But with Isabelle, Odor and the weight of the conference now all plunging down upon, the paintings become a non-fiction, an imagination made real, and now right in front of him. She will sweep the paintings in front of him like a dealer displays cards. All three. Now in her possession. They’re always been in her possession. (Certainly not forged). The keepsakes that Isabelle has kept all of this time. Now extremely valuable. To him, it’s like watching the Resurrection occur in real time. A good once thought permanently lost now conjured forth. Watch the victim’s eyes grow in amazement, watch his mouth salivate. Watch him look at the paintings the way a python looks at a rat. Watch the value bubble.
Fifth, let him direct the conversation from here on. Let him bring up the topic of Levesque’s inherent value to the French nation. Let him bring up the idea of a successful transaction, perhaps out of France’s pocketbook, probably out of Germany’s, maybe even his own. Does it matter? Payment is payment.
Sixth, politely decline any sort of payment. Portray oneself as philanthropist.
Seventh. Accept payment anyways. Show remorse.
And thus, Anton Bryzohaty a.k.a Booker Talbot a.k.a Isabelle Trelemphere a.k.a Amelia Ritze strolls out. She’ll return to the hotel and adopt Booker Talbot again like gloves, another layer, another element. She’ll entertain the rest of Ambrosse’s comedy (soon to be tragedy), but he’s lost already. He lost the moment he even entertained the idea of betraying her.
So let him palm the cigarettes–a slight oversight, Ritze should have seen that one coming but it certainly helped with authenticity.
Let her wake up to a brunch served by her rival. Let her be free to remain in Paris for the next months or so–Booker Talbot is extinguished now, another guise thrown to the bonfire. Let the world turn into a new era, a French Prime Minister garnishing his victory with the discovery of four new Levesque paintings. Let her read the newspaper the day next day, Caden Meritz’s face emblazoned on the front page.
“GERMAN MOLE TRIES TO SCAM PEARIS PEACECONFERENCE BY HIJACKING SMALL COUNTRY.”
Let her remember her dear former partner’s words, talking about how Booker Talbot ought to settle down after finish this job. Take it easy. Perhaps retire.
Let Ritze laugh at the thought, throwing the newspaper off the balcony. Where on earth would the fun be in that? Talbot would be gone, but not her.
Never her.
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