France Needs Élan (1)
The death of Diana Spencer, Princess of Wales, was immediately splashed across the front pages of every newspaper in the world. Her status as the ex-wife of Charles, Prince of Wales, was naturally the primary reason, but the circumstances of her death were more than enough to set the public ablaze.
"A car crash while trying to evade pursuing paparazzi... talk about terrible luck."
Ramming into a tunnel wall at a hundred and ten kilometers per hour would completely demolish even a Mercedes-Benz S-Class. The S-Class I usually rode in wouldn't fare any better without defensive magic.
"It seems various conspiracy theories are already cropping up. Her recent movements being rather suspicious certainly didn't help."
Delis glanced in my direction as he mentioned the conspiracy theories. Feeling his suspicious gaze, I shook my head and offered a defense that wasn't quite a defense.
"Just so we're clear, it wasn't me. I've been in London this whole time. How could I have possibly had the chance?"
It was the truth. Just because I had made a few predictions, why was I being treated like some mastermind pulling the strings from the shadows? I had literally done nothing. I continued to protest my innocence with a look of tragic victimization.
"Besides, it's not like I would pull something like this behind everyone's backs. Whether it was you, Pavel, or the other three, you would have known."
That was explanation enough. Though I didn't even know why I had to explain myself in the first place. Delis, however, seemed to glean a different realization from my reaction. Startled, he ventured another question.
"If it wasn't your doing, Lady Yerina... then is the reason you postponed our business trip to September...?"
Bingo. Making no effort to hide it, I stopped shaking my head and gave a firm nod.
"Yes. Even though it happened in Paris, the British public is going to be absolutely hysterical, aren't they? In a situation like this, there's no reason to leave a paper trail showing the British authorities that I was in France at the time."
At first, I had wondered if Princess Diana's death would occur exactly as it did in my past life's history, or if it would even happen on this exact day. A single butterfly effect could have changed everything. But it seemed my worries were unfounded. Even after countless alterations to the timeline had piled up, the domestic affairs of the British royal family remained largely unchanged.
Diana Spencer and Prince Charles's marriage was still fraught with discord, leading to their divorce, and the paparazzi had hounded her just the same afterward. She truly lived a tragic life.
To think that the last thing Princess Diana saw in her final moments wasn't a bustling paramedic or a hospital ceiling, but paparazzi adjusting their camera angles to get a better shot. Consequently, even though barely a day had passed since the accident, public outrage was reaching a boiling point.
The fact that the paparazzi's first instinct was to snap photos instead of offering aid said it all. They were the analog equivalent of modern-day internet vultures.
The conspiracy theories were an extension of that anger. With over a dozen people gathered at the scene of the accident, it was inevitable that someone would ask the tantalizing question: Could there have been an attempt to destroy evidence on someone's orders?
Of course, as someone who knew it was merely a tragic accident, I had every reason to rejoice. Diana Spencer's death served as the perfect smokescreen to cover up the unprecedented theft of the relic. There was nothing holding me back now.
"Let's finalize our schedule. I'd like to depart within three or four days."
Even though I hadn't been in France when the princess died, there would undoubtedly be people in the Ministry of Magic who would find my sudden movement suspicious. Delis would handle the damage control, but I couldn't completely rule out the possibility of some overimaginative bureaucrat stumbling onto the truth like a blind pig finding an acorn.
But if I let every little variable paralyze me, I would never be able to move. I couldn't delay this trip any longer; now was the time for decisive action.
Moreover, the French syndicate members, currently hanging by a thread, were valuable assets that couldn't be allowed to waste away any further. Their increasingly desperate pleas for help had reached a point where they could no longer be ignored.
Even if we tried to reclaim the territory later, having a beachhead was essential. After the Allies made their desperate escape from Dunkirk, it took them four long years to land in Normandy again. Running a criminal syndicate wasn't much different, and by all accounts, the time to strike was now.
And so, on Thursday, September 4th, Pavel and I boarded the Eurostar and headed for Paris.
We could have flown, but why subject ourselves to the hassle of tighter airport customs? When factoring in the waiting times, the total travel time was roughly the same anyway.
After exiting Gare du Nord, we took a car prepared by the Paris branch members to our hotel. Once we unpacked, we headed straight down to the hotel restaurant where the branch manager was waiting.
As I was enjoying the early autumn weather—which was incomparably better than London's—Pavel whispered in my ear.
"My lady, it seems we've had a tail for some time now."
"I know. But there's no need to shake them off, is there? Let's just pretend we haven't noticed."
Whether they were from the Ministry of Magic or a hostile organization aware of my trip to Paris remained unclear. Either way, neither possibility could be ruled out. If it was the former, it was likely a Ministry agent dispatched by the British government to clear up any lingering suspicions regarding Princess Diana's death. If it was the latter, they were probably trying to size up a sudden variable appearing just as they were on the verge of taking complete control of France.
My official cover for entering the country was to handle chartering business for Szczecin-Oder Logistics. If it was the Ministry, it would be far better to play into their assumptions. In any case, no one could use a directional microphone to isolate our voices amidst the noisy streets of Paris, and since I had never openly broadcasted where I would meet the Paris branch manager, there was no way they could have bugged the place. While letting my guard down was out of the question, overanalyzing every single movement and gesture would be excessive paranoia.
"Right this way, monsieur et mademoiselle."
"Ah, merci."
Following the staff member's guidance, we walked deeper into the restaurant. We were headed down a corridor toward a private room, away from the spacious main hall. English and French, the lingua francas of the old colonial empires, were basic requirements for any wizard. When I made eye contact and gave him a soft, appreciative smile, I could see him struggling—and failing—to keep his face completely neutral.
The Paris branch manager, who was waiting inside, also looked startled when he saw me. He had likely seen photos or caught glimpses of me when I was a child, but this was his first time seeing me now that I was fully grown. I naturally handed my coat and bag to Pavel and took the seat of honor.
"Bonjour... No, perhaps Russian is more comfortable for you?"
"It is an honor to meet you. I am Gustave Durand. Please, use whichever language is most comfortable for you, Lady Yerina Bronska—"
I quickly pressed a finger to my lips.
"Shh. Just in case, use the name I gave you beforehand."
"—whichever language is most comfortable for you, Lady Irene Lonska."
The Paris branch manager, Gustave Durand, was a locally recruited Frenchman. Although he hadn't been there since my father first built the syndicate in Kaliningrad, he had consistently proven his loyalty to my father and the organization over the years. He was also one of the first to swear fealty to me the moment he heard I had arrived in London and begun rallying the syndicate.
Note that he did so when I *began* rallying them, not after I had already succeeded. Without even trying to play both sides, he had immediately bet all his chips on me. In that sense, he was of the same breed as Rybakov, who had received a second lease on life directly from my father. Because of that, Durand had become someone I couldn't simply cast aside.
"First... I must apologize for taking so long to come in person. Have things been very difficult for you?"
"No, it's... No, it is better to be honest. Yes, it has. Simply maintaining our current standing has taken an immense toll."
"I appreciate your honesty. I heard some bastard ran off with the entire southern branch? We'll have to catch him and string him up as soon as possible."
I had heard the gist of the situation. The branch manager down in Marseille, who was under our purview, had absconded with our cash cows, including the casinos and hotels.
"To my shame... yes. It was my failure for not noticing the defection sooner."
I tore off a piece of the complimentary bread, chewed on it, and replied, "How could that be your fault? I'm just glad you managed to handle the aftermath as well as you did."
"Hearing you say that puts my mind at ease, but..."
"Ultimately, you need a practical solution, right? You don't have to worry. I didn't come here with just my own two hands and a single head of security."
No matter where you go in the world, criminal organizations are entities that value results above all else. I needed to offer solutions, not unconditional empathy. Those who did nothing but offer sweet, empty sympathy had all ended up dead.
I pulled a bankbook from my bag and slid it over to Durand.
"This is...?"
"Open it. I even had it exchanged beforehand so you wouldn't have to go through the trouble. Use this to put out the immediate fires first."
Durand opened the bankbook, and as he counted the zeros, his eyes went wide. "Seven... Ten million francs...?"
That was one million pounds, or about 1.5 billion Korean won. It was only a tenth of what I had given Rybakov, but there was no need to mention that to him right now.
"That's just for starters. Exchanging any more than that at once would have drawn too much scrutiny. I'm sure it won't be enough, so use this first and let me know when you need more."
I casually hinted at further financial backing. Running a criminal syndicate that operated on a national scale required far more than ten million francs. Though I said it in passing, I knew Durand wouldn't take it lightly.
How the syndicate laundered and secured freely usable black money was an open secret to anyone in the upper echelons. Assuming a fabricated loss of about ten percent was recorded on the books with every currency exchange, we would have to repeat this process ten times to fully secure our capital, regardless of the amount. Since repeated transactions would inevitably draw the eyes of financial regulators, I was indirectly placing a burden on Durand—telling him to *think about how this money was earned* every time he received financial support.
It was much like how a certain country in the Far East made people repeat utterly meaningless phrases like, "We thank the citizens for providing our daily bread..." before every meal. Honestly, in the course of a lifetime, a person might evade a few taxes or run a criminal syndicate, so why did everyone have to be so incredibly uptight about it?
Durand bowed his head repeatedly in gratitude. "Thank you... Thank you, my lady...!"
"I told you, it was my fault for arriving so late. So don't feel burdened, and use it where you see fit. You can worry about the expense reports later."
"...I will not disappoint you."
Telling him he could file the expense reports later meant I wouldn't bat an eye even if a few hundred thousand francs vanished into thin air while he sorted out the branch's affairs. It was a green light to skim off the top as much as he wanted, so long as he delivered results.
I had learned recently that there were certain topics in this world that had to be communicated indirectly like this. Now that the unspoken understanding was established, that was enough icebreaking.
"Let's see... I can perform the baptism anytime in a private place, so for now, shall we figure out how to deal with those insolent children in Marseille?"
To think they had taken advantage of the chaos during my succession to run off with our most lucrative businesses—their insolence was truly detestable. Because France was such a large country, we managed it by dividing it into Paris in the north and Marseille, the second-largest city, in the south. With things turning out like this, the syndicate was effectively in a state of civil war.
Durand hesitated before continuing. "To be honest... we were on the brink of total annihilation, so we were deeply worried. Lyon and Nantes fell long ago, and we lost Strasbourg on the border just a few weeks ago..."
In other words, we had lost almost everything except for Île-de-France and the northern coast. Pavel and I had arrived at a time when there was truly nowhere left to retreat. But now that I was here, there was no need to worry anymore. The question was no longer *if* we could take it back, but *when*.
"There's no need to overcomplicate things, is there? Why don't we just march straight into Marseille and flip the whole place upside down?"
When I casually tossed that out as if it were nothing, all while slicing into the duck confit that had just been served as our main course, Durand's face contorted in a rather amusing way. It was a look that clearly said, *If it were that easy, we wouldn't be in this mess...* It was quite similar to the expression of the staff member who had guided Pavel and me earlier.
Ever since I started using Charm, I had grown quite adept at reading people's expressions without even trying. But my statement about not needing to overcomplicate things was a simple statement of fact. When it came to raw magical ability, I had absolutely no intention of losing to anyone in this era.
I held up three fingers on each hand and flashed a bright, innocent smile. "Six weeks."
"Six weeks... you say?"
"Yes. After all, isn't it common knowledge that six weeks is more than enough to conquer France?"