Paris, the élysée Palace — six weeks after Warsaw

  President Emmanuel Renard — the fictional successor to a long line of French leaders obsessed with sovereign power — read the report twice. Then three times. Then he called the head of the DGSE, France's foreign intelligence service.

  "Is this real?"

  "Yes, Monsieur le Président. Our sources confirm it. Germany, Poland, the Scandinavian countries and the Baltic states. An active research programme. Funding through a private fund with a complex ownership structure. And URENCO — that is the key."

  Renard stood and walked to the window overlooking the garden. The force de frappe — France's nuclear capability — had existed since 1960. It was de Gaulle's answer to American dominance, British patronage and the Soviet threat. It was the essence of French sovereignty.

  And now someone was telling him that Germany — a country that had not even been permitted its own army until the nineteen-fifties — was building its own nuclear programme.

  "What do they want from us?"

  "Nothing, Monsieur le Président. That is precisely what concerns us. They did not approach us. At all."

  Renard turned.

  "They didn't contact us?"

  "No. The initiative proceeded without France. And according to our information, that was a deliberate signal."

  Silence. Renard was a politician with twenty years of experience, and he knew how to read a message when one was being sent. This message was as loud as a cannon shot.

  We don't need you. Come if you wish — but we set the terms.

  "What is their technological level?"

  "Surprisingly high. URENCO is the world leader in enrichment. Germany has missiles. The northern European countries have precision technology and research capacity. Galileo will give them guidance. Within a year they could have a functional programme."

  "Within a year,"

  Renard repeated quietly.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  The force de frappe cost France three billion euros every year. Modernisation, maintenance, research into the next generation of weapons. Three billion drawn from the budget for healthcare, education, infrastructure. Three billion for which French taxpayers received sovereignty — abstract, intangible, proud sovereignty.

  And now a group of countries was saying: we can have the same thing at a fraction of the cost, if we share.

  "How much would we save if we joined?"

  The adviser consulted his notes.

  "We estimate fifty to sixty percent of annual modernisation costs. Plus shared next-generation research. Over five years that could be fifteen billion euros, Monsieur le Président."

  Fifteen billion euros. Enough for five aircraft carriers. Enough to reform the French healthcare system. Enough to win the next three elections.

  Renard returned to his desk. He picked up his pen. Put it down. Picked it up again.

  "What do we lose?"

  "Exclusivity. Autonomy of decision. The force de frappe has always rested in the hands of the President — one person, one finger on the trigger. In their system the trigger is collective."

  Renard thought. De Gaulle would have been furious. But de Gaulle had lived in 1960, not 2026. And in 2026 the reality was different.

  The reality was that nobody in Tallinn, Warsaw or Helsinki believed Paris would sacrifice itself for their capitals. And they were right. Would he himself believe it, were he in their position?

  Credibility is the foundation of deterrence. If no one believes you, your arsenal is merely a theatre prop.

  "Let me think. Until tomorrow morning."

  The adviser left. Renard remained alone in his office, surrounded by portraits of Napoleon, de Gaulle and Mitterrand. All three would have given him the same advice: France first, Europe second.

  But all three had lived in a different Europe.

  Paris — The Morning Decision

  Paris, the élysée Palace — the following morning, 6:15 AM

  Renard had not slept all night. At six in the morning he called his chief of staff.

  "I want a channel to Berlin. Private. No minutes. And I want to know whether there is still a seat at the table."

  "Monsieur le Président — do you mean a founding member's seat?"

  "I'm asking whether there is still a seat at the table. Nothing more."

  The chief of staff nodded and left. Renard looked at the photograph of his daughter on the desk. She was sixteen and growing up in Paris, where every day brought talk of the climate crisis, power outages, the threat from the east, unreliable Americans.

  What kind of world would he leave her? A world where France sat alone upon its proud sovereignty and slowly fell behind? Or a world where Europe spoke with one voice — loudly, credibly, with real force behind its words?

  An hour later, the answer came from Berlin. Five words.

  The founding member's seat is still available.