Moreau hadn't slept.
He stood in front of the long oak table in the briefing room below the Élysée.
A thin stack of copies sat before each chair.
His hand hovered over them for a second before setting the final copy down.
He checked his watch.
10:27.
Three minutes later, the door opened.
Paul Langevin entered first, tall, white-haired, walking with the same rigid posture he'd had since the Sorbonne.
Pierre Auger followed, younger, holding a notepad already covered in formulas.
Maurice Ponte came in adjusting his round spectacles, nodding without a word.
Then Jean Perrin, sharp-eyed, briefcase in hand, and finally Henri Chrétien, last as always.
Moreau waited until all were seated.
No aides.
No stenographer.
He closed the door himself.
"We are not here to theorize," Moreau said. "We are here to construct. I've called you because what I am about to present must be built. Quietly. Immediately."
He slid the blueprints forward.
