Father of France

Chapter 212 Detective Corman
"This can be seen as the French Communist Party fulfilling its united front value. The United States now has too great an industrial advantage, and more than two billion US dollars in aid is enough to split the left-wing alliance."

Koeman shrugged. The trade agreement between France and the Soviet Union was only a little over 100 million, while the United States was giving more than 20 times that amount. However, he still said, "But the United States' industry is too strong now, so this money can only be considered as start-up capital."

This money will eventually return to the hands of Americans. De Gaulle was absolutely right when he said that the dollar hegemony was simply the United States exchanging a pile of paper for products from European countries.

"In other words, the United States is in a dominant position, setting its own prices for goods, and we have no choice but to accept them," Martin said indignantly. "Is there anything that can be priced similarly in different countries without being influenced by the United States?"

"It's not that there isn't." Koman successfully drew his comrades' attention by keeping them in suspense, then lowered his voice mysteriously, as if it were a secret, "It's gold. You absolutely mustn't tell anyone."

"Damn it!" Martin wanted to slam his fist on the table and stand up, but Koeman said to himself, "However, if the Marshall Plan is to be implemented, Madagascar still needs money for reconstruction. It would cost several million US dollars, or even in francs, that wouldn't be too much. This split between the Socialist Party and the French Communist Party won't stop us from submitting the five-year plan."

The matter is actually quite simple: sacrificing the French Communist Party in exchange for an injection of US dollars. It's not a matter of morality; France genuinely needed a large sum of money to revive its declining industries. Moreover, unlike the other world, it had an additional source of raw materials from Soviet trade, so it should have been more successful than France in that other world.

Koeman can still remember the changes in the Paris government after several administrations, but at this rate, he will definitely forget them sooner or later. Fortunately, it's not a big problem.

Now that the five-year plan has been sent out, we should check on the two survivors of this riot; those two unfortunate fellows are still locked up.

Koeman led the gendarmerie company straight to the location where the rioters were being held. It was a prison from the Kingdom era, preserved in its original state under French rule. The only source of light came from a small window with iron bars high up in the corridor, which sparingly cast a pale beam of light that cut through the murky darkness of the cell.

Joseph Lasetta, the second-in-command of the uprising, sat quietly on his simple wooden bed, his back ramrod straight. Time had etched deep lines on his thin face, and his temples were already gray.

But his deep-set eyes shone brightly in the dim light, and his rough prison uniform replaced his old, slightly worn but neat suit.

His mental state was not good. Whenever he closed his eyes, the burning villages in the eastern jungle, the bloodied faces of his compatriots, and the red, white and green tricolor flag that had once briefly flown as a symbol of independence would haunt his mind.

The rhythmic, cold echo of leather boots on stone slabs reverberated from the end of the corridor, approaching gradually, each sound striking the silent air like a countdown to fate. Finally, the sound ceased outside the iron door of his cell.

The key was inserted into the lock, producing a heavy, grating metallic scraping sound. The door hinges turned, creaking and breaking the absolute silence in the cell.

Joseph Lasetta looked up, the blinding light obscuring his face. Koman appeared in the doorway, his shadow elongated by the corridor light and cast onto the cell floor. Behind him stood two fully armed military police, their expressions indifferent.

“Joseph Lasetta? Nothing special.” Koman’s voice carried the flippancy of youth, just like his own radiant and dignified image. “Let’s talk this over. The riots have caused immense destruction to Madagascar, and the people will give a solemn judgment.”

"A solemn trial by the people?" Joseph Lasetta stared intently at the face representing power in the doorway. "Liberty, equality, and fraternity are the national motto of France, but you use the most beautiful banner to do the most despicable things."

Koeman looked at the other person with pity. What was this person trying to do? Give an impromptu speech right in front of him?
Do they expect to repent through tears and wailing? Is this a skill that politicians are born with?
"Let's talk somewhere else. The environment here is a bit poor." Koman had to interrupt the other party's spellcasting. He was such a realistic person, how could he have time to listen to the other party's nonsense?

Interrupted, Joseph Lasetta could only rise and follow without saying a word. Any words would be superfluous in this situation.

The sound of leather boots rang out again, this time mixed with the sound of his footsteps, echoing in the deep corridors of the colonial fortress.

The interrogation room was completely isolated from all outside sound and light. The only source of light was an overpowered searchlight overhead, its blinding white light shining directly down and illuminating the lone wooden chair in the center of the room, and Joseph Lasetta sitting in it.

Lasseter's hands rested calmly on his knees, despite the shackles on his wrists. He squinted slightly to adjust to the bright light, but his gaze still tried to pierce through the shadows to make out the people sitting behind the long table. Seeing this former leader of independence, almost illuminated to the point of being white, Koeman felt a surge of secret satisfaction. Seeing someone else sitting in the place he once sat in was simply different.

Just then, Bokassa pushed open the door and entered. He was clearly surprised by the light in the room, but he quickly regained his composure, walked over and handed over a waist knife, saying, "Jacques Labemanoganella has been killed."

Joseph Lasetta, who had been relatively calm, almost jumped up on the spot when he heard the news. His comrade-in-arms was dead.
"Record: The leader of the uprising, Jacques Labemanoganella, died on July 2nd from his injuries despite all efforts to save him," Koeman ordered the recorder beside him.

The only sounds in the interrogation room were the scratching of pens and Joseph Lasetta's ashen face, mainly due to the spotlight.

Koman, who was facing away from everyone, was not within the range of the searchlights. Because of the lighting, Joseph Lasetta could not even see his face clearly, but could only hear him speaking.

“You are accused of rebellion, sedition, murder, and acts of war against the authority of the French Republic. Do you understand the seriousness of these charges?” Koeman’s voice was particularly loud in the closed room. “Joseph Lasetta, plead guilty. Don’t waste each other’s time. You can go to jail right away, and I have things to do to leave Madagascar, so that we can both have a better future.”

The recorder paused slightly in his pen, then finally stopped. There was no need to record such trivial details of the interrogation process.

Koeman continued recounting the necessary procedures as if chanting a hymn: "The Madagascar Democratic Reform Movement, let's call it that for now, this organization you co-founded, its seemingly legitimate demands are nothing more than a disguise to cover up your armed rebellious ambitions. The March uprising was premeditated, do you admit it?"

“What we are pursuing is the legitimate right to national self-determination and the right to be represented in your parliament. It is your repression and indifference that have turned our peaceful aspirations into desperate cries.”

Joseph Lasetta, seemingly unable to tolerate Koman's distortion of the truth, finally let out a soul-stirring cry at the shadowy figure before him, "You colonists, you just murdered my comrade-in-arms, Jacques Labemangella! How cruel! Even if you used all the languages ​​in the world, you could not describe your atrocities!"

“He confessed, quickly write it down.” Coman nodded slightly to the recorder, instructing him to record the breakthrough in the interrogation as factually.

Having done all this, Coman maintained his meditative posture and coldly retorted, "Slaughtering European immigrants and Malagasys loyal to France, burning villages—is this what you call a cry for justice? Tell me! Where did you get your weapons? And who are your accomplices hiding in Antananarivo, or even Paris?"

Koeman was met with a deathly silence, but that didn't stop him from continuing to win big. Just kidding, what kind of keyboard warrior are you if you haven't studied Mahayana winning strategies?

"Joseph Lasetta had no answer to our questions about justice and could only acquiesce." Koeman continued his French-to-French translation, faithfully translating the riot leader's inner thoughts.

Even if Yuri existed, he wouldn't be as good as what he's doing now. He doesn't need any confessions at all. Even if he did manage to get one, the other party could recant. Detective Koman never cares about such unimportant processes.

Joseph Lasetta's current role is like that of a third party observing his interrogation. He can't help but tearfully accuse, "Our people are defending their inherent rights. You can judge me, but you cannot judge the will of a nation."

“Your people? Ha…” A sudden laugh interrupted the heroism of the independence movement leader. Koman’s laughter directly ruined Joseph Lasetta’s eloquent speech. He heard a mocking voice he had never heard before, “I hope that the remaining Bantu people on the east coast can appreciate all the efforts you have made for the independence and liberation of the people of Madagascar.”

What does this mean? Before Joseph Lasetta could even savor the deeper meaning of Koeman's words, a shocking truth exploded before his eyes for the first time.

"You probably don't know this, but while the French army was suppressing the riots, your compatriots, the Austronesians living in the Central Heights, actively participated in the entire process of suppressing the riots. The Bantu people on the east coast have dwindled to less than fifty percent of their pre-riot population, and their villages and lands are now occupied by the Austronesians. Tell me, after this, will the remaining Bantu people still believe that you are leading them to independence, or will they believe that the Austronesians deliberately orchestrated this conspiracy and used us, the French, to carry out a purge?"

(End of this chapter)