CHAPTER 334: TOO LATE FOR CAUTION, MONSIEUR.

Inside was a message for Paris.

Courier compromised. Operation Mirage discovered. Proceed with caution.

He dropped it through the grate where the water would carry it toward the embassy pipes.

When he straightened, a voice came from the shadows.

"Too late for caution, monsieur."

Two Gestapo men stepped forward.

One held a pistol.

Seraph smiled faintly. "You found me faster than I thought."

The man shrugged. "You French talk too much in cafés."

"Not enough," Seraph said.

They took him away.

The capsule disappeared beneath the city, carried by dark water.

In his office, Ribbentrop was still awake when the telephone rang.

He snatched it up. "Yes?"

"Krüger speaking," the voice said. "The courier broke under interrogation. He gave a few names. One keeps repeating. Artois."

Ribbentrop wrote it down slowly. "Artois. A Frenchman?"

"Possibly an officer. We’re checking."

"Keep this quiet," Ribbentrop said. "The Führer hears nothing until I decide."

When he hung up, he whispered the name again. Artois.

He didn’t know that Lucien Artois was Moreau’s new right hand.

Someone who was recently promoted silently with no fanfare.

Let alone him even in France not many know him.

A telegram left Berlin before sunrise, coded and cautious.

To: People’s Commissariat for Foreign Affairs, Moscow

"All movements coordinated. French commercial activity near Polish border under observation. No cause for concern."

– J.v.R.

Every capital promised there was "no cause for concern," and every one of them was lying.

In Moscow, Molotov received the reply and handed it to Beria.

"See?" he said. "They blink when we whisper."

"And the French?" Beria asked.

"Still shadows," Molotov said. "But shadows come from light. Somewhere, there’s a fire."

He stood at the window, the city turning white beneath the snow, and wondered who lit that fire.

In Berlin, Ribbentrop met with Krüger again. "You think the French know about our agreement?"

"Not the details," Krüger said. "But enough to stir trouble."

"Then we feed them lies," Ribbentrop said. "Let them chase ghosts."

"Ghosts, sir?"

Ribbentrop smiled without humor. "Yes. We’ll give them a Mirage of our own."

Across Warsaw, Soviet agents followed French "engineers" through muddy streets. One whispered into his radio.

"Glass One in position." In Berlin, Seraph’s empty apartment was searched a photo of the Eiffel Tower was pinned to the wall as evidence.

In Moscow, Molotov signed another order "Increase surveillance on all diplomatic channels with Romania."

In Bucharest, a Romanian officer sealed a letter addressed only with the letter M.

-----

The rain had not reached Paris.

In the Élysée, the lights were dim except for one office on the upper floor where Étienne Moreau sat with his jacket off, tie loosened, sleeves rolled.

The room was cluttered with maps, files, and telegrams.

Spain, Poland, Romania lines crisscrossed the paper like veins.

The phone on his desk rang again, a sharp sound against the quiet.

He let it ring once, twice, then picked up.

"Oui."

"Message from Bucharest, monsieur," said the voice on the other end. "Delivered through the Romanian attaché. Priority cipher."

Moreau leaned back in his chair. "Bring it."

He hung up and looked toward the window. Paris was asleep, but he could hear the faint beat of the city.

Behind that neat, something darker an unease he had known since Madrid.

History turning, again.

The door opened.

Colonel Lucien Artois entered, tall, angular, his face lined from years of fieldwork.

He placed the coded envelope on the desk.

"From King Carol’s man," Artois said. "He used the phrase ’Mirage is active.’"

Moreau raised an eyebrow. "Active already?"

"Apparently so," Artois said, lighting a cigarette. "Berlin’s getting nervous. They’ve begun arrests. Gestapo caught one of ours in a café."

"Seraph?" Moreau asked.

Artois nodded once.

Moreau’s jaw tightened. "He lasted longer than expected."

"They found a message," Artois said. "Mirage spelled in code."

Moreau smiled faintly. "Then they’ll spend weeks chasing a word."

"Until they realize it’s not a code at all," Artois said.

"It doesn’t matter," Moreau said. "They’ll still drown in their own suspicion."

Artois dropped into the chair opposite. "Molotov’s telegram reached us through Bucharest. The Soviets think we have men in southern Poland. They’ve started something called Project Glass."

Moreau didn’t look surprised. "Let them look. Every agent they chase keeps their eyes off Romania."

Artois watched him. "You planned this two months ago."

"I planned this two years ago," Moreau said quietly.

The colonel said nothing for a moment, then asked, "You’re certain this will hold? Playing both sides feeding both lies?"

"It’s not lies," Moreau said. "It’s theater. Every government needs a mirror. I’m simply showing them one."

Artois gave a short laugh. "And what do we call the act tonight?"

"Mirage Protocol," Moreau said. "It begins now."

Artois tapped ash into the tray. "And if it fails?"

"Then we learn something about how the world ends," Moreau said, eyes on the map.

The phone rang again.

Artois reached for it. "Yes? Put him through."

He handed the receiver to Moreau. "It’s the Romanian line."

Moreau spoke softly. "Yes?"

A strained voice came through the static. "This is Carol’s aide, sir. Your instructions from last week are... difficult. German patrols on the borders. Our agents can’t move freely."

"Then use the convoys," Moreau said. "The humanitarian shipments. The food and fuel."

"They’ll search them."

"Good," Moreau said. "Let them. That’s the point."

A confused silence. "The point?"

"They’ll find only what I want them to find," Moreau said. "Blueprints for bridges, contracts for construction half of them real. Enough to make them doubt the rest."

"I see," the aide said slowly. "You want them guessing."

"I want them blind," Moreau said. "Tell His Majesty the Mirage is working. Every rumor we feed becomes a reflection. The more they look, the less they see."

He hung up.

Artois leaned back. "You’re enjoying this."

"I’m alive," Moreau said simply. "That’s more than most of Europe can say."

The colonel smirked. "Hitler moves on Poland. Stalin waits. And France watches?"

"France waits," Moreau said. "But not idly."

He rose and walked to the map pinned on the wall.

His finger traced from Paris to Bucharest, then to Warsaw.