Gare de l'Est, Paris — November 8, 1937, 06:13 AM.
The night train from Brussels sliced through the fog like a warm blade tearing the station. The wheels screeched like tortured iron, and steam draped the tracks in a ghostly shroud. Among the few passengers who disembarked was a man in a charcoal-gray overcoat and wide-brimmed hat—his eyes scanned the platform like war-time searchlights.
Émile Verhaeren didn't like to arrive early. But that morning demanded punctuality. Every minute counted.
Standing beneath the flickering glow of a lamppost, he lit a cigarette with cold fingers, observing the passengers. He awaited a delivery—or rather, an informant—perhaps from the Abwehr, or maybe a contact from the German embassy. He couldn't be sure. Nothing about this mission had clear lines.
"Monsieur Delvaux?" a low voice asked behind him.
Verhaeren didn't turn immediately. The false name confirmed what he needed.
"You're late," he said.
"Being late saves lives, monsieur."
He turned. The speaker was slight, his face hidden beneath a thick scarf and a pair of round glasses. He handed Émile an envelope discreetly, sealed with dark wax. Then he slipped away, swallowed by the thinning crowd.
Verhaeren opened the envelope right there. Inside, a black-and-white photo, blurry, capturing a stout man with a military mustache and stern expression: Kurt Reiner. On the back, three words in German:
"Ziel. Versailles. Mittwoch."
"Target. Versailles. Wednesday."
He tucked the photo into his inner coat pocket and left the station, cigarette dangling from his lips. An impossible mission: to protect a man hated by many, unknown to others, and the target of at least three espionage networks.
But first, he needed to know who else was aware of the visit. That meant a stop at rue des Martyrs. There lived Madeleine—the woman who always knew too much.
As he walked, the rain began again, soft and steady like spies' footsteps across rooftops. Paris was waking,
but the shadows—ah, the shadows—never slept.