Versailles – November 9, 1937 – 05:43 AM
The fog was thicker in Versailles than it had been in Paris — heavier, slower, as if even the ghosts moved reluctantly here. Émile stepped off the early train with his coat pulled tight against the cold, his breath forming short clouds that vanished almost as quickly as they came.
The palace loomed in the distance, barely visible beyond the gates, a silhouette of power and history draped in silence. He wasn't here to admire the gardens.
At the edge of the station square, a man waited beneath a broken gaslight, his outline obscured by the mist. Émile approached slowly, keeping one hand in his coat pocket, where a small pistol rested against his ribs.
"Verhaeren?" the man said, his accent clipped, German.
"Depends on who's asking."
The man stepped forward, revealing a narrow face with high cheekbones and small, calculating eyes. He extended a hand but Émile didn't take it.
"Ritter. Captain Otto Ritter. Abwehr."
Of course. Reiner wouldn't come unguarded — especially not to France.
"I thought Reiner was supposed to arrive tomorrow."
"He changed plans. Too many eyes in Paris. Versailles is quieter. For now."
They began walking along the narrow path leading toward a modest inn, the kind used for discreet meetings and even more discreet disappearances. Ritter glanced around constantly, fingers twitching with paranoia.
"We intercepted a message," he said. "Someone knows he's here already. They used the codename 'Edelweiss.'"
"A Nazi code?"
Ritter nodded. "Yes. But not from our side. That flower doesn't bloom for us."
Émile frowned. The implications were too wide to chase now. He needed specifics.
"Where's Reiner staying?"
"Safehouse near the Orangerie. Guarded. But if Edelweiss knows... it won't matter."
As they reached the inn, a figure emerged from the fog across the street. It paused. Émile noticed the hand in the coat. He pushed Ritter to the wall just as a shot rang out.
The bullet tore through the fog, slicing the air where Ritter's head had been seconds before.
Émile drew his gun. The figure vanished into the mist. Footsteps pounded. Another shot — this time from Émile. Missed.
By the time he reached the corner, the street was empty.
Only the fog remained. And the war that had come one breath closer.