The people of France had no sense of the dangers on the front lines; they were too busy celebrating Charles's success in capturing the defensive position at "Point A." They assumed that with Charles holding the line, the Ottoman forces there would collapse and surrender in a few days, delivering France a decisive victory.

Mata Hari was no exception to this optimism.

That evening, she was dining with the French Minister of the Navy at his villa in the 16th arrondissement. It was supposed to be an intimate dinner, but Hari couldn't resist bringing up Charles.

"What a remarkable hero!" she said with a warm smile, her eyes gleaming with admiration. "Everyone's talking about him, you know. I even had the chance to see him once—though I was so starstruck I didn't dare speak to him. It's hard to believe he's only 18! He's bound to do great things."

These words struck a nerve with the Minister. In his sixties and nearing the end of his career, it stung to hear the woman he adored praising another man, a much younger man at that, one whose future seemed so boundless. Sullen, he kept silent, cutting into his steak without a word.

Hari, oblivious to—or perhaps ignoring—his growing irritation, kept talking. "And this battle! Everyone says that Charles is bound to win."

"He's surrounded the enemy. Now it's just a matter of time, right?"

"It's astounding, really. The British threw so many troops and ships at this, yet he succeeded so effortlessly!"

"If only I could meet him. Do you think you could arrange an introduction?"

The Minister, now brimming with jealousy, set down his fork, replying coldly, "No, Hari. Victory is far from guaranteed—people just don't know that yet."

"Oh, really?" Hari raised her eyebrows, looking at him in surprise.

Then she broke into a knowing smile, giving him a meaningful look. "Oh, I see, darling. Don't worry—I think of him as just a boy!"

The Minister blinked, momentarily confused by her words. She turned her gaze to her plate, cutting into her steak. "Forgive me, darling, I shouldn't have brought up Charles. I wouldn't want you to feel..."

She chuckled softly, leaving the rest unsaid.

The Minister realized her implication: she thought he was downplaying Charles's odds out of jealousy. Embarrassed, he replied, "No, I was being quite serious."

"Of course," Hari replied, though her tone and the flicker of amusement in her eyes betrayed her disbelief.

Eager to explain himself, he continued, "There are things people don't know. The Germans already have a plan. They're sending a shipment of grenades and mortars to help the Ottomans break Charles's defenses. This could be devastating for him."

Hari's eyes went wide in alarm. "Is that true? Dear God, does that mean we're going to lose?"

"Not necessarily," the Minister said calmly. "Charles is hoping to force a surrender before those weapons arrive. Tomorrow morning will decide everything."

It hardly mattered, he thought, if Hari knew this. She was spending the night with him, after all.

Hari exhaled in relief, raising her glass. "To victory!"

"To victory!" the Minister echoed, emptying his wineglass. Hari watched him, satisfied. She had slipped a sleeping pill into his wine; he would certainly have a restful night.

At dawn, the sky was overcast with only a faint hint of light on the eastern horizon. The air was heavy with the smell of death, and the usually howling wind had stilled, casting an eerie silence over the battlefield at Point A on Gallipoli. Neither army slept; as if sensing what was to come, both sides readied themselves.

On the French and Australian side, soldiers strapped grenades to their belts, fixed bayonets to their rifles, and prepared for the impending assault. On the Ottoman side, rifles were propped on the trench walls, machine gunners moved ammunition boxes into position, and sandbags were added to fortify the defenses.

The Ottomans had been forewarned about the upcoming attack.

The intelligence had gone through a long chain: General Winter had relayed his frustration about the dire situation on the front to the French Navy Minister, who then leaked the information to a spy. The spy passed it to the Germans, who forwarded it to Sanders, the German commander leading the Ottomans.

Sanders had no reason to doubt the information.

It made perfect sense: today was Charles's last chance to strike. By nightfall, the Germans would deliver grenades and mortars, setting the stage for an Ottoman offensive the next morning.

Sanders stood on a muddy hilltop in his boots, binoculars trained on the enemy's defensive line through the early morning haze.

If Charles was planning a surprise attack, it had to be this morning; otherwise, his forces would be doomed.

Charles did indeed launch his attack, confirmed moments later by the sound of shells whistling through the air.

Mortars rained down on the Ottoman trenches, hitting their marks with uncanny precision along both lines.

"Damn it," Sanders muttered, frowning. "They must have calculated their firing parameters in advance to be hitting so accurately."

With the mortars pinning down the Ottoman forces and grenades soon to be hurled into the trenches, Charles's forces might just breach the defenses.

"Send reinforcements!" Sanders ordered, pointing to the embattled center of the defense line. "We can't let them break through!"

"Yes, sir!" Quinn, his adjutant, immediately relayed the order.

Back on the front line, a shrill whistle pierced the air, followed by the staccato of machine guns firing in response.

The Australians and French began their attack from both fronts, surging out of the trenches with bayonets fixed, advancing in tight formations toward the Ottoman defenses.

Sanders tensed, alarmed.

Charles's forces rarely attacked in such dense formations—was he throwing everything he had into one last, desperate charge?

"Artillery!" Sanders barked. "Order the artillery to provide covering fire!"

"Yes, sir!" The adjutant hurried to transmit the command.

The artillery shells had been stockpiled in preparation for the Ottomans' main assault, but there was no time to worry about that now.

The earth trembled as artillery shells exploded on the battlefield. Accuracy was poor, as the defensive lines were too close, forcing the artillery to target deeper positions.

What Sanders didn't realize, though, was that every move he made was precisely what Charles wanted.

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