Inside, Hitler stood at the map table, palms pressing the edges as if he might bend Europe with his fingers.

Keitel and Himmler waited against the wall, half-in shadow.

Keitel's face had the careful emptiness of a man who knows that words can kill.

Himmler's had the pinched intensity of a schoolmaster who expects the class to disappoint him.

Ribbentrop stopped at the edge of the light and bowed his head. "Mein Führer."

Hitler did not look up at once.His eyes tracked the line from Breslau to Poznań to Warsaw. "They cheered in the streets," he said, like a man commenting on the weather.

"In Prague. They cheered while we took back what was ours. They cheer because they are sensible. Do you know who does not cheer? The English. They cluck. The French preen." His mouth pulled to one side. "Moreau preens like a peacock."

Ribbentrop waited.

The name hung in the air between them.

Even saying "France" was different now.

It meant Moreau, his parade avenues, his iron smile, his trophies in Madrid.

"Speak," Hitler said finally. "You asked for time."

"There are signals from Moscow," Ribbentrop said, careful, precise, each word laid like a bridge plank. "Not a message. A… readiness to discuss the flexibility of eastern questions."

Hitler's head snapped up.

His eyes were wolf-bright. "Moscow?"

"Yes."

The corner of Hitler's mouth twitched, not toward a smile. "The Asiatic plague wants to talk?"

"They want to arrange their medicine in the east," Ribbentrop said, refusing the metaphor. "They have taken Estonia. They look at the rest of the map with the curiosity of a doctor who dislikes tumors and enjoys scalpels."

Himmler's hands moved behind his back, the fingertips touching as if in prayer. "You would invite them to the table."

Ribbentrop didn't look at him. "I would invite them to sit where they cannot reach our plates."

Hitler's voice sharpened. "Bolshevism is a poison. It corrupts the German soul. I will not… embrace them."

"No." Ribbentrop lifted his chin. "Nor would I suggest it. But there are moments when two enemies find a corridor and walk down it without touching. The corridor is Poland."

Keitel cleared his throat. "If I may, mein Führer." He stepped a fraction closer to the map.

"In Silesia we have massed units. Training continues. Bridges have been tested. Supply officers report improvements, though fuel reserves.."

He glanced at Göring's absence, swallowed the complaint. "...though some adjustments will be needed if we move quickly."

Hitler studied the line along the map as if it were a scar. "And the west? Moreau?"

Keitel's answer was ready. "The French shift divisions, but their appetite is uncertain. Their Spanish occupation stretches them. The Maginot is strong; their stomach for movement less so."

Himmler's voice was cool. "They are strong enough to stab us if we offer our back."

Ribbentrop cut in before the chill of the word back could settle. "Which is why a quiet east is essential. The British bleat. The French admire themselves in mirrors. If Moscow stands aside, the chorus of Europe becomes a solo."

Hitler's gaze fixed on him. "What does Moscow want?"

"Land," Ribbentrop said. "They want the world to forget the word 'Versailles' and replace it with a word of their own. They want to move their border west. To take what they call 'lost' cities."

He reached into the folder, not to hand anything over but to give his fingers something to do. "Vilnius and Lwów lie awake at night, waiting to know which language they belong to. Moscow wants to sing them to sleep."

"You make poetry," Himmler said with contempt.

"I make arithmetic," Ribbentrop replied, and met his eyes for the first time. "Numbers that add up to time. A year. Two. While the factories move like an ocean and the boys learn to drive tanks with their eyes closed."

Hitler turned from the map as if it had exhausted his patience.

He walked to the window and peered out at the rain.

For a moment he looked less like a man than like a silhouette painted onto the glass. "I despise them," he said softly, to the pane or to the street or to some train in his memory. "They murdered a civilization. They parade their filth as progress."

Ribbentrop forced lightness he did not feel. "Then despise them in comfort, with your back against their quiet."

Hitler did not laugh.

He did not move.

"You would talk to them."

"I would let them believe we are talking," Ribbentrop said. "We do not send ambassadors. We do not sign anything. We let a rumor walk into a café. We let a trade man from Riga mention that borders are like tides. We see if Moscow listens for the surf."

Keitel said, "If Moscow hears surf, Warsaw hears thunder."

"Warsaw," Hitler said, coming back to the table, "is a rotten house. One kick."

He tapped the map, once, hard, and the pins shivered. "But I do not want to kick with both arms held behind me."

Himmler's nostrils pinched. "They will betray us as soon as they can."

"Of course," Ribbentrop said. "That is why we count on the betrayal and leave them nothing to betray but what we would have abandoned anyway."

Hitler stared at him. "You think like a lawyer."

"I am a shopkeeper's son," Ribbentrop said quietly. "I think like a man who counts his till before he locks the door."

The silence stretched.

In it, a clock ticked, and somewhere down the corridor a door opened.

"Who would do this speaking?" Hitler asked at last. "You?"

"Not I," Ribbentrop said quickly. "I am too visible. We use our men in Riga, Helsinki, Stockholm. We let trade speak. We let gossip do what signatures cannot."

Keitel rubbed the bridge of his nose. "And the timetable?"

"Soon," Ribbentrop said. "Not months. A season. We press in Danzig. We prod in the Corridor. We watch how Poland struts and how London clucks. If Moscow smiles without showing its teeth, we know."

Hitler lifted a hand.

All of them stopped breathing for a while.