CHAPTER 333: M-I-R-A-G-E.

The Kremlin windows were blacked out against the gray dawn.

Molotov stood before Stalin’s desk, a single sheet of paper in his hand.

Stalin said nothing.

"Warsaw reports movement," Molotov began. "Trains on the southern line. French markings."

Stalin’s eyes flicked up. "Tourists?"

Molotov’s face did not move. "Engineers, according to their documents."

"Engineers," Stalin repeated.

He leaned back, cigarette smoke curling above him. "Moreau’s people."

"Most likely," Molotov said. "They’re operating through Romanian fronts. No diplomatic cover. Quiet."

Stalin exhaled, gaze narrowing. "He hides well. Too quiet, this Frenchman. I don’t like quiet men."

"They say he’s really focus rebuilding Spain, well that’s what they have been saying to everyone for thousands of year." Molotov added.

Stalin grunted. "Spain can rebuild itself in hell. France never moves without purpose. What does he want in Poland?"

"Information, perhaps. Maybe to warn the Poles."

"Warn them of what?"

Molotov looked at the paper in his hand. "Of us."

Stalin smiled faintly, without humor. "Let them. It won’t save them. But leaks are dangerous. If Paris knows about our understanding with Berlin..."

"They don’t," Molotov said. "Not yet."

"Not yet," Stalin echoed.

He stubbed out the cigarette and reached for another. "Find who talks too much. And find how this rumor crossed the border. I want it ended."

Molotov bowed his head slightly. "Understood."

"And send a message to Berlin," Stalin said. "Something vague. Just enough to remind Ribbentrop that Moscow watches."

"You think they might move early?" Molotov asked.

"I suspect everyone," Stalin said. His tone was calm, final. "Trust keeps men soft."

Molotov rose. "I’ll speak to Beria."

Stalin waved him off, eyes still on the snow. "Call it whatever you like. Just make sure we hear footsteps before they reach our door."

Molotov left with the paper folded neatly in his hand.

Two hours later, in his own smaller office, he met Beria.

The NKVD chief’s glasses fogged as he bent over the report.

"’Project Glass,’" Beria read aloud. "A fine name. You want to make the world transparent, eh?"

"Transparent enough to see French fingers in Warsaw," Molotov said. "Start quietly. Surveillance on every foreign engineer, trader, journalist. If they have French papers, I want names by tomorrow."

Beria smiled. "We will catch them."

"Don’t catch," Molotov said. "Observe. Spiders weave better when they think no one’s watching."

"And if the web leads to Paris?"

Molotov looked through the window, the snow thickening outside. "Then we decide whether to cut the thread... or pull it."

That night he sat alone at his desk and drafted a telegram to Berlin.

To: Reich Foreign Office, Attention Herr Ribbentrop

"Preliminary discussions satisfactory. Certain movements near Polish border observed. We presume coordination continues as agreed."

– V.M.

He read it twice, then sealed it.

Ambiguous enough to sound cooperative, sharp enough to sting.

He smiled without warmth. "Let’s see how our German friends read between the lines."

Berlin, three days later.

The Reich Foreign Office.

Ribbentrop stood in front of the great map pinned to the wall, Molotov’s telegram in his hand.

Hitler paced behind him, boots striking the floor like hammer blows.

"What does he mean ’movements near the Polish border’? Ours? Theirs?" Hitler asked.

"Both, perhaps," Ribbentrop said carefully. "He wants reassurance."

"Then reassure him," Hitler snapped. "Tell him Poland will be split like a pig. But we move when I say."

"Yes, mein Führer."

Hitler stopped pacing. "Did he look afraid?"

Ribbentrop hesitated, remembering the calm, unreadable Soviet face. "Yes," he lied. "He looked afraid."

Hitler grinned. "Good. Keep him that way." He turned toward the door. "Watch the Romanians. They smell of France."

The door slammed.

Ribbentrop exhaled and poured himself a drink he didn’t touch.

Afraid, he thought.

Molotov? Never.

Across the city, rain washed the streets clean of spring dust.

In a dim café near Wilhelmstraße, a man in a tan overcoat checked his pocket watch.

He was called Seraph.

Officially, he was a minor attaché at the French Embassy harmless, polite, forgettable.

He looked toward the door just as another man entered, soaked and nervous.

"You’re late," Seraph said in German.

"Train inspection," the courier whispered. He slid into the seat. "You have something?"

Seraph pushed an envelope beneath a folded newspaper. "From Paris. Instructions and payment. You send the reports the same way?"

The courier nodded. "Next train to Warsaw, then Bucharest."

"Good. Be careful. Gestapo eyes everywhere."

The courier gave a strained smile. "Always."

The door opened again.

Two men in dark coats stepped in, too calm to be customers.

Seraph’s stomach tightened. "Go," he muttered. "Now."

The courier stood and walked quickly toward the side exit.

One of the new arrivals followed.

The other stayed, eyes fixed on Seraph.

He pretended to smoke, but his hand trembled.

When the cigarette burned down, he left coins on the table and walked out the front door, head low against the rain.

He would not go home tonight.

Hours later, the courier sat in a chair in Gestapo headquarters, face swollen.

The officer in charge flipped through the confiscated envelope.

Inside were trade numbers and export figures. Meaningless until he noticed the first letters of each line.

Reading downward, they spelled.

M-I-R-A-G-E.

"French code?" his aide asked.

"Maybe," the officer said. "Maybe something worse." He shut the file. "Send this to the Foreign Office. Tell them we have ghosts."

Ribbentrop read the report under a yellow desk lamp. "’Mirage,’" he said softly. "That’s what they call their operation?"

"Yes, Minister," his intelligence officer said. "Misinformation, most likely. The courier was meeting a French national."

"Did he talk?"

"Not yet."

"Make him talk. I want to know what Mirage is before the Führer hears the word from someone else."

The officer hesitated. "There’s more, sir. Reports from Silesia and the south foreign contractors buying coal through Romanian fronts."

Ribbentrop frowned. "Romanians again."

"Yes, sir. Shell companies with Paris addresses."

He rose from his chair. "Find proof. If France is rebuilding in Spain and buying coal in Poland, they are not sleeping they are preparing."

The officer saluted and left.

Ribbentrop looked at the map on his wall, finger resting on Paris. "Moreau," he murmured, "what are you hiding behind that calm face?"

That night, in an alley behind the embassy,

Seraph crouched beside a sewer grate, wrapping a small capsule in waxed cloth.