CHAPTER 335: LET THEM DRAW THEIR LINES. WE’LL DECIDE WHERE THEY END.

"Here," he said, tapping at the Carpathians, "is the hinge. Romania. The one place both Berlin and Moscow need but neither trust. If they fight over Poland, they’ll both glance south."

"And see us?"

"Exactly," Moreau said. "But they won’t attack if they think we’re unprepared. They’ll only attack if they think we’re strong."

Artois frowned. "That makes no sense."

"It makes perfect sense," Moreau said. "They fear strength that moves. They respect strength that sleeps."

The colonel gave a low whistle. "You’re turning the entire continent into a psychological experiment."

"Not an experiment," Moreau said. "A correction."

A silence stretched between them.

Outside, a car passed through the wet street, its headlights sweeping across the room.

"You really believe we can survive this," Artois said finally.

"I know we can," Moreau said. "Because we already did."

The phone buzzed again an internal line this time.

Artois picked it up, listened, then handed it over. "Foreign Office."

A young official’s voice crackled through. "Monsieur President, an intercepted German transmission from Berlin. Coded, but the phrase ’Operation Glass’ repeats throughout. We think it’s aimed at us."

"Let it aim," Moreau said. "We’ll give them reflections."

When he hung up, Artois asked, "Do we respond?"

"Yes. Send a letter to the German ambassador. Offer condolences for the recent ’unrest’ in Warsaw. Make it sound sincere."

"They’ll see through it."

"They’re supposed to."

Artois shook his head. "You play with fire."

"I play with time," Moreau said.

The colonel finished his cigarette and crushed it out. "And what about London? They ask daily where France stands."

"Tell them France is still rebuilding Spain," Moreau said. "That’s what they already believe."

"Even Churchill?"

"Especially Churchill," Moreau said. "He loves the illusion of control."

Artois gave a half-smile. "You think years ahead."

"I remember years ahead," Moreau said quietly.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Moreau walked to his desk, opened the coded envelope from Bucharest, and unfolded the thin paper inside.

Lines of cipher filled the page, but at the bottom, in clear French, someone had written.

The huntsmen are blind.

Moreau stared at the words. "Good," he said. "Keep them blind."

He turned to Artois. "Send our own message back. To Carol, through the usual channel."

"What should it say?"

"Just that," Moreau said. "The huntsmen are blind. Signed ’M.’ Nothing else."

Artois nodded. "They’ll know it’s genuine."

Moreau sank back into his chair. "And when they ask what comes next, tell them to wait."

Artois hesitated. "You really trust Carol?"

"I trust his fear," Moreau said. "It’s the only honest emotion left in Europe."

He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. "Lucien, we’re almost ready. The pieces are moving faster now."

"Toward war," Artois said.

"Toward history," Moreau corrected. "War is just the noise it makes."

A soft knock came at the door.

An aide entered, carrying a fresh stack of telegrams. "From Madrid, sir. Reconstruction reports."

Moreau waved them aside. "Later."

The aide hesitated. "There’s also a cable from Warsaw. Urgent."

Moreau took it and unfolded it slowly.

It was short, written in plain text.

German units spotted near Poznań. Polish command requests confirmation of French position.

He read it twice, then laid it flat on the table. "So it begins."

Artois waited. "Do we answer?"

"No," Moreau said. "Let silence speak."

"Silence won’t save them."

"No," Moreau said softly. "But it might save us."

He stood, walked to the window, and looked out at the dark river. "I want Mirage expanded. Two more operations one in Prague, one in Kraków. Spread rumors of French volunteers crossing from Spain. Nothing too loud, just enough to worry Berlin."

"I’ll see to it," Artois said. "And Moscow?"

"They’ll hear the same rumors," Moreau said. "They’ll think Berlin’s losing control. It’ll make them greedy."

Artois smiled faintly. "You’re feeding paranoia on both sides."

"That’s the only thing that grows fast enough."

He turned back to the desk and gathered a few papers. "Lucien, do you ever wonder what it looks like history, when it changes?"

The colonel shrugged. "Like now, I suppose."

"No," Moreau said. "Now it’s only smoke. The fire comes later."

He opened a drawer and took out a small envelope, already sealed. "This stays with you. If I’m not here in three days, deliver it to Madrid."

Artois frowned. "What’s in it?"

"The next move."

"You expect to be gone?"

"I expect to be needed elsewhere."

The colonel looked at him closely. "Spain again?"

Moreau smiled without answering. "Tell the press I’m inspecting reconstruction."

Artois nodded slowly. "And when they ask why the President of France travels without escort?"

"Tell them I prefer ghosts for company."

They shared a brief silence.

Outside, a gust rattled the windowpanes.

"Lucien," Moreau said finally, "when this ends when they finally turn on each other I’ll need Romania ready. Tell Carol to double the oil convoys north, under Red Cross markings. And increase the shipments to our so-called engineers in southern Poland."

"More supplies?"

"More bait," Moreau said.

Artois gave a grim chuckle. "You enjoy this too much."

"It’s the only game left," Moreau said. "And I’ve seen how it ends."

He looked at the clock. "Get some rest. Tomorrow we wake the ghosts."

Artois rose, buttoned his coat, and hesitated at the door. "If you’re wrong..."

"I’m never wrong about men," Moreau said. "Just about how long it takes them to destroy themselves."

The colonel left without another word.

Alone again, Moreau sat in the half-dark, staring at the map.

The lines and pins blurred into something almost alivena nervous system pulsing under the paper.

He picked up a pen and drew a faint circle around Warsaw, then another around Bucharest.

Between them, he drew a single straight line.

It was not strategy. It was prophecy.

He whispered to himself, "Two weeks."

The telegram to Bucharest went out at dawn.

TO: KING CAROL II

THE MIRAGE IS ACTIVE. THE HUNTSMEN ARE BLIND.

— M.

Moreau read the copy once, then locked it in his drawer.

He stood by the window, watching the sunlight break over the rooftops.

Somewhere east, in the gray distance beyond the horizon, trains were moving toward Poland.

He whispered, almost to himself,

"Let them draw their lines. We’ll decide where they end."