Chapter 331: Chapter 331

The rain poured over Paris that evening.

Étienne Moreau sat at his long table, jacket off.

The doors creaked open.

Renaud stepped inside, carrying a bulging folder so thick the leather straps barely held.

His expression was somewhere between irritation and amusement.

"Another night of fairy tales," Renaud said, setting the folder down with a heavy thud.

Moreau exhaled slowly. "Fairy tales?"

"Yes. The very best Europe can invent," Renaud said, undoing the straps. "Our agents, allies, and assorted lunatics have been generous." Nᴇw novel chapters are publɪshed on novｅlfire.net

Moreau arched an eyebrow. "Go on then. Entertain me."

Renaud pulled out the first report and cleared his throat. "Dispatch from Stockholm. A Swedish journalist swears Hitler’s next target is... Greenland."

Moreau blinked. "Greenland."

"Apparently the Führer has a passion for icebergs," Renaud continued, his tone deadpan. "The Swedes believe he plans to establish a submarine base under the polar ice. To control the North Atlantic."

Moreau’s hand went to his forehead. "Good God."

Renaud grinned. "I rather like the imagery. Wehrmacht troops in snowshoes, goose-stepping across glaciers."

Moreau muttered, "If this is the level of Scandinavian intelligence, they deserve to be conquered."

Renaud set the paper aside and pulled out another. "From Bucharest. A Romanian colonel insists Germany intends to invade Transylvania not for oil, not for territory, but to seize Count Dracula’s castle as a symbolic fortress."

Moreau stared. "You are joking."

"I swear on my mother’s grave," Renaud said solemnly. "He wrote that Hitler is fascinated by gothic legends, and the castle would be a ’spiritual stronghold of Aryan mysticism.’"

Moreau slammed his hand on the table, startling the ashtray. "Does this colonel read novels instead of maps? Transfer him to guarding sheep."

Renaud chuckled. "Shall I write that in the margin?"

"Write it in blood if you like," Moreau snapped.

The next sheet came out. "From Rome. Mussolini’s man claims Hitler is secretly preparing a fleet of fishing boats in the North Sea to invade Ireland."

Moreau sat up sharply. "Ireland? Fishing boats?"

"Yes. The report says he wants to cut Britain’s Atlantic supply lines and use Irish ports as bases. Apparently Goering is training paratroopers to drop into Dublin disguised as priests."

For a moment Moreau was silent.

Then he burst out, "Priests! Saints preserve us! The Wehrmacht in cassocks! I have commanded drunk lieutenants with more sense than this!"

Renaud was grinning openly now. "It has a certain flair though, doesn’t it? I’d pay to see Goering in a soutane."

"Enough!" Moreau barked, though a reluctant smirk tugged at his lips.

Renaud turned another page. "From Madrid. A Spanish exile claims Hitler is sending engineers to hollow out mountains in Bavaria, preparing underground hangars for a thousand bombers that will fly directly through the Alps like bats from a cave."

Moreau groaned. "A thousand bombers hidden in caves. What’s next? Dragons?"

"Not yet," Renaud said, flipping to the next sheet. "Ah, Vienna provides that. A café gossip insists Hitler sleeps in a coffin during the day, rising at night to give speeches."

Moreau covered his face with both hands. "Dear God, deliver me from intelligence."

At last Renaud grew serious and pulled out a thinner stack. "Now. Among the circus, there are a few notes worth your time."

Moreau lowered his hands slowly. "Finally."

"From our attaché in Berlin," Renaud read. "Supplies are being moved eastward again. Grain, fuel, munitions. Large depots constructed in Silesia. They’re built to last, not for exercises."

Moreau’s expression hardened, though he said nothing.

"From Leipzig," Renaud continued. "Posters prepared for printing slogans about Danzig, about Germans cut off from the Reich. Exactly the same style as Sudetenland."

Moreau nodded once, slowly.

"And from Prague," Renaud said, "reports of German officials boasting openly that Poland is next. Not coded, not whispered. Openly."

For a long moment the only sound was the rain.

Then Moreau spoke quietly. "That is the song. That is the rhythm. And still the world dances blind."

Renaud shuffled the stack again, returning to the absurdities. "From Lisbon Hitler has developed a secret weapon. A ray gun. Capable of melting tanks at twenty paces."

Moreau’s head snapped up. "A ray gun."

"Yes. A ray gun," Renaud repeated gravely. "The Portuguese agent even drew diagrams. Looks suspiciously like a stage spotlight."

Moreau stood, pacing now, fury rising. "Why do I waste money on this? Why do I pay officers, clerks, agents, when they send me children’s fantasies? Ray guns! Coffins! Fishing boats! Are we at war with a madman or with fairy tales?"

"Both, perhaps," Renaud offered mildly.

"Enough!" Moreau roared, slamming his fist on the mantelpiece. "Tell them all if they wish to send me nonsense, they can write novels instead of reports!"

Renaud leaned back in his chair, perfectly calm. "And yet, my friend, hidden among the nonsense is always the truth. You know that better than anyone."

Moreau turned, eyes blazing, then sighed heavily. "Yes. And that is the curse. A thousand lies, and one truth buried. The art is cutting to the bone without being poisoned by the rot."

Renaud read more rumors of Hitler keeping astrologers in the Chancellery, of Goering building a palace made of solid gold, of German scientists breeding giant dogs to patrol conquered cities.

Each time, Moreau reacted with disbelief, irritation, or bursts of savage laughter.

Finally, as the clock neared midnight, Renaud closed the folder. "That is the harvest. Absurdities, half-truths, a few kernels of sense. The usual."

Moreau sank back into his chair, cigarette burning low. "Intelligence. A mountain of manure for a single seed of grain."

Renaud smiled faintly. "And yet you read it all."

"Yes," Moreau said quietly. "Because somewhere in the manure lies the future. And I cannot afford to miss it."

The rain eased outside.

But inside the Élysée, the two men sat together, one laughing at the absurdities, the other sifting for the single truth that mattered.

And between them, in silence, lay the paper that could not stop what was coming.