84 Avenue Foch, Paris — SS Headquarters
The basement of 84 Avenue Foch, the notorious Paris headquarters of the Sicherheitsdienst (SD), was as much a machine of terror as it was an intelligence hub. Concrete walls sweated with dampness, dim bulbs swung in cages overhead, and the rhythmic click of typewriters filled the stale air. Seventy-three radio operators sat at their stations, headphones pressed to their ears, each tethered to a different receiver, waiting for scraps of intelligence that arrived like blood drops into a shark pool.
One of them, a pale SS-Rottenführer, had been waiting nearly twelve hours without anything but static. When his transmitter suddenly crackled to life, he straightened instantly, scribbling the incoming message onto a form. His eyes widened as he saw the delivery date—it had been sent nearly two weeks ago.
He jolted upright and shouted, "Herr Scharführer!" His voice broke through the din, startling the SS-Scharführer already pacing nearby with a cigarette dangling from his lips.
The Scharführer's eyes narrowed. He snatched the paper, scanning it, then spat his half-smoked cigarette onto the floor. "Scheiße." His boots ground it out as he muttered: "Too late. Always too late. Intel that's late isn't intel at all."
Without another word, he snapped his fingers for the Rottenführer to follow. The two walked briskly through the bowels of the building, passing the prison section where screams rattled against iron bars. Inside the cells, Jews, French résistants, and accused collaborators huddled in filth. Some stared blankly at the SS men passing by, others muttered prayers.
The men were buzzed through the next steel door into the interrogation corridor. Here the soundscape changed: whips cracked, fists struck flesh, and a prisoner's agonized wail pierced the thick air. One man was strapped to a table, his skin peeled open by SS interrogators who worked methodically with knives as though dissecting an animal. The stench of blood and urine filled the passage, but neither Scharführer nor Rottenführer slowed their march.
At the final checkpoint, a reinforced door clanged open, and they climbed the concrete stairwell into the intelligence offices.
Inside, SS-Hauptscharführer Krämer, the section chief, loomed behind a scarred oak desk. Half his face was a ruin of burns, the other hidden beneath a black eye patch, a permanent reminder of Eastern Front combat. He smoked a thick cigar as though it were an extension of his scarred hand. When the Scharführer laid the delayed report in front of him, Krämer's one good eye flicked over the text. His chair creaked as he stood, the cigar trembling in his fingers.
"Verdammt," he muttered. "Berlin plays games with us—two weeks late, a Priority One message. Are they setting us up for sabotage charges?" He exhaled smoke and ground the cigar into the ashtray with vicious finality. "Enough. We deliver this personally."
Krämer shrugged on his black leather trench coat. The men clicked their heels in unison. One glance from the Hauptscharführer was enough—the Rottenführer bolted to summon a vehicle.
Within minutes, a black SS staff car screeched up to the curb, headlights piercing the night drizzle. The Rottenführer and a second trooper leapt out, opening the rear doors. Krämer and the Scharführer entered silently. Cigarette smoke soon filled the car's interior, curling around the dull glow of Paris streetlamps.
The Checkpoint
They reached the Wehrmacht roadblock leading into the district of the banquet hall. A young Wehrmacht sentry stepped forward, rifle slung, and requested papers.
The Rottenführer handed them over with crisp efficiency. The soldier examined them, then shook his head. "Access denied. Orders state no entry without banquet credentials."
The Rottenführer's voice rose in frustration. "We have **intelligence for Obergruppenführer Imel, Priority One! It cannot wait!"
Still, the Wehrmacht soldier stood firm, repeating, "Verboten. Turn back."
The Scharführer, seated in the back, sighed and pushed the door open. His boots crunched on gravel as he stepped out, cigarette glowing at his lips. The squad of Wehrmacht soldiers stiffened, uncertain.
"Young man," the Scharführer said evenly, smoke trailing from his nose, "are you going to let us through… or not?"
"No authorization," the sentry repeated. "Orders are orders."
The Scharführer exhaled slowly. "Orders are orders…" He reached into his coat, drew his pistol, and without hesitation shot the soldier through the eye. The body collapsed, twitching. The other Wehrmacht soldiers froze in horror as the cigarette sizzled down to ash.
"That," the Scharführer said coldly, holstering his weapon, "was for treason. Now… open the barricade."
The soldiers scrambled to comply, dragging the barrier aside. The SS car rolled through, leaving the corpse in the mud. Krämer shook his head. "Verdammt idiots. The Wehrmacht grows stupider by the day."
The Banquet's Endgame
Inside the former presidential palace, the banquet was reaching its conclusion. The music slowed, waiters cleared tables, and the air was heavy with wine and politics.
Riefenstahl took the stage once more, her presence commanding silence. With elegant gestures, she thanked the assembly on behalf of Joseph Goebbels and spoke of the eternal health of Hitler and Himmler. Her words were met with a chorus of Heil! echoing off the gilded walls.
She stepped down, and Imel ascended the stage. Adjusting his uniform, the Iron Cross glinting beneath the chandeliers, he congratulated the crowd for their loyalty. "Our Führer and our Reichsführer are strong," he declared, though in his heart he knew otherwise. "Their health is the health of the Reich itself."
As he spoke, the side doors opened. Hauptscharführer Krämer stormed in with his men, their leather coats slick from the rain. Whispers rippled through the hall. The scarred officer marched directly onto the stage, saluted sharply, and leaned to Imel's ear, covering the microphone with his hand.
"Obergruppenführer Imel, sir. This is a classified message, delayed without explanation. It should have reached you a week and a half ago." He handed the sealed envelope.
Imel slit it open and scanned the contents—Felton's urgent warning about Heydrich's covert presence and dealings with Vice Admiral Arimoto. Imel's jaw tightened. The crowd watched, whispering, trying to decipher the scene. Heydrich, seated near the front, stared with hawk-like intensity, trying to read lips, his smile twitching with menace.
Imel looked up, eyes scanning the crowd, then locking with Heydrich's. Did he delay this message himself? Imel thought. Or is this coincidence too sharp to be ignored?
Leaning back to Krämer, he whispered, "Do you have a vehicle?"
"Yes, Obergruppenführer. Behind the kitchens."
"Good. We leave at once. I believe an assassination attempt is imminent. How many men do you have?"
"Only five, sir. Including you."
"Interesting." Imel's expression hardened. "That will do. Wait here."
He uncovered the microphone, straightened, and addressed the crowd: "Urgent matters call me away. Heil Hitler." He saluted sharply, then strode off the stage, Krämer at his side. The hall roared back the salute, confusion spreading like smoke.
Reichenau, watching, whispered to Brenner, "What just happened?"
Brenner hurried back with grim news. "Generaloberst, those SS men shot a Wehrmacht soldier at the checkpoint."
Reichenau's eyes narrowed. He rose immediately, leaving the hall with Brenner at his side.
Heydrich, however, merely smiled thinly. "So," he muttered to Eichmann, "Imel thinks he's discovered the plot."
The Escape
Outside, Imel's group rushed to the waiting car. "Contact SS headquarters—lock it down," he barked. "Meet us at the crossroads. Rottenführer, you will not stop for anyone. Drive with haste!"
The Scharführer revealed a hidden compartment in the car, assembling a heavy machine gun with clinical calm. Others readied their rifles, eyes scanning the Paris streets for shadows.
Then, from behind them, a thunderous explosion ripped through the banquet hall. The blast wave rattled the car windows. Flames rose into the night sky, consuming the once-glorious palace. Imel turned, watching the inferno swallow the gathering. He could hear distant screams, the groan of collapsing beams.
"It begins," Krämer muttered darkly.
Tokyo — The Imperial Palace
Far away, in the serene hush of Tokyo's Imperial Palace, the world felt like another planet. Crown Prince Akihito and Princess Michiko dined quietly with Emperor Hirohito, the patriarch whose life had narrowed to gardens and silence.
They ate with delicate manners, servants gliding noiselessly around them. Hirohito broke the stillness. "Akihito. Michiko. Are you prepared for your journey to the Pacific States?"
Akihito set his chopsticks down. "Yes, father. The servants are packing our trunks now. We depart soon."
Michiko smiled faintly. "It will be good, Papa. We will represent Japan well."
Hirohito nodded, his face heavy with age. "Good… very good. Then I will have time to tend the gardens alone. Yet I confess—without you, I will be lonely." His voice trembled, the shadow of his late wife haunting every syllable.
Michiko reached across the table, her tone warm. "I will instruct the servants to keep you the best of company until we return. They will not let you sit in silence."
Hirohito considered this, then smiled faintly as he sipped his soup. "If that is my daughter-in-law's wish, then so be it."
In the courtyard, servants moved quickly, loading trunks onto a polished transport truck. The luggage was heavy, fit not for a short trip but for a month-long state visit—to the Japanese Pacific States, and possibly further, into the Reich itself.
The stage was being set.