The SS headquarters in Paris had been designed to intimidate long before a single word was spoken.
Cold stone walls swallowed sound. Tall windows admitted gray daylight without warmth. Even the chairs felt deliberately uncomfortable—straight-backed, unforgiving. The Wehrmacht inspectors sat rigidly on one side of the steel conference table while the SS officers remained standing, an unsubtle assertion of dominance.
Stacks of folders lay neatly arranged.
Each stamped GEHEIM.
Each marked SS-ALLEINZUSTÄNDIG.
Generalmajor Friedrich Adler opened the first file, scanning quickly. His brow furrowed. He flipped to the next page—then the next. Names blacked out. Dates altered. Entire paragraphs replaced with thick red lines.
He closed the folder slowly and slid it back across the table.
"This," Adler said evenly, "is not an investigation. It's a performance."
Across from him, SS-Brigadeführer Walter Schöngarth clasped his gloved hands behind his back, posture immaculate. "You have been given everything relevant."
Oberst Heinrich Volkmann leaned forward, voice sharp. "Witness lists missing. Surveillance logs incomplete. Medical reports altered."
Schöngarth's eyes flicked briefly to Müller, then back. "The SS determines relevance."
"That authority does not supersede the Wehrmacht," Volkmann shot back.
The air shifted.
Boot heels adjusted. Leather creaked. One SS officer's fingers brushed the edge of his holster—not quite a threat, but close enough.
From the far end of the room, SS-Gruppenführer Heinrich Müller finally spoke. His voice was calm, almost conversational.
"Gentlemen. Paris suffered a terrorist attack. The SS restored order within hours. That efficiency should be commended, not questioned."
Adler stood. The scrape of his chair echoed sharply.
"A Wehrmacht field marshal was sidelined in his own jurisdiction," Adler said. "Our forces were reduced to security cordons while your men seized full operational control."
Schöngarth smiled faintly, the kind of smile that carried no warmth. "And yet the city still stands."
Volkmann slammed his hand on the table. "At what cost?"
Müller raised a hand, palm outward. The room obeyed instantly.
"This discussion," Müller said, "has reached its limit."
Everyone understood the truth: the confrontation had been permitted. A reminder. A warning.
Adler gathered his papers. "We're done here—for now."
Schöngarth inclined his head, satisfied. "Of course."
⸻
Rain fell steadily as the inspectors descended the front steps of the headquarters. Paris smelled of wet stone and oil, headlights reflecting in puddles across the courtyard where their vehicles waited.
They were nearly at the cars when Müller's voice cut through the rain.
"Generalmajor Adler."
Adler stopped. Slowly turned.
Müller stood at the top of the steps, framed by SS guards, his coat immaculate despite the weather. He descended at an unhurried pace.
"While you remain in Paris," Müller said, "SS protocol requires an attached liaison."
Adler's jaw tightened. "That will not be happening."
Müller turned slightly. "SS-Scharführer Gelsia Russo."
She stepped forward—young, dark-haired, uniform pristine. Her expression was blank, professional to the point of inhuman.
She snapped a precise salute. "Heil Hitler."
Adler stared at her, then back at Müller. "Absolutely not."
Müller returned Adler's gaze without flinching. "It is not a request. And since you outrank me—" he saluted crisply "—I am merely informing you."
Without waiting for a response, Müller turned and disappeared back into the building.
Russo remained, unmoving.
Adler exhaled slowly through his nose. "Rear vehicle," he said.
She nodded once and complied.
⸻
Inside the moving car, the rain drummed against the roof.
For several minutes, no one spoke.
Finally, Adler broke the silence. "They don't even pretend anymore."
Oberst Volkmann glanced toward the rearview mirror, catching Russo's reflection—eyes forward, posture rigid. "No shadows," he said quietly. "Just chains in daylight."
Adler's hands clenched briefly. "She's not protection."
"She's a ledger," Volkmann replied. "And we're the entries."
⸻
The Wehrmacht headquarters felt older, heavier—less polished, but familiar. Wehrmacht guards alone stood watch. No black uniforms. No SS insignia.
Generaloberst Wilhelm Reichenau greeted them personally and ushered them into a secured room. Maps lined the walls. Ashtrays overflowed. Coffee sat untouched.
As they entered, Russo stepped forward.
A Wehrmacht sentry blocked her path. "Wehrmacht business only."
Russo saluted crisply. "Understood. I will remain outside."
She took position beside the door, indifferent, already listening.
Inside, Major Otto Weiss opened his briefcase and withdrew a thick dossier.
"From Generalfeldmarschall Rommel," Weiss said. "All officially logged medical personnel who traveled to Paris in the last six months."
Names. Dates. Departments.
Reichenau and Oberst Karl Brenner reviewed the lists carefully.
"No," Reichenau said after a moment. "None of these were present at the banquet."
"I would remember," Brenner added. "Especially doctors."
Oberstleutnant Klaus Ritter frowned. "You're certain?"
"Yes."
Ritter folded his arms. "Then recount the banquet."
They did—every detail. Arrival times. Seating arrangements. The mood before the explosion. The shock when Heydrich appeared unannounced.
"Where is Heydrich now?" Adler asked.
Reichenau shook his head. "Unknown. We were unofficially relieved soon after."
Brenner hesitated, then spoke. "There was one doctor I recognized."
The room went quiet.
"SS-Hauptsturmführer Josef Mengele," Brenner said. "With several individuals I did not recognize."
Volkmann's eyes narrowed. "Mengele belongs in Auschwitz."
"And there's no official record placing him in Paris," Ritter added.
Reichenau crossed his arms. "Unless it was unofficial."
Volkmann leaned forward. "The child—can he identify him?"
Reichenau turned to Brenner. "Send men. Protect the child. Bring him here."
Brenner stood immediately to issue orders.
Outside the door, Gelsia Russo listened through transmitters already embedded in the walls—devices planted weeks earlier.
She noted everything.
Especially the name Mengele.
In San Francisco, celebration masked fear.
Leo and Kenzie scouted routes, supply depots, and choke points, speaking in half-sentences and glances. Sarah prepared to join them when opportunity aligned.
Chief Inspector Sugiyama tightened security citywide, yet unease gnawed at him. Too many actors. Too many agendas.
The Crown Prince and Princess toured the city, adored.
And somewhere beyond the crowds, Jack watched, patient, waiting.
In London, Emily followed the ritual perfectly.
Beer ordered. Guards cap angled just right.
"Back room," the bartender said.
A button. A tunnel. A hidden bar filled with quiet defiance.
Her old Royal Marine contact embraced her.
"You look like hell," he said softly.
She showed him the scars.
He told her about a mission—a U-boat supply hub across the Channel.
Back in Paris, Imel ended a secure call with SS-Obergruppenführer Reinhard Krüger.
The secure line clicked once, then opened.
Imel did not bother with formalities.
"Reinhard," he said, exhaling smoke toward the tall window of his Paris office. The city beyond was dim, rain streaking the glass like thin scars. "I assume you already know why I'm calling."
On the other end, SS-Obergruppenführer Reinhard Krüger leaned back in his chair in Berlin, jacket unbuttoned, tie loosened. They were the same rank—no salutes, no stiff language—but the weight between them was unmistakable.
"I know enough," Krüger replied. "Paris burned, the Wehrmacht is restless, and Heydrich's fingerprints are everywhere without being anywhere specific."
Imel allowed himself a thin smile. "You always did understand the spaces between things."
Krüger's voice hardened slightly. "Don't flatter me. Tell me what you want."
Imel tapped ash into a crystal tray. "Étienne Moreau. The delivery boy. He escaped Paris on a Breitspurbahn hours ago. Britain is outside my direct jurisdiction, and that is not an accident."
Krüger straightened. "You believe he has protection."
"I know he does," Imel replied. "Someone paid him. Someone arranged his extraction. And someone wants the trail to pass through my hands before it disappears."
Krüger was silent for a moment. "You want Foreign Security to take over quietly."
"Yes," Imel said. "No spectacle. No arrests that ripple outward. Britain remains 'sovereign,' which means influence works better than force."
"And the backers?" Krüger asked. "You said they were powerful."
Imel's gaze drifted to the file on his desk—names blacked out, insignias torn away. "They always are."
Krüger exhaled. "I'll assign a compartmented cell. No uniforms. No paperwork that points back to you."
Imel nodded once, even though Krüger couldn't see it. "That's why I called you."
The line went quiet.
Then Krüger spoke again, more quietly. "Be careful, Imel. You're moving pieces that don't like being seen."
Imel crushed the cigarette out slowly. "So am I."
The line went dead.
In Berlin, rain hammered the windows of the Reich Chancellery as Heinrich Himmler paced across the polished floor, hands clasped behind his back. Three aides stood near the wall—silent, attentive, afraid to breathe too loudly.
"Imel is capable," Himmler said at last, more to himself than to them. "Too capable, perhaps."
One aide dared to speak. "Mein Reichsführer… his record—"
"—is not in question," Himmler snapped, stopping abruptly. "What is in question is loyalty under pressure."
Another aide shifted nervously. "You believe Paris may leak."
Himmler turned, eyes sharp. "Information always leaks. The only question is where."
He resumed pacing. "Imel placed Riefenstahl into protective custody before anyone else even understood the danger. That shows foresight."
"Yes, Reichsführer," the aide said quickly.
"But foresight," Himmler continued, "can become independence."
Silence filled the room.
"I trust Imel," Himmler said slowly. "But trust is not a permanent condition. It must be tested."
He stopped in front of his desk. "Send Karl Wolff. Not to replace him. To observe him."
One aide nodded and moved immediately.
Himmler stared at the map of Europe on the wall. "Paris is not the problem," he murmured. "It is the excuse."