"We are going to overthrow the Führer."
The words landed like a thunderclap.
Christian's chest tightened. His heart hammered. For a moment he thought he must have misheard.
But Canaris's eyes were steady, cold and certain.
"Overthrow." Christian whispered.
"Yes, before he destroys us all," Canaris said. "Before Germany is reduced to ash and blood."
Christian's breath came short. He thought of his mother's tears, of Katia's trembling voice, of his father standing on Normandy's edge, of Kristina's absence that gnawed at his heart. He thought of Müller's cold smile, of Stalingrad's graves, of the ring pressed to his chest.
And he realized: this was no longer about survival. It was about choosing.
Canaris's voice dropped to a whisper.
"Will you stand with us?"
The room seemed to darken. Outside, the city moaned with distant sirens. And Christian sat frozen at the edge of treason, his soul poised between loyalty and betrayal, between life and death. He did not answer. Not yet. But the seed had been planted.
Christian had left the Abwehr headquarters shaken, his steps uneven and his chest tight with a storm of thoughts.
But he had not gone far. The Admiral had summoned him again at dawn.
Now Christian sat across from him in the dim light of morning, a map of Europe spread between them. Coffee steamed untouched in porcelain cups. Outside, Berlin coughed awake under the weight of air raids, ration lines, and fear.
"Do you know what horror of a man we serve, Christian?" Canaris asked quietly. His voice was even, but his eyes which were usually sharp and controlled glistened with something rawer.
Christian swallowed. "I know the war is madness, sir."
"No." Canaris leaned forward, his hands flat on the desk. "Madness is too light a word. Madness is an excuses. What they have done, what we have allowed is not merely madness. It is atrocity."
Christian held his gaze, but his chest tightened. He had seen death on the battlefield, starvation, men eating rats to survive. But something in Canaris's tone promised worse.
The Admiral reached into his drawer, pulled out a small folder, and placed it on the desk. "Reports," he said. "Some smuggled to me by officers who still remember they are human beings. Camps, Christian. Concentration camps."
He opened the folder. Christian glimpsed blurred photographs barbed wire, skeletal figures in striped uniforms, mass graves. His stomach clenched.
"I went myself," Canaris said, his voice rough. "Not officially, of course. But I went. I saw men I once dined with, businessmen, scholars, artists. Jews. Men whose only crime was to be born as they were. They were broken into shadows behind wire. Some called my name, begged me to help. And I could do nothing."
He closed the folder with trembling fingers. "Do you understand? These were my friends."
Christian's throat was dry. Words stuck like stones in his mouth. He thought of Antonov's blood on his hands, of Katia's tears, of Kristina's vanished smile. He thought he had already seen hell.
But this, he could not speak.
Canaris's eyes hardened. He rose, pacing slowly, his hands clasped behind his back.
"They plan more. Always more. Do you know what Hitler intended last year? He sent word to SS units in Italy. If the Allies reached Rome, they were to kidnap or murder Pope Pius XII."
Christian's head snapped up. "The Pope?"
"Yes." Canaris's voice was sharp now. "The Holy Father himself. Hitler saw him as an enemy. Too soft, too Catholic, too… international. A symbol that united too many. Do you know what it would have meant, Christian, if the Pope were dragged through the streets, or found dead in some ditch? The world would have burned in outrage."
Christian's heart pounded. "But… it didn't happen."
"Because I stopped it." Canaris's words came flat, cold. "I warned the Italians. I risked my command, my life, everything. General Cesare Amè of Italian intelligence passed the warning, and the plan died before it began."
He turned back, his face lined with exhaustion. "Do you understand now? This regime will destroy anything, anyone, if it serves their hunger for power. Faith, family, honor; nothing is sacred."
Christian leaned back in his chair, his hand instinctively reaching for the ring beneath his uniform. He rubbed it between his fingers, grounding himself, clinging to Kristina's memory.
He thought of Katia's words: We haven't seen Kristina in a long time.
He thought of the empty chair at his father's table. He thought of starving men in Stalingrad, gnawed to the bone by a war that had no mercy.
Now he saw another horror layered on top: camps, barbed wire, murder not for survival, but for ideology.
"Why are you telling me this?" he whispered.
Canaris studied him. "Because you must know what you stand against if you are to join me. This is not only about strategy. It is about the soul of Germany. If Hitler falls, there is a chance… a chance that Germany may live again as a nation, not as a beast."
Christian closed his eyes. The silence stretched. In his mind he saw faces; Antonov, Kristina, Katia, his mother and of the men he had killed and men he had failed to save.
When he opened his eyes, the Admiral was watching him steadily.
"You don't have to answer now," Canaris said softly. "But understand this: if you choose to stay loyal to Hitler, you are complicit. If you choose silence, you are complicit. Only action remains."
The words settled over Christian like a stone cloak. Action. Betrayal. Treason. Survival. Love. His heart hammered. He touched the ring again.
And for the first time, he whispered to himself: Maybe treason is the only thing left that can save me.
Canaris leaned closer, his eyes dark. "There will be a meeting soon," he said. "Men you know. Men you would not expect. They are ready to move. And I will need you there, Christian." Christian's mouth was dry. He nodded, though the movement felt like it belonged to someone else.
As he left the office, the weight of truth pressed heavy on his shoulders. Berlin's streets stretched before him, full of shadows and whispers. Somewhere in that darkness, Müller watched. Somewhere, Kristina was lost.
And now, Canaris had planted the seed of treason, watered it with horror, and left Christian to wonder whether it would grow into salvation or his ruin.