The barracks had returned to a state of uneasy normalcy in the days following Vaillan's arrest and the abrupt end of the investigation.
No more military police patrolling the corridors, no more officers whispering in corners about sabotage.
The War Ministry had sealed everything in bureaucratic silence, stamping it as an "isolated extremist act" and ensuring that the matter would not be discussed beyond classified circles.
Moreau expected things to settle after that.
But now, for the second ti in less than a week, he was being summoned in secret.
It was late.
The kind of late where even the most disciplined n in the barracks had long since collapsed into their bunks.
The corridors were silent, save for the occasional noise of a patrolling sentry's boots.
Moreau walked through them with an uneasy familiarity, heading toward the nondescript storage building where his previous secret conversation had taken place.
When he entered, he was expecting Fournier or so other officer with unfinished business.
Instead, he found a man in civilian clothing.
The man stood near the far end of the room, leaning against a wooden crate with a casual ease that felt entirely at odds with his presence.
He was in his late forties or early fifties, his dark hair neatly combed, his features sharp but unreadable.
He had the look of soone who could blend into any crowd, the kind of face that one might see a dozen tis in a day and never recall afterward.
Moreau closed the door behind him, exhaling. "I assu you're not here for a drink."
The man smiled faintly. "No, Capitaine. But I do appreciate a man who values directness."
His voice was asured, unhurried.
Moreau had t n like this before not in this life, but in his previous one.
n who didn't wear uniforms but held power nonetheless.
This was intelligence.
French intelligence.
The man gestured toward a seat opposite him. "Please, sit."
Moreau remained standing.
The man studied him for a mont, then nodded slightly, as if that response had told him sothing.
"Very well," the man continued, clasping his hands behind his back. "I didn't co here to discuss your recent troubles. I imagine you've had enough of those already."
Moreau's eyes narrowed slightly.
So he knew about the sabotage investigation.
But he wasn't here for that.
The man finally got to the point.
"Tell , Capitaine what do you know about Spain?"
The question was so unexpected that Moreau actually hesitated.
Spain.
Not Germany.
Not the recent unrest in France.
Spain.
Moreau kept his face neutral, his mind moving quickly.
They were still in 1934.
The Spanish Civil War hadn't started yet but it was co
The political fractures, the military unrest, the power struggles… It was all in motion.
The world was still ignorant of what was coming.
But Moreau wasn't.
He had to be careful. Very careful.
The man was testing him.
If Moreau spoke too casually, he would seem ignorant.
If he spoke too precisely, he would seem suspicious.
He exhaled through his nose, carefully choosing his words.
"Spain is in turmoil," he said evenly. "Their Republic is barely holding itself together. The governnt is losing control there are too many factions, too many competing visions for what the country should be. The military isn't unified, and there's been unrest for years. The officers are divided. So still loyal to the Republic, others waiting for their mont."
The intelligence officer studied him. "Go on."
Moreau took another mont before continuing.
"Socialists, communists, anarchists all of them competing for influence against the conservatives, monarchists, and fascists. And beneath all of it, the military is growing restless. The officers in Africa, particularly, aren't happy with the Republic's policies."
The man didn't react, but Moreau sensed a shift in his posture, just the slightest tension.
That was interesting.
Moreau pushed just a little further.
"If sothing happens in Spain," he said carefully, "it won't be spontaneous. It will be planned. And it won't be small."
The man smiled slightly, but his eyes remained sharp. "That is a rather insightful analysis, Capitaine."
Moreau shrugged. "I read the papers."
The man chuckled, finally walking toward the table and pouring himself a small asure of whiskey from the bottle Moreau had left there earlier.
He didn't drink it.
Just held it, turning the glass in his fingers.
"And yet," the man said slowly, "most of your fellow officers see Spain as little more than a distant political ss, hardly worth their attention."
Moreau tilted his head. "Do you?"
The man finally took a sip. "I think," he said, "that history is often decided long before the first bullet is fired."
Moreau said nothing.
Because he agreed completely.
The man set his glass down and looked directly at Moreau.
"You will continue reading the papers, Capitaine. And you will continue paying attention to Spain. But, as for this conversation?"
He gestured slightly. "It didn't happen."
Moreau nodded slightly. "Of course."
The man smiled faintly. "We will et again."
And just like that, he turned and left.
No na.
No rank.
No explanation.
Just an implied understanding.
As the door shut behind the man, Moreau finally sat down, exhaling slowly.
Two secret etings in the span of a few days.
One with Fournier, a man of the military, bound by rules, by order, by rank.
A man who believed in structure and discipline but was beginning to see the cracks.
And now, this.
This was different.
This was a man who operated in shadows, who wasn't bound by rank or tradition, who saw things beyond orders and doctrine.
And now, they were watching him.
Moreau poured himself another drink, staring at the flickering lamp.
Spain.
He already knew how it would play out.
The coup.
The uprising.
The brutal years of war.
Franco's rise.
He already knew the mistakes that France would make.
The hesitation.
The indecision.
The failure to recognize what Spain ant for Europe.
And if this intelligence officer was already probing military n for insight, then it ant one thing.
So people in France already saw the storm coming.
The question was how many of them understood just how bad it was going to be?
Moreau took a long sip of whiskey.
He knew.
And now, soone else suspected he did, too.
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