While Germany concluded its campaign in the north, the eyes of its Führer and his leadership slowly turned west. The strength and supplies provided by the new allies Romania, Bulgaria, and Hungary fueled the confidence of the Axis.
In November 1940, massive preparations began for what would beco the largest naval operation the world had ever seen: Operation Seagull.
The Wehrmacht, Luftwaffe, and Kriegsmarine worked together in apparent harmony. On the surface, everything seed perfectly aligned. However, just like among their leaders, that facade had already been shattered by a single man.
He was the Chief of the SS.A close friend.The closest friend of the Führer.
Friedrich Lehmann.
Werner turned his head hastily, eting the eyes of the three companions he had brought with him. All of them were officers from his old SS battalion and trusted aides.
Karl Bauer, Michael Huner, and Jens Spas.
Each of them, including Werner, carried large travelling coffers as they forced their way through the narrow aisle of the train. A whistle sounded in the distance while the train slowly began to lose speed. Buildings appeared on both sides, flashing past the windows as they entered the city.
When the train finally ca to a halt, Werner pushed forward impatiently past the rising passengers.
"Excuse ," he muttered.
"Pardon."
After a man spat a few curses at him and the group pushing past, Werner simply lowered his tailored hat, adjusting it to match his grey suit, beofre turning suddenly.
Before him stretched out the massive hall of Paris train station.
The platform opened into a wide hall of steel and glass.
Thin winter light filtered through the high roof while steam from the locomotive drifted across the station. People moved quickly along the platform. Civilians with luggage, porters pushing carts, and German soldiers standing in small groups near the pillars.
Paris was busy, even under occupation.
Muted conversations mixed with the hiss of steam and the tallic sounds of the train slowing to a stop. A few civilians briefly glanced at Werner and his n as they stepped onto the platform, but most quickly looked away again.
Werner adjusted his collar and continued forward without slowing, glancing back at his companions from ti to ti.
While he walked past a little kid complaining, an old man was coughing.
That was how they made their way through the busy crowd, eventually turning toward a staircase leading down. Their silhouettes slowly disappeared into the shadows of the underground, swallowed by the mass of people rushing to work.
A few minutes later, another train rushed into the station, this one halting far more abruptly. Its doors were suddenly torn open.
From the various wagons poured n clad in dark leather coats and black hats, their faces hidden beneath the shadows of their brims.
Their arrival drew quite a few glances.
Not only because of their sudden appearance, but because of the silence that followed them.
The n moved with unsettling coordination, spreading across the platform in small groups without exchanging many words. Heavy boots struck the stone floor in a steady rhythm as they pushed through the crowd.
Civilians stepped aside instinctively.
No one wanted to stand in their path.
But soone still did.
"Emmanuel, quickly, step aside!" a mother shouted toward her son, who had fallen behind and was now standing in front of a large advertisent poster.
From behind, a group of the n were already walking directly toward them.
But the boy did not listen.
One of the n simply shoved the child aside as he passed. Little Emmanuel stumbled and fell onto his knees.
Of course, he began to cry.
"Hey!" a man suddenly shouted, rushing past his wife toward his son.
He was tall, black-haired, and dressed in a suit.
The man knelt beside the sobbing boy, pulling him close, comforting him. Yet his eyes never left the leather-clad n pushing through the crowd, already several ters away.
One of them suddenly tilted his head.
He glanced back at the father.
Then he tapped the shoulders of the two n beside him.
They turned and rushed toward the father, grabbing him roughly.
"Hey! What do you want?!" the man shouted, trying to free himself from their grip.
One of them grabbed his head and forced it aside before holding a photograph next to his face.
He stared at it for a mont.
Then the man in the leather coat spoke only a single word.
"No."
The other two released the father imdiately and pushed him aside before continuing down the platform.
The father quickly moved to kneel beside his son again, but suddenly his eyes widened.
Another man was already kneeling there, comforting the child.
"Don’t cry, little man," Heydrich whispered softly as he pulled off his leather glove, gently wiping a tear from the boy’s cheek.
"Tell , have you seen soone like this?" Heydrich asked in French, holding up a photograph of a black-haired, handso man.
The boy thought for a mont.
Then he suddenly nodded.
"Yes! He had such a big coffer!" the child exclaid, spreading his arms wide. "And he went that way."
The boy pointed toward a staircase leading underground.
Heydrich nodded slowly, following the direction of the small finger.
His gaze settled on the stairs.
Quietly he rose to his feet, patting the boy lightly on the head, his attention already fixed on the distance.
He did not even mind the father staring at him in silence, nor the Gestapo officer who had just caught up to him.
"Sir? Did that little child see sothing?" one of the officers asked, his voice filled with obvious disdain.
Heydrich continued walking toward the staircase.
"Children are often far more observant than adults, Section Chief."
He began descending the sa stairs Werner had taken only minutes before.
"Send your n through the underground network."
Monts later, Heydrich’s tall silhouette disappeared into the darkness below, swallowed by the sa shadows Werner had entered just minutes earlier.
At the main exit of the Paris train station, an old taxi sped away just monts before a group of n clad in leather coats rushed through the doors, trying to orient themselves on the vast plaza before them.
Champs-Élysées.
Werner looked up toward the pale sky, the sun sowhere behind the thick clouds above the city.
He had just closed the door of the taxi behind him.
For a brief mont, he allowed himself to breathe.
Then the car began to move again, slowly rging into the traffic of Paris.
"Where was this milk stand again?" Karl asked, looking around.
"Sowhere here?" Werner replied, scanning the street as they walked.
Slowly they made their way along the road, passing street vendors selling all kinds of goods. At one point they even passed a pair of German soldiers on patrol, but the soldiers did not recognize them.
Eventually they reached the end of the street.
Werner turned around and looked at his comrades helplessly, raising his hands slightly and shaking his head.
"I..." he began.
Then his gaze suddenly froze.
There was one additional stand, not on the main street but tucked away in a narrow side alley where hardly anyone would ever pass, let alone buy sothing.
"Look over there. Isn’t that milk?" Werner asked, his eyes suddenly regaining their brightness.
"Milk, fresh milk from the countryside," an old woman said.
Her voice carried no enthusiasm and barely enough volu to attract a single custor. Not to ntion the hidden location of her stand.
When she saw the group of n walking toward her, she visibly tensed.
Werner stepped forward, studying her aged face carefully. His gaze slowly wandered downward to a certain characteristic of the woman he had been looking for.
There it was.
A wooden leg.
Werner’s lips slowly ford a smile.
"I would like to buy so milk... and a mont of your ti, Miss Hall," he said in English.
The woman’s eyes widened instantly. Her hand shot behind her back, pulling out a small pistol.
But the three n behind Werner had been faster.
All of them already had their pistols raised.
Werner opened his mouth calmly.
"Let us talk."
Sowhere else in Paris, in another narrow side street.
"AHH!"
Shouts echoed from behind an old taxi. Its door hung open, the engine still running. Beneath the car, leather boots could be seen kicking violently.
"Please!" the man cried, his voice breaking between blows.
Finally, as the beating paused for a mont, he managed to gasp out:
"Champs-Élysées!"
"Good," Heydrich said calmly, nodding once as he raised his pistol.
A shot rang through the alley....
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What is inside those coffers?
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