The meeting took place after midnight.
Not in a palace, nor a ministry, but in a private residence overlooking the hills outside Santiago.
The lights of the city glittered below like a field of distant stars, beautiful and indifferent to the decisions being weighed above them.
Minister of Foreign Affairs Alejandro Fuentes stood near the window, hands clasped behind his back, staring out without seeing.
Behind him, the room remained quiet, too quiet.
Two men sat at the long table: one a senior military adviser, the other a career diplomat who had served in three capitals and survived four administrations.
Both had been sworn to silence. Both understood the gravity of why they were there.
The fourth man did not speak at all.
He wore no uniform. No insignia. His suit was unremarkable, his posture precise, his presence unmistakably foreign.
A representative of the German Reich.
Not officially, of course.
Fuentes turned at last.
