In the old district, beneath the stone arches of the war ministry, a guard lit a cigarette with trembling fingers.
He exhaled into the cold.
Inside, the mood was worse.
General Krejčí stood over a map that had not moved in days.
The pins were the same.
The regions marked in red ink had not changed.
And yet everything around them had.
He pointed to a cluster of towns along the northern border. "Three minor rail depots struck in one night. Explosives, likely homemade. No casualties, but it's a message."
Interior Minister Černý leaned in. "And the message?"
"'We can touch you,'" Krejčí replied. "And we will again."
Beneš stood at the window, his hands clasped behind his back.
He did not speak for a while.
Černý waited, then cleared his throat. "We believe the operations are coordinated with someone inside the ministry. A leak."
Beneš turned slowly. "A name?"
"Not yet. But there are whispers. Meetings missed. Cables intercepted. Someone is feeding Berlin."
