The phone on Krofta's desk rang just before sunrise.
He'd fallen asleep against a folder of telegrams, waking with a start at the shrill tone.
Marta answered first.
"It's Paris," she whispered, passing the receiver. "At last."
Krofta pressed the phone to his ear, barely breathing.
The line crackled.
A French official, voice drained and formal.
"Monsieur Krofta, I bring regards from Minister Moreau. The situation is most regrettable. We must ask for utmost caution on your part."
He bit back the words he wanted to say. "We have shown only caution. It has gotten us nothing."
There was a pause, paper shuffling. "We urge continued restraint. The world is watching. No further provocation, monsieur."
Krofta's hand trembled. "When will France act?"
"France is not alone in this matter. I assure you negotiations continue. But we cannot be the ones who light the fuse."
He set the receiver down, staring at his desk for a long time.
Marta watched him.
"Well?" she asked softly.