Paris had grown heavy with suspicion. The Resistance whispered through alleys like smoke, and Müller's patience thinned like a noose. Christian felt it each day in Müller's eyes: cold, calculating, waiting for the one mistake that would betray him.
But the real storm came not from Müller. It came in the form of a quiet arrival at the Hôtel Lutetia.
Müller kept Christian in his office longer than usual that morning, fingers tapping against a file marked Résistance Parisienne.
"You hunt shadows, Wolfe," Müller said flatly, his cigarette glowing like a dying star. "Always so close, yet never closing your hand. You let them breathe too long."
Christian's face betrayed nothing. "Stalking the prey reveals its nest. Better to wait, Müller's."
Müller's smile was thin. "Or better to delay. To protect." He leaned closer, his eyes sharp as glass. "I see hesitation in you. And hesitation, in our work, is treason."
Before Christian could answer, the door opened. An aide saluted briskly. "Herr Admiral Canaris has arrived."
Müller stiffened. For once, the predator faltered.
Canaris entered with the quiet authority of a man who never needed to raise his voice. Time had not softened him since Berlin. His eyes still carried that strange, weary clarity, as though he saw ten moves further than anyone else.
"Christian Jansen," he said, almost warmly.
"Paris has not broken you, I see." Christian rose. "Herr Admiral."
"You've met before?" Müller asked sharply.
"Yes," Canaris answered, not waiting for permission. "In Berlin. He caught my eye there. He is one of mine now."
Müller bristled, but said nothing. In the Abwehr, when the Admiral claimed someone, no one argued.
Once Müller was dismissed, Canaris closed the office door himself. He moved to the window, parting the blinds. Paris lay sprawled beneath, grey and trembling under occupation.
"The Führer has made his decision," Canaris said quietly. "You will be transferred soon, Christian. To the East. Operation Barbarossa."
Christian's heart tightened. The rumors were true, then. The vast plains of Russia awaited, with their frozen graves and endless blood.
"This is not France," Canaris continued, his voice heavy with warning. "This will be a war of annihilation. The army prepares to march, but it is the Abwehr that will open the veins. Sabotage. Assassinations. Lies that move faster than tanks. I need officers I can trust. Men who know how to walk the edge of loyalty without falling."
He turned, meeting Christian's eyes. "You are such a man. The Führer himself approved your transfer."
For a moment, silence. The weight of destiny pressed like an iron shackle.
Christian nodded slowly. "Herr Admiral… may I ask a favor?" Canaris tilted his head, studying him with faint curiosity. "A favor? From me?"
Christian hesitated, as if each word carried more risk than facing a firing squad. The air in the room grew heavy, even electric, as though what he was about to say could alter everything.
"You know my loyalty," Christian began carefully. "You know I will serve where I am sent. But before Russia… there is something I must ask of you."
Canaris's gaze did not waver. His silence was permission.
Christian leaned closer and spoke the request in a voice so low it was nearly a whisper. The words were never revealed swallowed by the walls of that dim room.
For the briefest instant, something flickered across Canaris's face was of surprise, perhaps, or sorrow. He placed a hand on Christian's shoulder, his voice grave:
"You ask much. More than you realize. But I will consider it."
As Christian left the office, Müller was waiting in the corridor, his eyes narrow, his suspicion sharper than ever. Christian passed him without a word.
That night, alone in his quarters, he could still feel the Admiral's hand on his shoulder, still hear the echo of his own whispered request.
A secret promise now bound him to Canaris. A promise whose price remained unknown.