The note was folded into a square no larger than a coin, slipped beneath his door with the stealth of confession. Come. Tonight. Rue des Martyrs.
Christian read the words again and again. He knew the hand. The tremor of her script had once written him love letters in summers long before the war.
Kristina.
He closed his eyes. This was what he had feared, what he had prayed for her return. And he felt, too, the shadow of what he had asked of Canaris: If ever she is in danger, take her. Hide her. Give her a chance at life. That was the favor, the debt he would never repay.
Now fate moved both pieces on the same board: Kristina's summons, and the Admiral's promise.
The apartment smelled of damp plaster and candle smoke. She stood by the window when he entered, her dress plain, her hair loosely tied, yet to him she was unchanged, as if years had not scoured her.
"Christian," she whispered.
His throat closed. He had braved the front, executions, the iron law of the Reich, but this, her voice, undid him. "I thought you were gone," he said hoarsely.
"I thought so too. But the city… it keeps me here. I can't leave knowing you are here."
They sat, and the words began to unravel. She told him of her family; her brother vanishing into the underground, her father taken away in chains, and her mother… her voice broke. "The fever came last winter. I buried her myself."
Christian bowed his head. He had no answer, only the ache in his chest.
She reached into her pocket and drew out the ring, setting it gently on the table between them. Its metal was dulled, but still bore the imprint of another life.
"I can't carry it anymore," she said softly. "Not when the world has burned down around us."
His hand trembled as he picked it up. For a moment he saw her again beneath the oak trees of his memory, her laugh rising like sunlight, the ring gleaming as he slid it onto her finger for the first time.
"No," he said, his voice breaking. He reached for her hand and pressed the ring back into her palm. "If you let this go, then everything we once were dies with it. I won't allow that. Not while I still breathe." Her eyes brimmed with tears. For the first time that night, she clung to him, her face buried against his chest.
The stairwell thundered with boots. The lock cracked, the door flew open and the first wave stormed in. Müller's men.
Their rifles were already raised, faces hard under the brim of their caps. The leader barked: "On the floor! Both of you!"
Kristina gasped, clutching Christian's arm. The muzzles pointed straight at her chest, as though she were no more than quarry in a hunt. Christian stepped in front of her, hand outstretched. "You men know me! She's under my protection!" he snapped, his voice raw, trembling with anger.
But the men did not lower their weapons. Then, before the command to fire could be given, a second shadow poured into the room. Black coats, colder eyes. Canaris's men.
The leader's voice was calm, measured, cutting through the tension like a blade:
"The woman comes with us. Admiral Canaris has invoked his seal. Step aside."
The room froze. Two factions now squared off, weapons raised not just at Kristina, but at each other. Müller's men growled, fingers white on their triggers; Canaris's operatives stood silent, but the certainty in their words was more dangerous than rifles.
Kristina looked between them, horror flooding her face. "Christian… what is happening?"
Christian's chest heaved. He knew the truth; this was the favor. This was the only way she lived. His voice cracked as he turned to her.
"You must go with them," he whispered.
"No!" she cried. "Not like this…" The commander of Müller's squad snarled, "She comes with us. Orders from Herr Müller himself."
"Orders from the Admiral," came the reply, cold and final. "And the Admiral outranks your master." The two sides stared each other down, the room taut as a drawn bowstring.
And then, before the first shot could spark a war in that crumbling apartment, Christian moved. He caught Kristina's face between his hands, kissed her once desperate, searing and whispered against her lips, "I love you."
Her eyes widened in shock as he struck her temple with brutal gentleness. She slumped, unconscious, into his arms.
"Take her," Christian said hoarsely, turning her over to Canaris's men.
They lifted her swiftly, vanishing into the night with her limp form before Müller's men could even lower their rifles. The door slammed, leaving only Christian, the barrel tips, and the silence of betrayal.
The apartment was hollow now, emptied of Kristina's presence. Only the acrid stench of sweat, gun oil, and fear clung to the air. Christian stood rigid in the silence, his breath still ragged, his heart thundering against his ribs.
The rifles lowered slowly, Müller's men glaring at him with quiet contempt. None spoke. They knew what had happened here, and they knew the price of letting it happen.
The silence broke when the measured click of boots echoed from the stairwell. Christian felt the sound before he saw the man that slow, deliberate cadence he could never mistake. Müller.
The spy-master stepped inside, his uniform immaculate, his eyes glittering like black stones under the dim light. He looked once at the overturned chair, once at the door still swaying on its hinges, and then finally at Christian.
"Interesting," Müller murmured. "My men arrive first, rifles drawn, the resistance whore cornered…" He let the word hang, savoring it. "…And yet somehow, somehow, she slips away into the night. Not by chance. Not by incompetence. By design."
He stepped closer, his gloved hand brushing Christian's shoulder with mock affection before pressing down hard enough to hurt. "You let her go." Christian met his gaze, his jaw clenched. "Admiral Canaris intervened. His men claimed authority."
Müller's smile was thin, wolfish. "Ah, yes. The Admiral. Always moving his pawns across the board." His eyes narrowed. "But pawns do not act without the king's whisper, do they? Tell me, Christian when did you decide to trade your loyalty to the Reich for loyalty to… her?"
The words cut, precise and poisonous. Müller leaned in, his breath warm, foul with tobacco.
"You think I don't see you unraveling? You think I don't notice the hesitation, the… sentimentality?" He hissed the word as though it were rot. "I have broken stronger men than you, Christian. And I will break you too."
For a moment, silence stretched again unbearable, suffocating. Müller studied him like a surgeon preparing a dissection, then smiled thinly.
"The Führer has other plans for you. East. Russia. The meat grinder. You will go. You will obey. And while you wade through Russian blood, remember this…"
He leaned close, his lips nearly brushing Christian's ear: "I know. I always know."
Then he withdrew, gesturing for his men to clear the room. The boots thundered down the stairwell, leaving Christian alone in the ruin. Alone except for the echo of Müller's words, wrapping around his throat like a noose he could already feel tightening.