The truck smelled of damp wool, sweat, and fear. Christian sat chained between two NKVD soldiers, his wrists raw where iron dug into skin. Outside, the Moscow night pressed heavy against the convoy, swallowing the dim beams of headlights that slashed over snow-laden pines. The engines growled, steady and patient, as though escorting him not to a prison but into the very stomach of Russia.
He had seen men vanish into interrogation chambers. Sometimes their names lived on, whispered among prisoners in half-choked prayers. Sometimes not even that. Christian bowed his head and slowed his breathing, feigning exhaustion, but his mind kept count; the sharp turns, the rough cobblestones, the stretches of smooth road that meant open plain.
The guard to his right shifted, eyes flicking toward him with casual disdain. "Spy," the man muttered in Russian, almost like a curse. Christian didn't answer. He had no strength to lie, no audience to convince. Silence was safer. Then, without warning, the night split.
A sudden burst of automatic fire raked across the lead car. Headlights shattered, sparks exploded, and a second later a thunderclap of flame rolled skyward as the vehicle erupted. The convoy lurched to a halt, brakes screeching on ice. "Ambush!" a soldier roared, fumbling with his rifle.
The guards around Christian shoved him down as gunfire erupted on both sides of the road. Figures poured out of the tree line; fast, precise, ruthless. The stuttering roar of MP-40s mingled with the deeper crack of Soviet rifles. Grenades burst, scattering earth and fire.
Christian's truck shuddered as bullets chewed through its metal shell. One of the guards grabbed him by the collar, pressing cold steel against his temple. "Stay still or…"
A shot rang out. The guard jerked violently, red blooming across his skull. Christian stumbled, half-falling, as the truck doors were ripped open from the outside.
"Raus! Schnell!" a voice barked. German.
Strong hands hauled him into the snow. Christian squinted through the chaos; helmets, field-grey uniforms, blackened faces moving with military efficiency. German commandos.
They dragged him across the ditch, past burning wreckage and bodies strewn like broken dolls. In less than five minutes, the NKVD escort had been annihilated, their convoy reduced to fire and corpses. The Germans gave no shouts of triumph, only cold gestures, moving quickly to disappear before Soviet reinforcements arrived.
They ran through the forest, snow crunching under boots, breath steaming in frantic bursts. Christian's lungs burned. He stumbled more than once, but each time a hand yanked him back to his feet, the commandos' discipline leaving no space for weakness.
Hours blurred together; a blur of frozen streams, skeletal trees, ruined farmhouses half-buried in frost. Occasionally they stopped, crouching low as distant patrols passed. Once, Christian swore he heard dogs barking on their trail, but the sound faded into silence.
No words were wasted. These men did not speak unless necessary. Their faces, when visible, were taut with the iron focus of those who knew death was always half a step behind.
At dawn they holed up in the ruins of a barn, windows shuttered with splintered planks. The leader, a scar-faced man with eyes like a hawk finally broke the silence.
"We've been watching you since Moscow," he said in clipped German. His voice carried command without volume. "Orders from above. You were not to fall into Russian hands."
Christian's throat was dry. "Berlin sent you?" The man's expression didn't change. "Not Berlin. The Admiral." A pause. The words seemed to hang in the air like frost.
"Admiral Canaris." Christian whispered. The leader gave a single nod. "You live because he wills it."
Days later, Christian staggered through the shattered skeleton of Stalingrad, the commandos guiding him past rubble that once had been boulevards and factories. The city was a wound on the earth, smoldering and stinking of ash. The men around him blended with its ruin; shadows among shadows, hardened beyond recognition.
They brought him into a half-collapsed administrative building where maps and coded reports littered the walls. Lamps flickered against cracked plaster. At the far end of a long table stood Admiral Wilhelm Canaris. He was not imposing. Not in stature, not in voice. But his presence filled the room with quiet gravity. A man of thin frame, lined face, and eyes that seemed to hold every secret of the war.
When he looked at Christian, it was not with pity or suspicion. It was with the patience of a chess master studying a piece on the board. "So," Canaris said softly, "You survived." Christian managed a weak smile. "Barely."
The Admiral motioned for him to sit. The commandos melted away, leaving them in the flicker of lamplight. "You have been close to the fire," Canaris murmured. "Closer than most men ever come. Tell me, what did you see in Moscow?"
Christian hesitated. How much could he reveal? How much would be believed? Stalin's smile, Müller's betrayal, the tightening noose of the NKVD, it all weighed heavily, tangled in layers of paranoia and dread.
He answered carefully. "I saw the heart of the enemy. And I saw how close we are to being devoured." For the first time, a shadow of sadness flickered across Canaris's face. He leaned forward, his voice dropping.
"That is why you must speak. Every whisper you carry is worth more than a thousand men. You will rest, yes. But then you will tell me everything."
Christian nodded, though inside his chest a war raged. He was not sure who he served anymore. Not Berlin, not Canaris, not even himself. Only the memory of those he had vowed to protect.