The Admiral's office was dim, cloaked in shadows thickened by the hour. A single lamp threw a circle of gold across the oak desk, illuminating dossiers stacked neatly in rows, maps marked with pins, and the tired, lined face of Admiral Canaris. His fingers drummed once on the table, then stopped. The silence was intentional, a tool.
"Christian," Canaris said finally, voice low, even, but weighted with curiosity. "You've returned from the heart of the enemy. Tell me. What did you see in Moscow?"
Christian leaned forward, the words pressing at his lips like a tide desperate to break. He saw again Stalin's smile in the lamplight, the empty breakfast table, the manipulation woven like thread around him. "Admiral, you must understand. Stalin…"
The door opened.
Boots clicked against the floor. A shadow passed over the lamplight as Herr Müller entered, pristine as ever, his posture rigid, his expression unreadable. He did not ask permission to step in. He simply arrived, like a verdict.
Christian froze, then spoke through clenched teeth. "What is he doing here?"
Before Müller could answer, Canaris interjected. His tone was calm, decisive.
"He has to be."
Those words fell like iron bars. The Admiral gave nothing more, and in that silence Christian felt a cage closing around him.
Müller moved to stand near the window, gloved hands clasped behind his back. He did not sit. His gaze flicked toward Christian, cold and clinical. "You were in Moscow for weeks. You saw Stalin. What did you learn of him? His circle? His… habits."
Christian hesitated. Every answer was a trap. "I saw a man surrounded by paranoia. Fear cloaked the Kremlin like a fog." Müller tilted his head, unsatisfied.
"And his generals? Zhukov, perhaps? Beria? Who has his ear when the curtains are closed?"
Christian swallowed hard. He thought of Stalin's smile, the ease with which he twisted his mission into something else, something darker. He thought of the old man's words about wolves. But Müller's gaze pinned him, a reminder of invisible strings tied to his family.
"Beria," Christian said at last, his voice measured. "I saw him close. Always near. Stalin trusted him with matters unspoken."
"You claim to have seen Stalin. To have walked the Kremlin halls. Tell me, how long were you there, in the Kremlin?" You know, Herr Muller, he said to himself.
Christian's pulse quickened. His answer was simple, and yet even simplicity could betray him. "Only a few hours."
Müller turned slowly, his eyes narrowing. "And in those few hours you learned of his paranoia? Of Beria's influence? You speak as though you sat at the man's bedside for weeks."
Christian steadied his breathing. "I observed enough. A man's weakness is revealed not by time, but by his habits. And Stalin's habit is distrust."
The room tightened. Canaris watched without interrupting, his eyes studying not just the words but the man delivering them. He leaned forward slightly, resting his chin on folded hands. "Müller raises a fair point," the Admiral said. "One cannot survive in our profession without questions. How is it you read so much, so quickly?"
Christian forced his voice into steel. "Because I had to. My life depended on it. Every look, every gesture; it was survival. And I tell you, Admiral, Stalin's paranoia will consume him."
Canaris nodded slowly, his expression neither agreement nor dismissal, but calculation.
Müller's voice cut through again. "And his circle? You named Beria. But what of the others? Did you see Zhukov? Molotov? Or is Beria merely convenient?"
Christian met his gaze, refusing to flinch. "Beria was the one closest in those hours. He moved like a shadow. Always near. That tells me more than any name could."
Müller let silence linger, then arched a brow. "Or perhaps it tells me you're giving us what we expect to hear." The accusation hung between them. Christian felt the noose tightening not just around his neck but around the fragile secret buried in him, that Stalin had already twisted his mission into something else.
Canaris finally leaned back, breaking the stalemate. "Enough. What we have will suffice for now. Christian, your return alone speaks to your resourcefulness. We will revisit this in time."
Christian nodded stiffly, relief and dread braided together. He rose, his boots heavy against the polished floor as he moved toward the door. Müller's steps echoed behind him, too close, too deliberate.
The corridor outside stretched long and dim, its lamps hissing faintly. Neither spoke until the Admiral's door closed with a muted thud. Then Müller stopped. He adjusted his gloves, slow, deliberate, savoring the silence before speaking.
"You did well young Wolfe."
Christian's jaw tightened. He said nothing. "I know you want to tell the Admiral what you actually saw." Müller leaned closer, his eyes like blades. "Remember this, I know where your heart is."
The words cut deeper than any accusation. They spoke of Kristina. Of Katia. Of his mother. Of the fragile threads of love and loyalty he carried like contraband in his chest.
Müller straightened, smoothed his coat, and walked on as if nothing had been spoken, his steps steady, unhurried, assured.
Christian stood rooted for a moment, chest burning with rage and fear. He had wanted to tell the Admiral everything to tear away the mask Müller had forced upon him. But now he knew: silence was not a choice. It was survival.