The air inside the command post was damp and heavy, thick with the sourness of sweat and coal smoke. Deep beneath Stalingrad's rubble, the German Abwehr had carved out a network of cellars and tunnels where their most dangerous conversations could take place unseen.
Christian was led down a narrow stairwell, his boots scraping against concrete, the single lightbulb above swinging like a hanged man. Two guards saluted stiffly as he entered the war room.
Admiral Wilhelm Canaris sat at the far end of a scarred oak table, his white hair perfectly combed, his face pale in the lamplight. His eyes; gray, penetrating, and weary—followed Christian like a surgeon about to cut into flesh and beside him, silent, almost comfortable in the shadows, sat Herr Müller.
His black uniform was spotless, his gloves folded neatly on the table before him. He inclined his head just slightly as Christian entered, his lips carrying the faintest ghost of a smile. "Christian," Canaris said, his voice low but steady. "Come closer."
Christian obeyed, standing stiffly at attention before the table. The Admiral gestured to a folder resting in front of him. He touched it as though it burned.
"This is not an ordinary assignment. The man you will see in these pages is a threat not only to Stalin but to the fragile balance of this war." Christian's brow furrowed. He reached forward, fingers brushing the rough paper, and opened the folder. A single black-and-white photograph slid into view: a stern face, thick eyebrows, spectacles perched on a sharp nose.
General Alexei Antonov.
Christian's stomach clenched. He had heard the name before. Antonov was no faceless bureaucrat; he was a rising star within the Red Army, a tactician whispered to be Stalin's quiet counterbalance; respected, calculating, and popular among his peers.
"He is here in Stalingrad?" Christian asked.
Canaris nodded. "He arrived three nights ago to oversee the coordination of the Soviet defense. His presence here is a sign that Stalin intends to pour men and steel into this city until either it stands eternal or it drowns in blood."
Christian studied the photo again. Antonov's eyes, even frozen in monochrome, seemed alive, intelligent and almost wary. "What do you want me to do?" Christian asked, even though he already knew the answer.
"Remove him," Canaris said simply. His tone carried no room for hesitation. "His death will fracture the Soviet command structure. Stalin relies on him more than he admits. Without Antonov, the Red Army will bleed confusion in this city. Do you understand?"
Christian's throat tightened. Do you understand? It was always the same question. But beneath the Admiral's calm tone, there was an urgency, almost desperation.
"Yes, sir," Christian said. Müller finally spoke, his voice soft and precise. "General Antonov is guarded. He resides in a reinforced dacha just outside the Volga's east bank. Armed patrols, checkpoints, and an inner circle of officers who meet with him daily. You will have to pass through them all."
He leaned forward slightly, his gloved hands folding together.
"How long, Christian? How long did you truly spend in Moscow? In the Kremlin?"
Christian stiffened. The question was too sharp, too sudden. He swallowed and forced calm into his voice. "Long enough to learn what I needed. Long enough to see the man who rules them all."
Müller's eyes glittered. "And yet, here you stand, already with another name. Fortunate, isn't it?" Canaris shot Müller a glance, then returned to Christian. "You will go in tonight. No delays. Our scouts report Antonov has scheduled a midnight meeting with his senior staff. It will be your best chance; when he is distracted, when he believes himself secure among his own."
Christian inhaled deeply, steadying himself. "And my exit?" The Admiral's lips thinned. "There is no guaranteed exit. You will adapt, as you always have." Müller chuckled faintly, the sound like a knife grazing stone. "A wolf doesn't ask how to escape the forest. He makes his own path with teeth and blood."
The room fell into silence. The map of Stalingrad lay spread across the table, riddled with pins and marks of advancing and retreating lines. Christian's eyes locked on the red circle inked over the east bank. Antonov's dacha. His hunting ground.
Canaris leaned forward, his voice dropping into something almost personal. "This mission matters more than you know, Christian. Do not fail. The Reich depends on you."
Christian nodded slowly, though inside his chest a war was raging. Why Antonov? The question gnawed at him, but he buried it deep. To ask was to betray doubt, and doubt was poison here.
As he turned to leave, Müller's voice followed him, a quiet thread meant only for his ears.
"Remember Christian, your family and every German citizen is counting on you."
Christian froze, every muscle tightening. He didn't turn. He didn't answer. He simply walked on, his boots echoing into the dark corridor, Antonov's face burning in his mind like a brand.