The rain poured over Paris that evening.
Étienne Moreau sat at his long table, jacket off.
The doors creaked open.
Renaud stepped inside, carrying a bulging folder so thick the leather straps barely held.
His expression was somewhere between irritation and amusement.
"Another night of fairy tales," Renaud said, setting the folder down with a heavy thud.
Moreau exhaled slowly. "Fairy tales?"
"Yes. The very best Europe can invent," Renaud said, undoing the straps. "Our agents, allies, and assorted lunatics have been generous."
Moreau arched an eyebrow. "Go on then. Entertain me."
Renaud pulled out the first report and cleared his throat. "Dispatch from Stockholm. A Swedish journalist swears Hitler's next target is… Greenland."
Moreau blinked. "Greenland."
"Apparently the Führer has a passion for icebergs," Renaud continued, his tone deadpan. "The Swedes believe he plans to establish a submarine base under the polar ice. To control the North Atlantic."
