The Kremlin windows were blacked out against the gray dawn.
Molotov stood before Stalin's desk, a single sheet of paper in his hand.
Stalin said nothing.
"Warsaw reports movement," Molotov began. "Trains on the southern line. French markings."
Stalin's eyes flicked up. "Tourists?"
Molotov's face did not move. "Engineers, according to their documents."
"Engineers," Stalin repeated.
He leaned back, cigarette smoke curling above him. "Moreau's people."
"Most likely," Molotov said. "They're operating through Romanian fronts. No diplomatic cover. Quiet."
Stalin exhaled, gaze narrowing. "He hides well. Too quiet, this Frenchman. I don't like quiet men."
"They say he's really focus rebuilding Spain, well that's what they have been saying to everyone for thousands of year." Molotov added.
Stalin grunted. "Spain can rebuild itself in hell. France never moves without purpose. What does he want in Poland?"
"Information, perhaps. Maybe to warn the Poles."
"Warn them of what?"
