Another Conversation

The barracks had returned to a state of uneasy normalcy in the days following Vaillan's arrest and the abrupt end of the investigation.

No more military police patrolling the corridors, no more officers whispering in corners about sabotage.

The War Ministry had sealed everything in bureaucratic silence, stamping it as an "isolated extremist act" and ensuring that the matter would not be discussed beyond classified circles.

Moreau expected things to settle after that.

But now, for the second time in less than a week, he was being summoned in secret.

It was late.

The kind of late where even the most disciplined men in the barracks had long since collapsed into their bunks.

The corridors were silent, save for the occasional noise of a patrolling sentry's boots.

Moreau walked through them with an uneasy familiarity, heading toward the nondescript storage building where his previous secret conversation had taken place.

When he entered, he was expecting Fournier or some other officer with unfinished business.

Instead, he found a man in civilian clothing.

The man stood near the far end of the room, leaning against a wooden crate with a casual ease that felt entirely at odds with his presence.

He was in his late forties or early fifties, his dark hair neatly combed, his features sharp but unreadable.

He had the look of someone who could blend into any crowd, the kind of face that one might see a dozen times in a day and never recall afterward.

Moreau closed the door behind him, exhaling. "I assume you're not here for a drink."

The man smiled faintly. "No, Capitaine. But I do appreciate a man who values directness."

His voice was measured, unhurried.

Moreau had met men like this before not in this life, but in his previous one.

Men who didn't wear uniforms but held power nonetheless.

This was intelligence.

French intelligence.

The man gestured toward a seat opposite him. "Please, sit."

Moreau remained standing.

The man studied him for a moment, then nodded slightly, as if that response had told him something.

"Very well," the man continued, clasping his hands behind his back. "I didn't come here to discuss your recent troubles. I imagine you've had enough of those already."

Moreau's eyes narrowed slightly.

So he knew about the sabotage investigation.

But he wasn't here for that.

The man finally got to the point.

"Tell me, Capitaine what do you know about Spain?"

The question was so unexpected that Moreau actually hesitated.

Spain.

Not Germany.

Not the recent unrest in France.

Spain.

Moreau kept his face neutral, his mind moving quickly.

They were still in 1935.

The Spanish Civil War hadn't started yet but it was looming.

The political fractures, the military unrest, the power struggles… It was all in motion.

The world was still ignorant of what was coming.

But Moreau wasn't.

He had to be careful. Very careful.

The man was testing him.

If Moreau spoke too casually, he would seem ignorant.

If he spoke too precisely, he would seem suspicious.

He exhaled through his nose, carefully choosing his words.

"Spain is in turmoil," he said evenly. "Their Republic is barely holding itself together. The government is losing control there are too many factions, too many competing visions for what the country should be. The military isn't unified, and there's been unrest for years. The officers are divided. Some still loyal to the Republic, others waiting for their moment."

The intelligence officer studied him. "Go on."

Moreau took another moment before continuing.

"Socialists, communists, anarchists all of them competing for influence against the conservatives, monarchists, and fascists. And beneath all of it, the military is growing restless. The officers in Africa, particularly, aren't happy with the Republic's policies."

The man didn't react, but Moreau sensed a shift in his posture, just the slightest tension.

That was interesting.

Moreau pushed just a little further.

"If something happens in Spain," he said carefully, "it won't be spontaneous. It will be planned. And it won't be small."

The man smiled slightly, but his eyes remained sharp. "That is a rather insightful analysis, Capitaine."

Moreau shrugged. "I read the papers."

The man chuckled, finally walking toward the table and pouring himself a small measure of whiskey from the bottle Moreau had left there earlier.

He didn't drink it.

Just held it, turning the glass in his fingers.

"And yet," the man said slowly, "most of your fellow officers see Spain as little more than a distant political mess, hardly worth their attention."

Moreau tilted his head. "Do you?"

The man finally took a sip. "I think," he said, "that history is often decided long before the first bullet is fired."

Moreau said nothing.

Because he agreed completely.

The man set his glass down and looked directly at Moreau.

"You will continue reading the papers, Capitaine. And you will continue paying attention to Spain. But, as for this conversation?"

He gestured slightly. "It didn't happen."

Moreau nodded slightly. "Of course."

The man smiled faintly. "We will meet again."

And just like that, he turned and left.

No name.

No rank.

No explanation.

Just an implied understanding.

As the door shut behind the man, Moreau finally sat down, exhaling slowly.

Two secret meetings in the span of a few days.

One with Fournier, a man of the military, bound by rules, by order, by rank.

A man who believed in structure and discipline but was beginning to see the cracks.

And now, this.

This was different.

This was a man who operated in shadows, who wasn't bound by rank or tradition, who saw things beyond orders and doctrine.

And now, they were watching him.

Moreau poured himself another drink, staring at the flickering lamp.

Spain.

He already knew how it would play out.

The coup.

The uprising.

The brutal years of war.

Franco's rise.

He already knew the mistakes that France would make.

The hesitation.

The indecision.

The failure to recognize what Spain meant for Europe.

And if this intelligence officer was already probing military men for insight, then it meant one thing.

Some people in France already saw the storm coming.

The question was how many of them understood just how bad it was going to be?

Moreau took a long sip of whiskey.

He knew.

And now, someone else suspected he did, too.