The train made sharp noise as it rolled into Gare de Lyon.
Moreau stepped off with his long coat flapping with the wind.
He walked alone through the streets of Paris, ignoring the faces, the noises.
Under his arm were sealed folders, blank on the outside but full with names.
Plans.
And truth.
The café was old, shuttered to most.
A wartime relic hidden behind the opera house.
No one would look for revolution here.
Inside, it was dark wood and the smell of stale tobacco.
Two figures sat at the back table, facing each other across untouched coffee cups.
General Delon.
General Beauchamp.
They looked up as Moreau entered.
He didn't salute.
Neither did they.
War had already begun.
Delon gestured to the empty chair. "You made good time."
"I don't sleep much," Moreau said, pulling out the chair and sitting down. "Not lately."
Beauchamp slid a cup toward him. "Drink. It's the last one you'll have in peace."
Moreau looked at the coffee but didn't touch it.
