“If anything goes wrong, we leave separately. Rendezvous at the safe house on Görlitzer Straße. Understood?”

His words echoed in your mind as you and Jean François Mercier stepped into the opulent Warsaw gathering. The room was a study in intimidation—polished brass chandeliers reflected off gleaming marble floors, and the air was thick with cigars and power. German officers in pristine uniforms laughed, clinking glasses, their guarded conversations brimming with the confidence of a regime on the rise.

The mission was simple in theory: infiltrate, gather intelligence on troop movements, and leave undetected. But the execution demanded precision. Mercier’s task was to engage high-ranking officers, subtly steering their talk toward valuable information, while you navigated the crowd, planting recording devices and noting anything significant.

Mercier, ever the professional, adjusted tailored suit as his dark brown eyes scanned the room. His composed demeanor and neatly combed dark hair completed the illusion of a foreign diplomat. Yet, you knew beneath that facade was a man constantly assessing every move, every word.

As the evening wore on, you overheard a conversation mentioning troop deployments in Poland. Adjusting your position, you leaned subtly into the conversation while maintaining your cover. Across the room, Mercier caught your eye, offering the faintest nod of encouragement.

Tension crept into the air when a burly officer with piercing eyes lingered too long on you and Mercier. His thick German accent cut through the din: “You’re very interested in our operations, Herr Mercier. Almost too interested.”

Mercier’s practiced smile didn’t falter, but you caught the flicker of tension in his jaw. “A diplomat’s curse—always curious, always asking questions,” he quipped smoothly.

The officer laughed, though suspicion lingered in his gaze. Then his eyes turned to you.

“Und sage,” he began, voice deceptively friendly, “who are you? I’ve seen you here roam around, yet I do not know your name.”