It was a damp Monday morning at the 1st Panzer Battalion stationed in Potsdam near Berlin. Only a few men were awake, moving slowly through the courtyard, speaking in low voices as they went about their duties.
A mechanic worked on one of the newly delivered Panzer II models. A group of soldiers performed morning drills, the hoarse voice of the instructor echoing across the yard. Inside the barracks, a single soldier walked through the corridor of the officers' wing, his leather shoes striking the wooden floor in an even rhythm.
He stopped. A single knock sounded, faint yet clear in the quiet hallway.
"Come in," a tired voice called from inside.
The soldier opened the door, stepped forward, straightened up and saluted.
"Good morning, Herr Oberst," he said.
Paul lifted his head from the pile of documents before him and gave a brief nod.
"This arrived for you," the soldier said. His voice dropped slightly. "I was told to deliver it to you personally."
Paul's eyes sharpened as he reached out his hand.
The soldier placed the envelope into his palm, then left as quickly as he had come.
Paul examined the envelope. No sender. No seal.
He opened it, revealing a neatly folded sheet of paper.
His eyes skimmed over the lines, as if he had already expected what was written there.
Generaloberst Werner von Fritsch… Paul thought, his mind racing. He reached into his pocket and drew a small key. With it he unlocked one of the drawers of his desk.
Inside lay dozens of similar letters. No names. No markings. He let the new one slip from his fingers, landing atop the chaotic stack.
Paul closed the drawer, locked it again, then stood up. He reached for his long coat and left his office without another word.
One hour later
A Mercedes limousine rolled onto a lonely forest road, cutting through the cold, dense woods. It passed a checkpoint manned by black clad soldiers before coming to a stop in front of a familiar concrete building.
Paul stepped out and entered. Knowing the layout by heart, he turned right and descended the cold stone staircase.
Reaching the cellar, he pushed open the single metal door blocking his way and entered the room.
Inside stood two familiar figures on opposite sides of the space.
"Heydrich. Friedrich," Paul said.
"Jaeger," Heydrich replied, his voice carrying a mix of respect and curiosity.
"Heinrich," Werner added, giving Paul a curt nod.
"The last one?" Paul asked, though he already knew the answer.
"The last one," Heydrich confirmed, gesturing toward another door. "He is all yours."
A faint smile crossed Paul's lips as he stepped into the adjoining room. It was smaller, almost claustrophobic, with only a table and two chairs placed beneath a dim lamp hanging from the ceiling.
Paul studied the general seated before him. A rough sack still covered the man's head.
Heydrich and Werner entered behind him.
With a simple gesture from Paul, Heydrich removed the sack, revealing the man's face.
Mid sixties. Grey. Cold. Distant. A small scar besides his left eye.
"So it was you, Jeager." The old General said, shaking his head as he tried to brush his messy hair out of his face.
Paul did not answer. He only tilted his head slightly and let the man speak.
"Generals disappearing... officers dying under mysterious circumstances..." the General muttered. "I knew something was wrong. But to think it was you... you and your lapdogs." He added, almost spitting the words.
"Why are you so surprised?" Paul asked calmly.
"I was at the gathering at Hohenzollern Castle. I heard you speak. I thought you were like minded. But I was wrong. You are no monarchist. You are a rat, crawling up from the lowest sewers." The General said, venom thick in his voice.
"You are wrong, Fritsch." Paul began, leaning forward. "You talk as if I acted alone. As if this whole thing was my idea. As if I am responsible."
"I am not." Paul whispered.
The General watched him silently, for once not interrupting.
"You were betrayed not by me, but by the Führer." Paul said, letting the words roll slowly from his tongue.
"Are you saying..." Fritsch stuttered. "He ordered you to kill me? To kill my wife, my guard, to destroy my home, he ordered you? Are you saying that?" He shouted, rising to his feet with sudden fury.
"I am. In his eyes, you are a traitor." Paul answered, observing the man with cold precision.
Fritsch sank back onto the chair, trembling.
"A traitor... he is calling me a traitor." Fritsch whispered, then erupted again, slamming his fist on the table. "I was born in this country. I served this country my entire life. I fought for it. I bled for it. Every morning I wake up thinking how I can better it. And this is my thanks. A bullet in my head and a hole they can toss me in, while they spit on the soil and call me a traitor?"
His voice cracked for a moment. Rage, pain and disbelief washed over his face, twisting his features into something almost unrecognisable.
"And you? You are no better." Fritsch roared. "You are the true lapdog, carrying out orders you know are nonsense. Jeager... Jeager... Jeager." His voice grew louder, harsher. "The rising star, the hope of the Wehrmacht. In the end you too are a dog. Nothing more. A dog painted in the Führer's colors, serving this bastard."The General slammed his fist on the table, the sound echoing through the narrow room.
Oh, if he knew how wrong he is, Paul thought.
"General." Paul said quietly, cutting through the man's rage.
Fritsch froze for a moment, his breath heavy.
"Who said I was going to carry out his orders?" Paul asked, rising from his chair.
The General frowned, uncertainty flashing over his face.
"Who said I will kill you?" Paul continued, stepping closer, one calm step after another.
Fritsch leaned back instinctively as Paul approached.
"Who decides what will happen?" Paul said, now standing only inches from him, his shadow falling over the old officer.
"Hitler decides it, boy." Fritsch muttered, meeting Paul's gaze with a mixture of defiance and fear.
Paul smiled. A wide, slow, deliberate smile that did not reach his eyes.
"No. I do." He said, turning his back to the General.
Fritsch blinked, confused, then desperate.
"What are you saying? What kind of game are you playing?" he shouted, reaching out to grab Paul's sleeve.
Before his hand could touch him, Werner seized Fritsch's wrist and shoved him back onto the chair with cold efficiency.
"Do not lay hands on him." Werner said quietly.
"Jeager..." Fritsch gasped, his voice cracking between fear and fury. "If you intend on standing in the middle, forget it. Choose the Kaiser. Choose what is right for Germany. Do not let ambition blind you. Stand with me. Stand with all who still believe. Let us topple the Führer together. Please."His last word echoed strangely, a plea thrown into a room where mercy rarely entered.
Paul stopped mid step. His back still turned, his silhouette frozen against the dim overhead light.
An old wolf's last cry. How poetic, Paul thought.
"Think about it, Fritsch." He said without turning around. "Your pack is gone. Your allies are old. Your fangs dulled by the years."
He stepped toward the door, his coat brushing lightly against the concrete wall.
"Your time is over."
With that he left the room, the echo of the slamming door drowning out the desperate shouts of the man behind him.
When Paul returned a few hours later, he brought another man with him.
Fritsch's eyes widened, not because of Paul, but because of the familiar silhouette trailing behind him.
"You..." Fritsch stammered, unable to find the words.
The man stepped forward, revealing his face in the damp light. The familiar features were unmistakable.
"Blomberg," Fritsch whispered, his eyes wide. "How could you?"
"How could I?" Blomberg replied sharply. "Are you really asking that? You, abandoned, cast aside by the Führer, thrown into an abyss without a second thought. All because you dared to think for yourself, because you showed no absolute loyalty?"
"And me?" Blomberg voice cracked. "I was stripped, humiliated before the entire country, by the same man. How could you not thirst for revenge? How could you not crave justice for this injustice?"
"What about the Kaiser?" Fritsch muttered, his forehead creased, the weight of history visible in his eyes.
"The Kaiser?!" Blomberg shouted, a mix of anger and pity in his voice. "The Kaiser is gone, Fritsch. He is gone. The Monarchy, the glory, the Kaisereich—they are all gone. But we are still here. Not to revive what is irretrievable, but to shape change."
Blomberg stepped forward, gripping the edge of the table. "I once thought the Führer was the man to bring that change. But he is nothing more than an imbecile. I have set aside my pride, my honor, to complete this final mission: to reclaim what was lost, to enact vengeance."
He balled his fist, his knuckles white.
"I have cast my fate onto a different path. Into Heinrich Jeager," Blomberg said, exhaling sharply, his voice cold but resolute.
Paul watched the man before him with keen interest, the former Chief of the Wehrmacht.
He remembered the day the news of Fritsch's resignation reached him, the day he had called him. When everyone else had abandoned the man, he had gone to meet him, bringing Reader along. Together, they had managed to channel Blomberg's rage, his anger, onto a single target: Hitler. And in doing so, they had not merely gained a pawn, they had rallied a king to their side. A fallen king, perhaps, but one whose words still carried weight with the ordinary soldier, the average officer, and the common man.
Now, Paul observed the same effect taking hold of Fritsch. The longer Blomberg spoke, the more the General's eyes shifted, reflecting a change he could not deny...
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