November 1, 1936.
Geneva, Switzerland.
The League of Nations building was unusually full for a body long dismissed as toothless.
Heavy coats and foreign languages crowded its cold marble halls from London, Moscow, Paris, and Rome.
Delegates gathered in cliques of whispered speculation and stiff greetings.
But one name stirred them all.
Étienne Moreau.
As the French delegation entered, heads turned.
Dressed sharply in a dark overcoat, one arm still stiff from the injuries of Alborán.
Moreau moved like a blade.
Behind him followed two attachés and a translator, though most already spoke his language the language of war, conviction, and memory.
Sir Hugh Sinclair of Britain approached first.
"Major Moreau."
Moreau offered a nod. "Director Sinclair."
"You've become something of a legend."
"Legends are often just names scratched on gravestones. I'm here to stop the next ones."
