The morning after the royal funeral was supposed to bring calm.
Instead, Belgrade dived in silence not the peace of mourning, but the kind of breathless quiet before a detonation.
Moreau stood at the tall embassy window, arms folded, eyes tracking a horse-drawn cart rumbling past.
The driver didn't even glance toward the French flag hanging still above the gates.
He'd never seen a people so deliberately avert their gaze. It was like he wasn't even there.
Behind him, the door creaked open.
Renaud entered with two cups. "Black. Hot. Bitter as the rumors I heard from the Yugoslav staff this morning. Matches the mood."
"Lay them on me."
Renaud handed the coffee over. "Talk of an attack. Unconfirmed. Something about 'making a statement' before the French leave."
Moreau didn't say anything.
He stared at his reflection in the glass. "We need to find out who's talking."
Before another word, a sharp knock came.
