The Crown Prince and Princess arrived at the luxury hotel beneath layers of ceremony and discipline, Imperial Guards sealing corridors, Kempeitai controlling the perimeter, elevators locked and rerouted straight to the top. The penthouse suite opened into quiet opulence—wide windows, muted lighting, imported furniture, the city stretched below them like a map.
Trade Minister Togo Masuri was escorted inside.
Tea was poured. The atmosphere was respectful, but heavy.
The Crown Prince asked directly for Togo's opinion on the Pacific States—whether Japan should continue committing manpower and resources there, or whether it was time to begin a gradual withdrawal back toward Asia. He explained plainly that this question would guide the Emperor's coming decisions with the Reich.
Togo was stunned.
Before he could speak, Crown Princess Michiko reached for his hands. She told him his words had always mattered to her, ever since she was a child. That when she was isolated and unsure inside the Imperial Palace, his counsel grounded her.
Togo bowed deeply. He asked for several days to review his reports and reflect honestly. The Crown Prince agreed at once and thanked him. Togo excused himself, leaving the Imperial couple alone.
Privately, they spoke of the Nazis—what they represented, and what it would mean for Japan if war with the Reich ever became inevitable. Neither pretended reassurance.
Across the city, in a cheap, aging hotel directly facing the open plaza of the Nazi Pacific Embassy, two men prepared for the same act—neither aware of the other's existence.
On the third floor, Jack stood at a cracked window, binoculars raised. Below him, Waffen-SS soldiers were erecting a podium and stage for the Crown Prince's upcoming speech. Banners were measured, floodlights tested, guard rotations rehearsed.
Jack wasn't here for explosives or spectacle.
He was here to learn the route.
He tracked vehicle movement, foot patrols, where security tightened and where it relaxed. He noted distances, sightlines, angles. On the table behind him lay the pistol he built himself—rough, imperfect, deadly at close range. He wasn't planning escape. He was planning access.
People in the café below laughed, praising the Crown Prince's grace. Jack turned away, jaw clenched.
Eight floors above him, on the eighth floor, another man worked in silence.
The SS assassin from Rome, SS-Hauptsturmführer Matteo Kräusel, had blacked out his room entirely. Plastic sheeting covered walls and floors. Hidden cameras fed into monitors showing stairwells, corridors, elevator banks, and the plaza below.
Kräusel was not improvising.
He had a biometric weapons case beneath the bed—opened by fingerprint. Inside was a compact armory: explosives, shaped charges, detonators, a suppressed sniper rifle, an STG-44, grenades, and meticulously labeled magazines. This was an operation planned weeks in advance.
He adjusted a camera feed and paused.
A woman stepped onto his floor and approached his door.
Kräusel drew his pistol and knife instantly, positioning himself for a silent kill. She knocked—three taps, pause, two taps.
The signal.
He answered and opened the door.
She introduced herself as SS-Scharführerin Anneliese Vogt, sent by Agent H to assist. Kräusel nodded once. No questions. They began preparing immediately.
Neither of them knew that eight floors below, another man was watching the same plaza, studying the same target, driven by an entirely different hatred.
In RichVirginia, Emily Evanfields stood shirtless over a cracked sink in a cheap airport hotel, staring into the mirror as she cut into her own skin, digging for the tracking device implanted while she was held in Yonkers–Auburn Nazi Maximum Prison. She cried silently as she pulled it free, then burned the wound shut with a heated knife.
She flushed the blinking tracker down the toilet.
At SS Sicherheitsdienst Branch in Manhattan, alarms went off. Orders were shouted. Nearest Operatives in Richmond rushed to her hotel.
Too late.
Blood stained the sink. On the mirror, written in blood:
CATCH ME IF YOU CAN
Emily was already boarding a flight to Britain, where a resistance contact waited—Britain, independent in name, ruled by Queen Elizabeth II, hosting German troops and intelligence in exchange for sovereignty.
In Paris, Étienne Moreau moved through the sewers and emerged near the Breitspurbahn station, soaked and shaking. He stole clothes, blended in, passed SS inspection, and boarded the train.
The Breitspurbahn was a rolling empire: dining cars, resting cars, smoking lounges, military-only sections, fuel and armor transports, high-ranking officials' compartments, and a final security car crawling with SS.
As the train pulled away, Étienne sat still, surrounded by Nazis, trying not to breathe too loudly.
SS-Gruppenführer Müller informed Imel that Wehrmacht inspectors from Berlin had landed.
"Intercept them," Imel ordered. "Anything shared will be shared in front of us."
At the same time, Oberst Karl Brenner informed Generaloberst Reichenau that Berlin had responded.
"Prepare everything," Reichenau said. "They will want answers."