"Tell me your journey again,"Captain Adam said, seated across from him in the police station's interrogation room.
"I left Paris, traveled south, crossed into Spain through the Pyrenees, and—"Pierre launched into the story again — for what felt like the hundredth time.
Of course, none of it had actually happened to him.
The account came from an old university classmate — a wealthy guy born in Rome who, after graduation, had spent two years backpacking around the world instead of getting a job.That friend had roamed through nearly every continent — from Western Europe to North Africa.
Pierre had followed his travels online with envy, and remembered the posts clearly.His friend had entered Spain through Morocco, then crossed into France.Reversing the route gave Pierre a believable escape story.
As for the language?That wasn't an issue.Pierre had studied French and German in college, alongside English — hoping to land a spot at a multinational corporation someday.By graduation, he was fluent enough in both to pass for a local.
As for the details — his classmate had been obsessive about documenting every stop.Dozens of photos of town squares, meals, and old churches were still fresh in Pierre's memory.
And since many European towns hadn't changed in centuries, the descriptions still matched reality.Even if he stumbled once or twice, it wasn't like Captain Adam knew every corner of rural France.
After retelling the story — again — and tripping over nothing obvious, Pierre watched as the British officer finally stood up, still frowning slightly.
"Maybe..."Adam muttered under his breath."Maybe he really did escape from France."
Still, just to be sure, he gave a quiet order:
"Contact the embassy. Let them confirm who he is."
49 Portland Place.
"Someone escaped from France? Doesn't sound right."
It was a fair reaction.Germany had blockaded France's coastline. Britain had sealed its ports.The English Channel was so locked down even a seagull needed clearance to cross it.
Still — it wasn't impossible. Stranger things happened in wartime.
The junior diplomat assigned to the task didn't care much either way.The ambassador was in the U.S., and the chargé d'affaires had simply sent him to check it out.
Just another day's work.
After arriving at the police station and presenting his credentials, he was brought in for a routine discussion.
"Sorry for the trouble," he said politely.
"But let me be clear," he added with the tired voice of someone used to bureaucracy,"I can't officially verify anything. At best, I'll speak with him and see if he seems... credible."
"We understand," the officer replied."He has no identification. We just need your help figuring out whether he might be telling the truth."
The diplomat nodded, suppressing a sigh.
Figure out his identity?How exactly?And if he guessed wrong, would he take the fall?
Why couldn't the guy have just stayed in France and kept everyone's lives simple?
He entered the room without fanfare and dropped his bag with a loud thump.
"Why weren't you staying put in France?" he demanded, barely glancing at Pierre."What were you thinking — running around in wartime like a tourist?"
Pierre blinked at the man in gold-rimmed glasses with neatly parted hair.His tone was rude — but the accent was unmistakably familiar.
"Sir... are you from the embassy?" he asked calmly."May I ask if the Ambassador is currently in residence?"
The diplomat paused."You know the Ambassador?"
Of course, Pierre didn't.But he had read a human-interest piece about Madame Aurelie, the Ambassador's wife — famous for her fashionable lifestyle and diplomatic work.After France fell, the couple had relocated to Britain, and eventually crossed over to the U.S. as part of a special diplomatic mission.
He remembered it clearly.
"I met Madame Aurelie once," Pierre said casually,"at a reception in the Paris embassy."Then, with deliberate care, he added,"My family had some business dealings with the Leveau family, back in the day."
Leveau — the ambassador's name.
That line was the key.
He didn't need the official to like him. He just needed him to care.
The change was instant.
The man straightened in his seat, blinking in surprise.
"Oh! I... I see. My apologies!"
His tone flipped from dismissive to respectful in seconds.
So that's why the kid escaped from France — he was from a good family!
Now the diplomat was practically leaning forward in sympathy.
"Such a shame you arrived now — the Ambassador and Madame Aurelie are both in America," he said, shaking his head.
Pierre gave a small sigh of regret.
"If she were here, she could vouch for me.But now... with the British treating me like a spy — I don't know how I can prove anything."
Louis (the diplomat) slammed his hand on the table.
"Those British bastards!How dare they treat one of ours like this?"
Pierre blinked in surprise at the sudden shift.
"You don't worry," Louis continued, rising to his feet, voice rising."Even if you weren't a family acquaintance — even if you were a complete stranger — I wouldn't let them insult a fellow countryman like this!"
He marched to the door and pounded on it.
"Open up! Open this door!"
When Captain Adam arrived a moment later, Louis turned on him like a storm.
"Captain Adam! What is the meaning of this?!"
"What—?"
"You detained a French citizen?While we're being bombed and invaded — you're locking up our people like criminals?!Is this how Britain treats its allies?!"
Adam was stunned. "Secretary Louis — you said you couldn't verify his identity—"
"Verify?!" Louis scoffed, eyes blazing."I don't need papers to know one of our own!"
In that moment, Adam understood.
This wasn't just some drifter.This was someone with connections.
There was only one thing left to do.
Release him.