Lisbon, the Prime Minister’s Office.

  The room was silent save for the ticking of the wall clock—click… click… click.

  Salazar sat behind his desk, holding a briefing from Paris.

  He wasn’t wearing his glasses. Instead, he held the paper at arm’s length, squinting at the headline.

  Jo?o stood on the carpet, hands at his sides, head slightly bowed—like a child who knew he’d been caught.

  “Jo?o.”

  Salazar finally spoke. His voice was dry, devoid of warmth.

  “You look thinner. The air in Paris… not only damp, but draining to the spirit.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jo?o murmured, lowering his head further. “I’ve done much reflecting.”

  Salazar placed the briefing gently on the desk. He offered no comment on Jo?o’s reflection. Instead, he gestured to the chair opposite him.

  “Sit.”

  Jo?o sat—composed, yet with a trace of tension in his posture.

  Salazar asked nothing about Paris.

  No question about the fate of the Russian, Igor.

  No inquiry into the aftermath of the fabricated martyr, Marcel.

  It was as if the entire affair had vanished from his mind.

  This deliberate erasure was both punishment and test.

  Jo?o knew: he could not wait for Salazar to ask.

  He had to break the suffocating silence himself.

  From his briefcase, he withdrew a document and placed it respectfully at the corner of Salazar’s desk.

  “Sir, during my time in Europe, I observed much—and reflected deeply on our domestic situation. I’ve compiled a report.”

  Salazar did not reach for it immediately.

  Slowly, deliberately, he picked up the silver letter opener from his desk, turned it in his fingers, then used its tip to nudge the file’s cover.

  His eyes lingered on the title for less than three seconds.

  In crisp black type, it read:

  “Preliminary Proposal for the Portuguese National Construction Corps”

  He did not open it. Did not ask for details.

  As a statesman who loathed novelty and distrusted change, Salazar’s first instinct was rejection.

  “A Corps?”

  There was a faint edge of mockery in his tone.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “Jo?o, are you proposing to raise an army? We already have one.”

  “And we have the PIDE. I don’t recall any surplus in the national budget for idle men.”

  “No, sir—nothing of the sort,” Jo?o replied quickly, earnestness sharpening his voice.

  “This is neither an army nor a police force. It is simply… a body of workers.”

  “While in Paris, sir, I walked through the slums. I saw that unemployment is the root of all evil.”

  His pace quickened, yet his logic remained clear.

  “Idle workers are easily seduced by foreign lies.”

  “My plan is to organize them—to send them to build roads, erect housing, rebuild the crumbling shantytowns.”

  “We won’t pay them cash—that would fuel inflation. Instead, we issue food vouchers: enough to keep a family alive, but no more.”

  Jo?o watched Salazar’s impassive face—then delivered his crucial point.

  “Most importantly, the Corps will be under vertical command.”

  “From headquarters in Lisbon down to provincial and municipal branches, every officer will be appointed directly by the Prime Minister’s Office—and answer to it alone.”

  “Honored Prime Minister… this would be your construction army. Every road they pave, every building they raise, would lay another brick in your New State.”

  Salazar said nothing.

  No approval. No rebuke.

  He simply pushed the file aside, stacking it with other pending documents.

  The gesture meant:

  I see it. I note it. But I will not discuss it now.

  For Salazar, no new initiative was worthy of immediate endorsement.

  To do so would be irresponsible governance.

  “Grand ideas,” Salazar said coldly—then shifted the subject.

  “Now tell me… everything about Paris.”

  He drew a slow, deep breath, as if expelling all the stale air from his lungs.

  “Honored Prime Minister…”

  Jo?o began. His voice was hoarse—almost trembling.

  This was no act. Or rather, it was an act so refined it produced real physiological effects.

  He had rehearsed the tension until his throat tightened on command.

  “I made a mistake. A… fundamental error no subordinate of yours should ever commit.”

  He rose slowly from his chair, leaned forward, palms resting on the desk’s edge—placing himself physically lower than Salazar.

  “In Paris, my desire to prove myself blinded me to your wise teachings.”

  His eyes dimmed with practiced regret.

  “I was dazzled by the illusion of influence… and resorted to… unconventional means to achieve our ends.”

  He paused. Swallowed hard—the Adam’s apple bobbing visibly.

  “I thought I was easing your burden… securing victory at minimal cost. But now I understand—”

  His voice dropped, thick with self-loathing.

  “—it was a fatal step toward the cliff’s edge.”

  Beneath the table, his fingernail dug into his inner thigh.

  A sharp sting. Instantly, his eyes glistened—not with tears of sorrow, but with reflexive moisture.

  He lifted his gaze, eyes burning with what appeared to be fanatical sincerity:

  “Sir, I was arrogant. I relied on petty cleverness to manipulate hearts and events.”

  “And what came of it? I nearly plunged the nation into terror… and brought shame upon you.”

  His shoulders slumped. He looked ten years older—exhausted, broken, repentant.

  “I was wrong. Utterly, completely wrong.”

  He straightened, stepped back half a pace, fists clenched at his sides—knuckles white with strain.

  “I beg your punishment. Send me to govern Timor, the most remote colony—I would accept it without complaint.”

  “But grant me one chance to atone… to serve you and our beloved fatherland the right way—not through shadows, but through duty.”

  Salazar listened in silence.

  Then, without opening it, he took the file on the Construction Corps—and locked it in the bottom drawer of his desk.

  Reserved. Not rejected. Not approved.

  Merely… observed.

  By taking it, he signaled: I do not dislike this.

  He rose, walked to the window, and drew back the heavy curtains.

  Daylight flooded in, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air.

  “Jo?o,” he said, back still turned, “you are a clever man.”

  “And clever men, if they can sheathe their claws, often outpace fools.”

  He turned. No smile—but the ice in his eyes had thawed.

  “When the old man retires, no one will control the newspapers and radio.”

  “You’ll take the deputy minister post in the Ministry of Propaganda. And when he steps down… you’ll succeed him.”

  He returned to the desk, extended his hand.

  “Go to Propaganda. It is a critical post. If you can make the people understand my order—”

  His grip was dry, cold.

  “—then perhaps… you will one day lead that Construction Corps.”

  Jo?o reached out and clasped it firmly.

  “Thank you for your trust, sir. I will never disappoint you.”

  ———

  Outside the Palace of S?o Bento

  Jo?o smiled—a bright, radiant thing.

  “The file is inside,” he murmured.

  “But we still need one spark.”

  “The real show is about to begin.”

  “And it’s time I stepped onto the stage… properly.”