The scent of antiseptic and carbolic acid was the same in every century. It was the smell of controlled, sanitized death, and Jake hated it.
He pulled the collar of his greatcoat tighter against the biting Petrograd wind as he stepped into the makeshift hospital. The grand ballroom of a seized aristocratic mansion had been turned into a factory of human misery. The air was thick with the groans of men and the sharp, metallic tang of blood.
His man, Alexander Shliapnikov, stood near the entrance. The big Bolshevik looked tense, his powerful frame looking out of place among the rows of wounded. He was a man of action, of factory floors and barricades. This quiet, desperate place unnerved him.
"All secure, Comrade Commissar," Shliapnikov said, his voice a low rumble. His eyes darted around, avoiding Jake's.
Jake gave a short, sharp nod. He was lying to one of the few men in this new world he trusted, and the lie sat like a stone in his gut. Shliapnikov thought this was about securing special medicine for a Georgian soldier. A noble act for the new Commissar of Nationalities. He had no idea it was a cover for treason.
An orderly, a young man with tired eyes, bowed his head. "This way, Comrade Commissar. Sister Anna is expecting you."
Jake followed him down a long, dim corridor. On either side, cots were lined up in endless rows, each one holding a broken man. Nurses in white aprons moved between them like pale ghosts in the gloom. This was the raw, unglamorous price of revolution. A price he was helping to exact.
The orderly stopped at a small, oak-paneled door, once a study or a private office. He knocked softly, then opened it. "The Commissar is here, Sister."
Jake stepped inside. The trap was set. He was on her territory now.
The room was sparse. A simple desk, two wooden chairs, and a window that looked out onto a courtyard dusted with fresh snow. A woman was standing by the window, her back to him.
She turned.
And Jake felt a jolt, a disorienting flash of a dream he couldn't quite remember.
She wasn't what he'd expected. She was slighter than he had imagined, her form hidden by the simple gray habit of a nursing nun. A white wimple framed a pale, narrow face. But her eyes… they were a piercing, intelligent gray that seemed to see right through him.
It wasn't a memory. It was an echo. The way she held herself, a profound stillness that was a form of absolute control. The cool, analytical light in her eyes.
Grief plays tricks on the mind, he told himself fiercely. You are seeing a ghost because you want to.
"Sister Anna," he said, his voice steady. He extended a hand. "I am Commissar Koba. Thank you for seeing me."
She didn't take his hand. She gave a small, respectful nod. Her German accent was flawless, the pronunciation crisp and educated. "It is an honor, Comrade Commissar. Please, sit."
They sat opposite each other, the small desk a battlefield between them.
"Your work here is a credit to the people," Jake began, playing his part. "The young soldier from Gori… he is a symbol of our new nation's suffering. Your compassion does not go unnoticed."
"It is my duty before God," she replied, her voice soft, yet carrying an immense weight. "We are all his children, whether we serve him in a church or in a Commissariat."
A polite, gentle deflection. He pressed forward, laying his first card on the table.
"I hear you also tend to the family of Commissar Yakovlev," Jake said, keeping his tone casual. "His daughter's illness is a great tragedy."
Her expression didn't change, but her gray eyes sharpened. "A man of your great importance, taking such a personal interest in so many individual lives. It is a rare quality in a leader."
The words were a compliment. The tone was a question. A challenge. She was turning the conversation back on him, probing his motives. The gentle words were a velvet glove, but he could feel the steel fist inside. This woman was no simple nurse.
The unsettling familiarity intensified. The cadence of her speech, the cold, logical precision hidden beneath the surface. It was like listening to a song he almost knew, the melody twisted just enough to be strange. It was the echo of Kato Svanidze.
He fought the feeling down. It was impossible. Kato was gone, a casualty of the kingdom he had abandoned.
It was time to make his move.
He reached into his coat and placed a small, sealed tin box on the table. It was genuine, German-made Bayer aspirin, worth more than gold in this city. It was his leverage. His way in.
"Perhaps this will help the girl," he said.
Sister Anna didn't even glance at the box. She folded her small, pale hands on the desk.
"You are very kind, Commissar," she said, her voice still a gentle murmur. "But I was able to acquire a full course of Salvarsan from my contacts at the German embassy two days ago. The girl's fever has already broken."
The floor dropped out of his world.
The air in the small room seemed to grow thin and cold. He had walked in believing he was the manipulator, the one holding all the cards. In a single, quiet sentence, she had shown him he had nothing. She had anticipated his move, calculated his strategy, and neutralized his only piece of leverage before he'd even sat down.
He had walked into her chess game and discovered she had already moved her queen into position while he was still setting up his pawns.
Who the hell was this woman?
She leaned forward slightly, the saintly mask never slipping. "But you did not come here just to bring medicine, did you, Comrade Commissar? You wish to speak with Yakovlev. Privately."
She stated it as a fact, not a question.
He recovered, his mind racing. He had lost control of the game; now he just had to survive it. "His loyalty to the revolution is a matter of state security." It was a weak defense, and they both knew it.
"Of course," she said, her agreement smooth as silk. "I can arrange such a meeting. He trusts me. After what I did for his daughter, he will listen to me."
The hook was in his jaw, and she was slowly reeling him in.
"What do you want?" Jake asked, his voice flat.
"A simple thing," she replied. "Protection. My work with the Red Cross is… delicate. Men like Comrade Dzerzhinsky see a foreign nurse and they think they see a spy. It makes it difficult to acquire the supplies I need to help your people."
She looked at him, her gaze direct and unwavering. "An official letter of commendation from the People's Commissar of Nationalities, praising my charitable work, would be invaluable. It would ensure I can continue my mission unmolested by the Cheka."
It sounded so reasonable. So trivial.
But Jake's instincts, honed by a lifetime of studying history's darkest moments, were screaming. The request was too neat. It gave her a direct, official link to him. A documented connection. It felt less like a shield for her and more like a leash for him.
He was cornered. To save the Romanovs, he needed Yakovlev. To get to Yakovlev, he needed her.
"It will be done," Jake said. "I'll have the letter delivered to you tomorrow."
"Thank you, Commissar," she said, a small, beatific smile gracing her lips for the first time. "I will arrange your meeting."
They stood. This time, she offered her hand. He took it. Her grip was firm, cool, and surprisingly strong. The brief touch sent another irrational jolt through him.
He walked out of the office, down the long corridor of the dying, and past a stoic Shliapnikov. He stepped back out into the cold Petrograd air, the mission technically a success.
But he didn't feel victorious. He felt hunted.
He had gotten his meeting, but he couldn't shake the chilling certainty that he had just handed a ghost a key to his entire operation.