The telegraph machine in the closet didn't stop clicking. It was a manic, rhythmic heartbeat of disaster.
TSARITSYN PERIMETER BREACHED. STOP. WHITE CAVALRY IN THE FACTORY DISTRICT. STOP. AMMUNITION CRITICAL. STOP. WHERE IS THE TRAIN? STOP.
Jake sat at his wobbly desk. He was eating a bowl of cabbage soup. He dipped a piece of black bread into the broth, watching the grease swirl.
Taranov stood by the machine. He looked sick. His family was in Tsaritsyn.
"They are begging, Comrade," Taranov whispered. "General Mamontov has broken the line. They say the Volga is freezing over completely. If they retreat, they die on the ice."
Jake chewed the bread slowly. It was stale.
"Reply to them," Jake said.
Taranov's eyes lit up. "We are sending the train?"
"No," Jake said. "Tell them to hold their positions to the last man. Tell them retreat is treason punishable by execution."
Taranov stared at him. "But without the guns... that is a death sentence."
"It is a martyrdom," Jake corrected. "Martyrs are useful. Retreating cowards are not."
He pointed his spoon at the machine.
"Send it. And sign it: By Order of the War Commissar, Leon Trotsky."
Taranov flinched. "But... Trotsky tried to send the train. You stopped it."
"The history books won't remember the train schedule," Jake said, his voice devoid of warmth. "They will remember who signed the order that killed ten thousand men."
He went back to his soup.
Taranov typed the message with trembling fingers. Click. Click. Click.
He was sending his friends to their graves. And he was framing Trotsky for the burial.
The War Commissariat.
Trotsky couldn't breathe.
He tugged at his collar, but it felt like a noose. The reports were piling up on his desk. Not just from the South. From everywhere.
"The 5th Army in Kiev has no boots," his aide reported, voice shaking. "The requisition forms were rejected."
"Why?" Trotsky screamed. "We have a warehouse full of boots in Moscow!"
"The Secretariat claimed the forms were filled out in the wrong ink color," the aide said. "Blue instead of black. They returned them for correction."
Trotsky swept the papers onto the floor.
"Blue ink?" he roared. "Men are losing their toes to frostbite because of ink?"
"Also," the aide continued, stepping back to avoid the outburst. "The ration shipment for the Moscow Garrison... it was diverted."
Trotsky froze. The Garrison was his power base. The elite troops who guarded the Kremlin.
"Diverted where?"
"To the Cheka barracks," the aide said. "By order of General Secretary Stalin. He cited 'priority security concerns due to internal threats.'"
Trotsky sank into his chair.
He was the commander of millions. He controlled the artillery, the cavalry, the armored cars. But his army couldn't walk, couldn't eat, and couldn't shoot.
Koba wasn't fighting him. Koba was starving him.
"He is dismantling the army," Trotsky whispered. "He is cutting the tendons one by one."
The door opened. Vladimir Lenin walked in.
Lenin looked frail. The stress of the last week had aged him ten years. He leaned heavily on a cane.
"Tsaritsyn has fallen," Lenin said quietly.
Trotsky closed his eyes. "I know. I ordered them to retreat, but the wire was cut."
"The wire wasn't cut," Lenin said. "A counter-order was sent. Ordering a suicide stand."
Lenin walked to the window. He looked out at the snowy square.
"The Whites have the city," Lenin said. "They have the oil. They have the grain route. We are cut off from the Caucasus."
"It's Koba," Trotsky hissed. "He did this. He sacrificed the city to spite me."
"I know," Lenin turned around. His eyes were hard. "And that is why you are going to apologize to him."
Trotsky stood up, knocking his chair over. "Apologize? To that butcher? He is a traitor!"
"He is the man holding the keys to the pantry!" Lenin snapped. His voice cracked, but the authority was still there. "Look at your map, Leon. We are surrounded. Whites in the South. British in the North. If we fight each other, we hang together."
Lenin walked to the door.
"We created a dog to guard the house," Lenin said. "Now the dog is sitting at the table. You can either feed him, or he will eat you. Swallow your pride. Fix this."
The Closet.
The air in the small room was thick with pipe smoke.
Jake didn't look up when the door opened. He knew who it was. He could smell the expensive cologne mixed with fear.
Trotsky stood in the doorway. He looked diminished. His uniform was wrinkled.
"General Secretary," Trotsky said. The title sounded like a curse in his mouth.
"Comrade Trotsky," Jake said, stamping a form. Denied.
"We need to talk about the supply lines," Trotsky said, forcing his voice to remain steady. "The Garrison is hungry."
"There is a shortage," Jake said. "The peasants are hoarding grain. Difficult times."
"Don't play games with me!" Trotsky slammed his hand on the doorframe. "You have the grain. Dzerzhinsky told me the Cheka warehouses are full."
Jake finally looked up.
"The Cheka protects the Revolution from spies," Jake said. "Spies are everywhere. Even in the high command."
He opened a drawer. He pulled out a file.
"Like General Mamontov," Jake said. "The White General who just took Tsaritsyn."
Trotsky stiffened. "What about him?"
"I have a report," Jake lied smoothly. "That suggests Mamontov received intelligence on our troop positions. Intelligence that allowed him to bypass our defenses."
"That is impossible," Trotsky scoffed. "Who sent it?"
"The transmission came from the War Commissariat's codes," Jake said.
He tossed the file onto the desk. It was fake. A forgery Jake had spent all night creating.
"You lost the city, Leon," Jake said softly. "People are asking questions. Was it incompetence? Or was it sabotage?"
Trotsky stared at the file. The blood drained from his face.
He realized the trap. Jake had forced the city to fall, and now he was holding the evidence that blamed Trotsky for it.
"You wouldn't," Trotsky whispered. "This is madness. You would accuse me of treason?"
"I am just the Secretary," Jake said, leaning back. "I just file the reports. But if this file were to... disappear... into the archives..."
He let the sentence hang.
Trotsky understood. It was blackmail. Absolute, unadulterated extortion.
"What do you want?" Trotsky asked. His voice was defeated.
"The lists," Jake said.
"What lists?"
"The promotion lists for the Red Army," Jake said. "Every officer above the rank of Captain. From now on, you don't promote anyone without my signature. You don't assign a commander without my approval."
Trotsky griped the doorframe. If he agreed, he lost control of his own army. He would be a figurehead.
But if he refused, Jake would release the file. He would be branded a traitor who sold Tsaritsyn to the Whites. In this climate of paranoia, he would be executed within a week.
Trotsky looked at the wobbly desk. He looked at the smoke curling around Jake's face.
He saw the future. And he wasn't in it.
"Fine," Trotsky whispered.
"I can't hear you," Jake said, picking up his pen.
"Fine!" Trotsky shouted. "Take the damn lists! Take the army! Just release the food!"
"The food will be released tonight," Jake said calmly.
Trotsky turned and walked away. He walked like an old man.
Jake watched him go.
He didn't feel triumphant. Victory wasn't a feeling anymore. It was just a calculation.
"Taranov," Jake called out.
The executioner stepped out of the shadows.
"Yes, Comrade Stalin?"
"Trotsky agreed," Jake said. "The army is ours."
"Shall I release the grain trucks?" Taranov asked.
"Yes," Jake said. "Send half to the Garrison. Let them eat."
"And the other half?"
Jake picked up his red pencil. He drew a circle around the Lubyanka on the city map.
"Keep it," Jake said. "Loyalty is expensive. I need to make sure the Cheka stays full."
He looked at the fake file on his desk. The lie that had broken a giant.
He struck a match and lit the corner of the paper.
He held it until the flame licked his fingers. He dropped the ash onto the floor.
Tsaritsyn was gone. Kato was gone. The Romanovs were a memory.
But he had the stamp. He had the food. And now, he had the army.
The closet felt a little bigger.
"Bring me the next file," Stalin said.