The map on the wall of the War Commissariat was bleeding.
Red pins, representing the revolutionary armies, were being pushed back. White pins, the forces of General Mamontov and the Czech Legion, were advancing like a virus.
"They have taken Orel," Trotsky said. His voice was hoarse. He hadn't slept in two days. "They are two hundred miles from Moscow."
Lenin sat in the leather armchair by the fire. He looked small. The flames cast dancing shadows on his bald head, making him look like a skull.
"And our counter-attack?" Lenin asked.
"Failed," Trotsky admitted. He stared at the map, hating it. "The men refused to advance. They have no bread. They are eating their own boots, Vladimir."
Trotsky slammed his fist against the wall.
"We have the numbers!" he shouted. "We have the zeal! But a man cannot fight on empty intestines. The peasants are hiding the grain. They bury it in the woods rather than give it to the city."
"Then we buy it," Lenin suggested weaky. "Print more money."
"The money is paper!" Trotsky snapped. "They use it to roll cigarettes. They want gold, or salt, or kerosene. We have none."
The heavy oak door creaked open.
Jake walked in. He didn't knock. He didn't salute.
He wore a new tunic. It was simple, unadorned grey, buttoned to the chin. He carried a thick file under his arm.
"General Secretary," Trotsky said, his voice dripping with venom. "Come to file our death certificates?"
Jake ignored him. He walked to the table and dropped the file. It hit the wood with a heavy thud.
"The 8th Army has received its rations," Jake said. "Flour. Meat. Vodka."
Trotsky blinked. "Impossible. The warehouses were empty this morning."
"I filled them," Jake said.
He walked to the samovar and poured himself tea. His movements were slow, deliberate. The movements of a man who owned the room.
"How?" Lenin asked, leaning forward. "Where did you find five hundred tons of wheat in six hours?"
"I didn't find it," Jake said. "I took it."
He took a sip of tea. It was hot, bitter.
"I sent the Cheka into the villages south of Moscow," Jake continued. "I told them to look for soft earth. Freshly dug holes."
Trotsky's face went pale. "You raided the peasantry? Our base of support?"
"Support?" Jake laughed. It was a dry, scratching sound. "They are hoarding food while the Revolution starves. That is not support. That is sabotage."
"They are citizens!" Trotsky yelled. "If you steal their winter stores, they will starve!"
Jake put the teacup down. The china clicked against the saucer.
"Someone has to starve, Leon," Jake said softly. "Ideally, it shouldn't be the men with the machine guns."
He looked at the map. At the red pins.
"The army eats," Jake said. "The city eats. The village... waits."
Lenin watched him. He saw the logic. It was brutal, terrifying, and undeniable. It was the logic of survival.
"You have started a war with the countryside," Lenin whispered. "They will revolt."
"Let them," Jake said. "I have the army now. And the army is full."
The Courtyard. An hour later.
Trotsky chased Jake out into the snow.
"You can't just bypass the Central Committee!" Trotsky shouted, grabbing Jake's arm.
Jake stopped. He looked at Trotsky's hand on his sleeve. He didn't pull away. He just looked at it until Trotsky let go.
"The Committee talks," Jake said. "I act."
"You are turning the Party into a gang of bandits," Trotsky hissed. "We promised them bread and peace. You are giving them theft and war."
"I am giving them victory," Jake said.
A motorcycle courier roared into the courtyard. The sidecar was covered in mud.
The rider jumped off and ran to Jake. He held out a sealed envelope.
"Comrade Stalin," the courier panted. "Urgent. From the Urals team."
Jake took the letter. He knew what this was. It was the Romanov file.
Months ago, back when he was still Jake Vance the historian, he had set up a secret team. Their mission was to extract the Tsar and his family before the local Bolsheviks could execute them. It was his redemption. His proof that he was a good man.
He tore open the envelope.
CONTACT ESTABLISHED, the note read. GUARDS BRIBED. ROUTE SECURE. READY TO MOVE THE PACKAGE TONIGHT. AWAITING GO CODE.
Jake stared at the words.
He could save them. He could save the little boy, Alexei. He could save the girls. He could smuggle them to England.
It would be a moral victory. A light in the darkness.
He thought of Kato.
He thought of her lying in the snow, bleeding out because she tried to save something. Because she had hope.
Hope was a weakness. Hope got you killed.
If he saved the Tsar, the Whites would have a figurehead. Even in exile, the Romanovs would be a threat. A rallying cry.
And what would the Party do if they found out he saved the tyrant? Trotsky would use it. He would paint Jake as a counter-revolutionary.
Jake looked at Trotsky, who was watching him with suspicious eyes.
"What is that?" Trotsky asked. "More secrets?"
Jake looked at the note. He looked at the chance to be human.
He crushed the paper in his fist.
"A supply update," Jake lied.
He turned to the courier.
"The mission is aborted," Jake said. His voice didn't waver.
The courier looked confused. "Aborted, Comrade? But we are ready. The package is—"
"There is no package," Jake snapped. "The asset is no longer valuable."
He leaned in closer to the courier.
"Tell the local Soviet to proceed," Jake whispered. "Tell them... the House of Special Purpose is closed. Resolve the matter. Tonight."
The courier's eyes widened. He understood. "Resolve it, Comrade?"
"Liquidate it," Jake said. "No survivors. No bodies."
The courier saluted and ran back to his motorcycle.
Jake watched him go. He had just signed the death warrant for an entire family. Children. Innocents.
He felt for the hole in his chest. It was silent. No guilt. No pain. Just the cold, hard hum of the machine.
He turned back to Trotsky.
"You wanted to know about the train," Jake said, changing the subject smoothly.
Trotsky was staring at him. He hadn't heard the whisper, but he had seen the look in Jake's eyes. It was the look of a man who had just killed his own soul.
"Yes," Trotsky said, his voice uncertain. "The train."
"It leaves for the Southern Front tomorrow," Jake said. "I am giving it back to you."
Trotsky was stunned. "You... you are?"
"Yes," Jake said. "The army is fed. Now it needs weapons. Go win the war, Leon."
He patted Trotsky on the shoulder. It felt like being touched by a corpse.
"Go be the hero," Jake smiled. "I have paperwork to do."
Lenin's Office.
Lenin watched from the window. He saw the exchange in the courtyard.
He saw Jake walk back into the building, head down, moving with the relentless momentum of a glacier.
Dzerzhinsky stood in the shadows of the office.
"He ordered the execution of the Romanovs," Dzerzhinsky said quietly. "My agent in the courier pool just confirmed it."
Lenin let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.
"I thought he wanted to save them," Lenin said. "There were rumors... back in exile... that he had a soft spot for the history."
"The soft spot is gone," Dzerzhinsky said. "He just ordered the murder of children to prove he is one of us."
Lenin turned from the window. He walked to his desk and sat down. He felt incredibly tired.
"He isn't one of us, Felix," Lenin said.
"Then what is he?"
Lenin picked up a pen. He tried to write, but his hand shook.
"We are revolutionaries," Lenin said. "We destroy the old world to build a new one. We have ideals. We have theory."
He looked at the door through which Jake would soon enter.
"Koba has no theory," Lenin whispered. "He has only gravity. He pulls everything into himself. The army. The food. The fear."
Lenin looked at Dzerzhinsky.
"Watch him," Lenin ordered. "Put a listener in his office. Read his trash."
"I have tried," Dzerzhinsky admitted. "But Taranov... the brute kills anyone who gets close to the closet."
"Then find a way!" Lenin snapped. "Because if we don't find a leash for him soon, he won't just run the Party."
Lenin stared at the empty chair across from his desk.
"He will be the Party."
The Closet.
Jake sat at his desk.
He didn't work. He stared at the wall.
In his mind, he could hear the gunshots in a basement in Yekaterinburg. He could imagine the smoke. The screams.
He closed his eyes.
It was necessary, the voice in his head said. It sounded like Kato.
No, Jake thought. It was efficient.
He opened the drawer. He took out the pipe.
He needed a new plan. Trotsky was going South to fight. That would get him out of Moscow.
Lenin was sick. He was getting weaker every day.
That left the Cheka. Dzerzhinsky. The eyes of the state.
Jake picked up his red pencil.
He wrote a name on a blank sheet of paper. MENZHINSKY.
The man Kato had turned. The man who had betrayed her in the end, or failed her. It didn't matter. He was the weak link in the Cheka.
Jake circled the name.
"Taranov," Jake called out.
The giant stepped in.
"Bring me Menzhinsky," Jake said. "Quietly."
"He is Iron Felix's deputy," Taranov warned. "It is dangerous."
Jake struck a match.
"Bring him," Jake said. "I want to make him an offer. He can be the hammer that breaks Dzerzhinsky."
He blew out the match.
"Or he can be the nail."