The Great Hall of the Kremlin smelled of floor wax and stale anxiety.
The delegates of the Central Committee sat in rows. They murmured to each other, eyeing the empty podium. Everyone knew something was happening. The air felt charged, like the sky before a thunderstorm.
Jake sat in the back row. He was invisible.
He wore his simple grey tunic. He held a notebook on his knee. He looked like a clerk taking minutes, not the target of an execution.
The doors swung open.
A hush fell over the room.
Leon Trotsky marched in. He wore his full military uniform, the red star on his cap gleaming. He walked with the stride of a conqueror.
Behind him came two nurses pushing a wheelchair.
Vladimir Lenin sat slumped in the chair. He looked frail, a blanket pulled up to his chin. But his eyes were alive. They burned with a fierce, intelligent hatred.
On his lap sat a slate covered in a cloth. The Testament. The bullet that would kill Stalin.
The Latvian Riflemen lined the walls. Captain Peters stood by the main exit, his hand resting on his holster. He locked eyes with Trotsky and nodded.
The trap was set.
The Podium.
Trotsky took the stage.
He gripped the lectern. He looked out at the faces of the Party elite. Zinoviev, Kamenev, Bukharin. They looked nervous. They were sheep waiting to see which wolf was stronger.
"Comrades," Trotsky began. His voice was a clear, ringing bell. "We are gathered here to save the soul of our Revolution."
He pointed a finger at the back of the room. At Jake.
"We have allowed a cancer to grow in the heart of the Kremlin," Trotsky declared. "A bureaucracy that strangles our army and starves our people."
The room gasped. This wasn't a debate. It was a declaration of war.
"I have evidence," Trotsky shouted, his charisma filling the hall. "Evidence of treason. Evidence of poisoning!"
He gestured to the wheelchair.
"Comrade Lenin has written his final will," Trotsky said, his voice dropping to a reverent whisper. "He speaks to you now, through this slate. He names the enemy."
Trotsky walked over to the wheelchair. He reached for the cloth covering the slate.
Jake checked his watch.
Ten seconds.
"Read it!" a delegate shouted. "Let Lenin speak!"
Trotsky lifted the cloth. He held up the slate. The white chalk words were visible to the front row.
REMOVE STALIN.
"Arrest him!" Trotsky roared, pointing at Jake. "Captain Peters! Do your duty!"
Peters stepped forward. He drew his pistol.
"Joseph Stalin," Peters shouted. "You are under arrest for crimes against the—"
Hiss.
The sound came from the vents along the floor. It sounded like a thousand snakes waking up at once.
Then came the smell.
The Floor.
It hit them instantly. A sharp, chemical burn that tasted like bleach and fire.
Yellow-green smoke poured from the iron grates. It didn't drift; it rushed into the room, heavy and suffocating.
"Gas!" someone screamed.
Panic erupted.
The delegates scrambled over their chairs. Men in suits clawed at their collars, coughing violently. The orderly rows dissolved into a stampede.
Trotsky dropped the slate. He covered his mouth, eyes streaming with sudden tears.
"The doors!" Trotsky choked out. "Open the doors!"
Captain Peters turned to the exit. He reached for the handle.
The door was locked from the outside.
"It's a trap!" Peters yelled, raising his gun to shoot the lock.
A shadow moved in the smoke.
Taranov emerged from the maintenance alcove behind the Captain. He wore a heavy rubber gas mask that made him look like an insect.
He didn't use a gun. He swung a fire axe.
Crunch.
The blade buried itself in Peters' back. The Captain crumpled without a sound, his pistol skittering across the floor.
Taranov stepped over the body. He picked up the gun. He faded back into the yellow fog.
The Chaos.
The room was a swirling nightmare of coughing and screaming.
Zinoviev was on his knees, vomiting. Bukharin was banging on a window, trying to break the glass.
Jake stood up.
He held a handkerchief soaked in vinegar over his nose and mouth. It stung, but it kept the worst of the chlorine at bay.
He walked calmly through the panic.
He walked past the choking delegates. He walked past the confused Latvian guards who were trying to smash the windows with their rifle butts.
He walked toward the stage.
Trotsky was on the floor, retching. The great orator couldn't speak. His throat was closing up. He looked up and saw Jake looming out of the smoke like a grey ghost.
Jake didn't stop. He stepped over Trotsky's legs.
He walked to the wheelchair.
Lenin was trapped. He couldn't move. He couldn't cover his face. He was wheezing, his good hand clawing at his chest. His eyes were wide with terror.
The slate lay on the floor next to the wheels. It had cracked in the fall.
Jake picked it up.
He looked at the chalk words. REMOVE STALIN.
He looked at Lenin.
"The ventilation system is very old, Vladimir," Jake said, his voice muffled by the handkerchief. "Maintenance is difficult. Accidents happen."
Lenin glared at him. He tried to spit, but he only coughed up bile.
Jake rubbed his thumb over the slate.
He smeared the word STALIN into a white blur of dust.
Then he dropped the slate. He brought his heavy boot down on it.
Snap.
The stone shattered into gravel. The Testament was gone.
"There is no will," Jake whispered to the paralyzed leader. "There is only the survivor."
He leaned down close to Lenin's ear.
"You wanted a revolution of iron? Here it is. Breathe it in."
The Aftermath.
The windows finally shattered. Cold winter air rushed in, dispersing the yellow cloud.
Doors were kicked open. Fresh troops—Chekists loyal to Menzhinsky—stormed the hall. They wore masks.
"Secure the room!" Taranov shouted, his voice booming through his respirator. "Protect the Central Committee! Saboteurs have attacked the ventilation!"
Trotsky was dragged to his feet by two Chekists. He was weak, dizzy, his eyes red and swollen.
"He did this!" Trotsky rasped, pointing a shaking finger at Jake. "He gassed us!"
Jake stood by the podium. He had removed his handkerchief. His eyes were red, but he looked calm. Concerned, even.
"Comrade Trotsky is delirious from the fumes," Jake said loudly. "Get him to the infirmary. He is in shock."
"It was him!" Trotsky screamed as they dragged him away. "Look at the slate! Look at the order!"
Jake pointed to the pile of shattered rock on the floor.
"What slate?" Jake asked.
The delegates looked. They saw nothing but rubble. They looked at the dead Captain Peters near the door.
"The Captain was a saboteur," Jake announced. "He released the gas to assassinate the Committee. My security forces neutralized him."
It was a lie so big, so brazen, that it stunned them into silence.
Zinoviev wiped vomit from his chin. He looked at Jake. He looked at the dead guard. He realized the truth.
If he spoke against Stalin now, he would be the next "saboteur."
"Thank you, Comrade Stalin," Zinoviev whispered. "For... saving us."
Jake nodded.
"Get the Chairman to his room," Jake ordered the nurses. "He needs quiet. No visitors. Ever."
The nurses hurried to wheel Lenin away.
As the chair turned, Lenin looked back.
He saw Jake standing amidst the smoke and the wreckage. He saw the new Tsar.
Jake didn't smile. He just watched the old man disappear into the corridor.
The Closet. One Hour Later.
The air in the office was clear.
Jake washed his face in a basin of cold water. His eyes burned. His throat felt raw.
Taranov sat on the floor, cleaning the axe.
"Peters is dead," Taranov reported. "The Latvians are leaderless. I have already installed a new commander. One of our boys from Tsaritsyn."
"Good," Jake said. He dried his face with a rough towel.
"And Trotsky?"
"He is in the hospital wing," Jake said. "Sedated. The doctors say his vocal cords are damaged from the chlorine. He won't be making speeches for a long time."
Jake sat at his desk.
He felt empty. He had just attacked his own government. He had assaulted the fathers of the revolution.
He waited for the guilt.
It didn't come. Instead, he felt a strange, cold clarity.
He was safe. The coup was broken. The Testament was dust.
He opened his drawer. He pulled out the promotion list. The one Trotsky had tried to control.
He picked up his red pencil.
He crossed out Trotsky, Leon - War Commissar.
He wrote a new name next to it. Frunze, Mikhail. A man who was loyal. A man who followed orders.
"Taranov," Jake said.
"Yes, Comrade?"
"Draft a press release for Pravda," Jake said. "State that a counter-revolutionary plot was discovered within the Kremlin Guard. Heroic measures were taken by the Secretariat to protect the life of Comrade Lenin."
"And Trotsky?"
"Say that Comrade Trotsky was injured while bravely attempting to stop the saboteurs," Jake said. "He is taking an extended leave of absence to recover in the South."
"The South?" Taranov asked. "But the Whites are in the South."
Jake lit his pipe. The smoke tasted sweet compared to the chlorine.
"Exactly," Jake said. "Send him to the front. Without a train. Without an army."
He blew a ring of smoke.
"Let him scream at the tanks. Maybe they will listen."
Jake leaned back in his chair. The wobbly leg squeaked.
He needed a new desk. A bigger one.
Maybe he would take Lenin's.
"We are done for today," Jake said. "Tomorrow, we start the Purge."