The door to the Chairman's office was open.
Jake stood on the threshold. The room was silent. The morning sun streamed through the high windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air.
The wheelchair was gone. The medical equipment was gone. The smell of sickness had been scrubbed away with bleach.
All that remained was the massive oak desk and the leather chair.
Jake walked into the room. His boots sank into the plush red carpet.
He walked around the desk. He ran his hand along the polished wood. It was cool to the touch. This was the altar where Lenin had preached the revolution.
Jake sat down.
The leather groaned. It was a perfect fit.
He leaned back. He looked at the map of the world on the wall. It looked different from this angle. It didn't look like a struggle anymore. It looked like a chessboard.
There was a timid knock at the door.
"Enter," Jake said. His voice was calm, authoritative.
Grigory Zinoviev and Lev Kamenev walked in. They were holding their hats in their hands like peasants.
Yesterday, they were the equals of Stalin. Today, they were survivors of a gas attack, and they knew exactly who had turned the valve.
"Comrade... Secretary," Zinoviev stammered. He looked pale. His eyes darted to the empty corner where Lenin used to sit.
"Comrade Stalin," Kamenev corrected quickly.
"Sit," Jake said.
They sat. They perched on the edge of the chairs, ready to bolt.
"We have prepared the statement regarding Trotsky," Zinoviev said, sliding a paper across the desk. "It attributes his... illness... to exhaustion and chemical exposure during the sabotage attempt."
Jake didn't read it. He picked up Lenin's favorite letter opener. It was shaped like a dagger.
"Does it mention his transfer?" Jake asked.
"Yes," Kamenev said. "Transfer to the Southern Sanitarium. For rest."
"Good," Jake said. "But change the location."
"Change it?"
"Send him to Alma-Ata," Jake said. "In Kazakhstan. The air is drier there. Better for the lungs."
Zinoviev swallowed hard. Alma-Ata was thousands of miles away. It was a hole in the desert. It wasn't a sanitarium. It was a prison without walls.
"But... he is the War Commissar," Zinoviev whispered.
Jake stabbed the letter opener into the desk. It stuck, quivering.
"Frunze is the War Commissar," Jake said. "Trotsky is a pensioner. He writes books now. If he is lucky."
He looked at the two men.
"Do you want to write books, Grigory?"
Zinoviev shook his head violently. "No. No, I want to serve the Party."
"Then go to the Petrograd Soviet," Jake said. "Purge the Menshevik sympathizers. I want names. I want trials."
"Trials?"
"Show trials," Jake said. "Public confessions. The people need to see that we are vigilant."
He waved his hand. "Go."
They scrambled out of the room, tripping over each other in their haste to obey.
Jake pulled the letter opener out of the wood. He wiped the varnish off the blade.
Fear was a wonderful lubricant. It made the machine run so smoothly.
The Hospital Wing.
The room was white and sterile.
Leon Trotsky lay in the bed. His throat was bandaged. His eyes were open, staring at the ceiling.
He turned his head when Jake walked in.
The hatred in Trotsky's eyes was pure. It was a physical force. If looks could kill, Jake would have burst into flames.
Jake pulled up a metal chair. He sat down next to the bed.
"The doctors say you will recover," Jake said casually. "But your voice... it will be raspy. No more shouting in the square, Leon."
Trotsky's mouth opened. He tried to speak.
Khhh... aaa...
Only a dry hiss came out. The chlorine had burned his vocal cords raw.
Jake smiled. It wasn't a cruel smile. It was the smile of a mechanic who had fixed a noisy engine.
"You talked too much," Jake said gently. "You fell in love with your own voice. You forgot that power isn't noise. Power is silence."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a train ticket. He placed it on the bedside table.
"One way," Jake said. "To Kazakhstan. You leave tonight."
Trotsky's hand shot out. He grabbed Jake's wrist. His grip was weak, trembling.
He mouthed a word. Traitor.
Jake looked at the hand gripping his grey tunic.
"You killed her," Jake whispered.
The anger in his eyes flared, hot and sudden.
"You and Lenin. You thought you were clever. You thought you could sacrifice my pieces to win your game."
He peeled Trotsky's fingers off his wrist, one by one.
"Now I am playing the game alone," Jake said. "And I don't sacrifice pieces. I break them."
He stood up.
"Write your memoirs, Leon," Jake said, walking to the door. "Write about how you almost won. History loves a tragedy."
He stopped at the door.
"Just don't try to come back. If you cross the Urals, Taranov won't use gas next time. He will use an ice pick."
Jake walked out. He left the Creator of the Red Army gasping for air in a white room, a silent ghost in the machine he had helped build.
The Basement.
The air in the Lubyanka was always cold.
Menzhinsky was waiting in the interrogation room. He sat behind a table piled high with files.
"We have secured the Dzerzhinsky archives," Menzhinsky reported. He looked tired, but victorious. "Iron Felix is... retired. He is resting at his dacha under guard."
"And the lists?" Jake asked.
"We have identified three hundred officers in the Moscow Garrison with suspect loyalties," Menzhinsky said. "Former Tsarists. Mensheviks. Friends of Trotsky."
"Execute them," Jake said.
Menzhinsky blinked. "All of them? Without trial?"
"We don't have time for three hundred trials," Jake said. "The Whites are advancing. We cannot have rot in the rear."
Jake walked to the wall. There was a map of the city.
"We need to send a message," Jake said. "Not just to the army. To the people."
He pointed to the Bolshoi Theatre.
"Tonight," Jake said. "During the performance. Arrest the director. Arrest the lead tenor."
"The tenor?" Menzhinsky asked, confused. "What has he done?"
"He sings for the bourgeoisie," Jake said. "He represents the old culture. We are building a new culture."
He turned to Menzhinsky.
"Terror must be random to be effective," Jake explained coldly. "If people think they can be safe by following the rules, they will just follow the rules. I want them to be afraid even when they are innocent."
"Why?"
"Because a frightened man doesn't plot coups," Jake said. "A frightened man watches his neighbor. A frightened man works harder."
Menzhinsky wrote it down. Arrest the tenor.
"One more thing," Jake said.
"Yes, Comrade Stalin?"
"The Romanov bodies," Jake said. "The ones in the Urals."
"The acid took care of them," Menzhinsky said. "There is nothing left."
"Good," Jake said. "But spread a rumor. Tell the press... tell them the Tsar escaped."
Menzhinsky looked up, shocked. "Escaped? But that will give the Whites hope!"
"Yes," Jake said. "It will draw them out. It will make them reckless. General Mamontov will push too hard trying to find a ghost."
Jake lit his pipe.
"I want them to chase a phantom while I sharpen the knife."
The Map Room.
Taranov was waiting. He looked grim.
The huge map table was a sea of white markers.
"Orel has fallen," Taranov said. "Tula is under siege. The Whites are one week from Moscow."
Jake looked at the map. The situation was catastrophic. The purge had secured his power, but it had paralyzed the army. The officers were terrified to move without orders.
"Frunze is incompetent," Jake muttered. "He is moving divisions like chess pieces, not like killers."
"We need a commander," Taranov said. "Someone the men fear more than the enemy."
Jake looked at the red line of the front. It was breaking.
If Moscow fell, it didn't matter that he sat in Lenin's chair. He would be hanged in Red Square just the same.
"Prepare the car," Jake said.
"Where are we going?"
"To the front," Jake said. "Tula."
Taranov stared at him. "That is the front line. It is suicide."
"I am the Supreme Commander," Jake said. "I cannot lead from a desk."
He picked up a heavy red pencil. He drew a line across the map, just south of Moscow.
"Not One Step Back," Jake said. "Issue the order. Order 227."
"And the penalty for retreat?"
"Blocking detachments," Jake said. "Set up machine guns behind our own lines. If a regiment retreats... mow them down."
Taranov paled. "You want to shoot our own men?"
"I want to give them a choice," Jake said, putting on his greatcoat. "Die facing the enemy with honor, or die facing me with shame."
He checked his pistol. It was loaded.
"The time for politics is over, Taranov," Jake said, his eyes burning with a yellow fire. "Now comes the steel."
He walked out of the Kremlin.
The wind howled through the gates. It smelled of snow and blood.
Jake Vance didn't shiver.
Stalin walked into the storm.