October 1937.
Kremlin, Moscow
Outside was all fog and snow.
Inside, Lavrentiy Beria waited.
The General Secretary was pacing.
In his left hand, a leather file, in his right, a burning cigarette with ash dangerously long.
"They let him walk into Vienna," Stalin muttered, more to himself than to Beria. "The Austrians threw flowers, and the British wrote speeches."
Beria cleared his throat.
"There is… alarm in Tallinn," he said. "But not yet panic. Our advisors embedded there report discomfort, but no action."
Stalin stopped pacing.
"I'm not interested in their feelings. I want Estonia under us before snow buries the rail lines."
He dropped the file on the table clattering maps, photos, typed transcripts.
Molotov, silent until now, pulled a chair closer.
"There is risk," he said carefully. "The Estonians have pride. And the West may not blink a second time."
Stalin lit another cigarette directly off the one in his mouth.
