The curtains were drawn tight, heavy velvet keeping the night air and curious eyes outside.
Two guards stood at the far end of the hallway, unmoving, as though carved into the woodwork.
Inside the room, only two men sat across a low table that carried a glass of vodka, untouched.
Vyacheslav Molotov adjusted his glasses, his face impassive.
Across from him, Joachim von Ribbentrop leaned forward in his chair.
He poured himself a glass, even though Molotov hadn't moved for the bottle.
"It is rare," Ribbentrop began, his German accent thick, "that our two nations sit face to face without pretenses. We should take advantage of this moment, Herr Molotov."
Molotov didn't answer immediately.
He studied him, letting the silence stretch long enough to feel uncomfortable.
Then he said, flat and precise, "We are here because guessing across walls wastes time. Words are cheaper than soldiers."
