The Finland Station was a cathedral built to honor the god of steam and iron, its vast, vaulted ceiling trapping the a_hazy light of the smoky dawn. But today, it felt less like a public space and more like a fortress preparing for a siege. The normal, cheerful chaos of departure—the cries of vendors, the laughter of families, the hissing of the engines—was gone, replaced by a tense, oppressive silence. The air hummed with the quiet, menacing energy of a city on high alert.
It was swarming with uniforms. Military police, their faces young and stern, stood in rigid pairs at every entrance and along the length of the platforms. And woven among them were the others, the ones who were far more dangerous: Okhrana agents in ill-fitting suits, their hands in their pockets, their eyes missing nothing. They did not look at people; they dissected them, their gazes lingering on anyone who seemed too nervous, too hurried, or too out of place. Koba's team had not just walked into a hornet's nest; they had walked into the hornet's nest just after someone had kicked it.
This next hour, Koba knew, would be the most dangerous of their lives. It was a single, sustained performance on a stage surrounded by executioners, where a single forgotten line, a single misplaced gesture, would bring the curtain down on all of them.
He transformed himself. The calculating mind of Koba adopted the persona of Sergeant Orlov, a man he had constructed from the dead soldier's papers and Anya's harsh tutelage. Orlov was a career non-commissioned officer. He was not brilliant or ambitious. He was solid, dependable, and profoundly weary. The army had been his life for twenty years, and it had ground all the optimism and idealism out of him, leaving behind a core of pure, cynical duty.
"Privates, at ease, but stay sharp," Sergeant Orlov grumbled, his voice a low, gravelly sound that seemed to come from his boots. He approached the stationmaster's office, his movements deliberate, unhurried. He was a man with a job to do, and he would do it with the same grudging efficiency he applied to everything else in his life.
The stationmaster, a fussy, nervous man with sweat beading on his upper lip, was clearly terrified of the heavy military presence in his station. He treated Koba's sergeant's stripes with the reverence a priest would give a bishop.
"Sergeant Orlov, Semyonovsky Regiment," Koba announced, handing over the stolen transfer orders. "I'm here to supervise the loading of cargo for the 0800 train to Vyborg. Four crates of agricultural equipment, as per the manifest."
The stationmaster scanned the papers, his eyes wide. The documents were flawless, bearing the authentic stamps and signatures Koba had stolen from the Admiral's office. "Of course, Sergeant. At once. Track seven. Everything is in order."
Koba took the papers back with a grunt. "See that it is."
He walked back out onto the platform, where Pavel, Murat, and Ivan stood guard by the four heavy, innocuous-looking wooden crates that had been delivered overnight. They played their parts to perfection. Pavel stood like a mountain of stolid loyalty. Murat was a coiled spring of silent menace. Ivan, the hulking brute, simply looked bored and stupid. They were the perfect picture of a veteran NCO and his unremarkable charges.
The sixty minutes that followed were a masterclass in controlled terror, an eternity of small, heart-stopping moments. They stood by the crates as the platform slowly filled with other passengers, a mixture of well-to-do merchants and army officers. Every passing glance felt like an accusation.
A young, overzealous Okhrana lieutenant, eager to make his mark, swaggered over to them. His eyes were bright with a self-important suspicion.
"Sergeant," he began, his voice a little too loud. "What is the nature of this cargo?"
"Agricultural equipment, sir," Koba replied, his tone perfectly calibrated to convey a weary respect for the officer's rank, but an utter contempt for his question.
"I'll need to inspect it," the lieutenant declared, puffing out his chest. "New security protocols."
This was the first test. Koba met the young man's gaze, and in his eyes was not the fear of a man with something to hide, but the profound, bone-deep annoyance of a career soldier being delayed by a pointless bureaucratic whim.
"With all due respect, Lieutenant," Koba said, his voice flat. "This is a special military transfer, under sealed orders from the Admiralty. I have my orders, and they do not include unsealing naval cargo for the amusement of the secret police. If you have a problem with that, you can take it up with Admiral Chukhnin's office. I'm sure he'd be delighted to explain the importance of this shipment to you personally."
He had invoked the name of the commander of the Baltic Fleet, a notoriously short-tempered and powerful man. The lieutenant's face paled slightly. He was faced with a mountain of potential paperwork and a very real possibility of a career-ending reprimand. He looked from Koba's stony, unimpressed face to the impassive wall of his three privates. He made a decision.
"Very well, Sergeant. Carry on," he muttered, and walked away, trying to pretend he had won the exchange.
The second test came from their own ranks. A real army sergeant, a burly man reeking of cheap booze, staggered past and deliberately bumped into Murat. "Watch where you're going, you dark-faced crow," the man slurred, using a common derogatory term for Caucasians.
Murat, a man who had killed for lesser insults, tensed. His hand, as if by instinct, drifted towards the butt of the Nagant pistol hidden beneath his greatcoat. His eyes flashed with a murderous fire that was entirely out of place on the face of a disciplined private.
Pavel moved with a speed that was terrifying in a man his size. He stepped between them, his massive body shielding Murat from view. He placed a heavy hand on Murat's shoulder, a seemingly comradely gesture that was, in reality, a vise-like grip. "Aslan," Pavel whispered, his voice a low, dangerous rumble in Chechen, using a word that meant 'lion,' a reminder of a code beyond this uniform. "T'e dika h'u." Be still.
Murat froze, the fire in his eyes banking. The drunken sergeant, having lost his audience, grumbled and staggered on his way. The crisis had passed in a heartbeat, a silent drama of life and death played out in a language no one else on the platform understood.
Koba, who had watched the entire exchange without moving a muscle, felt a cold sweat trickle down his back. The danger was not just from the outside. It was from within. He was leading a pride of lions and trying to make them behave like sheep.
He let his gaze drift across the platform, and then he saw it. Plastered to a thick, cast-iron pillar not twenty feet away was his own face. The blurry photograph, the stark police sketch, and the bold, black letters: WANTED. He felt a jolt, a physical shock, as if he had touched a live wire. He forced himself to look away, to let his eyes slide over it as if it were a common advertisement for soap. He had to project an air of utter disinterest, even as every nerve in his body screamed at him to run, to hide, to tear the poster from the wall.
In a muddy field miles outside of Kiev, Kato huddled in a line of peasants waiting to sell their meager produce at a makeshift market. The rough, borrowed clothes she wore were scratchy against her skin, and she smelled of hay and fear. She kept her head down, her shawl pulled low, trying to lose herself in the anonymous mass of humanity.
But she knew she was being hunted. The syndicate was not a force to be trifled with. They would be watching the train stations, the coach houses, the river ports. Her only hope was to disappear into the vast, sprawling countryside, to become just another nameless, faceless refugee.
As she shuffled forward in the line, she saw him. One of Grigory's thugs. He was not looking for her, not yet. He was speaking to a young boy who worked at the livery stable where she had hidden, showing him a piece of paper. Even from this distance, she knew what it was. A sketch of her face. The boy was shaking his head, but the thug was pressing, his hand resting menacingly on the boy's shoulder. The hunt was active. And it was closing in.
The final, piercing whistle blew through the Finland Station, a sound of glorious, imminent release. The last of the passengers had boarded. The platform was clearing. Koba and his team were in the guard car, a small, cramped compartment at the rear of the train, next to the freight car containing their precious crates.
The heavy door slid shut, the latch clicking into place with a sound of beautiful finality. They had made it. They were in. Koba leaned his head back against the rattling wall of the carriage, allowing himself, for the first time in an hour, to breathe. A wave of profound, exhausted relief washed over him.
The train gave a powerful lurch, the couplings groaning as it began to pull away from the station. They were moving. They were free.
It was at that exact moment that the carriage door was wrenched open with a deafening scrape of metal on metal.
An Okhrana officer stood framed in the doorway, silhouetted against the receding lights of the station. He was a tall, stern-faced man with cold, intelligent eyes. Koba recognized him instantly. It was the same incorruptible officer from Stolypin's checkpoint at the port.
"Orders from the Prime Minister," the officer said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. His suspicious, analytical eyes swept over the four "soldiers" in the cramped compartment. "This is now designated a high-security transfer. I will be accompanying you to Vyborg to ensure its integrity."
He stepped into the carriage and slid the heavy door closed behind him, plunging the car into a dim, claustrophobic gloom. The latch clicked shut again. But this time, it was not the sound of freedom. It was the sound of a cage door swinging closed.