The warehouse was a cathedral of cold and shadow. Vast, empty spaces rose up into a darkness where steel rafters crisscrossed like the bones of some colossal, long-dead beast. The air was thick with the industrial ghosts of Berlin: the faint, metallic scent of cold steel, the damp smell of concrete, and the lingering odor of machine oil. Light bled in from a few grime-caked windows high above, casting down weak, hazy columns that illuminated swirling dust. It was a place where things were brought to be stored, forgotten, or broken down into their constituent parts.
In the center of the cavernous space, the transfer was taking place.
Roman Malinovsky and Viktor Artamonov sat bound to simple wooden chairs, black hoods covering their heads. They were no longer men; they were packages, assets to be exchanged. Malinovsky trembled, a continuous, palsied shaking that spoke of a spirit that had been utterly shattered. Artamonov was rigid and still, his military discipline holding him in a state of suspended, silent fury.
Koba stood before them, a specter in the gloom. The agony in his left arm, now crudely slung in a makeshift bandage, had subsided into a deep, throbbing ache that was a constant, physical reminder of the price of his victory. His face, pale with exhaustion and pain, was a mask of cold, impenetrable composure.
Across from him stood Oberst Walter Nicolai, flanked by two of his agents. The Germans were figures of quiet, lethal professionalism. They wore simple civilian clothes, but they moved with the coordinated economy of a wolf pack, their eyes constantly scanning the shadows.
Nicolai, ever the pragmatist, wanted to inspect the merchandise. "A proof of concept, Herr Schmidt, if you would," he said, his voice a calm, conversational murmur that was somehow more menacing than a shout in the vast, echoing space. One of his agents stepped forward and, with a single, sharp motion, ripped the hood from Malinovsky's head.
The Bolshevik deputy blinked in the dim light, his face a pathetic ruin of tear-streaked terror. His usual confident, charismatic expression had collapsed into a quivering mass of fear. He looked at the severe, unfamiliar faces of his new captors and a low, animal whimper escaped his lips.
Nicolai leaned in, his voice soft but carrying the hard edge of surgical steel. "Deputy Malinovsky. A simple question to verify your bona fides. When the Okhrana's Foreign Section wishes to approve a permanent, high-level asset in a friendly nation, such as France, who gives the final authorization? Is it the section chief, the Minister of the Interior, or does it require a personal sign-off from the Prime Minister himself?"
It was a test. A highly specific question of internal protocol that only a genuine high-level agent—or a master spy—could possibly answer. Malinovsky, his mind stripped of all pretense of resistance, broke instantly. The choice between defiance and survival was no choice at all.
"The Minister," he stammered, his voice a wet, pleading whisper. "Stolypin only signs off on assets in hostile nations. For allies, it is Minister Makarov. It is a formality. The real approval comes from Colonel-General Gerasimov, but the Minister's signature is what appears on the final document…" He was babbling, offering more information than was asked for, desperate to prove his worth, to prove he was a valuable commodity worth keeping alive.
Nicolai listened, then gave a single, satisfied nod. The asset was genuine. He looked at Koba, and for a moment, the cold professional mask slipped. A flicker of something akin to scientific curiosity appeared in his eyes. He was studying this strange, ruthless Georgian as if he were a new and fascinating specimen.
"He is yours, Herr Schmidt," Nicolai said. "The traitor. His re-education will be a fascinating project." He paused, a thin, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. "Do you wish to… speak with him? To pass sentence? Before we begin?"
It was the final test. Nicolai wanted to see if there was any lingering revolutionary sentiment left in Koba. Any desire for justice, for vengeance, for the ideological theater of condemning a traitor to the cause. It was an invitation to reveal his soul.
Koba looked at the weeping, pathetic form of Roman Malinovsky—a star of his own Party, a man Lenin and the others looked up to, a hero to the workers he represented. Jake's soul, the small, caged thing that still lived somewhere deep inside, screamed at him to do something. To spit in Malinovsky's face. To execute him as a traitor on the spot. To give a speech about the price of betrayal. To show some sign, any sign, that this monstrous act was tearing him apart.
Instead, Koba simply shook his head. The motion was small, final.
"He is no longer my concern," he said, his voice utterly flat, devoid of heat or emotion. "He is your asset now."
The cold, transactional dismissal was his final, irrevocable act of treason. He had not just handed over a man; he had disowned the very idea of revolutionary justice. He had affirmed that this was not about the cause. It was just a trade.
In the shadows near the warehouse's loading dock, Pavel watched the exchange, his heart a cold, heavy stone in his chest. He had tried to rationalize it. He had told himself this was a clever tactic, a complex maneuver for the good of the revolution. But seeing it now, seeing Koba's dead eyes and hearing his empty words, the awful truth finally crashed down on him. This was no tactic. This was a simple, ugly betrayal. Koba had sold one of their own to the butchers of the German Empire.
While Nicolai gave quiet orders to his men to re-hood the prisoners and prepare them for transport, Pavel moved through the shadows and confronted Koba. His whisper was a raw, furious sound, thick with the pain of a shattered faith.
"What have you done?" he hissed, grabbing Koba's good arm. "Look at them! German imperialists, Koba! This is not the cause! This is not the struggle! This is a deal with the devil!"
Koba did not pull away. He turned slowly and looked at his oldest, most loyal friend. For a moment, Jake saw Pavel's face—the confusion, the hurt, the desperate plea for an explanation that would make it all make sense again. But the eyes that looked back at Pavel were Koba's. They were as dead and cold as a frozen lake.
"The cause is an idea, Pavel," Koba said, his voice quiet, each word a shard of ice. "It is words on a page. A dream of a world that may never exist. Kato is real. Her life is real. I chose the real thing." He looked towards the waiting Germans. "You can stay here and debate the philosophy of our actions. Or you can get on the train and help me finish the mission."
The words struck Pavel like a physical blow. It was not an explanation; it was an ultimatum. The bond between them, once forged in the simple, hot fire of revolutionary faith, was irrevocably fractured. It was being reforged into something new, something colder and more complex. Pavel's loyalty was no longer to the cause Koba represented, but to the broken, monstrous man he had become. It was no longer faith; it was a heartbroken, tragic devotion. He let go of Koba's arm.
Nicolai approached them, his business concluded. One of his agents stepped forward and handed Koba a thick, sealed envelope. "Your part of the bargain," the Oberst said.
Koba opened it. Inside was a one-way train ticket to Tilsit, a small, obscure town on the Russo-German border. There was also a photograph. It was new, the image still sharp, the paper crisp. It showed Kato, her face pale and thin but her expression hard and defiant, being escorted across a snow-dusted prison yard by two guards. It was proof of life.
"The exchange will take place in thirty-six hours," Nicolai said, his voice all business. "On the Queen Louise Bridge at Tilsit. It spans the Memel River. Our side, their side. Very clear. Your friend for our new asset, who will be delivered into their custody looking like an escaped prisoner. No complications. Be there."
Koba stared at the photograph of Kato. The cold, calculating machine in his head, the part that had engineered this monstrous deal, fell silent. For a single, agonizing moment, it was just Jake. He was looking at the face of the woman he loved, the woman for whom he had just sold his soul. His plan had worked. He was about to get everything he wanted. And as the truck carrying the two hooded prisoners rumbled out of the warehouse into the Berlin night, he was gripped by a sudden, terrifying vertigo, the dawning realization that he had no idea if he could live with the man he had to become to achieve it.