The map room was quiet. Too quiet.
For five years, the hum of the laptop fan had been the soundtrack of Jake's life. It was a white noise that whispered, "I know the answers."
Now, there was only the ticking of the grandfather clock.
Jake stared at the grain requisition forms for Ukraine.
"The harvest is twenty percent below projections," Molotov said. His glasses reflected the electric light. "If we export the grain to Germany, the villages will starve."
"If we don't export," Jake said, "we can't pay for the turbines."
"We could delay the dam project," Molotov suggested.
Jake rubbed his temples.
In the old timeline, Stalin pushed through. Millions died. The Holodomor.
But Jake didn't have the data anymore. He didn't know if the weather next year would save them or kill them. He was gambling with human lives, and he had lost his cheat sheet.
"We need the power," Jake said softly. "The factories in the Urals are useless without electricity."
"So we starve the peasants?"
"We ration," Jake corrected. "Tighten the belts. Send the Red Army to guard the silos."
He felt sick. He was saying the words. The historical script was coming out of his mouth, not because he was evil, but because he was cornered.
"Do it," Jake said.
Molotov nodded and left.
Jake looked at the empty spot on his desk.
He grabbed a pencil and snapped it in half.
Being blind wasn't just scary. It was paralyzing.
Leningrad. The Public Library.
The reading room was freezing. Readers wore coats and gloves, turning pages with clumsy fingers.
Nadya sat at a corner table. She had a pile of medical journals in front of her.
Inside her heavy coat, the stolen bottle of "Red Pill" burned against her ribs like a hot coal.
She wasn't just reading. She was waiting.
A man sat down across from her. He was older, wearing a tweed suit that looked too expensive for a Soviet worker. He had the tired eyes of a man who had seen too many winters.
Arthur Bennett. Cultural Attaché at the British Consulate. And, if the rumors were true, MI6.
He opened a book of Pushkin.
"It is a cold day for poetry, Mrs. Alliluyeva," Bennett said softly. He didn't look at her.
"It is a cold day for everything," Nadya replied.
She slid a folded piece of paper across the table. It was hidden inside a medical journal.
"What is this?" Bennett asked.
"Proof," Nadya whispered. "That the miracle in Finland wasn't just rockets."
Bennett's eyes flicked to her face.
"The rumors of chemical soldiers?"
"Not rumors," Nadya said. "Samples. Blood work. Death certificates."
She tapped the journal.
"He is poisoning them. He is turning men into ammunition. The West needs to know."
"Why give this to me?" Bennett asked. "Your husband... he is a powerful man."
"He is not a man anymore," Nadya said. "He is a machine. And machines don't care who they crush."
Bennett hesitated. Then, with a practiced sleight of hand, he slid the journal into his briefcase.
"If I take this," Bennett murmured, "there is no going back. For either of us."
"There is no going back anyway," Nadya said. "The border is closed."
"I can get it to London in two days," Bennett said. "Diplomatic pouch."
"Do it," Nadya said. "Tell Churchill what he is really sleeping with."
Bennett stood up. He tipped his hat.
"Good luck, Nadya."
He walked away, his footsteps echoing on the wooden floor.
Nadya watched him go. Her heart was hammering against her ribs.
She had just committed treason. High treason.
She waited ten minutes. Then she packed her bag and walked out.
The cold air hit her face. It felt clean.
For the first time in years, she wasn't just a victim. She was a player.
The Lubyanka. Moscow.
Menzhinsky sat in the basement. The radio equipment hummed.
An operator with headphones turned to him.
"We intercepted the signal from the British Consulate in Leningrad," the operator said. "Coded burst. Priority One."
Menzhinsky lit a cigarette.
"Content?"
"They are preparing a diplomatic pouch. Courier departs for Helsinki tomorrow morning."
Menzhinsky exhaled a cloud of grey smoke.
"The British have been quiet for months," he mused. "Why the sudden rush?"
"We have reports of a meeting," the operator said. "Arthur Bennett. He met with a woman at the library."
"Who?"
"Identification is... sensitive, Comrade Director."
Menzhinsky's eyes narrowed.
"Say it."
"Nadya Alliluyeva."
The room went silent. The other operators looked down at their dials, pretending to be deaf.
Menzhinsky crushed his cigarette.
He had warned Jake. He had told him that the domestic front was the most dangerous.
"Does Bennett have the package?" Menzhinsky asked.
"Yes. He is at the train station hotel."
Menzhinsky picked up the phone.
"Get me Taranov."
The train station hotel in Leningrad was a relic of the Tsars. Velvet curtains. Dust. Shadows.
Arthur Bennett locked his door. He placed the briefcase under the bed.
He checked his watch. The train to Helsinki left at 6:00 AM.
He poured himself a drink from a hip flask. Gin. The taste of home.
He had the scoop of the century. Stalin's super-soldiers. The biological horror behind the Soviet miracle. This would shatter the fragile alliance between Churchill and the Kremlin.
There was a knock at the door.
"Room service," a muffled voice said.
Bennett frowned. He hadn't ordered anything.
He reached for the Webley revolver in his coat pocket.
"Leave it in the hall," Bennett called out.
The lock clicked.
It wasn't a key. It was a pick. The door swung open silently.
Bennett raised the gun.
A massive shape filled the doorway. Taranov.
The bodyguard didn't have a gun drawn. He wore leather gloves.
"Mr. Bennett," Taranov said. His voice was like gravel in a mixer. "You have something that doesn't belong to you."
Bennett fired.
The shot was loud in the small room. The bullet hit Taranov in the shoulder.
Taranov didn't even flinch. He took one step.
Bennett fired again. The gun jammed.
Taranov was on him.
It wasn't a fight. It was an execution. Taranov grabbed Bennett's wrist and twisted. The bone snapped with a wet crack.
Bennett screamed.
Taranov shoved him against the wall. He reached under the bed and pulled out the briefcase.
He opened it. He found the medical journal. He found the bottle.
"Bad medicine," Taranov said.
He looked at the Englishman, who was cradling his broken arm.
"You are a diplomat," Taranov said. "So I cannot kill you. It is against the rules."
He pocketed the evidence.
"But accidents happen on icy stairs," Taranov said.
He struck Bennett across the face. Hard. The Englishman collapsed into unconsciousness.
Taranov walked to the window. He looked out at the snowy street.
He had the package. The leak was plugged.
But he knew who had given it to him.
He picked up the hotel phone.
"Connect me to the Kremlin. Direct line."
Jake was asleep at his desk when the phone rang.
He woke up with a start. He grabbed the receiver.
"Yes?"
"It's done," Taranov's voice said. "I have the package. The Red Pill sample. And the logs."
Jake let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.
"And the leak?" Jake asked.
There was a pause on the line. A heavy, loaded silence.
"It was her, Boss," Taranov said.
Jake closed his eyes.
He knew it. Deep down, he had known it the moment Menzhinsky mentioned Leningrad.
"She met the Brit in the library," Taranov continued. "She handed it over. She wanted to expose us."
Jake gripped the phone so hard the plastic creaked.
She wasn't just leaving him. She was trying to destroy him. She was trying to tear down the fortress he was building to save Yuri.
"Is she safe?" Jake asked.
"She is at her apartment," Taranov said. "We have men outside. She doesn't know we hit the Brit yet."
Jake looked at the map on the wall. The enemies were everywhere. He couldn't afford a traitor in his own bed. Even if he loved her.
Especially if he loved her.
"Bring her back," Jake said.
"To Moscow?"
"Yes," Jake said. "But not to the Kremlin. Take her to the Dacha. Put her under guard. Total isolation."
"And if she resists?"
Jake felt a part of his soul die. It was the last piece of the historian from 2025. All that was left was Stalin.
"She won't resist," Jake said. "Tell her... tell her I have Yuri."
"Boss?"
"Grab the boy first," Jake ordered. His voice was dead. "Use him as leverage. Get her in the car. And bring them home."
He hung up.
He stared at his hands. They weren't shaking anymore. They were steady.
Cold and steady.
He had just ordered the kidnapping of his own family.
"For the greater good," Jake whispered to the empty room.
The words tasted like ash.
Leningrad. Dawn.
Nadya was packing a small suitcase. She was humming.
She felt light. Bennett would be on the train soon. The truth would be out.
The door burst open.
It wasn't a knock. The lock was simply kicked in.
Three Chekists in long grey coats stormed in.
Nadya dropped the suitcase.
"What is this?" she demanded. "I am the wife of the General Secretary!"
"We know," the lead officer said.
He stepped aside.
Taranov walked in. He looked tired. His shoulder was bandaged under his coat.
He held up a small glass bottle. The Red Pill.
Nadya's blood ran cold.
"Bennett?" she whispered.
"Hospital," Taranov said. "Broken arm. Concussion. He slipped."
Nadya backed away until she hit the wall.
"You monster."
"Get your coat, Nadya," Taranov said gently. "We are going to Moscow."
"I won't go."
"You will," Taranov said.
He nodded to the bedroom door.
A soldier walked out holding Yuri. The boy was sleepy, clutching his wooden horse.
"Mama?" Yuri rubbed his eyes. "Where we going?"
Nadya lunged forward. "Don't touch him!"
Taranov caught her. He held her back easily. She was thrashing, screaming, clawing at his face.
"Let him go! He has nothing to do with this!"
"He is the reason for this," Taranov said. "Jake wants him safe. And he wants you quiet."
He dragged her toward the door.
"Please," Nadya begged. She stopped fighting. She grabbed Taranov's lapel. "Please, Taranov. You are a good man. Don't do this."
Taranov looked at her. There was genuine pain in his eyes.
"I am not a good man, Nadya," he said. "I am a loyal one."
He pushed her out into the hallway.
"Move."
Nadya looked back at the empty apartment. The suitcase lay open on the floor. Her brilliant plan had lasted less than twelve hours.
She walked into the snow, flanked by guards.
She didn't look at Yuri. She couldn't bear to see him smile at the soldiers.
She realized then that Jake hadn't just saved the world from himself. He had saved it for himself.
And there was no escape.