A week later, the fugitives no longer existed. In their place stood four modest Austrian merchants and their quiet, severe-looking assistant. The change was complete — a miracle of disguise, born of the Party's hidden craft.
Their rough clothes were burned. In their place: plain wool suits, respectable and dull. Their faces were shaved, their hair trimmed, their hands scrubbed until they looked like men who handled ledgers, not guns.
Their new lives fit neatly inside their pockets. Perfect Austrian identity papers — not the sloppy forgeries of anarchists, but true masterpieces from a Riga specialist. Proper stamps. Real watermarks. Even the ink smelled official.
Ioseb Djugashvili was now Herr Gregor Schmidt, timber merchant from Graz. Pavel became Herr Franz, his trusted associate. The Chechens were the brothers Müller, their assistants.
Yagoda arranged the rest: a sealed goods wagon added to a slow freight train bound for Warsaw. From the outside, it looked like every other boxcar in the line. Inside, it was their entire world.
The rifles were hidden beneath the floorboards. The ledger — the key to everything — lay wrapped in oilcloth beside them, sacred and untouchable.
Their journey to meet Lenin had begun.
The air in the cramped wagon was thick with silence and unease. The train's steady clatter filled the gaps where conversation should have been. Koba, Pavel, Murat, Ivan, and Yagoda — five men, five different storms bottled in one dark room.
Yagoda spoke first, smooth as ever. "The Chairman takes great interest in your arrival," he said, his tone casual but watchful. "He believes the war with Germany is not only inevitable but necessary. A spark for revolution."
He looked at Koba. "Your discovery of the Krupp connection changes everything. It's not just leverage against Stolypin. It's intelligence. A glimpse into the enemy's factories, supply lines, and influence. The Chairman believes in knowing his enemy completely."
Koba said nothing. He only watched Yagoda. He understood what was really being said. Lenin wasn't simply preparing for rebellion — he was preparing for war.
The days blurred together. Outside, the world passed in a haze of snow and smoke. Endless forests. Frozen fields. Then, slowly, towns appeared, their roofs clustered close like huddled animals. They were entering Russian Poland.
At last, the train screeched into Warsaw.
The city was chaos under control. Smoke, noise, languages colliding — Polish, Yiddish, Russian. Everywhere, the Empire's shadow: soldiers, Gendarmes, Okhrana agents pretending to be travelers.
"We switch trains here," Yagoda said, his voice low. "Berlin line. Two hours. We'll be met. Do not speak unless asked to. You're Austrians. You speak bad Russian. Remember that."
They left the wagon and melted into the crowd — just five more weary travelers. Yagoda led them through the maze of rails and sidings until they reached a quiet corner of the freight yard.
A man waited beneath the shadow of a water tower.
Koba slowed. Something felt off. The man didn't look like a Bolshevik. No furtive glances, no shabby coat. He stood tall and straight in a dark, perfectly cut German suit. A crisp Homburg hat. Polished gloves. He looked like a banker. Or a diplomat.
Yagoda approached him with visible respect. "Herr Schmidt," he said carefully. "These are the men I mentioned."
The German turned. His eyes were pale blue, sharp and cold. He studied each of them in silence, his gaze resting on Koba just a little too long.
When he spoke, his Russian was flawless — precise, almost academic. "A pleasure," he said, without smiling. "I'm here to facilitate your next step west."
Koba's instincts flared. Yagoda's tone. The man's perfect Russian. The name — Schmidt — matching his own forged identity. It wasn't coincidence. It was a signal.
The Party's great escape route wasn't theirs at all. It was run — or at least monitored — by German intelligence.
Jake's voice screamed inside his head.
Oh God. It's real. This is how it begins — the chain that leads to Lenin's return in the sealed train. The Germans funding revolution to destroy Russia from within. I'm not just part of the revolution anymore. I'm part of the Kaiser's war plan.
The German seemed to sense Koba's realization. His thin smile didn't reach his eyes. "The General Staff takes a… benevolent interest in your movement," he said. "We find it useful to help those who trouble the Tsar travel freely. Your route to Switzerland is secured."
It wasn't generosity. It was ownership.
He glanced at his watch, then looked up again. "However," he said, "before we proceed, there's one formality."
His gaze locked on Koba. "You possess a ledger from the Arkhangelsk operation — detailing certain collaborations between Krupp AG and the Imperial Admiralty."
Silence.
"This document," he continued, "is… problematic. For both our governments. It must be returned to Berlin for safekeeping. You may, of course, share its contents verbally with your Chairman. But the original—" he held out a gloved hand "—is now a matter of German state security."
The air in Koba's lungs turned to ice.
The ledger was his power, his weapon. Without it, he was nothing — just another nameless revolutionary begging for attention. But here, in a Warsaw rail yard crawling with Okhrana agents and German spies, he had no good choices.
To refuse was to die here. To accept was to walk into Zurich disarmed.
The ledger — his crown — was being demanded by men who saw him as freight.
And Koba, for the first time in a long time, had no plan that didn't end in loss.