Their arrival in Vienna felt like stepping through a tear in reality.
The Westbahnhof wasn't just a station; it was a declaration. A palace of glass and iron, ringing with polished footsteps and the measured rhythm of order. The heart of an empire still pretending it wasn't dying.
Outside, the city dazzled. The Ringstrasse gleamed under the spring sun, alive with carriages, early automobiles, and officers in immaculate uniforms. The air smelled faintly of coffee and pastry — civilization itself, distilled.
Pavel, Murat, and Ivan stared like men who had landed on another planet. They had known the smoke and mud of the Caucasus, the shadows of back-alley conspiracies. Now they stood in a city that seemed to glow from within. Women in silk strolled arm-in-arm. Men in top hats debated politics at café tables. It was obscene in its beauty — a civilization on the brink of collapse and utterly unaware.
Jake's mind reeled inside Koba's.
Vienna. 1913.
Freud, Klimt, Mahler. The dying empire before the storm.
In a year, this will all be ash, he thought. We're walking through a dream that doesn't know it's already dead.
Yagoda's instructions had been precise. No safe houses. No slums. They checked into a modest boarding house in the Josefstadt district — quiet, middle-class, forgettable.
To the world, they were merchants.
Herr Schmidt and his associates from Graz, suppliers of timber for the War Ministry's new construction project.
Koba drilled them without mercy.
"You are not gangsters," he told them, voice low and sharp. "You are merchants. You care about prices, quality, schedules, and your next beer. Nothing else."
He made them memorize street names, learn the best cafés, rehearse small talk about oak and beech prices. Murat cursed under his breath after an hour of this torture. Ivan just stared blankly, as if trying to will the information into his skull.
It was a new kind of war — fought not with guns, but with lies so dull and ordinary that no one would ever look twice.
After two days, Koba took Pavel for their first outing.
Not to find Trotsky's address — but to find his world.
They went to Café Central.
The place was enormous, all marble and light, filled with smoke and the hum of intellect. Men in worn suits argued in half a dozen languages. Coffee cups clicked against saucers like the ticking of clocks.
Koba sat in the corner, silent, observing.
This is their battlefield, he thought. Not alleys, but coffeehouses. Not bombs, but arguments. Their weapons are words. Their ammunition, belief.
An hour passed before it happened.
A man entered, and the whole café seemed to tilt toward him.
He wasn't large, but he carried the room as if by right — wild hair, intense eyes behind a pince-nez, a small trimmed goatee. Energy crackled off him. Conversations faltered. Heads turned.
He was the axis around which the room spun.
Students rose to greet him, their faces glowing with devotion.
Pavel leaned in, his voice low. "Who is that? He moves like a prince."
Koba didn't answer at first. He had seen the photograph Yagoda had given him — a lifeless image. The man before him was anything but lifeless.
"That," he said finally, "is Lev Davidovich Bronstein. Trotsky."
For an hour, Koba watched.
He studied the way Trotsky spoke, the rhythm of his gestures, the almost theatrical brilliance that poured out of him. His words seemed to light fires in the hearts of everyone around him.
Jake's mind murmured in awe.
God. He's exactly like history said. He's not a politician — he's a phenomenon. A rock star before the word existed. Lenin convinces the mind; Trotsky converts the soul.
Koba's thoughts were colder.
High charisma. High ego. Cult of personality — exploitable. Security minimal. Surrounded by theorists, not fighters. Talks too much. Speaks freely in public. Brilliant. Dangerous. Vulnerable.
When Koba finally stood to leave, Pavel followed without question.
They walked through the city in silence. The Prater park was quiet in the late afternoon light. The chestnut trees cast long, elegant shadows across the lawns.
Pavel broke the silence first. "He's just a writer," he said. "A talker. I've seen men like him in Tbilisi — full of words and wine. Why does the Chairman fear him?"
Koba stopped, watching the sun sink behind the rooftops of the empire.
"Because Lenin wants an army," he said softly. "Something disciplined. Centralized. Controlled. A weapon aimed with precision."
He turned to Pavel. His eyes were cold, steady, clear.
"Trotsky wants a fire. Passionate. Chaotic. Born from the masses. He believes revolution is a storm that no one can command."
He let that hang for a moment, the evening wind threading between his words.
"Lenin's weapon can strike where it chooses," Koba said. "A fire burns everything. It gives light — but it destroys its master too."
He looked back at the glowing city, the gaslamps flickering to life along the boulevards.
"That," he murmured, "is why Lenin fears him."
He turned to Pavel, voice low, final.
"And our job," he said, "is to make sure that fire dies before it spreads."