The silence in Oberst Nicolai's office wasn't absence—it was weight. It filled the air between them like a heavy fog, pressing down on Jake, forcing him to breathe slower, think clearer, decide. The offer sat there, invisible but crushing: hand over Malinovsky to the German Empire. Betray the revolution to save one woman.
Jake's modern mind recoiled in horror. No. The word came raw, instinctive, absolute. This wasn't strategy—it was sacrilege. To trade a Bolshevik, even a false one, to an imperial power was betrayal on a level that felt cosmic. It broke not just oaths but the laws of cause and consequence. It was the final line, the point beyond which he stopped being a man and became something else.
But the resistance inside him didn't last long. The cold, analytical mind of Koba began its work. Panic receded. Logic took over. Koba broke the dilemma into parts, stripping away the moral noise until only the variables remained.
The asset: Roman Malinovsky. Once a revolutionary hero, now a confirmed traitor. A man already lost to corruption. To give him up was not betrayal—it was redistribution. One master traded for another. The act didn't change his essence; it only redirected his use.
The leverage: this was the real prize. If Koba handed Malinovsky to Nicolai, he would own the secret. He would be the only person alive who knew that the Bolsheviks' shining deputy in the Duma was no longer working for the Tsar, but for Germany. That knowledge would give him permanent power—a lever over Malinovsky, over Nicolai, even over Lenin himself. The Germans would need to protect him to protect their new agent. His own Party would continue to praise a man already compromised, blind to who held the knife.
The outcome: Kato's freedom. That was the end of every calculation, the only result that mattered. Every other cost could be paid. Every sin could be justified.
This was the Gospel of the Wolf in its purest form: the world was a machine made of flesh and power, and to shape it, you had to be willing to break its parts.
The internal war lasted seconds. When it ended, something inside Jake died quietly. His last moral defense gave way to the crushing logic of Koba's will.
He met Nicolai's eyes. The air between them was taut, stretched thin as wire.
"I accept your terms," Koba said.
The words came calm and even. They tasted like ash.
Nicolai's gaze sharpened, then softened with a glint of respect. He had found what he was testing for—not a fanatic, but a professional. A man who understood the true cost of power.
"Excellent," Nicolai said. His tone was brisk, military. "I'm glad we understand one another."
He opened a drawer and drew out a thin manila file, sliding it across the desk. "Your advance payment."
Koba opened it. Inside was a photograph: a middle-aged man with a tired face and rimmed spectacles, smoking nervously. Beneath it, a typed sheet. Viktor Artamonov. Cultural attaché, Russian Embassy. Real title: Colonel, Okhrana Section IV. Malinovsky's handler. The file contained his habits, contacts, and a map marked with their next meeting point.
"Three days between meetings," Nicolai said. "Next one is in two days, four o'clock. Café Adler, Charlottenburg. Quiet. Few witnesses." He tapped the map. "At four-oh-five, my men will stage a diversion nearby. You'll have five minutes to extract the targets."
Koba studied the page, already replaying the plan in his mind—routes, exits, contingencies. The efficiency of it all was terrifying.
"And the objective?" he asked. "Just Malinovsky?"
Nicolai's mouth curved slightly. "He's the priority. But if you can take the handler as well… all the better. I leave that to your discretion."
Koba nodded and closed the file. "You'll be notified when it's done."
The meeting was over. He stood and left without looking back.
The polished corridors swallowed his footsteps. He felt hollow, weightless, emptied out. Whatever humanity was left in him had been filed away with the papers on Nicolai's desk.
Outside, Berlin's gray light hit his face. The air felt colder than it had an hour ago. Across the street, Murat waited by a statue, pacing, anxious. When he saw Koba, he hurried over.
"What happened?" he whispered. "Did you get what we needed?"
Koba handed him the photograph. "We have a new target," he said flatly. "Not just Malinovsky. His Okhrana handler too."
Murat stared at the photo, then back at Koba. "And after that? The rendezvous? Which safe house?"
Koba looked at him, eyes empty, voice calm. "Not a revolutionary safe house. There is none." He paused, each word deliberate.
"We take them to the German Ministry of War."
Murat froze. The sound of Berlin's distant traffic filled the silence. And between them, the ghost of something sacred—the cause, the brotherhood—shattered beyond repair.