The Café Adler was a sanctuary of quiet luxury. Sunlight streamed through spotless windows, turning the air golden and alive with drifting motes of dust. Well-dressed patrons murmured over porcelain cups, the clink of spoons and rustle of newspapers forming a gentle, civilized rhythm. The smell of roasted coffee and buttered pastry hung in the air. It was a world of order and comfort—untouched by the violence that ruled the century outside.
Into this calm, Koba's team moved like wolves in a drawing room.
Ivan waited a block away in a green delivery truck, engine idling low. Murat sat at a corner table, pretending to read a newspaper, his eyes darting above the print, his leg bouncing beneath the table. Near the door, Pavel sat stiffly, his enormous frame straining the seams of a borrowed suit. He looked like a piece of artillery disguised as a banker—ready to explode in the middle of polite society.
Koba stood at the counter, composed and deliberate. He ordered coffee in perfect German, his tone calm, his posture loose. But his mind was a storm of calculation. Nineteen patrons. Two staff. One front entrance—Pavel's domain. One back door through the kitchen. The tables were marble—heavy enough to use as cover. The front window, a liability. Every detail filed itself into a pattern of movement and escape.
At 3:58, the first target entered.
Roman Malinovsky moved through the door with the ease of a man who owned every room he walked into. Polished shoes, perfect suit, a handshake for the café owner. The performance of respectability was flawless. To any observer, he was a politician, not a spy. To Jake's modern mind, the sight of him was nauseating—a man admired by thousands, rotting from within. Koba's mind did not flinch. He simply marked Malinovsky's seat and waited.
At 4:01, the second man appeared. Viktor Artamonov looked nothing like a villain. Small, pale, unremarkable, he could have vanished in a crowd of clerks. His round spectacles and rumpled suit completed the disguise. He joined Malinovsky without a word, his manner as dull as his face. The last piece of the plan was now in place.
Koba took a slow sip of coffee. The bitterness steadied him. At exactly 4:05, he glanced at Murat and gave a small nod.
Outside, the first sounds reached the café: shouts, then glass breaking, then the sharp roar of a crowd. The German diversion had begun. Every head in the room turned toward the window.
In that instant of distraction, the trap was sprung.
Murat stood abruptly, knocking his table over. Cups shattered, plates skittered across the floor. The noise cracked through the room like a gunshot. Patrons gasped. For a second, all eyes were on him.
That was all the time Koba needed.
Pavel rose from his chair, no longer pretending to be part of the room. He blocked the door, massive arms folded, his face carved into stone. The patrons froze, their instincts warring between fear and disbelief.
Koba was already moving. He glided across the floor, fast but controlled, a shadow cutting through light. His timing was exact. Three seconds to reach the targets.
Malinovsky froze mid-sentence, his hand halfway to his cup. Artamonov, the professional, reacted instantly. His hand went to his coat—not for a pistol, but for a weighted cosh. He swung it up in a clean, vicious arc toward Koba's temple.
Koba caught it with his left forearm. The impact cracked bone. Pain flared white, but he didn't slow. His right hand drove forward, slamming into Artamonov's throat. The man choked, wheezing, and Koba smashed his head down onto the marble tabletop. The sound was dull and final.
Malinovsky's composure broke. He stared in horror as Koba pressed the barrel of a pistol into his ribs.
"One sound," Koba said quietly in Russian, "and this café becomes your grave."
The moment hung in absolute silence. Then Murat was beside him, hauling Artamonov's limp body upright. They moved fast, dragging both men toward the kitchen doors. Pavel stayed by the entrance, the human wall holding the terrified patrons in place with nothing but presence.
The two burst through the kitchen, startling a boy with a stack of plates. The crash of porcelain followed them into the alley. Ivan's truck waited, rear doors open. The sunlight hit them like an explosion as they shoved the captives inside and slammed the doors.
"Go," Koba ordered.
Ivan floored the accelerator. The truck roared to life, bouncing down the narrow street, leaving behind a stunned café filled with silence and shattered crockery. From start to finish, the entire operation had taken less than three minutes.
Inside the dim cargo hold, the air was thick with the smell of sweat, cabbage, and fear. Pavel was binding their prisoners with rope while Murat steadied the swaying bodies. Artamonov groaned, blood pooling at the corner of his mouth. Malinovsky was weeping quietly, the image of the confident politician stripped away.
Koba climbed into the back, his arm swelling painfully. He looked down at the two captives—one a broken spy, the other a trembling traitor—and then at Pavel, whose hands were still shaking.
"It's done," Pavel said, his voice low, searching for reassurance. "We have them. Where do we go now? The rendezvous? The safe house?"
Koba's gaze was steady, his expression unreadable. "No," he said. "There is no safe house."
He paused, looking between his men, between loyalty and necessity.
"We're not taking them to the Party," he said finally. His voice was cold enough to freeze the air. "We're taking them to their new masters."
The truck jolted over a cobblestone. No one spoke. In that rattling silence, the last remnants of the Revolution's innocence seemed to vanish into the Berlin afternoon.