The train cut east through the snow like a steel serpent. The plains of East Prussia stretched endlessly—white, silent, and cold. Frosted trees passed by like rows of ghosts under a heavy gray sky.
Inside the private compartment, everything was calm and precise. Dark green velvet seats, polished brass fixtures, a small table bolted to the floor. Even the air smelled faintly of order and discipline. Outside the door stood a single guard in a civilian suit—expressionless, professional, impossible to read.
It was the "guest" treatment, courtesy of Abteilung IIIb.
Koba stared out the window, his reflection ghosting over the winter landscape. His arm was still in a sling, the wound properly cleaned and bound by a German army doctor. The ache was steady, but he welcomed it. Pain was real—it grounded him. Everything else inside felt hollow.
He had won. He had bent the German intelligence machine to his will, outplayed Stolypin, and was now only hours away from the goal that had driven him across half of Europe. He should have felt triumph. Instead, he felt nothing but a dull emptiness.
I won.
The thought kept repeating, over and over, flat and cold.
So why does it feel like a funeral?
Across from him, Pavel sat quietly, disassembling his pistol. The clicks of metal on metal filled the silence. Once, the two of them would have shared a drink, a joke, maybe a dream of victory. Now there was only exhaustion. Whatever cause they'd fought for in the Caucasus was gone. The revolution felt like a ghost, and all that remained was survival.
Their silence broke with a soft knock.
A blond man entered, neat in a crisp uniform—Captain Hessler, their escort from Nicolai's office. He carried a silver tray with a pot of coffee and three cups.
"Something to warm the journey, Herr Schmidt," he said politely. His German was smooth, his tone casual, but his eyes were sharp. Watching. Measuring.
He poured the coffee and sat across from them. "The border is tense these days," he said. "The Russians are furious about our mission to Constantinople. The Liman von Sanders affair. You'd think we were invading St. Petersburg."
It was a test.
Koba knew it immediately. He wasn't just a guest. He was being studied—his mind, his instincts, his loyalty.
He answered evenly. "The Tsar's ministers need an enemy. Their people are starving, their cities are restless. If they can't crush dissent at home, they'll find someone to blame abroad." He lifted his cup with his good hand. "But their outrage hides fear. Russia dreams of inheriting the Ottoman corpse. And your general, von Sanders, is teaching that corpse how to stand."
Hessler smiled faintly. "Do you believe the Turks can be reformed? Can they become an army worth fearing?"
Koba sipped the coffee. It tasted bitter. "You can give a dying man a rifle, Captain. He's still dying. The Ottoman army is the same—corruption, politics, starvation. They'll crumble in any long war. But that's what makes them useful."
"Useful?" Hessler echoed.
"They'll bleed the Russians dry," Koba said. His gaze stayed fixed on the window. "They'll hold the front long enough to drain the Tsar's strength. When the empire breaks, Germany won't need to strike. It will simply take what's left."
His voice was calm. Detached. But inside, he felt sick.
He was giving an enemy empire advice on how to win a war. Not for ideology, not for money—just to finish his mission.
And in that moment, he hated himself.
Hessler leaned back, clearly impressed. To him, this wasn't treason. It was genius. The Georgian exile in front of him wasn't a fugitive anymore—he was a strategist.
Far away, another train moved through the snow—this one heading west.
Katerina Svanidze sat in a narrow compartment, flanked by two guards. Across from her sat Prime Minister Stolypin, immaculate as ever. His presence filled the space like a cold wind.
"The situation is simple," he said, his tone polite, almost kind. "The traitor Malinovsky has fallen into foreign hands. The Germans wish to return him. You are the exchange."
He handed her a small card. "You will tell Koba that I offered you a deal—your freedom in exchange for helping me trap him. You refused, of course. But I forced you anyway. You will play the frightened martyr. Convincing enough for him to believe it."
She stared at the words printed on the card, the lies she was expected to wear like a mask.
"And Grigor?" she whispered. "The others?"
Stolypin's smile was thin. "The order for Grigor Vissarionovich's arrest has been suspended," he said. "As long as you remain… useful."
Her throat tightened. Her chains were invisible now, woven from the lives of the people she loved.
Outside the window, the birch forests of Russia blurred past. The snow-covered fields, the distant smoke from village chimneys—it was the land she had once called home. Now it felt foreign. Cold. Empty.
She wasn't a revolutionary anymore. She was a tool.
And somewhere beyond that horizon, the man who had sacrificed everything to save her was walking straight into another kind of trap.
Both trains slowed as they neared Tilsit. Snow drifted thickly across the frozen plains.
Koba looked out the window and saw it first—the black Russian train on the far bank of the Memel River.
Katerina saw the German one from her side.
Between them stretched the Queen Louise Bridge, its iron arch cutting across the ice. Two nations. Two trains. Two ghosts moving toward each other, carrying the weight of every lie, every sacrifice.
The exchange was set.
And neither of them knew that the moment they stepped onto that bridge, everything they had fought for—every choice, every betrayal—would begin to collapse.