Stockholm was a city pretending to breathe.
On the surface, it glimmered with calm prosperity—an island of neutrality in a continent tearing itself apart. By day, the boulevards of Östermalm looked untouched by war: fine carriages, polished shopfronts, well-fed citizens strolling past windows filled with goods the rest of Europe had long forgotten.
But at night, in the dockside alleys of Södermalm, the mask slipped. The air turned thick with smoke, liquor, and secrets. The sailors' bars were crowded with men who spoke in whispers — Russian, Finnish, German, French — all languages of desperation. Every glass of schnapps might buy a secret. Every conversation was a transaction.
Into this city of shadows came Comrade Stern. He arrived quietly, without fanfare, disembarking from a Finnish timber freighter under the name of a deckhand. Beside him, Yagoda carried the same disguise: tired, unremarkable, forgettable. They vanished into the city like smoke.
Stern's face had grown sharper since Zurich. His eyes, narrowed and restless, scanned every face, every alley, every lighted window. He wasn't a revolutionary here. He was a hunter in unfamiliar woods, surrounded by unseen predators.
He didn't ask about Koba. Not yet. The fool's move was to ask too early, to shout in a forest before knowing who else was listening. Instead, he watched. He listened. He learned.
He and Yagoda rented a narrow room above a fishmonger's shop near the docks — the kind of place where no one remembered names, only the rent. The air smelled of salt and cabbage. Stern spent his nights drifting between taverns, nursing a single beer for hours, ears open and mouth shut.
He learned the city's real language: not Swedish, not Russian. Fear. And greed.
It didn't take long before the whispers began to form a pattern. A name.
The Georgian.
A man with endless German gold, buying loyalty like bread. Paying for shipping manifests, embassy schedules, anything that touched the Allied war effort. His organization was disciplined, quiet, and merciless. Those who crossed him didn't start fights. They simply disappeared.
Stern followed the trail with patience, letting the city reveal its secrets. A dockworkers' organizer — an old Party contact — finally gave him a name.
Borodin.
A nervous, forgotten Bolshevik who'd been lingering in Stockholm for years. Rumor said he'd been approached by the Georgian's network.
They met at The Iron Anchor, a reeking tavern thick with tobacco smoke and sea brine. The perfect place for men who didn't want to be overheard.
Borodin was a wreck. Pale, sweating, his eyes flicking toward the door every few seconds. "It's not safe to meet," he whispered, voice trembling. "They have eyes everywhere."
Stern kept his tone calm. "Who are they?"
Borodin's voice dropped even lower. "The Georgian's people. They came to me. Offered me a hundred kronor a week to watch the French military attaché." His voice cracked. "A hundred! They knew about my cousin — the one who cleans at the embassy. They knew my sister's address in Vologda. The name of her children's school." He swallowed hard. "They reach everywhere."
Stern's jaw tightened. That was Koba's style — power through knowledge. No threats, no violence. Just proof that nothing was hidden. That you were already in his grasp.
"I need a name," Stern said quietly. "Who approached you?"
Borodin hesitated, trapped between fear and loyalty. Finally, he broke. "Murat," he whispered. "He meets his contacts at the Café Metropol. Back corner. German newspaper. Tomorrow, noon."
Stern nodded once, sliding a few coins across the table. "You've done your part, comrade. Now go home. Forget this meeting."
Borodin didn't need to be told twice. He fled into the night.
Stern stayed a while longer, finishing his beer. His mind was already turning over the possibilities — angles, risks, next moves. Then he rose and stepped into the damp, gaslit street.
He'd walked two blocks when his instincts screamed. The rhythm of footsteps behind him had changed. Too deliberate. Too close.
He didn't look back. He turned a corner sharply into a narrow alley — one he already knew led to a second street. His pulse quickened.
Halfway through, two shapes detached themselves from the shadows ahead. A third blocked the way behind.
Three men. Silent, heavy, and too sure of themselves. Not police. Not amateurs.
"You're a long way from Zurich, comrade," the one in front said in perfect Russian. "You're asking the wrong questions."
Stern didn't waste time answering. He lunged sideways, grabbing for the crates stacked against the wall, trying to break through the trap.
The alley erupted in violence — quick, savage, silent. Fists, elbows, boots. Stern fought like a man who'd spent half his life hunted. He drove an elbow into one throat, a knee into another's gut, spun to block the third—
The third hit him like a hammer. A blur of motion, a blow to the ribs, and his skull slammed against brick. Pain exploded white-hot. He dropped to the ground, the world spinning.
Through the haze, he saw the gleam of a knife. A long, thin blade, held steady and sure.
Then — a sharp whistle. Piercing. Commanding.
The knife froze midair. The men glanced toward the rooftops, then back to each other. Without a word, they melted into the shadows. The sound of boots faded, swallowed by the city's silence.
Stern lay there for a moment, tasting blood, his body shaking. He understood now: it hadn't been a botched assassination. It was a message.
We see you. We can reach you. You're already in the game.
He forced himself to his feet, leaning against the wall for balance. Every breath hurt. He wiped the blood from his mouth and stepped back into the misty street.
He wasn't the hunter anymore. He was a piece on Koba's board.
And the board, he realized with grim clarity, belonged to the Georgian.