Operakällaren's dining room glowed like a secret kept from the world outside. Candlelight softened every line and shadow, turning steel magnates and diplomats into genteel phantoms at peace. The war felt distant here — muffled by velvet curtains and the low murmur of conversation.
At a small table beneath a gilded mirror, Hélène de Beaumont sat across from Colonel Dmitri Orlov. A single white rose stood between them, its reflection caught in their glasses of untouched wine.
To anyone watching, they were perfection: the proud officer and the fragile widow, an echo of an old world vanishing in fire.
Sofia played the role flawlessly. Every gesture, every pause, was part of the performance Kato had drilled into her — the slight tilt of the head, the melancholy curve of a smile, the deliberate grace that made men feel protective instead of suspicious. Inside, her heartbeat thudded with cold precision. The real Sofia — afraid, disgusted, ashamed — stayed buried beneath the calm, lovely mask of Hélène.
"It is such a relief," she said, her voice low, warm, practiced, "to speak with someone who understands the weight of things. My husband always said managing capital was like commanding an army — a constant war against uncertainty."
Orlov's eyes softened. He leaned forward, his hand brushing hers. "A wise man. The world is unraveling, Madame. It takes strength to hold it together."
He meant himself. He always meant himself.
Sofia withdrew her hand with careful grace — not rejection, just restraint. It was exactly the reaction Kato had designed: invitation through distance.
"And yet," she continued gently, "my broker warns me to be cautious. He says the steel market has grown unreliable. Even Swedish steel, once the gold standard, is no longer… safe."
Orlov smiled, pleased to correct her. "Nonsense. Swedish steel is as strong as ever. Your broker sees numbers, not truth."
He leaned closer, his voice dropping, confiding. "A special alloy — chromium steel from Sandviken — the finest in Europe. I arranged a shipment myself just last week. It's bound for Russia. Critical work."
Sofia tilted her head, eyes wide with naive curiosity. "Vital? Forgive me, Dmitri, but can one shipment truly make such a difference?"
He smiled — the proud teacher explaining the world to a captivated pupil. "Ah, but this steel is no ordinary cargo. It's for the new heavy artillery. Extraordinary designs. The pressures are immense — only Sandviken's alloy can endure it. Without it, the guns fail. With it, the Northern Front will change overnight."
He said it so casually. A state secret, unwrapped like a bouquet at her feet.
Sofia's stomach turned even as her mind burned the details into memory: Sandviken. Putilov. Artillery. She had done it. And the thrill that came with success was as intoxicating as it was sickening.
When Orlov smiled at her again, she almost looked away. He wasn't cruel or foolish — just vain. A man who wanted to be admired. And she, God help her, was getting good at giving men exactly what they wanted.
Later that night, the Royal Opera's darkness wrapped around her like absolution. Verdi's Aida soared across the hall, tragic and grand, but she barely heard a note. Her mind was already on the next step.
At intermission, she slipped from her box, gliding through the gilded corridors. The plan had been rehearsed a dozen times.
In the quiet mezzanine cloakroom, she handed her silk evening wrap to the elderly attendant. "It's dreadfully warm in there," she said with a faint smile. "Would you keep this for me until the end?"
"Of course, Madame."
Sofia lingered a moment, pretending to adjust her hair while watching the attendant fold the wrap and place it neatly on the shelf. Hidden in the lining, sewn by Kato's steady hand, was a secret pocket containing a scrap of paper the size of a postage stamp. Three words written in a code that only one person in Stockholm could read:
SANDVIKEN. PUTILOV. ARTILLERY.
An hour later, during the second intermission, another woman — plain, unremarkable, dressed in gray — entered the same room.
"Excuse me," she said in Swedish, "I believe I left my wrap here earlier. Gray wool."
"I'm sorry, miss, I don't seem to—"
The woman's eyes flicked to the silk wrap on the shelf. "Ah. Perhaps that's mine. The lighting… forgive me." She lifted it briefly, smiled, and set it down again. "No, of course not. Too fine for me. My mistake."
And then she was gone.
The handoff had taken less than ten seconds.
Across the city, Kato sat alone in a dim apartment overlooking the harbor. The decoded message lay on her desk beneath the glow of a single lamp.
Sandviken. Putilov. Artillery.
The first shot had been fired — silent, precise, devastating.
Kato stared at the words for a long time. Satisfaction flickered in her eyes, sharp and cold. The weapon she had built worked exactly as intended.
Sofia had become what Koba needed her to be.
And Kato — the architect — had proof her design was flawless.