The only sound in the damp little room was the drip of a leaky pipe.
Drip. Drip. Drip. A steady, maddening little clock measuring out their failure.
Yagoda paced the length of the small space, his boots echoing on the bare floorboards. "You had him, Stern. You had him in your sights. Lenin's order was clear."
Stern didn't look up from the map of Stockholm spread across the rickety table. He was cleaning a pistol, his movements slow and methodical. The metallic rasp of cloth on steel was the only sound that broke the rhythm of the dripping water.
"Lenin is in Zurich, looking at a map," Stern said, his voice a low rumble. "I was on a rooftop, looking at a kingdom."
He finally met Yagoda's gaze, his eyes cold and clear. "To kill the king and leave his court intact is not victory. It is stupidity."
He snapped the pistol back together with a sharp, definitive click.
"The Warlock's power isn't in his fists. It's in his head, and the heads of the men around him." He tapped a location on the map, a warehouse district by the docks. "We will take his brain."
The door creaked open. Eino, the Finnish smuggler, shuffled in, his shoulders hunched. The smell of fear rolled off him, a sour, sweaty odor that filled the small room.
He wouldn't look at either of them. His eyes were fixed on a water stain on the floor.
"Tell me again," Stern said, his voice dangerously soft. "The professor. The one with the wild hair. Tell me what you know."
Eino swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "He... he gets shipments. Not with our usual cargo. Chemicals. Glassware."
"From where?" Stern pressed.
"An apothecary," the Finn whispered, the word barely audible. "A little shop near the water. Run by an old German. Very discreet."
Stern smiled. It was a predator's smile, all sharp edges and no warmth. The net was beginning to tighten.
"Good," he said, turning back to Yagoda. "We will not attack the king."
He pointed to the location of the apothecary on the map. "We will capture his bishop first."
The silence in Sofia's apartment was heavier than the most expensive silk curtains.
It was a dead, suffocating quiet, broken only by the frantic beating of her own heart. She stood before Kato, feeling like a schoolgirl called before the headmistress.
"He's broken," Sofia said, her voice a fragile whisper. She wrung her hands, the fabric of her dress twisting in her fingers. "Completely."
Kato stood by the window, a rigid silhouette against the gray Stockholm sky. She showed no emotion. "Define 'broken'."
"He came to me last night. Drunk. Weeping." The memory made Sofia's stomach churn. "He knows his career is over. He said... he said I was the only good thing left in his world."
A tear she couldn't stop traced a path down her cheek. "He holds my hand and he cries. He calls me his angel."
Her voice cracked. "How can I keep lying to a man whose soul I've already destroyed?"
Kato turned from the window. Her face was a mask of cold, unyielding granite. She walked towards Sofia, her steps silent on the thick Persian rug.
She didn't offer a word of comfort. She saw only the mission.
"His soul is not your concern," Kato said, her voice like chips of ice. "His contacts are. His desperation is a tool, Sofia. Use it."
Sofia stared at her, horrified. "A tool? He's a human being!"
"He is a target," Kato corrected, her eyes boring into Sofia's. "He is no longer a source for military plans, true. But a disgraced Colonel in the Okhrana still has friends. He still hears whispers."
She leaned in closer, her presence overwhelming. "I want to know about internal security. Who is hunting whom in this city. Who the Okhrana is watching. Who they fear."
Kato's voice dropped, becoming sharp and precise. "Stop thinking like a woman. Start thinking like a weapon."
She pressed a small, folded piece of paper into Sofia's trembling hand. It was a library card.
"The public archives. There is a book on Scandinavian folklore in the third-floor reading room. Leave your report inside it by noon tomorrow."
Kato stepped back, her inspection complete. She saw a faltering asset that needed to be recalibrated.
"Do not fail, Sofia," she said, the words a quiet, chilling command. "We are all depending on you."
She turned and left, closing the door with a soft click, leaving Sofia alone in the beautiful, silent prison she now called home.
The Royal Library smelled of dust and decaying paper.
Yagoda hated it. The silence felt unnatural, the rows of books like silent, watching judges. He sat at a distant table, pretending to read, his eyes scanning the cavernous third-floor reading room.
He was watching the woman, Hélène de Beaumont. Stern's orders. It felt like a waste of time, trailing the mistress of a ruined officer.
He saw her enter. She moved with a practiced grace, her fashionable hat partially obscuring her face. She looked pale. Frightened.
She went directly to the folklore section, her movements stiff and unnatural. She pulled a heavy, leather-bound book from the shelf, slipped a note inside, and replaced it. She didn't even pause before turning and walking quickly towards the exit.
Amateur, Yagoda thought with a sneer. He gave her a minute, then stood up to retrieve the book. This was it. A direct link.
But as he started to move, he froze.
Another woman had entered the reading room. She moved with a silent, predatory confidence that made the hairs on his arms stand up. She was dressed simply, but carried herself like a queen.
He knew her face. He had seen it through binoculars, coming and going from the Warlock's headquarters.
He sank back into his chair, his heart suddenly hammering against his ribs. The second woman went to the exact same shelf. She took the book, removed the note, and slipped it into her handbag.
It took less than five seconds. She was a ghost. A professional.
She turned and left, as silent as she had arrived.
Yagoda's hands were shaking. He fumbled for a coin and hurried downstairs to the public telephone, the musty smell of the library replaced by the acrid scent of his own sweat.
The line crackled. Stern's voice came through, sharp and impatient. "Report."
"I have it," Yagoda breathed, his voice low and urgent. "The connection. The de Beaumont woman is a cut-out. An agent."
"Did you get the message?" Stern demanded.
"No. Someone else picked it up," Yagoda said, his voice buzzing with the thrill of the hunt. "A woman. Stern, it was one of them. One of the ones from his inner circle. I recognized her from the warehouse surveillance."
There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. Then, a moment of profound, calculating silence.
"Did she see you?" Stern's voice was a blade.
"No. Impossible."
"Good." The command that came next was instant, absolute, and filled with a new, terrifying purpose.
"Don't touch her. Follow her. We finally have a direct link to his inner circle."
Stern paused, and Yagoda could practically hear the gears turning in his mind, the entire mission snapping into a new, sharper focus.
"Find out everything there is to know about that woman."