Lenin paced the floor of his Zurich apartment, the taste of bitter, cheap coffee coating his tongue.
"Every hour we are here is a victory for them," he snarled, gesturing angrily at a pile of newspapers. "The Mensheviks. The Socialist-Revolutionaries. They are carving up our revolution while we sit here and read about it!"
Trotsky watched him from a chair, a picture of frustrating calm. "Patience, Vladimir. Rushing now would be a mistake. We must arrive with a plan, not just with passion."
"Patience?" Lenin whirled on him, his eyes blazing. "Patience is a luxury for men who are already winning! We are losing ground with every telegraph report!"
A sharp knock at the door cut him off.
A German intermediary stood there, a man named Kessler. He was everything they were not: clean, immaculate in a perfectly tailored suit, smelling faintly of expensive cologne. He had the cold blue eyes of a banker assessing a risky loan.
He sat at their small table, placing a leather briefcase beside him. Trotsky, ever the diplomat, began the negotiation.
"Herr Kessler," he started, his voice smooth and eloquent. "We are political exiles seeking passage. International law is quite clear on the rights of—"
Lenin slammed his hand down on the table, making the teacups rattle.
"Let us dispense with the poetry, Herr Kessler," he growled, leaning across the table, his face inches from the German's. His voice was a low, practical weapon.
"Your Kaiser is losing a war on two fronts. He wants the Eastern Front to collapse. I am the man who can make that happen."
Trotsky started to object. "Vladimir, we cannot appear to be German puppets!"
Lenin ignored him, his eyes boring into Kessler's. "We are not asking for asylum. We are not refugees. We are a weapon, and you are our delivery system. You will provide a train to get us to Russia."
He leaned back, a predator who had just stated his terms.
"We will take your train, your money, and your protection," he finished, a dangerous smirk on his face. "And when we have Petrograd, what will you do? Send us a bill?"
Kessler didn't flinch. A flicker of something—respect, perhaps—passed through his cold eyes. He had come expecting to deal with passionate idealists. He had found a fellow pragmatist.
"Your candor is... refreshing, Herr Ulyanov," Kessler said, his tone all business. "Berlin is inclined to agree. A train can be arranged."
He opened his briefcase. "It will have extraterritorial status. A 'sealed' car, to preserve the fiction of your neutrality for the press."
Trotsky nodded, satisfied with this small concession to appearances. But Kessler hadn't finished.
"There is, however, a condition."
Lenin's eyes narrowed. "I am listening."
"Berlin is pleased with your revolutionary potential," Kessler said carefully. "But they are also curious. They have another asset operating in Petrograd. They believe you may know him."
He paused, letting the words land. "A Georgian. They call him the Warlock."
The name hung in the air, a ghost suddenly appearing in the room.
Lenin and Trotsky froze. They looked at each other, a silent, lightning-fast exchange of shock and fury passing between them. Koba.
Their rogue agent. The man Stern had been sent to eliminate. Not only was he alive, not only was he active, but he was now a person of interest to the German High Command.
Kessler continued, oblivious to the internal storm he had just unleashed. "We have received reports from our sources in the city. Unconfirmed, but... dramatic."
He consulted a note from his briefcase. "A riot on the Liteyny Bridge, on the verge of being crushed by Cossacks. It was turned into a revolutionary flood by a figure they are calling the 'Golden Demon'."
He looked up, his blue eyes studying their faces. "A man who began throwing solid gold bars into the crowd, creating a chaos that shattered the army's lines."
Lenin felt a surge of something so potent it was almost like nausea. It was a mixture of horrified rage and a grudging, terrible admiration. It was Koba's brand of brutal, insane, and effective theatricality.
"Berlin is concerned," Kessler said, his voice dry. "His methods are... unpredictable. They want this Koba found. They want to know what he is planning."
Lenin's mind was reeling. His pawn was no longer a pawn. He was a wild card, a rival player on the board with his own direct line to German funding, operating completely outside of Party control.
The Germans weren't just funding one revolution. They were hedging their bets.
Kessler stood up, snapping his briefcase shut. The deal was done.
"The train is approved. You will have the details by morning." He walked to the door, then paused, turning back to them.
He delivered one final, chilling message, a question that was also a warning.
"And one more thing," Kessler said, his gaze lingering on Lenin. "Berlin wants to know if Koba is still your asset... or if he is building a kingdom of his own."