A sharp, official knock echoed through the Stockholm safe house.
It wasn't one of her men. Their knock was a cautious, coded rhythm. This was the sound of authority.
Kato opened the door. A German military officer stood in the hallway, his gray uniform perfectly pressed, his posture a rigid line. The sharp, clean scent of his cologne cut through the stuffy air of the room.
"Frau Svanidze," the officer said, his Russian clipped and formal. He did not smile. He handed her a sealed envelope, the wax bearing the eagle of the German Imperial government. "A message from Oberst Nicolai."
He did not wait for a reply. He simply clicked his heels, turned with military precision, and left.
Kato closed the door, the envelope feeling heavy in her hand. She broke the seal with her thumbnail. The message inside was brief, direct, and utterly transformative.
It was written in German, a language she understood with cold fluency. Oberst Nicolai was "profoundly displeased" with the lack of discipline shown by the Bolshevik agents in Stockholm. He mentioned the "unauthorized freelance operations" that had nearly compromised German interests in the city.
Then came the final, brutal paragraph. Effective immediately, all German resources, funds, and operational support for the "Russian project" in Stockholm were to be consolidated and placed under her sole command.
It was a coup, signed, sealed, and delivered by her invisible patron.
She stood there for a long moment, the paper trembling almost imperceptibly in her hand. She was no longer a subordinate. She was the commander.
Before she could fully process the victory, the door opened again. No knock this time.
It was Stern.
He looked exhausted, a man running on pure, spiteful energy. The professional mask was gone, replaced by a cold, simmering fury. He was a hunter who had been outmaneuvered, and he knew it.
"I was told to report here," he said, his voice tight with a resentment that was almost a physical force.
He saw the German envelope on her table, saw the Imperial seal. His eyes narrowed, and he understood instantly. A dark, ugly flush crept up his neck.
"So," he sneered, the word dripping with venom. "The traitor's whore has her reward."
The insult was raw and hateful, designed to wound. He wanted a reaction, an emotional outburst, a confirmation that she was still just a woman he could intimidate.
Kato did not give him the satisfaction. She met his gaze, her expression a perfect, unreadable mask of calm. She let his anger wash over her, a pathetic, impotent wave breaking against a cliff of granite.
He took a step closer. "Do you feel powerful, hiding behind German money? Pulling the strings on your pet madman while he sets the world on fire? It won't last."
She let the silence stretch, forcing him to stand in the space created by his own fury. Then, she delivered the killing blow.
"Oberst Nicolai has placed me in command of this city's operations," she said, her voice quiet, calm, and utterly devastating. She tapped the letter on the table.
She let him process the words, watching the understanding dawn in his eyes, followed by a wave of pure, undiluted hatred.
"Which means, Comrade Stern," she finished, her voice turning to ice, "that you now report to me."
He stood there, shaking with a silent, helpless rage. He was a wolf who had just been leashed by the sheep he was hunting. Every instinct screamed at him to lash out, to destroy her, but he was trapped.
To defy her was to defy the Germans. And to defy the Germans now, when Lenin needed them more than ever, was to defy the Party itself. He was checkmated.
Kato pressed her advantage. She would not just defeat him; she would break him. She would turn the Party's dagger into her own personal tool.
"Your mission has changed," she said, her tone crisp and professional, the tone of a commander giving an order. "You will cease all action against Koba. Immediately."
She saw a muscle jump in his clenched jaw.
"Instead," she continued, "you will use your network of informants. You will compile a complete and thorough list of every Bolshevik, Menshevik, and Socialist-Revolutionary sympathizer in this city. I want names, locations, and weaknesses."
She picked up a pen and a clean sheet of paper, a queen preparing for a new game. "You will be my chief of intelligence, Comrade. I expect your first report on my desk by morning."
It was the ultimate humiliation. She had not only beaten him, she had co-opted him. She was turning his own network, his own purpose, into an instrument of her will.
Stern stood there for a full minute, his breathing harsh in the silent room. He was a man being flayed alive, and he could not scream. Finally, with a visible, shuddering effort of will, he gave a stiff, almost imperceptible nod of assent.
He turned to leave, his back a rigid line of pure, condensed hatred. He paused at the door, his hand on the knob.
He spoke without turning around, his voice a low, venomous promise that was more threatening than any shout.
"Enjoy the throne, Your Majesty."
He paused, letting the words hang in the air like poison.
"Kings and queens have a way of losing their heads."