The border station at Beloostrov was a portrait of Hell, painted in shades of grey and brown.
It was chaos. A stinking, jostling mass of humanity crammed into a filthy waiting hall. Wounded Russian soldiers, their faces yellow with sickness, lay on the floor. Panicked refugees, clutching their pathetic bundles, cried in corners. Suspicious, heavily armed border guards pushed through the crowd, their faces hard and unforgiving.
Through it all, a single point of impossible calm moved with serene purpose.
Sister Anna.
Her German Red Cross uniform, a stark, clean white against the filth, was a beacon of purity. She moved from soldier to soldier, her steps unhurried, her face a mask of gentle compassion. She offered a clean bandage to one, a sip of clean water from her canteen to another, a kind, soft-spoken word to a third.
This was Kato's new identity in action. It was a masterful performance.
But beneath the mask of the selfless angel of mercy, her mind was a cold, humming engine of calculation. Every kind touch was a probe for information. Every soft-spoken question about a soldier's home village was a tactical assessment of his loyalty.
She was mapping the power dynamics of the station in real time, identifying the senior officer, the corrupt sergeant who could be bribed, the fanatical true believers who would have to be removed.
A gruff, barrel-chested Russian captain, his arm in a dirty sling and his face dark with suspicion, blocked her path. "A German nurse?" he grunted, his eyes hard as stones. "Here? Alone?"
He held out his good hand. "Your papers."
Kato didn't flinch. She met his gaze with eyes that were wide and filled with a carefully rehearsed fear. She fumbled in her medical bag and produced the flawless documents Richter's network had created.
"My unit… it was overrun," she said, her voice trembling just enough to be believable. It was the performance of a traumatized survivor. "The front collapsed. I am just trying to get to the safety of my embassy. In Petrograd."
The captain was still suspicious. He held the papers close to his face, scrutinizing every stamp, every signature. As he did, a young soldier lying on a nearby bench, his face pale from blood loss, began to cough violently, a wet, rattling sound.
Kato was instantly at his side. She cradled his head in her lap, wiping his brow with a clean cloth. She spoke to him in soft, soothing German, her voice a gentle murmur. She gave him a sip of water from her canteen, her movements tender and practiced.
The captain watched her. He saw a woman tending to a dying boy. An angel of mercy. Not a threat. Not a spy.
His hard, suspicious expression softened, just for a moment.
"Your papers seem to be in order," he grunted, his tone slightly less hostile. He handed them back. "But the border is closed. No one is going to Petrograd. There is… trouble."
Through all of this, Pavel was nowhere to be seen. And yet, he was everywhere.
He was part of the legend Kato had carefully constructed. She had told everyone he was her "porter," a simple-minded but loyal Finn who helped carry her heavy medical supplies. A man who had been struck mute by the trauma of shell-shock.
He lurked in the background, a silent, hulking shadow in a worn coat, his presence so unassuming that he was effectively invisible. He was just part of the scenery. But his eyes, hidden in the shadow of his cap, never left Kato.
He was a hidden gun, a coiled snake, waiting for a single, silent command.
Suddenly, the telegraph machine in the stationmaster's office began to clatter, its frantic, mechanical rhythm cutting through the dull roar of the crowd.
A young lieutenant ran out of the office, his face as white as a sheet.
"Orders from Petrograd!" he shouted, his voice cracking. "From the Military Revolutionary Committee! All units are to hold their position! The Petrograd Soviet has issued an arrest warrant for the entire Provisional Government!"
The station exploded.
The fragile chain of command didn't just bend; it shattered into a thousand pieces. Soldiers who supported the Soviets began to cheer. Officers loyal to the government started shouting at them. The border guards raised their rifles, their faces a mixture of confusion and fear. No one knew who to obey.
In the midst of the chaos, the suspicious captain tried to restore order. He was a man of the old world, a man of discipline. "Back in your positions!" he roared, drawing his pistol. "We will obey our last orders from the government! Anyone who disobeys will be shot for treason!"
He was the one man, the one force of will, standing between Kato and the border. He was the lock on the gate.
Across the crowded, shouting room, Kato caught Pavel's eye.
She gave a tiny, almost invisible nod, her head tilting just for a second towards the bellowing captain.
Then she turned away, creating her own diversion. "Stretcher-bearers!" she called out loudly, her voice filled with manufactured urgency, pointing towards the coughing soldier. "This man needs help now!"
Every eye turned towards her, towards the drama of the dying soldier.
No one was looking at the captain.
No one was looking at the silent, simple-minded Finnish porter who had just melted into the crush of bodies behind him.
There was a choked, wet gasp from the corner where the captain had been standing. A few people turned, but saw nothing in the chaotic surge of the crowd.
When the mass of bodies shifted a moment later, the captain was slumped against the wall. His pistol had fallen from his hand. A thin trickle of dark blood ran from his nose.
People assumed he had fainted from his old wound, or been knocked down in the crush.
But Kato knew the truth.
Pavel, the silent ghost, had slipped a thin, sharpened blade between his ribs, pierced his heart, and withdrawn it in a single, fluid, invisible motion. He had eliminated the only obstacle.
The chain of command was broken. The border was in chaos.
And the gate to Petrograd was now wide open.