The plane was a Tupolev ANT-9. Three engines. All metal.
It roared over the patchwork fields of Poland, flying low under the cloud deck.
Jake sat in the passenger cabin. It was stripped of luxury—just bolted-down seats and crates of ammunition.
Taranov sat opposite him, sharpening a knife. Menzhinsky was reading a Goethe poem.
"We are crossing the border," the pilot shouted back.
Jake looked out the window. Below, the landscape changed. The chaotic, muddy roads of Poland gave way to the precise, paved grid of Germany.
"Do you have the gift?" Menzhinsky asked, closing his book.
"I have it," Jake said. He patted the heavy wooden box on his lap.
"A dangerous gift," Menzhinsky noted.
"A necessary one."
They were landing in Tempelhof. The heart of the beast.
Jake felt a flutter in his stomach. Not fear. Anticipation.
He had spent three years fighting a ghost. Now, the ghost had a face. And a mustache.
Berlin was a city on fire. Not with flames, but with banners.
Every street corner was draped in red and black swastikas. Brownshirts marched in the gutters, singing songs of hate.
The Soviet limousine—a bulletproof Packard—moved slowly through the crowds.
"They look angry," Taranov muttered, hand on his holster.
"They are hungry," Jake said. "Hunger looks like anger until you feed it."
He saw a shop window smashed. A Jewish star painted in yellow.
Jake flinched. The Holocaust. The gas chambers. He had accelerated this. By crashing the economy, by pushing Germany to rearm, he had poured gasoline on the spark of antisemitism.
I did this, Jake thought. I built the stage for the monster.
The car pulled up to the Reich Chancellery.
It was guarded by the SS. Black uniforms. Silver skulls.
A man was waiting on the steps. He was short, with a clubfoot. Joseph Goebbels.
"Herr General Secretary," Goebbels smiled. It was a reptile's smile. "Welcome to the New Germany."
"It looks... loud," Jake said, stepping out of the car.
"Energy," Goebbels corrected. "Pure Aryan energy."
He led them inside.
The corridors were long and echoing. Marble floors. Statues of Teutonic knights.
At the end of the hall, double doors opened.
And there he was.
Adolf Hitler stood by the fireplace. He wore a simple brown uniform. No medals. Just the Iron Cross.
He looked younger than in the history books. Sharper.
"Stalin," Hitler said. His voice was soft, almost hypnotic.
"Hitler," Jake replied.
They didn't shake hands. Two predators circling in a cage.
"You have come a long way," Hitler said, gesturing to a chair. "To see the revolution you inspired."
"I inspired?" Jake sat down.
"You showed us that will is everything," Hitler said. His eyes burned blue. "You starved your own people to build tanks. You crushed the church. You purged the weak."
Hitler leaned forward.
"I admire you, Stalin. You are a man of the will."
Jake felt sick.
To be admired by the devil was a special kind of hell.
"I am a man of results," Jake said coldly.
"And what results!" Hitler laughed. "You broke the American banks! You brought the British Empire to its knees in India! You have done more for the German cause than any German!"
He poured tea.
"But now we have a problem. We both want the same thing."
"Poland," Jake said.
"Poland," Hitler agreed. "It is an abomination. A scar on the map."
He looked at Jake.
"I want the Corridor back. I want Danzig."
"And I want the Curzon Line," Jake said. "The old borders of 1914."
"Then we are agreed," Hitler smiled. "We divide the cake."
"Not yet," Jake said.
He lifted the wooden box onto the table.
Hitler looked at it. "What is this?"
"A gift," Jake said. "From one revolutionary to another."
He opened the box.
Inside lay a single, polished cylinder of metal. It was heavy. Dense.
"Titanium," Jake lied. "From the Urals."
Hitler picked it up. "Light. Strong."
"It is a component," Jake said. "For a rocket."
Hitler's eyes narrowed.
"I know about your rockets," Hitler hissed. "You stole my scientists. You stole von Braun."
"I rescued him," Jake said. "From mediocrity."
He took the cylinder back.
"I can give you the rockets, Adolf. I can give you the engines. I can give you the oil to run your tanks."
"In exchange for what?"
"Time," Jake said.
"Time?"
"You want to fight the West," Jake said. "You want France. You want Britain."
He leaned in close.
"I will give you the steel to crush them. I will watch your back in the East. For ten years."
"A non-aggression pact," Hitler mused. "Like the one we have?"
"Better," Jake said. "A trade pact. Soviet resources for German technology. We feed you. You fight them."
It was the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact, but on steroids. And five years early.
Hitler stood up. He paced the room.
"Why?" Hitler asked. "Why help me? You are a Bolshevik. I am a National Socialist. We are natural enemies."
"Because the Americans are coming," Jake said. "They are waking up. And when they do, they will come for both of us."
He stood up too.
"We can kill each other later, Adolf. But right now, we need to burn the Atlantic bridge."
Hitler looked at Jake. He looked at the cylinder.
He saw power. He saw a chance to avenge Versailles without worrying about a two-front war.
"Ten years," Hitler said.
"Ten years," Jake agreed.
They shook hands.
Hitler's hand was cold. Clammy.
Jake wanted to wash his hand with acid.
"Good," Hitler said. "Then let us eat. I have prepared a vegetarian feast."
The dinner was awkward.
Menzhinsky ate silently, watching Goebbels. Taranov stood behind Jake's chair, staring at Himmler with open contempt.
"The Jews," Hitler said between bites of cauliflower. "They are the problem in America too. They control the banks you crashed."
"The banks crashed because of greed," Jake said, cutting his potatoes. "Not race."
"Greed is a racial trait," Hitler insisted. "You will see. When we cleanse Europe, the air will be cleaner."
Jake gripped his knife.
He could kill him. Right now. Taranov could shoot the guards. Jake could stab Hitler in the throat.
He knew the future. He knew the Holocaust. He knew the 6 million.
Do it, a voice screamed in his head. End it now.
But then he thought of the map.
If Hitler died today, the Wehrmacht would take over. A military junta. Rational. Stable. They might ally with Britain against the USSR.
Hitler was crazy. Hitler was reckless. Hitler would start a war he couldn't win.
Jake needed Hitler to destroy Europe so the Soviet Union could pick up the pieces.
I am worse than him, Jake realized. He kills for hate. I let him kill for strategy.
"The air in Moscow is very clean," Jake said neutrally.
"We should visit," Goebbels said. "See your... architecture."
"Anytime," Jake lied.
Later. The airport.
The engines of the Tupolev were warming up.
Menzhinsky lit a cigarette on the tarmac.
"You shook his hand," Menzhinsky said.
"I did."
"He is a lunatic," Menzhinsky said. "He talks about magic. About blood myths."
"He is a useful lunatic," Jake said.
"For how long?"
"Until he attacks France," Jake said. "Then we stab him in the back."
"And if he stabs us first?"
"He won't," Jake said. "He thinks I am like him. A monster."
They boarded the plane.
As they took off, Jake looked down at Berlin. The lights were bright. The swastikas were everywhere.
He had bought ten years.
But he had sold his soul to get them.
The Kremlin. Two days later.
Nadya was waiting in the office. Yuri was playing with blocks on the rug.
"You met him," Nadya said. It wasn't a question.
"I secured the peace," Jake said.
"I saw the newsreels," Nadya said. "You were smiling. Shaking his hand."
"It is diplomacy, Nadya."
"It is obscenity," she spat. "He beats people in the streets! He hates us!"
"He fears us," Jake said. "That is why he signed."
Nadya walked over to the desk. She looked at the photo of Jake and Hitler.
"You look alike," she whispered.
Jake flinched.
"I am saving lives, Nadya."
"Whose lives?" she asked. "Ours? Or just your own?"
She picked up Yuri.
"I am taking him to the dacha," she said. "The air here is... polluted."
"Nadya, wait—"
"Don't," she said. "Just... build your rockets, Koba. Build your walls. But don't expect me to applaud."
She walked out.
Jake stood alone in the office.
He looked at the map.
Germany was secure. The West was crashing. The Bomb was ready.
He was the most successful leader in Russian history.
And he had never been more alone.
The phone rang.
"Comrade Stalin," it was Kurchatov. "We have a problem with the second core."
"What?"
"It is... singing," Kurchatov said. "The neutron flux is fluctuating. It is unstable."
"Fix it," Jake barked.
"We can't," Kurchatov said. "We need a computer. A real one. The slide rules aren't enough."
Jake looked at the safe where the dead laptop lay.
"I will get you a computer," Jake said.
"How? They don't exist!"
"Then we will invent one," Jake said. "Get me the mathematician. The one in Leningrad."
"Kantorovich?"
"No," Jake said. "The other one. The weird one. Turing."
"Turing is in England, Comrade."
"Not for long," Jake said.
He hung up.
He had stolen von Braun. He had stolen Goddard.
Now he was going to steal the father of computing.
He was collecting geniuses like stamps.
And he was going to use them to solve the unsolvable equation: How to win a war against the world without losing himself completely.
He looked at the photo of Hitler again.
"Ten years," Jake whispered. "I'll see you in hell, Adolf."