My brothers Keeper, an SI as the twin brother of Stalin (Reworked)

[Alenco98]

mika
yes?
why do you have two hands?
what?
mika

Click to shrink...

Edited

I really need to proofread better lol

 

[Alenco98]

Excerpt from George Orwell's 1945 novel, Animal Farm:

Napoleon and Bonaparte were two large Berkshire boars, litter-mates from the same sow, but so different in manner that many animals wondered how they had come from the same mother.

Napoleon was a pig of quiet disposition, rarely seen in argument, but with a heavy presence that made others uneasy. He had a way of watching, waiting, and saying little, as though every word were a weapon to be saved. He spoke seldom, but when he did, it was always with an air of finality, as though the matter had been decided long before.

Bonaparte, by contrast, was a creature of fire and fury. The animals admired him, for he lived among them, worked beside them, and boasted that his own sons would toil as hard as any beast. Yet there was a hardness in his eye that frightened even his admirers. To friends he was loyal, compassionate and generous, but to enemies he was inhumanly cruel.

Beside them was Snowball, a lively boar with quicker speech and more inventive ideas than either of the brothers. He was less imposing, but far more articulate, and seemed to carry the future in his words. Where Napoleon's silence was oppressive and Bonaparte's zeal was terrifying, Snowball's enthusiasm was infectious.

It was plain to all, even in those early days, that the destiny of the farm would be decided between these three.

March 20, 1923
Moscow Yaroslavsky railway station
Moscow, Soviet Union

Joseph Stalin stood on the platform, surrounded by nearly a hundred armed Chekists. Beside him stood Yagoda, hands clasped behind his back as they watched the train approach through the gray Moscow morning.

The locomotive's whistle echoed across the station. He was finally here. Stalin remained motionless as the train slowed to a stop. Steam hissed from the engine. Doors opened. Soldiers and Cheka personnel began disembarking. He paid them little attention. Their faces blurred together, they didn't matter to him. There was only one person he cared about seeing. His eyes scanned the crowd until he finally spotted him.

Mika emerged from one of the carriages, his coat draped over one shoulder. Elsa Brändström stepped down beside him. The two were already speaking before their feet touched the platform. Stalin watched. Mika said something to Elsa. Elsa replied to him, then Mika laughed. Not the laugh Stalin knew. Not the short, cynical bark he used during Party meetings. Not the dark amusement that usually accompanied threats and executions. A real laugh. The kind he had not seen from him in years. Stalin's jaw tightened. The woman was speaking again. Mika leaned slightly toward her as he listened, he seemed comfortable, relaxed, distracted.

The sight angered him more than it should have. For years, Mika had belonged at his side. Through exile, revolution, civil war, and bloodshed. When others hesitated, Mika acted. When others debated, Mika enforced. When enemies needed to die, Mika never flinched. Now he was smiling at a Swedish nurse. Stalin folded his hands behind his back. Then Mika looked up. Immediately, his face brightened. "Brother!" he shouted in Georgian. Half the station turned to look at them. Stalin felt a flicker of embarrassment. The tone reminded him of Gori. Of two boys running through muddy streets before revolution and politics and death had consumed everything. Mika strode toward him without hesitation. Before Stalin could react, he found himself wrapped in a crushing embrace. For several seconds he simply endured it. Mika had always been more physically affectionate than he was.

Eventually, the hug ended, and Stalin looked him over carefully. He was thinner than when he had left for Central Asia. Harder, perhaps. The campaign had clearly taken its toll. Yet there was more life in him than before, more color, more energy. Stalin found himself disliking that realization. "You look like shit," he said in Georgian. Mika laughed.

"It's good to see you too, Joe."

"Follow me to the Kremlin."

"Ohh come on." He said, almost pouting. "No welcoming speech? No Parade? Flowers? Not even a small choir?"

"No." Stalin stared at him, Mika grinned. "There is work to be done comrade Jugashvili."

"Of course there is." Mika sighed dramatically. "There is always work to be done." Mika's gaze shifted toward Elsa. "Will there also be work for Miss Elsa? You've read the reports. She proved very useful." Stalin finally turned his attention toward her. She met his eyes without flinching.

Interesting, most people looked away. She didn't. He studied her for a moment, blonde, composed, Intelligent. And far too comfortable standing beside Mika. She wasn't behind him, beside him. He didn't know whether to be happy for him or angry at him.

"Ms. Brändström."

"General Secretary Stalin." Her Russian was nearly flawless. Flawless enough to make his own accent seem stronger by comparison. Annoyinh.

"We can discuss your role over lunch."

Her expression remained calm. "I would appreciate that."

"We will determine how you can assist the government."

"I look forward to it." She sounded Polite, confident, she wasn't intimidated at all. He had never truly interacted with her, not until now at least. Now he understood, so this was what Mika saw in her. Why he liked her. That realization did not improve his mood, if anything it made him angry.

"Very well, Comrade Stalin," she said, then she turned toward Mika. "Mika, shall we go?" For a moment, the station seemed quieter. Mika, not Comrade Jughashvili, not Mikhail Vissarionovich. Mika. The name was spoken naturally, effortlessly, as if she had done this before, constantly. As though it belonged to her. As though she had a right to it. Stalin felt his fingers curl slightly inside his gloves.

44 years.

He and Mika had lived for 44 years, they had gone through everything. Mika was not merely family, he was his closest ally. He was his sword, his enforcer. The one man in the Party he trusted completely, who he felt he could trust with his life. And now this woman stood beside him, drawing smiles from him, drawing laughter from him, making him talk about hospitals and schools and children in his reports from central asia instead of enemies and power.

She was corrupting him, softening him, stealing pieces of him. Stalin forced the thought down before it reached his face. He had spent too many years mastering himself to show something as childish as jealousy. Still, as they began walking toward the waiting automobiles, he noticed Mika and Elsa speaking quietly to each other. Over and over again.

And every time Mika smiled at something she said, Stalin's expression grew just a little colder. Yagoda noticed he always did, Yagoda noticed everything. That was what a good servant was for. "Is something wrong, Comrade Stalin?" he asked carefully.

Stalin's eyes remained fixed on the pair ahead of them. "No." The answer came immediately.

Then, after a pause, "Ms. Brändström appears to have become very influential." Yagoda followed his gaze.

"She seems close with Comrade Jughashvili." He said.

A muscle twitched in Stalin's jaw.

"Yes." Close. That was one word for it. Stalin watched as Mika laughed again at something she said. His brother, his sword. And for the first time since the train arrived, Stalin found himself hoping Moscow would remind Mika where he truly belonged.

March 20, 1923
The Kremlin
Moscow, Soviet Union

The convoy stopped at the Borovitskaya Tower. The guards checked everyone's identification — save for Stalin's, even Mika had his papers scrutinized. He wasn't in the Politburo, not yet, though that time was coming.

Once the formalities were settled, they drove through, heading toward the Grand Kremlin Palace. They stopped before its gates, less than a hundred meters from the tower. His children, nephews, mother, and wife were already waiting. "Didn't we use to live in the Cavalier Building?" Mika asked.

"We did." Stalin nodded. "But our quarters were moved. From now on we will be living in the Grand Kremlin Palace. Nadezhda and I are in the Maid of Honor room. You'll be a few doors down."

"Fair enough." Mika shrugged, then turned to Elsa, who had been sitting between them for the duration of the drive. "You've met my kids before, yes? Come, you should see them again."

Elsa hesitated. "Are you sure? I know it has been several years since Maria. I don't think they would appreciate me replacing their mother."

He rolled his eyes. The sentimentality was tiresome. Mika exhaled quietly before offering her a patient look. "It's fine Elsa. I'll explain everything. Come on." He pushed open the door and stepped out of the car. Thankfully he had removed that ridiculous sword prosthetic from his arm and left it in the trunk. He looked more docile that way.

"Papa!" The shout came before the door had even fully swung open. Mika's children ran toward him at a sprint — all of them, even Yakov, especially Yakov. Elsa emerged a moment later, tentative, smoothing her coat. Stalin opened his own door and walked around the car without hurry.

He stood there and watched. His children. His mother. His wife. His nephews. They swarmed Mika, all of them at once, and Mika opened his arms and received every last one of them, asking how they were, laughing, squeezing shoulders. It was as though the courtyard had been waiting for him. As though they had all just been keeping the seats warm.

"Mika." Stalin walked up behind him and gripped his shoulder firmly. "We should take this inside. There is a meal prepared."

Mika turned and grinned. "You heard Uncle Joe, everyone — let's have a feast!"

Stalin's grip tightened. Joe. Again. Not Comrade Stalin, not even Soso — Joe, as though they were still boys stealing fruit in Gori. He let his eyes move briefly across the courtyard. Guards only, no party men as far as he could tell. He exhaled through his nose and said nothing. Fine. He would allow it. This once.

---------------

Back in the dining room the table was already set, an assortment of Georgian and Russian dishes laid out with care. Khachapuri, pelmeni, borscht, chakapuli, kupati. His mother had arranged it. Many of these were Mika's favorites, naturally. Keke never failed to remember what Mika liked.

He sat and ate calmly. The children peppered Mika with questions. Nadezhda did as well. Keke too, leaning forward whenever Mika spoke, touching his arm when she laughed. Even the servants seemed to brighten as they moved around him — and Mika spoke to them directly, asking about their families, their lives, whether they had been well. The servants. Stalin watched a young woman smile shyly as she refilled Mika's glass. The table had never been like this while Mika was gone. He knew that, had always known it somewhere, though it had been easier not to think about while the distance was there to soften it.

It wasn't surprising, not really. Mika had always been this way — warm, easy, magnetic in a manner that required no effort and invited no suspicion. Before the Party, before the revolution, before any of this, he had been the same. The boy everyone wanted to be near. Stalin had simply assumed that with time, with hardship, the quality would dull. That the years would sand it down the way they had sanded down everything else. They had not.

He ate steadily, offering brief answers to the questions that came his way, deflecting the rest with a glance or a short silence. He had not brought Mika back because he missed him. He reminded himself of this now, deliberately, the way a man reminds himself of something he knows he is beginning to forget. Lenin was incapacitated. Mika was useful, more than useful, necessary, the word sat in his chest like a stone he couldn't dislodge. He had not allowed himself to need anyone since he was in seminary, and here was that old humiliation dressed in new clothes. He kept his face still. He plotted as he chewed, who could be threatened, who could be persuaded, who would need to be removed quietly, and precisely how he could begin to use Mika now that he was officially back within reach.

And then there was the woman.

He watched them across the table. Mika said something low and Elsa laughed, a real laugh, not a polite one, and he leaned toward her slightly as she replied. She had been stiff before they had gone to central asia, careful with every word, the way foreigners always were when they first understood what proximity to power actually felt like. She was not stiff now. She was looser, warmer, her eyes moving to Mika's face with a familiarity that had not been there before he left. Their dynamic had shifted. Something had settled between them that had not been there before, something quiet and assured, the kind that did not need to announce itself.

Stalin reached for his glass and drank slowly, watching her over the rim. Mika was his, he belonged to no one else. Maria was family, Kato's sister, that he could overlook, Elsa was an outsider, a foreigner. She wouldn't steal Mika so easily.

--------------------------------------

He found himself in Mika's room. Two beds had been set up — one for Mika, one for Elsa. He noted it without comment and said nothing, though the arrangement settled in him like a splinter.

"I haven't been back for a day and we're already plotting." Mika said, dropping into his chair with the ease of a man who had never once been uncomfortable in his own skin. "You said Lenin was ill." He said as he leaned back on his chair. "I'm guessing it's rather serious. You wouldn't recall me unless you believed he wasn't going to recover. And I'm guessing you want to use my position in the Cheka as leverage against Trotsky. Am I close?"

Stalin said nothing. He kept his face still and let the silence do its work. To think Mika had assembled that much from so little, part of him was relieved. The Swedish woman hadn't dulled him after all. The other part filed the observation away carefully, the way you note the range of a weapon you cannot yet afford to disarm.

"Let me guess the rest," Mika said, as though the silence were simply a pause between his own thoughts. "What happened to Lenin? Cancer? A stroke? Some injury that festered? I need to know what I'm working with."

"A stroke." Stalin said. "The twenty-seventh of February. He is in Gorki now, outside Moscow, recuperating."

"His condition?"

Stalin held the question a moment too long.

"That bad." Mika said. It wasn't a question. "Paralyzed? Can he speak?"

"You know Mika," Stalin said, "you are too sharp for your own good sometimes."

"Yes, yes." Mika waved it off. "But I'm on your side, or have you forgotten? Remember Gori? The seminary? When, precisely, have I not been on your side?" He slightly leaned forward and smiled — that broad, self-assured smile that had charmed priests and policemen and half of Georgia before either of them had grown a full beard.

Stalin hated that smile. It knew too much and apologized for none of it. And yet…..he wasn't wrong. He had never once been wrong about that. Stalin exhaled slowly. "Lenin is paralyzed. He cannot speak. A few days before you arrived, he requested cyanide from me so he could end it. We persuaded him to undergo treatment instead."

Mika nodded. Something moved behind his eyes, not quite pity, not calculation either, but something in between, something that sharpened as it settled. His smile shifted just slightly. "Joe." He said it in Georgian, low and deliberate. "You're in charge of supervising Lenin's care. Is that right?"

Stalin's eyes narrowed. "Yes." Also in Georgian.

"Sabotage the treatment." Mika said it plainly in Georgian, the way another man might suggest a different route home. "Not fatally, nothing so crude. Enough to ensure he is crippled for life. Picture it." There was something almost gleeful in his voice now, a boyish brightness that had no business being attached to what he was describing. "He sits in a wheelchair. Unable to speak. One finger, just enough to ring a bell. We control who sees him. You already run the party from behind the curtain — this buys us the time to make it permanent. By the time Lenin actually dies, Trotsky, Kamenev, Zinoviev — they will have nothing left to stand on. You will be a red tsar, Joe."

Stalin looked at him for a long moment. "You are always full of surprises, Mika."

"What can I say." Mika smiled and spread his arms. "I've always been creative."

"You believe it can be done?"

Mika chuckled. "So you are receptive."

"Can it be done?"

"With the right doctors. The right treatments, administered slowly, drawn out as long as needed." He leaned forward slightly more. "The stalling is yours to manage. If I'm too involved, suspicion will be drawn to us and ruin everything."

"I will take your proposal under consideration." Stalin paused. "I trust you understand that what was said in this room remains in this room."

"I love Elsa," Mika said. "But even I wouldn't tell her something like this."

It did not reassure him. If anything it made things worse — the way Mika had reached for her name instinctively, the first name out of his mouth when the stakes were highest. Not the party. Not the cause. Her. He filed that too.

"Mika."

"Joe, come on." He tilted his head, something almost gentle in his voice. "When have I ever betrayed you? I'm your twin. Not some functionary you intend to use and discard. We were born together. We'll die together."

Stalin looked at him — at that open face, that easy certainty, that warmth that bent every room it entered toward itself — and felt the old knot pull tight somewhere beneath his ribs. Love and something darker that had no clean name. Something that had lived alongside the love so long the two had grown together like roots.

"Get some sleep," he said. "Report to Lubyanka in the morning."

"Whatever you say Joe."

Note: I think I'm going to end this season with Lenin's death. I've also been thinking once this story is done about writing an alt hist of this alt hist, basically a what if Mika went to the US instead of remaining in Russia. I kinda have a few ideas in my head, Instead of Mikheil Jugashvili he'd be Michael Steel, CEO of steel industries. It's just a thought so far, I may or may not go forward with it.

 

[kimvan]

That'll be interesting,I'm down for that.

 

[GarfRed]

I really want Mika to talk to some authors of the dystopia genre and just absolutely be both the greatest inspiration and fear among them on how many cruel ideas he can give them as plot points.

 

[OverseerEX]

Note: I think I'm going to end this season with Lenin's death. I've also been thinking once this story is done about writing an alt hist of this alt hist, basically a what if Mika went to the US instead of remaining in Russia

Click to shrink...

Talking about this story being done is ringing alarm bells, Comrade. We have at least 200 more chapters. (I hope).

 

[Alenco98]

Talking about this story being done is ringing alarm bells, Comrade. We have at least 200 more chapters. (I hope).

Click to shrink...

This season, not the story, the story itself is going to last to the modern day. Once Mika dies it'll become a TL like the footprint of Mussolini

 

[eagles62973]

Would love to see him as a US tycoon. He knows where the oil is he knows the coming trends and can fast forward tech. Would be really interesting to see it fleshed out into it's own story.

 

[VincentBr0]

Amazing chapter, as always. I concur with eagles's comment, I'd love to see that alt hist of Mika going to the USA. See if he's happier there, how his relationship would have been with his now deceased wife. What challenges he faced there, and if his relationship with Stalin would change in any meaningful way or would just be strained.

 

[Alenco98]

We would like to remind comrade Everett that Russia is one of twelve republics within the Soviet Union. Instead of Lets bomb Russia, we would appreciate if next time he said, "Let's bomb the Soviet Union", or "Let's bomb the Soviets", or "Lets bomb the USSR". Though of course we would not like to get bombed or have to bomb the UK

-Statement by the Soviet Embassy in regards to Kenny Everett's performance at the Young Conservatives conference in 1983

March 21, 1923
Lubyanka
Moscow, Soviet Union

The guards snapped to attention as I came through the doors, and I returned the salute with the casual half-raise of a man who had somewhere to be. I paused for just a moment at the threshold and looked back outside. First day of spring. The air actually smelled like something other than coal smoke and wet wool for once. And here I was, walking voluntarily into Lubyanka to drown in paperwork. Lovely.

The halls were the same as I remembered — the same low light, the same smell of tobacco and floor wax, the same officers stiffening as I passed. But the salutes felt different this time. Sharper. More deliberate. Like they meant something beyond the reflex. I didn't dwell on it. I had work to do.

I stopped outside Dzershinsky's office and knocked.

"Who is it?"

"Jugashvili."

"Come in."

I stepped inside and stopped. He looked like he'd aged five years since I'd last seen him. The bags under his eyes had deepened into something almost geological, the whites gone pink from sleeplessness, his whole bearing carrying the particular exhaustion of a man who had been refusing to admit he was exhausted for quite some time.

"Comrade Dzershinsky," I said, "with all due respect, you look awful."

"Is that how you greet your superior after your little adventure in the desert?"

"You look like you haven't slept in days."

"There is always work to be done."

"You've heard of delegation, surely. Yagoda has been remarkable at cutting down my workload. You should try it sometime."

"Are you here to preach at me or to work?"

"Both," I said, taking a seat. "Mostly work. Is there anything that needs processing? I know Yagoda was filling in as General Secretary while I was gone — am I getting my position back? Stalin didn't give me much beyond 'report to Dzershinsky.'"

He clasped his hands slowly on the desk and looked at me with the measured patience of a man about to deliver news he had already rehearsed.

"Yagoda will be retaining the position of General Secretary." He paused. "You are to become Deputy Director of the State Political Directorate."

The words hit me like a short burst of machine gun fire.

Deputy Director. His number two. Next in line once Dzershinsky was gone — and looking at the state of him, the question of when was doing a lot of heavy lifting. I kept my face neutral with some effort. "I see." A beat. "I'm guessing you and Comrade Stalin discussed this beforehand?"

"We discussed your performance — during the Civil War and since. And your standing within the government." He leaned back slightly. "You are already a candidate member of the Central Committee, despite being subordinate to me. Stalin intends to one day bring you up to the Politburo. There is a congress next month, and he intended to nominate you as a candidate member."

I held myself very still and nodded once. "I wasn't informed of this."

"Initially I was opposed to it, and intended to fight it." He said it plainly, without apology. "However, Comrade Stalin and I have reached an arrangement. With Lenin incapacitated, we are in agreement that stability is the priority. Stalin has agreed to endorse my own full membership in the Politburo, and in return, your elevation will be held in reserve for now. Your position in the meantime will be my deputy."

"And my responsibilities?"

"The same as before. Day to day operations."

I nodded, keeping my expression appropriately sober. Deputy Director. Effectively running the secret police the moment his heart finally gave out — and given how aggressively this man was working toward that outcome, holy shit. The urge to laugh was genuinely difficult to suppress. I was being handed a golden ticket and asked to look inconvenienced about it.

"I look forward to continuing to serve the revolution," I said. "May I return to my office?"

"One more thing."

"Which is?"

"Savinkov."

I felt my jaw tighten. My remaining hand curled slowly at my side. "Comrade Dzershinsky," I said carefully, "you know my feelings about that particular bastard. I would hope this is good news."

"We have been tracking him across Europe. He was recently observed meeting with Mussolini. In Italy."

Mussolini. I hadn't expected to hear that name this early. I knew who he was — Italy's future strongman, Hitler's most catastrophic ally, the man who helped prove that a suit and a balcony were sufficient equipment to destroy a country. But to hear he was already notable enough to be meeting with Savinkov — I filed that away immediately. If Mussolini was already making moves, then Hitler wasn't far behind. I made a quiet mental note to check on that particular situation. Maybe something could be done about it before it became everyone's problem.

One thing at a time.

"Tell me everything," I said.

"We suspended active operations against Savinkov after he left Poland, but Operation Trust never stopped entirely. We have assets throughout Europe who are feeding us information without knowing it — and through them, we've been able to map his movements as well as the movements of every notable exile with reasonable precision. We know he met with Winston Churchill, a British official who was pushing to block economic aid to the Soviet Union. That effort was vetoed by the Prime Minister, fortunately. After that we tracked Savinkov to France, and now he's in Italy."

"Does this mean we can finally bring him in?"

"Yes." Dzershinsky nodded. "His retrieval has been approved. The operation is already underway."

"Point me to whoever is running it." I gripped my hand tighter. "I want complete oversight. Every detail, every development — I want to know all of it. That bastard's life belongs to me and no one else."

"Jugashvili—"

"Don't." The word came out harder than I intended, and I didn't walk it back. "I have given everything to this revolution. My eye. My arm. My wife." I held his gaze. "I killed Kerensky. I helped hold Petrograd. I killed Yudenich. I put down Kronstadt. I have killed thousands of people — tens of thousands — men, women, children, the elderly. I have killed babies, Dzershinsky. I have killed their dogs. By my own hand and by my orders. I helped build this service from nothing. You will not deny me this. I need it." A beat. "If it were Sofia, would you stand aside?"

He said nothing. He looked at me for a long moment with an expression I couldn't quite read — somewhere between pity and understanding, which amounted to the same thing. Then: "Artuzov. He's running the operation. Yagoda has oversight."

The tension went out of my shoulders all at once. "Perfect." I smiled, and meant it. "Don't worry, I won't interfere with the operation itself. But once he's in our hands — he's mine."

"Get back to work."

"Yes, sir." I gave him a full salute, still smiling, and walked out.

I hummed Fly Me to the Moon on the way to my office. I couldn't help it. The hallway felt different than it had an hour ago — lighter somehow, or maybe I was. Deputy Director. Politburo candidacy in the pipeline. And Savinkov finally, finally within reach. I was, by any reasonable measure, having an excellent morning.

My office was exactly as I'd left it — same desk, same chair, same faint smell of old tobacco — except that someone had organized the papers into neat stacks in my absence, bless them. I settled in, picked up the first document, glanced at it. Death warrant. I uncapped the pen and signed it without breaking stride. It felt good to be back, in the particular way that returning to something familiar always feels good, even when the thing itself is ghastly.

The rest of the day moved in the comfortable rhythm I'd almost forgotten — aides coming and going, stacks shrinking and being replaced by new stacks, the usual parade of death warrants, arrest orders, operational approvals, and assorted bureaucratic carnage that kept the Soviet state running. I worked through it steadily, without much ceremony.

At five o'clock I checked my watch, decided eight hours was sufficient contribution to the revolution for one day, and rang the bell on my desk. An aide appeared in the doorway.

"Have someone else handle the rest," I said, capping my pen. "I'm going home. One more thing before I do."

"Sir?"

"Is there anyone in the Fourth Directorate covering Germany? I need them to look into someone for me."

"I can find out sir. One moment." He disappeared, and returned a few minutes later with another man in tow, who stood at attention with the slightly uncertain energy of someone not sure whether being summoned was good news or bad.

"What can I do for you Comrade Jugashvili?"

"There's a man in Germany I want watched," I said. "His name is Adolf Hitler. Track his activities — political movements, associates, public profile, anything notable. Report to me directly if he does anything that warrants attention."

"Yes, sir."

"Good." I stood, straightened my jacket, and headed for the door. "Carry on."

I checked it off the list in my head as I walked out into the evening air. Spring still, the sky going orange over Moscow's rooftops. All things considered, not a bad first day back.

March 21, 1923
The Kremlin
Moscow, Soviet Union

I sat in my room with a cup of tea that had just arrived, still warm enough to bother with. Stalin was across from me with his own, neither of us in any particular hurry to speak. I let the silence sit for a while. I needed to let the day settle before I started pulling at any of it.

"I spoke with Dzershinsky," I said finally, in Georgian, setting down my cup.

"He filled you in on everything, then." Also Georgian, without looking up.

"He did." I smiled. "Savinkov especially. It's about time."

"Mika." Stalin's voice dropped slightly, taking on that particular weight he used when he was about to say something he considered wise. "I understand how you feel. But you cannot afford to lose focus. Not now, not with everything that is currently in motion."

"I understand perfectly," I said. "But you and I both know how much I need this." I looked at him directly. "Could you keep your head if it had been Kato? If she had died because of that man's orders?"

He didn't answer. He scowled and gave a single, short nod, which was about as close to honesty as Stalin got on a good day. I let it go.

"You said you wanted to see me," I added. "Is this about Lenin?"

"It is." He set his cup down. "I visited him today. I informed him — and everyone around him — that you had returned."

"Why?"

"Because I want you to accompany me on future visits."

I sat with that for a moment, turning it over. Then I nodded slowly. "I'm guessing you need my charm and general warmth to contrast with yours and make you seem slightly more human to the man?"

"Shut the fuck up," he said, which was essentially a yes. I laughed.

"That's fine, Joe. I'll go with you. When?"

"The day after tomorrow. You will be there."

"Understood. I'll let Felix know I'll be out of the office." I paused. "Is that everything?"

He looked at me with the flat, unhurried expression of a man who had been saving something. "I heard you issued orders to our German branch. To monitor a particular figure there. Hitler, I believe?"

I kept my face easy. Of course he knew. Half the staff around me were probably his. "I did," I said. "He was the first name that came to mind. His party is structurally very similar to Mussolini's — same base instincts, same type of support. I wouldn't be surprised if he was running the country within a few years."

"And your intentions regarding him?"

"For now, just observation. Perhaps an agent or two embedded in his inner circle, someone inside the party itself. And he isn't the only one worth watching — the German National People's Party is also on my list." All technically true, and conveniently difficult to question given how much material we actually had on German politics. It wouldn't raise any flags.

Stalin studied me for a moment. "You genuinely believe there will be a second great war? That Germany starts it?"

"Joe." I reached into my holster, drew my pistol, and placed it flat on the table between us, then slid it toward him. "I will stake my life on it. 1940, it begins by then — give or take. If I am wrong, pick that up and put one right here." I leaned forward and pressed two fingers between my own eyes, grinning. "Free of charge."

He looked at the gun, then at me, with the expression of a man who was genuinely unsure whether to be amused or concerned and had settled on neither. "You're insane sometimes."

"They doubted Cassandra too," I said. "Look how that turned out for them."

"Put the gun away. You've made your point."

I shrugged, picked it up, and slid it back into the holster. Stalin watched me do it with the quiet, measuring look he used when he was deciding whether something was useful or dangerous.

March 21, 1923
The Kremlin
Moscow, Soviet Union

It was late. The lamp on the nightstand was the only light in the room, throwing everything into that particular amber quiet that makes insomnia feel almost bearable. I lay on my back staring at the ceiling. Elsa was in the bed next to mine, reading.

The arrangement was, admittedly, strange. We were technically in some version of a relationship — if "I will have significantly more people killed if you leave" counts as a courtship, and I'm aware that it doesn't, not really. I could have arranged a single bed easily enough, could have pushed things further. But I didn't want to simply maneuver her into it. I wanted her to actually choose it. So for now: two beds, one lamp, and the particular tension of two people carefully not discussing any of this.

I glanced over. She was absorbed in her book — Pollyanna, of all things. I'd never read it, barely knew what it was about beyond the general cultural impression of aggressive optimism. Charming, in its way. But I had other things occupying my mind.

Hitler.

I closed my eyes, opened them again, went back to the ceiling. I ran through the sequence the way I'd been running it all day — the Beer Hall Putsch, the prison sentence, Mein Kampf, the slow and methodical rise of the party, the war, the camps, the numbers. Tens of millions dead, give or take, depending on how you count. And all of it, theoretically, tracing back to one unremarkable Austrian with a bad moustache and a gift for speeches.

One well-placed operation and I could end it. I already had the outline, embed agents in his inner circle, build trust over the coming years, and once he was in prison, have him quietly poisoned. I even had the justification ready: flushing out another Mussolini before he has the chance to consolidate. Clean, defensible, almost boring.

And yet.

I'd seen enough movies about time travel to know how this tends to go. You remove the obvious bad guy and something fills the vacuum, something or someone potentially worse, more competent, less theatrical, harder to predict or outmaneuver. Hitler was, to me at least, a known quantity. Remove him and you no longer know the future. You're improvising. And I was already improvising enough given my actions during the civil war and the revolution.

Pros: no Holocaust, no world war, possibly no Cold War either.

Cons: the butterfly effect, the unknowable successor, the distinct possibility of making things considerably worse while congratulating myself for the attempt.

I exhaled slowly at the ceiling.

"Elsa," I said. "I need your advice."

The sound of a page turning stopped. I heard her reach for her bookmark, close the book with that small decisive sound of someone who takes reading seriously. "That's a surprise," she said, in that calm, measured way she had — not unkind, just precise. "You usually seem to have everything worked out already. What is it?"

I laughed despite myself. "Tell me something. If you could kill Napoleon, not the Emperor, just the young officer, before any of it happened, would you?"

She looked at me steadily. "This sounds a lot like your trolley problem. What are you actually asking?"

I paused. She wasn't wrong. "Fair point. Let me reword it." I folded my hands over my chest. "You're at the lever. You pull it, you kill a young Napoleon. But in doing so, you lose everything you knew about the future. Someone else rises in his place, someone potentially more capable, more stable, more dangerous in ways you can't anticipate. Do you still pull it?"

She was quiet for a moment. Not the polite quiet of someone waiting to speak, the real kind, where you can tell a person is actually thinking. It went on long enough that I stopped expecting a quick answer.

"Why not use what you know?" she said finally.

"I'm sorry?"

"If you know what Napoleon does, his methods, his mistakes, the shape of what he becomes — why not use that knowledge? Work against him from within it. Prevent the worst of what he would have done. Perhaps stop him sooner, and with less left to chance."

I opened my mouth, and then didn't say anything for a second.

It was one of those moments where someone hands you the obvious solution and the only embarrassing part is that you needed them to hand it to you. I felt like I'd just had a brain blast — which is to say, I felt slightly ridiculous and extremely relieved at the same time. I laughed, actually laughed, and nodded at the ceiling.

"Elsa. You are a fucking genius sometimes, you know that?"

"What sort of question was that, really?" She tilted her head slightly, and there was something in her expression now, that particular quality she had of being genuinely, quietly concerned about things most people would find abstract. "Mika. What are you planning?"

"Just a feeling I've been sitting with," I said. "You know what happened in Italy with Mussolini. We have a few figures in Germany who fit a similar profile."

"And you're planning to kill them." It wasn't quite a question. There was a faint note of something in her voice, not outrage, Elsa was too measured for outrage, but a kind of considered disapproval, the sort that came from someone who had spent years watching what political violence actually looked like up close and hadn't managed to make her peace with it.

"Perhaps," I said. "For now, we're monitoring."

Which was technically true. We would be monitoring — right up until the moment I decided we would be doing considerably more than that, though that was in the future. And she didn't need the full version tonight. Tonight she'd already given me more than I came in with.

I looked back at the ceiling, and for the first time all day, the problem felt like it had edges. I had a few plans forming in my noggin.