Chapter 41: Miracle
"Good, Ethan. I need you to contact someone for me."
Ethan straightened at once. "Who, sir?"
Jörg's answer came without hesitation.
"Trotsky."
...
Two days later, at a sanatorium on the outskirts of Saint Petersburg, a diplomatic cable lay unfolded on Trotsky's desk.
Ever since Lenin had fallen gravely ill, Stalin had moved with ruthless speed, seizing control of government affairs and steadily pushing Trotsky away from the center of power. And yet, despite that, there were still many within the Party who regarded Trotsky as one of the true elder statesmen of the revolution, a man whose authority had not vanished simply because others wished it to.
He skimmed the cable once, then set it down.
"Military academies. Weapons research centers. These Germans truly have not abandoned their dangerous ambitions." His voice carried both scorn and thoughtfulness. "We should never have signed those so-called armistice agreements with them in the first place."
But after the first burst of irritation, he fell silent.
Then, as if something had suddenly occurred to him, he looked up at the secretary waiting nearby.
"How is the Mentor's health?"
The secretary hesitated before answering.
"We still do not know for certain. Ever since Stalin's people took control of the security arrangements in Moscow, all our own men have been pushed aside. Comrade Lenin's residence is now guarded entirely by Stalin's people. We cannot get an accurate report."
He paused, then continued in a lower voice.
"And while you have been recuperating here, several confidential telegrams were sent out in Lenin's name. Appointments and dismissals. They removed our people from a number of key positions."
Trotsky's brows drew together.
"Which positions?"
"Two division commanders. Several political cadres. All of them ours."
Trotsky removed his glasses, wiped the mist from the lenses, and let out a bitter laugh.
"They are moving against me already." His tone was calm, but the fatigue beneath it was impossible to miss. "Still, one thing is certain. The Mentor is alive. If he were dead, they would not be content with a few division commanders and cadres."
He placed the glasses back on his nose, then added quietly, "The day he dies, it will be my turn."
The secretary's face tightened. As Trotsky's secretary, he understood his own position well enough. If this great ship capsized, he would be dragged beneath the water with it.
"Then what should we do?" he asked, his voice edged with anxiety. "Are we just to watch Stalin and the others tighten their grip above your head? Comrade Lenin made his intentions clear. His chosen successor was..."
Before he could finish, hurried footsteps came from outside.
A moment later, the guard captain entered, stopped smartly, and saluted.
"Comrade Trotsky, a man has arrived claiming to represent a special German diplomatic delegation. He requests an audience on a matter of diplomacy."
Trotsky's eyes narrowed.
"A German diplomatic delegation?"
The title alone was enough to make him sit more upright.
Under normal circumstances, any such contact should have gone through Stalin's people, or at the very least through those currently dominating the machinery of government. Yet they had come here, to him.
What did that mean?
The thought struck him almost immediately.
If the Germans had come to him directly, then in the eyes of a foreign power, he was still a man worth dealing with. And in politics, appearances were often as powerful as reality. If handled correctly, this could become evidence, perhaps even leverage, proof that he remained a central figure rather than a discarded one.
That alone made the matter dangerous. But it also made it irresistible.
"Can his identity be confirmed?" Trotsky asked.
The secretary nodded. "We telephoned the German consulate. They confirmed it."
Trotsky leaned back, weighing the matter in silence.
On one hand, he wanted to know what the Germans were after. On the other, if this contact could be turned into something larger, if it could be used to draw senior Party figures back toward him, then the risk might be worth taking.
At last, he nodded.
"Let him in."
Outside the sanatorium, after the call was received, the guards stepped aside and made way.
One of them, speaking in halting German, said, "Please come in, Mr. Ethan."
Ethan gave a curt nod, adjusted his suit, and did not step forward immediately. Instead, he swept his gaze over the grounds with the quiet caution of a soldier who had not survived by trusting appearances. Somewhere in the distance, he caught the faintest glint of reflected light, almost invisible unless one knew how to look for it.
Only then did he move.
At the same time, Trotsky unknowingly stepped into the snare that had been laid for him.
On the other side, in Gorki village outside Moscow, Stalin stood in the residence where Lenin was being guarded and read through the diplomatic telegram in his hand a second time.
When he reached the end, he did not immediately speak. Instead, he stared at the page for a long moment, then asked without looking up, "Has there been any change in the personnel around the residence these past few months?"
The secretary answered at once.
"No. We have confirmed it repeatedly. All security personnel remain under our supervision."
Only then did Stalin's expression ease, though only slightly. He began to pace, the unlit pipe in his hand tapping against his palm.
"So. They do not know." He spoke half to himself, half to the room. "They cannot possibly know that Comrade Lenin is bedridden and barely able to function. Their request for a meeting can only mean they still believe he is capable of making decisions."
He stopped by the window.
"Deny the request on grounds of ill health."
Then he turned back.
"What else?"
The secretary opened the brief and continued carefully.
"In addition to the meeting request, Germany asks permission to establish several military academies and weapons research centers on our territory. In return, they are prepared to make further concessions in industrial assistance."
He hesitated for a fraction of a second.
"Comrade Chicherin has already indicated preliminary agreement in principle. Final implementation still requires your approval."
Stalin answered without the slightest delay.
"Approved."
He slid the pipe between his fingers again, mind already moving ahead of the conversation.
"Inform the Army and the comrades in the Politburo. Tell them to cooperate fully with the Germans on this matter. Their industrial support is a powerful stimulant. We cannot afford to refuse it."
Then his voice changed.
"And the apology demand? Have they withdrawn it?"
At that, the secretary showed the first visible sign of hesitation.
"No. Their wording remains very firm. They have repeated several times that the apology is a precondition for broader cooperation. Comrade Chicherin has managed to delay the issue for now, but if they are denied a meeting with Lenin, they may increase the pressure."
Stalin fell silent.
He leaned against the wall and rubbed the sides of his mustache with slow, deliberate movements.
If the Germans could not see Lenin, then they would certainly force the apology issue back to the front. Yet at present, the government was effectively in his hands. If he apologized now, then in practical terms he would be apologizing for the actions of Trotsky's people.
What would that make him look like?
Weak. Defensive. Yielding ground for another faction's sins.
But allowing the Germans to meet him directly was also impossible. Lenin was still alive. If Stalin secretly met with the German delegation in a capacity resembling that of head of government, his enemies would immediately accuse him of usurpation.
The industrial benefits were real. So was the political danger.
For perhaps the first time that day, a genuine trace of irritation crossed his face.
"This is troublesome."
He raised the pipe to his mouth out of habit, only to remember it was still unlit.
Then footsteps sounded from upstairs.
Very faint. Very slow.
At first Stalin thought he had imagined them. There should have been no one above except the old man confined to bed.
He turned.
"Joseph," came a voice from the staircase, weak but unmistakable, "has something happened within the Party recently?"
Stalin froze.
The pipe slipped from his hand and hit the floor with a sharp crack.
At the top of the stairs stood Lenin.
He looked thinner, older, and terribly worn, as if illness had hollowed out his body from within. He had already suffered multiple strokes, and by all medical expectations he should not have been standing at all. Yet there he was, dragging himself downward one step at a time, his body frail but his eyes still carrying the same cutting force they had always possessed.
For several seconds Stalin could only stare.
Then, finally, he found his voice.
"Mentor..." The word left him in disbelief. "You... are out of bed?"
.....
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