Chapter 43: Fools and Geniuses
Early morning.
The special train from Saint Petersburg slowly ground to a halt at the station in Gorki Village, near Moscow.
As one of the most tightly controlled military zones in Soviet Russia, the place was guarded with almost oppressive vigilance. Soldiers in brown greatcoats stood rigid in the wind and snow, like rows of silent birch trees protecting the heart of the fledgling regime. Even the platform itself had clearly not been built for ordinary traffic, but for that heart alone.
The moment Jörg stepped off the train, the January cold of Moscow struck him like a blade. White steam rose from the still trembling locomotive, only to freeze into fine crystals in the bitter air.
Amid a sea of thick Soviet overcoats, Jörg stood out sharply. Dressed in a black leather trench coat over a heavy suit, he looked like a black plum rooted in red earth, elegant, foreign, and utterly out of place.
"Please follow me, Mr. Roman."
Led by the middleaged major beside him, Jörg entered the waiting car.
No one spoke during the ride.
Only the wind rattling against collars, the soft creak of leather, and the scratch of Jörg striking a match broke the silence.
The motorcade drove on without pause, crossing fields buried in snow before finally heading into a dense forest drowned in white.
At last, two unusually plain villas appeared through the falling snow.
Jörg recognized them at once.
These were Lenin's final quarters, the place where he was meant to drift toward his eternal sleep.
Yet more than the villas themselves, the man standing in the wind and snow before them drew his eye.
He was middleaged, broad shouldered, with frost gathered over his beard. His expression was stern without effort, the kind of face that did not need anger to inspire caution.
"Comrade Stalin, the man has arrived."
The major snapped his heels together and delivered a perfectly crisp salute.
"Very good, Major Svennov. Go again and bring the translator."
Jörg spoke before the officer could turn away.
"You must be Mr. Stalin. It is a pleasure to meet you. There is no need to fetch a translator. My Russian is not as fluent as yours, but it is sufficient for ordinary conversation."
At that, Stalin spared Major Svennov another look, signaling him to remain nearby, then took over personally.
"Mr. Roman, you truly possess talents that do not belong to your age. I have heard of your conduct in the diplomatic arena."
They began walking through the snow as he spoke.
"Do you know what nickname the Foreign Affairs Committee has given you? The Cunning Viper. The last diplomat I heard described in such terms was from your Germany as well. I heard the name during my school days."
He paused briefly.
"Bismarck."
"You flatter me, Mr. Stalin," Jörg replied. "I am still only a student in diplomacy."
At the word student, Stalin's mouth curved faintly.
"A student would not think to contact my political rivals. A student would not practice diplomacy as though it were an art. A student would not understand so clearly where his advantage lies and where the weakness of the other side begins."
The snow continued to fall around them, burying each footprint almost as soon as it was made.
"I won't waste words, Roman. Trotsky must have offered you something, yes? Did he promise concessions on the apology issue? Or did he try some other verbal trick?"
He turned his head slightly.
"And how do you intend to help him?"
Stalin watched Jörg from the corner of his eye, clearly expecting the younger man to lose his composure once the matter had been exposed.
But Jörg remained perfectly calm. The faint smile at the corner of his mouth did not shift in the slightest.
"I think you misunderstand, Mr. Stalin. Meeting Mr. Trotsky was a private action taken by one of our diplomatic personnel. As for what he discussed with us, I am not entirely sure. Whether that diplomat made any arrangement with him, I know even less."
Then Jörg slipped a hand into his coat.
"However, I do have a gift for you."
He withdrew a prepared envelope and handed it over.
Stalin opened it.
Several photographs slid into view, rich with implication, along with a signed confession admitting to the private sale of military weapons.
A confession could always be extracted with pressure. That in itself was not remarkable.
But the photographs were different.
They had obviously been prepared in advance.
What Stalin had assumed was an attempt by Jörg to reach out to a political rival was, in reality, a trap built from the very beginning. Jörg had never intended to cooperate with Trotsky. He had exploited Trotsky's hunger for political legitimacy, guided him into exposing himself, and then turned around and placed the entire matter neatly in Stalin's hands.
If these photographs were released, together with a confession tied to foreign military procurement and political intrigue, Trotsky would lose at least half his political life in one blow.
Still, one question remained.
Why would Jörg hand him such a weapon so readily?
As Stalin weighed the answer, Jörg spoke first, as if reading the question straight from his face.
"Mr. Stalin, it seems you are pleased with the gift. Without the burden of factional struggle clouding the matter, I believe the Soviet government can now offer a satisfactory accounting for the Berlin riots."
He paused.
"As for the exchange of resources for German engineers, those negotiations should also resume."
There was no doubt about it. Stalin was pleased.
In his eyes, the material in that envelope was not merely leverage. It was a ticket to the summit of power.
But why should he grant Jörg what he wanted now that the gift was already in his possession? The photographs were in his coat. The confession was in his hand. Jörg could hardly snatch them back.
That thought had barely formed when Jörg smiled again and spoke in an almost casual tone.
"Of course, if Mr. Stalin does not wish to talk, then I may have to reconsider whether these photographs are genuine."
He brushed a fleck of snow from his sleeve.
"And whether this confession might have been obtained under duress."
Then, with the same faint smile:
"After all, people make mistakes."
Stalin's lips twitched upward.
Not because he found it amusing, but because he genuinely admired how completely this young man had prepared every angle.
"I accept your gift, Mr. Roman. I will convey your proposal to the relevant comrades in the Foreign Affairs Committee."
He tucked the envelope into the inner lining of his coat, then added:
"But there is one thing I would like you to answer for me."
"How did you know the direction our politics were taking? I do not believe our security comrades are all such stupid brown bears."
Naturally, Jörg could not reveal his true advantage. Even if he did, Stalin would only conclude he was mad.
So he gave the simplest possible answer, rooted in the evidence available to any clever observer.
"I inferred it from the diplomatic telegrams. The two sudden shifts in tone were enough to explain many things."
"From a piece of paper alone?"
Stalin's gaze sharpened. He clearly suspected evasion.
"From a piece of paper alone."
Jörg shrugged, utterly unconcerned.
"Honestly, Roman, I would very much like to keep you here."
Stalin's tone remained almost conversational, but the weight beneath it was unmistakable.
"If you are lying, then your ability to lie is nearly flawless. In that case, you are a born politician."
He looked ahead through the driving snow.
"But if what you say is true, then Germany has produced an unprecedented genius."
He spoke each word with care.
"And either possibility is bad news for the countries around Germany. Frankly, it is not good news for me either. Because when choosing an opponent, most people would rather face a fool than a clever man."
Though he said it like a joke, Jörg heard the seriousness underneath with perfect clarity.
.....
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