Stalin sat at the head of the table, his pipe resting between two thick fingers, a slow ribbon of smoke curling upwards into the haze.
He said nothing yet.
He preferred silence at the beginning silence made men uneasy, made them speak rashly, or sweat out their nerves before he demanded a word.
Around him sat Vyacheslav Molotov, rigid.
Lavrentiy Beria, broad-faced, predatory eyes hidden behind his spectacles.
Kliment Voroshilov in uniform and two other senior men from the NKVD.
A stack of papers lay before Stalin.
German troop movements, intercepted reports, coded telegrams smuggled from Prague.
Czechoslovakia had fallen astonishingly quickly, its government paralyzed while German divisions took command of the streets.
"Comrades," Stalin began finally, exhaling smoke, "Hitler swallowed another country in weeks. Like a wolf tearing a lamb apart. The world calls it 'peace.' Britain once again smiles. France once more sleeps. And what do we call it?"
