The Kremlin clock tower struck nine when Molotov left Stalin's office.
The echo of Stalin's words.
Do it. But carefully still rang in his ears.
He stepped into the freezing Moscow night with a single thought.
If Germany truly intended to bleed Poland, he had to know.
Not from reports written by cautious diplomats or fearful NKVD men, but from voices inside Berlin itself.
In his office, with the lamps burning low, Molotov summoned his secretary and asked for a discreet list.
Not ambassadors they were too visible, too easily intercepted.
Instead, academics, trade officials, journalists men and women who drifted between embassies, universities, and cafés.
People who heard whispers but were too small to be noticed by the Gestapo's sharper knives.
When the secretary laid the list before him, Molotov tapped it with a thick finger.
"These," he said. "But no official channels. Let the embassy handle its own wine and receptions. I will handle the shadows."
