Taranov hated Berlin.
It smelled of coal smoke and desperate perfume. It was a city of ghosts, where wounded veterans begged on corners while jazz bands played in heated clubs.
He sat in a café across from the Charlottenburg Palace. He nursed a cup of bitter coffee.
His hand rested in his coat pocket, fingers curled around the Nagant revolver.
Target: Wernher von Braun. 18 years old. Tall. Blonde. Arrogant.
Taranov checked his watch. 2:00 PM.
The black Mercedes pulled up to the gate of the Technical University. It was guarded by men in grey trench coats—Black Reichswehr. Illegal soldiers.
A young man stepped out. He was laughing, holding a roll of blueprints under his arm. He looked like a prince from a fairy tale.
Taranov stood up. He left a few coins on the table.
He moved through the crowd. He was a shark in a stream of minnows. Large, silent, inevitable.
He calculated the distance. Fifty meters. Wind from the north.
He stepped off the curb.
Suddenly, a hand clamped onto his shoulder.
"Do not draw the weapon, Comrade."
The voice was Russian.
Taranov didn't turn. He spun, driving his elbow back. It hit solid muscle.
The man behind him didn't flinch. He was smaller than Taranov, but wiry, with eyes like flint.
"Walk with me," the stranger hissed. "Or the Reichswehr snipers on the roof will put a hole in your skull."
Taranov looked up.
On the roof of the university, a glint of glass. A scope.
"Who are you?" Taranov growled.
"A friend of Koba's," the man said. "From the old days. When we robbed banks in Tiflis."
He steered Taranov into an alley.
"My name is Kamo. And you are walking into a trap."
The secure line in the Kremlin rang.
Jake picked it up. "Report."
"The mission is aborted," Menzhinsky's voice was tight. "Taranov was intercepted."
Jake's blood ran cold. "Captured?"
"No. Saved. By Kamo."
Jake dropped his pen.
Kamo. The legendary Bolshevik bank robber. The man who had been hit by a truck in 1922 and died.
"Kamo is dead," Jake whispered. "He died in Tiflis three years ago."
"Apparently not," Menzhinsky said. "He faked his death. He has been running a sleeper cell in Berlin. Waiting for orders that never came. Until today."
Jake rubbed his eyes.
Another ghost. History wasn't just changing; it was resurrecting the dead.
"Put him on," Jake ordered.
A moment of static. Then a rough, laughing voice.
"Soso! You sound tired."
"Simon," Jake said, using Kamo's real name. "Why are you alive?"
"Because the grave is boring," Kamo laughed. "But listen, Soso. Your giant was about to shoot the boy. That would be stupid."
"The boy is building rockets to kill us," Jake snapped.
"Yes," Kamo agreed. "But he is not building them alone. He has a partner. An American."
Jake froze. "Who?"
"Goddard," Kamo said. "Robert Goddard. The American rocket man. He is here in Berlin. The Germans hired him."
Jake slammed his fist onto the desk.
Goddard and von Braun. The two greatest minds of rocketry, working together in 1925. Funded by German desperation and American greed.
"If you kill the boy," Kamo continued, "Goddard goes home with the blueprints. The Americans get the missile. You trade one enemy for another."
"So we kill them both," Jake said.
"Messy," Kamo clicked his tongue. "Very messy. It starts a war with America. You don't want that yet."
"What do you suggest?"
"Kidnap them," Kamo said cheerfully. "Steal the brains. Bring them to Moscow. Let them build the rockets for you."
Jake stared at the wall.
It was insane. Kidnapping the most protected scientists in Europe from under the nose of the German army.
But if he succeeded... he would have the V-2. He would have the delivery system for his atomic bomb.
"Can you do it?" Jake asked.
"For you, Soso? I would steal the moon."
"Do it," Jake said. "Bring them to me. Alive."
The line clicked dead.
Jake hung up.
He wasn't just breaking the timeline anymore. He was looting it.
The nursery in the Kremlin was empty.
Nadya stood in the center of the room. It smelled of dust and old paint.
She held a can of yellow paint. She was trying to make it bright. Happy.
"It needs a crib," a voice said.
Nadya turned.
Menzhinsky stood in the doorway. He wasn't wearing his leather coat. He wore a simple suit. He looked almost... human.
"Vyacheslav," Nadya said, wiping her hands on her apron. "I didn't hear you."
"I walk quietly," Menzhinsky said. "Occupational hazard."
He walked into the room. He looked at the yellow paint.
"Yellow is a good color," he said. "The color of the sun. Not the color of the flag."
"I want him to see something other than red," Nadya said softly.
"Him?" Menzhinsky raised an eyebrow. "You are sure?"
"A mother knows," Nadya smiled. A sad, small smile. "Besides, Koba needs a son. A daughter would... complicate things."
Menzhinsky nodded slowly.
"Koba needs many things right now," he said.
He reached into his pocket. He pulled out a small, velvet box.
"A gift," Menzhinsky said. "For the child. From the Cheka."
Nadya took the box. She opened it.
Inside was a silver rattle. It was engraved with a shield and sword.
"It is... heavy," Nadya said.
"Protection is always heavy," Menzhinsky said.
He leaned closer. His eyes were dark, unreadable.
"Nadya," he whispered. "You are worried about your husband. You think he is becoming a monster."
Nadya stiffened. "I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to," Menzhinsky said. "But you must understand. He is not doing this for power. He is doing it because he is scared."
"Stalin is not scared of anything," Nadya said.
"Stalin is not," Menzhinsky agreed. "But the man inside him? He is terrified. He sees ghosts, Nadya. He sees a fire that burns the whole world."
He touched the silver rattle.
"Keep him human," Menzhinsky said. "That is your job. I will handle the monsters. You handle the man."
He turned and walked away, leaving Nadya alone with the yellow paint and the heavy silver rattle.
Berlin. Midnight.
The warehouse district was silent. Fog rolled off the Spree river.
Taranov and Kamo crouched behind a crate of machinery. They watched the rear entrance of the laboratory.
"Two guards," Kamo whispered. "Smoking. Lazy."
"I take the left," Taranov said.
"No shooting," Kamo warned. "Knives only."
They moved. Shadows detaching from the darkness.
Taranov grabbed the left guard. A hand over the mouth. A quick, brutal twist. The guard went limp.
Kamo was faster. His knife flashed. The second guard slid down the wall, clutching his throat.
"Clean," Kamo grinned.
They picked the lock. They slipped inside.
The lab was cavernous. It was filled with strange shapes. Metal fins. Fuel tanks.
In the center, under a spotlight, stood the rocket.
It was crude. Ugly. But it pointed straight up.
Von Braun and Goddard were arguing at a chalkboard. They were speaking a mix of German and English.
"The thrust vectoring is unstable!" Goddard shouted.
"It is bold!" von Braun countered. "Boldness conquers gravity!"
They didn't hear the Russians approach.
Taranov stepped into the light. He held a burlap sack.
"Gentlemen," Taranov rumbled in broken German. "Class is dismissed."
Von Braun spun around. "Who are you?"
"Travel agents," Kamo said, appearing behind them.
He pressed a chloroform rag to Goddard's face. The American thrashed, then slumped.
Von Braun tried to run.
Taranov caught him by the collar. He lifted the teenager off his feet.
"Let me go!" von Braun screamed. "Do you know who I am?"
"A package," Taranov said.
He knocked the boy out with a single punch.
"Grab the blueprints," Kamo ordered, stuffing papers into his coat. "The truck is waiting."
They dragged the scientists out into the fog.
Behind them, Kamo tossed a lit match onto a pile of oily rags near the fuel tanks.
"For warmth," he winked.
As they drove away, a dull whump shook the ground. Flames licked the night sky.
The German rocket program was over.
The Soviet space program had just begun.
Jake woke up to the phone ringing.
He fumbled for the receiver in the dark. Nadya groaned beside him.
"Yes?"
"The package is secured," Menzhinsky said. "Both birds are in the cage. They are crossing the Polish border now."
Jake let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.
"And the lab?"
"Ashes."
"Good work," Jake said. " bring them to the Secret City. Put them next to Kurchatov. Tell them if they build me a rocket, they get a Nobel Prize. If they refuse, they get a bullet."
"Understood."
Jake hung up.
He lay back in the dark.
He had von Braun. He had Goddard. He had the T-34. He had the graphite pile.
He was assembling the pieces of a superpower like a lego set.
But he felt a deep, gnawing unease.
He had changed too much. The butterfly effect was going to be a hurricane.
What would the Americans do when their top scientist vanished? What would Hitler do when his toys were stolen?
Jake looked at the ceiling.
"I need to know," he whispered.
He got out of bed. He went to his study.
He opened the safe. He took out the last of his future knowledge—the laptop he had arrived with.
It was dead. Battery drained in 1924. A useless brick of plastic and silicon.
But maybe... maybe the graphite pile could generate enough voltage to jump it.
If he could turn it on. If he could access the offline Wikipedia dump he had saved...
Maybe he could see if the timeline had shifted. Or if he had just broken the world.
He grabbed the laptop.
"One last look," Jake said.
He walked out of the apartment, carrying the black mirror of the 21st century.