Leonid Vasilyev, thirty-two, was known within the OGPU as "Lucky Misha." The nickname carried both envy and a trace of murderous intent from his colleagues.
Back in 1924, during the campaign against the Left Opposition, Vasilyev's timely list of "suspicious elements" had helped his superior secure his post through the purges.
In return, he received a captain's insignia—and a finely tailored black wool overcoat. The fabric was thick and perfectly cut, every seam straight as if drawn with a ruler, the dull sheen unmistakably that of the Internal Affairs Department.
Six months ago, a batch of Zeiss optical equipment and classified design documents had vanished from a laboratory in Jena.
The French Direction Générale de la Sécurité Intérieure intercepted traces of the theft first, but the news soon reached Moscow and the OGPU.
When Vasilyev received the assignment, he led a special operations team to Geneva, following the faint trail across borders until it brought them here—
to a quiet hotel on the shores of Lake Zurich.
Now, he stood inside a tool shed at the back of the hotel. It was an inconspicuous spot, chosen with precision.
Through the gaps in the wooden planks, he could observe three key points at once: the hotel's rear entrance, the freight passage, and the target's window on the third floor.
The smell of damp wood and fertilizer filled the air, but he remained motionless, as if absorbed into the shadows.
His fingers brushed the smooth surface of a pocket watch in his palm—a ritual that always brought him back to that rainy night in Warsaw four years earlier.
Back then, he was a newly promoted lieutenant, ordered to "deal with" a Polish scientist who had fled west with stolen blueprints. That night, he learned how to wipe blood from a body before removing valuables from it.
The watch he now held was taken from that man. Its silver chain still bore faint scratches left by its previous owner's desperate struggle.
He glanced at the face. The second hand pointed to the mark he'd set earlier. The watch was infuriatingly accurate—just like the clockmaker he had executed in Leningrad last month.
The man had insisted, even as he faced the firing squad, that mechanics were more reliable than politics. Vasilyev had smiled, then pulled the trigger. Now, as he waited, he realized the old man's eyes had looked remarkably like Dr. Krause's—tonight's target.
"Captain, why don't we just—" began a young agent.
Vasilyev silenced him with a glance.
He lifted a finger.
"First—look at the French. They're more nervous than we are."
His voice was low and coarse, like a dull knife scraping leather.
"Second—the Germans have the documents. They won't risk moving tonight." He folded his fingers one by one. "And third—everyone wants them. The French, the British, and us."
He leaned closer, his hand tightening on his subordinate's shoulder. His nails bit into the wool.
"So, if we take the old man, everything else can be…" He smiled faintly, tracing a finger across his own throat. "Dead men don't bargain."
In the corner, another agent was idly peeling an apple with a dagger, the skin forming a long curling ribbon. Vasilyev's eyes followed the spiraling strip. Suddenly, he seized the dagger.
The blade stopped a breath away from the man's eye.
"You peel against the grain," Vasilyev murmured. He flicked the blade, cutting a loose thread from the man's collar. "…You make the prey walk into the trap themselves."
He turned his gaze to the hotel. "Which floor are the French?"
"Th-third floor, Captain," the agent stammered. "But the Germans and the old man seem to have noticed…"
Vasilyev didn't answer. His gloved fingers stroked his chin as he stared at the illuminated window above. Two silhouettes moved behind the curtain.
A faint smile crept across his face. "Interesting. If the French start the fight…" He tapped the pocket watch lightly, keeping rhythm as precise as code.
Moonlight drew sharp angles across his face. When the second hand reached the mark again, his expression hardened.
He snapped the watch shut. The metallic click cut through the silence.
"Proceed as planned." His tone was cold, final.
His team moved instantly—five shadows splitting into two groups. Vasilyev, with Ivanov and Belyev, crept toward the back door. The others slipped off toward the freight passage.
As he ran, the hem of Vasilyev's overcoat flared behind him, black and weightless like a bat's wings in flight.
When they burst through the door of Room 310, three French agents were already inside.
A blur of motion—a fist flashed toward Vasilyev's face. He ducked, but a glancing blow tore the skin near his temple. Blood streamed down his cheek.
Ivanov wasn't as lucky. A tall Frenchman's elbow smashed into his throat; the sickening crack echoed down the corridor, and the Russian dropped instantly.
Gunfire erupted.
One Frenchman drew a MAB pistol; Vasilyev fired first. Three precise shots—forehead, throat, heart. Blood splattered the wallpaper like red ink.
The second Frenchman lunged with a dagger, slashing Vasilyev's ribs. The Russian grunted, swung the butt of his pistol into the man's temple, then drove his knee into his groin. As the man collapsed, Vasilyev shot him once in the head.
The last French agent fired at Belyev at point-blank range. Both men emptied their magazines almost simultaneously.
Belyev's chest exploded under a hail of bullets, but not before three of his own found the Frenchman's skull. Both fell together, their blood pooling on the corridor floor.
More shots rang out downstairs—short, controlled bursts—followed by heavy thuds. The freight passage.
"After them!" Vasilyev barked, ignoring the fallen. He tore through the smoke and blood, pressing one hand against his bleeding ribs.
When he pushed open the fire door, the metal frame slammed into the wall with a deafening clang.
The stairwell lights flickered overhead. His shadow jumped across the cracked concrete wall, stretching and twisting with each flash.
He stopped suddenly. Moonlight streamed through a small window at the end of the hall. On the floor, a trail of fresh blood drops glistened faintly, leading toward the freight exit.
Vasilyev smiled, revealing bloodied teeth.
He drew his spare Nagant revolver, spun the cylinder once, and murmured under his breath:
"The game begins."