Chapter 45: Leningrad
Two days later, the second round of talks in Saint Petersburg began as scheduled.
Compared to the sharp and cautious first meeting, this one moved forward with astonishing speed. Matters Jörg had not even needed to raise were now brought to the table by the Soviet side of its own accord. The change in atmosphere was so obvious that even the air in the conference room seemed lighter.
"Mr. Roman, we have allocated 166.67 acres of barren land on the outskirts of Lipetsk for your development projects," Chicherin said, sliding the documents across the table with measured calm. "Given the confidential nature of this cooperation, we will not interfere with any military training conducted there, apart from necessary external patrols for security purposes."
He paused, then continued in the same composed tone.
"You may also centralize your weapons research there. As for the engineers your side will provide, after deducting the land lease from their value, we will compensate Germany with grain and raw materials of equivalent worth."
He folded his hands neatly before him.
"And once your delegation departs, Soviet Russia will formally issue an apology regarding the Berlin riot."
His eyes lifted to Jörg's.
"Are you satisfied with this outcome?"
The moment those words fell, the room went still.
Lia was stunned.
Morr was even more stunned.
He had spent more than a decade in the Foreign Ministry, had sat across from every kind of negotiator, liar, fanatic, and opportunist, and yet at this moment he was more speechless than a green new recruit. Three days. Only three days. What on earth had this young man done to force the Soviet side into such a complete reversal?
The original deadlock had been brutal in its simplicity. Germany could have the apology or the cooperation, but not both. Yet Jörg had somehow turned that impossible choice into a double victory.
If this were Berlin, Morr might have assumed he had relied on influence, political pressure, or some hidden connection. But this was Soviet Russia, on Soviet soil, under Soviet control. No matter how hard Morr searched for an explanation, he could not find one.
Could it be that this young man's personal charm had become strong enough to sway even the Slavs?
Noticing the shock and admiration around him, Jörg simply lifted his teacup and took an unhurried sip. There had been no miracle, only leverage. He had given Stalin what Stalin wanted.
And Stalin, in return, had given him what he wanted.
"I am very satisfied, Mr. Chicherin," Jörg said calmly. "Please convey my gratitude to Mr. Stalin and Mr. Lenin."
"I will."
Chicherin smiled and nodded, though his thoughts remained hidden behind the ease of his expression.
In truth, Lenin had passed away that very morning.
Originally, this German diplomat had been included on the list of those permitted to attend the funeral. In the end, however, that possibility had been politely withdrawn on the grounds that it was a state funeral and therefore not an occasion suited for foreign guests.
"Then we shall take our leave," Jörg said, rising to his feet. "I imagine President Ebert and Field Marshal Hindenburg are already waiting for good news from us."
With that, he thanked the Soviet side and departed.
This time, no one thought him arrogant.
Because at a negotiating table, what determined whether a man was arrogant or merely qualified was not tone, but results. And in just three days, he had bent the balance of interests toward Germany. That alone gave him the right to hold his head high.
Watching the black leather coat disappear down the corridor, Chicherin remained seated for a moment. Only after the door had closed did his secretary lean in and ask in a low voice, "Comrade Chicherin, should we withdraw the men we posted around them?"
Chicherin nodded.
"Withdraw them all. I should have known better than to send people to watch him in the first place. In the end, that boy played all of us."
The secretary hesitated, then said, "Though if we had not kept him under watch, perhaps he would still have found another way to let Stalin know. Or perhaps he might even have gone all the way with Trotsky. Who can say?"
Chicherin gave a quiet laugh, though there was no amusement in it.
"He calculates too precisely. If Comrade Stalin is right, and that young man truly deduced our political direction from only two diplomatic telegrams, then Roman is not merely dangerous. He is terrifying."
"Perhaps he was simply lucky," the secretary offered. "No one can remain so lucky forever."
Chicherin stood and walked to the window, drawing back the curtain.
Below, Jörg slipped into the waiting car, and a moment later the vehicle vanished into the falling snow.
"I do not find his deductive ability most frightening," Chicherin said at last. "The world does not lack men who can derive theories. What it lacks are men who can turn theory into reality. That is where he is truly formidable."
He watched the whitened city in silence for a moment longer.
"Oh, and I heard that after the funeral, this city will be renamed Leningrad. I hope the engineers we gain from this cooperation will help that new name become the beginning of a new era for this city as well."
Inside the car, the two vehicles that had arrived together had now become one.
Morr was driving.
The sourness that had once hardened his face was long gone. Again and again, his gaze flicked upward to the rearview mirror, unable to resist looking at the man in the back seat.
In the end, he could no longer hold back.
"Roman," he said, "how did you make those Slavs give way?"
Jörg leaned against the window, watching snow slide across the glass.
Although Morr had disrupted his strategy at a crucial moment, Jörg could understand where that mistake had come from. Distrust. Habit. A diplomat's instinctive refusal to hand the initiative to an unknown young man.
And afterward, Morr had not interfered with the arrangements concerning Trotsky. That alone proved he was merely limited, not rotten.
So Jörg did not mind satisfying his curiosity.
"It was simple," he said. "Did the consulate not receive a call three days ago?"
Morr frowned as he drove, piecing the fragments together. "Yes. But was that not the man you sent to contact Trotsky? Why, then, did Stalin's side ultimately choose to apologize and give ground?"
He paused.
"And afterward, you had me report charges against your own subordinate. What exactly was that for...?"
He was no fool. He only needed a little longer than others to connect the lines. By the time the answer formed in his mind, it was already standing before him.
Lia, quicker as always, gave voice to it first.
"There is only one explanation," she said. "Roman never intended Trotsky to be the true negotiating partner. Meeting him served two purposes. If Trotsky's sincerity proved sufficient, then perhaps cooperation might have been possible. If not, then he would become exactly what he became, a gift for Stalin."
As she spoke, she unfolded a freshly printed issue of Pravda.
Her eyes swept the large Russian headline before she translated it aloud.
"Leader of the Sanatorium? Traitor to the Soviet, Attempting to Collude with Foreign Powers!"
Only then did Morr fully understand.
He had thought Jörg sent his man to Trotsky in search of another door. In truth, he had baited a political trap. What he had called an alternative route had never been an alternative at all. It had been the knife, prepared in advance, waiting for the right throat.
And from Stalin's point of view, it was an irresistible gift.
Morr exhaled slowly.
This was not diplomacy as he had practiced it. This was diplomacy as architecture, as hunting, as statecraft in motion.
Truly an art.
Perhaps because he now understood, a certain pride rose in him as well. Roman's success was not his own, but it was still German success. That alone was enough to make a diplomat hold his head a little higher.
As for the man himself, Jörg merely gave a low laugh, rolled the window down, and prepared to light a cigarette.
Just then, the renamed pier came into view.
Workers were taking down the old sign bearing the name Saint Petersburg. Under the falling snow and the rhythm of their song, they lifted a new one into place.
Leningrad.
For a moment, Jörg said nothing. Then he gave a bitter little smile and let the wind and snow soak the unlit cigarette between his fingers.
"So one era has ended after all," he murmured.
...
Berlin.
The telegram announcing diplomatic victory arrived more quickly than any returning envoy ever could.
Inside the Presidential Office, the two old men who had wagered so much on one young man finally let out long, quiet breaths.
Before them lay Soviet Russia's formal statement of apology.
It was stark, undeniable, and real.
Ebert removed his glasses, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and looked again at the dispatch from Moscow.
"This is the first time I have ever seen Morr use the word miracle to describe a person," he said. "And the word art to describe a diplomatic affair."
He coughed twice, though whether from age, tobacco, or astonishment, even he could not have said.
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