2

PRIVATE RESIDENCE. BERLIN, GERMANY.

SUNDAY, APRIL 7, 1912. 6:40 P.M.

The most prominent feature of Army Chief of Staff Helmuth von Moltke’s wood-paneled study was an enormous map of Europe that hung on the wall. Arrows showed the potential paths of various armies and where they might meet if the German Empire found itself fighting a two-front war against both France and Russia. Indeed, Germany had long considered initiating just such a conflict. The map’s battle plan was the brainchild of Moltke’s predecessor, Alfred von Schlieffen, and it bore his name.

The Schlieffen Plan first circulated among German General Staff members in 1905, when the high command felt a war in Europe was inevitable. The strategy called for an initial strike and quick defeat of France in the west before radically turning east and shifting decisive force against Russia, which was historically slow to mobilize. For seven years Moltke had studied the Schlieffen Plan, and for seven years he had felt uneasy.

In his estimation, the gambit’s success was predicated on the precarious notion that the “Russian Steamroller” would be unable to gain momentum fast enough. If any part of the initial campaign in France slowed the German Army, it could prove disastrous when the time came to engage Russia. Germany needed absolute assurance that the Czar would not be able to marshal his forces in time, but the necessary strategy or ingredient had proved elusive.

Until now.

Moltke strode to a sideboard and lifted a decanter of brandy, pouring a celebratory draught of Weinbrand into a snifter. Suddenly, a figure emerged from behind him, and the decanter nearly slipped from his grasp. Moltke flinched, and then relaxed, trying to cover his shock with nonchalance.

“I should have known. How did you get in?”

The young man helped himself to the brandy snifter. He stood about six feet tall, with dark hair and plain features. His expression was inscrutable, and his civilian clothes were impeccable, dark, and neutral. He appeared both threatening and unassuming at the same time. With a lone gulp, he finished the brandy and set down the glass.

“I let myself in,” he replied.

You’ve been trained well, Moltke thought. He refilled the glass and poured himself a second snifter, which he raised aloft. “To a new map,” he said and drank. The man joined him in the toast.

“The time has come sooner than expected,” Moltke said. “It’s why I asked you here. We believe Weiss has finished with his work and is now only delaying. Tomorrow we will take what we need from him. You will leave this week with the vial.”

The young man eyed Moltke curiously. “It’s time for more details, Herr Moltke, about your weapon and of what it is you would have me do. What sickness would cause the Russians to mobilize en masse against it?”

Moltke regarded the young man in turn. “I suspect even you will quail at the sight of the horror it brings. And the Russians will respond just as I say—they’ll exhaust their resources to end the threat.” Moltke put a pen to the map and circled a city in Russia.

“Once we have the Toxic, you will take and release it here, in Perm. A week later, when Perm is in chaos, we will begin our attack of France, per the brilliant strategy of Herr Schlieffen.”

For the first time, the younger man showed a flash of emotion. “Perm is the target? That’s not what we agreed.”

“Of course,” Moltke replied, “Germany’s strategic needs come before personal vendettas. By striking Perm, we eliminate a major munitions center and pin the Russian Army up against the Ural Mountains.”

“And what happens to Kishinev?” The man pointed to a spot east of the Urals near the Baltic Sea. “How do I know the city will be destroyed if the plague is to be unleashed so far west?”

Moltke replied heavily, “I’ll hear no such talk. You came to us. You’re a member of the Imperial German Army now, and you’ll take orders as such.”

The young man tensed, his eyes never leaving Moltke’s as he slowly placed his half-empty glass on the sideboard.

The Army Chief of Staff suppressed his anger at his subordinate’s arrogant indifference to the chain of command. Moltke knew the man was the perfect agent for this important mission, a former Russian who could move undetected in Perm while infecting the city. Germany needed him.

Moltke’s lower lip jutted out. “Consider Kishinev a secondary target. Continue there after assuring the infection is raging in Perm.”

The pair eyed each other warily. A wild look inflamed the young man’s face. “Kishinev must truly suffer for its sins.”

Moltke smiled. “A few drops and Russia will burn Kishinev and everyone in it to the ground.”

The Agent retrieved his glass and held it aloft. “Then let’s drink to wiping Kishinev off the map.”