Few days later Molotov was sitting in his office absent minded.

The door opened.

Beria slipped inside without ceremony. "You didn't smile once during the parade, Vyacheslav Mikhailovich. People will notice."

"Let them notice," Molotov said curtly, dropping into his chair. "Smiles don't move borders."

Beria chuckled, then placed a small dossier on the desk. "Our people in Riga report German trade officials will be visiting next week. Timber contracts, supposedly. But one of them is close to Ribbentrop's ministry."

Molotov's eyes sharpened. "A visitor we can use."

"Perhaps," Beria said carefully. "But it must be quiet. Stalin has not given you permission to open any doors yet."

Molotov leaned forward. "Stalin told me to prove my conjecture. That means testing the locks. Quietly. Without leaving fingerprints."

Beria smiled thinly. "Then I will make sure the visitor enjoys a comfortable stay."

April 5, 1938 – Hotel Metropol, Moscow

The German trade official, Herr Schneider, was tall, balding, with a voice that never quite matched his careful smile

He came to Moscow ostensibly to negotiate timber quotas.

But Molotov knew his true value was not in timber but in proximity.

Schneider dined with Ribbentrop's deputies; he carried whispers like pollen.

That evening, over dinner, Molotov steered the conversation away from tariffs and toward politics.

"You Germans build quickly," Molotov remarked casually, sipping his wine. "Factories, roads, armies. Always in motion."

Schneider smiled, flattered. "Germany has purpose again. The Führer gives us direction."

"And Poland?" Molotov asked suddenly, his voice level.

The German hesitated, then chuckled nervously. "Poland? They are… obstinate neighbors. Always troublesome."

Molotov pressed gently. "Some say they are a barrier. Others say they are an opportunity."

Schneider shifted in his chair. "I am but a trade official, Herr Molotov. Such questions are above me."

Molotov allowed himself the faintest smile. "Yes. But trade and politics often dine at the same table, do they not?"

The German avoided his gaze.

Molotov didn't push further.

Seeds must be planted carefully.

Molotov reported the meeting to Stalin.

"He dodged," Molotov admitted. "But the hesitation told me enough. They are speaking of Poland already, even among minor officials. The word is in the air."

Stalin puffed his pipe. "Air does not make policy."

"No," Molotov agreed. "But it reveals the weather. And the weather is moving east."

Stalin said nothing, only exhaled smoke, eyes narrowed.

Meanwhile, in Berlin, Ribbentrop read a thin NKVD-forged report placed on his desk through one of Molotov's cut-out agents.

It suggested, carefully, that Soviet interest in "regional stability" might align with Germany's goals.

Ribbentrop frowned, then smirked. "The Russians are sniffing. Curious dogs. We'll see how far they come."

He didn't show it to Hitler yet.

Not yet.

April 11 – Moscow

Beria entered Molotov's office, carrying another file. "Intercept from Prague. Czech officers report more German advisors arriving in Sudeten towns. Civilian clothes, but military posture. The Reich is tightening its grip."

Molotov nodded. "As expected. They consolidate, then they strike again. Always the same rhythm."

Beria sat, lowering his voice. "And you? What rhythm will you play?"

Molotov glanced at the map on his wall. "A counter-rhythm. Not yet audible. But when it is, it will deafen them."

Ribbentrop's envoy in Riga a thin intermediary named Dr. Keller arrived under the guise of a cultural exchange.

Molotov met him late at night, over a modest table set with vodka.

Molotov poured drinks himself. "Strange times," he said softly. "Germany grows stronger. The West grows quieter. And the borders of Europe begin to feel less… fixed."

Keller raised an eyebrow. "Do you mean Austria?"

Molotov shrugged. "Austria, Czechoslovakia, Poland… who can say? But borders are only lines, are they not? Lines drawn in sand by tired diplomats."

Keller's smile was thin. "Perhaps. But some lines are defended with blood."

Molotov met his eyes. "Others with silence."

There was a pause. Keller looked down at his drink, then back up. "And where does Moscow stand?"

Molotov didn't answer directly. "Moscow stands where it benefits Moscow most. And benefits are not always where one expects."

The German said nothing more.

But the message was there.

The door had been nudged.

Stalin listened as Molotov recounted the encounter.

"He did not say Poland, but he thought it," Molotov said.

Stalin puffed his pipe. "Thoughts are not treaties."

"No," Molotov admitted. "But they are invitations."

Stalin studied him carefully. "And if you are wrong?"

Molotov didn't flinch. "Then I have wasted only words. Better to waste words now than blood later."

Beria chuckled darkly. "Sometimes words lead to blood anyway."

Molotov ignored him.

Ribbentrop finally mentioned the whispers to Hitler.

"The Russians may be probing. Carefully, indirectly. They speak of 'flexibility of borders.'"

Hitler's eyes lit with sudden intensity. "So. Even Moscow sees Poland as a corpse."

Ribbentrop hesitated. "Do we encourage it?"

Hitler smirked. "Not openly. Not yet. But if Stalin's men want to dream, let them. Dreams make men careless."

Molotov met with Voroshilov again.

"Marshal," he said evenly. "If we were to march into eastern Poland, how quickly could we mobilize without drawing German suspicion?"

Voroshilov nearly choked on his tea. "You speak as if it is decided already!"

"I speak as if it must be prepared," Molotov corrected. "Decisions belong to Stalin. But if the order comes, you must not be caught blinking."

Voroshilov muttered curses under his breath but said no more.

May 20.

Kremlin

Molotov stood alone at his window, gazing at the city below.

In his mind, the pieces aligned, troop movements, propaganda, secret whispers. Germany's hunger was clear.

Poland was next.

But the greater question lingered would Stalin dare to cut a deal with the devil?

Molotov whispered to himself.

"He will. If the timing is right. If the prize is large enough."

Soon Molotov returned to his desk.

He drew a red line with his pencil, from Berlin to Warsaw, from Warsaw eastward to Minsk.

He stared at the line a long time.

Then he drew another, curving from Moscow back to Berlin.

For the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to whisper the word aloud.

Not "conjecture," not "possibility."

But a name.

"Pact."

Molotov closed the map carefully, folded it, and slipped it into his drawer.

He locked it with a small brass key.

Then, leaning back in the silence, he murmured to himself.

"When the time comes, Stalin will open this drawer. And the world will never forgive us."