The revolver in Kamo's hand was business. Cold metal. A small, final answer. The man on the floor—Fikus—was a liar. Liars who endangered the revolution deserved nothing else.
Kamo raised the gun. He meant to end it clean.
Soso stepped between them.
"Wait," he said.
That one word hit like a wall. Kamo's arm locked. The barrel pointed at Jake's chest. Fury burned in Kamo's throat. Respect trembled under it—respect for Soso's mind, for the way he saw the board.
"Get out of the way, Soso," Kamo said. He sounded like he wanted to bite the words. "He's a dog. He slanders a hero to save his skin. Worthless."
"No," Jake answered. His voice was calm enough that it made the gun tick in Kamo's hand. He didn't flinch. He looked at the barrel like it was nothing. "He's not worthless. He's our most useful weapon."
Kamo frowned. He kept the revolver steady.
Jake took a step forward. Kamo had to lower the arm or press the muzzle into his ribs. He lowered it.
"Of course he lies," Jake said quietly. "That's why his story will work."
"Work?" Kamo spat. He jerked his chin at Fikus. The informer made a small sound, a whimper. "He works for the Okhrana. He's only good for soil."
Jake began to pace the tight room. Every step was careful. His head moved like a man arranging pieces.
"Think," he said. "If you kill him now, we take the notebook to the Central Committee. We accuse Orlov. Orlov is a hero. He has friends. He denies it. His friends rally. It becomes our word against his."
Kamo's face hardened. He saw the logic like a blade. He had watched parties eat themselves on whispers.
"We lose," Jake said. "We're the provocateurs. We're destroyed."
Kamo's certainty wavered.
"So what then? Do nothing?" he snapped. "Let Orlov betray us?"
"No." Jake smiled thinly. Cold. "We do something sharper. We don't try to prove the lie true. We use the lie as bait."
He crouched low. He met Fikus's eyes. The informer flinched at the angle, at the calm hunger in Jake's face.
"We keep him alive," Jake said. "Hidden. He writes a confession—our confession, written by him. In it, he'll say Volkov—the Okhrana handler—ordered him to spread a rumor: that Comrade Orlov is a traitor."
Kamo blinked. He tried to follow the turn in Jake's mind and felt it like falling into a trap he wanted.
"Don't you see?" Jake's voice sharpened. "We don't expose Orlov. We 'save' him. We present this confession and reveal a new Okhrana tactic: they plant lies to make us suspect our own. We are the ones who uncovered it."
Kamo's jaw loosened. The plan unfolded in his head.
"We circulate the confession," Jake said. "We become the heroes who stopped the plot. We are loyal. Vigilant. Brilliant. And Orlov?" He let the word hang.
Kamo understood without being told.
"He'll be trapped," he said softly. "He'll owe us. He'll be watched."
"A leash made from his reputation," Jake finished. "We watch. The moment he slips, the lie looks true. We won't have to convince anyone. The structure will do it for us."
The idea sat in the room like a parasite. Brutal. Precise.
Kamo's anger drained away. Something else filled him—cold admiration. This was a kind of revolutionary craft he'd never imagined. It felt like art.
"Soso," he breathed. "This is—"
"This is how we win," Jake said.
He turned to Fikus and picked up the lantern. The light threw the informer's face into sudden clarity: pale, small, terrified.
"You have a choice," Jake said, softer now. "Die here and be forgotten. Or live. Help us save the revolution."
He smiled. It was humorless. It slid across Fikus like ice.
"You're going to become a writer."
From his coat Jake pulled paper and a pen. He pushed them across the wet floor until they hit Fikus's knee.
Fikus stared like a man seeing a snake. He looked at Jake, then at Kamo. The cellar felt smaller. Every breath sounded too loud.
He understood, finally. He would not be killed. He would be used.
His life depended on one thing now: the lie he could make look like truth on paper.