Three days passed.
Three days of hiding, breathing dust and cold air, living on stale bread and bitter tea. The ice house had turned into their new headquarters—a place not for rest, but for quiet warfare. Under Jake's watch, Fikus wrote. The man who once begged for his life now bent over paper like a schoolboy fearing his teacher. Fear, Jake discovered, made for excellent discipline.
He didn't just dictate; he shaped every word. He filled the pages with careful phrasing and the right kind of revolutionary rhetoric. It had to sound real, not polished. A report that would live and breathe inside the party's bloodstream. Fikus's trembling hand copied Jake's words, describing a phantom Okhrana handler—"Sergeant Volkov," a man with a limp and a taste for cheap tobacco. Details made lies breathe, and this one inhaled like truth.
When the confession was done, they made three copies. Not printed—too dangerous—but written by hand. Pyotr, with his clean, schoolteacher's handwriting, copied every line. Each stroke was a quiet oath of conspiracy.
Then came the spreading of the rumor. Jake treated it like handling poison—measured, deliberate.
"Kamo," he said, handing over the first copy, "give this to your men. The fighters who trust you. Tell them it's a secret, a warning. Let it travel by whisper, not speech."
Kamo took the paper as if it were holy scripture. He knew this was more than a document—it was a test, a weapon, and a bond of loyalty.
The second copy went to Elene, the medic who once patched Giorgi's arm. Jake handed it to her in private. "You're visiting family in Kutaisi," he said. "On the way, meet the party secretary there. Give him this. Tell him it came from a captured traitor. Tell him you fear for the whole network."
He wasn't sending a report; he was planting a rumor that would grow in circles, until one day it would come back to Tbilisi from a different mouth. Truth, born from repetition.
The third copy stayed with Jake. It was for the most delicate use.
He requested an audience with Stepan Shaumian—a senior Bolshevik known for his intellect and steadiness. Shaumian wasn't a fanatic or a loyalist to Orlov. He was the kind of man who thought before he spoke, which made him the perfect listener.
They met in a bookstore that smelled of dust and old glue. Shaumian looked tired but sharp behind his glasses. Jake approached him with the careful humility of a man carrying bad news.
"Comrade Shaumian," Jake began. "I don't know who else to trust. We uncovered something… troubling."
He slid the paper across the table. "An informant confessed. He spoke of a new Okhrana plan—to destroy us by making us suspect our own. They're spreading rumors that heroes like Comrade Orlov are traitors."
Shaumian read in silence. His eyes moved slowly, deliberately. When he looked up, his voice was measured. "You believe this?"
"I believe the danger is real," Jake said. "Even if the confession is half-truth, the effect is the same. The party's being poisoned from within. I only wish to protect our comrades, men like Orlov."
Shaumian studied him for a long moment. Then he nodded. "You were right to come to me. You handled this well, comrade. We must stay alert."
Jake left the meeting with the faint satisfaction of a man who had set the first stone of a fortress. Shaumian was not his ally—but he was now his believer.
Two days later, the summons arrived. Orlov wanted to see him.
They met in the same print shop, this time without witnesses. The air was thick. Orlov stood beside the silent press, arms crossed.
"I've heard stories," he said quietly. "A captured informant. An Okhrana scheme. And somehow, these stories make me the victim—and you, my savior."
"I only served the party," Jake said.
Orlov's smile was thin and sharp. "Your 'service' made you famous. Clever. Almost too clever. One might think you wrote the story yourself."
Jake's eyes didn't flicker. "The informant wrote it. I only asked questions."
The silence between them crackled. Orlov stepped closer, voice low. "See that you remember that, Soso." Then, forcing a smile, he added, "Your loyalty is admirable. The revolution needs sharp men like you."
Jake returned the smile with equal frost. "We all must protect our most valuable leaders, Comrade Orlov. Especially those the enemy would most want to destroy."
Every word between them was a knife. Both men bled in silence.
That night, Jake wandered through the dark streets alone. He found himself outside Kato's apartment, staring up at the small glow behind her curtains. He had brought her food and money the day before. She had thanked him politely, without looking him in the eyes. No warmth. No questions. Only distance.
He didn't knock. He just watched the light, as if it could burn through the guilt pressing against his ribs.
A shape moved behind him. Kamo stepped out of the shadows. His voice was rough, urgent.
"The plan's working," he whispered. "The story's everywhere. Everyone's talking about the Okhrana's new trick." He hesitated. "But there's… something else."
Jake turned from the window. "What?"
"The detail in the confession," Kamo said. "The drop-box behind the old butchery—the brick you made Fikus add to make it sound real."
Jake's stomach sank. "Yes?"
"Levan went there. He wanted to see it himself."
Jake's pulse quickened. "And?"
Kamo's eyes were wide. "The brick was loose. Behind it was this." He held up a small folded paper. "An Okhrana marker. Real. The place is active."
Jake stared at it. The room, the city, the world—all tilted.
He had built a lie to control the truth. And now, somehow, the truth had answered back.