The return to the wine cellar felt unreal, like walking through a dream made of stone and cold air. Kamo was almost shaking with excitement, his grin wide and wild.
"It worked, Soso! It worked!" he kept saying, the words echoing through the chamber. "They bought it completely! They think he's theirs!"
Danilov stumbled in behind him, pale and trembling. He looked like a man who had walked through hell and somehow crawled back. His eyes found Jake's and filled with a terrible, reverent fear—like he was staring at something no longer entirely human.
Jake didn't share Kamo's thrill. As he bolted the cellar door, his thoughts were still in the cathedral. That face—those sharp, intelligent eyes framed by a neat beard. Pyotr Stolypin.
The name hit him like a physical blow. The cold sweat came instantly. The man he had outwitted tonight wasn't some provincial officer; he was the state itself—the Tsar's mind and mailed fist. Jake had read about Stolypin's field trials, his "neckties," the efficient hangings that had crushed the 1905 revolution. Now that man knew of "Soso," and Jake's clever game suddenly felt like a child's trick in front of a lion.
He wasn't fighting policemen anymore. He had just drawn the attention of history's executioner.
"Soso?" Kamo's voice cut through the fog. "Did you hear me? What do we tell him to send next?"
Jake turned slowly. Kamo's grin faded at the sight of his face. Jake's voice was low, measured, but it silenced the room. "The game has changed."
He turned to Danilov, who flinched as Jake approached. Once, Jake had seen him as a liability. Now, the man was something else—a direct line to one of the most dangerous men in the empire.
"The meeting is over," Jake said. "The interrogation isn't."
He circled Danilov like a teacher pacing before a terrified pupil. "Tell me everything. Every word. Every pause. How he stood. What he didn't ask. The new codes, the drops, the signals. I want to see the meeting through your eyes."
For hours, they went over every detail. Jake listened, questioned, corrected. He wasn't just gathering intelligence—he was shaping it, turning Danilov into a proper double agent. He was learning how to manage a weapon made of human fear.
As Danilov spoke, a new plan began to form. Stolypin wouldn't be fooled by empty gossip or recycled lies. To make the deception work, Jake had to feed him something real—something that looked like a victory. And that meant sacrifice.
When Danilov finally slumped from exhaustion, Jake straightened and faced Kamo. "The time for pretending unity is over."
Kamo frowned. "What do you mean?"
"The Mensheviks," Jake said. "They compete with us for the workers' loyalty. Their weakness threatens us all. They slow the revolution down."
Kamo blinked, confused, as if he hadn't heard right.
"Stolypin needs proof this new 'asset' is valuable," Jake continued, his tone turning cold and deliberate. "We'll give him one. Danilov's first official report will expose the location of the Menshevik printing press."
Kamo's jaw dropped. "Soso… you'd feed them to the Okhrana? They're comrades, not enemies."
Jake didn't waver. "Anyone who isn't with us is against us. The Mensheviks are a disease we can't afford to carry. Their defeat strengthens us, and Stolypin gets his victory. Everyone wins—except them."
The words fell heavy in the silence. Even Danilov, half-conscious, looked up in horror.
Jake met Kamo's stare. "This is the new war. It isn't fought with guns or speeches. It's fought in the dark, with lies and betrayals. And we'll be better at it than anyone else."
He sat at the rough wooden table and began drafting Danilov's next report. The ink flowed steady, precise. Every sentence was both a truth and a weapon.
By the time he finished, Jake Vance—the man who had once studied history—was gone.
Only Stalin remained.