Two weeks passed in a tense kind of stillness. The letter to Lenin was gone—cast into the dark waters of the revolutionary underground—and Jake could do nothing but wait. The waiting became its own torture, a low hum of anxiety beneath every task, every breath.
He filled the silence with work. The cellar became the nerve center of something larger and sharper than before. His "security committee" was no longer a band of watchful thugs—it was an intelligence machine. Luka shadowed targets through the taverns; Anna watched the markets and factories; Jake wove their findings into a growing web of connections. He wasn't just fighting enemies now. He was managing paranoia itself.
To keep Stolypin's attention steady but unfocused, he had Danilov send harmless, plausible reports. Quarrels over stolen funds. A rumor of tension between rail workers and bakers. A supposed meeting with Jordania. Each one was crafted to look real but unimportant—a meal of scraps to keep the beast satisfied without ever letting it feast.
When Stolypin finally replied, the message was short—and devastatingly clever.
"Your reports on the party's factionalism are proving useful. You are surrounded by volatile and unreliable elements. To aid in your efforts to… manage… them, we have arranged a gift. A crate of Browning FN Model 1903 pistols awaits you at the port of Batumi. The customs officer there is one of ours. Collect them. Consider this a sign of mutual trust."
Kamo's grin split wide as he read over Jake's shoulder. "He believes us! He trusts Danilov completely! Soso, this is perfect—he's arming us to fight his own kind!" He clapped Jake's back hard enough to rattle his ribs.
But Jake didn't share the joy. His eyes stayed on the coded words, and dread crept up his spine. This wasn't generosity—it was a test.
He ran through the possibilities in silence, his mind flicking through each scenario like moves on a chessboard.
The first trap was crude and obvious: a setup. The "sympathetic officer" didn't exist, and the crate would be bait for an ambush. His men would walk into a massacre. But that was too simple for Stolypin.
The second was more refined: the guns were real, but traceable. Each serial number logged in St. Petersburg. The moment one appeared in a robbery or assassination, the Okhrana would have proof of Bolshevik collaboration. It would destroy them on command.
The third possibility—the real trap—was psychological. Stolypin knew the first two were predictable. He expected any intelligent revolutionary to suspect them and refuse. That was the real test: to see if Danilov's unseen controller was cautious or bold, fearful or fearless. To refuse would mark him as wary, calculating… and therefore not the reckless, desperate type the Okhrana thought it was dealing with. Refusal would expose him.
Jake understood it instantly. Stolypin wasn't offering weapons. He was offering a mirror—to see what stared back.
Kamo's grin faded as he caught the look on Jake's face. "What is it, Soso? You see something."
Jake exhaled slowly. "I see a box with a serpent inside, Kamo. And we're being dared to open it."
He explained the traps—each one, layer by layer—until even Kamo's expression turned grim.
"So we refuse," Kamo said at last. "We walk away."
Jake shook his head. "That's what he expects. That's what any careful man would do." His eyes sharpened. "We'll accept it—but not for us."
Kamo frowned. "Then for who?"
"For the people Stolypin despises almost as much as us," Jake said, the plan crystallizing even as he spoke. "The Dashnaks. The Armenian nationalists. They're desperate for arms. And they have gold."
He outlined it with chilling precision. A disposable intermediary—a nobody from Danilov's network—would broker the deal. The Dashnaks would buy the guns, unaware of their source. Stolypin's weapons would find their way into a different rebellion entirely. The Okhrana would trace them later and see chaos: confusion, infighting, proof of plots that didn't exist. Meanwhile, the Bolsheviks would walk away richer, cleaner, and more dangerous than before.
Jake's mouth curled into a thin, cold smile. "We'll turn his trap into profit. He won't know if we're geniuses or fools. And that doubt—" he looked at Kamo—"that doubt is the most powerful weapon of all."
Kamo said nothing. The audacity left him speechless.
Jake leaned over the decoded message again, the candlelight trembling across his face. The move was insane, impossible, and brilliant.
But then, so was the man making it.