The door closed with a soft click, sealing Jake inside the smoke-filled backroom of The Crown and Anchor. The noise of the pub faded, replaced by the low hum of voices and the crackle of cheap cigarettes. The air was thick—tobacco, damp wool, and tension.
No one spoke.
Half a dozen men simply watched him, their faces half-hidden by the haze.
Jake recognized them all.
It was like stepping into a nightmare version of his old history classroom. Zinoviev—round face, restless eyes. Kamenev—calm, careful, with his scholar's stare behind round spectacles. The others he knew from the history books too: lieutenants of revolution, future rulers of an empire that didn't yet exist.
And at the head of the table sat Vladimir Lenin.
"Sit, Comrade Stalin," Lenin said. His voice wasn't hostile, just absolute.
Jake obeyed, forcing his hands to stay steady as he placed them on the table. He'd faced Okhrana agents, ordered executions—but this was different. This was an interrogation by minds far sharper than bullets.
Lenin leaned forward through the haze. His eyes were hard and alive, studying Jake like an insect under glass.
"Your letter was… compelling," he said. "But letters are theory. I deal in facts. The split with the Mensheviks—how real is it?"
It began. The test.
Jake drew a slow breath. "It's complete, Comrade Ulyanov," he said evenly. "We still share meeting halls, but the ideology is beyond repair. They cling to the bourgeois phase, dreaming of alliances with Kadets. They still think history can be negotiated with."
Lenin's gaze didn't move. "And the oil workers in Baku? Organized?"
That was the trap—testing field knowledge. Jake answered without hesitation. "Angry, but scattered. The companies pit Armenian against Azeri, Russian against both. The Mensheviks exploit it better. Our people drown in theory while they win with bread."
Lenin's eyes sharpened slightly. Interest.
Jake pressed on. "The railway workers in Tbilisi—it's the same story. The Mensheviks promise safer hours, higher wages. We promise the future. They're offering relief; we're offering salvation. To win, we must give them both."
He leaned forward. "The revolution must feed the workers before it can lead them. We can't only speak of history's arc. We must prove that we can change their tomorrow, not just their grandchildren's."
For a heartbeat, the room went still. Jake had hit the nerve. This was the language Lenin spoke—the fusion of theory and action.
Then Zinoviev sneered. "Action? Your Caucasus comrades call it theft. Expropriations, robberies—banditry dressed up as ideology."
Before Jake could answer, Lenin waved him silent. "A party at war needs weapons," he said coldly. "And war costs money." He turned back to Jake. "Tell us about the traitor Orlov."
This was the true test.
Jake straightened. His tone turned colder, his eyes steady. "Orlov was a rot in the bone," he said. "He hid behind old friendships, using the party's sentimentality as cover. When I found him, the Okhrana was hours from destroying our entire network. We didn't have time for debate."
He let the words hang before finishing. "I made the decision. The infection had to be cut out before it spread. So I cut it."
He said it flatly—no remorse, no pride. Just fact.
The silence that followed was deep and heavy. Even Zinoviev looked uneasy.
Lenin leaned back, a faint smile flickering behind the smoke. "Correct."
One word. But it was everything.
Jake felt the breath leave his lungs. He had passed. Not just as an organizer, but as one of them. He had proven that his mind belonged in this room.
The discussion moved on to party logistics, but Jake barely heard it. His focus shattered only when a new voice spoke—smooth, ironic, and edged with arrogance.
"Sharp analysis, comrade from the Caucasus," the man said.
Jake turned. Wild hair, sharp eyes, and that unmistakable goatee. Leon Trotsky.
"You think like a manager," Trotsky continued, voice smooth as a blade. "Efficient. Disciplined. A policeman of the revolution." He smiled faintly. "But revolutions are not managed, comrade—they are imagined. You speak of control, of results, of operations. Admirable. But tell us—what do you see?"
He leaned forward, eyes gleaming with challenge. "What is your vision, Comrade Stalin?"