The Brotherhood Church in Hackney smelled of damp stone and old hymnbooks. Its pews had been ripped out and replaced with rows of unsteady wooden chairs. The house of God had become a battlefield of men.
Three hundred delegates packed the space—Bolsheviks, Mensheviks, Bundists, Poles, Latvians. The air throbbed with noise, with Russian, Yiddish, and German shouting over one another, with the haze of cigarette smoke so thick it stung the eyes. Jake sat near the back with the delegates from the Caucasus, feeling a dizzy rush of disbelief.
Just months ago, he had ruled a cellar in Tbilisi. Now he was inside history itself.
On stage, Lenin was in full fire. Small, intense, eyes burning, he called for a disciplined, centralized party of revolutionaries. His sharp voice cut through the chaos like a knife.
Across from him, Julius Martov rose to reply—his rival, his mirror. Martov's words were smooth, eloquent, calling for democracy, inclusion, and debate. To Jake, it was the same fatal softness he'd seen destroy movements back home.
But Jake wasn't here to debate. Lenin had given him another mission.
He was the whip.
While the ideologues shouted about purity and principle, Jake moved in silence through the corridors and smoky pubs. His task: to keep every wavering Bolshevik delegate in line. Especially the soft ones from the provinces, the ones who might get charmed by Martov's speeches.
It wasn't work for a thug. It was work for a chess player.
His first target was Borodin from Odessa—weak chin, weaker will, and a ruinous love for cards. Jake found him at a pub table surrounded by empty glasses.
"Comrade Borodin," Jake said warmly, sliding into the seat beside him. "Rough night? These London gamblers will skin a man alive."
Borodin's face went pale.
Jake smiled, casual and friendly. "The party understands comrades sometimes face… temporary difficulties. There's a small fund for emergencies. We can help—so long as we all keep helping the cause."
The meaning was clear. The vote was bought.
Next came Gusev from the Urals—vain, pompous, still sulking about not getting a speaking slot. Jake caught him near the church doors, watching the crowd like a man who felt unseen.
"A powerful speech yesterday, Comrade Gusev," Jake said smoothly, referencing some rambling comment Gusev had made earlier. "I spoke with the editors of Proletary. They said your remarks on the factory councils deserved publication. I could mention your name again."
Gusev's back straightened instantly. "Ah. Of course. Anything to serve the central line."
Another vote secured. No money this time. Just ego.
The harder ones were the honest ones—the thinkers.
Jake sat beside a young delegate from a textile town outside Moscow, a man torn between Martov's ideals and Lenin's discipline. His eyes were bright, sincere. Dangerous.
Jake didn't argue Marx or Engels. He told a story.
"In Tbilisi," he said quietly, "we had Mensheviks on our committee. Honest men. They believed, like you, that every voice mattered. That decisions must be made by consensus."
He paused. "While they debated, a traitor named Orlov sold our secrets to the Okhrana. We found out the night before a raid that could've killed us all. They wanted to talk it over. I didn't."
He leaned closer, voice low. "They wanted democracy. I wanted survival."
The young man said nothing. He didn't need to. Another vote turned.
It became a pattern.
By day, Martov inspired them with grand words about democracy.
By night, Jake haunted their conversations, whispering about the price of hesitation, the bodies left behind.
Martov sold them a dream. Jake sold them a chance to live long enough to see it.
The crucial vote came on the third day—something dull on paper, a procedural motion about the agenda. But everyone knew it would decide the balance of power for the rest of the Congress.
Jake spotted two of his provincial delegates near the aisle, whispering with a Menshevik. He moved immediately, calm as a man fetching tea.
He placed a hand on each shoulder. "Comrades," he said softly. "A word."
In the corner, he spoke gently, almost kindly. "I just received a message from home," he said. "The Okhrana released a new list of wanted revolutionaries from your district. Your names aren't on it. Let's keep it that way, yes? The party protects its loyal men."
The words were soft. The meaning was not.
The delegates nodded mutely and returned to their seats, pale and shaking.
The vote began. Each ballot folded, dropped, counted. The hall was thick with dread.
Then—the result.
Lenin's motion passed.
By three votes.
The exact three Jake had secured.
From the stage, Lenin met his eyes and gave the smallest nod. Nothing more. But Jake knew what it meant. He had delivered.
The Congress roared around him, cheers and curses mixing into chaos. Jake just sat there for a moment, breathing slow. He'd done the work that no one would thank him for—and the party had won because of it.
As he was leaving, a young courier intercepted him—nervous, out of breath. "From Tbilisi, comrade," the boy whispered, pressing a folded note into Jake's hand. "Marked urgent."
Jake slipped it into his coat pocket. The paper felt heavier than gold.
Two worlds—Lenin's London and Stolypin's Russia—had just collided again.