The revolver in Kamo's hand was an extension of his will, a blunt instrument for a blunt purpose. The man on the floor was a liar, and liars who endangered the revolution deserved to die. It was a simple, clean equation. He squeezed the trigger, fully intending to punctuate Fikus's treachery with a spray of blood and brains on the damp brick wall.
But Soso stepped in the way.
"Wait," he had said, and for the second time that night, the simple word held the force of a physical barrier. Now, Kamo stared at him, his arm still outstretched, the gun aimed at his comrade's chest. The fury in his gut warred with the newfound, profound respect he had for Soso's strategic mind.
"Get out of the way, Soso," Kamo repeated, his voice a low growl. "He's a lying dog. He slanders a hero to save his own skin. He is worthless."
"No," Jake said, his voice eerily calm as he stared down the barrel of the gun. He didn't even seem to notice it. "He is not worthless. He is the most valuable weapon we have."
He took another step forward, forcing Kamo to lower his arm or press the gun directly into his chest. Kamo, begrudgingly, lowered the revolver.
"Of course he's lying to save his skin," Jake said, his words shocking Kamo into silence. "That's what makes his story so perfect. That's why it will work."
"Work?" Kamo scoffed, gesturing at the whimpering, pathetic informant on the floor. "He is a tool of the Okhrana. The only thing he is good for is fertilizing the ground."
Jake shook his head, a slow, deliberate motion. He began to pace the small, freezing space, his mind working with a terrifying clarity. He was no longer just reacting. He was building something. A machine. A trap.
"Think it through, Kamo," he said, turning to face his confused comrade. "Let's play out the game. What happens if you kill him right now?" He didn't wait for an answer. "We take the notebook to the Central Committee. We present it as evidence. We accuse Orlov, a man beloved by Lenin himself, of being a traitor. What happens then?"
He locked eyes with Kamo. "Orlov denies it. He claims, as you did just minutes ago, that the notebook is a clever forgery planted by the Okhrana. His powerful friends rally to his side. It becomes our word—the word of a street brawler and a pockmarked Georgian—against the word of a hero of the revolution. We will be the ones who look like agents provocateurs, trying to tear the party apart. We don't just lose, Kamo. We are destroyed."
The brutal, political logic of it was undeniable. Kamo's certainty began to waver. He had seen it happen before—good men torn down by whispers and accusations, the party consuming itself in fits of paranoia.
"So we do nothing?" Kamo asked, his voice filled with frustration. "We let Orlov continue to betray us?"
"No," Jake said, a thin, cold smile touching his lips. "We do something far more intelligent. We don't try to prove the lie is true. We will use the lie, as a lie, to tell a much more useful story."
He knelt down, getting on eye level with the terrified Fikus, who flinched away from him. "Our witness here will not testify that Orlov is a traitor. Our witness will 'confess' to something else entirely."
Jake stood up and faced Kamo again, his eyes gleaming with a strange, dark fire. "We will keep Fikus alive, hidden away. He will become a writer. He will write a full confession, dictated by us. In this confession, he will detail how his Okhrana handler, a man named Volkov, gave him a new, primary mission. He will 'confess' that Volkov ordered him, and other informants, to begin spreading a vicious rumor—the rumor that Comrade Orlov was a traitor."
Kamo stared at him, his brow furrowed, trying to follow the twisted path of Jake's logic.
"Don't you see?" Jake pressed, his voice filled with a conspirator's excitement. "We don't expose Orlov. We 'save' him. We reveal to the party leadership that the Okhrana has a new, insidious strategy: to destroy our movement from within by planting lies to make us suspect our greatest and most valuable leaders."
The sheer Machiavellian brilliance of the plan began to dawn on Kamo. His eyes widened.
"We circulate this confession," Jake continued, painting the picture. "We become the heroes who uncovered this dastardly plot. We are seen as loyal, vigilant, and strategically brilliant. And what does this do to Orlov?"
He didn't need to answer. Kamo saw it now. Orlov would be trapped. He would be forced to publicly thank them for their 'vigilance' in protecting his good name. He would be placed in a gilded cage, unable to move against the very men who were now his public saviors. Any attempt to discredit them would look like ingratitude, or worse, like a guilty man trying to silence his protectors.
"He will be on a leash," Kamo whispered, the words filled with awe.
"A leash made of his own reputation," Jake confirmed. "We can watch him. We can observe his every move. And the moment he makes a mistake, the moment he slips up, the 'lie' we have been so carefully protecting him from will suddenly start to look like the truth. We will not have to convince anyone. The evidence will speak for itself."
It was a plan of breathtaking cynicism. It was a masterpiece of political terror, using truth, lies, and the party's own paranoia as weapons. Kamo looked from Jake's intense, glowing face to the pathetic informant on the floor. He finally understood. Fikus wasn't a source of information anymore. He was a political tool. A living, breathing piece of propaganda.
Kamo slowly holstered his revolver. The rage was gone, replaced by a profound, chilling respect. This was a level of revolutionary warfare he had never even imagined. It was beautiful in its sheer, unadulterated ruthlessness.
"Soso," he breathed. "This is…"
"This is how we win," Jake finished for him.
He turned his back on Kamo and walked over to the shivering Fikus. He picked up the lantern and held it close to the man's face.
"You have a choice, Fikus," Jake said, his voice soft again. "You can die here, in this cellar, a forgotten traitor. Or you can live. You can help us save the revolution from a terrible threat." He smiled, a chilling, humorless expression. "You are going to become a writer."
He retrieved a pen and a few sheets of paper from his coat pocket, taken from the print shop earlier. He slid them across the damp floor until they touched the informant's knee.
Fikus stared at the pen and paper as if they were a snake and a scorpion. He looked up at Jake's impassive face, then at Kamo's grimly approving one. He finally understood. He was no longer just a prisoner who might be tortured and killed. He was a pawn in a game so deadly and complex he couldn't see the edges of the board. His life now depended entirely on his ability to write the perfect, most convincing lie.
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