Three days passed.
Three days of living in the shadows, fueled by stale bread, black tea, and a simmering, nervous energy. The ice house had become their secret chancellery, the place where a new kind of war was being waged. Under Jake's meticulous guidance, Fikus wrote. The informant, stripped of his bluster, proved to be a surprisingly good student. Fear was a powerful motivator.
Jake didn't just dictate; he crafted. He drew on his deep well of historical knowledge, peppering the confession with the correct party jargon, the right revolutionary rhetoric, making it sound not like the words of a terrified tavern owner, but like a genuine document from the heart of the struggle. He had Fikus describe his fictional Okhrana handler, "Sergeant Volkov," in vivid detail—a man with a limp, a fondness for cheap cigarettes, a cruel sense of humor. These small, authenticating details made the lie breathe. The confession became a masterpiece of fabrication, a signed testament to a plot that had been born entirely in Jake's mind.
When it was finished, they made three copies. Not on a printing press, which would be too traceable, but by hand, painstakingly transcribed by Pyotr, whose neat, academic script was perfect for the task.
Now came the delicate part: the dissemination. A public announcement would be too crude. This poison needed to be administered with a needle, not a bucket.
"Kamo," Jake instructed, handing him the first copy. "Share this with your men. The fighters. The ones who trust you." He wasn't just giving an order; he was reinforcing Kamo's status as a leader. "Tell them this is a secret. A grave warning. Let them feel the importance of it. Let them spread it themselves, in whispers, in the taverns and the docks."
Kamo took the document with a reverent gravity, nodding grimly. He understood. This wasn't just a letter; it was a test of loyalty and a tool for building their own internal faction.
The second copy was given to a quiet, reliable woman named Elene, the same medic who had tended to Giorgi's arm. "Comrade Elene," Jake said, "you have family in Kutaisi. You are traveling there to see them. On the way, you will meet with the party secretary there. You will give him this. Tell him you recovered it from the traitor Fikus. Tell him you fear for the security of the entire Caucasus network."
By sending the message out of the city, he was ensuring the rumor would not just spread, but would eventually echo back to Tbilisi from an outside source, giving it the illusion of independent verification.
The third copy, Jake kept for himself. It was for the most important target.
He requested a private meeting with a man named Stepan Shaumian, a senior Bolshevik known throughout the party for his sharp intellect and cautious, steady temperament. He was not one of Orlov's cronies, nor was he a hot-headed radical like Kamo. He was a thinker, a man respected for his judgment. He was the perfect political ground to seed.
They met in the back of a dusty bookstore that smelled of decaying paper and old leather. Shaumian, a man with a neat beard and tired, intelligent eyes behind spectacles, listened patiently as Jake laid out his story.
Jake presented himself not as an accuser, but as a worried subordinate, a dutiful soldier grappling with a threat beyond his station. "Comrade Shaumian," he began, his voice filled with feigned humility and grave concern. "I come to you because I do not know who else to trust with this. We have uncovered something… disturbing."
He slid the confession across the table. "The informant Fikus confessed to more than just taking money. He revealed a new Okhrana strategy. A plan to destroy us by turning us against our most valuable leaders. They are spreading rumors that men like Comrade Orlov are traitors."
Shaumian read the document, his expression unreadable. When he finished, he looked up at Jake, his gaze sharp and analytical. "This is a serious claim, Soso. You believe this document to be genuine?"
"I believe the threat it describes is genuine," Jake said carefully. "Whether the informant is telling the whole truth, or merely what his masters told him to say, the result is the same. A poison has been introduced into the party. I felt it was my duty to bring this to a man of your wisdom, to seek your counsel on how we protect ourselves, and how we protect the reputation of good comrades like Orlov."
Shaumian was silent for a long time. "Your caution and strategic thinking do you credit, comrade," he finally said. "You have handled this with a maturity that is… impressive. You were right to bring this to me. We must be vigilant."
Jake had his first influential convert. He hadn't created an ally in a power struggle, but he had cultivated a powerful observer who now saw him as a shrewd protector of the revolution, not just a street-level thug.
The inevitable summons came two days later. A message from Orlov, requesting a private meeting.
They met in the same print shop backroom, but this time they were alone. The air was thick with unspoken accusations. Orlov was standing by the cold printing press, his arms crossed. He did not smile.
"I have heard stories, Comrade Soso," Orlov began, his voice dangerously soft. "Stories of a captured informant. Of a diabolical Okhrana plot. Stories that paint you as the vigilant savior of my reputation."
"I only did my duty to the party," Jake replied, his face a mask of calm impassivity.
"Your 'duty' seems to have made you very popular," Orlov countered, a sneer touching his lips. He took a step closer. "It's a clever story. Very clever. One might almost think you wrote it yourself."
"The informant wrote it," Jake said, his voice flat. "I was merely the interrogator."
Orlov stared at him, his eyes burning with a cold fire. He was trapped and he knew it. He had to publicly endorse the narrative that saved him, even as he privately choked on it. "See that you remember that," he hissed. He then forced a smile that was more terrifying than his anger. "Your loyalty and quick thinking are a credit to the party, Comrade Soso. The revolution needs men like you."
"We must all be vigilant in protecting our most valuable leaders, Comrade Orlov," Jake replied, his voice equally devoid of warmth. "A man of your stature is always the enemy's primary target."
Every word was a razor blade, a veiled threat wrapped in the language of loyalty. Orlov knew that Jake knew. And Jake knew that Orlov knew. The war was no longer secret.
He left the meeting feeling a cold sense of victory, but it was a victory that brought no warmth. That night, guilt and a profound sense of isolation gnawed at him. He slipped out and made his way across the city to the street where Kato was staying. He didn't go to the apartment. He just stood in the shadows across the way, watching the faint candlelight in her window.
He had brought her some money and a parcel of food the day before. The encounter had been brief and agonizingly polite. She had thanked him, her eyes focused on the wall behind him. She hadn't asked where he had been. She hadn't asked if he was safe. The questions were gone, replaced by a careful, fearful distance. He was a stranger who brought her things, a dangerous ghost haunting the edges of her life. The chasm between them was now a canyon.
As he stood there, watching her light, a figure emerged from the shadows of his own alley. It was Kamo.
"The plan is working," Kamo whispered, his voice hoarse with excitement. "The story is everywhere. Everyone is talking about the Okhrana's new plot." He paused, his excitement dimming slightly. "But there is something else. Something… strange."
"What is it?" Jake asked, turning away from Kato's window.
"The confession," Kamo said, frowning. "Remember the detail about the drop-box? The loose brick behind the old butchery on the Armenian street? The one you made Fikus add to make it sound more convincing?"
Jake nodded, his stomach tightening.
"Levan," Kamo continued, "the hot-head. He heard the story. On his own, he went to the location. To see for himself. He didn't believe it could be real."
"And?" Jake pressed, a cold dread seeping into him.
"And it was real, Soso," Kamo said, his eyes wide. "The brick was loose. And tucked behind it, he found this." He held up a tiny, folded piece of paper. "It's an Okhrana marker. A real one. The spot is active."
Jake stared at the tiny piece of paper. The world seemed to tilt on its axis. His perfect, fabricated lie—a lie designed to control his reality—had just accidentally stumbled upon a separate, dangerous, and completely unknown truth.
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