The wine cellar was a chamber of cold, silent dread. Thick stone walls, damp with the chill of the earth, absorbed all sound, creating an oppressive, claustrophobic quiet. The only light came from a single lantern placed on a wine barrel, its flickering flame casting long, dancing shadows that made the room feel alive with unseen things. Danilov was tied to a heavy oak chair, his struggles only tightening the ropes that bit into his wrists and ankles.
Kamo stood over him, cracking his knuckles, his face a mask of brutal anticipation. In his hand, he held a pair of rusted iron pliers. For Kamo, the path forward was simple, honest, and gruesome. He would start with the fingernails and work his way up.
"No," Jake said, his voice quiet but absolute. "Not yet."
Kamo stopped, turning to Jake with a look of frustrated disbelief. "Soso, this is not Fikus. This is not a sniveling informant. This is a killer. He will not be broken by words."
"Pain makes a man scream," Jake replied, his gaze fixed on Danilov. "Fear makes him talk. There is a difference." He gestured to the others. "Luka, Davit. Wait upstairs. Kamo, you stay. But you do not speak. You do not move. You are a decoration. Understood?"
Kamo grunted, a low rumble of discontent, but he stepped back into the shadows, the pliers still in his hand, a silent, menacing statue of impending violence. Jake pulled up a small stool and sat down directly in front of Danilov, their knees almost touching. The room was silent except for the ragged sound of Danilov's breathing and the slow, steady drip... drip... drip of water somewhere in the darkness.
Danilov, a man who had built his reputation on swagger and brutality, tried to project an image of defiance. "You are dead men," he spat, his voice trying for a snarl but coming out as a shaky rasp. "Orlov will hunt you down and hang your entrails from the lampposts."
Jake did not react. He simply watched, his expression calm, almost bored. He let the man's threats fade into the oppressive silence. He let the dripping water mark the passage of time. He let the fear build.
Finally, when the silence had stretched to a screaming tautness, Jake spoke, his voice soft, conversational, completely at odds with the grim setting. "You met Comrade Orlov three nights ago. At the Red Anchor tavern, in the back room. He gave you the order then."
Danilov's defiance faltered. A flicker of shock in his eyes.
"He paid you two hundred rubles," Jake continued, his voice never rising. "A fortune. It would have been enough to cover your gambling debts at Madame Elena's card house, with a bit left over. He told you the target was an Okhrana informant the party had captured. He told you it was a righteous, revolutionary act. A necessary cleansing."
Danilov's face had gone from pale to ashen. He was no longer staring at a revolutionary thug. He was staring at a man who had somehow peeled back the top of his skull and was reading the secrets inside. This was not an interrogation. It was a haunting.
"How… how do you know these things?" Danilov whispered, his bravado completely gone, replaced by a raw, primal fear.
"We know everything, Danilov," Jake said, leaning forward slightly. "We know about the message you received from the girl, Anna. We know you thought you were meeting a greedy fool. We know the name of the Okhrana sergeant you secretly report your gambling winnings to, to avoid trouble." Each fact was a hammer blow, delivered with the quiet precision of a master torturer, dismantling the man's psyche piece by piece.
"I don't know what you're talking about!" Danilov blustered, but the denial was weak, pathetic.
Jake sighed, a sound of disappointment. "I had hoped you would be intelligent. Kamo, the pliers."
Kamo took a heavy, deliberate step forward from the shadows, the iron pliers making a soft, metallic scrape as he opened and closed them. Danilov flinched, straining against his ropes, his eyes wide with animal terror.
"Wait!" he screamed, his voice cracking. "Wait! I'll talk!"
Jake held up a hand, and Kamo stopped, a silent, obedient beast.
"Yes," Danilov sobbed, the words tumbling out of him in a desperate, pathetic rush. "Yes, it's true. All of it. Orlov gave the order. He said Fikus was a liability, that he knew too much. He said Yagoda provided the location and the details of your security. It was their plan! I was just a soldier! I was just following a command from a senior party member!"
He was confessing to everything, trying to frame himself as a loyal, if misguided, follower. But Jake's expression remained unchanged. He was not interested in this part of the confession. He already knew it. He was waiting for something more.
"Why the rush?" Jake asked, his voice still quiet. "Why kill Fikus now? He was secure. He was no immediate threat. Why was it so urgent?"
"I… I don't know," Danilov stammered.
Jake glanced back at Kamo. The pliers scraped again.
"No, wait!" Danilov shrieked. "I do! I do know! It wasn't just about silencing Fikus! There's a shipment! A big one! Tomorrow night! Orlov was clearing the board, making sure there were no loose ends, no liabilities, before it arrives!"
Jake leaned forward, his calm demeanor finally cracking, replaced by an intense, focused urgency. "What shipment? Tell me everything."
"Arms," Danilov gasped, the hope of saving his own life making him eager to betray his masters completely. "The biggest shipment the Caucasus branch has ever received. Mauser pistols, dynamite, ammunition… everything. It's coming by train from Moscow, hidden in barrels of flour. It arrives tomorrow night at the freight yard."
He took a ragged breath and rushed on. "That's the real plan! The big prize! Yagoda and Orlov… their plan is to let us, the party, take possession of the weapons. They want all of our armed men, our entire fighting force, gathered in one place to receive it. And then… then they will lead the Okhrana directly to the warehouse. The Okhrana will get the guns, and they will get our entire armed wing. A single strike. They will wipe us out."
A profound, deathly silence descended on the cellar. Kamo stood frozen, the pliers hanging forgotten from his hand. The sheer scale of the betrayal was staggering. It wasn't just about feeding information. It was about orchestrating a historic, annihilating catastrophe.
Jake felt a cold dread wash over him. His plan had been to slowly, quietly, politically assassinate Orlov. He had thought he had time, that he was the one in control, setting the pace of the game. He had been wrong. The game was not on his schedule. The endgame was already in motion. He didn't have weeks. He had less than twenty-four hours.
Kamo looked at Jake, his face pale, his usual rage replaced by a dawning horror. "Soso," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "What do we do? We can't stop him. There's not enough time to warn everyone, to change the plan. They'll walk right into it."
Jake looked from the terrified, broken face of Danilov to the horrified one of Kamo. The board was set. The pieces were in motion. And in the space of a single heartbeat, a new, cold, and desperate calculation formed in his eyes. His enemy had just handed him a ticking clock. But a clock was also a weapon. He now had the perfect stage, the perfect crisis, to destroy Orlov. But using it would require an act of monumental and terrifyingly public ruthlessness.
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