The night was a frantic race against the dawn. The execution had solved one problem by creating a dozen more. In a small, secure backroom of a sympathetic bakery, the smell of fresh bread a bizarre counterpoint to the scent of gunpowder and fear that still clung to them, Jake gathered his new, de facto war council. Kamo was there, his earlier shock replaced by a grim, focused energy. Shaumian was there, his intellectual calm providing a steadying influence. And a handful of others, the ones whose faces had shown resolve instead of horror in the print shop, were there as well.
"The arms shipment is the only thing that matters now," Jake began, his voice cutting through the exhaustion in the room. He unrolled a hastily procured map of the Tbilisi rail yards, weighing the corners down with teacups. "Calling it off is not an option. The Okhrana are watching the yard. Yagoda is watching. If our men simply fail to show up, they will know the plan has been compromised. They will suspect a leak and immediately begin hunting for the source. They will tear the party apart looking for us. We cannot afford to hide."
Kamo slammed a fist on the table. "So we fight them? We set our own trap at the yard?"
"A gun battle with the Okhrana in the middle of the city?" Shaumian countered, his voice dry. "That would be a disaster. We would lose a dozen men, and the ensuing crackdown would strangle us."
"We will not hide, and we will not fight," Jake said, drawing their attention back to the map. "We will be smarter. We will not be the rats in their trap. We will be the exterminators who have taken over the trap."
He laid out his plan. It was audacious, complex, and bore the hallmarks of a mind thinking on a completely different strategic level. It was a classic bait-and-switch, a shell game played with human lives and tons of steel.
"The enemy's plan has a weakness," Jake explained, his finger tracing the path of the railway line into the city. "They are expecting us to be greedy and stupid. They are expecting all of our strength to be focused on one place, at one time. We will give them exactly what they expect to see."
He looked at Kamo. "You will assemble a decoy team. Ten men. Our best actors. They will proceed with the original plan. They will go to the freight yard, meet the train, and unload the crates from the designated cargo car. They will load them onto carts and transport them to the designated warehouse." He paused. "But the crates they are moving will be filled with rocks and sand."
A slow smile spread across Kamo's face as he understood.
"This team is crucial," Jake stressed. "They must look the part. They must look busy, anxious, like they are pulling off the biggest score of their lives. They are the actors on the stage. Their job is to draw the Okhrana's eyes, to hold their attention."
"And the real weapons?" Shaumian asked, leaning forward, his eyes alight with interest.
"The real weapons will never reach the freight yard," Jake said, his finger moving two kilometers up the track on the map, to a desolate stretch of railway bordered by abandoned industrial lots. "Here. This is where we will get them."
He explained the second part of the plan. Nikolay, the logistics man, had a cousin who worked as a switchman on the night shift. A hefty "donation" to the party from the man's own paymaster had secured his loyalty. Before the train from Moscow reached the main yard, the switchman would decouple the specific cargo car—Car 73, the one with the weapons—and shunt it onto an old, disused siding.
"Kamo," Jake continued, "your main force, your best and strongest men, will be waiting there. In secret. You will unload the real cargo—the Mausers, the dynamite—and transport it to a new, secure location."
"Where?" Kamo asked.
"The wine cellar," Jake said, a grim irony in his voice. "We have already cleared out the previous occupants. It is deep, secure, and known only to us. It will be our new arsenal."
The plan was set. It was a symphony of deception, requiring precise timing, iron discipline, and absolute secrecy.
The next night, Jake stood on the flat roof of a tenement building overlooking the main freight yard. The air was cold and sharp. He held a pair of heavy, military-style spyglasses, a recent acquisition from Danilov's confiscated belongings. Beside him, a young runner stood ready. Below, the yard was a chaotic web of tracks and steam, the hiss of engines and the clang of metal on metal echoing through the night.
Through the lenses, he watched his play unfold. He saw the decoy team, led by a capable lieutenant, moving into position. He saw the train arrive, its brakes screeching. He watched his men begin the laborious process of unloading the heavy crates filled with rocks, their movements a perfect performance of revolutionary urgency.
His runner returned, panting. "Kamo sends word, comrade. The car is on the siding. They have begun unloading. No problems."
Jake felt a surge of adrenaline. Both parts of the plan were in motion.
He scanned the perimeter of the yard, his spyglasses moving past the workers to the shadows beyond. And then he saw them. Dozens of them. Okhrana agents and uniformed police, materializing from the darkness, surrounding the decoy warehouse. They were led by a police captain, his chest puffed out with the confidence of a man about to land the biggest catch of his career.
On a silent signal, the police captain blew his whistle, and the trap was sprung. The agents swarmed the warehouse, kicking in the doors, their shouts echoing across the yard.
Jake watched, his heart pounding. The decoy team played their part perfectly. They put up a token, brief resistance before being "overwhelmed" and surrendering, just as he had instructed.
He watched the police captain stride into the warehouse, his chest swelling with victory. A moment later, he watched the man storm back out, his face a mask of pure, apoplectic fury. The officer kicked a crate, which broke open, spilling a cascade of useless rocks and sand onto the ground.
The grand Okhrana raid was a catastrophic, humiliating failure. Their perfect intelligence had led them to a dozen men and a pile of rocks.
A cold, thin smile touched Jake's lips. His men were safe. The weapons were secure. He had turned the enemy's greatest gambit into their greatest embarrassment.
But as he continued to scan the chaos, his smile vanished. His spyglasses settled on a distant, dark alley, far from the main action. Two figures stood there, cloaked in shadow, observing the failed raid. One was the high-level government official from the cemetery. The other, his face grim and illuminated for a moment by a striking match, was Yagoda.
They were not part of the raid. They were the architects, watching their masterpiece burn. Yagoda's expression was not one of simple defeat or anger. It was one of cold, sharp, calculating assessment. He was analyzing the failure, understanding its implications. He now knew, with absolute certainty, that his intelligence had not just been faulty. It had been deliberately compromised. He knew that the Bolsheviks didn't just have a leak; they had a new, dangerously competent leader who had anticipated his every move.
Jake lowered the spyglasses, a chill colder than the night air seeping into his bones. He hadn't just won a battle. He hadn't just embarrassed the police. He had just declared war on a man he knew would become one of history's most ruthless monsters. And Yagoda was now staring back across the darkness, right at him.
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