The coded reply to Stolypin was more than a message—it was a death warrant. A declaration of war.
By sending it off to Tbilisi, Jake had set a chain reaction in motion, one he now had to outrun. He had "predicted" the Tiflis bank robbery to the enemy. Now, he had to make sure it actually happened—but under his control. He needed to turn the trap he'd created into a victory his people could survive.
History, at least, was on his side. The 1907 Tiflis bank robbery was inevitable—a legendary moment in Bolshevik lore. Kamo, back home, was likely deep in its planning already. But Jake knew something the others didn't: the Congress he was sitting in had forbidden such actions.
Lenin had publicly supported the resolution banning armed "expropriations." Too many comrades had called them banditry. Too many allies had been alienated.
Privately, though, Lenin still needed the money—and the guns it could buy.
Jake couldn't just tell Kamo to proceed. If the operation failed, the Congress would disavow it instantly. Kamo and his men would hang while the party washed its hands clean.
He needed protection. Political cover. Someone powerful enough to shield the operation—and funnel the gold straight to Lenin's faction when it succeeded.
He couldn't go to Lenin directly. The man's public stance made that impossible.
Zinoviev and Kamenev? Idealists. Too careful. Too soft.
He needed a different kind of ally.
A pragmatist. A man who understood that revolutions didn't run on ideals—they ran on cash.
Jake had his name: Leonid Krasin.
Krasin was a ghost at the Congress—a quiet presence behind the speeches. An engineer by trade, an intellectual by reputation, and the Bolsheviks' chief of the dark arts. Fundraising, logistics, explosives—anything dirty that the theorists preferred not to touch.
He was the one who made sure the revolution actually functioned.
Jake arranged a meeting through an intermediary. They met at dusk, on a fog-draped bench in a London park. Krasin was tall, well-dressed, his beard neatly trimmed, his voice smooth and professional. He looked like a banker—one who could also build a bomb.
"Comrade Stalin," Krasin said, his tone calm, almost polite. "I'm told you wish to discuss… practical matters."
Jake nodded. "The party is broke," he said flatly. "We argue about resolutions we don't have the funds to carry out. Words won't print pamphlets. Talk won't buy rifles."
A faint smile flickered at the edge of Krasin's mouth. "And you have a solution, I assume?"
"I do." Jake met his eyes. "My organization in Tbilisi has the discipline and the means to secure a large sum for the party. Enough to fund everything—from propaganda to operations—for years."
He didn't need to say the word. Krasin understood immediately.
"Such actions are… delicate," Krasin said. "The Congress has outlawed them. If your men are caught, the party will condemn them. The Mensheviks will use it to destroy us."
"That's why I came to you," Jake replied, lowering his voice. "I don't need official approval. I need someone who can handle the funds once they're secured. Someone who can get the gold to Lenin's faction without it getting lost in committee debates or moral outrage."
He let the implication settle.
This wasn't just a plan—it was a conspiracy.
Krasin studied him for a long moment. The man had seen enough operators to know one when he met one. In Jake, he recognized a kindred pragmatist—a doer in a sea of dreamers.
Finally, Krasin smiled. "Your reputation precedes you, Comrade Stalin. They say you get things done. It seems they are right."
He extended a hand. "You bring me the funds. I'll make sure they reach the right hands."
Jake shook it. The deal was sealed.
A partnership forged in the London fog—one that would change the revolution's future.
Back in his rented room, Jake's pulse was still racing. The path was clear now. Stolypin's trap would be redirected. The operation would happen on Jake's terms.
He opened his cipher book and began writing the message that would set history ablaze.
LIQUIDATE STATE BANK ASSETS. PROCEED WITH OPERATION BEAR. KRASIN WILL HANDLE DISPERSAL FROM EUROPEAN SIDE.
He paused, the pen hovering. This wasn't just another report. He was authorizing history—rewriting it. And he needed to give his men a fighting chance.
He added one more line:
EXPECT HEAVY RESISTANCE. ENEMY HAS FOREKNOWLEDGE. PROCEED ACCORDINGLY. TRUST NO ONE.
He encoded it, sealed it, and leaned back in his chair.
The pieces were in motion now—Kamo, Lenin, Stolypin, Krasin.
And Jake Vance, the man who wasn't supposed to exist, was moving them all.
It was madness. Genius. Suicide and strategy in equal measure.
And for the first time in weeks, Jake smiled.
He had never felt more alive.