The message arrived in London on a damp, grey morning — a small packet of folded paper that felt heavier than it should. Jake waited until he was alone in his bare room, the city a distant, muffled roar, before he decoded it. It came from Danilov, routed through Kamo.
Handler is pleased, the text said. Highest commendation received. They have captured the "Menshevik traitor" Luka. Interrogation went as planned. His confession was judged a fabrication meant to sow discord. Testimony disregarded. Our position is secure. They now regard me as their primary, most reliable source. Trust is absolute.
Jake read it twice. Then a third time. He had won. He should have felt triumph. Instead there was only a cold, empty hush inside him.
He thought of Luka. Quiet eyes. The way Luka listened in meetings, head tilted, brow furrowed. The tannery, the set task — to be a witness, a memory of the party. A loyal man. A good man.
Jake had sent him into the Okhrana's hands. He had turned Luka's final act — the truth spat out under torture — into a stain. He had bent that truth until it branded Luka as traitor. He had traded a person's name for a safer secret.
Sitting on the edge of the lumpy mattress, the paper on his knee, Jake felt the ledger come alive. The numbers acquired faces. The calculus that had protected him felt suddenly like a blade.
A thought pushed through the guilt: Luka was still alive.
That should have ended the risk. Discredited, written off, left to rot. Yet as long as breath remained, a sliver of danger existed. A perceptive interrogator. New evidence. A twist that might resurrect the story.
The old Jake would have let the risk be. He would have lived beside the small, persistent fear. But the man who now wore Soso's name did not tolerate loose ends. He could not accept a crack in the foundation of the game he was building.
He had to make sure Luka was silenced. For good.
He couldn't call Kamo for a prison break; that would make Luka important. He couldn't risk other contacts. The fewer people who knew, the safer the lie. The only sensible option: make the enemy finish the job.
He opened his cipher book again. The moral collapse that had gripped him a moment before hardened into strategy. He composed a new message to Danilov, framed as urgent intelligence.
URGENT AND HIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL, it began. INTERNAL SITUATION IN TBILISI HAS BECOME UNSTABLE FOLLOWING LUKA'S CAPTURE. THE MENSHEVIKS ARE AGITATED, CLAIMING HE IS A MARTYR, NOT A TRAITOR.
MY LEADER, SOSO, IS MOVING TO CONSOLIDATE POWER AND ELIMINATE THREATS. HE IS OBSESSED WITH THE LUKA AFFAIR. HE FEARS A RESCUE BY MENSHEVIK ALLIES. MY SOURCES INDICATE SOSO IS PLANNING A HIGH-RISK RAID ON THE OKHRANA PRISON TO SILENCE LUKA PERMANENTLY, TO TIE UP LOOSE ENDS AND SEND A MESSAGE.
He read the paragraph twice. It was simple, blunt, poisonous in its logic. Tell Stolypin that a violent rescue was imminent and the state would want to remove the risk. The state's rational response: eliminate the prisoner quietly. No trials. No transports. No fuss.
Jake folded the page. He was about to make the state his executioner.
For a moment, as rain made black rivers on the windowpane, his chest tightened. This was the final cost. He was saving a revolution that might still change everything, but he was signing the death warrant of a man who had trusted him.
He tucked the cipher away. The moral question passed like a receding tide. In its place: an absolute, cold clarity. Loose ends could not be left alone.
He sent the message.