The steps of the Okhrana headquarters on Golovin Avenue were wide and intimidating, polished stone designed to make any man who ascended them feel small and insignificant. Pyotr Dolidze, or the man who was now Luka Mikeladze, kept his eyes fixed on the ornate double doors at the top. Each step was a lifetime. He could feel the worn, smooth texture of the photograph in his coat pocket, a talisman against the tidal wave of terror that threatened to drown him. He was not Pyotr, the drunkard, walking to his death. He was Luka, the revolutionary, walking to his martyrdom. He had to believe it. It was the only thing holding the pieces of his shattered mind together.
He pushed open the heavy door and stepped inside. The interior was even more imposing than the facade. A cavernous, marble-floored hall echoed with the sharp footsteps of uniformed officers and the quiet, purposeful hum of the state's machinery of fear. A large, gilded portrait of Tsar Nicholas II stared down at him with serene indifference.
Pyotr walked to the main reception desk, where a bored-looking officer sat stamping papers. "I am here to turn myself in," he said, his voice surprisingly steady. He had rehearsed this line a hundred times in his head.
The officer looked up, his expression one of pure annoyance. "Turn yourself in for what? Public drunkenness? Spitting on the sidewalk? Get out of here before I have you thrown out."
"My name is Luka Mikeladze," Pyotr said, forcing himself to meet the man's gaze. "I am a member of the Bolshevik party. I believe you have been looking for me."
The officer's bored expression vanished, replaced by a sharp, sudden alertness. The name Mikeladze was electric in this building. It was the name of the ghost at the center of the most high-profile case the Tbilisi directorate had handled in years. The officer was on his feet in an instant, his hand instinctively going to the pistol at his hip. "Stay where you are!" he barked, his voice suddenly loud in the echoing hall. "Guards!"
Within seconds, Pyotr was surrounded by two large, thuggish policemen who grabbed his arms in painful, iron grips. They dragged him away from the public hall and into the labyrinthine corridors of the building's interior, their boots clattering on the stone floors. He was thrown into a small, windowless room, the air cold and smelling of damp stone and stale fear. The door slammed shut, the bolt shooting home with a sound of absolute finality.
He was alone. The terror he had held at bay now threatened to consume him. He sank onto the single hard bench, his body trembling. He pulled the photograph from his pocket. He stared at the face of the woman, Elene, and the two small children. For them, he thought, repeating the mantra Soso had burned into his brain. My death will give them a life. He was not Pyotr. He was Luka. He clung to the name, to the persona, as a drowning man clings to a piece of driftwood.
The first interrogator was exactly as Soso had described. A bull of a man with a thick neck and small, brutish eyes. He entered the room and circled Pyotr like a wolf, his presence radiating pure physical menace.
"So," the officer grunted, his voice a low growl. "You are the famous Luka Mikeladze. You look rather alive for a dead man." He leaned in close, his breath smelling of garlic and cheap tobacco. "We can fix that. Start talking. Who helped you? Where have you been hiding?"
Pyotr took a breath. This was the first test. He channeled the memory of Soso's own brutal, role-played interrogations. He looked the officer in the eye, his expression one of weary defiance. "I am here to seek the protection of the state," he said, his voice raspy. "Not to be threatened by its dogs."
The officer's face contorted in a snarl, but before he could resort to violence, the door opened and another man entered. This one was different. He was thin, dressed in a well-tailored civilian suit, and held a lit cigarette in a long, elegant holder. His eyes were intelligent, cynical, and deeply amused. He was the scalpel to the first man's sledgehammer.
"That will be all, Denisov," the newcomer said, his voice calm and cultured. "Your talents are better suited for cracking skulls than unraveling stories."
The bull grunted and left the room. The thin man sat down opposite Pyotr, took a long drag from his cigarette, and blew a perfect smoke ring. "Captain Volkov," he introduced himself. "I handle the more… intricate cases. So, you are Luka Mikeladze. The man whose murder is set to hang the respected Comrade Shaumian. A remarkable coincidence, your return. Don't you think?"
"There is no coincidence," Pyotr said, his voice gaining a measure of strength. This was the part he had rehearsed most. "I heard of Shaumian's arrest. That is why I came. He is an innocent man. The party did not murder me. They tried to."
Volkov smiled, a thin, predatory expression. "A fascinating story. Pray, do tell. You faked your own death, I presume? How terribly dramatic. And where have you been all this time? Tending sheep in the mountains?"
"I was hiding," Pyotr said, sticking to the script. "In a small village near Kutaisi. A cousin of a friend. He did not know who I was. He thought I was a runaway debtor."
"And what made you run from your brave comrades?" Volkov asked, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
"I am a revolutionary," Pyotr said, a flicker of genuine, borrowed pride in his voice. "But I am not a butcher. I argued against the 'expropriations.' I spoke out against the terror tactics of men like Kamo. Soso Jughashvili and his circle saw me as a Menshevik sympathizer, a traitor in their midst. I learned they were planning to… silence me. I used the chaos of a police raid to disappear. I let them believe I was killed."
He delivered the lines with a quiet, weary conviction. He was not just reciting a story; he was inhabiting a truth that had been hammered into him. He was a man of principle, betrayed by extremists.
Volkov listened, his head tilted, his cynical smile never wavering. He was a professional liar; he could smell a fabrication a mile away. And this story smelled perfect. Too perfect.
"It's a wonderful narrative," Volkov said softly. "It confirms everything we already believe about this Soso and his gang of thugs. And that is what makes me suspicious." He leaned forward. "We keep extensive records, you know. On everyone. We even have files on the city's pathetic little drunkards. And we have an informant, a man who looks a great deal like you, who fits the description of a man whose life has fallen apart. A pathetic creature by the name of Dolidze."
He let the name hang in the air, watching for a flicker of recognition, a twitch, any sign that his shot in the dark had hit its mark.
Pyotr met his gaze. In that moment, he felt a surge of something he had not felt in years: contempt. He felt the genuine, righteous contempt of Luka Mikeladze, the dedicated revolutionary, for a weakling, a traitor, a drunk. He thought of his own wasted years, and channeled that self-loathing outwards.
"I do not know the names of every drunk in Tbilisi," Pyotr said, his voice laced with a cold disdain that was utterly convincing. "I have been busy fighting for the future of this country. Not drowning my sorrows in a cellar."
The response was so perfect, so psychologically true to the character he was playing, that Volkov was taken aback. There was no fear in the man's eyes. Only a weary, arrogant pride.
The interrogation continued for another hour, but Volkov could find no cracks in the story. The man's knowledge of internal Bolshevik politics was detailed and accurate—all provided by Soso, of course. His personal history matched Luka's file perfectly.
Finally, Volkov gave up. He left the room and went directly to the office of the Tbilisi directorate's chief, Colonel Morozov.
"Well?" Morozov demanded, his fat, florid face beaded with sweat.
"I don't know," Volkov admitted, a rare confession of uncertainty. "If he is an actor, he is the finest I have ever seen. He believes he is Luka Mikeladze. Or he actually is Luka Mikeladze. Either way, our case against Stepan Shaumian, the case that the Prime Minister himself has taken an interest in, has just become a catastrophic embarrassment."
Colonel Morozov's face went pale. He was a bureaucrat, a man who feared chaos and scandal above all else. He had Shaumian, the lynchpin of a major state security case, awaiting indictment for murder in his prison. And now he had a man claiming to be the victim, sitting in his interrogation room, ready to tell his story to the world.
"What do we do?" Morozov whispered, his voice trembling slightly.
"This decision is far above our rank, Colonel," Volkov said, his composure regained. "This is no longer a police matter. It is a political one." He gestured to the secure telegraph machine in the corner of the office. "You need to get a message to St. Petersburg. To the Minister's office. No, higher. You need to contact the Prime Minister's office. Immediately."
Morozov stared at the telegraph, his face a mask of dread. He was about to send a message to the most powerful and ruthless man in the Russian Empire, informing him that his perfect, elegant trap had just, inexplicably, exploded in his own face. The first, critical phase of Jake's insane gambit had succeeded. The ghost had delivered its message. The fortress, for a moment, was breached from the inside out.