The order was absurd, a nonsensical diversion at a time of catastrophic crisis. Kamo, a man whose instincts were all geared towards direct, physical confrontation, could not fathom the logic. Their world was burning, and Soso, their fire chief, was asking for a book of matches. Yet, the unsettling, predatory gleam in Soso's eyes was something he could not ignore. It was the look of a man who saw a different battlefield, one hidden in the shadows behind the visible one. With a deep sigh of weary faith, Kamo had dispatched his best remaining men, not to scout Okhrana patrols, but to dredge the dregs of the Tbilisi slums for the ghost of a ghost.
A day later, he returned to the squalid tenement room. He found Jake sitting perfectly still at the table, staring at a blank wall as if it were a map of the world. The man had barely moved in twenty-four hours, consumed by a silent, internal concentration that was more intimidating than any outward rage.
Kamo placed a thin, grimy folder on the table. "There isn't much," he reported, his voice a low grumble. "The man was a shadow. After we expelled him, he drank away what little he had. He worked odd jobs at the docks until he couldn't even do that. He left his family."
Jake's eyes finally moved, focusing on the folder with a sharp, piercing intensity. "The family," he prompted, his voice quiet.
"A wife," Kamo continued, consulting his crude notes. "Anna Dolidze. Works as a washerwoman for the merchants in the Avlabari district. A hard woman, by all accounts. Tough as old leather. She curses his name to anyone who'll listen. Says his disappearing was the best thing that ever happened to her and the children."
"Children?" Jake asked, the word precise, clinical.
"Two sons. Giorgi—a common name—and Levan. About ten and twelve years old. He abandoned them years ago, when the youngest was still a toddler. They barely remember him. According to our man who spoke to the neighbors, they live in a single room in the Navtlughi slum. Absolute poverty. They eat when the mother finds work."
Kamo finished his report. The story was a small, common tragedy, the kind that played out a thousand times a day in the city's forgotten corners. It was a pathetic footnote to the life of a man who was now, paradoxically, one of the most famous figures in the Russian Empire.
Jake opened the folder. Inside was a single, blurry photograph of a tenement building and a few lines of hastily scribbled notes. He stared at it for a long moment, the pieces of his new, terrible strategy clicking into place.
"Stolypin has made a mistake," he said, his voice soft but filled with a newfound, vibrant energy that sent a chill down Kamo's spine. "A classic error of the powerful. He sees his new asset, this 'Luka Mikeladze,' as a symbol. A headline. A propaganda tool to be aimed at us. He has forgotten that underneath the fine suit and the well-rehearsed lines, he is still Pyotr Dolidze."
He tapped a finger on the pathetic file. "And Pyotr Dolidze is not a symbol. He is a man. A weak, broken man, whose entire performance is motivated by a single, powerful lie we gave him: the lie that he was dying for the family of a hero. The promise of a pension for Luka Mikeladze's wife and children. We built his courage on a foundation of false sentiment."
Kamo was beginning to see the dim outlines of Soso's thinking, and it was deeply unsettling. "So you mean to expose him? Tell the world he is really a drunkard named Dolidze?"
Jake shook his head, a thin, cold smile touching his lips. "No. That is what Stolypin would expect. He is prepared for that. His press machine would simply dismiss it as the desperate slander of cornered terrorists. We cannot win by shouting our truth louder than they shout their lie."
He stood up and began to pace the small room, his movements filled with a restored sense of purpose. The lethargy, the hollowness of the past few days, had vanished. The game was afoot again, and he was alive.
"We cannot kill Pyotr," he said, thinking aloud. "His death as a 'martyr' in state protection would be an even greater propaganda victory for them. We cannot discredit his story with words. So, we will do neither. We will not attack the story. We will attack the storyteller. We will not kill his body. We will assassinate his soul, in full public view."
Kamo stared at him, baffled. "Assassinate his soul?"
"Stolypin is guarding Pyotr's body in a fine hotel in St. Petersburg, surrounded by the best men the Okhrana has to offer," Jake explained, his eyes gleaming. "He has men tasting his food for poison, watching every corridor. But he is not guarding his mind. He is not guarding his past. He has no idea about Anna Dolidze and her starving sons. They are a truth he cannot control. They are a loose thread in his perfect narrative. We are going to pull that thread, and we are going to unravel the entire tapestry."
As he spoke, Jake felt the familiar, intoxicating thrill of power coursing through him. This was his true element. Not the crude chaos of a street fight, but the intricate, psychological ballet of human manipulation. The hollowness that had consumed him since Kato's departure, the sting of his men's criticism—it all began to recede, replaced by the sharp, addictive focus of the game. He had been a victim of Stolypin's masterful move. Now, he was the master again.
This was his art form. He was not just a revolutionary; he was an architect of human emotion, a conductor of an orchestra of pain and memory. His internal monologue was a chorus of dark pride. Stolypin thinks he is playing chess with a king and a queen. He does not realize the pawns have feelings. And feelings… feelings are the most powerful weapon of all.
"What is the order, Soso?" Kamo asked, his voice heavy. He could see the destination now, and he did not like the look of the terrain.
"The order is delicate," Jake replied. "This is not a job for thugs. I need your quietest, most observant men. They are to put Anna Dolidze and her sons under complete, covert surveillance. I want to know everything. Where she works, where she buys bread, when the children play in the street, who she talks to. I want a complete portrait of their misery. But they are not to be contacted. Not to be threatened. They are not even to know they are being watched. They are… a weapon that must be kept in its sheath until the perfect moment."
The order was given. The machinery of the party, crippled but not broken, began to move again. The scene shifted, the perspective moving with Kamo's silent watchers.
We see what they see: a cramped, damp room in the Navtlughi slum, the plaster cracked, a single blanket serving as a partition. We see Anna Dolidze, her face hard and prematurely aged, her hands raw and red from endless hours of scrubbing other people's clothes in harsh lye soap. We see her counting out a few kopeks for a loaf of stale bread. We see the two boys, their faces thin and smudged with dirt, their eyes holding the wary, feral look of children who have known more hunger than affection. They play in the filthy alley with a ball made of rags, their shouts thin and reedy in the oppressive air.
This was not an abstract concept. This was not a name in a file. This was a family, steeped in a real and grinding poverty, their lives a daily struggle for the barest minimum of survival. And they were about to be used as a precision-guided missile in a war they did not even know was being fought.
Kamo oversaw the surveillance himself for a few hours, his heart a heavy stone in his chest. He had killed men, robbed banks, and lived a life of violence, but this felt different. This felt… unclean. He returned to the safe house at dusk, his face grim.
"We have them," he reported to Jake, his voice flat. "They are exactly as the file described. The wife is a rock. She screams at the boys one minute, clutches them to her the next. The boys… they are just hungry children. It is a pathetic sight." He paused, looking directly at Jake, a hint of challenge in his eyes. "What now? What do you plan to do with these people?"
Jake closed the thin dossier on Pyotr Dolidze, the sound a soft, final thud in the quiet room. His decision was instant, his strategy clear, his conscience silent. He met Kamo's gaze without a flicker of hesitation.
"Good," he said. "Bring the woman to me. Alone."