Stolypin's study, a room Jake had only seen in grainy historical photographs, became the new theater for their strange, deadly courtship. The Prime Minister, far from being offended by Jake's refusal, seemed almost energized by the counter-proposal. He was a man who appreciated a complex game, and his opponent had just added a fascinating new dimension to the board.
"A common enemy," Stolypin mused, a slow, appreciative smile spreading across his face. "You truly are a remarkable creature, Soso. Most men in your position would have spat in my wine and quoted Marx. You… you look for an angle. You look for leverage." He refilled their wine glasses, the gesture that of a host sealing a business deal. "Very well. An exchange of good faith. I am intrigued. I will accept your original terms as a preliminary gesture. The woman, Anna Dolidze, and her children will be given the funds you promised and escorted to the border of their choice. They will disappear. The pathetic creature who called himself Luka Mikeladze will be quietly committed to a private asylum. The entire embarrassing affair will be erased from the public record."
He paused, his eyes narrowing, fixing Jake with an intense, penetrating gaze. "And in return, you will provide me with a demonstration of your value. Proof of a genuine conspiracy against me, orchestrated by my rivals at Court. Something tangible. Something I can use."
"Consider it done," Jake said, his voice betraying none of the triumphant elation he felt. It was a stunning victory. He had walked into the lion's den, faced the beast, and emerged not only unscathed, but with everything he had wanted and more. He had neutralized the Dolidze crisis, freed Shaumian, and now had a direct, albeit secret, line to the most powerful man in Russia, with the potential to play the factions of the state against each other.
He left the restaurant feeling a surge of pure, unadulterated pride. He had been weighed and measured against a true grandmaster and had not been found wanting. The journey back to the Bolshevik safe house, a small, anonymous apartment in a working-class district, was a blur of self-satisfaction. He had been right to come. He had been right to take the risk. He had proven, to himself and to the world, that he was the master of this game.
Kamo, who had been waiting in a state of near-apoplectic anxiety, was astounded to see Jake walk through the door, calm and alive. "You are not in chains," Kamo stated, his voice a mixture of disbelief and profound relief.
"The chains were not for me," Jake replied, a cold smile touching his lips. He proceeded to brief Kamo on the meeting, omitting the more shocking details of Stolypin's offer of employment, but outlining the successful negotiation.
Kamo listened, his awe growing with every word. Soso had not just survived; he had turned the tables, forcing the Prime Minister of the Russian Empire to accede to his demands. The legend of Soso, the man who could not be beaten, was cemented in his mind.
"Now," Jake said, all business, "we must deliver our side of the bargain. Our 'gift' to the Prime Minister."
He sat down and began to dictate a message. This was the easiest part of the entire affair, a simple exertion of his greatest, most secret advantage. He drew upon his 21st-century historical knowledge, a perfect, infallible intelligence source. He knew, with absolute certainty, about a real, documented plot against Stolypin being hatched at that very moment by a cabal of reactionary nobles, led by a certain Prince Orlov-Davydov, who were terrified of Stolypin's land reforms.
He dictated a detailed, precise report, filled with names, dates of secret meetings, and snippets of overheard conversations. He described the conspiracy with a level of detail that would be impossible for any ordinary spy to obtain. It was the perfect proof of his good faith, a demonstration of an intelligence network so deep it bordered on the supernatural. And it cost him absolutely nothing. He was simply reporting the past.
He encoded the message and gave it to a courier, with instructions for it to be passed to Danilov. His work was done. He had outmaneuvered the most brilliant man in Russia, secured his network, and laid the groundwork for a new, even more ambitious phase of his plans. He allowed himself to feel the full, intoxicating weight of his own competence. He was untouchable. He was winning.
A day passed. A day of quiet, smug satisfaction. Jake used the time to draft new directives, planning the slow, careful rebuilding of his Tbilisi network. Kamo watched him, content to be the sword of a man who was so clearly a genius.
Late in the afternoon of the second day, a courier arrived. He carried a single, urgent message. It was from their highest-level informant within the St. Petersburg Okhrana, a man so deep they only activated him in the direst of emergencies.
Jake took the message, a pleasant smile on his face, expecting a confirmation that the Dolidze family had been released as promised, the final proof of his victory. He began to decode it, the familiar symbols resolving into words.
The smile on his face froze. It did not fade; it simply froze, a grotesque mask of triumph on a man who had just been shot through the heart. His blood, which had been warm with pride, turned to ice water in his veins.
The message was not what he expected.
It read: Dolidze family released this morning as promised. Immediately after, city-wide sweep initiated. Not random. Targeted. All known or suspected Caucasus-linked Bolsheviks. Mass arrests. Your deep-cover identity 'Petrov' and the location of this safe house were at the very top of the list. They know where you are. It was a trace. The meeting was a trace. They are coming for you. Burn this. Run.
The paper slipped from his numb fingers. He stared at the wall, the world tilting on its axis. He finally understood.
The dinner. The fine wine. The philosophical debate. The charming compliments. The shocking, unthinkable offer to defect. The intricate negotiation of a truce.
It was all a lie. A magnificent, sprawling, theatrical lie. A piece of performance art so masterful he had not seen a single seam.
The true purpose of the meeting, the only purpose, had been brutally, technically simple. While Stolypin had been dazzling him with wit and flattering his ego, a team of unseen, unknown agents—the German-trained technicians Trotsky had warned him about—had been conducting the most sophisticated surveillance operation he had ever faced. They had tagged his coat in the cloakroom. They had followed him with relay teams of invisible watchers. They had used their new netzwerkanalyse to map every person he had contacted, every dead drop he had used. They had traced him from the restaurant, across the city, to this very building, this very room.
His greatest weapon, his knowledge of the future, had catastrophically failed him. It had made him arrogant. He knew about the grand political plots against Stolypin, the historical currents. But he knew nothing of the man's secret, state-of-the-art technical capabilities. He had been preparing for a duel with swords, and his opponent had brought a sniper rifle. His own actions, his escalating provocations, had likely accelerated the Okhrana's modernization. He had created a more dangerous enemy than the one he had read about in history books.
He had walked into the meeting believing he was the smartest man in the room. And Stolypin had let him believe it, had encouraged it, had fed his pride and his arrogance, all while quietly, efficiently, and completely destroying him.
The distant sound of a whistle from the street below. Then another.
Kamo, seeing the look on Jake's face, knew instantly that something was terribly wrong. "Soso? What is it?"
Jake looked at him, his eyes wide with the horror of his own hubris. "It was a trap," he whispered.
Then, the sound became unmistakable. The heavy, rhythmic thud of dozens of boots thundering up the stone stairs of the tenement building. Shouts in Russian, sharp and clear. "Police! Open up!" The splintering crash of the apartment door on the floor below being kicked in.
Kamo reacted instantly, his training taking over. He drew his massive Nagant revolver, his face a grim mask of resolve. "Soso, we have to go! The roof! There's a way across to the next building!"
But it was too late. The trap was not just set; it was sprung. The footsteps were on their landing now, heavy, purposeful. The doorknob began to turn.
Jake's greatest, most arrogant victory had led him directly and inexorably to his most catastrophic, personal defeat. He was cornered, his identity compromised, with the full, crushing weight of the Russian state bearing down on his exact location. The board was gone. The game was over.