The cellar had become a war room. The smell of stale vodka was gone, replaced by the metallic bite of oiled steel and the charged stillness that comes before violence. Jake stood before a rough map of Vasilievsky Island, sketched in charcoal on a shipping crate lid. It was his battlefield.
He finally had the board in front of him.
The order from Malinovsky.
The knowledge of Malinovsky's treachery.
And the mystery that changed everything—the official-looking crate.
He knew he was being played. But every game needs two players. And this time, he intended to break the board itself.
Kamo stood to his right, silent and watchful. Pavel stood to his left, eyes sharp and expectant. Behind them waited Pavel's men—hard, dangerous faces, ready to follow the planner's lead.
Jake's voice was calm, deliberate. "We have our orders. The Party wants a Menshevik print shop destroyed. A simple act of discipline." His eyes met Kamo's. "A revolutionary duty."
Then he turned to Pavel. "And for our new friends, it's a test. A raid. A chance to prove themselves."
He paused, letting silence stretch.
"We'll do it," he said at last. Kamo nodded once, satisfied.
"But," Jake added, "we'll do it our way. What Malinovsky thinks this mission is, and what it will actually be—those are two very different things."
He picked up the charcoal again and began to mark the map. "Four stages. Think of it as a play in four acts."
He tapped the print shop. "Act One: The Assault. We go in fast and loud. No subtlety. Pavel, your men handle the doors. Kamo, you deal with armed resistance. It needs to look like chaos—overwhelming, brutal."
He drew two small X's inside the building. "We seize two things. First, every pamphlet, list, and ledger we can find. That's what we'll show Malinovsky. The proof he expects—the lie."
He marked a larger X. "Second, the crate. The one delivered two nights ago. That's our real target. I don't care if you have to smash it open—I want to know what's inside. That crate is the truth."
He moved to the next part of the plan. "Act Two: Controlled Chaos. We don't kill the printers."
Kamo looked up, startled. Pavel frowned. Jake continued before they could speak.
"Dead men vanish. Arrested men leave records. They become the system's problem, not ours. We'll wreck the press, break everything, start a small fire—not to destroy the place, just enough smoke to draw attention. The police will come running."
He pointed to a narrow street on the map. "When the fire starts, we let the printers escape. We chase them out the back, fire shots in the air to make it look real. Misha, you'll be two streets away. When you hear gunfire, find a police patrol. Tell them you saw masked men robbing the shop and running that way." He pointed opposite their real exit. "The police will grab the printers and make a public show of it. They'll be in custody, alive. Not disappeared."
He drew the final lines, his hand steady. "Act Three: The Counterattack. Once we're clear and have the crate, we don't report the truth. We don't trust the Party—it's already compromised. Instead, we leak it."
He turned to Pavel. "What's the loudest anti-government newspaper in the city?"
"Russkoye Slovo," Pavel said immediately. "They'd print the Tsar's laundry bill if it embarrassed him."
Jake smiled faintly. "Perfect. We'll give them gold. Whatever's in that crate—Okhrana documents, funding orders, agent reports—it'll become front-page scandal. We'll make the secret police's own scheme explode in their faces. The Tsar's watchdogs will choke on their own leash."
When he stepped back, the plan lay before them—clean, elegant, devastating.
Kamo stared at him like a believer witnessing a miracle. To him, this was revolutionary genius: turning the enemy's tools against them.
Pavel's look was different—half awe, half greed. He saw power. He saw empire.
The plan did everything. It kept Jake's cover intact, gave Malinovsky his "success," exposed the Okhrana's corruption, and even spared the Menshevik printers. It wasn't just survival. It was revenge.
For the first time, Jake felt something close to peace—cold, sharp, and exhilarating.
The historian was gone. The planner remained.
You wanted a dog on a leash, Roman, he thought, fire flickering in his eyes. You've given me a weapon instead.
The voice of Stalin in his mind wasn't whispering anymore. It thundered.
You want a monster? I'll be one. But not yours.
He looked up. The faces staring back at him weren't thugs anymore. They were soldiers. His soldiers.
"Tonight," Jake said quietly, "we're not raiding a print shop. We're going to war with the Okhrana. Let's remind them who they're dealing with."
He turned toward the door. Behind him, armed men followed into the freezing night, their boots heavy on the steps.
The Ghost's Gambit had begun.