The backroom of the print shop reeked of ink, cheap tobacco, and stale fear. A dozen of the Bolshevik cell's most senior members were crammed around a large table made of scarred planks laid over two barrels. They were hardened men and women, their faces etched with the fatigue and paranoia of the hunted, their eyes sharp and suspicious in the flickering, yellow lantern light. This was the heart of the Tbilisi revolution, and it was a heart under siege.
When Jake and Kamo entered, a brief hush fell over the room. Every head turned. Every pair of eyes measured them. The news of the ambush, delivered by a breathless runner, had already spread. They weren't just Soso and Kamo anymore. They were the men who had hit back.
At the head of the makeshift table sat Comrade Orlov.
He was nothing like Jake had imagined. History books can't capture charisma. They can't convey the easy confidence, the warm, reassuring smile that made you feel like you were the only person in the room. Orlov was handsome in a rugged, proletarian way, his voice a rich baritone that commanded attention without demanding it. He looked like a leader. He looked like a hero. And that, Jake realized with a sickening lurch in his stomach, was what made him so lethally dangerous.
Orlov's smile widened as he saw them. "Ah, Soso! Kamo! Just the men we were waiting for." He stood and clapped Kamo on the shoulder, then extended a hand to Jake. "We heard you delivered a sharp lesson to the Tsar's dogs tonight. Excellent work. Truly the spirit of the revolution!"
Jake took the offered hand. It was warm and firm. He looked the traitor in the eye, forcing himself to project a calm confidence he was far from feeling. "We were lucky," Jake said, his voice a low rasp.
"Luck favors the bold, comrade," Orlov said, his eyes twinkling. He gestured for them to take two empty seats. "Now, to business."
The chess match had begun.
Orlov masterfully guided the meeting, his voice a soothing balm on the raw nerves of the assembled revolutionaries. He lamented the capture of Mikho, his tone thick with a sorrow so convincing that Jake felt a moment of dizzying disorientation. Could the notebook be wrong? Could Kamo be right? But then he remembered the cold, hard logic of the situation, the clinical precision of the raids. No. This was a performance.
"The loss of Comrade Mikho is a tragedy," Orlov said, his gaze sweeping the room. "And the Okhrana's aggression shows that our old methods, our caution, are no longer sufficient. They are hunting us like rats because we are acting like rats, hiding in the shadows, scurrying from one bolt-hole to another!"
His voice began to rise, infused with a passionate, righteous anger that was undeniably magnetic. A few of the members around the table nodded, their expressions hardening.
"I say no more!" Orlov declared, slamming his hand on the table for emphasis. The lanterns flickered. "We must show them we are not rats! We are lions! We must meet their terror with our own! I propose a new strategy. A wave of actions so bold, so loud, that the echo will shatter windows in the Winter Palace itself!"
He paused, letting the dramatic statement hang in the thick, smoky air.
"A campaign of 'propaganda of the deed'," he continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial, exciting hiss. "Bombings. The main police headquarters on Golovin Avenue. The governor's residence. We will sow chaos. We will show the oppressors that for every one of us they take, ten of their own will pay the price!"
Jake felt his blood run cold. It was a perfect trap. A glorious, suicidal charge designed to get the entire core of the Tbilisi organization arrested or killed in one spectacular, history-making failure. It was a plan that would appeal to the most hot-headed and idealistic members in the room, the very people most likely to volunteer for such a mission. Orlov was trying to decapitate the revolution and call it a victory.
A few excited, nervous murmurs broke out around the table. The sheer audacity of the plan was intoxicating. Orlov let the idea sink in, his eyes scanning the faces, judging their reactions. He was a master conductor, playing on their frustration and grief.
Then, his gaze landed squarely on Jake.
He smiled, a broad, comradely smile that didn't reach his eyes. "And for such a bold new chapter, for this first great roar of the lion, we will need a leader with true revolutionary iron. A man who proved only hours ago that he is not afraid of decisive action."
Orlov leaned forward, his elbows on the table, drawing the entire room's focus onto Jake. "We need a man like you, Comrade Soso."
The silence in the room was absolute. Jake could feel Kamo tense beside him. He could feel every eye on him.
"You will lead the primary action team," Orlov declared, his voice ringing with authority. "You will strike the first blow against the police headquarters. You will light the fire that begins the inferno." He smiled again, a predator's smile. "What do you say?"
Jake was trapped. Pinned. It was a checkmate in two moves.
Refuse, and he would look like a coward. His newfound authority, the very thing he needed to counter Orlov's influence, would evaporate. The hero of the ambush would be revealed as a man who talked a big game but was afraid to fight. Kamo would see it as a betrayal of their aggressive new pact.
Accept, and he would be leading himself, Kamo, and a dozen other revolutionaries directly into a meticulously prepared Okhrana ambush. It would be a massacre.
Orlov held his gaze, waiting. The traitor was enjoying this, savoring the moment, the perfect, elegant simplicity of his trap. The entire room, the entire future of the revolution in this city, was waiting for his answer.
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