The committee accepted Jake's double-agent plan with quiet relief. No debates, no objections—just a weary, collective nod. Shaumian presented the coded note and praised Soso's "brilliant" countermeasure. The others, still shaken from Orlov's execution and fearful of crossing the man who had proven he could kill with impunity, agreed. To doubt him now was to invite suspicion. Jake had won the room—and the authority he needed.
But in the damp chill of the wine cellar, politics meant nothing. The plan, stripped of its polish, came down to one fragile piece: Danilov. Jake's life and newfound power now rested entirely on controlling a single terrified man.
Danilov sat on a wooden stool, unbound for the first time in days. He was no longer a captive but a tool to be rebuilt. Kamo stood in the corner, silent and immovable, his presence enough to kill any thought of escape.
Jake started not with violence but with knowledge. "Your Okhrana handler, before Orlov took over, was Captain Rostov," he said evenly. "Tell me about him—his habits, his weaknesses."
Danilov hesitated. "I barely knew him," he said. "He met me only once, in the dark—"
Jake sighed. "Rostov drinks Armenian brandy, the expensive kind. He keeps a mistress, Irina, a seamstress above the bakery on Zubalashvili Street. He steals from the informant fund. That's why your payments were late. Am I wrong?"
Danilov froze. The details hit too close to home. It felt as if Soso saw through the city itself. Whatever fight remained in him collapsed.
"Good," Jake said quietly. "Now we write your first message."
He handed Danilov a pen and paper. For the next hour, his voice filled the cellar—low, deliberate, patient. Together they built a lie meant for the Okhrana's paranoid minds.
The letter reported Orlov's "disappearance" as the result of an internal purge. The Georgian, it said, had seized power. The committee feared him. He ruled through fear and loyalists. Then came the bait: a supposed rival faction led by Shaumian, secretly working to unseat him. The party, the letter claimed, was tearing itself apart.
It was perfect misdirection. It made Jake appear dangerous but believable—a tyrant in turmoil, too busy fighting his own side to be an immediate threat. The Okhrana would take the bait and chase ghosts.
When the writing was done, Jake leaned close. "You'll deliver this," he said. "Word for word. You belong to us now."
Danilov stared at him, wide-eyed and trembling.
Jake's voice softened, almost kind. "And I know what you're thinking. You'll run. You'll tell them everything. But you won't."
He paused, letting the silence stretch.
"If you deviate from the plan, even for a moment, I'll know," he said. "And then my friend Kamo will visit your sister, Anya. She works at the bakery on Madatov Street, doesn't she? And your nephew—Misha. Eight years old. Walks home from Saint Nicholas school every afternoon at four."
Danilov began to shake uncontrollably.
"They'll be safe," Jake said. "As long as you are useful. The moment you aren't…" He left the rest unsaid.
Something inside Danilov broke. He slumped forward, sobbing. "I'll do it," he whispered. "I'll do anything."
When the message was ready, Kamo led the ruined man out to make the drop.
Jake stayed behind in the cellar. The quiet pressed in around him. He stared at his own hands—the same hands that had once written essays about morality and justice, now used to threaten a child. For a brief second, disgust flickered through him, followed by something worse: calm.
He had become what he once despised, and the realization didn't stop him. It only made him colder.
He had control. He had power. And he had crossed the line that made him Stalin.