Jake found a moment of solitude in a small, unused vestry at the back of the church. The air was cold and smelled of dust and rotting velvet. He sat on a hard wooden bench, the muffled roar of the Congress a distant echo beyond the stone walls.
His hands, usually steady, trembled slightly as he unfolded the note from Tbilisi. The message, written in Kamo's coded shorthand, was short—too short.
Asset has new directive from St. Petersburg. Urgent.
Jake stared at the words, a cold knot tightening in his gut. The quiet weeks, the smooth rhythm of the false reports he'd been feeding Stolypin—those had been the calm before the storm.
The real test had arrived.
He burned the first note with a match, then unfolded the second sheet. It was longer. Denser. And by the time he finished reading, the knot in his stomach had turned to ice.
This wasn't an order. It was a trap.
Stolypin's message came wrapped in flattery.
Your information on Lenin's agrarian position was of the highest value. Your utility is confirmed.
Then came the knife.
We now have an opportunity to cripple the revolutionary movement from within. Our intelligence has identified the primary bases of two terrorist factions: the Socialist Revolutionaries' bomb factory in Geneva, and the Bolshevik Combat Organization's main arms depot in Moscow. We can strike only one. You are to advise which target's destruction will cause the greatest long-term damage. Your assessment will determine the operation.
Jake read it again. And again. Cold sweat prickled down his spine.
It was perfect—too perfect. A trap with no way out. Not a test of loyalty, but of identity.
He broke the problem down automatically, mind slicing through it like a machine.
Option one: recommend a strike on the Socialist Revolutionaries in Geneva. Logical for a Bolshevik. It would destroy a rival faction and strengthen Lenin's hand. But it would also reveal him as partisan, not neutral. Stolypin would see through him instantly. A predictable agent was a controllable one—and a disposable one.
Option two: recommend hitting the Bolshevik arms cache in Moscow. The act of a ruthless, "objective" asset. It would win Stolypin's trust—and annihilate Lenin's fighters, Krasin's men. A betrayal so complete it would destroy him inside, even if no one ever found out.
Option three: evade the question. Offer something vague. That would mean death. Stolypin didn't tolerate hesitation. Ambiguity was treason.
Every path ended in ruin.
It wasn't a fork in the road—it was a cliff.
For a moment, the old Jake surfaced—the teacher, the outsider, the man who didn't belong in this century.
You can't win this. There's no right move.
Then another voice rose to drown it out.
The one that called itself Stalin.
He stood and began to pace the small room, the wood creaking under his boots. He wasn't a man who chose between bad options. He was a man who created new ones.
He needed a fourth path—something unexpected. Something that would make Stolypin believe he was invaluable… while quietly serving his own cause.
His thoughts flickered through names and places like pages in a textbook. Kamo—ruthless, loyal, waiting in Tbilisi. The party's constant hunger for money. And then it came to him.
The Tiflis bank robbery.
Kamo's greatest "expropriation."
A job that would make history—one that, in this timeline, was only weeks away.
An idea, audacious and terrifying, took shape.
He sat back down, breath steady now, and pulled out his cipher book. His pen scratched across the paper with calm precision.
Your question is flawed, the message began. You ask which serpent head to cut—the left or the right. I tell you to strike the heart that feeds them both.
He wrote on, weaving truth and prophecy together.
Both the SRs and the Bolshevik combat squads prepare for a new wave of terror, but they are inert. They lack one thing: funding. The real center of gravity is not in Geneva or Moscow, but here in Tiflis. A large expropriation is being planned—a bank robbery to finance all factions for the year ahead.
He paused, then finished the final line, the killing stroke of his plan:
Seize that money, and you cripple both sides at once. Forget their arms and factories—strike at the gold. Strike in Tiflis.
It was beautiful. Terrible. Perfect.
He had escaped the trap entirely, and made it look like insight. Stolypin would see foresight, brilliance, initiative. And yet the strike would land exactly where Jake wanted—back in his own city, under his own control.
He would "betray" an event that hadn't even happened yet—an operation he would now orchestrate to perfection. A lie wrapped around the truth, turned inside out.
He sealed the message, his hand steady again.
He had just gambled everything—Kamo's life, his cover, his future—on his ability to outthink both history and the most dangerous man in the Russian Empire.
And for the first time, he almost smiled.
The coded reply to Stolypin was more than a message—it was a death warrant. A declaration of war.
By sending it off to Tbilisi, Jake had set a chain reaction in motion, one he now had to outrun. He had "predicted" the Tiflis bank robbery to the enemy. Now, he had to make sure it actually happened—but under his control. He needed to turn the trap he'd created into a victory his people could survive.
History, at least, was on his side. The 1907 Tiflis bank robbery was inevitable—a legendary moment in Bolshevik lore. Kamo, back home, was likely deep in its planning already. But Jake knew something the others didn't: the Congress he was sitting in had forbidden such actions.
Lenin had publicly supported the resolution banning armed "expropriations." Too many comrades had called them banditry. Too many allies had been alienated.
Privately, though, Lenin still needed the money—and the guns it could buy.
Jake couldn't just tell Kamo to proceed. If the operation failed, the Congress would disavow it instantly. Kamo and his men would hang while the party washed its hands clean.
He needed protection. Political cover. Someone powerful enough to shield the operation—and funnel the gold straight to Lenin's faction when it succeeded.
He couldn't go to Lenin directly. The man's public stance made that impossible.
Zinoviev and Kamenev? Idealists. Too careful. Too soft.
He needed a different kind of ally.
A pragmatist. A man who understood that revolutions didn't run on ideals—they ran on cash.
Jake had his name: Leonid Krasin.
Krasin was a ghost at the Congress—a quiet presence behind the speeches. An engineer by trade, an intellectual by reputation, and the Bolsheviks' chief of the dark arts. Fundraising, logistics, explosives—anything dirty that the theorists preferred not to touch.
He was the one who made sure the revolution actually functioned.
Jake arranged a meeting through an intermediary. They met at dusk, on a fog-draped bench in a London park. Krasin was tall, well-dressed, his beard neatly trimmed, his voice smooth and professional. He looked like a banker—one who could also build a bomb.
"Comrade Stalin," Krasin said, his tone calm, almost polite. "I'm told you wish to discuss… practical matters."
Jake nodded. "The party is broke," he said flatly. "We argue about resolutions we don't have the funds to carry out. Words won't print pamphlets. Talk won't buy rifles."
A faint smile flickered at the edge of Krasin's mouth. "And you have a solution, I assume?"
"I do." Jake met his eyes. "My organization in Tbilisi has the discipline and the means to secure a large sum for the party. Enough to fund everything—from propaganda to operations—for years."
He didn't need to say the word. Krasin understood immediately.
"Such actions are… delicate," Krasin said. "The Congress has outlawed them. If your men are caught, the party will condemn them. The Mensheviks will use it to destroy us."
"That's why I came to you," Jake replied, lowering his voice. "I don't need official approval. I need someone who can handle the funds once they're secured. Someone who can get the gold to Lenin's faction without it getting lost in committee debates or moral outrage."
He let the implication settle.
This wasn't just a plan—it was a conspiracy.
Krasin studied him for a long moment. The man had seen enough operators to know one when he met one. In Jake, he recognized a kindred pragmatist—a doer in a sea of dreamers.
Finally, Krasin smiled. "Your reputation precedes you, Comrade Stalin. They say you get things done. It seems they are right."
He extended a hand. "You bring me the funds. I'll make sure they reach the right hands."
Jake shook it. The deal was sealed.
A partnership forged in the London fog—one that would change the revolution's future.
Back in his rented room, Jake's pulse was still racing. The path was clear now. Stolypin's trap would be redirected. The operation would happen on Jake's terms.
He opened his cipher book and began writing the message that would set history ablaze.
LIQUIDATE STATE BANK ASSETS. PROCEED WITH OPERATION BEAR. KRASIN WILL HANDLE DISPERSAL FROM EUROPEAN SIDE.
He paused, the pen hovering. This wasn't just another report. He was authorizing history—rewriting it. And he needed to give his men a fighting chance.
He added one more line:
EXPECT HEAVY RESISTANCE. ENEMY HAS FOREKNOWLEDGE. PROCEED ACCORDINGLY. TRUST NO ONE.
He encoded it, sealed it, and leaned back in his chair.
The pieces were in motion now—Kamo, Lenin, Stolypin, Krasin.
And Jake Vance, the man who wasn't supposed to exist, was moving them all.
It was madness. Genius. Suicide and strategy in equal measure.
And for the first time in weeks, Jake smiled.
He had never felt more alive.