The weight of Lenin's hand on Koba's shoulder felt less like a commendation and more like the locking of a final bolt in a machine. The Dagger of the Party. Jake's mind reeled at the title. It was a death sentence for what little remained of his 21st-century conscience. He had sought power to save lives, and in the process, he had been officially anointed as the revolution's chief executioner. It was a perfectly tragic, perfectly Stalinist irony.
Trotsky, still processing the brutal dismissal of his heroic vision, was the first to leave. He gave Koba a look of profound, conflicted curiosity—the look one gives to a strange, dangerous new species of predator. He was to be The Voice, and he left with a storm of manifestos already brewing in his mind, energized by the clarity of his mission, even if he found its foundation chilling.
When he was gone, the atmosphere in the room changed. The high tension of the ideological debate dissipated, replaced by the quiet, conspiratorial hum of two pragmatists who now understood each other completely.
"He has the soul of a poet," Lenin murmured, watching the door close behind Trotsky. "It is a valuable quality, but it must be properly managed. Directed." He turned back to Koba. "You, on the other hand... you have the soul of a quartermaster. You count the bullets. It is not as inspiring, but it is infinitely more useful."
For the first time, Jake felt a sliver of genuine hope. Lenin's approval was a potent drug. In this new dynamic, perhaps there was room for a request. A transaction. He had delivered a worldview that had reshaped Party strategy. Now, he would ask for his price.
"Comrade Chairman," Koba began, his voice even, "there is the matter we discussed in Zurich. My comrade in St. Petersburg. Katerina Svanidze."
Lenin waved a dismissive hand, not out of annoyance, but to signal that the matter was already in hand. "Yes, yes. The Dagger must be kept sharp, not worrying about personal affairs." He walked back to the table and picked up a file. "I have had our people in St. Petersburg make inquiries. It is a fortress case, as you suspected. The Trubetskoy Bastion. Difficult." He paused, tapping the file. "But not impossible. We have a sympathizer among the junior legal staff at the Ministry of Justice. He is compiling a list of prisoner transfers. It is slow, methodical work. But the Party does not abandon its own. We will find a way."
The words struck Jake with unexpected force. We will find a way. For a man who had been operating utterly alone, a solitary consciousness adrift in a hostile past, the word "we" was a lifeline. He had earned the Party's resources. He had earned Lenin's personal attention on the matter. It was a small spark of light in the crushing darkness. He allowed himself a moment of relief, a flicker of belief that his monstrous actions were finally leading to the outcome he craved.
The moment was shattered by a frantic knock at the door. Yagoda burst in, his face slick with sweat, his usual composure gone. He held a sealed, cream-colored envelope in a trembling hand.
"Comrade Chairman, Koba," he stammered, his eyes wide with alarm. "This… this did not come through any of our channels."
Lenin's brow furrowed. "Explain yourself."
"A man," Yagoda said, catching his breath. "He was waiting at the clockmaker's shop downstairs. Not one of ours. German, I think. Very professional. He asked for 'the man from the Caucasus who knows about timber.' He said this was for his eyes only. That it was a personal correspondence."
The air in the room went from conspiratorial to glacial. Jake felt a cold dread snake its way up his spine, extinguishing the spark of hope from moments before. Personal correspondence. There was only one enemy who knew him that well, who would operate with such arrogant, theatrical precision.
Koba took the envelope from Yagoda. It was made of thick, expensive paper. There was no address, no stamp, just his name—"Koba"—written in a perfect, elegant script. He broke the wax seal, which was embossed not with a coat of arms, but with a simple, stark monogram: PS.
Pyotr Stolypin.
He unfolded the single sheet of paper inside. The message was not handwritten. It was typed on an official government letterhead, the characters clean, precise, and impersonal, like an autopsy report. Each word was a perfectly aimed blow.
Koba,
I trust your timber negotiations in Vienna and Geneva were productive. A word of advice from one strategist to another: always protect your queen.
The nightingale from Tbilisi sings for me now. She is quite lonely.
You possess a certain ledger concerning Russian naval construction. An item of state property. The original and all copies are to be delivered to the Russian Embassy in Berlin within thirty days.
Failure to comply will result in a tragic decline in your friend's health. I do so hate to see a pretty bird's wings clipped.
PS
Jake's vision tunneled. The room, Lenin, Yagoda—it all faded into a dull, gray periphery. The words on the page burned white-hot. Always protect your queen. The nightingale from Tbilisi sings for me now. It was a message of absolute dominance. Stolypin wasn't just telling him that he had Kato; he was telling him that he knew everything. Vienna. Geneva. The ledger. The code words, "nightingale" and "queen," were a deliberate, intimate cruelty, designed to twist the knife. He wasn't just holding a hostage; he was mocking Koba's failure, his impotence.
The carefully constructed persona of Koba, the cold, unfeeling strategist, cracked. For a horrifying second, Jake's 21st-century panic threatened to overwhelm him. A silent, primal scream echoed in the confines of his skull. This was the backfire. This was the consequence. While he had been playing grandmaster in the cafes of Europe, Stolypin had made a simple, brutal move and captured the only piece on the board that mattered.
With an effort of will that felt like tearing muscle from bone, he shoved the panic down, deep into the cage where Jake Vance lived. He smoothed his expression back into a mask of cold neutrality and passed the note to Lenin.
Lenin read it, his lips a thin, hard line. His reaction was not emotional. It was purely analytical. He saw the chessboard, not the hostage. He saw the trap, not the threat.
"So," Lenin said, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "The Prime Minister plays the game himself." He tapped the note. "This is clever. He doesn't want you. He wants to neutralize our weapon. The ledger is our single greatest piece of leverage against his government. It implicates his entire Admiralty in a conspiracy with the Germans. It is a scandal that could topple him. He cannot allow it to exist."
Lenin looked up at Koba, his eyes like chips of flint. "He wants to force you into the open. To make you use our German contacts, to expose our network, all for a personal matter. It is a classic intelligence trap." He tossed the note back onto the table as if it were a piece of trash.
"The woman," Lenin stated, the words cold and final as a death sentence, "is an acceptable loss for the cause. You will not respond. You will not deliver the ledger. Her fate was sealed the moment she was captured. That is the price of revolution."
He was testing him. He was testing his new Dagger. He was demanding that Koba prove he was the ruthless, unsentimental creature Lenin believed him to be. He expected obedience. He expected his new weapon to act like a weapon.
Inside, Jake was dying. The choice was impossible. Obey Lenin, sacrifice Kato, and lose the last fragment of his soul, becoming the monster forever. Or defy him, betray the Party, destroy the entire strategic position he had bled and killed to build, and run headlong into Stolypin's perfectly laid trap, a choice that would almost certainly get them both killed.
Koba looked at the Chairman. His face was a calm, placid mask, betraying none of the screaming chaos within. He gave a slow, deliberate nod of assent.
"You are right, Comrade Chairman," Koba said, his voice perfectly even. "From a strategic perspective, the woman is lost."
The words felt like swallowing poison. He could see the approval in Lenin's eyes. The Dagger was loyal. The weapon was sound. Koba let the words hang in the air for a moment, cementing Lenin's trust, sealing the bargain.
Then, he leaned forward slightly, and the mask of Koba shifted. Something else looked out of his eyes now. Something ancient and cold and utterly implacable. The voice that spoke next was a whisper, but it carried the chilling weight of a breaking glacier, a voice that for the first time, startled even Vladimir Lenin.
"But this is no longer a strategic operation. This is a personal matter."