The silence that followed Jake's speech was different from the one before. It was no longer the quiet of expectation, but the charged, humming silence of a room full of converts. He had taken their raw, unfocused anger and given it a sharp, cold point. He hadn't just proposed a plan; he had articulated a philosophy of warfare that resonated with their own grim experiences. They were looking at him with a new kind of respect. He wasn't just Soso, Kamo's thuggish friend who was good in a gunfight. He was a strategist. A thinker.
Orlov, ever the politician, was the first to recover. He had to regain control, to expose the flaw in this powerful new narrative before it set in stone. He clapped his hands together slowly, a mocking, theatrical applause that drew all eyes to him.
"An excellent sentiment, Comrade Soso," he said, his voice smooth as oil, though his eyes were chips of ice. "A truly inspiring speech. But rhetoric is easy. Revolution is hard." He leaned back in his chair, affecting an air of casual skepticism. "You speak of hunting these supposed informants. How do you propose to find them? Do they wear signs around their necks advertising their treachery? Or are we to simply start questioning anyone we don't like the look of?"
It was a sharp, practical attack, designed to expose Jake's grand strategy as nothing more than empty words. A plan without a target is just a dream.
But Jake had been waiting for this. He had anticipated this very question. He let the silence hang for a moment, building the tension, before he answered with unnerving calm.
"We don't need to guess," Jake said. "We already have a name."
Every revolutionary in the room leaned forward. Even Orlov's mask of detached amusement slipped, a flicker of genuine curiosity—and perhaps alarm—crossing his face.
Jake looked around the table, his gaze steady. "A man who runs a tavern near the Erevan Square. A man named Fikus."
The name meant nothing to most of them. It was just a name. But beside Jake, Kamo gave a low, bestial grunt of confirmation, a sound of pure, violent conviction that lent immediate credibility to the claim. He was playing his part perfectly.
"We have reason to believe," Jake lied, his voice a cold instrument of deception, "that he is the one who betrayed the location of the bakery. He is the reason Comrade Mikho is now in the hands of the Okhrana."
He had deliberately and falsely linked Fikus to the catastrophe that was freshest and most painful in their minds. It wasn't just an accusation anymore; it was a promise of justice. Of vengeance.
"My team's first action will be to neutralize him," Jake continued, laying out the tangible first step of his new doctrine. "Not with a bomb. We will not destroy his tavern and alert every policeman in the city. We will abduct him. Quietly. We will take him to a place where he can be… persuaded to talk. We will find out what he knows, who he reports to, and who else is on the Okhrana's payroll."
He looked directly at the faces around the table, a grim promise in his eyes. "We will not just kill the snake. We will milk it for its venom first. We will start unraveling their network, one thread at a time, using him as our starting point."
The raw, brutal practicality of it was undeniable. It was a concrete action with a clear, strategic goal.
Then, Jake turned his attention—and the attention of the entire room—back to Orlov. A thin, cold smile touched his lips. "Comrade Orlov is correct that we need boldness. And his desire for 'propaganda of the deed' should not go to waste. So, his team can provide the diversion for our operation."
Orlov's jaw tightened.
"While my team is busy with Fikus," Jake said, his voice laced with the barest hint of condescension, "Comrade Orlov's men can set a few small fires in the warehouses by the river. On the other side of the city. Nothing major," he added, with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Just enough to create a spectacle. Enough to draw the main police patrols away from the tavern district and give my team a clear field of operation. A practical application of his fiery vision."
The room was silent. Jake had not just defeated Orlov's plan; he had publicly emasculated it. He had taken the man's grand, roaring strategy and demoted it to a mere support role for his own silent, deadly work. He had made Orlov his subordinate in front of all his peers.
Orlov was trapped, and he knew it. He couldn't refuse to help capture the "traitor" who had supposedly given up Mikho. To do so would be political suicide. It would look suspicious, even cowardly. He had to play along. He had to aid the very operation that had supplanted his own.
He forced a tight, brittle smile. "Of course," he said, his voice strained through gritted teeth. "A fine synthesis of our ideas, comrade. My men will be honored to support your… operation."
The tension in the room broke. The meeting was over. Jake had won. The members began to stand, talking in hushed, excited tones, clustering around Jake, asking questions, volunteering for his new "counter-intelligence" team. He was the center of gravity now.
As the room began to clear, Kamo pulled Jake aside, his face flushed, his eyes alight with a fierce, almost worshipful admiration that made Jake deeply uncomfortable. "By the devil, Soso," he whispered, his voice hoarse with emotion. "I have never seen anything like it. You didn't just fight him. You took his own knife, sharpened it, and stuck it right in his gut. In front of everyone."
Jake gave a curt, noncommittal nod, his eyes fixed on Orlov. The charismatic leader was standing by the door, speaking quietly with two of his most loyal men, his face a mask of cold fury. Jake watched as Orlov cast a single, venomous glance in his direction before sweeping out of the room.
The exhilaration of his victory evaporated, replaced by a cold, clear understanding. This wasn't the end of the game. It was a radical escalation. He hadn't just outmaneuvered a political rival. He had publicly challenged and humiliated a very powerful, very dangerous man who was also a secret police asset.
Orlov would not forget this. He would be looking for revenge. And a man like that, with his connections and his utter lack of scruples, would not be satisfied with simple political reprisal. The game had just become far more personal, and far more deadly.
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