The train crawled north through the frozen veins of the empire, each mile dragging Jake closer to the heart of the beast.
For three days, he sat on a hard wooden bench in a third-class car, surrounded by coughing peasants, cheap tobacco, and the sour stench of bodies that hadn't seen a bath in weeks. He wore the plain clothes of a provincial grain merchant, blending in so perfectly he could almost forget who he was—until the silence between stations reminded him.
Every stop was a test. Every uniformed officer who passed through the car was a potential executioner. He could feel the noose tightening with every turn of the wheels. And yet, beneath the fear, there was a strange exhilaration.
He was walking into the lion's den. By choice.
Kamo had called him insane. "You cannot go," he'd said, gripping Jake's shoulder with both hands. "It's a trap. He'll have you hanged before you even see the city. Let me go instead. We can take a team—"
Jake had cut him off. "You're thinking like a soldier. This isn't a soldier's battle anymore. Stolypin has made it personal. I have to face him myself—to see the man behind the moves."
Now, as the train pulled into St. Petersburg under a sky the color of lead, Jake felt the weight of that decision press down on him.
The capital was nothing like Tbilisi. Grand, orderly, suffocating in its perfection. Every marble facade and uniformed guard whispered the same truth: this was a city built on control.
He followed the instructions passed through their most secure channels. The meeting place wasn't a fortress or a back alley—it was a restaurant. L'Étoile. Discreet. Elegant. The kind of place where power spoke softly over wine.
The maître d', stiff as a bayonet, greeted him with a bow. "Monsieur Petrov. Your table is ready."
Jake was led upstairs into a small private dining room—the Sapphire Room. Blue silk walls. Silver and crystal gleaming in candlelight. A table set for two.
And waiting there, alone, was Pyotr Stolypin.
He was taller than Jake expected. Calm. Perfectly composed. No guards. No bluster. Just quiet authority wrapped in a tailored suit.
"Monsieur Petrov," Stolypin greeted, his voice smooth, cultured. "Or shall I call you Soso?" He gestured to the empty chair. "Please, sit. I took the liberty of ordering a Bordeaux. I find it helps to lubricate the gears of history."
The message was clear: We are civilized men. You are in my house.
Jake sat, careful to mirror the man's composure. "I prefer Georgian Saperavi," he said evenly. "But this will do."
A waiter appeared, poured, and vanished without a sound.
"I must admit," Stolypin began, swirling his glass, "I've looked forward to this meeting. One rarely meets a true artist in your profession. Most revolutionaries are blunt instruments. You, however…" He smiled faintly. "You understand theater."
He took a sip, watching Jake with predator's eyes. "The resurrection of Luka Mikeladze. A work of genius. So cruel. So precise. Tell me—was madness your goal from the start, or merely a happy accident?"
Jake met his gaze. Calm. Cold. "Madness is the natural end for any man who lives inside a lie," he said. "You built his lie, Prime Minister. I simply let the truth walk in wearing a shawl."
Stolypin chuckled softly. "Modest. A true craftsman never boasts."
The two men circled each other in conversation like duelists, every word a feint, every pause a test. Stolypin was brilliant—his mind razor-sharp, his confidence absolute. Jake could feel the thrill of it, the danger of matching wits with a man who ruled an empire.
At last, Stolypin set his glass down. "You know," he said lightly, "I have several dozen guards within a hundred meters of this room. If I wished, you could be tried and hanged by dawn. Your movement would lose its cleverest brain."
Jake took a slow drink, then met his gaze. "And you, Prime Minister, must know I'm not a fool who walks into traps unarmed. My second-in-command holds a sealed letter. If I don't send word by midnight, that letter opens. It contains names—governors, police chiefs, factory owners. Every one of them will die within the week. The Caucasus will burn so brightly it will make 1905 look like a rehearsal dinner."
He leaned back. "You can hang me. But you'll bury your empire with me."
Silence.
The banter was gone. The air in the Sapphire Room had turned cold. They weren't a statesman and a revolutionary anymore. They were two forces—each with a hand on the trigger.
Stolypin studied him for a long moment. Then, slowly, a smile spread across his face—not amused, but approving.
"Excellent," he said quietly. "Now we understand each other."
He leaned forward, clasping his hands. "You know why I agreed to this meeting? Because you're the first of your kind who understands power. Not destruction. Not chaos. Power. Most of your comrades want to tear down the world. But you…"
He paused, eyes narrowing, voice dropping to a near whisper.
"You want to rule it."
The words hung in the air like a knife balanced on its edge.
"So tell me, Soso Jughashvili," Stolypin said, smiling like the devil himself. "What is it you really want?"