The question cut through the silence of the silk-lined room like the drop of a guillotine.
What is it you really want?
It wasn't an interrogation. It was an invitation—from one strategist to another. Stolypin wasn't asking about demands. He was asking about Jake's soul.
Jake met the Prime Minister's gaze. His thoughts raced, measuring every word. He had come for a negotiation, not a confession. He would speak the language of pragmatism, not ideology.
"What I want is simple," Jake said evenly. "The crisis you created with Shaumian has become one for you. Your star witness is mad. The family you're holding is an embarrassment. This whole affair has turned toxic."
He took a sip of wine, calm and deliberate. "You release the Dolidze family—unharmed. Pay them the sum I promised, then let them vanish. End the propaganda. Put Pyotr in a sanatorium. In return, the Bolshevik Combat Organization in the Caucasus stands down. No robberies, no assassinations. Six months of peace. A truce. Time to clean up both our messes."
It was clear, logical—a businessman's proposal.
Stolypin laughed softly. Not mockery—amusement. He waved a hand, as if brushing away a child's clever trick.
"A truce?" he said. "My dear Soso, that's a game for policemen and bandits. You mistake me for one of them. I'm not interested in temporary ceasefires. I'm talking about Russia. The future of it. That's the only game that matters."
Jake said nothing, his pulse steady but his mind churning. Stolypin's tone had changed. The mask of the bureaucrat had fallen away, revealing something more dangerous.
The Prime Minister leaned forward. "Do you know what my mornings look like?" he asked quietly. "I sign death warrants for men like you—then spend my afternoons fighting fools in the Winter Palace. Dukes clinging to dead titles. Priests muttering superstition in the Tsar's ear. Landowners who'd rather see peasants starve than lose an acre. These are Russia's true enemies, Soso. They are the rot that will kill her."
Jake watched, spellbound. The man across from him was not a monster of repression. He was something far more complex—a visionary trapped in his own system.
"You and I," Stolypin continued, voice low and compelling, "are the only two modern men in this country. You see it too. A dying nation in need of radical surgery. You would burn it clean. I would cut away the rot. Different tools—same purpose."
The room went still. For the first time, Jake felt off balance. He had come to face the embodiment of tyranny—and found instead his reflection.
Then Stolypin made his move.
"You're wasting your brilliance," he said. "Lenin's paradise is a fairy tale that ends in blood and famine. You know it. You're too smart not to. Revolution always devours its children."
He leaned in, eyes burning. "I'm offering you something real. A position. Not as a spy. Not as a traitor. As an architect of the future. My advisor. The head of a new division—modernization, intelligence, reform. You'd answer only to me."
His words flowed like honey, thick with promise.
"Help me crush the parasites at Court. Break the old nobility. Push through land reform. Drag Russia into the twentieth century before it tears itself apart. I'll give you what no one else can—resources, protection, power. Together, we could save this country."
Jake sat frozen. The offer hit him like vertigo. It wasn't flattery—it was vision. For one brief, terrifying heartbeat, it felt like destiny.
He saw it clearly: a Russia strong enough to survive the coming century, free of famine, civil war, and purges. A clean, efficient path to the future. The historian in him whispered that this was the moment to change everything.
He's right, a voice murmured. This is the chance to stop the nightmare before it begins.
But another voice—colder, harder—rose to meet it. No. He's the nightmare in disguise. The system isn't broken—it's built on blood. He's offering you the keys to a prison, not freedom.
Jake forced himself to breathe.
"Your offer is… impressive," he said at last, tone careful, measured. "And maybe, in another life, I would've taken it. But you're asking me to heal a corpse. The system itself is the disease. It cannot be reformed—it must be replaced."
He saw the flicker of disappointment in Stolypin's eyes. So he pivoted, quick as a knife.
"But," Jake continued, voice softening into a whisper, "our enemies are the same. The Grand Dukes. The reactionaries. The leeches at Court. You can't move against them openly without destroying yourself. We, however… can."
He leaned forward. "Perhaps we can begin with something simpler. A gesture of cooperation. A small… exchange of faith."
Stolypin studied him in silence. Behind his calm expression, the machinery of his mind turned.
Jake sat back, his pulse steady again. The trap was set.