The warmth of Kato's hand was an anchor in a freezing sea. It was real. It was human. And it was the most painful thing Jake had ever felt. He looked at her, at the genuine, undiluted concern in her dark eyes, and a chasm opened in his soul. On one side was this woman, this fragile pocket of decency. On the other was the man whose hand she was holding—a man who, minutes ago, had condemned another to the expert torturers of the Okhrana.
"Soso, you're so cold," she whispered, her other hand coming up to touch his cheek. Her fingers were gentle, questioning. "You're as pale as death. Are you hurt? Did they follow you?"
Every word was a small, sharp knife. He wanted to tell her everything. To confess that he wasn't her Soso, that he was a terrified fraud from a future she couldn't imagine, and that he was already failing at the one job he had: to be a good man.
Instead, he performed. He forced the muscles of his face to soften, mimicking a weary reassurance he did not feel. "I'm fine, Kato," he said, the lie tasting like ash in his mouth. Stalin's voice was a low rasp, but it was his. "It was close. We were careful."
From across the small room came a sharp, metallic click.
Jake's eyes flickered past Kato to the looming figure of Kamo. The big man had taken a seat at the small table, the Nagant revolver now disassembled before him. With practiced, efficient movements, he was running an oily rag through the barrel, the sharp smell of gun oil cutting through the room's scent of boiled tea. He worked with a focused intensity, his presence a constant, brutal reminder of the world they actually lived in. The world of cold steel and necessary evils.
Two worlds in one tiny room. Kato's world of warm hands and whispered worries, and Kamo's world of calculated survival. Jake was standing on the fault line between them, and he could feel the ground starting to shake.
"You must be hungry," Kato continued, oblivious to the storm inside him. "There is bread, and some cheese. Let me get you—"
"He can eat later," Kamo's voice cut in, rough and impatient. He didn't look up from his work. "Worrying won't help, Kato. Go and make more tea. Stronger this time."
Kato flinched slightly at his tone, but she gave Jake's hand a final, reassuring squeeze before turning to obey. As she moved toward the small stove in the corner, Kamo's gaze finally lifted, pinning Jake in place. The casual concern was gone, replaced by the sharp, tactical glare of a field commander.
"How many men did you see?" Kamo demanded. "The patrol that took Mikho. Did you recognize the lead agent?"
Jake's mind pivoted with a painful lurch. He had to suppress the image of Kato's gentle face and access the cold, analytical part of his brain—the history teacher. He tried to recall the frantic moments, the shouts, the running footsteps. "I… I didn't get a good look," he admitted, feeling a flush of shame at his own uselessness. "Maybe a dozen. All uniformed police, but there were others in plainclothes. They moved fast. It was… professional."
Kamo grunted, sliding the cylinder back into the revolver with a solid, final-sounding thump. "Professional. That means it was a planned operation. They have a source. Mikho isn't the beginning of their hunt, he's just the first one they bagged." He slammed the gun down on the table. "We need to warn the others before the sun comes up."
Just as he spoke, a quiet, rhythmic knock sounded at the door. Tap-tap… tap. Tap-tap.
Kamo was on his feet instantly, the revolver back in his hand as he moved silently to the door. He peered through a tiny peephole, then slid the bolt open.
A young man, barely a boy of seventeen, slipped inside, bringing a gust of frigid air with him. He was thin, his face pale with a mixture of cold and fear. He looked at Kamo, then at Jake, his eyes wide.
"Pyotr," Kamo acknowledged with a curt nod. "What's the news?"
"The citadel," Pyotr gasped, still trying to catch his breath. "They took Mikho directly to the citadel. The raid was swift, Comrade Kamo. They went straight for the bakery, straight for him. They knew who they were looking for."
Jake felt a cold knot of vindication form in his gut. It was a sickening feeling. His decision to run, the first great sin on his new soul, had been the right one. The logical one. The world had rewarded his monstrosity with survival.
He looked over at Kato, who was watching from the stove, her face a mask of dread. She made the sign of the cross, her lips moving in a silent prayer for the condemned man. The sight of it made the sick feeling in his stomach intensify.
"And the others?" Jake asked, his voice steady, forcing himself to be the commander in the room.
Pyotr shook his head. "The streets are crawling. I made it here, but I had to double back twice. But… that wasn't all." The boy hesitated, swallowing hard. He looked from Jake to Kamo, his fear palpable. "The Okhrana… they didn't just hit the bakery."
"What are you talking about?" Kamo growled.
"A patrol," Pyotr said, his voice dropping. "They also tossed the old warehouse by the river. The one we abandoned last month."
Kamo frowned, his brow furrowing. "It was empty. We cleared it out completely. There was nothing there but dust and rats."
"It was supposed to be," Pyotr whispered, his gaze fixed on Jake. "But they found something. One of the dockworkers, a sympathizer, he saw them. They didn't stay long, but they carried out a box."
A profound silence descended on the room. The only sound was the faint hiss of the kettle on the stove. Jake felt a new kind of dread creeping up his spine, a fear not of a known threat, but of an unknown one. An ambush in the dark.
"A box?" Jake asked, his throat suddenly dry. "What was in it?"
Pyotr looked down at the floorboards, unable to meet his eyes. "He couldn't see. They sealed it and took it with them. We don't know what was in it. We don't know what they know."
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