December 3, 1911.
Café Odeon, Zurich, Switzerland.
Swiss neutrality had a price, and it was generally paid in the different cafés that were everywhere and in the secrets overheard in hiding. The Café Odeon, with its high ceilings and its clientele of political exiles, Dadaist artists, and unemployed spies, was the stock market of European conspiracy.
At a table in the back, far from where Lenin used to loudly discuss dialectical materialism, sat Valeri. The agent seemed out of place with his impeccable London tailored suit and his air of corporate boredom. Before him, a man with a scraggly beard and worn coat drank brandy with trembling hands.
"The company is disappointed, Boris," Valeri said softly, cutting a piece of apple cake. "We've invested much capital in the revolutionary cause. And the return on investment has been... quite lacking."
"The Okhrana is more aggressive," the man defended himself, a liaison from the Socialist-Revolutionary (SR) Combat Organization. "And Stolypin... that damned Stolypin has pacified the peasants. He's given them land. A peasant with a full belly doesn't listen to revolution."
Valeri nodded. That was the central problem. Agrarian reform was working. The Russian economic miracle, driven by the technology of different companies including one called Neva, as well as political stability, was killing revolutionary fervor at the root. And a stable, strong Russia was a threat to corporate monopoly and a fear for Empires and Nations worldwide.
If they couldn't burn the factories because they were protected, and couldn't bankrupt the banks because someone backed them, they had to eliminate the architect of that stability.
"We need a high-volatility event," Valeri said, sliding a thick envelope across the marble table. "Not a strike. Not a fire. That won't serve us... we need a leadership change."
The revolutionary discreetly opened the envelope. He saw Swiss francs, hundreds of them. And finally he observed blank passports.
"The Tsar?"
"No. The Tsar is a symbol, killing him would turn him into a martyr, and what would come after him would be worse," Valeri corrected. "We want the brain of the plans, we want Stolypin. If he dies, the government collapses, the peasants lose faith, and chaos returns to the market."
"Stolypin is very protected. After the failed attacks, he lives in a fortress."
"We know he'll travel to Kiev in September. For the Opera gala," Valeri informed.
"Security will be high in the area, but Russian security has a blind spot: its own agents."
Valeri pulled out a photograph. It was a portrait of a young man with a melancholic appearance, with bored poet's eyes and a nihilist's mouth.
"Dmitry Bogrov," the revolutionary read. "I know him. He's a lawyer from Kiev. He plays both sides. He informs the Okhrana about us and informs us about the Okhrana. He's a moral mercenary. He's not trustworthy."
"Exactly. He's perfect," Valeri smiled. "He has no loyalties, only vanity. He wants to be a tragic hero. We'll give him the stage and the weapon. You just have to give him the order."
The Englishman stood up, leaving the money and the photo.
"Make it happen, Boris. Or the company's next payment won't be in francs, but in something made of lead, you know what I mean... don't you?"
"Y-yes sir, your orders will be carried out," the revolutionary responded timidly.