The bullet that shattered his carriage window had also shattered any remaining illusions. Mikhail looked around his opulent study and saw not a symbol of his power, but a target. He had believed the fight was one of wits and resources, a complex game of chess. He was wrong. His enemies had decided to simply kick over the board and pull a knife. It was a crude tactic, but an effective one. And it demanded an equally effective response.
A week later, Captain Orlov presented ten men in the cavernous, empty warehouse Mikhail had purchased on the industrial outskirts of the city. They were not the polished soldiers of the Imperial Guard. They were hard, quiet men with scarred knuckles and ghosts in their eyes; veterans of brutal pacification campaigns in the Caucasus and forgotten skirmishes on the Afghan frontier. They were men the army had used up and discarded, men who knew how to be invisible, how to follow orders, and how to finish a job.
Mikhail stood before them, not as a baron, but as a prospective employer. He saw their initial skepticism, the way they sized up his youth and his fine coat.
"Your country has no more use for your particular skills," Mikhail began, his voice cutting through the cold air. "I do. Your loyalty will be to me. Your pay will be three times what the army ever gave you. Your work will be to ensure that I, and the industrial enterprise that feeds thousands of families, are not threatened by those who prefer to conduct politics in back alleys." He looked each man in the eye. "And your first task is to find the men who sent the assassins last week. Captain Orlov will be your commander. Are there any questions?"
There were none. He had offered them purpose, respect, and wealth. In the silent, mutual assessment that followed, they saw not a boy, but a commander with a will of iron. The First Directorate of the Northern Industrial Syndicate—his private intelligence service—was born.
Orlov and his new unit moved with terrifying efficiency. They were a scalpel dissecting the city's underworld. They leaned on informants, tracked the origins of the assassins' non-standard revolvers, and spent Mikhail's money bribing the right officials in the city morgue. Within ten days, they had a name: Tishchenko, a disgraced former police official who now worked as a "fixer" for powerful men, a known instrument of Nikolai Katorov.
"We can have him by morning, Baron," Orlov reported, his voice flat. The implication was clear. They could make him disappear.
"No," Mikhail said, a cold, thoughtful light in his eyes. "A corpse is a blunt instrument. I have a more precise use for Mr. Tishchenko. Bring him to me. Alive and unharmed."
Two nights later, Tishchenko was snatched from his favorite tavern, not with a brawl, but with the silent, professional precision of Orlov's men. He was brought to the same warehouse, now furnished with a single table and two chairs, and thrown into one of them. He was a sweating, blustering man trying desperately to project an authority he no longer had.
Mikhail entered alone and sat opposite him. "Mr. Tishchenko," he began calmly. "You recently arranged for the murder of a state official in charge of military logistics during a time of war. The penalty for this is hanging."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Tishchenko blustered. "I have powerful friends!"
"You had a powerful friend," Mikhail corrected him. "Nikolai Katorov is a ruined man. His assets are frozen. He will be in a Siberian prison camp by winter. As for your other friends in Minister Plehve's office, they will discard you the moment you become a liability. Which, as of this moment, you are. You are a loose end."
Tishchenko's face went pale as the logic of his situation settled upon him.
"However," Mikhail continued, leaning forward. "I am a practical man. I believe in the value of assets. You are, for now, still an asset to your former employers. They still trust you. They will give you money to try again."
He slid a small, heavy purse across the table. "This is twice what Katorov ever paid you. It is a retainer. You will continue to work for them. You will take their money. You will organize plots against me. You will report every detail of those plots to Captain Orlov before they happen. They will fail, publicly and spectacularly, in ways that will further embarrass my enemies. In return for this service, you will not only live, but you will become a very wealthy man. You will also, of course, provide us with detailed information on all of Plehve's other operations."
It was an audacious, almost insane proposal. He was not just neutralizing a threat; he was co-opting it. He was hiring his own would-be assassin to be his spy.
Tishchenko stared at Mikhail, a mixture of terror and dawning comprehension on his face. He was trapped between a falling master and a rising one. He had only one logical choice. "What… what do you need to know first?" he stammered.
The chapter concluded with Mikhail leaving the warehouse, leaving Orlov to finalize the arrangements with their new, terrified agent. He now had a mole burrowed deep inside his enemy's camp. His new directorate had not only identified a threat, but had turned it into a weapon.
Orlov met him at the door. "It is a great risk, Baron. Trusting a snake like that."
"Do not trust him, Captain," Mikhail replied, not breaking his stride as he walked into the St. Petersburg night. "Own him. My enemies wanted a war in the shadows. Now they shall have one. But the shadows will be mine."