crows of strasbourg

11.

"Old Ahmadi's Terrible Hotel" is officially known as the River View Hotel, although there is no river around and no views worth talking about.Where the door should have been, there were only two nail marks etched into the wall, and the corridor was a dark cavern with the sour smell of decaying garbage.A boy crouched in front of the only lit room, wearing a dirty smock, like a thin mouse.Anton stepped on the broken glass, and there was a cracking sound. The fat concierge who was stuck in a pile of cushions didn't raise his head, "Twenty lire a night, pay first and then get the key."

"I'm looking for someone."

The concierge took his eyes off the porn magazine briefly, looked him up and down, couldn't find any clues that he was a policeman, "Fuck off."

"The resident I'm looking for is likely to call himself 'McCallan' or 'Alex', and there should be a young man with him, 25 or six years old, do you have any impression?"

"I have never seen such a person."

There was another crash of broken glass at the door, and the boy in the smock ran upstairs, thumping the wooden stairs.Anton closed the door and approached the sofa.Sensing something was wrong, the concierge writhed in the cushions like a fat walrus, trying to get up.Anton punched him in the face, and he fell off the couch, knocked over the coffee table, and rolled onto the stained rug.

"Do you have any impression now?"

Bloody spittle ran down the fat porter's chin, and yes, he remembered, there was indeed a gentleman who paid triple the price and told him not to say a word to anyone.The River View Hotel had had many such furtive guests, and Mr. McAllen had not particularly attracted the porter's attention.Yes, with Mr. McAllen's nephew, they are on the third floor, no, sir, we don't have a room number here, third floor corridor, fifth room from the left.

The boy in the smock was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps there was another exit here.The stair and hallway stank strongly of mustiness, and the damp planks creaked under his shoes no matter how careful he was.The sound of arguments pierced through the walls, and somewhere a child was crying loudly.Anton clenched the handle of the gun tightly, his palms were wet, as if this was his first time on the field.At that time he was 22 years old and had just left Leningrad for Moscow.The task itself is fairly intuitive, go to this address, climb a fence, pry open this and that filing cabinet, take a picture of this and that file.His hand holding the camera was steady, but cold sweat soaked his back.

The door jammed, and Anton had to kick twice to lift the Tokarev 33.However, the person he was looking for did not have a weapon in his hand. The gun was placed on the desk, too far away, and Hines had no intention of approaching it.The bathroom door was open, but no one was there.Hines took a step closer to him, stopped, less than half a meter away from the muzzle of the gun, "Tamia sold me to you, didn't she?"

Anton pretended not to hear, "Where are the keys?"

"I do not know."

"The telegrapher?"

"You can keep asking for five hours and I still don't know."

"I don't have time to play games."

"No one ever said it was a game."

"Tell me where the boy is, I don't want to—"

"Don't want to shoot me?" Hines looked at him. "Do me a favor and aim more this time."

He still hadn't lowered the gun, a gesture that seemed oddly stupid at the moment, a hollow threat.

"'Sokolov has a boxer's reticence, irascibility, but not recklessness,'" Hines said. "This is the first report I give to the Bonn Little Orchestra, about you. They love it. , Said that it reads like a serial crime novel published in the newspaper every weekend. Roger is more concerned about whether you may be incited to rebel, I told him, forget it, I might as well persuade the chestnut tree in the garden to defect."

He still didn't answer.Hines took another step closer.

"One question, Anton."

For god's sake forget about Warsaw.

"You know it's me, in Warsaw."

This is not a problem.He doesn't know what he can answer, I have no choice, or I'm sorry, or maybe no, I'm not sorry, and that's the cumulative result of all our bad decisions. "Yes." He put down his gun and looked away, "They said you were dead."

I couldn't go on hunting anymore, and when I got back from Warsaw, he told Peter I needed some time.Peter unwittingly provides him with the perfect excuse by asking if it has something to do with Aunt Olga, who died earlier.Yes, Peter, I want to go back to Leningrad, and yes, for dear Aunt Olga, I want to see her grave with my own eyes.Anton returned to the farm on a cold February morning, and instead of going to the house, he walked alone across the frosty fields towards the swamp and the distant forest shrouded in freezing mist.I killed him, he told Aunt Olga, the tombstone was silent.

Peter gave him a month, and Anton returned to Moscow in five days.

Hines said nothing more.Anton saw again the wall between them, with occasional cracks that allowed them to glance at each other, only to push them back when one of them tried to get closer.He wanted to touch Hines, to make sure he was alive, but like so many nights in Bonn, he couldn't get over the wall today.

"Go." Anton said.

Hines looked at him, frowning.

"I tracked the sender from Strasbourg here and found out he wasn't alone, short fire," Anton fired twice into the wall, the loud sound starting screams and chaotic footsteps "They fled in different directions, and I continued to chase the radio operator, ignoring the other one."

Hines didn't need any more explanation. Anton watched him take a few steps hesitantly, then ran up as if awakened, and disappeared at the end of the corridor.No thanks and no goodbyes because that wasn't part of their relationship either.Dirty sunlight illuminates the empty room where Lubyanka's child leans against the wall before sliding onto the dusty floor and closing his eyes.Anton Andreevich, look what you have done.

-

When they heard the gunshots, people looked up and looked around for the source of the gunshots, pushing each other uneasily.Leon struggled through the crowd, moved towards the general direction of the hotel, changed his mind halfway, squeezed out of the alley, and continued to run towards the pier.You can't help, you might as well leave as soon as possible.

No KGB killer emerged from the crowd to pursue him, but Leon waited until evening in a humble coffee stand near the port to be on the safe side.It was a drafty shed, and the chipped cups had brown stains that couldn't be wiped off.Leon hid himself behind a yellowing plastic tarp, glancing nervously at the path to the dock every few minutes.

Hines was dead, said a small voice in his head, or it would have been here long ago.Leon was startled by a wild laugh from a group of dock porters.A van came up the ramp, its wheels rattling gravel, and it turned a corner toward the warehouse district.Wait another ten minutes, he consoled himself, reached into his pocket, and took hold of the small wooden box.

When the street lights came on one by one, he finally left the coffee stand and walked towards the customs office in the shadow of warehouses and shipping containers.The last lit counter was about to close, but reopened graciously when Leon fumbled out the bills.There are more than a dozen cargo ships registered in Cyprus, two of which are owned by Greeks, but only the Patricia is currently docked in Istanbul.

Leon asked him which pier the Patricia was at. The customs officer put on a straight face and began to doubt his motives. He asked him to show his ID, and quickly forgot about the ID when Leon handed him the second banknote. Pier 55, he told Leon, is there anything else I can do for you, sir?

Not at the moment, thank you.

The gangway of the Patricia was only fifty centimeters wide, and the black water beat against the concrete with an unsettling clatter.Leon ran quickly across the gangplank. The deck was empty, and there was a light in the engine room. He followed the light and knocked on the steel hatch.

He interrupted a game where four sailors were sitting around a wooden crate piled high with wine bottles, greasy playing cards, and a plate of roast meat that was nothing but crumbs.Leon cleared his throat and asked where to find the captain.A bearded man asked what he did.

"I'm a friend of Mr. McAllen, Luke McAllen, and I need a lower cabin."

"Then what's your name?"

"Taylor."

"follow me."

They left the engine room and climbed an iron ladder welded into the wall into the dark belly of the freighter.Overhead pipes hissed intermittently, and the narrow passages smelled of motor oil and dirty laundry.The bearded man took out a bunch of keys, searched for a long time with the faint light, and opened the hatch. "Your cabin." He waved his hand at a single bed that was not much bigger than a coffin, "We're leaving tomorrow. It's not a free flight, you have to work, the kitchen, the deck, any place you can use, understand gone?"

Leon assured that he understood, and politely asked the other party's name.

"You'll call me 'Captain'." Lumpy Hu said, took off the key, stuffed it into his hand, turned and walked away, his boots rattling on the steel plate.

Leon stood there for a while, turned on and off the light, climbed onto the bed and curled up.He didn't remember ever falling asleep, but when he opened his eyes, the engine was rumbling deep in the cabin, and the sunlight was cut into an oval patch of light by the porthole.He sat up and went to the porthole. Istanbul had disappeared, leaving only the endless sea, shining under the blue sky without shelter.