crows of strasbourg

15.

It was a small, stuffy room with a damp mineral smell.The windows are sealed with bricks, or this is a basement with no windows, Leon doesn't know which possibility is worse.His hands were handcuffed behind his back, and the pain lasted for a long time. He is now numb, and the place on his head where the gun handle hit him still hurts.The only source of light was a lamp, pointed directly at Leon's face.When the interrogator spoke, the voice seemed to come from the center of a blinding light.

"Do you want me to take the cuffs off?"

It was still that kind of sharp accent, as if every consonant had been sharpened with a razor, and the question was very careful, even a little worried, Leon almost believed that he really cared about his own opinion.In order to avoid the glare of the lights, Leon could only stare at the ground.The shadow moved, and he felt rather than saw Sokolov go around behind him and release the handcuffs.He subconsciously raised his hand to block the light, but he still couldn't see anything clearly. The chair creaked and the interrogator sat down.

"How long have you been working at the consulate in Strasbourg, Monsieur Christen?"

Leon swallowed, his throat as dry as sandpaper.He has never received anti-interrogation training, and the government only provided him with a two-week language immersion course, interesting wording, "immersion", like spray painting the semi-finished products on the assembly line, and then packaged them away. "Three years." He replied in a low voice, put down his hand, and rubbed the strangle marks on his wrist, the light focused on his face without flinching, a stern one-eyed.

"Not a short time."

"I guess so."

"Have you been working for the CIA for about the same amount of time?"

Leon raised his head, wanting to see the interrogator's face, but there was only white light and darkness in front of him, "I was never an employee of the CIA."

"Mr. Christen," Sokolov's voice dropped a notch, as if he was scolding a dog who persisted in urinating on the carpet, "the key has been returned to us, and you have no more tasks to do." Don't worry, why not save a little time for you and me."

"I can't tell you what I don't know."

"You picked up the 'crow' in Belgrade, then took the key to Turkey to connect with known CIA agents, then escaped here, and now you want to convince me that you are just a dispatcher. People in Prescott usually don't Make the story so bad, Prescott is your recruiter, right?"

"Never heard the name. I just," Leon coughed as if his throat was blocked with stones, "I just followed the consul's instructions."

"Which consul?"

"Consul in Strasbourg."

"What does the CIA know about our intelligence network in Western Europe?"

"I swear I don't know, I'm just a telegrapher."

"I'm just an assistant at the visa office, according to the file." There was a pause, the fire flashed, and Leon smelled the smell of tobacco, "Do you smoke, Christen?"

"Do not."

"Smart decision."

At halftime, Sokolov turned to Connecticut, wondering if it was a nice place with a temperate climate, and then asked if he liked Strasbourg, with its gloomy weather and wood-barred houses.Leon answered as briefly as possible, becoming more and more disturbed, unable to understand the rhythm of the interrogation.

"Why Genoa, and why not somewhere else?" he asked finally, more to himself than an interrogation. "Hynes' decision, or yours?"

"his."

"What's your plan?"

His hands began to tremble, and Leon clasped them together, trying to stop the trembling.His brain was working hard, showing him a series of horrific images: the dead body of Hines, and then his own, lying in the basement of an old house with a bullet hole in his forehead. "He's dead, isn't he? You killed him?"

There was a long silence, and Leon stared at the fire in the darkness until it fell to the ground and was crushed by the heel of his shoe. "Answer the question, Mr. Christen, what was your original plan? To pass the key to the MI[-] cousins ​​via France, I think. Keep quiet, I'm not interested in bringing a small fish back to Moscow , tell me what you know, and I'll put you back in the water, simple deal."

"I do not--"

He was punched, and the taste of blood exploded in his mouth, the shock was as sharp as the pain; the second punch was in the stomach, and Leon bent over, unable to make a sound.Sokolov grabbed him by the collar and yanked him out of the chair, nearly feet off the ground. "You have one hour to consider my proposal, Mr. Christen, and I hope that by the time I return you will be ready to provide some useful answers."

The Soviet let go, and Leon slid to the ground, curled up.The lights went out, and the door opened and closed, leaving him in frozen darkness.

-

Hines pushed the door open.

Genoa has fully woken up, sweet carts, singers and beggars occupy their usual places in the piazzas.The fog has dissipated, and if the angle is right, the masts and sails of the harbor can be seen from the gaps in the buildings.Greaves followed, carrying a picnic basket, and the soft slippers had been replaced by a pair of dark brown suede shoes.

If anyone happened to notice them, they would probably think that these two gentlemen went fishing.It was a clear, cloudless day after all, with some wind and waves, but not enough to pose a problem.They walked down the gently sloping narrow alley to the pier, an interesting combination, one tall and thin, looking like a bad-tempered osprey; .As far as Hines could remember, the Irishman, who preferred colored woolen vests, had always been part of the Italian spy network. He was in Rome from [-] to [-], moved to this northwest port city in [-], and never left.

"If there's no money, the 'Professor' stays on the pier, out in the sun. For a little change, he hides in the 'Spinnaker' cafe, 'out of the wind,' he says,' My leg hurts badly', and if anyone listens, he'll go on and on—oh, well, look, he's on the pier, and the poor fellow's been out of luck lately."

The tramp watched them approach, and if he showed any expression, it was hidden under his tangled beard and hair.Greaves sat down beside him, opened the picnic basket, and took out whiskey, cheese, apples, rolls, and ham wrapped in tinfoil. The "Professor" laughed, sounded like an excited dog barking, reached for the bottle, stuffed it into his bulging coat, and said something to Greaves.

"At least we know the spirits make him happy," Hines said.

"He asked if we were looking for someone again."

"Tell him about our boy."

The homeless man pointed to his head, talking rapidly, accompanied by exaggerated gestures, and Greaves answered si every now and then, urging him to continue.Hines leaned against a lamppost and waited for the avalanche of monologue to end.

"He said he never forgot a face, and good memory was his livelihood," Greaves began to translate, "This boy named Christen, he'd seen pictures, maybe two or three days ago, someone like us Also looking for him, very generous, promising him fifty lire, a Pole he doesn't know, but he probably knows who he works for."

"Who?"

Greaves hesitated. "He wants fifty lire first."

Hines nodded, and the barkeeper fumbled out some banknotes and watched them disappear into the homeless man's dirty overcoat. The "Professor" tore off the tinfoil, stuffed the ham into his mouth, and said a name.

"Egg Kazharsky," Greaves repeated the name, "a dock mouse, short and always wearing a wool cap. He said he didn't know where Egg lived, but we Ask the guy at the Salvation Army store, where his sister works."

The Salvation Army store was a cramped cavern full of donations for sale, and the overseer was an old lady in a Salvation Army uniform who wrinkled her nose at the name Kazharsky as if she smelled dead fish. "If it's because of gambling debts again," she said.

Hines smiled at her, assured her that it had nothing to do with gambling debts, and claimed that he was a human rights lawyer from Brussels working for a charity project looking for lost families of war victims. His sister probably had an uncle in Warsaw, and he badly needed to talk to them.

"But that's impossible," the clerk raised his eyebrows in surprise. "The Kazhaskys are from Ukraine."

You are of course right, Hynes conceded mildly, but nonetheless he wanted to see Mr. Kazharsky in order to completely rule out the possibility, after all, that a large inheritance was at stake.

Half an hour later, they were standing outside a dilapidated apartment building, with several weed-covered flower pots lying in front of the door, and a rusty bicycle leaning against the wall, with the front wheel gone.The padlock was useless, and Hynes kicked the door open and walked into the dim living room.

"What are we going to do now?" Greaves' voice came from behind, followed by a loud clang as he knocked over the trash can.

A lonely sofa is placed under the chandelier, and the coffee table is piled with empty beer cans and squashed cigarette cases. "Now, Arthur," Hines moved the basket of yarn and needles and sat down on the sofa, "we'll wait."

-

It was very quiet outside, as if waiting with bated breath.The occasional footsteps are also in a hurry, eager to leave.The light from the dusty windows obliquely lengthened the shadows.In the darkness, the various sounds of the old house became very obvious, the creaking of wooden boards, the sound of rats grinding their teeth, and the slight vibration of water pipes in the brick wall.

Someone was humming a song in the distance, it was completely out of tune, and I couldn't tell what it was.The lock clicked, and the unoiled hinges screeched dryly.The shadow standing at the door is so thin, like a stunted child.Igor Kazhasky turned on the light, froze for half a second, turned and ran away.Greaves tripped him with a leg out, Hines grabbed his arm and twisted over his back.Knees pressed against his lower back.

"Nice to meet you," he said in Russian, "Mr. Kazhasky, I need to ask you a few questions about your KGB employer."

The little man struggled, his face flushed red, and the gray woolen cap fell aside, "Who are you?"

"Tourist," Hines replied, "I know you're working for Sokolov."

"I've never heard of this man."

Hines twisted his wrist hard, and the little man screamed, "Think about it, Mr. Kazharsky."

"I just took the money!" cried Kazhaski, his voice trembling. "The gambler handed it over to me, 120 lire, and I'm sure that dirty dog ​​stole at least a hundred lire, on condition that I and My little pickpockets keep an eye on the pier and help them catch an American."

"'who are they?"

"Soviet! Hell."

"Where is Sokolov?"

A long-defunct Mediterranean restaurant with a wine cellar where they kept the Americans and he didn't know the rest, interrogation wasn't to his liking, and there wasn't much he could do now.Half of the face of the thin Ukrainian was pressed to the floor, his mouth opened and closed like a fish, "The Soviets leave Genoa tonight, and the plane will take off in an hour."