crows of strasbourg

"One more thing," said Uncle Nicholas.

Anton was already on the icy gravel road, carrying a solitary bag stuffed with fabric samples.He told Uncle Nicholas that he was a textile salesman and that he needed to play the role well.Stones rattled on the soles of his shoes, and he recrossed the frozen mud, following the old horseman back to the house.The dog didn't know him, barking all the time, baring its teeth, tightening the chain around its collar.

He retraveled through the abode of his childhood, its blackened fireplaces, its polished copper teapots, its greasy wooden tables and its ikons cloaked in a thick layer of dust.Uncle Nicholas had never been a tall man, and in the neglected gloom he looked smaller than he had ever remembered in Anton's memory, with thinning white hair and one shoulder slumped as if carrying something. Invisible weights.He walked into the bedroom, and out of politeness, Anton stopped at the door and watched him rummage in the cabinet.

"Here." Uncle Nicholas handed out a square biscuit box slightly larger than the palm of his hand, with dents on the edge of the lid. "She wants to give this to you."

Inside was a rusty brooch and a photo. Anton pushed aside the jewelry and picked up the photo.It captures a moment of ambiguity, when the person above seems undecided whether to smile or not, eyes wandering with frozen suspicion.He flipped the photo over and someone had written the year in pencil in the lower right corner, 1937, with no name.

"Your mother," said Uncle Nicholas.

A stranger, to Anton.He put the photo back in its place and closed the box, "Thank you."

"It was August, and they went to Moscow for the first time, Olga and your mother."

He didn't know what to say, so he nodded.

"Olga would like you to keep the picture, if she has time—"

"I should go." Anton interrupted him, "before dark."

The other party nodded, looking a little embarrassed, Anton wanted to say something to make amends, but he didn't know where to start.Maybe he said goodbye, maybe he didn't, Uncle Nikolay didn't see him out this time.Frozen fog was falling like a curtain, and the sun was distant and weary, its diluted light framing the dark silhouette of the distant forest.The car was parked far away because he claimed he had come by train, which is, after all, the mode of transportation a salesman should be using.

Anton threw the luggage on the passenger seat, and it took more than ten minutes to start the engine.As if to overwhelm the solitary car, twilight surged in, at first a transparent gray-blue, then a dull gray.Farms have long since disappeared from the rearview mirror, replaced by vast and endless wilderness.The car radio couldn't find a signal, just white noise no matter what channel it was tuned to.A section of dry riverbed emerged from the right side of the road, turned a corner, and extended into the distance.Anton parked the car on the side of the road, put his hands on the steering wheel, and listened to the low sound of the engine idling.After a while, he put on his scarf, took out the biscuit box from his bag, and got out of the car.

The snow was deeper than he'd imagined, and it was deceptive, with raised rocks in some places and knee-deep in others.There are a few thin, dead trees along the sloping river bank, and the surrounding snow is fresh and soft.Anton buried the box in the snow and stepped on it firmly.He already had too many ghosts on his back to carry another.

The headlights of the car were on, piercing the deepening twilight, and the cold wind wrapped in snow powder pulled him like a pair of impatient hands.He walked toward the solitary light, his head bowed from the cold.

-

There was no further news from Warsaw.Russian-language newspapers said nothing about the shot dead Soviet defector, gleefully reporting on the Moscow Ballet tour.English-language newspapers had long been strangled and collared by a smiling MI[-] liaison officer and his American counterparts, vaguely citing an "unnamed insider" who came with a Ukrainian business group. of Trade Representatives died unexpectedly.Only French-language newspapers used the term "shooting", still without mentioning another victim besides the Soviets.

The East Berlin liaison station is tucked away in an echoing concrete building, a makeshift post-war warehouse that was briefly converted to housing and then back again, looking nondescript.The brick wall cut the warehouse into four untidy parts, which were leased to different companies.Anton rides here every morning, pushes open the door with the bronze plaque "Ankara Cloth Trade: Turkish Tapestry and Various Textiles", pushes his bicycle through the office flooded with fabric samples and the clatter of typewriters, and lifts it down. A short flight of stairs, where there is another door, marked "Valuable Carpet Storage, Entry and Exit Registration," guarded by a bleary-eyed guard, Anton shows his ID ("B. Richter, Senior Salesman"), Move your bike in.

Behind the door is another world, his and Hynes' world, the world of 11 Dzerzhinsky Square.There are two codecs and translators at the East Berlin station. If it is not necessary, they will never talk to Lubyanka's children. It may be out of political caution, or it may be that they have seen too many spies coming and going. They are seen as consumables that don't last long.He didn't know anyone except Igor Sergeyevich Isaev, who was in charge of the wiretapping.Peter had effectively stripped him from the old intelligence network, and Anton couldn't contact his sources in Bonn and Bern, at least not without drawing attention to himself.

"The Americans keep their mouths shut," Isayev replied when, after many detours, he finally asked about the events in Warsaw.It was a cloudy March afternoon and they were smoking in the shade of the chestnut trees, and the little wasteland next to the warehouse had been posted for rent and remained unattended.

"But?" Anton asked.

"However, a good French journalist happened to have a restaurant waiter whom he knew well. The younger brother of this waiter is the Polish translator of the embassy." Isaev smiled at Anton and shrugged, as if to say You also understand how the gossip machine works," he said the CIA man died on the way to the hospital. The embassy forbids anyone from talking about it, but his friend, a French interpreter, happened to pick up the d'Orsay at the airport (*01 ) political envoy, who claimed to have seen a coffin being loaded onto a plane."

"hearsay."

"Reliable hearsay." Isayev patted the cigarette ash off his sleeve. "This is my job."

Anton didn't take the risk of asking any further, any word he said to anyone would most likely be recorded and sent to Peter's desk.Isayev complained that the bad tobacco made him cough, crushed the cigarette butt with his heel, and went back to the heated office.Anton lit another cigarette, turned sideways to block the cold wind from the west, mixed with the smell of soot, and pretended not to notice that his hands were shaking.

-

This was not his first visit to Berlin, the last time he was on the other side of the wall, to participate in a prisoner exchange negotiation that ended in nothing, like all such informal negotiations, wrapped in shiny diplomatic wrapping paper, decorated Wearing a brightly colored ribbon called "Culture".Peter is undoubtedly the protagonist of this negotiation, and he is "the backup plan, just in case".

Mitchell Prescott apparently thought the same, as he also brought a backup.

"New tie," Hynes remarked, taking a new glass of champagne from the long table.

"Special Occasion."

"Blue doesn't suit you."

"I don't remember asking your opinion."

"No, I'm just being generous." Hines finished his drink, and the band started playing a new dance track. "I hate this music," he grumbled, walking away.Anton watched him pass through the crowd, push open the double doors on the west side of the banquet hall, and disappear into the garden.

Anton waited for five minutes, sipping his wine little by little, keeping an eye on Peter.He and Prescott sat at the table closest to the band, talking quietly, and in every way looked like a pair of close friends.A few ballet dancers walked past him, laughing, oblivious to the diplomatic overtones that lurked in the reception celebrating the end of their tour.

He put down his glass and left the banquet hall.

The garden smelled of damp earth, the hedges must have been pruned not long ago, the cuts were fresh, and the ground was littered with broken branches with young leaves.It was a mild summer evening, and it had been only a month since they last saw each other in the Bird House.Anton reminded himself to slow down and not appear too eager.A branch snapped under his feet, and Hines turned his head and smiled at him.Anton walked beside him and looked with him at the illuminated fountain.

"I thought we should pretend we didn't know each other."

"That would be a good idea," Hines replied, "but I've found that we're not very good at implementing good ideas."

The lights of the reception flickered in the gaps in the hedges, and there was a slight sound in the branches and leaves. Some kind of night bird sang happily for a while, and then fell silent.They were very close, and Hines watched him as if looking for something.Anton imagined putting his hands on the nape of his neck, pulling him close, kissing his lips; they had never done this, it was not part of their relationship, a relationship with blurred boundaries was already too dangerous to be Then add weights on top.

"It's time for us to go back." Hines looked away, took a step back, and opened the distance between the two, "so that the bosses don't kill each other when they are left unattended."

"That would save us a lot of trouble."

Hines laughed again, and Anton wondered if the alcohol made him smile so freely.Hines patted his arm, staying longer than social etiquette would allow.

"Good night, Anton Andreyitch."

-

In the end it was Isayev who provided the clue, by accident. In the spring of 1971, when Moscow and Washington had been arguing for a full year over Roger Kampl and the downed surveillance plane, three tense private meetings between ambassadors in Istanbul, followed by handovers to higher officials, Moved to Helsinki with the SALT (*02) delegation.The Ankara station asked the Berlin station for a wiretapping record of a political counselor, Isayev complained to Anton about the extra work, threw the Istanbul diplomatic address book in front of him, pointed to the column with the initial G, and asked him if he knew The working name of this "Mr. Griffin" in Berlin.

In the lower right corner of that page, the second name in the column for H, is Hines C., junior assistant.

He may have been stunned, but Isaev snapped his fingers twice, urging him to answer.

"No, sorry." He returned the address book to his colleague, "I don't know this person."

"You look like you're having a heart attack."

"I'm fine," Anton assured him, "it couldn't be better."

-

It didn't change anything, he convinced himself, lying on the hard twin bed and looking at the water stains on the ceiling.The tiny apartment, near the railway, vibrates every hour with the night train whizzing by.Bonn is like a story that happened to someone else, with vague outlines and hard to define good or bad.In the dead of night in Berlin, he wasn't even sure if the story ever existed.

It has ended.He thought, close your eyes, close the curtain, close the case, seal the file.

In the distance, from the dark depths where the railway tracks are connected, the sound of a siren came.

-

Then came April 1972.

He wasn't supposed to go to Istanbul, the route was Kiev to Tallinn, and he was carrying an old Polish passport that was frayed.The train stopped in Istanbul for only 5 minutes. Anton got off at the last moment, changed to a Hungarian passport, and entered the country among a group of tired-looking Ukrainians.

When he found the house with the blue mailbox, it was almost dark, but the street lights hadn't been turned on, and the shadows overlapped each other, showing a cloudy gray-blue.The air smelled of saffron, sewage, and grease.He waited on the corner, safe in the sunken doorway of a bookstore.

He didn't wait long, five minutes to six when his friend appeared across the street, stopped at the bottom of the ramp, and lit a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his face.He's wearing glasses again, as he did four years ago in Bonn.Anton subconsciously took two steps forward, stopped again, and watched as Hines fumbled for the key, opened the door, and disappeared into the house with the blue letterbox nailed to it. A light came on.

Anton looked at the dimly lit window, which looked especially gentle in the rapidly fading daylight.The bell rang, and dusk fell on the strait, like a giant eagle with its wings spread.He turned and left without looking back.

Episode 2 is over

Note 1: The French Ministry of Foreign Affairs is located at the Quaid'Orsay (Quaid'Orsay), so the Orsay Quay becomes the name of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs

Note 2: Strategic Arms Limitation Talks (Strategic Arms Limitation Talks), negotiations initiated by the United States and the Soviet Union in 1963 (early negotiations were held in Helsinki), aimed at limiting nuclear weapons, the negotiations are still ongoing between the United States and Russia