crows of strasbourg

3.

Leon stood by the wall near the wooden door, put his hands behind his back, put them down again, hugged his chest, and put them down again.It was colder in the basement than outside, and he could barely feel his feet.If "The Crow" had anything to say about his self-introduction, he didn't express it.In fact, after confirming that Leon was merely a radio operator, he never spoke to the young consulate employee again.At the moment "crow" is arguing with Mrs. Marquez about something, every word is like a bullet.A map was spread out on the table, and the four corners were fixed with thumbtacks. The wooden table was covered with densely packed small holes.

Another came after midnight, his coat covered in snow, his curly gray hair spilling like foam from where the wool cap couldn't cover.The three fell into a longer discussion. No one asked Leon's opinion, but no one drove him away.Leon dragged a chair to a corner, sat there, fell asleep from time to time, and was awakened by the occasional heated debate, and so on.

When Mrs. Marquez shook him awake, the midnight visitor had disappeared. "Crow" was smoking at the table, examining a small wooden box in front of him.He was at least six feet three inches tall, and folded in the chair that looked like the work of a child's craft class, it was a kind of caricature in itself.Smoke gathered around his beret like the dismal residue of burnt out thoughts.Gone is the map, too, replaced by hard toast and coffee in enamel cups that look and taste like industrial waste.

They needed Leon to do a few things, the mistress of the woodworking shop told him, speaking slowly, as if Leon were a dull student, or a Dalmatian, to go here and there, meet this and that, Send them a folder of one sort or another, a handbag, even a lemon drop, yes, a little bright yellow candy, don't ask questions, sender.No, of course don't drive that Citroen, use a bicycle.

The post-snow air was icy cold, and Leon pushed his bike onto the snow-covered sidewalk, rubbing his hands together.The pedals and chain are well maintained, and there is no unnecessary sound when pedaling.Radio operators crossed streets that were still deeply in shadow, ringing their car bells to drive away pigeons that were ruffled by the cold and were not too keen to move.

-

Anton was waiting in the attic.

Downstairs was a used bookstore, with an attic full of forgotten yearbooks and anthologies of poetry, as well as dubious Russian-language publications with giant “to be destroyed” stamps on their covers.A long, narrow square window overlooked the main street, and across from the bookstore was a woodworking shop, and for reasons Anton couldn't fathom, on the counter stood a jar of candy, still very bright even trapped in a dirty glass jar , like a small pot of tinder.

The owner of the bookstore is an elderly couple, Serbs, two shivering sparrows.Anton handcuffed them to the radiator in the bedroom, left water and a few biscuits, promised "someone will let them out after this is over", and if they mentioned "a KGB" to the police, said KGB would come back here , breaking their thin necks.

The bookstore was dead silent, and Anton guessed that this was what a second-hand bookstore should be like. After all, this is a hospice ward for publications. They come here to wait to be forgotten, or die, which is the same thing for books.The lucky ones get a second chance, but most will succumb to time and the moth.It sounded like something his old friends would say, but now was still not the time to think about old friends.

Carefully oiling it, he used a cutter to remove a small piece of glass, just slightly wider than the opening of the mouth.The cold wind came in, he picked up two old books, blocked the gap, and put on the sheepskin gloves again.He had to keep his hands warm and he had only one chance to kill the crow. The SVD sniper gun was placed on the floor, and the cover of the scope had not been opened, so the target could not risk the reflection of the lens until the last moment.

A young man who had been in and out of the woodworking shop several times, a gray coat over a bloated sweater and a black bicycle, didn't look like he belonged in the shop, or even in the Balkans.Maybe a new carpentry apprentice.Something rubbed against his trouser leg, the bookstore cat, Anton bent down to pick up the soft animal, sent it out the door, and locked it.

The crow never appeared.Just after lunch time, someone rang the doorbell of the bookstore, and left without stopping after getting no answer.The snow had all melted, so that the afternoon was colder than the morning, the sewage was flowing, and the early Christmas decorations were limp and drooping.He didn't see when the carpenter apprentice in the gray coat came back, but a dark green Citroen stopped at the door of the carpentry shop, and it was the young man who did not belong to the Balkan Peninsula that came out of the cab.A tall figure in a beret emerged from the cavernous shop, and Anton recognized his face, which appeared repeatedly in the papers Peter gave him.

He moved the two books blocking the gap, took off his gloves, and opened the scope cover.

Snow-soaked Christmas decorations swayed from side to side in the wind, and a car honked its horn in the distance.

The Raven of Strasbourg appeared in the center of the crosshairs, and all sound died away.Anton Sokolov took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

Pull the trigger.

When the screams broke out and the terrified crowd ran away, there was no one behind the long and narrow windows of the bookstore attic. A lone tabby cat was sitting on the window sill, attracted by the fresh noise and smell, and curiously moved its nose Get close to the glass gap.

-

When Leon recalled it, it seemed that this happened in a matter of seconds.

Discussion about the destination is over - the crow and his cabinet members were originally torn between "going north through Austria" and "taking the sea route via Trieste" - Leon, from Strasbourg The honorary driver of , will send his passengers to the Italian border.The crow whispered something to Mrs. Marquez, and reached out to open the car door.

A car honks in the distance.

Then splatters of blood, brains, and broken bones.

The body fell forward, hitting the car door before sliding into the filthy stagnant water.Leon took a step back subconsciously, and raised his hand to wipe away the blood splashed on his face.The terrified cries of the people seemed to come from underwater, vague and distorted.Screeching whistles pierced the chaos, and patrolmen ran through the panicking crowd towards the woodworking shop.

Mrs. Marquez squatted down, ripped off the coat of the corpse, took out a small wooden box from the inner pocket, and stuffed it into Leon's hand. "Run." She ordered briefly, pushing him hard, "Run!"

He almost fell in the middle of the road, the soles of his shoes slipping on the thin ice.The crowd exclaimed again, Leon turned his head, and a tall man with light-colored hair was undoubtedly rushing towards him, pushing away passers-by who were in the way.The operator knocked over a newspaper stand, got up, and turned into a narrow alley, clutching the wooden box, which was slippery like a plain ring box.The unknown pursuer drew closer, and Leon swore he could hear him breathing.The spire of the clock tower flashed between the gaps in the building. He turned left at the branch of the alley, jumped down a few stone steps, and just avoided the roaring tram, rushing into the sparsely populated Belgrade Railway Station Square. in the crowd.

He paused to catch his breath, ignoring the gazes around him.The tram passed by, and the tall man in gloves was just beside the track, his eyes swept across the crowd and fell on Leon.

Damn it, cursed the mum-sounding voice in his head.

He ran across the hall, each breath grazing his throat like sandpaper.A guard yelled at him and took a step forward to stop him.Leon knocked him aside and ran to the platform.A portly conductor pointed dramatically at him, and two orangutan-like porters jumped out of the cargo compartment to join in catching the intruder.Leon climbed over a rickety fence and ran into the gravel-paved warehouse area.The gunfire exploded, the bullet hit the carriage not far away, and sparks flew everywhere. Twenty meters away, a freight train moved slowly. Leon stuffed the small wooden box into his pocket, ran across two railroad tracks, grabbed the handle welded next to the door with both hands, and climbed onto the gradually accelerating cargo compartment.

The whistle sounded.

Anton Sokolov stopped and watched the train accelerate away from the platform.

-

The Consul threw the newspaper in front of David Parker.

The deputy consul glanced at him first, then turned his gaze to the Russian headline on the front page, then turned to the inner page, pondered the contents, and frowned, like a military doctor evaluating a festering wound.The clocks were ticking, and for three full days a melancholy of impending doom hung over 15 rue d'Alsace, as typists and translators whispered in their downstairs offices like a crowd frightened by thunder. , a small rodent that doesn't know what's going on.

David took off his glasses. "I'm going to see the ambassador."

"No, I'm going to see the ambassador," the consul emphasized the word "I," and sat down heavily behind his desk. "After this hive in Belgrade was poked, what they want is to put my head in In a box, addressed to the goddamn police—did our guys find Chris?"

If the vice-consul noticed a slight inaccuracy in the name, he did not correct it, "No, sir."

"There's no body either?"

"No body either."

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," the consul wiped his face with a handkerchief, "three days, where can a damned telegrapher go?"

As if to answer his question, the intercom phone on David's desk rang, and the vice-consul glanced at his superior, who gestured for him to answer.David picked up the receiver: "This is Parker."

He listened in silence for a while, then ended with a short "OK" and hung up the phone.

He turned to the consul, who raised an eyebrow.

"Apparently, Thomas at the dispatch office has just received a telegram from the Istanbul contact station," he paused, as if choked with words, "from Leon Christen."

-

The cupboard-like office of the U.S. Consulate in Strasbourg's dispatch office can accommodate no more than three people, but the consul's dimensions are worth two.Pushed into a corner with his acne-scarred face, Thomas, with his usual half-open mouth, watched in wonder as the consul and vice-consul gathered around his humble little desk, one wearing earphones and the other clutching a pencil.

"Thank God," the consul repeated mutteringly, like a superstitious Ukrainian peasant woman, "thank God—for Christ's sake, why are you still here?" He glared at Thomas, who apologized vaguely , slipped out of the office and closed the door.

"He said the crow's 'relic' was in his possession," David drew two horizontal lines under the word "relic," and the transmitter spat out a new note.

"Good Christ," replied the Consul.

"Someone's trying to kill him, the Soviets, I think, the KGB," said the vice-consul, switching to a fresh sheet of scratch paper. "He said he needed help."

"Of course he does." The consul sat down, his chair creaking dangerously. "Istanbul, do we have any friends around there?"

"We have no authority, sir."

The consul took out a handkerchief, but he didn't use it to wipe his face, he just held it in his hand, "There is such a person."

The transmitter continued to tick, but David's attention was no longer there. He stared at the Consul's face for a moment, looking for signs of a joke, but found none. "Absolutely not, sir."

"I'll call Paris."

"You need to call Washington, sir, and Langley, and before you can say 'Turkey,' we'll all be sent to Tanzania, where I hear the office doesn't even have a toilet."

"Or, Washington doesn't need to know about it until it's settled," said the Consul slowly, as if testing the pronunciation of each word, "think about it, David, he was once our best Manpower, hell, I bet it still is. 'The Raven' has done the hard part, he just needs to get the cargo over this side of the Iron Curtain. We-"

"You're committing political suicide," David pointed out.

"Maybe, maybe not, if we get this over with, we can go back to Washington like kings," the consul wiped his chin with a handkerchief. "Want to join?"

The vice-consul stared at the transmitter, which fell silent, as if waiting with bated breath.On the other end of the cable was Leon Christen, the son of a farmer and a poorly trained consulate employee who knew nothing of the finer things about diplomacy.

"Let's talk in the soundproof room," he suggested.

-

Six hours later, Leon woke up suddenly.

Late at night in Istanbul, the transmitter uttered its first chirp after a long silence, methodically uttering a name and an address.