crows of strasbourg

4.

The first two taps were broken, Leon unscrewed the third one, leaned over to wash his face, the water dripped onto his collar, he was still wearing that old sweater, the night operator lent him a coat, and changed it The one that was stolen from the train, the blood-stained one, was thrown away long before the train crossed the Turkish border.

The phone rang, one of the six, for a long time, no one answered.The sound echoed in the hallway, the vestibule, and the office the size of four closets.The Istanbul Liaison Station is disguised as a travel agency, the brass plaque on the door proclaims, while the faded landscape photos in the frame and the overflowing booklets of discounted packages on the magazine rack further convince the intruders that the bronze medal is not lie.The travel agency has a small bus and hires a local driver, of course for the purpose of receiving tourists, and for no other reason.

Someone knocked on the bathroom door, Leon wiped the water off his face, and unlocked it.The operator on the night shift, with a lighted cigarette between his index and middle fingers, and a black canvas bag hanging on his arm.

"The driver is here," he told Leon. "Go down the stairs, turn right, take the second right and you'll see a parking lot. I'm sure you know what a bus looks like."

Leon said he should know.

"Don't talk to the driver, but it's okay, he doesn't speak English. We told him you're a photographer," the black canvas bag shoved into his hands, "do you remember the address?"

Leon took out half a piece of paper with his name and address written on it from his coat pocket, and the other party shook his head: "When I say 'remember', I mean that even if someone pushes your head into the water, you still Can spell street names."

"I remember."

The telegrapher on duty took the paper, took out the lighter, and lit it.

In the distance, the trumpets of the minaret blared, calling people to the first prayers of the day.

-

Snow covered the smoky roof.

Moscow seems to have always been like this, eternal snow, freezing fog in the morning, low sun, empty streets and squares.The air itself seemed barbed, scratching the palate and throat as it breathed.Aunt Olga had been alive the last time Anton had returned to Moscow, unaware of the tumor that had quietly grown and eventually killed her.During those last miserable weeks, Uncle Nikolai borrowed a truck from Viktor Sergeyevich Privalov, who ran the farm, and took her to Leningrad and then to Moscow, where she Died there, returned to the farm in the same truck, and buried, the earth frozen so hard it felt like a shovel had been tapped on steel.Peter had told him all this, seven months later, in a café in Warsaw, the sun warming his back.

Anton does not remember his parents, Aunt Olga insists that they all died of illness, the first version was cholera, later it turned into pneumonia, but the time is certain, 1939, many parents were in the years "Disease".When Anton asked where the tombstone was, she would feign anger, start calling him "Anton Andreyevich," and order him out of the kitchen.

His childhood was a frosty swamp, and when he first said that, his old friend, with a sort of meager, prep-school grad imagination, asked him if it was a metaphor, and it wasn't.Aunt Olga's house is on the edge of the swamp, the most remote corner of the farm, heading west.Uncle Nicholas looked after the horses, and the two cousins ​​worked like draft horses and didn't speak much to him.Anton Andreyevich Sokolov, a young outsider, played alone in the open fields, shooting voles and the occasional fox with a slingshot.The school was a chapel in disrepair, and twice a week he copied the Cyrillic alphabet on a pew, hunched over, while a mural of a saint with one eye missing looked down sternly on him.

The street lights were out, the sun was still out, and Dzerzhinsky Square was full of shadows, as it always seemed to be.When people had to pass by here, they all lowered their heads, like herdsmen walking alone through the canyon, holding their breath for fear of being noticed by the wolves.Anton pressed his hat tightly and stepped into the shadows.

The interior of the KGB-infested building is made up of various shades of brown, black and beige.Peter's office is one of the slightly darker corners than the others.He wasn't here very often, Peter was one of those spiders who like to visit every corner of a web, only to return to the center of the web when a storm is approaching, and fiddle with the NSC silk with its thin, speckled limbs.

"Train," Peter said, frowning, as if he suddenly forgot which train, "The terminal is Istanbul."

I know, Anton thought, without saying it.

Peter lit a cigarette and put the ashtray in the middle of the table.There were no windows in the room, and the bulbs were soaked in smoke.Peter was just Peter, no paternal title, no surname, no explanation, ever since Anton was a cadet.The Chief of the Operations Department had spider-like patience and a rhythm that did not allow outsiders to interfere. Anton waited.

"Last October, a Yulianov captain defected to the United States. Among the gifts he carried with him was a 56-page list of the KGB's spy network, not all, but enough to get the children out of the cellar. Drag it out, tear it to shreds," Peter tapped the ash, "Question: Why haven't we been torn to shreds yet?"

It wasn't really a question, Anton continued to wait.

"Because they didn't find the key until the 'crow' stole it." The hand holding the cigarette shook, "We can't call all the children back, you know, some of them have gone too far. Everyone has a death sentence on their backs, and no one knows when the execution will take place, two hours later, one month later."

The cigarette was extinguished.

Anton looked at Ashes, "I will go to Istanbul."

Peter didn’t seem to have heard what he said, and even if he did, he wasn’t interested, “If my father who died in Crimea ever taught me anything, it’s one, how to dig a perfect ice cave; Check your passport. I think that's perfectly legitimate pre-departure advice."

That's why you called me back to Moscow?Check your account? "Indeed." Anton replied.

Peter started rolling a new cigarette. "Is Moscow the same as you remember?"

"Yes."

"Did you mean 'Unfortunately, yes,' or 'Thank God, yes'?"

"A little of each, I suppose."

A match was polished, the smell of sulfur, and the flame briefly illuminated Peter's skeletal face, "Come on, Anton Andreyevich, someone will take you to the airport."

-

The car stopped on a street outside, at the bottom of an incline.Leon got out of the car and began to climb, checking the house number along the way.The air smelled of cardamom, swill, and coffee, and two boys on their bicycles shot down the slope like cannonballs, yelled something at Leon, and disappeared before he had time to react.

The house he was looking for was unremarkable, sandwiched between two other similar homes, distinguished only by a short stone staircase and a blue letterbox nailed to the wall.Leon rang the doorbell, but when there was no answer, he took a step back and looked up at the window on the second floor.The curtains were closed and no clues were offered.

A dog barked at him, and Leon turned, and the owner patted the black and tan mongrel on the head to make it quiet.Wearing a felt hat and a checked scarf over his coat, he looked more likely to be in Greenwich than in a narrow alley away from the center of Istanbul. "Looking for someone?"

He speaks English with no accent,

"I misremembered the house number," Leon replied, "I'm leaving now."

The man in the felt hat took a step aside, blocking his way, "I've lived around here for a long time, maybe I can help you." The dog barked again, baring its teeth, "Quiet, Arnie Ka," he reprimanded, and there was a small gap between the last two syllables of the name, like a step you accidentally stepped on when descending a staircase.

"I'm looking for a Mr. Hines."

"What a coincidence, this is his house," the man in the felt hat pointed to the house with the blue mailbox, "Have you tried the doorbell?"

"Several times."

"Is the old bastard not in there?"

"He didn't answer the door, if that's what you mean."

"Better go in and make sure, don't you?" said the stranger with the dog walking up the front steps and twisting the doorknob. "It's locked, but there's no reason to worry. I happen to have the key with me. Mr. Hines asks me every now and then." Help him water the potted plants."

"I'd rather wait outside and wait for Mr. Hines to come back, thank you."

"I'm Hines, and I appreciate your courtesy." The man in the felt hat pushed open the door, and Leon finally saw his gun, wondering why he hadn't noticed it earlier, maybe it was the dog, or the thing Coat, "Shut up and go in."

-

The dog panted on the cushion, and Leon moved on the chair, trying to get away from it.The gun was placed on the table, and his black canvas bag lay beside him like a disembowelled animal. Hines checked the contents one by one, passport, pencil, coil notepad, some cash, and a small wooden box.He opened the wooden box. Embedded in the soft cushion was a thin piece of metal, with a round handle that resembled a key at the end.

"Again, where are you from?"

"American Consulate in Strasbourg, sir."

"Who told you my name?"

"Vice Consul Parker, sir."

"He should know that I've retired a long time ago." Hines unplugged the desk lamp, transferred it from the coffee table to the dining table, turned it on, and thought about the vertical and horizontal circuits on the metal sheet.

Leon cleared his throat, "What is that?"

"This," Hines put the metal piece back in place and closed the lid, "is a very hot potato."

"In simple terms?"

"In simple terms," ​​a chair was pulled over, and Hines sat down across from Leon. He had taken off his coat and put on a sweetheart-neck sweater vest over his shirt, looking just like Leon. ’s [-]th grade science teacher, “Suppose you’re going to lock up your little secret, say, a list of favorite restaurants, tips for growing orchids, or a list of field agents, first encrypt it, eh? Then you lock it up In a nice box. That's not enough, the lock can be picked and the box can be smashed, so you put a clever device in the box that automatically destroys the information inside when the box is opened, unless," he looked at Look at Leon to see if he can keep up, "Unless you have a special key, turn it a certain number of times and in a specific direction, the box will open, and the cat inside will be alive."

Leon's eyes moved to the small wooden box, and then turned back, "That's a key."

"That is indeed one of the aforementioned keys."

"The Vice-Consul wants you to send it to the other side of the wall."

"The vice-consul needs to make another plan." Hines returned to the dining table and put the scattered things back into the canvas bag. "My good girl Anika and I are not going anywhere."

The dog pricked up its ears when it heard its own name.

"I'll die on the way, sir, and I know that."

Hines tossed him the rucksack. "I'll pray for you."

The ear-piercing horn sounded three times, and Leon walked to the window, just in time to see the minibus with the travel agency logo on it drive away.Coming from the other direction were two police cars, parked side by side at the bottom of the ramp, and the uniformed officers got out and walked towards the house with the blue letterbox nailed to it. "Damn it," Hines said, pulling the operator away from the window, "back door, now. Anika, follow."

A car pulls up at the back door, the dog jumps into the passenger seat, and Leon gets into the back.The car reversed and drove out of the narrow alley, turned a corner, and rushed down the slope.A policeman spotted them, stood in the middle of the road, raised his arm, and signaled to stop.Hines hit the gas and the cop jumped away, yelling something.

"Where are we going?" Leon asked as the car sprinted across the tram tracks and into traffic on the other side of the road, horns blaring.

"To confirm one thing." Hines replied.

-

"Dogs can't go in," the guard repeated, "and neither can you."

"Pick up the intercom," Hines suggested mildly, blocking the closing door with his foot, "and tell the Consul that Mr. McCarron wishes for a friendly visit, yes, Luke McCarron, with a' a'."

The guard gave him a suspicious look and went back into the hall.The streets in the consulate area were empty, and Leon's eyes kept slipping to the intersection, guarding against the police cars that never showed up.

The doors of the U.S. consulate in Istanbul reopened, and the same guard, looking more confused than before, said, "You can go in, Mr. McCarron."

The phone in the office on the first floor rang non-stop, mixed with the incessant clicking of the typewriter.The dog shakes its ears, as if trying to shake off the noise.Hines chased away a surprised code-breaker, pushed Leon into a chair, and "sent a telegram to the Soviet embassy."

Leon put on the earphones and took them off again, "Where?"

"Soviet embassy," Hines told him, "reads 'Anika sends greetings to father,' in plain text."

"No offense, Mr. Hines, I think we should go—"

"Send the telegram, Mr. Christen."

The reply came four and ten minutes later and consisted of only one line.Leon pulled out a note. "'How's retirement,' comma, 'Connor,' question mark." He put down his pencil. "Who's Connor?"

"Me," replied Connor Hines, "Moscow sent Sokolov."

"Who?"

"An old friend," said Hines, pulling him up. "Now we should go. It's murderous weather, and it's best not to be outside."

The transmitter from Strasbourg did not know how to answer, so he was silent.