crows of strasbourg

6.

Alex, whatever his last name, is not on file or on watchlists, though that doesn't mean much.Peter seemed to find this very amusing, while Anton took it as a personal insult.He returned to Bonn empty-handed, chewing on his failures behind the small, neglected desk—tucked away in the corner of the visa office of the Soviet embassy, ​​on the verge of being squeezed into a filing cabinet, and used to pile up surplus inkwell and teacup.Consulate employees privately called him "the Lubyanka boy," but to those who actually worked in Lubyanka he was simply "Peter's boy."The vaguely worded diplomat directory listed Anton Sokolov as an "assistant," with an extension number, and gave no further indication of what he was "assisting."

Bad Goldberg has no shortage of such assistants.

He was living in a furnished rental loft with a lone bed against the wall that looked like it had been stolen from a military hospital donation warehouse.The slanted windows let in the sunlight, for the stains on the glass, which had not been wiped clean from time to time, always gave the impression of deep winter.In the unpredictable early spring season, the window also let in the rain, knocking out the steady ticking sound of a clock in an iron bucket.The only telephone was kept on the floor beside the bed, to wake him up at odd moments and drive him into the long night that lay over Bonn.

The nominal owner never showed up, and matters such as rent were handled by a secretary at the embassy, ​​and even though Anton suspected that the owner did not actually exist, he did not discuss it with anyone.The downstairs furniture was covered with dust sheets, and when he came back in the middle of the night and walked up the stairs by the light of a low-wattage bulb, they looked like unfinished plaster statues with vague predatory forms.He never used the downstairs rooms except the kitchen, and only occasionally put his boots out on the steps to dry.The only suit jacket hung in the closet, and he only had two ties, gray and a darker gray.When he showed up at a cocktail party at the Turkish embassy, ​​it was the dark gray one.It was an astonishingly warm April afternoon, and a light rain in the morning had long since faded away in the ensuing scorching sun.The ice cubes melted quickly, turning the sweet tea in the tray into pale brown sugar water.A game of pool was arranged in the garden, with twice as many spectators as participants.Today he plays the role of a fly, picking up gossip in the crowd.Sweat soaked his collar, Anton untied his tie, stuffed it into his coat pocket, and walked towards the long table under the shade of the tree and the ice water on it.There was the dull sound of hitting the ball from the lawn, mixed with lukewarm applause.Scattered around the table were those who did not want to be tortured in the sun, surrounded by large glass jars of fruit wine, like crocodiles around a pond about to be dried.A man with glasses was talking to the three daughters of the Turkish ambassador, whom they called "Mr. Hines," laughing and shoving each other.Anton stared at the man with glasses, put down his glass, and strode towards him.

"Alex."

Polite confusion on the face of the banker, librarian or spy, "Sorry, I don't—"

"We met in Bern, excuse me, ladies," he said to the diplomat's daughters, grabbing Alex by the elbow and dragging him across the long table.Several counselors around the fruit wine cast suspicious glances, Anton let go, and pushed Alex behind the hedge.

"'We met in Bern'," Alex said, taking off his glasses, examining them with a frown, and putting them back on again. "The military academy in Leningrad should teach you to talk before putting guns in your hands. You What about your daughter, Benjamin? Not there, I suppose."

Anton stepped over the trap of Leningrad, "And so does your unfortunate wife."

Alex spread his hands in a "so what" gesture.Leaving the shadow of the hotel restaurant, he looked even smaller, a bird with its wings folded.If Anton had the chance to guess three more times, he would say the postman, the insurance salesman, or the spy. "What's our reason for hiding here?" Alex asked. "Do you need an apology or comfort? I can't offer either."

"Blueprints for the Cambria factory."

"Never seen it, supposed to be in the English hands, shouldn't it, big man?"

Anton wanted to break the bridge of his nose.

There was another round of applause from across the lawn, this time more enthusiastically.Alex patted Anton's arm, and walked towards the long table again. Anton stood still for a while, but still followed. "The embarrassing thing about Bart Goldberg," Alex said, picking up two glasses of champagne that had lost their bubbles, and handing one of them to Anton, who was scowling and motionless, Alex shrugged , put the goblet back in place, "We all pretend this is a civilized world with rules. Do you want to know my advice?"

"Do not."

"My suggestion is to drink more wine and enjoy this afternoon." Alex took two steps towards the lawn, turned back, took out a metal object from his pocket, and put it in Anton's hand, "Thank you Your lighter."

It was a major omission, and four hours later, Anton protested to his imaginary Peter, slamming the address book on the small desk piled high with teacups and flipping to the part where the letter H was.The name he's looking for is on page 75, right column, second.

Connor Hines, Junior Executive Assistant, Brackets, Trades.

-

"We're not going to the port." Hynes stepped over a man curled up on the landing, without looking down at the hapless ghost.

"I have no objection, sir," Leon followed closely against the moldy wall, carefully avoiding his motionless bare feet scabbed with blood, "I thought we were leaving Istanbul."

"Yes."

"So why not—"

"Because our KGB friends will be guarding the pier." The door of the guest room was jammed. Hines put his shoulder on it and slammed it open. The room smelled of wet cotton and dead rats. Here, Christen, wait."

"how long?"

"Depends on the weather."

The window was ajar, and there was faint music and the noise of the crowd.Hines closed the window and drew the curtain.The sunlight turned a dull khaki.The walls were unpainted, and wires poking out of the gaps like blackened veins crawled across the top of the bricks, terminating in a crumbling lampshade and incandescent bulb.Hines sat down on the hard rattan chair and rubbed his shoulders. He had begun to miss the house with the blue mailbox, the single sofa, the half-read book, and the half-bottle of whiskey in the back of the cupboard.Lubyanka's children have probably searched his house three times by now, cutting up mattresses and couches, breaking open locked cupboards.

"Do you always talk like that? I mean, birds, weather, climbing gear, twenty or thirty pseudonyms. Sounds like a late night movie."

This boy is always asking questions, and one day he's going to get shot for it.Hines briefly considered not answering, but they were going to spend at least one night in this limestone cave-like room, "Not always," he said, "just old habits."

"I filled out the application form, I mean, to the CIA," Leon said, walking around the room and sitting on the yellowed sheets, "but never submitted it, and didn't want to get a rejection letter,'Mr. Christen , thank you for your interest, but we regret to inform you', over. I mean, I talk non-stop when I'm nervous, probably not a trait the Secret Service is looking for."

There was the sound of glass shattering in the next room, someone yelling angrily, doors opening and slamming, footsteps thumping.Hynes stood up, dragged the high-backed chair next to the desk to the door, and pressed it against the handle.The trumpets calling for evening prayers sounded again, and the seemingly endless day was almost at an end. "Try to sleep for a while," he told Leon, taking the penis out of its holster and placing it on the coffee table. "I'll wake you up when it's your night watch."

"I can't possibly sleep."

He pretended not to hear and went into the bathroom.Both taps had only cold water, and Hynes dampened a towel and wiped his face, which smelled strongly of bleach.All the old wounds were aching, and it was hard to tell which one needed his attention more.There were glory days when he could live on painkillers and two hours of sleep a day, but those days are long gone.How's retirement going, Connor?His Soviet friends also bothered to put a question mark.Hynes could hear him, and Anton's German was impeccable, and if he got in a hurry, his hair would curl up a little, like damp paper.Three years and five months, he replied, at a diplomatic outpost far from Bonn, not counting the days.

The pipes vibrated softly in the peeling plaster, and the warm water splashed on his hands, only to turn cold again.He turned on the tap, wondering if the plaintext telegram had been a stupid decision. "Poke the brown bear's eye," Roger would describe it like this. Labor assistant Roger, a former postal airline captain, was shot down during a reconnaissance mission in early 1970. The file did not indicate where or what he was reconnaissing.Hines is the only one still alive in the "Bonn Little Orchestra" composed of CIA employees.

He wiped his hands and went back to the room.Leon fell asleep, crooked on the dirty sheets, holding the black canvas bag.Hines pulled the wicker chair aside, away from the window, and sat down again.Now he could tell where it hurt more, the side of his waist, where the bullet had nearly pierced his liver.He and Anton hid in the bombed-out half of the school. The explosions continued all night, shaking the dark Beirut.Hold the fire for a while, he suggested, leaning into each other's ears, Anton smells like leather and gunpowder and blood, until we get out of this hell alive.

The Soviet held out a dusty hand to him, and Hynes would have laughed had it not been for the blood shed.They shook hands.

The light faded, the drapes covering the windows turned from earthy yellow to a dull gray-blue, and shadows crawled slowly across the floor.He didn't turn on the light, and listened intently to the sounds from the other side of the stairwell, hoping that would distract him from the pain that seemed to be absent.However, in this turbulent darkness, he had no choice but to return to Beirut, which was devastated.