You're a US police officer, what are you thinking about going back to the East for?

Chapter 394 The Great Reconciliation of the Century

"Don't move! Are you one of Antifa's people too?" the bulldozer shouted.

"Antifa? Just because of this coat of mine?" The old man laughed instead. "No, I'm here to help you."

MacArthur didn't put his gun down: "You were just in the alley."

"Yes, and I've been watching you for quite a while." The old man looked away and turned back to MacArthur.

"You fought a really bad battle, Chief of Staff."

The old man continued to raise his hand, his nonchalant smile never fading from his face.

MacArthur's gun remained firmly pointed at the other man's forehead.

"Give me your name, and your purpose. I don't like guessing."

"Names are the least valuable thing in my line of work." The old man tilted his head, letting the red star on his hat brim flash in the firelight. "You can call me 'The Bell Ringer'."

It must be made clear that the old man in front of me, wearing a black Suede overcoat and with a face full of wrinkles, is definitely not the private detective Ronald Horowitz who was joking around with his assistant Mike in the old bar in the North District.

Although both men carry a remnant of the Cold War era, Horowitz is a more localized,

A seasoned hustler who makes a living by relying on his connections on the street.

The guy in front of me, who called himself the "bell ringer," had the air of an eccentric old man and a smiling face, but his aura was much heavier and colder, as if he had just been dug out of the permafrost of Siberia.

"The bell ringer?" the bulldozer grumbled, pushing the CQBR short-barreled rifle in his hand forward again, poking it directly into the old man's chin.

"I'm Batman, for crying out loud! What are you doing here dressed like this in the middle of the night?"

"Here to help you, big guy." The bell ringer tilted his head back slightly to avoid the scalding hot gun barrel.

"The street fighting in the North District must be tough, right?" The old man gestured with his chin toward the depths of the alley, where sporadic gunfire could still be heard.

"In old neighborhoods like the North District, fire escape staircases connect to sewers, and there are countless rat holes."

"Once these Antifa brats sneak in, even if you bring ten armored vehicles, you'll just be eating their dust."

He spread out one hand, the black sheepskin glove reflecting a dim light in the firelight.

"But I'm different."

"I have people on my side, and my people have an intelligence network that has been in this city for over a decade."

"My men know every secret passage and every hidden stronghold in this northern district like the back of their hand. They can easily drag these little brats out of the gutter for you."

"That sounds like a good suggestion," MacArthur said coldly, but he showed no intention of putting down the Glock in his hand.

His gaze fell on the old man's chest.

The pure silver badge gleamed brightly in the firelight, depicting a shield, a sword, a red enamel band, and a sickle and hammer.

MacArthur had done strategic analysis at the Pentagon for many years, and he had read more intelligence documents from the Cold War era than anyone else. Moreover, he was over sixty years old and had lived through the Cold War, so he really recognized these documents.

The standard insignia of the KGB's First Directorate, and a custom-made hand-painted enamel one at that, was only issued to officials of a certain rank.

Not to mention this outfit; if this were Moscow during the Cold War, no one would dare stop him at the entrance of Lubyanka.

Lubyanka, once the headquarters of the KGB, is now the headquarters of the Russian Federal Security Service. The statue of the KGB founder was even removed after the collapse of the Soviet Union.

"You have the First Directorate's custom-made insignia, and with that outfit, you could have walked around Moscow like a headless chicken back in the Cold War. Do you really think just any low-ranking KGB agent would dare to wear that around?"

He took a half step forward, and the muzzle of Glock's gun was almost touching the old man's hat.

"I'll say it again, state your real name and purpose clearly. If you keep beating around the bush, I'll blow your head off the next second."

The bulldozer beside it gave a cooperative hum and pushed the butt of its gun onto its shoulder again.

"Sigh." The old man sighed, his casual smile finally fading, revealing a tired face. "Alright, I give up, Chief of Staff. There aren't many people like you in the American military who aren't blind."

The old man straightened his coat collar, straightened his back, and instantly exuded an aura of authority.

"Viktor Sergeyevich Malyshev, a senior supervisor of the KGB's First Directorate Overseas Operations Directorate at the end of the Cold War, took over the North American intelligence network in the mid-1980s and remained in that position until the day the Soviet Union died."

The bulldozer paused for a moment, glanced back at MacArthur, and clearly didn't understand the significance of that title.

"Overseas Operations Bureau Supervisor," MacArthur repeated, as if to make sure he hadn't misheard.

"So? Why is a high-ranking KGB officer, who should be collecting his pension in Moscow, wandering around the alleys of Seattle like a ghost?"

"Moscow?" The bell ringer chuckled, as if he had heard some absurd joke.

He leaned against the wall of the alley, as if he was tired of standing, and rubbed the broken glass on the ground with the soles of his boots.

"In 1991, those idiots and oligarchs sitting in the Kremlin were busy dividing up the cake." His tone suddenly slowed down, no longer the cynical tone he had just used.

"The building in Lubyanka is still there, but the KGB is in complete chaos, and guess what?"

"Although the building is still there, no one knows who is sitting inside, what they are selling, or who is bargaining with the other side of the ocean."

"In our First Bureau's archives, three groups of people disappeared overnight. Many high-ranking officials who usually acted respectable turned around and took our overseas agent lists to the CIA to exchange for US dollars and even US green cards, all for their own personal gain!"

He said through gritted teeth, glancing up at MacArthur.

MacArthur remained silent. As a former Pentagon strategic analyst, he knew all too well how sordid that history was.

"This batch on the west coast is buried very deep."

"If the list falls into the hands of those traitors, they're all finished."

The old man lowered his voice as he finished speaking.

"At that time, I was in charge of the North American intelligence network."

"The last thing I did was to burn all the contact codebooks myself, cutting off the vertical and horizontal connections, turning everyone into ordinary Americans on the spot, with no one able to contact anyone or recognize anyone."

"I should have left them a message, telling them that this was an order and to remain silent."

"But at that time I was afraid of causing trouble and that the higher-ups would find out, so I didn't send out the message."

He chuckled, his self-deprecating tone quite pronounced.

"So what I did resulted in what they perceived as a complete loss of all communication overnight."

"I bet there are still some idiots trying to contact their online friends over the past thirty years."

"If we actually make contact, whether it's with the original contact or with the current Russian intelligence agency, it won't be a good thing."

"Those oligarchs are capable of doing things like packaging up old comrades and selling them to the Americans in exchange for oil contracts."

"As for the Russian intelligence agency, they might be used to exchange for some funding."

The bell ringer sighed and shook his head.

"Now that you've cut off all contact, what are you doing jumping out again?" MacArthur asked.

"Because I am the 'bell ringer'."

The old man pointed to his head.

"I still have the last remaining list of the sleepers in my mind, as well as the tokens to awaken them. I can reorganize them at any time."

"Then why haven't you done anything for the past thirty years?" the bulldozer chimed in from the side. "Did you oversleep?"

The bell ringer glanced at the bulldozer but didn't mind its rudeness.

"Because it's not worth it." The bell ringer's voice trailed off.

"Later, the Russia controlled by oligarchs completely betrayed us. Why should I support this group of people who uphold pure faith?"

A veteran who had lived in anonymity in the United States for decades was awakened?

"Let them become cannon fodder for those capitalists who resell state assets? Pay for the oligarchs' yachts? Dream on!"

He looked up and gazed out of the alley. Over there, the headlights of dump trucks illuminated the entire street. The veteran's boots waded through the puddles, and Ray and Walter's voices came through the walkie-talkie; they were still directing the defense line.

"I'm waiting for a team that can control them."

The old man turned his gaze back to MacArthur's face.

"Thirty years have passed, and I haven't waited for it."

"Until recently, I saw the stalls set up by your boss Ray in the West End, and everything you've done."

"At first I was just observing, but since America has already descended into chaos tonight, I don't mind leading my comrades who are willing to follow me to ignite the fire one last time, making it burn even bigger!"

After listening, MacArthur looked at the badge on the old man's chest and fell silent.

He released his index finger from the trigger, slowly pressed the muzzle towards the ground, and finally put it back into the holster behind his waist.

The bulldozer turned its head and glanced at him, its lips moved, and it also raised the muzzle of its CQBR, slung it diagonally upwards in front of its chest.

The alley was quiet for two or three seconds before sporadic gunshots drifted in from a few blocks away.

MacArthur stared at the bell ringer, his gaze gradually shifting from calm to something else.

More than 30 years ago, he wrote an assessment report on Soviet intelligence documents in the Strategic Analysis Room of the Pentagon.

At that time, Su* was also part of his job, a supervisor of the KGB's First Directorate, and was definitely a high-value target in his reports.

If it were back then, what he should be doing now would be taking this person back to the interrogation room, extracting all the information, and then making him disappear completely.

But Su* is gone.

MacArthur's right hand hung at his side, his fingertips unconsciously tapping the outside of his thigh twice.

He should have taken action. The person on the other side was an enemy who had once tried to overthrow the United States, someone who should have been a mortal foe, but instead, he came to help him on the streets of America.

He could no longer find a reason to take action.

What the hell is this?

The bulldozer yawned beside him and said in a gruff voice, "So, this old man is one of ours now?"

MacArthur ignored the bulldozers, took half a step forward, and looked the bell ringer over again from head to toe.

Then he spoke.

"You wouldn't be so presumptuous as to think I'm a communist, would you?"

The bell ringer raised his eyebrows.

MacArthur held up one finger and pointed to his chest.

"You just said you're waiting for a team that can command your troops."

"Now that you see the commander's stall, you might think you've found comrades."

Let me explain things to you first.

He put his hands in his coat pockets and relaxed his shoulders a little.

"Lyon might be, and Ray is most likely too. I won't comment on the system they're running."

"But I am not."

"I have studied communism in great depth. I have read 'Das Kapital' and 'State and Revolution,' and I have even studied your Soviet military theories in the Pentagon archives."

"But research is research. I agree with some of it, but that doesn't mean I have to become a communist. I never have been."

MacArthur looked into the eyes of the bell ringer and spoke slowly.

"I worked with Ray on large-scale conferences and hierarchical management because these things were useful."

"But I am not trying to eliminate classes, and I have never said that I want to implement public ownership."

"I am a soldier at heart, a nationalist, or, if you insist, a martial republican. If you like, you can call me a national socialist, whatever you want."

"I was able to stand in the same trench with those veterans because we had all worn military uniforms, shed blood for the country, and had the identity of soldiers, not because of any class proletarian stance."

"All my thoughts, from beginning to end, have only one purpose: how can America become strong again, and how can we get rid of those vampires lurking in the Pentagon and on Capitol Hill?"

"I don't care about the talk of 'workers of the world unite,' I only want America."

"So unlike you, I am not an internationalist."

"I can't even manage my own America."

After hearing this resounding declaration of separation, the bell ringer suddenly clicked his tongue and made a loud "tsk".

"Alright, alright, Chief of Staff, stop reading."

He raised his gloved hand and waved it at MacArthur.

"I can tell your background at a glance. You're a complete American right-wing old fogey."

"I've heard that kind of talk from the Soviet Union to the point of being sick of it in the 1920s."

"I won't treat you as an enemy, but of course I'm not stupid enough to treat you as a comrade either. In Russian, there's a specific word to describe someone like you."

He pushed his hat up, revealing an old scar on his forehead.

"Poputchik".

MacArthur frowned.

"Fellow travelers," the bell ringer translated himself.

"In the 1920s, there was a group of writers, intellectuals, and former military officers who supported the revolution, but they were not Bolsheviks."

Vic.

"They do not acknowledge class struggle, but they hate the Tsar and the old aristocracy."

"That's why Trotsky called them 'fellow travelers'."

"They don't need to walk with us to the end; they just need to walk with us to the next intersection."

The bell ringer looked at MacArthur, the nonchalance in his eyes completely gone, replaced by the sharpness of the old agent.

"You're obsessed with America First, but that's okay, because what you hate now is the same thing we hated back then."

He reached out and tapped MacArthur's chest through the air.

"You're on the same path as me, whether you admit it or not, it's none of my business."

MacArthur remained silent, while the bulldozer stood to the side, looking left and right with an expression that said, "I recognize every single word you're saying, but I don't understand them when put together."

The bell ringer leaned against the dirty brick wall, pulled a flat silver flask from inside his coat, unscrewed the cap, and took a swig. The spicy vodka flavor instantly spread in the cold wind.

"It's my turn to speak."

"You don't actually believe that we, a bunch of old bones nearing our coffins, have come out to help you build..."

Great America, isn't it?

"Or do you think we still want to practice communism in the United States?"

The bell ringer handed the flask to MacArthur.

MacArthur didn't take it, and the bell ringer didn't seem to care, taking another sip himself.

"Stop joking."

"Our greatest setback in this life is that the revolution is not yet complete, not that the Soviet Union has collapsed."

"We've worked for so many years in Eastern Europe, Central Asia, Cuba, and Africa. How many people have died? In the end, it was all for nothing. We lost to capital."

"And now you're telling me, hey, in the heart of America, someone is organizing the underprivileged and turning the homeless into a disciplined force."

"We have this opportunity to do, on American soil, what we wanted to do but couldn't do back then—"

Do you think we can refuse?

He stared at the firelight, a hint of fanaticism in his eyes.

"Chief of Staff, this kind of temptation is fatal to an old KGB officer."

"And don't think too highly of us."

"For an old agent who has been forgotten by the world for thirty years, the hardest thing is not being poor or receiving welfare meals, but that his work has become completely useless."

"Organization, intelligence, infiltration, assassination—all the things we've practiced for so long have suddenly become worthless. We've lived like rats in the sewers for thirty years. Now, your commander needs us. That's enough."

The bell ringer took a step back, leaned against the wall, and looked up at the alleyway entrance illuminated by the firelight.

"I'm getting old, and I often think about one thing."

"What have I left for this world in my life?"

"I am seventy-three years old this year, and I will die of old age in a few years."

"I've left nothing behind in my entire life."

"But things are different now, even if what you come up with isn't pure communism, but just a weird variant."

"But as long as we can see the old order being pried open and the grassroots being organized, that's enough for us."

"I can see."

"I can participate."

"Even if it's just for one day, I'll do it."

Finally, Bulldozer couldn't hold back any longer and whispered in MacArthur's ear, "General, what exactly is this old man trying to say?"

MacArthur looked at the bell ringer and spoke after several seconds.

"It means he's willing to work."

He took his hand out of his pocket and patted the bulldozer on the shoulder.

"Go tell Harrison to give this to—"

He glanced at the bell ringer.

"—Old comrade, make room for me."

"Also, contact Water and have him urgently find the commander. This is a very important matter and must be decided by the commander personally. I need to return to the front line immediately; I don't have time."

Just as the bulldozer turned around, before it could even press the intercom on its chest, a clear Russian curse suddenly came from deep within the alley.

"If you put that claw on my waist again, I'll chop it off and shove it down your throat."

An aged but powerful female voice boomed in the cold wind.

The group of people all looked in the direction of the sound at the same time.

In the darkness, two figures walked over one after the other. They must have confirmed that an agreement had been reached before speaking up directly and no longer hiding their intentions.

The old lady walking in front was wearing a gray knitted cardigan, her gray hair was a little messy from the wind, and the expression on her face looked like she had just stepped in a pile of fresh dog poop.

She clutched a well-preserved 1950s Makarov PB silenced pistol, its muzzle pointed impatiently at the man behind her.

Following behind was Ronald Horowitz.

His silver-gray curly hair was a mess, like a bird's nest, and he wore a plaid shirt with a casually grabbed old jacket over it.

Facing the gun pointed at him, Horowitz was not afraid at all; instead, he grinned.

"Relax, Anna. It's been thirty years. I just wanted to check if your amazing waist-to-hip ratio from back then is still as good as ever."

"Yes." Horowitz raised his hands and winked at the old lady.

"If it weren't for the stray bullets all over the streets in the middle of the night, I would have invited you to have a glass of vodka and reminisce about a Moscow night in the 1970s."

Horowitz leaned over, nudged the old lady's arm with his shoulder, and forced a smile onto his old face.

"But it turns out that Seattle fast food really does ruin you; you feel like a piece of dry pine bark now."

"Shut your foul mouth, Horowitz." The old lady wasn't buying it. With a flick of her wrist, she stabbed the gun barrel into Horowitz's ribs, making him gasp in pain.

The old lady turned her head and glanced at MacArthur, the bulldozers, and the bell ringer.

"The bell ringer." The old lady nodded to the bell ringer as a greeting.

Then she whirled around, pointing the gun at Horowitz's nose again.

"You brainless idiot, did you piss your brains out with the alcohol?" the old woman scolded mercilessly.

"You old codger who's just coasting along in the North District, why did you have to take that job from that idiot FBI Director Karl?"

"Karl asked you to investigate the West and East Ends, and you agreed without a word? Are you desperate for money, trying to earn even the money to bathe a dog? You almost ruined everything!"

The bulldozer's eyes nearly popped out of his head. He held his gun, glancing at MacArthur and then at the two arguing old men, completely unable to get a word in edgewise.

Horowitz shrank back in response to the scolding, but immediately started shouting back defiantly.

"How was I supposed to know you old hag had gotten involved with that kid named Lyon from the West End?" Horowitz complained loudly, rubbing his sore ribs.

"Karl's paying a lot! And it's an anonymous account on the dark web, who knows Leon's one of their own?"

He pointed to his own nose, becoming more and more aggrieved as he spoke.

"Thirty years! A full thirty years!"

"How do you think I survived after all contact was cut off?"

"This damn intelligence segregation is too good! So good that I didn't even know you were still alive!"

Horowitz pointed at the gun in the old woman's hand.

"I don't even know where you are, how am I supposed to know that the whole thing Lyon's doing in the East End was done by one of our own people?"

"If I had known earlier that it was someone you were protecting, I would have—"

"I would have run over there long ago to ask for double the price from Caldo," the old lady interrupted him with a sneer.

"Don't think I don't know what kind of person you are, you money-grubbing old scoundrel."

"Go ahead and earn your money for your coffin!" the old lady spat.

Horowitz coughed twice, brazenly lowered his hand, glanced at the bell ringer beside him, and then looked back at Anna.

"You're not much smarter than me, are you?"

"All contact has been completely cut off, yet you're still using a radio in the archives every day to send coded messages to your superiors. You're lucky you haven't been caught by those idiots in the CIA!"

"You idiot, how dare you talk back?!" Anna pretended to grab Horowitz's ear.

The bell ringer stood by the wall, watching his two former subordinates argue in the alley, a hint of nostalgia in his eyes that he himself didn't even realize.

He raised his hand, which was wearing a black leather glove, and pressed it down.

"Alright, stop arguing."

The old lady and Horowitz immediately shut their mouths.

The bell ringer tilted his head toward MacArthur, gesturing to them.

"Things here have been settled." He looked at the old lady and Horowitz.

"The Chief of Staff is a pragmatic man, and our goals are now aligned."

After saying this, the bell ringer took two steps forward and stood in front of MacArthur.

He pointed to Horowitz, who was still rubbing his ribs.

"Chief of Staff, let me introduce you."

"This old rogue is Ronald Horowitz. Although he's a chatterbox, he's the one I just mentioned who's been planting spies in the North District for over a decade."

The bell ringer patted Horowitz on the shoulder.

"He knew exactly where every sewer in the North District ran, where the gangs were located, and even which patrolman liked to collect kickbacks in which alley."

He looked at MacArthur, his tone becoming more formal.

"Take him with you."

"Aren't you going to arrest Antifa thugs in the North District? Take him with you, he can help you drag these little brats out of the gutter one by one."

MacArthur looked at the three Soviet agents, whose combined age was over two hundred, and remained silent for two seconds.

His facial muscles twitched slightly, but he managed to suppress the shock in his eyes.

He had no idea that this old guy named Horowitz was secretly investigating the base, which showed that the other party's counter-surveillance methods were very sophisticated.

But what he found even more incredible was the old woman.

He recognized the face. Raymond had mentioned before that there was a stubborn old hag in the East Precinct archives who was so unapproachable that even the Internal Affairs Department dared not offend her.

MacArthur was quickly calculating in his mind.

The commander not only created a large army of homeless people in the West District, but had also quietly made connections with these old KGB agents long ago.

These two were clearly recalled by the bell ringer. Logically, the bell ringer should be able to contact the boss directly through Anna, so why did he come to find her instead?

Could it be that he already went to see Lyon tonight? Was this the commander's instruction to have him come over and talk to him alone?

Just how big of a game is the commander playing?

He turned his head and looked at the bulldozer.

"What are you waiting for? Do as I just said, go." MacArthur patted the bulldozer on the shoulder.

The bulldozer scratched its head, glanced at the old man who was grinning even as the old lady pointed a gun at him, muttered "What the hell," and turned to stride toward the alley entrance.

The bell ringer remained standing, glancing at MacArthur: "You take Horowitz with you. I need to take advantage of the chaos to wake up more people. A large number of people aren't even in Seattle. I'm busy; I don't have time to fight with you in the streets."

MacArthur hesitated for a moment, nodded to the bell ringer, and left the alley with Horowitz and the old lady.