Eagle, I don't want to form an alliance anymore.

“It’s best not to use it,” the man said, “but just in case.”

Then he taught them how to use the telegraph machine, how to encrypt and decrypt information using the small tools that came with the machine, and then packed his things to leave.

“There’s one more thing,” he stopped at the door and saluted the two men, “Comrade Yuri Vladimirovich asked me to tell you: the situation is more complicated than expected, but you’re doing a good job. Keep it up.”

The door closed. Slava stared silently at the telegraph machine and the two pistols on the table for a long time.

Director Nian walked over, picked up another gun, and skillfully checked the magazine.

"Wow, it seems we've really stirred up a hornet's nest," she said.

“Yes,” Slava put his gun away, “we’re like pawns that have crossed the river on a chessboard, only moving forward and never retreating.”

He walked to the window and looked out at the night. A few lights shone in the distance, while the surrounding area was pitch black. The night in Uzbekistan was quiet, but he knew that beneath that quiet, many people were plotting something.

Rashidov, the Ministry of Internal Affairs, those who want to bribe them or get rid of them.

There's also Mocheng, Andreyevich, and the inevitable reckoning that's bound to come sooner or later.

He didn't know if he would leave here alive. But he knew one thing: he was no longer the person who only talked politics online.

He has now begun his practice. Whatever challenges lie ahead that test his ideals and resolve, he is determined to continue.

Director Nian's voice came from behind: "What are you thinking about, bro?"

"I'm thinking about what to do next."

"What do we do? Only kill!" Director Nian chuckled, tucking the gun into his waistband. "Keep doing what you're supposed to do, continue investigating what you need to investigate, continue writing what you need to write. They're trying to bribe us, but we won't fall for that!"

They're trying to scare us, but we're not afraid. The worst that can happen is death, what else? As the saying goes—

"When a person dies, the bird flies to the sky; if they don't die, they live for ten thousand years!"

Slava looked at her, then chuckled and poked Director Nian's waist: "Do you even have that organ to say something like that?"

"So what? Believe me or not, I'll break you right now?" Director Nian brandished his pistol, threatening Slava.

She then went to the table and began fiddling with the telegraph machine.

"Alright, stop spacing out. Come on, let's practice how to use this thing together—in case you crash, I'll have to send the message out by myself."

Slava went over and began practicing the special telegraph machine with her.

Outside the window, the night wind of Fergana rustled through the cotton fields.

This was the summer of 1980.

The story is only just beginning.

Chapter 8 Rising Flames

The situation took a sharp turn for the worse in the month that followed.

September in Fergana is like a giant sauna. Daytime temperatures can soar to 45 degrees Celsius, and the heat from the ground can soften the soles of one's shoes. Slava and Director Nian have already changed their lodgings three times, moving from a guesthouse to a KGB safe house, and then from the safe house to another liaison point.

They dared not stay in one place for too long. Since then, when walking on the street, the young guide could always feel that someone was following him. Sometimes it was a young man wearing sunglasses, and sometimes it was a gray Lada following behind at a distance.

They have traveled hundreds of kilometers, disguising themselves in each city before secretly conducting investigations and collecting evidence. KGB intelligence stations in the cities also cooperate with them, providing supplies and intelligence.

They couldn't stay at a hotel. In the highly organized society of the Alliance, Rashidov and his cronies could make it so that regular hotels had to verify their identities for registration—thankfully, the internet wasn't widespread in this era, otherwise the two of them probably wouldn't have been able to even enter the city.

Since they couldn't enter official venues anyway, the two could only slowly gather information in various cities and villages. Andropov allowed them to use the 20,000 rubles of embezzled money to "lubricate the fast-paced bureaucratic machine of Uzbekistan"—of course, the money had originally been handed over, but to avoid Rashidov using banknotes to investigate, they used the local intelligence station's reserve funds, all small denominations and old banknotes, to ensure no problems would be found.

However, as long as the two of them acted, they would inevitably come into contact with the people and relationships around them. Rashidov had been operating in Uzbekistan for so many years that he had long since built this place into an impregnable fortress for this local tyrant. With his power spanning both the legitimate and criminal worlds, he would definitely have his men search for the two of them. Nian Dao and Slava had no choice but to move their positions after a few days.

"Damn, here we go again," Director Nian said, peeking out from the curtains. "Today it's a motorcycle, two people. That bastard Rashidov is getting desperate."

“Let’s go now,” Slava said, putting the documents in his bag. “We need to get to that spot on the east side today.”

Their appearance was completely different from when they first arrived. Slava had grown a full beard, wore white socks, round-framed glasses, and the kind of old shirt and cloth trousers commonly seen on local farmers. Nian Daoze had dyed her long, silver-white hair black, changed into a traditional Uzbek woman's long dress, and wore a black burqa and face mask. From a distance, she looked like an ordinary Central Asian Muslim woman; if she stood in a crowd, you wouldn't be able to tell who she was.

It has to be the Islamic method; the wisdom of Muhammad over thousands of years is indeed worthwhile.

“Your outfit is actually quite decent,” Slava said, looking at her. “It’s just that your eye color is too garish.”

“I have sunglasses.” Director Nian pulled out a pair of large-framed sunglasses and put them on. “Let’s go, stop dawdling—it’s so hot, how can they stand wearing these clothes?”

They exited through the back door, walked through a small alley, turned several corners, and only boarded a bus after making sure there were no tails around. After more than a month of intense, nerve-wracking combat training, the two of them could barely be considered KGB agents.

The train was crowded, filled with workers heading home from get off work and women carrying shopping baskets. The air was thick with the smells of sweat, onions, and some indescribable spice. Slava was squeezed into a corner, one hand gripping the handrail, the other protecting the bag in front of her chest. The bag contained the materials she had collected over the past two days: photos of account books, photos of evidence, interview transcripts, and copies of several whistleblower letters.

The whistleblower letter was what shocked him the most. He had seen it at a KGB intelligence station. The station chief was a veteran agent in his fifties named Isayev, who had worked in Uzbekistan for over twenty years and knew the situation there inside and out.

"What do you want to see?" He led Slava and Director Nian into a basement and opened a row of iron cabinets. "Rashidov's materials? Plenty."

The cabinet was crammed with folders, arranged by year from the 1960s to the present.

“What are all these?” Slava asked.

“Whistleblower letters,” Isaev said. “The letters sent to Moscow over the years, the ones that were intercepted, and some of the intelligence we collected ourselves—collecting this incriminating material was a task assigned from above.”

As for why we only collect information and don't expose anything? Don't ask. The answer is the cadre appointment system, and if you ask further, it's because the people were arranged by Emperor Xunzong.

Slava casually pulled out a folder, opened it, and looked at it: the first letter was from 1974, written by an accountant from a collective farm, accusing the farm chairman of falsifying production figures and embezzling public funds. The letter was very detailed, including numbers, dates, and names.

There is a red stamp in the upper right corner of the letter: Processed.

"It's been dealt with?" Slava asked. "How was it dealt with?"

“The person who wrote the letter was fired,” Isayev said calmly. “He later died in a ‘traffic accident,’ and the farm’s leader was subsequently transferred.”

Slava turned to the next letter: written in 1976 by a prosecutor from a regional prosecutor's office, accusing the local internal affairs department of covering up crimes and accepting bribes. The letter ended with: "I know this letter may never reach Moscow, but I must write it down, at least to keep the truth recorded."

The letter also has that stamp in the upper right corner: "Processed".

"Where is this prosecutor?"

“I retired, but I couldn’t withstand the pressure,” Isayev said.

Slava continued translating. In 1978, a doctor wrote a report accusing a local tyrant of seizing land, beating rights defenders, and causing serious injuries and disappearances for some. The doctor claimed in the letter that he had personally witnessed the injured and had photographic evidence.

"This doctor?"

"What else could we do? How could ordinary citizens with no influence possibly fight against gangsters?" Isayev said. "We took some money and settled things under the threat of the gangsters."

"Damn it... how many letters are there?"

“Just this one cabinet,” Isaev pointed, “contains about three or four hundred letters. And these are only the ones we intercepted; many more were destroyed at the city level, without even leaving a copy.”

"You've been collecting all this dirt on them just to leave it there?" Director Nian took a deep breath. So, the other party already knew what they'd been investigating for a month?

Isayev glanced at her: "Who should we report to? Rashidov is one of Brezhnev's men. Our intelligence chief in Uzbekistan also has members of Rashidov's faction—after so many years of intelligence work, we don't really distinguish between these people. Even if we send the materials, where do you think they'll end up? The prosecutor's office? Does Comrade Brezhnev want to investigate himself?"

Isayev leaned against the cabinet and lit a cigarette for Slava.

“The whole of Uzbekistan,” he said, “from farms to the republic, from police to judges, from businessmen to journalists. He’s been running it for over twenty years, and he’s long since turned it into his own independent kingdom.”

He exhaled a puff of smoke and watched it slowly dissipate.

"Do you know why he's been able to maintain his position for so long? Because he's not just a corrupt official. He's greedy, but he also gets things done. Over the years, how many schools, hospitals, and roads have been built in Uzbekistan? They were all spearheaded by him. When people talk about him, some curse him, but some praise him."

"So everyone just turns a blind eye?"

"What can you do? What can you do to him? You have no choice." Isayev stubbed out his cigarette. "You want to sue him? If you sue him at the regional level, the regional party secretary is his man. If you sue him at the republic level, the republic party secretary is himself. If you sue him at Moscow level, Brezhnev is behind him. Where can you sue him?"

Slava fell silent.

"What about those who reported it?" he asked. "Those who were dismissed, exiled, or locked up in mental hospitals?"

"Them?" Isaev nodded. "They are true warriors. But warriors in this system often don't have a good ending."

He walked to the door, glanced back at Slava, and said, "You're the same, young people. What you're doing will eventually exceed Rashidov's tolerance limit. When that happens, what do you think will be your fate?"

Slava understood that he was facing an entire system, a complex, interconnected, and virtually impenetrable system.

But he did not back down. For the next two months, he and Director Nian moved around Uzbekistan like two mice. By day they visited farms, factories, and government offices, and by night they organized documents and sent telegrams in the KGB's safe house. At the same time, they used this intelligence to note down potential allies who might be useful to them.

They also tried to bribe some people to get more information, but with little success. On September 10, a workshop foreman at a cotton processing plant accepted 9 rubles, saying he could take them to see the real ledgers, but instead led them to a secluded warehouse where three burly men with iron bars were waiting.

That time, thanks to Director Nian's quick reaction, she took the initiative and took down one of them. She then worked with Slava to take down the other two. After that, she grabbed Slava and fled. They ran through the cotton field for half an hour before shaking off their pursuers.

“Damn it,” Slava gasped, lying on the ground, covered in cotton wool. “These guys really want to kill us.”

"What do you think?" Director Nian was also panting, but he still had a smile on his face. "Why keep someone who doesn't even want 20,000 rubles around? Just to cause them trouble?"

"Then what do we do?"

"Let's keep going, there's no turning back now." Director Nian stood up, dusted himself off, and said, "Being afraid won't help."

They had indeed reported the criminal gangs to the police before—at that time, Rashidov was only being stalked and harassed, not yet at the point of a full-blown confrontation. The local police were very cooperative, taking their statements and saying they would investigate thoroughly. And then nothing happened. A week passed, two weeks passed, and there was still no news.

Later, they stopped seeking help from the police and instead made more use of information from the KGB intelligence network to contact those who were dissatisfied with Rashidov and his cronies—which was exactly what Andropov wanted.

These two young people are slowly learning what politics is.

On the evening of September 21, Slava sent a long telegram to Moscow from his safe house. He recounted his experiences over the past two months: being followed, threatened, set into traps, failing to get results from reporting to the police, and failing to bribe them. He also mentioned the letters of whistleblowing, the whistleblowers who were punished, and the vast network of corruption.

After sending the telegram, he sat by the window, lost in thought. Director Nian came over and handed him a cup of tea.

What are you thinking about?

Slava took the teacup: "Can we win?"

"Win what?"

“Win this battle.” He looked out at the night sky. “Rashidov has been building this up for over twenty years. What can the two of us do to him?”

Director Nian sat down next to him and looked out the window as well.

Do you know how ants eat elephants?

"Eat it bite by bite?"

“Yes,” Director Nian said, “What we are doing now is taking it one bite at a time. With each piece of evidence we collect, the elephant loses a piece of flesh. When the flesh is gone to a certain extent, the elephant will be unable to stand, it will become anxious, and at that time it will show its flaws.”

"But we might get trampled to death before we finish eating."

"Then let's see who's faster."

Slava looked at her, gently punched her shoulder, and smiled.

"You're really optimistic."

“Isn’t this what you taught me? To be open-minded and resilient!” Director Nian shrugged. “I’m not afraid of Rashidov at all. I’m happy when I hear about organized crime! What kind of pressure is this? It’s just some low-life threat from gangsters! The August 19th coup was real pressure. There were tens of thousands of people on both sides, with guns and cannons. I heard there were even tanks bombing buildings.”

--------

October arrived. The weather in Fergana began to cool, and cotton fibers from the cotton fields were being transported away by truckload to processing plants. Slava and Nian's investigation was also coming to an end.

Over two months, they visited more than 30 farms, over a dozen processing plants, and six state-level government agencies, interviewed hundreds of people, and collected a vast amount of data: photocopies of account books, photos, audio tapes, copies of whistleblower letters, internal reports...

Everything was neatly packed into sealed bags and transported back to Moscow in batches through the KGB's secret routes.

“This is the last batch,” Isaev said, handing a package to a young agent. “Be careful, don’t mess it up.”

The young agent nodded, took the package, and went out the door. Slava watched his figure disappear into the night, feeling a sense of relief.

“It’s almost done,” he said. “Now we just have to wait for news from Moscow.”

“Don’t be too happy yet,” Isayev said seriously. “Rashidov isn’t stupid. You’ve been causing trouble on his turf for over two months; there’s no way he wouldn’t have noticed!”

"We have always been very careful."

“Being careful won’t help,” Isaev shook his head. “Some of our special agents in Uzbekistan were infiltrated by Rashidov. He probably already knows everything you’ve done.”

"what do you mean--"

“What I mean is that you’d better get back to Moscow as soon as possible,” Isaev said, looking at him. “I’m afraid you won’t be able to leave.”

------

Isayev's warning came true three days later. That morning, Slava and Nian were preparing to move to another safe house when they suddenly received news: the young agent who had delivered the documents the previous night had gone missing.

"Missing?" Slava's expression changed. "How did they disappear?"

“I don’t know,” the messenger said. “He was supposed to travel overland to Samarkand, from where he would transfer to a plane to Moscow. But he didn’t show up at the rendezvous point in Samarkand. Our men searched all night, but there were no leads.”

"Where's the data?"

"It's gone too."

Slava and Director Nian exchanged a glance, both seeing the same thing in each other's eyes: It's over.

That batch of documents was the culmination of their investigation this month, containing crucial evidence—ironclad proof of falsified accounts, a copy of the whistleblower letter, and several photos of Rashidov with Moscow officials. If these materials fell into Rashidov's hands...

"Let's go," Director Nian said, "Let's go now!"

But it was too late. That afternoon, the Uzbek Ministry of Internal Affairs issued an arrest warrant.