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

Slava got into the car, and Director Nian followed behind him. The car slowly drove out of the residential area and merged into the evening traffic in the capital.

The scenery outside the window receded into the distance, and streetlights lit up one after another.

Slava looked out the window, with only one thought in his mind:

Is history really about to change?

Outside the window, a butterfly began to flutter its wings.

Chapter 4 The stinkiest thing I've ever smelled is my rotting, foul-smelling dream.

The car drove through the streets of Moscow in the night.

Slava sat in the back seat, looking out the window. There weren't many pedestrians on the street, and only a few cars occasionally drove by, mostly Volga and Lada. Director Nian sat next to Slava, his expression calm, but he could feel her fingers gently tapping her knees.

Half an hour later, the car left the city and entered a tree-lined avenue. Tall birch trees lined both sides of the road, which grew narrower and narrower, with fewer and fewer streetlights until only the car headlights illuminated a small section of the road ahead. About twenty minutes later, the car stopped in front of a villa.

The villa was small, two stories high, with light gray exterior walls that appeared somewhat somber in the night. Several pine trees, neatly trimmed, stood in the yard. A lamp shone dimly on the porch.

Sherov got out of the car and opened the back door: "We're here."

The two followed him into the courtyard, where two young men in plain clothes stood at the entrance. They nodded when they saw Sherov.

The door opened.

Inside was a small foyer with a dark carpet on the floor and an oil painting on the wall, the subject of which was unclear. A middle-aged woman walked in, wearing a simple dark blue dress, her hair neatly combed.

“Comrade Sherov,” she said, “Yuri is waiting for you in his study. Please come with me.”

She led them through a corridor, past several closed doors, and finally stopped and knocked on a dark brown wooden door.

"Come in." A voice came from inside.

The study was simpler than Bislava had imagined. A large desk held stacks of documents and a lamp. Behind the desk hung a portrait of Lenin, below which was a bookshelf filled with books. By the window were a small sofa and two armchairs, with a coffee table in the middle containing a teapot and several cups.

The room was devoid of any luxurious decorations—no crystal chandeliers, no gilded ornaments, none of the things Slava had seen in Western movies and games commonly found in the offices of high-ranking Alliance officials. Everything was simple, even somewhat rudimentary.

A man was sitting behind the desk. He stood up and walked over to them.

He looked to be around sixty-five or sixty-six years old, tall and thin, with a slightly hunched back. His hair was gray, neatly combed, and he wore gold-rimmed glasses. He had some age spots on his face, but his eyes were bright, and when he looked at people through the lenses, there was a sharp, scrutinizing quality to them.

He was wearing a dark gray sweater over a white shirt, without a tie. The clothes were old, but clean.

This is Yuri Vladimirovich Andropov, the KGB chief and one of the most powerful people in the league.

"Good evening, Comrade Yuri Vladimirovich." Sherov saluted Andropov before even entering the room.

"You two can sit down first." Andropov pointed to the sofa and armchair, and sat down in the armchair himself. Sherov, however, did not move and stood straight in the doorway.

Andropov glanced at him: "Nikolai, you sit down too."

Serov sat down in another armchair. Andropov picked up the teapot and poured a cup of tea for everyone. Slava noticed that there were even several peach blossoms in the flower arrangement on the table.

“Georgian tea,” he said, “from my hometown. I don’t know if it suits your taste.”

"So it turns out General Andropov and Dalinzi are from the same hometown," Slava thought, picking up his cup and taking a sip. The tea was strong, with a faint smoky flavor. Andropov also took a sip, then put down his cup and looked at Slava.

“Velikoslav Ivanovich,” he said, “Comrade Shelov told me that you are very knowledgeable about computers and information systems.”

“It’s not really research,” Slava said, “just some ideas.”

Tell me about it.

Slava thought for a moment and then began to explain his thoughts on informatization and economic management in as simple a language as possible. He didn't go into too much technical detail, but focused on the impact of information asymmetry on the planned economy and how to use technology to solve this problem.

He knew very well that while Andropov abhorred corruption, he was the kind of leader who would blame a sinking ship on a dirty deck. He absolutely could not attack the Union's systemic problems; that was a major taboo!

Andropov listened the whole time, nodding occasionally and frowning occasionally, but he didn't interrupt him. After Slava finished speaking, Andropov was silent for a while.

“Your idea is very interesting,” he said, “but there’s a problem—do you have any practical experience?”

The necessary path from the left side of the forensic network to the superhuman of Commi is practice. Too many people realize their true nature through practice, but only a very few can stand firm in their ideals amidst the hardships of reality and thus stand out.

"The theories you're talking about sound good, but there's often a huge gap between theory and reality. Do you know what our grassroots level is like? Do you know how a collective farm operates? Do you know how many problems a prefectural party secretary faces every day?"

Slava did not answer, because he genuinely did not know.

“I’ve met a lot of young people,” Andropov said, his gaze becoming distant, as if looking at something from long ago. “They’re just like you—they have ideas, they have passion, they believe they can change the world. But most of them end up being worn down by reality, and some I have to deal with myself.”

He stood up and walked to the window.

“I remember a young man... In the early 1960s, he had just graduated from university and was assigned to a remote prefecture as a cadre. He was full of enthusiasm and wanted to make a difference. He wrote many reports and made many suggestions, all about how to improve the work and how to increase efficiency.”

He paused.

"And then?" Director Nian asked.

"Later he discovered that no one read his reports and no one adopted his suggestions. His superiors told him that young people shouldn't think too much and should just do things step by step. He was unconvinced and continued to persist. What was the result? He was transferred to an even more remote place to do an insignificant job."

Andropov turned around and looked at Slava.

"Guess what happened to him afterwards?"

"I do not know."

“He learned to compromise,” Andropov said. “He stopped writing reports that nobody read and stopped making suggestions that nobody adopted. He learned how to get along with his superiors and how to survive within the system. Ten years later, he became a regional party secretary. Twenty years later, he became a minister.”

“It seems like a pretty good ending for him,” Slava said.

“I personally signed his arrest warrant three years ago. Corruption, bribery, abuse of power... he accepted more than one million rubles in bribes while in office.”

The room fell silent.

“Do you know what hurts me the most?” Andropov said, “It’s not how much money he embezzled! It’s that I still remember what he looked like when he was young, when his eyes shone with the same light as yours now.”

He walked back to the armchair, sat down, and looked at Slava.

"So I want to know what's different about you compared to him? Why won't you become the next him?"

Slava remained silent for a long time.

“I don’t know,” he finally said. “I can’t guarantee I won’t change, but I can tell you why I want to do this.”

"explain."

"Because I know what will happen to this country if nothing is done."

Andropov narrowed his eyes.

“I have a…premonition,” Slava carefully chose his words, “if the current problems aren’t resolved, if corruption continues to spread, if information at the grassroots level continues to be distorted, if the higher-ups don’t know the true situation below—”

This country is going to have a major problem! Not a problem of ten or twenty years, it could be much faster! The alliance will likely collapse eventually; in many of my dreams, it won't even last until the new millennium!

Andropov stared at him for a long time. Slava had no idea what reports Andropov had been reading before he arrived—many member states of the union were in crisis, especially Poland, suffering from severe inflation, rising cost of living, shortages of goods, stagnant wages, and soaring prices...

He had received numerous secret reports that a nationwide general strike was imminent in Poland, which, if not handled properly by the authorities, could shake the Soviet Communist Party's ruling position in the Eastern Bloc.

Where did you get this feeling from?

“I can’t explain it clearly,” Slava said, “but I believe it.”

Andropov didn't press the matter. He picked up his teacup, took a sip, and then put it down. At this critical juncture for the alliance, he needed to cast a wide net and sow more seeds.

In fact, a few years later, after Andropov ascended to the throne, unlike Omerov and Konstantin Osaka who cultivated a Dnieper clique, he emphasized meritocracy and open selection of officials from all walks of life. He did not engage in cronyism but valued outstanding performance.

For example, Gottlieb came from the Caucasus, Ligachev from Siberia, Ryzhkov from the south, and Vorotnikov from a diplomatic mission abroad. None of these people were his former subordinates; they were all outstanding cadres who had left a good reputation and positive image in their original positions, both within the organization department and among the general public.

P.S.: Gotukov's reputation is indeed quite good, but a good reputation does not mean he is suitable to be a leader.

But what kind of task should we give these two? They don't have any local connections or intertwined interests with any groups, so giving them a task that's too big would be difficult for them to complete, while a task that's too small wouldn't be good for their development... Where should we send them?

Suddenly, Andropov noticed a few peach blossoms in the vase, which were exported by the Union's member states in Central Asia.

“I have something to tell you,” he said, “about Uzbekistan.”

--------

“Uzbekistan is the Union’s main cotton-producing region,” Andropov said. “They deliver millions of tons of cotton to the country every year. Their production reports have been increasing over the years, from four million tons to five million tons. At least on paper, Uzbekistan is our model republic.”

He stood up, walked to the bookshelf, and took a folder from a drawer.

"But I have some... different views from Comrade Brezhnev."

He placed the folder on the coffee table and opened it. Inside were several photos, which appeared to be aerial shots.

“This was taken by KGB satellites,” he said. “It’s a cotton-growing region in Uzbekistan. Look here—” he pointed to an area in the photo, ““According to their reported figures, this area should be full of cotton. But what do you actually see?”

Slava took a closer look. The area in the photo was mostly grayish-brown, with only a few scattered white spots.

“There’s no cotton,” he said.

“Yes,” Andropov said, “or rather, there isn’t enough cotton. I really don’t understand how such a small collective farm could produce tens of thousands of kilograms of cotton per mu. And this situation exists to some extent throughout Uzbekistan. There’s a gap between the yields they report and the actual yields.”

"It's a classic case of fabricating production figures to defraud funding," Director Nian said.

“Yes, but it wasn’t just about falsification.” Andropov put the photos away. “They set up a whole system. From the most basic collective farms to the leaders at the state level, and then to the highest levels of the constituent republics. Everyone at every level was involved, exaggerating production, defrauding the state of its funds, and then dividing the money among themselves.”

Regarding the yield of 10,000 jin of cotton per mu

"How many people are involved?" Slava asked.

“I don’t know,” Andropov said. “It could be several thousand, it could be tens of thousands.”

Several years ago, Andropov had already begun compiling incriminating materials on Uzbek officials—including the Uzbek Supreme Secretary, Rashidov. The problem was that Rashidov was a close confidant of the Khedrup Khan, and he had won over the Khan with falsified figures and expensive gifts, preventing Andropov from taking any action.

It was 1980, and due to false reporting at all levels, Uzbekistan's official cotton production had exceeded 600 million tons, but the actual production was only about half of that. This was what Andropov knew; what he didn't know was that only about 160 million tons of cotton were actually used in factories.

In his eyes, there was falsification in Uzbekistan, but the falsified indicators could be controlled. Although Rashidov was cunning and treacherous, he wasn't exactly a corrupt official; most of the money he obtained by inflating production figures was invested in local development, including building a subway in the capital!

This person is a pest to the alliance, but he is 70% good and 30% bad to the local people. The problem in Uzbekistan cannot be solved by conventional means, so it is good to let these two people test the waters. Maybe they can produce some unexpected results.

"You just said that information distortion is the biggest problem of a planned economy, and I think Uzbekistan is a prime example. The higher-ups don't know the real situation below, and they believe whatever the lower-ups report. The entire system is built on lies."

That's a lie. Actually, everyone in Uzbekistan, from top to bottom, knows the truth. They're all lying to the central government.

"You want us to investigate?" Slava asked.

Andropov didn't answer directly. He stood up, took a few steps, and then stopped. No, his good comrade-in-arms, Xun Zong, wasn't dead yet. What if these two reported this to the Central Committee? Xun Zong would think he was trying to cause trouble. That wouldn't do; he couldn't let that happen.

“It’s not a formal investigation—a formal investigation isn’t the right thing to do right now. I just want you to see what’s going on there. You don’t have the authority to try or arrest an official—but you can report directly to me, and I’ll provide you with some additional assistance if necessary.”

He turned to Slava and Director Nian: "I will arrange your identities. You will go to Uzbekistan as researchers from a certain research institution to study technical issues related to cotton production. This identity will not attract too much attention, but it will allow you to come into contact with some people and things."

"What about protection?"

Andropov remained silent for a moment.

“Limited protection,” he said. “I will have Sherov arrange for some people to look after you secretly. But if anything goes wrong, I cannot intervene openly. Do you understand?”

"clear."

Slava understood that this was a dangerous and informal mission. If things went wrong, Andropov could deny any connection with them at any time. After all, the Königsson was seriously ill, and power was gradually shifting to his confidants. If the Königsson died, Andropov would have to compete with other rivals for the Königsson's inheritance. This crucial period couldn't afford any mishaps.

But Slava still couldn't understand one thing: "You have so many people you can use, why use two people of unknown origin and questionable identity?"

Andropov looked at him, a hint of a smile flashing in his eyes.

“Because it is precisely because your origins are unknown and your identities are suspicious,” he said, “that this mission will expose you if you are spies. If you are not spies, this mission will prove your worth. Either way, I will not lose out.”

Good, good, good. This old fox is really cunning. When things go wrong and he can't cover it up, he just says they're Western spies. Mr. An, you're something else.

“There’s another reason,” Andropov’s voice lowered, “What you just said: about informatization, about institutional reform... I’ve heard similar things many times. But there’s something in your eyes that makes me feel you’re not just talking nonsense.”

“I see a sense of urgency, as if you know something I don’t. It’s like you believe that if you don’t do something now, it will be too late.”

Slava didn't speak; he didn't know how to answer the question.

“I don’t know who you two are,” Andropov continued. “I don’t care where you come from. I only care about one thing: whether you can do things and whether you are willing to do things for the Union.”

He walked up to Slava and stood still.

"You say that information technology can make the system more efficient and reduce corruption. Then go and see what our system is really like, see how corruption arises and spreads. See how idealists gradually turn into corrupt officials."

His gaze became very deep.

"Then, after witnessing all this darkness, if you are still willing to do something for this country, for our alliance, for the cause of communism, for the ideals of your mentor—come to me again."

------

The room remained quiet for a long time.

“I have a question,” Director Nian began, “You said you’ve seen many idealists change in the end. What about you? How did you manage to persevere?”

Andropovich looked at her, seemingly somewhat surprised.

“Me?” he said. “I didn’t insist on anything.”