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

You'd better really be talking about the Eastern Roman Empire.

The third letter was the most interesting; it was written by a section chief from the Moscow water resources department. He didn't directly state the results from Uzbekistan in his letter, but instead attached a summary of an internal report:

"According to our ministry's 1978 survey, Uzbekistan's irrigation system is already severely overloaded. The flow of the Amu Darya River has decreased by 40% over the past two decades, and the water level of the Aral Sea is dropping by about 50 centimeters annually. If cotton cultivation continues to expand at the current rate, the Aral Sea is expected to be almost completely dried up by around 2000. At that time, the entire ecosystem of Central Asia will face irreversible disaster!"

The drying up of the Aral Sea is a fact, and Uzbekistan's excessive cotton production, which depletes water resources, is one of the main reasons for the drying up of the Aral Sea.

Slava spread the letters out on the table and looked at them for a long time, while Director Nian stood beside him without saying a word.

“So the voices from the scientific community have once again confirmed our conjecture,” Slava finally spoke up, “500 million tons is the limit, 600 million tons is impossible. But what is the central government’s target?”

"As far as I know, it was 480 million last year, 530 million this year, and the plan for the year after next is 550 million," said Director Nian.

"What about the remaining tons?"

"Don't you already know the answer?"

Slava stood up and walked to the window. Outside was the night view of Tashkent, with a few lights in the distance and darkness nearby.

"The fraud started at the very bottom, at the farms, and each level escalated the fraud. The farms deceived the districts, the districts deceived the states, the states deceived the republic, and the republic deceived the central government. The entire system was built on lies!"

"But doesn't Xunzong know?" Director Nian asked.

Slava turned around and looked at her.

"Perhaps he knew, perhaps he didn't. But one thing is certain: he set the targets. And these targets were fake from the very beginning! Andropov knew how fake they were, but he didn't say it outright because the source of the targets was something he couldn't challenge!"

He went back to the table, collected the letters, put them in an envelope, and then organized them by date into a large folder containing the documents he had been investigating that month, which he then put into the metal box.

He recalled what Andropov had said in that villa: "The whole system is built on lies."

Now he finally understood the meaning of those words. This was not an isolated case; perhaps the rest of the alliance's systems were also built on lies.

“Now I know what Andropov wanted me to see,” Slava said. “He wanted me to know why this system produces corrupt officials, and whether I have the courage to challenge it.”

Director Nian looked at him: "Have you figured it out now?"

“I’ve figured out part of it,” Slava said. “Arresting a few corrupt officials won’t solve the problem. We must change the system itself. And changing the system requires power.”

"So?" Director Nian smiled as he looked at Slava.

“So let’s keep going!” Slava put the envelope away. “Damn it, we’re willing to risk everything to bring down the emperor! We’ll gather all the evidence and use it when Andropov needs it, to show him our resolve!”

Director Nian smiled, a smile that held a mixture of relief and helplessness.

“Fine,” she said. “Since we’re already in this mess, we might as well go all the way.”

"Where is it dark? The road looks perfectly bright to me."

...

Meanwhile, on the other side of Tashkent, in the building of the Central Committee of the Uzbekistan, another dialogue was taking place.

Sharaf Rashidov, the local tyrant of Uzbekistan, was sitting in his office listening to his subordinates' reports.

He was sixty-three years old, his hair completely white, but his eyes were still bright, the kind of sharpness that comes from someone who had spent thirty years navigating the turbulent waters of politics. He wore a well-tailored dark suit, a mentor's medal pinned to his chest, and held a pen in his hand, circling something on a document.

"From the central government?" he asked without looking up.

“Yes, Comrade Secretary.” Standing before the table was a deputy minister of the Uzbek Ministry of Internal Affairs, surnamed Yekhaiyev. “Two people, a man and a woman. The letter of introduction was from the All-Union Academy of Agricultural Sciences; they said they were here to investigate irrigation technology. But actually…”

“They’re actually here to investigate us.” Rashidov put down his pen and finally looked up.

"Yes. They visited seven or eight farms this month, going through the accounts and asking questions wherever they went. They also wrote many letters to research institutions in Moscow and other places, asking about cotton production."

The secret service wasn't entirely clean either, especially the letters from two investigators from the central government. To keep them from being known by any unrelated personnel, they would have to be sent via a special line—but Andropov didn't give them that authority.

Rashidov remained silent for a moment.

"Have you found out who sent them?"

“The letter of introduction says it’s from the Ministry of Agriculture, but we’ve checked, and there’s no record of these two people at the Ministry of Agriculture.” Yahyaev’s voice was very low. “I asked my friends there, and they said… they might be from some central department, but they can’t find out which department it is.”

Rashidov frowned.

"Can't find it?"

"Yes. These two people seem to have appeared out of thin air. No resume, no background, nothing at all."

Rashidov stood up and walked to the window. Outside, Tashkent's night view was dazzling and prosperous, but he knew that beneath this prosperous facade lay countless secrets, secrets that every Uzbekistani had to defend at all costs.

He'd been in that position for over twenty years and had seen far too many people and things. Some people came to investigate genuinely wanting to find out something, some came to extort money from him, and some came under orders to sabotage him.

Xunzong? No, impossible. The Grand President is the least likely to target him. Everyone in the Central Committee knows about his relationship with Xunzong. No one would be so foolish as to do something so distasteful.

So it must be one of the first two possibilities: either two audacious, reckless fools came to extort money, or...

He would prefer the former to come, as it would be easier for him to handle the situation.

"Where do they live?" he asked.

“Our people have been keeping an eye on a guesthouse in Fergana.”

"Have you been in contact with anyone?"

“There was a local liaison officer named Alim, who was an outer member of the KGB and helped them arrange their itinerary. That was all.”

Secret Service agents? The KGB probably wants to know what these two freely moving individuals are up to, maybe they're catching spies?

Rashidov thought for a moment.

"Don't alert them yet. Let's send someone to make contact and see what they're up to. If they're just two hotheads trying to get something out of them, then give them something and send them away."

"What if it isn't?"

Rashidov turned around and looked at Yahyaev.

“If not,” he said calmly, “then we’ll have to find another way. The road to Fergana is difficult; accidents happen every year.”

Yahyaev nodded without asking any further questions.

“There’s one more thing,” Rashidov said, “call our friends in the Central Committee and ask if there’s been any activity there lately. Is anyone in the Central Committee up to something?”

"clear."

Yahyaev left. Rashidov sat back down in his chair, looking at the document on the table. It was this year's cotton production plan, with a figure written on it: 530 million tons.

530 million tons, damn it.

He knew better than anyone that the figure was false. Uzbekistan simply couldn't produce 530 million tons of cotton; 300 million tons was already the limit. But what could he do? This was a target set by the Central Committee, personally approved by Comrade Xunzong. Could he tell the President, "This target cannot be met"?

No.

So the only option was to fabricate. Year after year, layer upon layer of fabrication, from the farm to the republic, from the accountant to the secretary, everyone was involved in this scam! And he, as the highest leader of this republic, was the mastermind behind this scam.

He knew that things would inevitably run into problems sooner or later. But that was a matter for the future. Right now, the most important thing was to maintain the status quo and prevent the central authorities from uncovering anything.

They're just two greenhorns. They shouldn't be too difficult to deal with.

------

Three days later, on August 4, 1980, an uninvited guest arrived at the guesthouse.

He was a man in his forties, wearing a light gray suit and gold-rimmed glasses, who looked like an official from some government agency. He introduced himself as the deputy director of the state agricultural bureau, named Makhmudov, and said he had come to visit two experts from the central government.

He brought a whole bunch of gifts: a box of grapes, a box of melons, several bottles of vodka, and an envelope containing something unknown.

"Thank you for your hard work, experts," he said with a broad smile, placing the gifts on the table. "We Uzbeks are hospitable; these are just a small token of our appreciation. Please accept them."

Slava looked at the envelope but didn't reach for it.

“Comrade Makhmudov,” he said, “we are here to conduct research, not to collect gifts. Please take these things back with you.”

Makhmudov's smile froze for a moment, but he quickly recovered and put the envelope away.

"Expert, you're too kind. These are just local specialties, not worth much. If you don't accept them, we'll lose face."

Actually, there were some little surprises hidden in the bags of fruit and vodka, it's a familiar routine.

“That won’t do either,” Slava stood up. “We have rules against accepting any gifts, please understand—but—”

Makhmudov looked at him, waiting for Slava to continue.

Slava took a large handful of grapes from the box, along with a melon, but left the wine behind.

"We'll just have some fruit."

Makhmudov initially thought Slava was dissatisfied with the price, so he brought some jewelry for Director Nian. After some back and forth, he finally realized that the two of them seemed to be on the same side, and the most difficult kind at that.

“Comrade expert,” his tone changed, no longer so enthusiastic, “you’ve traveled to so many places in Fergana and seen so much. There are some things… you should understand, too much clarity leaves no room for fish, not everything needs to be taken so seriously.”

“I don’t understand what you mean,” Slava said.

“What I mean is,” Makhmudov stood up, “you’re from the Central Committee, and we respect you. But you also need to respect our rules. Sometimes, turning a blind eye is better for everyone. Don’t you agree?”

Slava didn't speak, he just looked at him. Makhmudov waited a while, and seeing that he didn't react, he pushed the envelope to the side of the table.

“Of course, it might have been a bit abrupt today. We can talk about it again next time. As for these, please keep them for now; consider them a small token of our appreciation,” he said. “Eight thousand rubles isn’t much, but it’s a token of our sincerity. Please consider it and feel free to contact me if you have any thoughts.”

Our Lord Rashidov always offers the most favorable price the first time; don't be ungrateful.

After saying that, he turned and left, leaving behind a room full of gifts and the envelope. Director Nian first took a picture with his camera, then opened all the gifts and took out some envelopes tucked inside to count them—it totaled nearly 2 rubles.

“2 rubles,” she said. “That’s quite generous.”

In 1980, the official exchange rate was 1 ruble to 1.5 dollars. However, the Union implemented a planned economy, and prices were suppressed by the state. Therefore, the ruble's actual purchasing power domestically was far higher than its international exchange value. At that time, the average worker's monthly salary was only 120-180 rubles, and even senior officials earned only 600 rubles per month!

2 rubles is equivalent to more than 10 years' salary for an ordinary worker, or 3-4 years' income for a senior official. This amount of money can be used to buy a cooperative apartment in the best location in Moscow.

"To be honest, if we took this money, we could definitely live a good life in the US. I'm not kidding," Director Nian said with a grin, casually putting the photo into the document bag that represented evidence.

"And then you earn it but don't live to spend it?" Slava put the money back in its bag, put the fruit in the refrigerator, and went to the kitchen to wash a plate of grapes.

"Just hide. What if the alliance breaks up in ten years? Then you can roam freely in the free world." Director Nian said while eating grapes and chirping.

“That’s enough. Let’s talk about what to do next.” Slava said while chewing on grape seeds. “We need to be careful. I think we should tell Andropov about this. He should at least give us something to protect ourselves.”

"Okay, I'll write to Andropov tonight. And then what are you going to do?"

“We have to keep going,” Slava said, “but we have to be more careful. Stay home as much as possible at night, and don’t be alone during the day.”

The leader nodded.

“Our days of peace are numbered,” Slava thought for a moment. “Now, write this down in the briefing for Andropov and send it to him immediately.”

------

The encrypted briefing was handed out by Alim. A day later, Alim brought a message.

“What are you guys up to? People are asking you everywhere,” he said in a low voice. “The state, the Department of the Interior… everyone’s asking who you are. Anyway, my boss told me to tell you to be careful.”

"Your upline?" Slava looked at him.

Alim hesitated for a moment, then said, "I'm from the Special Operations Unit, you probably guessed that, right?"

Slava remained silent. He and Director Nian had long suspected it, but Alim had never explicitly stated it.

“The central authorities are aware of your situation,” Alim continued. “They are taking it very seriously. They asked me to tell you not to go out for the next few days, as someone will be looking for you. I will not be handing over the reins to you; someone else will take over.”

"who?"

"I don't know, the higher-ups didn't say anything." Alim stood up. "I've also been targeted recently, so it's not convenient for me to get too close to you. If you need anything, contact me using the old method."

Slava and Director Nian waited at the guesthouse for three days. On the third night, someone knocked on the door.

When the door opened, a man in his thirties, dressed in a postman's uniform, was seen carrying an old leather suitcase.

"Comrade Velikoslav Ivanovich?" he asked.

"you are?"

"Please check the package that was sent to you from your home."

The man entered the room, first scanning the layout, then walked to the corner by the window and pulled a slip of paper from his pocket, handing it to Slava. The slip contained only a few words, handwritten: "Yuri Vladimirovich Andropov sent me."

Slava drew the curtains, Director Nian checked the door lock, while the man examined the room with an unidentified instrument, fortunately finding nothing.

The man placed the suitcase on the table and opened it. Inside was a small telegraph machine, two pistols, and several boxes of ammunition.

“This is a dedicated encrypted telegraph machine,” the man said. “It allows you to contact our intelligence station nearby directly, without any intermediaries. I will teach you how to use it.”

He picked up a pistol, examined it, and handed it to Slava.

"Makarov, standard equipment, do you know how to use it?"

Slava took the gun and weighed it in his hand. He had never touched a real gun in 2019, but the knowledge he gained from surfing the internet every day about the free America was still in his mind.

"I can fire a gun, but I definitely won't be able to hit anyone at a distance."