It was a rainy morning in New York, USA. Charles was restless in front of the hotel and was walking back. A cool breeze hit him, and he couldn't help but turn over his collar, and at the same time he took out a bag of sunflower seeds from his pocket and slowly started eating. The code used in this operation was the word "sunflower".

He stretched, yawned, and stretched his body slightly. Last night, he fucked all night. After pulling the last report paper out of the typewriter roller, he quickly set off. At this time, the report was steadily placed in the black bag under his armpit.

Charles is not very clear about who Warrenter is. He only knows that the other party is a senior leader who doesn't easily show up in public. He himself, like the other party, has a safe career as a cover, works behind the scenes and never shows up. But the difference is that Warrenter has always sat in a luxurious office to give orders, while he can only analyze materials, provide intelligence in the room, and looks forward to his boss's care.

At this moment, he saw a man walking towards him at the intersection. The man was wearing a faded cotton work clothes and a blue sailor hat with a brim pressed low, and he looked like a sailor when walking.

"In the world, everything is bound to rot." Charles said when the man approached.

"When destined, even the king is hard to escape," replied the other party. This is a poem by the British poet Dryden.

What annoyed Charles was that the visitor, Warrenter, was younger than himself, taller and thin, and looked calm and composed.

The two passed by the castle silently and walked towards the path leading to the river bank. "Tell me," Warrenter broke the silence first.

"We have to steal this thing from the White House first." As he said, Charles handed Warrenter a folded clipping, and before the other party could speak, he said first: "We can use a master to complete this task, and he will do everything neatly without leaving any trace."

"Yes, yes, I know," Warrenter said impatiently, "but what is the purpose of doing this?"

"The purpose is that we can create trouble as much as we want, especially in areas where the prestige of the United States has been declining. If we do it carefully, we can get multiple layers of benefits. However, we cannot let them find the stolen thing anyway."

"I began to understand what you mean," Warrenter chuckled, "We will end up with it. The benefits are ours."

"That's true, sir. The guilt is borne by the person who should bear it."

Warrenter touched his chin with his hand and fell into deep thought. "Great!" he finally said, "But is it possible that the thing you are referring to is stolen?"

"Of course the difficulties are very big, but there is one person who can definitely do it. His name is Richard Solomon. Do you know him?"

"Of course I know. Tell me the reasons."

Charles cleared his throat: "Yes, sir. I think he has all the essential qualities: alert and super intelligent. More importantly, he doesn't know what fear is. He seems to have a natural immunity to fear. To be honest, no one except him has the courage to accept this task. He is proficient in dialects from all over the country. For example, English, he can speak like a genuine British, American, Scots, or even Australian. He is also very good at disguising himself. He often makes people feel elusive. Of course, it is not difficult to prepare all kinds of fake documents for him."

They turned a corner and saw a river appearing in front of them, and Warrenter stopped. "Where is Solomon at present?" he asked.

"Los Angeles."

Warrenter kept thinking, OK, that's it. Charles said he was alert and smart. It was not enough to use Solomon for this evaluation. Solomon was not only alert and smart. He was simply an outstanding person, but also an intractable person who was completely independent. Thinking of this, Warrenter couldn't help feeling uneasy. He turned around and asked Charles, "How do you tell him to obey? What should he do if he asks all kinds of questions?"

"Oh, please rest assured about this. He is not a suspicious person. Of course, he sometimes asks some questions because he likes to understand the nature of his work and does not like to blindly follow. He is not interested in politics, so he doesn't have to worry too much. Besides, this person believes in his words and never breaks his promise." Charles looked over the river.

"Of course," he added: "He might also be able to make a comeback. You can't stand it."

Warrenter didn't say anything. He understood that Charles's words made sense. Solomon was not as easy to mercense as the others under his command. But who else could do such a difficult task besides him?

"I brought all his archives," Charles opened his bag: "In addition, I also made a detailed plan."

"What?" Gerzeum's expression changed from surprise to anger: "Have you written it all down?"

"Please don't worry. I worked all night and arrived after finishing it. No trace was left behind. There were two copies in total, one for you and one for me, and they were all here."

Warrenter's expression relaxed, and he smiled and said, "It's so beautiful, Charles. Take it for me to see."

They continued to walk down the path towards the end of the river, and finally sat down on a bench.

Warren looked at the report and admittedly planned it very well; however, the "old horse" seemed to know too much.

Warrenter faced Charles: "Are there only two?"

"It's not the first time I've done this kind of thing."

"Of course, this is not the first time." Gerchham took out a fountain from his pocket, took off the pen cover very naturally, and then aimed the tip of the pen at the other party's head. An eagle soared in the sky and suddenly dived down. The gliding posture was very spectacular, and this was the last scene Charles saw in this world.

He yelled, but was immediately submerged in the sound of rolling waves...

......

At about six o'clock in the evening, Richard Solomon walked into the bar room, picked a table near the corner and sat down. Looking out from here, the whole room was clearly visible.

"Glenfidici." Solomon ordered the waiter who came.

The waiter nodded and looked at the new customer at the same time: He looked twenty-four or five years old, tall and thin, very strong, and long brown hair. When his hairstyle was in, his face was rough, his eyes were honest and confident, and he was a very graceful American.

In fact, Richard Solomon is not an American now, to put it more precisely. He is not a native of any country now. Apart from the passport in his pocket indicating which country he is, he has no real nationality. Moreover, this passport will be changed tomorrow. Every time he changes his name, he becomes a new person. His name is Richard Solomon for the time being, because he has had many other names before, and there will be more new names in the future.

Solomon slowly moved his eyes to the table. There, a generous and fashionable blonde was joking with a man. It seemed that the latter's whole body and mind had been fascinated by the young girl's hot eyes.

Solomon listened for a while and was a master in this regard. Although the girl had an American accent, she spoke purely German in textbooks. But these could not escape his ears. He concluded that she was a German, who pretended to be an American and spoke German, and deliberately did not speak authentic German. Solomon smiled. If it were someone else, this flaw would be difficult to see through.

The blonde was wearing two ruby ​​earrings on her earlobe. At this moment, she casually took one off and fiddled with it a few times. She put it on again.

That's right, it was her. Solomon remembered the man who was joining him. At that time, the other party was holding a pair of red dice. "Sorry, sir, do you have time?" the man asked.

The connection signal is word-of-mouth. After answering the code, the other party took out the red dice again. Solomon understood that this stereotyped guy was far from ordinary running errands. The other party showed the red dice twice, sending him a double warning signal directly from the highest level. This is something that has not happened in many years. When it comes to such occasions, you will not ask questions as usual, just wait for orders.

Solomon listened to the other party's orders word by word. By the time the two sides broke up, he had already obtained several things: a new name, an American passport, a one-way flight ticket to Washington, and a command to join a German lady at the bar in the Grett Hotel. She dressed up as a young American celebrity.

Solomon realized that the blonde was also watching him. But as soon as the two of them touched their eyes, the other party immediately avoided. After several rounds, the blonde finally took action. Taking advantage of the moment the man was paying the bill, she could only hear her say, "I'm sorry, please forgive me, I met an acquaintance."

Before the man could speak, she immediately stood up and walked towards Solomon. Solomon stared at her two slender legs, watched her walk through the room, and walked to his table generously. Solomon also stood up.

"I'm sorry," she said standard American English this time. "You're—" and then changed her mouth immediately, "Oh, no, I'm afraid I'm wrong." The tone was handled just right, and it was embarrassing, but it was not artificial. "I thought I'd seen you before when."

"Sorry, we haven't seen it before," he replied, "but do you have to leave now?"

The other party smiled and put his hands on the edge of the table: "There are friends waiting for me. Please forgive me and disturb you."

"It doesn't matter."

Solomon watched her walk out of the bar. Like other men, he was also attracted by her charm. But what made him even more amazed was the posture of her folded piece of paper quietly placed on the table, and the movement was so skillful, clever and natural. Twenty minutes later, Solomon left his seat.

Next to the window of a shop, Solomon lit a cigarette and took out the note: "8 Kiribato Road. Nine in the morning tomorrow. Ask them for the portrait of St. Paul." He tore the note and threw it into the gutter.

8 Kyristor Road is a souvenir shop. Solomon pushed the door open and a chunky man stood behind the counter full of cheap vintage replicas.

Solomon approached the counter: "Good morning, do you have a portrait of St. Paul in your store?"

"Go upstairs and ask," the fat man pointed to the narrow stairs. Solomon followed his gesture and found that the door upstairs opened a crack. He walked upstairs and slowly pushed the door open. The blinds in the room were closed tightly, and a tall and thin man stood by the table, and his face could not be seen clearly in the dark.

"Good morning, Solomon," the other party said.

Solomon felt that the voice was very familiar. At this time, the other party opened the blinds slightly. Solomon recognized the other party. However, he was not happy at all.

"McLin, it's you guy," Solomon said coldly.

Howard McClline is a subordinate official of the CIA. As far as Solomon knows, this person has at least two sources of income. For many years, he has been cleverly dealing with the secret service agencies of the US Intelligence Agency and the British Intelligence Department Six, even after the British royal family fled. At the same time, he gained benefits from both aspects. This kind of person is the one who Solomon distrusts the most.

"It's so heartbreaking to see old friends. Speaking in this tone," McLean said, lighting up the small oil lamp on the table.

"You are lucky, I didn't kill you," Solomon replied coldly, "What do you want?"

"I don't want you, I want to give you something." As he said, he pointed to a leather bag on the table. "This time, we are standing on the same road," he added with a smile.

"Which road?"

"Your Word. Simon should be yours, right? He asked me to inform you, it's time."

Solomon didn't know Simon, at least he had never heard of the name. But he heard the code was correct. Then McLean took out a deck of cards and found two red ks from it.

Solomon nodded contemptuously: "Ah, so that's it, then, I'll listen to you."

"This mission is very special." McClellin lowered his voice and said, "It must be absolutely confidential, and even his own people cannot let them know your identity in the future. In other words, in another thirty minutes, Richard Solomon has been dead for a full twelve hours."

Solomon didn't say a word, waiting for the other party to explain.

"The record reads: Solomon left the sand dropper yesterday morning and flew to Washington, but unfortunately had a car accident on his way to the hotel. Two hours later, Solomon died in a local hospital."

"Well. It's amazing," Solomon said lightly. He thought to himself, I don't know which "lucky man" was his scapegoat.

"In this way, Richard Solomon became a dead man, and those who wanted to follow you had to give up. Today at noon, you leave Los Angeles." McClellin opened his bag, took out a large envelope and handed it to Solomon. The envelope contained a passport with the words "Luss Hanson, a bulk merchant." In addition, there were several letters, a driver's license, and a photo of a beautiful young woman and two boys.

"Your family," McLean said with a smile.

There is also a one-way flight ticket from Los Angeles to Washington, and the departure time is the afternoon of the same day.

"I've got everything I need," McLean continued. "When you go back to the hotel, you'll find a few new sets of clothes, luggage, razors and other personal items, and even a best-selling novel that's currently in storm in Los Angeles."

“That’s thoughtful.”

"As soon as you leave, I will start to cure the aftermath. All the things you bring here will be destroyed. Nothing that is involved with Richard Solomon is allowed to be brought with you."

"What happens after you arrive in Washington?"

"I will not know more about the future than you."

On the day when Solomon arrived at the Hotel Colene in Washington, a short, dark-skinned Indian girl brought him a stack of new towels, smiled shyly and left. Solomon immediately locked the door. He knew that new towels had been prepared in the bathroom, and hotels like Kolene would not add additional services to their guests.

There must be articles in the towel.

Sure enough, he found what he needed—a thick envelope with a French passport that read Andre Buchad, a free journalist.

That night, Solomon wrapped Hans Larson's personal supplies in kraft paper and hired a car to the station. He carefully compared the number of the padlock and keys, and finally found the storage box. There was an old canvas box with the name of Andre Buchad on the label. He took out the box, put it in the kraft paper bag, and left the station.

On the Tai Bridge, he stood, as if he was enjoying the surrounding scenery. The big bell on the tower rang, and he let the key in his hand slide into the dark river.

After coming out of a pharmacy in the suburbs of Washington, he went straight back to the hotel. He locked the door, walked into the bathroom, threw all the Swedish passport and Hansen's ID card into the pool, then took out the lighter and burned them. When the flames went out, he turned on the water dragon and watched all the ashes flow into the sewer...

......

A beige Check sedan stopped beside him, and he opened the car door and entered the back seat of the car. As soon as the car started, he took out the newspaper and read it. He first browsed the front page title, and then turned to the inner page. Before he could see half of it, he was stunned. This was a small and inconspicuous news. If it weren't for the words Howard McLean jumping into his eyes, it would have been easy for him to ignore:

According to Associated Press News - Howard McLean, 35, assistant first-class secretary of the U.S. Embassy, ​​accidentally rolled over and fell into the water from a speedboat in Saronique Bay, off the Attica coast yesterday afternoon. According to the speedboat owner, McLean's friend, the American official was not familiar with the nature of the water. The body of the drowning person was found only after being washed to the beach.

Unexpectedly, McClane was dead. A few days ago, he took out two red ks with pride and showed them to Solomon! "It's good to sleep forever," Solomon murmured to himself, and threw the newspaper aside.

"What are you talking about?" the driver asked.

"nothing."

At this time, Solomon noticed that the driver was holding the steering wheel with two eye-catching red buttons on the cuffs of his shirt. He also found that the other party was also observing his expression from the rearview mirror!
Chapter completed!