Chapter 499: Deception

At the dinner table, Greve sensed that something was not right. Years of undercover life had given him a keen sense that detected a cold aura in the air. This premonition of danger had not appeared for a long time. The last time, he vaguely remembered, was when “Gray Wolf” had gotten into trouble.

He refused Louis’s offer of another drink, feigned drunkenness, and excused himself to go to the washroom. He then slipped out of the building through the pub’s back door. In the alley behind, he quickened his pace and walked briskly towards his apartment.

Destroy the codebook, destroy the radio transmitter! This was what was on Poison’s mind. As long as he destroyed the evidence, he could escape and safely avoid everyone’s suspicion. This was not the time to panic, but to be calm and collected. If he were to flee directly, he would definitely be caught in Canada; there was no other possibility.

As he approached his apartment, Greve felt that he was about to escape danger, so he quickened his already hurried pace. As long as he destroyed the evidence, even if he were heavily suspected, as long as he did not reveal any more flaws, he would be able to save his life.

He suddenly stopped at the street corner. He saw that the beggar in front of his apartment was gone. The beggar whom he paid off every day was not standing where he should be. Greve was stunned. He knew that he had indeed been exposed, and that his apartment had already been occupied by British intelligence personnel.

With a bitter smile, Greve had no choice but to brace himself and continue forward. He stood at the crossroads and saw the beggar not far away, begging for money from passersby. As he begged, the beggar gradually approached Greve, who was dodging cars.

Blocked by a bus, Greve could no longer see the window of his home. And at that exact moment, the beggar walked up to him and held out his hand. The classic line “Have a heart” was replaced with a simple and clear phrase: “Give it to me, quickly!”

Greve’s hand was already in his pocket. He took out a small, exquisite notebook and stuffed it directly into the hand of the approaching beggar. Their eyes met for an instant, and then they both pulled away.

The bus drove past. The British agent by the window saw the scene of the beggar chasing after Greve for money. Greve waved his hand, rejecting the dirty, pitiful man. He looked like he was in a hurry to get home to deal with his radio and codebook and had no time for a beggar.

Soon, Greve had crossed the road and reached the door of his apartment. He smiled, took out a small pistol from his inner coat pocket, and then used his key to open his own door.

He knew that he had to die here today, to die in battle on this enemy’s land. His soul would never be able to return to his homeland, and all the contributions he had made for his country would never be known by anyone in the future.

To protect the entire German spy network in Canada and even the United States, he could not run, nor could he be captured alive. For a moment, he had thought of betraying Germany and becoming a double agent for Britain or the United States, but then he remembered the oath he had sworn under the flag—it was the flag of the Weimar Republic back then, and now it was already the swastika flag. How time flies.

The room was really lively. There were several British agents. He fired a shot but didn’t hit anyone. The bullet hit the sofa, tearing a large hole and sending cotton stuffing flying.

I should have practiced my marksmanship more, Greve thought with a wry smile. A civilian spy was not at all like what many people imagined, killing, setting fires, stealing intelligence, and even flying over walls. Was Captain America in a suit, with the codename 007?

The vast majority of spies were actually very plain. They could be a clerk in some office or a kindly old man. The intelligence they provided was varied and needed to be analyzed and processed. Of course, if these people’s identities were exposed, they often had no means of self-preservation. They would be thrown in prison, crying and begging for death, and would often sell out their original organization to save their own lives.

So don’t envy spies. There are a dime a dozen of these people in real life. Their lives are not at all exciting, and the process is not at all romantic. They might ride a bicycle with a tattered schoolbag, put a point-and-shoot camera inside, and become an enemy spy gathering military intelligence. Then they might sell information like “the military camp in a certain place has stockpiled 3 tons of soybean oil, possibly for the new year” to a hostile foreign power. The reward could be 50, or it could be 100. Does the job of a spy still appeal to you?

Greve, who had not hit any target with his one shot, had his wrist grabbed by a hand that reached out from behind the door, and he had no chance to fire again. As a veteran spy, he knew that if he did not die at this moment, what awaited him was endless torture and abuse.

He clenched his jaw. The glass capsule of potassium cyanide that he had hidden under his tongue shattered, and an unpleasant taste filled his mouth. Greve suddenly felt that his whole life could be written into a novel. For more than ten years, he had lived in an environment full of enemies. Who could know the thrilling stories he had experienced during this time?

“Spit it out!” the British agent who had pinned Greve to the ground shouted in horror, looking at Greve’s rapidly contorting face. “He’s taken poison! Pry his mouth open and save him!”

“It’s too late! That smell, it’s potassium cyanide!” a standing British agent said with a frown, looking at Greve, whose legs were still twitching on the floor. He sighed. This old man had once been a relative of a British hero, and many nobles knew him. The key point was that this old man was over sixty years old, and for him to die like this was inevitably a bit sad.

Greve finally lay motionless on the ground. The British agent who had been pinning him down stood up helplessly. After all, he had no fondness for pinning down a man’s corpse. This capture operation had been very unsuccessful. The target had committed suicide, and the subsequent interrogation could only be abandoned.

“This fellow had a codebook and a radio, which means he was very important in their network. He might have been a communication node, or he might have been the supreme commander. To be able to catch such a big fish, the intelligence agency has already rendered a great service.” This was the new British Prime Minister’s assessment of this operation. He felt that with this operation, they could at least strike a blow to most of the German spy activities in Canada.

His analysis was indeed reasonable, because if an important figure in a spy network was arrested, then the network would not be activated again for a short period of time. After all, no one would dare to take the risk. Who knew if the exposed person would give them up? In addition, a compromised intelligence network would no longer be used to transmit useful information, because such information could not be verified and could not be used as a reference.

At the crossroads, the beggar sat alone, holding out his hand to the passing British agents to beg. A tattered hat lay in front of him, looking pitiful. The British agents carried Greve’s body past him. Old Greve’s contorted face scared him so much that he scrambled away. This flustered action amused the British intelligence agents who were guarding the area.

Clink. A British agent who was bringing up the rear tossed a penny of the smallest denomination into the beggar’s tattered hat before getting into the car. It struck the few coins that were already inside, making a crisp sound.

Then came the roar of car engines. One after another, the cars left, as if nothing had happened.

The beggar watched them leave, then got up and walked in the other direction. He walked very casually, still holding out his hand to every passerby to beg. He just disappeared down the end of the road. No one would have thought that after this, he would never appear here again.

Back in his own dim little room, he took out a small radio from a corner. The electronics department of Germany’s Siemens company had put a lot of effort into the miniaturization of radios in recent years. The radios now used by German agents were only the size of a folded chessboard, very easy to carry and hide.

He turned on the radio, transmitted the news of Poison’s death back to Berlin, and then turned it off. By candlelight, he began to read the small notebook that Poison had left him, which had a list recorded in code.

This was the spy network that Poison had developed over many years. This network could be said to be the achievement of Poison’s entire life. Now, this achievement had been passed on to the beggar. He had the responsibility to take over this network and continue to operate it, and if possible, even to expand its scale. They were people who lived on the edge of a knife. The fear of death hung over their heads at every moment. But every day, when the sun rose, life still had to go on, without interruption.

With a sigh, the beggar closed the notebook. The spy network Greve had left behind was too vast. It was not a matter of a day or two to take it over. It seemed the British had indeed gotten the better of them this time. The German intelligence work in Canada would be paralyzed for at least half a year.

He put the notebook, which was written in code, into a drawer. The moment he was about to close it, the beggar’s movement paused. He saw a paper box in the corner, so he reached out and took it.

He opened the worn-out box. Inside was a small iron tube, about two centimeters long and one centimeter in diameter, similar to a bullet casing. This small iron tube protected a glass container inside, which contained enough potassium cyanide to kill him dozens of times over.

The beggar thought of the twisted, pained face of Poison he had seen. So, that’s what happens when you take this thing.

Published: 2025-08-30T04:21:18.000+00:00
Last Edited: 2025-12-01T17:33:39.000+00:00
URL: https://www.patreon.com/caleredhair/posts/mtr-c499-137683647

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