Go back in time and be a chaebol

Chapter 2506 Winter in London (Third Update, Please Subscribe)
The sun had long since dissipated the smoke of battle in the Bekaa Valley, but the news from that sky was like a boulder crashing down on London's gloomy afternoon.

A crowd had gathered in front of the newsstand on the street corner, and the headline on the front page of The Times was particularly eye-catching—"Miracle in the Bekaa Valley: SEA Annihilates Syrian Air Force with Zero Losses"

Breaking news! SEA achieves a resounding victory in the air battle! 0 to 73!

At the bus stop, Ivankov leaned against the cold metal sign, a newly bought newspaper between his fingers, his gaze not falling on the bold headlines. His brow was furrowed. Through his earpiece, a BBC reporter was excitedly describing the air battle:

"...The SEA Air Force not only destroyed Syria's SAM missile sites at the very beginning of the war, but also shot down dozens of Syrian Air Force fighter jets in the ensuing air battles without suffering any losses of its own! This is simply a miracle in the history of modern air warfare!"

"A miracle?" Ivankov chuckled softly, a hint of barely perceptible annoyance in his voice.

His furrowed brows revealed his true thoughts. His gaze fell on the picture accompanying the newspaper in front of the newsstand: a formation of SEA F-3 fighter jets streaked across the sky, the murderous intent emanating from the planes' beautiful shapes was hard to conceal.

He knew all too well what this victory meant—it wasn't just a victory in air combat, but a declaration of the West's advanced weaponry, irrefutable proof that Moscow's proud air defense system and its proud fighter jets were utterly vulnerable in the face of Western aircraft.

After this victory, how many more countries will buy Soviet fighter jets?

That's not important. What's important is that the European countries that were originally afraid of the Soviet Union will suddenly discover that the Soviet Union may not be as powerful as they imagined!

This is precisely why Moscow reacted so strongly.

Moscow needs Western European countries to feel the strength of the Soviet Union. Only in this way will they not completely submit to the United States, and only in this way will they ease relations with Moscow instead of confronting it.

He turned off the Walkman in his pocket and merged into the crowd. A dozen minutes later, he walked into Hyde Park.

The park was somewhat desolate in winter, with fallen leaves scattered along its paths.

Ivankov walked slowly along the lake, his eyes scanning his surroundings warily. After confirming that nothing was amiss, he walked to a bench near the woods, sat down, leaned back, closed his eyes, and seemed to be enjoying the moment of tranquility.

Time passed slowly, and the park gradually filled up. There were mothers pushing strollers, elderly people walking their dogs, and children chasing and playing on the lawn. Ivankov remained vigilant, his ears constantly listening to every sound around him.

Finally, a man in a dark overcoat walked over. He went straight to the bench next to Ivankov, but instead of sitting down immediately, he stood there, as if searching for something.

Ivankov didn't open his eyes; he just sat there reading the newspaper. Like any ordinary middle-aged married man, he sat there simply to escape his family, to escape everything, and to enjoy this moment of tranquility!

The man then sat down, leaving an empty seat between them. After a moment of silence, Ivankov spoke first, his voice low:

Have you read the newspaper?

"That news is on every single TV channel!"

The man didn't nod; he simply gazed into the distance, seemingly admiring something. But then he spoke, his voice barely audible, his lips barely moving:

"This victory is simply unbelievable. The SAM missiles were like paper, the Syrian Air Force was utterly vulnerable, dozens of fighter jets, most of them MiG-23s, and then... they were just destroyed! It defies all the common sense of war."

"Yes, it's simply unimaginable."

Ivankov opened his eyes, gazed at the distant lake, and said:
"They didn't lose a single plane."

The man paused for a moment, then asked:

"So? What instructions have been given from Moscow?"

Ivankov's expression turned serious:
"You need to go to SEA."

He paused and continued:
"We need to figure out the specific performance of their F-3 fighter jets, and more details. Moscow is very anxious right now; they need to know exactly what advanced technologies the SEA's fighter jets use."

The man nodded and pondered for a moment.

"You know they are the best at keeping secrets of all Western countries, so I may not get anything."

“You are an ally! Although they keep it a secret, they are still quite open to allies.”

After a while, he spoke, his tone tinged with worry:
"What Moscow needs to be anxious about now is not just the unprecedented victory achieved by the SEA aircraft in this air battle. It is also the fact that, according to our people on the ground, they used an undetectable aircraft or bomb to destroy the air defense command center, radar station, and information exchange center before the air battle began. Moscow needs to figure this out, and this is the most important thing in all the missions."

Why is it of utmost importance?

Because—all the intelligence points to one thing—the SEA possesses a stealth missile or aircraft!
This is what Moscow fears most, because what they see is not that missiles or aircraft destroyed Syrian command centers and radar stations, but that the radar stations never detected them.

This is the most critical issue. What the marshals in Moscow fear is that one day, these planes or missiles will land on the Soviet Union, and they might even be carrying nuclear weapons! "You must understand, this matter concerns the very survival of the Soviet Union!"

“I understand its importance,”

He nodded slightly, turned to look at Ivankov, and said:
"But compared to the war that we don't know when it will break out, Moscow should be more worried about Syria. If we lose Syria, our strategic layout in the Middle East will completely collapse."

Ivankov fell silent. He knew the man was telling the truth. Syria was a crucial Soviet ally in the Middle East. If Syria were occupied and the new government sided with the West, Soviet influence in the region would be greatly diminished—no, it would mean the complete expulsion of Soviet power from the Middle East!

But he also knew what his mission was.

"This is not our mission."

Ivankov finally spoke, his voice tinged with a hint of helplessness:
"That's Moscow's concern. Our duty is to complete our mission. As for the rest... that's Moscow's worry. Besides, if the Soviet Union doesn't exist, does the existence of Syria matter to us?"

The man did not refute further.

He stood up and straightened the collar of his coat.

“I should go,” he said.

"and many more."

Ivankov called out to him.

The man stopped and turned his head slightly.

“My friend,”

Ivankov's gaze held a complex emotion as he said:
"I hope we can meet in Moscow someday."

This was his wish, and also the wish of all intelligence agents lurking in foreign lands—to complete their mission, return home safely, stroll in Moscow's Red Square, walk along the Neva River with their loved ones, without pretense, without secrets.

They enjoy their lives to the fullest, reuniting with their long-lost relatives, and their country will bestow honors, medals, and everything else upon them.

A bitter smile tugged at the corner of the man's lips. Then he turned his head slightly, his gaze falling on Ivanov, a hint of tenderness flashing in his eyes, quickly replaced by a deep sense of helplessness. He said softly:

"I would prefer to meet here as we are now."

Ivankov nodded and said nothing more.

He watched the man's figure gradually disappear at the end of the park, his heart filled with mixed emotions. He knew why the man had said that.

They were all intelligence agents infiltrated in London. Their identities were their greatest secret, a sword hanging over their heads. Moscow was their homeland, yet it was the place they dared not easily return to—a homeland they might never be able to return to.

When they met in Moscow, it meant his identity had been exposed, and he had to leave this place, this land where he had been hiding for more than a decade.

And after leaving here, they can really walk in Moscow's Red Square and stroll along the Neva River, without pretense or secrets.

No, what awaits them may be endless scrutiny, or they may spend the rest of their lives in some small town in Siberia. Of course, they may also one day be a random passerby transported away from the basement of Lubyanka, eventually turning into ashes in some crematorium, and finally becoming an anonymous person in a public cemetery.

Of course, they also had another option: after their identities were exposed, they could hide their names and live as fugitives.

The wind gradually picked up, swirling the fallen leaves in the air.

The weather wasn't very cold today. There were some remnants of snow on the withered grass. Unlike the snow in Moscow, the snow in London melts very quickly, leaving only some on the grass.

Looking at the few remaining snowflakes, Ivanov remained seated on the bench, his gaze fixed on the British people enjoying the sunshine in the park in the distance.

His brows remained furrowed, but his eyes held a complex mix of emotions—a firm commitment to his mission, concern for his friends, and uncertainty about the unknown future.

For him, who had been lying low here for twenty years, looking at all this, he even had a kind of illusion—this was his life.

There were people talking in the distance, men and women. What were they talking about?
Are we talking about that world-shaking aerial battle?
Are they still talking about how to spend Christmas?
As laughter and cheerful chatter drifted on the wind, Ivanov's mood sombered. He knew that all of this, the lives of the British, had nothing to do with him.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out the half-pack of cigarettes, took one out, but didn't light it; he just held the cigarette in his mouth...

(End of this chapter)