While Europe and the United States don't share the famous Mencius maxim, "Born in sorrow, die in comfort," they do share the concept of creating a powerful external enemy to divert internal conflict.
Since the suicidal disintegration of the Red Empire, the lives of ordinary people in Europe and the United States have deteriorated steadily.
Despite the Americans' self-proclaimed beacon, when that red beacon collapsed, in just a few decades, the once-perfect life where a family could support four or five people, two dogs, and take an annual vacation with just one blue-collar worker vanished completely.
Thus, the Russians tragically discovered that even if they voluntarily renounced ideology, they still couldn't join the European and American family they so longed for.
All problems, processed through the propaganda machine, were ultimately attributed to the evil giant bear.
Of course, after the new century, with the rise of a certain Eastern power, this propaganda narrative began to shift, and the Russians were left with the tragic fate of remaining villains in film and television dramas.
After all, daily verbal attacks were fine; no matter how the news went, Serbians generally wouldn't see them. But if they were made into a movie, it would truly be a huge
box office hit for a population of over a billion. Jack didn't share the typical American stereotype, but the thought of an FBI agent accompanying a retired CIA agent on a visit to the Russian embassy inevitably made him a bit nervous.
After all, the Russians wouldn't necessarily do anything to him, but if the agency found out, he'd be forced to retire early and become the CEO of a multi-billion dollar private company.
Compared to Jack, Frank was much calmer. He approached the door, acting like he was visiting, facing the security camera, and pressed the call button on the electronic doorbell.
"Notify Ivan Shimanov that Frank Moses is visiting."
With barely a second to wait, the door opened automatically with a click. As the two men, one behind the other, entered, a group of Russian soldiers, armed with AK-8s, surrounded the entrance hall.
Black hoods were slapped on their heads, and Frank and Jack were hustled and led underground.
"Not even a glass of water. They don't seem to consider you guests." When no one was around, Jack removed his hood.
This place didn't resemble an interrogation room, more like a basement warehouse, with a makeshift table and three chairs. It was a bit too empty, and even whispers echoed.
Although he teased Frank, the treatment he received was more than he'd expected. Not only had they been cuffed, they weren't even searched thoroughly; the treatment was truly friendly.
Frank didn't reply, but instead looked toward the metal staircase they'd just descended. A slightly overweight figure was staggering down the steps.
"To be honest, your visit really surprised me, Frank Moses."
Along with the figure appeared, his English, with its characteristically Russian twang, became clearer under the dim fluorescent light.
"I can't tell you how many times I've dreamt of killing you myself." An old man in a purple patterned suit, with hair as thick as his beard, slumped down across from them, pretentiously displaying a small switchblade.
"But now," with a smile that showed he had pulled a prank, the fat old man took out a bottle of vodka from the drawer and placed it on the table, "you're actually a pensioner too."
"I've been retired for several years now. I have to admit, at least in this respect, you've got me beat, Ivan." Frank's cheek twitched, making the wrinkles on his cheeks more pronounced.
Ivan Shimanov cheerfully cut the seal on the bottle with a knife, then took out two more glasses from the drawer. He then glanced at Jack beside him, thought for a moment, and took out a third glass.
"Time really flies. The older I get, the less I see things. So who is this young man? Your student?"
Frank pushed the first full glass toward Jack. "This is Jack, my partner for now. He's not from the same camp as us. Ever heard of David Rossi?
He was his mentor. If you're ever murdered, ask him for help. He'll definitely find the real culprit."
"The FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit?" Ivan Shimanov curled his lips in disdain. "I can't believe you Americans still use dogs and whistles to find criminals."
Ugh, are the Russians' understanding of psychology still stuck in the Pavlovian era? It's simply a cliché.
Frank was the protagonist now. Jack didn't offer any explanation or rebuttal, choosing instead to continue watching the two men "reminisce."
As the three glasses were filled, Ivan Shimanov's gaze toward Frank grew increasingly dangerous. "First glass, for Igor, the one you killed."
"You mean Igor the Executioner?" Frank raised an eyebrow, seemingly puzzled by the mention of that name.
"He was a great assassin," Ivan said through gritted teeth.
"He's a fool, too," Frank's expression remained unchanged.
Ivan's eyes reddened as he emphasized, "He's my cousin."
Frank froze, hesitating for a moment, his hand holding the glass suspended in mid-air. "I'm sorry about that."
Ivan raised his glass and clinked it with his. Though smiling, his eyes held a dangerous glint. "So, to Igor, the executioner."
The two clinked glasses, and before downing his drink, Frank spoke calmly, "But he's not dead?"
Ivan, nearly choking, put down his glass and looked at Frank in disbelief. Frank continued calmly, "I spared him."
"How is that possible?" Ivan nearly jumped in shock.
"He runs a convenience store in Orange County now, and he weighs nearly 500 pounds now."
"Oh!" Ivan exclaimed, then covered his mouth with his hands, bursting into uncontrollable laughter. Frank couldn't help but laugh too.
Jack, who was standing by, was puzzled by what he heard. Perhaps only the old people who had lived through that era with them could understand the mutual admiration that was slowly built up in the life-and-death struggle.
Ivan clapped his hands excitedly, picked up the bottle and refilled the glasses in front of the two men, then raised his eyebrows at Frank jokingly, "Keep going."
"Who is this glass for?" Frank drank at least three taels of Red Label Vodka in one gulp, and sweat broke out on his big bald head.
The tense atmosphere that had been vaguely between the two of them had disappeared at this moment, and it was as if they were two old friends who had not seen each other for many years.
"For my two lovely daughters, Natasha and Talia." Ivan took out two photos from his chest pocket and placed them on the table with a doting look on his face.
"Crack!" The chair under Jack's butt made a harsh friction sound, attracting the attention of the two old guys.
(End of this chapter)