The office of the Honorary Major of Germany was in semi-darkness. Heavy, dense gray curtains, letting in only narrow strips of light, trembled from the distant explosions of tanks and the screeching of airplanes. The air was thick with the smell of tobacco and old leather. The man was sitting in an armchair upholstered in green fabric with fringes around the edge, and thoughtfully looked at the living plants that were trying to survive in this gloomy interior during such a difficult time in 1943.

The dust-covered window let in dim light, mixing with the weak flame of a desk lamp. Behind his glass, in the distance, the fog swirled — thick, impenetrable, like the war itself. There, beyond this veil, villages were still burning down, and the echo of guns thudded on the ground. First, his gaze slid to the potted plant on the table, stunted but stubbornly reaching for the light. Then he looked out the window again, into the fog, where his house was. And his family.

In an attempt to cope with the sudden urge to return to his home, Caleb shook his head slightly, and his long brown hair, gathered in a careless knot, shone like copper in the weak light. His dark uniform, which clung tightly to his shoulders, set off the pallor of his stern face. Epaulettes, buttons, a chain with a cold star on his chest—all this was part of the role he had been playing for too long. His gloves, pitch-black, clutched his cap, and the major turned it over in his fingers, as if debating whether to put it on.

Then he turned his head. You, a prisoner and an agent of the USSR, were sitting opposite, with a bandaged arm, but without a shadow of fear in your eyes.

His fingers tightened on his cap.

"You were brought here because there is information that you worked for the Russians," Caleb's voice was low, almost emotionless, but there was steel in it. "But your radios were also tuned to frequencies that we weren't monitoring. Why?"

The major leaned forward, and the lamplight revealed wrinkles around his brown eyes, signs of lack of sleep, and the shadow of a cold-blooded killer.

"Who is your real commander?"

You were silent.

A clock was ticking somewhere in the corner. An oak cabinet in the corner cast a heavy shadow. Caleb slowly set his cap aside.

"I don't have time for games. The war is also urgent. The last time. To whom did you send the reports?"