Although real events and places are used, all the characters are fictitious as well as the actions they carry out.
Chapter 1
Silence reigned in the room. The only sound that could be heard in that gloomy space was the ticking of an old round clock hanging on the wall. It was already past six in the evening on that autumn afternoon. The last rays of light passed through the large glass windows, casting a deep orange hue over the tall bookshelves filled with books and old dark wooden furniture. The warmth of the light blended with the shadows of the place, creating a cozy atmosphere.
At the large desk situated to one side of the room with a view of the window sat an elderly man. His hair was white, he had a long beard, and his face was tanned and wrinkled, worn by a lifetime of adventures.The old man was flipping through some old journals; every few minutes he would lift his gaze and direct it toward the window. His eyes were lost among the plains and mountains visible in the distance, recalling a life that was now drawing to a close. The ticking of the clock continued to mark the rhythm in that room now veiled in twilight.
Suddenly, the silence was broken by the ding-dong of the doorbell.The man rose from his chair and placed the journals in the top drawer of the desk. He headed toward the door.Ding-dong, the bell rang again. In perfect silence, he kept walking through the cold, dark hallway of the house.When he reached the door, he looked through the peephole, and after glancing at his visitor for a second, he opened the door.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Arturo. My name is Jose Herrera. Channel 17 sent me for your personal interview." Arturo looked over the young journalist, who couldn't be more than thirty, but despite the boyish face, he knew he was an experienced interviewer, fluent in several languages and the recipient of the Pulitzer Prize for International Reporting two years ago after an exclusive interview with the President of the Islamic Republic of Iran.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Herrera. Come in, I've been expecting you," Arturo said, extending his right hand to greet him."Call me Hache, please," he replied, returning the handshake. After the greeting, Arturo made a graceful and subtle gesture for the young man to enter.
They walked in silence down the long, almost dark corridor. In the shadows, Hache could make out photographs hanging on both sides of the narrow hallway—photos of various sizes and styles. Some were black and white, others in color; a few were no bigger than a napkin, while others were nearly a meter wide. But what caught his attention most was a framed cloth handkerchief signed and centered on the wall. Hache couldn't read what was written on it, but he could clearly distinguish the shape of a pair of lips. Neither man said a word until they returned to the study.
Arturo opened the door and turned on the light."Please, come in and make yourself comfortable, Mr. Herrera," he said, pointing to a two-seater sofa in the center of the room next to a small tea table, in front of an unlit fireplace.
"Thank you, but please, call me Hache, Mr. Arturo," he replied as he walked into the room and headed for the sofa.
"If you don't mind, I'll keep calling you that for now. But feel free to speak to me informally. Forgive the mess—I was browsing through some old journals before you arrived. Can I offer you something? Whisky, perhaps? Or are you more of a gin man?" he asked while walking toward the bar cabinet to the right of the room's entrance. "If you don't mind, I'll pour myself a glass of whisky."
"Of course, it's your home. Perhaps just some water would be nice. I don't usually drink while I work," Hache said, settling into the sofa and taking out a recorder, a pen, and a black leather notebook, placing them neatly on the tea table.
"One glass of water coming right up!" Arturo replied, filling a glass from a clear crystal jug on the bar. He then grabbed the metal ice bucket, crouched down—slowly yet nimbly—and, with a precise movement, opened one of the drawers of the bar to fill the bucket with ice from the small freezer inside the lower drawer. He placed the bucket back on the bar, dropped two ice cubes into his old-fashioned glass, opened a bottle of his favorite whisky, and poured himself two fingers of the dark liquor. Taking both glasses confidently, he returned to Hache, who was already waiting with everything set up.
"Thank you very much, Arturo. By the way, I really like your study. It's clear you have good taste," Hache said as he took the glass of water and sipped.
"Thank you. I have excellent taste in alcohol, décor, and trouble—but terrible taste in women," Arturo replied, settling into the single-seat Chesterfield armchair facing the bar, from which one could see the whole room and the view of the mountains. It was his favorite spot within those four walls—a place to relax, enjoy a good book, a drink, or good company, while quietly surveying the little world he had built there."I also like your style. Even though everything today is digital, I still prefer pen and paper, just like you.
"Thank you. Going back to what you just said—and if you don't mind, maybe we can get started—you said you had terrible taste in women. Over the course of your life, which woman left the biggest mark on you?" Hache asked, turning on the recorder, picking up his pen, opening his notebook, and preparing to take notes. His eyes revealed the passion of someone who loves what they do and lives for it.
"Irina Kozlov," Arturo replied, pensive, as he swirled the whisky in his glass. His expression changed, and for a few seconds, his mind drifted away from that room. "There were others, of course, but she was a turning point in my life—one of several," he continued, coming back to the present and meeting Hache's gaze as the latter jotted down notes.
Hache now looked back at Arturo, set the pen on the notebook, picked up his water, and moistened his lips. His mouth was dry with nerves—it always happened before an interview. It didn't matter if it was a random person on the street or a head of state accused of corruption. Hache always felt that knot in his stomach that dried out his mouth. Still, he had the nose of a wolf tracking its prey through the forest. Hache had that rare instinct few truly possess in this profession, though many boast of having it.
"Where did you meet Irina Kozlov?" Hache asked, picking up his pen again, ready to write.
"I met her in 1989… in Berlin. I was covering the fall of the Wall. At the time, I was working as a European correspondent for Twenty-One Channel in Washington."
"Did you already know about Operation Red Sunset back then?"
"No… ha ha ha," Arturo laughed ironically, setting his whisky glass on the small table in front of him. "The first time I heard that term was in 1991 in a bar in Sarajevo—The Cosmopolitan. It was a quiet nightclub that doubled as a café in the afternoons. Nothing fancy and far from trendy, but it had a unique atmosphere. It transported you back to America's golden age—or at least tried to. I spent a lot of time writing there and frequented it until 1992, just before the war destroyed that beautiful city," he said, now staring more intensely at his interviewer.
"I'm sorry if any of my questions make you uncomfortable, Don Arturo. I understand those were difficult times for you. Please take all the time you need."
"Don't worry, I'm fine. Sometimes it's hard thinking about the atrocities and crimes I witnessed there. It's fascinating…" his gaze drifted again into the obsidian depths of his Irish glass.
"Excuse me?"
"It's fascinating to think about how atrocious and at the same time how wonderful human beings can be. I've seen both on the same stage… it's even overwhelming to consider—the complexity of what humans are capable of doing. Forgive me, I'm rambling," he said with a smile toward Hache.
"No worries, it happens to all of us. Back to the previous topic—did you know what Irina did and her connections to the KGB?"
"Yes…" Arturo began, but was interrupted."Let me clarify. No, I didn't know what she did when I first met her, but she never hid her ties to the KGB."
"Could you explain what Miss Irina Kozlov's job was?"
"She worked as a communications agent for Moscow Television. She was part of the technical team that usually accompanied journalists."
"Is that how you met her?" Hache interrupted."Well, I met her at a small jazz club in West Berlin. She was sitting at a table, smoking a cigarette while sipping a vodka collins to the rhythm of a powerful African American singer. Imagine the scene—a stunning young blonde, with eyes as clear as the morning sky, tall with sharp yet refined features. I'd seen her several times with the press crews but had never formally introduced myself. That day, after a whisky, I decided to go up and introduce myself… and the rest, as they say, is history."
"And what's your story?"
"Understanding my story isn't as simple as many might think. You can't understand me without knowing where I come from—my roots. How about I start from the beginning?"
First chapter translated from my original work hijos de Roma
© 2025 Noah Doria. All rights reserved.