Chapter 457: The Beginning of the Confrontation (Part II)

"What do you mean?"

"This dream."

Merkel glanced around the room—it was a clean, tidy doctor's office. He could tell it was a doctor's office not only because Schiller was wearing a white coat, but also because of the many patient files on Schiller's desk, the anatomical charts on the wall, and the examination bed beside the room.

It was incredibly real, identical to the offices Merkel had seen in most doctors' clinics: the images and text on the anatomical charts were crystal clear, the metallic glint of the bed legs reflected the color of the floor tiles, every detail was flawlessly authentic—nothing like a dream.

Just moments ago, Merkel had witnessed that absurd scene in the banquet hall—the terrifying black tide and blinding light. Merkel was a staunch materialist; his common sense told him such things could not happen in reality. The only possible explanation was that this was a dream.

The only question was: how had Schiller created such a realistic yet absurd dream, and how had he pulled someone into it?

Merkel felt that figuring out this question was far more important than his original mission objective, because, as far as he knew, human research into brain consciousness and dreams was still rudimentary—this would be invaluable intelligence.

"Aren't you already experiencing it?"

"You mean the bottle of wine?"

Schiller nodded, then added: "Of course, the issue lies here."

He pointed to his own head and said to Merkel: "You must understand that consciousness and dreams are products of the human brain. You need a sufficiently intelligent brain to have enough capacity to run a vast, realistic dream."

"... Brain development?" Merkel clearly had an insight.

"It seems you're not just a low-level agent providing intelligence solely to the Soviet Union—you must know something about Soviet intelligence as well."

Merkel immediately fell silent, and inwardly he cursed himself—he'd been led into revealing too much.

Schiller shook his head: "You needn't be tense. I know better than you how far this research has progressed—and how far it ever will."

"... How far?"

"To the point of zero progress."

Merkel moved his lips, as if to argue, but feared revealing more, so he said to Schiller: "You haven't answered my question."

"I did. The answer is the bottle of wine and my brain—nothing else."

"I know you're considering how to take the bottle—or how to take my brain..."

"But I advise you not to. Either one, studied alone, could become a disaster."

"We fear no disaster."

Schiller opened his mouth—he realized he had no reply to Merkel's answer, so he could only say:

"Now it's my turn to ask the second question: what is your mission objective?"

Merkel frowned—he hadn't expected Schiller to be so direct. He'd thought they'd need at least two more rounds of probing.

But this actually reassured him: his earlier impression that Schiller's personality had changed must have been an illusion.

"I'm tracking an agent."

"Who is he?"

"That's our internal matter."

"Why are you tracking him?"

"Because he's been out of contact for a very long time."

Schiller turned his pen in his fingers and looked at Merkel: "Everything you said is true—but only part of the truth."

"You want to find the person who might have taken the Philby List, correct?"

Merkel's pupils contracted. He furrowed his brow, struggling to remain calm. He wanted to deny it, but his reason told him: if Schiller had named the "Philby List," he knew far too much.

*The Lone Immortal*

"Where did you learn that name?"

"Is that your next question?"

"... Yes."

"My body is currently in the Mayor's mansion of Metropolis. Just now, an incident occurred here—I won't elaborate, but a group of agents has sealed off the premises."

"Just now, their leader announced in the banquet hall that one of the attendees is a Soviet spy who stole the Philby List—and until that spy is found, none of us will be allowed to leave."

Merkel's face darkened instantly; he could barely control his expression—his inner panic was written all over his face.

"Who is he? Where is he now?"

"I don't know." After Schiller's reply, Merkel still stared at him intently. Schiller tapped the table with his pen: "If even CIA agents aren't certain, how would I know?"

"Alright, I'll ask one final question, answer your last confusion, then I'll return your consciousness to your body."

Schiller looked into Merkel's eyes and asked:

"Why is the Philby List so important?"

Merkel pressed his lips together, hesitating whether to tell Schiller. If Schiller were truly the enemy, understanding the list's importance might lead him to help the CIA agents kill the Soviet agent who held it.

He recalled his interactions with Schiller. He had to admit: Schiller was an extremely odd man, unlike ordinary Americans, and even unlike the British or Europeans—he wasn't normal. His thinking was incomprehensible to ordinary people.

With someone like this, it was nearly impossible to judge his ideology—or even what he believed in.

In the past, Merkel would have considered this a failure in his work, a lack of sufficient intelligence. But now, it gave him a self-deceptive hope: perhaps Schiller wouldn't fully side with the CIA; perhaps there was still a chance to win his aid.

In the end, he spoke:

"Perhaps you've heard it on the broadcast: just before Philby defected from Britain, between 1962 and 1963, he was subjected to intense investigations. That period was extremely perilous—even with his high rank, he had no guarantee of escaping unscathed."

"Philby served as a senior officer in Section Five of British MI6 and as head of Section Nine, responsible for intelligence against the Soviet Union. I assume you understand what that means."

"Section Nine handled intelligence operations against the Soviet Union—and its head was one of ours."

"During his career, Philby acquired vast amounts of intelligence, and he also hunted for Soviet spies embedded in other nations. Using his position, he protected many of our comrades, ensuring their operations ran smoothly."

"At the same time, he knew the identities of many agents and spies other nations had planted in the Soviet Union. If you understand espionage, you know it's mutual—there's no truth to the Western claim that only the Soviets engaged in spying."

"At Philby's level, the information he held was terrifying. The most critical information was the identities of Soviet spies and those of other nations' spies."

"Facing a major investigation, Philby had no confidence he could safely return to the Soviet Union. Even so, he wanted the information he held to reach Moscow."

"But at the time, every move he made was under tight surveillance. Those investigating him sought evidence in his behavior. Philby knew he couldn't contact Moscow directly—he had to use a more subtle method."

"Thus, the Philby List was created."

Merkel sighed, placed his hands on the table, and clasped them together: "It recorded every identity of Soviet spies and those of other nations' spies that Philby's position allowed him to obtain."

"I assume you understand how vital this is."

"That's why the CIA wants this list—because it likely also contains the names of their own embedded agents. Even after decades, confirming even a few identities could lead them to unravel entire networks."

"All intelligence agencies think this way. None want their rivals—or even allies—to get this list. It could devastate their intelligence networks in any region."

"What was this more subtle method you mentioned for transferring the list?"

Since he'd said this much, Merkel had no reason to hide: "The oldest method—find someone you trust, give it to them, and have them take it back to Moscow."

"But it ultimately failed."

"No—it succeeded. Or rather, while the plan didn't fully succeed, Philby escaped investigation and returned safely to Moscow. All the data remained in his mind."

"So the Soviet Union already has the information?"

Merkel sighed: "Precisely because of that, other nations want this list even more—they're at a disadvantage. Since Philby returned to Moscow until his death, Western nations have suffered repeated failures in intelligence work—all due to Philby's influence."

"They want to use this list to turn the tide?"

Merkel shook his head: "Actually, no. They just need something to report."

He gestured with one hand: "The data in Kim Philby's mind and the contents of the Philby List are essentially identical."

"If they can obtain the Philby List and prove its details are extensive enough to cause massive damage, they can blame all their years of intelligence failures on Philby—and on those who failed to prosecute him."

Schiller immediately understood: Merkel meant these people were desperately hunting the list not to expose a threat, but to prove their opponents were too strong—not that they were too weak.

Once they obtained the list and proved it contained detailed spy identities, they could claim: "We were playing with open cards—how could we possibly win?" Thus, all their years of intelligence failures could be erased.

"But why now?" Schiller asked again.

Merkel shook his head, indicating he didn't know. But Schiller understood: did the CIA need to pick the right moment to shift blame? Or was shifting blame their main job?

"Alright, you may ask me one final question, then this dream will end."

Merkel fell silent for a long time. Just as Schiller was about to prompt him, Merkel looked into Schiller's eyes and said, in a hoarse voice:

"Have you read The Communist Manifesto?"

Schiller fell silent for a long while. Then he stood, walked to the window, and stared at the empty view outside, whispering:

"Do you know? CIA agents are right outside my door. If I wake up now and tell them you asked me that, you won't survive the winter."

"I know..."

Schiller turned back and saw a light in Merkel's eyes—brighter than the sun that had descended upon Gao Ta's summit.

"But I don't care."