The breath of winter froze the window lattice in Moscow, but a man codenamed "Ghost" wandered in the shadows between the east and the west. Peter - a perfect work of art trained by the KGB, can decipher the code of death over a glass of vodka, but cannot decipher the code of his own destiny. His fingertips stroked the mottled masonry of the Berlin Wall, and the same heartbeat echoed at both ends of the wall; he received the bloody microfilm in the evening breeze of Havana, and there were secrets more dangerous than nuclear bombs buried under the coral reef; he held a sign in a Paris auction house to bid for Tsarist eggs, and hidden deep in the glaze was a list that could rewrite the Cold War pattern. When everyone thought he was a sharp blade fighting for the red flag, only the yellowed ballet ticket stub on the inside of his collar knew that every time he pulled the trigger, he was playing a requiem for the figure who disappeared in the snowstorm twenty years ago. "Will you die for your faith?" The instructor once asked. Young Peter replied: "I will live to keep those I believe in alive." At this moment, standing under the crumbling sickle and hammer logo of the KGB headquarters, he tore up the last file. As shredded papers were flying like snow, he chuckled at the empty hall: "They will never know that what I stole was never secrets, but time - enough time for an era to quietly turn around." This is an epic written in code. In the palace of truth built of lies, who is the last night watchman? When all the masks peel off, the world will eventually discover that the deadliest agents often hide behind the gentlest lies.
