“I have a friend,” he had said.

As I waited for the proverbial second shoe to drop, I knew for certain he wasn’t suggesting a blind date. But what he did say next was every bit as unexpected.

He said that his “friend” — whom he didn’t name — had also been stationed in the Soviet Embassy in Washington in the ‘80s, ostensibly as a reporter for the TASS news agency, but in reality as a KGB intelligence agent. And this “friend” was now secretly writing a book revealing the truth behind Moscow’s operations in the United States. Of course, he said, such a book could not be published in Russia . . . not even in the current post-Soviet climate of glasnost and perestroika.

And Valentin was wondering whether I knew anyone in the publishing industry who might be of help.

Had lightning struck at that moment, I would not have been at all surprised. I thought I was prepared for anything . . . but not this.

And if my mind hadn’t suddenly become a whirl of thoughts — each more ridiculous than the last — I might have been able to see the corollary between what was happening at the moment and the plot of a 1990 Sean Connery movie titled — coincidentally or not — “The Russia House.” In it, a Russian woman delivers to a British publisher in Moscow a manuscript from her scientist friend that cannot be published in Russia. But I wasn’t thinking about Sean Connery just then.

Instead, I was trying to figure out what the hell I was supposed to say to this absurd proposal. Was it some sort of provocation? Was anyone observing us nearby? Was there actually a book . . . or, for that matter, was there even a “friend”? Perhaps Valentin himself was the author. And — most concerning of all — would it be legal for me to get involved?

Or possibly even dangerous?

And while my innards were in complete turmoil, something in my brain suddenly clicked into place and said:

“Stall.”

And that’s exactly what I did. Taking a moment to find the right words, I told Valentin — in all honesty — that I did not personally have contacts in publishing, but that I did have friends in New York who might. And while I couldn’t make any promises, I would make some calls when I returned home.

Inexplicably, I suddenly felt quite calm, though it had all become blindingly clear to me that I had just chosen a path that would lead to . . . what? To some final destination as yet unknown. But I did know what my first steps would be.

I had had my “Aha!” moment.

*. *. *

To be continued . . .

*. *. *

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I —
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

– Robert Frost, “The Road Not Taken”