Having a wonderful time reminiscing about all my past travel (and other) adventures. Hope you’ll share them with me in my blog, “All Roads Led to Russia.”
One day they were Sophie, 11, and Daniel, 9 — the children of Ludwig Gisch and Maria Mayer Munos, Argentine citizens who had left their country to escape the high crime rate and resettled in Slovenia.
The next day, they were on a plane to Moscow, being told that they were not Argentinian, but Russian, and that their parents’ names were Artyom and Anna Dultsev — Russian spies who had been living as illegals since before the children were born, and were now returning to their real home, in Russia. For good.
Arriving in Moscow
Leaving behind their friends, their school, their neighbors, without so much as a goodbye. Being whisked away on a plane to Ankara, Turkey, where they boarded a second plane with their parents — who had spent the past year and a half in a Slovenian prison on charges of espionage, though the children had been told it was because of an immigration problem. This flight headed to Moscow as part of a multi-nation spy swap. And there, legally on Russian “territory” in a Russian-owned aircraft, they were finally told the truth.
How could this be possible? Who are we? Who are you? What is our life going to be like from now on? What are our real names? What language will we have to learn next? Has everything been a lie? We don’t understand!
Flowers from a stranger
All of these questions, and more, must have been going through the minds of Sophie and Daniel Dultsev as they tried to make sense of what was happening. Then they were on the ground, being welcomed to this strange place as celebrities, given flowers by an obviously important man they didn’t recognize, being told he was the President of Russia.
The President! Our parents must be very special.
The Soviet “illegals” program has been well documented, and has been the subject of numerous films, including arguably the best of the fictionalized versions, The Americans — a made-for-TV series that ran from 2013 to 2018. (Caution: extreme violence and sexual content.)
And Vladimir Putin has for decades been working to restore that illegals program to its former elevated status. These people are selected, not only for their intelligence and linguistic skills, but also for their dedication to their country, and their willingness to sacrifice any hope of a “normal” life in order to spy on the country to which they are sent. They marry the person to whom they are assigned, assume the identities of real people who no longer exist, raise families, gather information, spread propaganda . . . and live among us — our neighbors, co-workers, friends — undetected for years.
Even their children are unaware of who they really are — usually until they are old enough to understand and perhaps to be recruited to their parents’ cause.
But occasionally they are caught, as were the Dultsevs. Told that their parents had to go away for a while until their immigration status was straightened out, the children were placed with a family selected by their Russian handler. Still, they thought they were Argentinian until that unimaginable, life-changing day, August 1, 2024, when they learned the truth.
At the doorway to a new life
And now what? The parents, Anna and Artyom, will no doubt be awarded good jobs and a pleasant place to live. But what about the children, who will enter school to begin learning the Russian language . . . and the Russian way of life under Vladimir Putin? Are they young enough to adapt easily, and to put aside their past lives in Argentina and Slovenia? Or are they old enough to resist the new life being thrust upon them?
Much will of course depend on the way they have been raised until now: how strict their upbringing has been at home; what they have learned in school and from friends about Russia and the war in Ukraine; whether they will ever again be able to trust their parents completely, or feel the same closeness to them. It all remains to be seen . . . and they may be just fine. But it won’t be easy.
And I worry about them, for they were given no choice.
You never liked having your picture taken, which was silly because you were a very pretty woman. But since I don’t have any later photos of you, we’ll have to make do with this one. In the top left corner, you’re the bathing beauty on the left next to your mother (my Bubbe), with your father (my Zayde) seated and some woman I don’t recognize standing or kneeling behind you. I also thought you’d enjoy seeing some of the old pictures of other family members. Say hello and hug them for me, will you?
You would have been 117 now, if you hadn’t gone and died on Merna’s 58th birthday — this date in 1991. It’s been 33 years, and I just don’t know where the time has gone.
You’ve missed a lot of good stuff, including great-grandchildren, smart phones, and my blog — you always did enjoy my writing. But you’ve also been spared all the woes of the world since then, so maybe you’re the lucky one after all.
Today is Merna’s 91st birthday, you know. Please be sure to take her out to dinner, as I’m not there to do it. And remember — there’s no nagging in Heaven, so let her enjoy her dessert . . . and you pick up the check.
Also, you should order all the cholesterol you want — it can’t hurt you now.
I don’t remember when we started calling each other “Merny” and “Brendy,” but somehow it stuck. And that’s how I still think of us.
My favorite picture of “Onnie Merna”
It’s another birthday for you, and half-birthday for me. We won’t be going out to dinner as we always did, or reminiscing about the early years in New England and the coming-of-age years in Washington. And we won’t be laughing about how pissed Mother was that we never included her in our birthday dinners, and how she couldn’t understand that we wanted something that was just for us.
But I still remember it all — especially my 30th when I passed out in Costin’s Sirloin Room and embarrassed the hell out of you (again). And your 58th, when Mother decided to get even for all those missed dinners by dying right on the day, and we never did make it to dinner at Le Refuge that year.
I never would have believed, all those years ago, that I would miss you this much. But I do. You take care.
Well, actually, it’s both. But timing, delivery and inflection can make a huge difference.
Here we have Dmitry Medvedev, once officially President of the Russian Federation (2008-2012) while Vladimir Putin pulled the strings from the office of the Prime Minister during the constitutionally-required waiting period before he could resume the presidency for several more extended terms . . . Well, it’s complicated. Suffice it to say, Medvedev played the role beautifully, acting as the calm, reasonable, almost democratic foil to the more bombastic, authoritarian Putin.
A younger (c. 2008-2012), gentler Dmitry Medvedev
Then, by pre-arrangement, in 2012 they switched places again when Putin was elected — not for another four years — but for six, in accordance with a constitutional amendment he had rammed through the Russian Parliament.
And Medvedev was right there with him, serving as Prime Minister for the next eight years, until 2020 . . .
. . . when for some unexplained reason, he was shifted to his current role of Deputy Chairman of the Security Council of the Russian Federation.
If that seems like a demotion, don’t be fooled — it isn’t. The Chairman of the Security Council is Vladimir Putin himself, making Medvedev effectively Putin’s No. 1 right-hand security guy. And he has been taking full advantage of his position, making himself heard — loud and clear — at every opportunity. And what we are hearing is anger, and hatred, and vengefulness.
His is the dominant voice warning of a Russian nuclear response to any perceived threat from the West. And most recently, he threatened that such a response — in the event of Ukraine’s use of U.S.-supplied long-range missiles to strike deep within Russian territory — would have “irreversible consequences.”
Dmitry Medvedev has evolved over the past two dozen years from Mr. Nice Guy to The Face of Armageddon: the man who would love to push the button to begin the ultimate meltdown. How did that happen? Was it the result of years of association with Putin and his inner circle? Or is this the real Medvedev, previously cloaked in a patina of reason and gentility, only now permitted by circumstances to reveal his true self?
Whatever the answer, this “new” Medvedev is clearly not on Santa’s “nice” list. I foresee a lump of coal in his Christmas stocking.
There’s a lot of strange stuff happening in the world these days, such as:
– Immigrants being accused of eating their neighbors’ pets in Ohio.
– Elon Musk wondering aloud why no one has taken potshots at a Democrat as yet.
– Civilians going walkabout in space.
– Sports teams tossing a dead, decapitated, quadriplegic goat’s carcass into a goal-bowl.
– People doing . . .
Wait! WHAT??!!! Back up a couple of steps, please. Surely they’re not talking about that little cutie in the picture!
Fortunately, no, they’re not. They’re talking about something called the game of Goat-Grabbing, which, I’m disturbed to report, has absolutely nothing to do with grabbing any of the parts of a living goat, but rather tossing the torso of a dead one — from the back of a horse, no less — into the goal, which is some sort of large, elevated bowl.
Shouldn’t it, then, be called Goat-Tossing? Oh, well . . .
Goat-Grabbing: The Sport of Khans?
This ancient sport is apparently very big in Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan — two of the former Soviet Central Asian republics — and has been likened by some of the foreign media to a sort of “goat polo.” And, to be fair, the use of a once-living creature has been done away with; they now use a synthetic likeness weighing about 30 kilos (66 pounds, if I’m not mistaken). That’s about four times the weight of a shot put! [RadioFreeEurope/RadioLiberty, September 15, 2024.]
But the game is not limited to those two countries. Last week saw the conclusion of the biannual World Nomad Games, with more nations participating than ever before. The U.S. was entered this year, as were Turkey, Uzbekistan and Russia.
The major rivalry, however, appears to be between Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan, with each presenting their own version of the game, differing primarily in the details. The specifics are complicated — too much so for this non-sports-oriented onlooker — but to me it seems like something from an orthopedist’s erotic dream.
So if you are into team sports, and you’re bored with football (American and European), basketball, and rugby, check it out. It could turn out to be the new favorite way to spend Thanksgiving.
And if it gets the Russians and the Americans out there on the field, fighting over something besides Ukraine, then it can’t be all bad.
Washington, first week of March 1994: Things were not going well. With word out that Shvets’ book was about to be released, the press was expected to engage in one of its usual feeding frenzies, and I knew I had to take preemptive action; I couldn’t let my Russian contacts find out about my involvement from a news release. So I went to see Natalya at the Embassy. She was expecting to hear about the conference in Malta; what she heard instead appeared to send her into shock.
Natalya Semenikhina was an exceptional woman: smart, efficient, attractive, with a natural charm and warmth that made her perfect for her position in the Cultural Section of the Embassy. And she had been extremely helpful to me in working toward the creation of my U.S. training program and establishment of a business school in Moscow. I genuinely liked and respected her, and had enjoyed working with her. And now I had to try to salvage our relationship — and all of my hard work and dreams — without betraying the two people to whom I owed a professional responsibility . . . whether they deserved it or not.
She and I sat facing one another over tea in one of the Embassy’s formal meeting rooms, talking first about Malta, the people I had met there, the business opportunities, etc. Then I said I had something else to discuss with her . . . something quite serious. And as I related the story of my meeting the year before with Aksilenko in Moscow, his revelation as to his friend’s tell-all book, their subsequent “relocation” to the United States, and the imminent publication of the book, her face paled and her expression turned to one of total horror. Although I stressed the strictly commercial nature of my relationship with them, I could see clearly that she knew exactly who they were and what was at stake. And, for the first time in all the months I had known her, she was speechless.
Finally composing herself, she said that this was completely outside her purview, and that she would have to discuss it with someone else. At that point, I’m not sure she even knew whom to go to, but she did know she couldn’t deal with it alone. She said she would call me to set up another meeting, and I left the Embassy with a sinking feeling that my work in Russia was about to come to an end. My one hope might be to cut short my working relationship with Aksilenko and Shvets, and perhaps even to forfeit my financial interest in the book. I would have to give that some thought while I waited to hear from her, but I wasn’t optimistic — you can’t unring a bell.
She called the very next day and asked me to come to the Embassy on the day after that. Her voice left no doubt that she was under serious stress. As concerned as I was for my own situation, I also felt regret that it had become necessary for her to be involved — she had had nothing to do with any of it.
The next morning I arrived at the Embassy to be greeted by a very somber Natalya. There was no tea service in the meeting room that day — a bad sign from the normally hospitable Russians. Her speech was hesitant, and had obviously been carefully rehearsed. All of the public rooms in the Embassy were assumed to be bugged, probably even wired with cameras; so I was sure she was being careful to say everything she’d been instructed to say, and nothing more. I, on the other hand, had no idea of what to expect. For me, this was going to be like amateur night at the Improv.
Natalya told me she would normally have arranged for me to meet with a Mr. Lysenko — the name was unfamiliar to me — but that he had returned to Moscow just a few days earlier. So she had talked with someone else in his department, and that person had suggested that I should prepare and submit to them — now check this out — a written statement detailing the history of my relationship with Aksilenko and Shvets, from beginning to end, leaving nothing out: everything I knew about them, everything they had ever told me, everything about the contents of the book, my business arrangement with them, and where they were and what they were doing now. Then, and only then, could my own situation be reevaluated and given careful consideration.
Momentary silence . . . deep breath . . . then . . .
“You’re kidding . . . right??!!!”
Okay, so I didn’t actually laugh. But oh, how I wanted to! Did they really believe for one moment that I would even consider delivering to the government of any country — let alone an adversarial one — any information that could conceivably be used against American interests? Did they think I was personally low enough to sell out another human being (or two)? Or that I was stupid enough not to realize that anything I might give them would go directly to the Russian Foreign Ministry as well as KGB Headquarters, and could potentially reach all the way to the Kremlin itself? And did they also believe I was weak enough or greedy enough to simply break down and submit to their transparent attempt at coercion?
Actually . . . yes, I suppose that is what they thought. Well, then . . . they clearly had no idea of what kind of person they were dealing with!
Of course, I kept all those thoughts to myself, and somehow managed to remain calm. I briefly considered keeping them hanging for a couple of days by telling Natalya I’d think it over and get back to her. But no . . . there was nothing to think over, and I wanted them to know that. So what I did say was that — for better or worse — Aksilenko and Shvets were my clients in a publishing venture, and that it would be professionally unethical and personally reprehensible (my exact words) for me to betray them in the manner her people were suggesting. Bottom line: a flat-out “Nyet!”
As I spoke, Natalya almost seemed physically to deflate. She had failed, and she looked worried, even frightened. Then she stood up, whispered something that sounded vaguely apologetic . . . and I was politely shown the door.
*. *. *
Walking down 16th Street away from the Embassy, I knew that I, too, had failed in my efforts to guide some of Russia’s middle class into the approaching 21st Century. But they would manage without me and my business school; the Russian people always did, somehow. In a different sense, though, I knew I had succeeded. I had stood my ground, refused to be intimidated, and had managed to preserve my principles of honor and decency. I was, in human terms, the clear winner.
“Ta-da!!”
When I reported all of this to Eric later that day, he told me that the man I was supposed to have met — Aleksandr Lysenko — was well known to the FBI: he had been the rezident, or chief of station, at the Russian Embassy for several months. In other words, the top KGB agent in Washington. He had been expelled from the U.S. just days earlier for his role in running the CIA turncoat Aldrich Ames. The fact that I was intended to have met with a person of Lysenko’s rank clearly indicated how seriously the Russians were treating this whole situation. On the one hand, I was obviously relieved that a meeting with him had been averted; but on the other hand, I thought it might have been an interesting experience . . . in a rather perverse way. But that’s one more thing I’ll never know.
Aldrich Ames and Aleksandr Lysenko — two men I didn’t know, and had never even heard of before they made the news just a few days earlier — had somehow, indirectly, invaded my life and changed it forever. Unbelievable!
*. *. *
In April of 1994, Shvets’ book, Washington Station, was finally released.
The Root of the Trouble
On April 9th, an article by John Markoff and David Johnston appeared in the New York Times about the book, about Yuri Shvets himself, and about my role — not entirely accurately presented — in having brought Shvets and his colleague, Valentin Aksilenko, to the United States the previous year. But the article didn’t stop there. It went on to suggest a possible connection between the arrival of the two men in the U.S. for ten days in April-May of 1993 and the opening of the FBI’s official case against Aldrich Ames on May 12th, just one week after their departure on May 5th.
And as I read that article, a comic-strip lightbulb lit up over my head. It all began to make sense, in a totally convoluted, nonsensical way. All of the attention from the FBI at home and the KGB and Militia in Moscow; the “watchers” and “Good Samaritans” repeatedly showing up during my travels; the ease with which the two former KGB spies had gotten back into the U.S. — it hadn’t been my imagination at all.
No . . . I was just a person who had been in the right place at the wrong time — not really involved, but ultimately the one who had been used to tie the various strings together. Metaphorically speaking, I had become a pawn in someone else’s political chess game, and now, at the end of that game . . . well, now I was simply collateral damage.
You just can’t make this stuff up!
*. *. *
There’s more — lots more — that I really don’t need to go into here. But there is an interesting footnote. Because of the brouhaha surrounding Aldrich Ames’ arrest and eventual conviction and sentencing on charges of espionage, Yuri Shvets’ book could not have hit the stands at a worse time. It was totally overshadowed by the bigger story. The first — and only — printing was smaller than originally planned, and didn’t do well. It was withdrawn from the bookstore shelves before most of the world even knew it was there. Other than my small percentage of their advance payment, my only royalty check arrived in the mail a full five years later, in June of 1999, in the amount of . . . drumroll, please. . . seventy-seven cents ($0.77). As I stood by the wall of mailboxes in the lobby of my apartment building and opened the unexpected envelope from Brockman, Inc., I burst out laughing — so hard, and so loudly, that several passing neighbors thought I’d lost my marbles. I managed to choke out “I’m okay,” and continued laughing all the way to the elevator, up to the third floor, and down the long hallway to my apartment.
I still have that check, and it still tickles me to look at it.
Don’t spend it all at once!
*. *. *
So how does it all end? Am I going to leave you hanging after dragging you around Europe with me for half a year, wondering why I’ve bothered writing all of this stuff? No . . . of course I wouldn’t do that to my loyal readers. So, see you next time for the grand finale.
This morning I was whining about having a bad case of writer’s block. A few hours later, I checked the headlines again, and . . . BINGO! Back in business.
It seems wrong, somehow, that I look forward to the daily evidence of a world gone mad. But what could be more interesting — albeit in a truly perverse sense — than lunatics taking aim at presidential candidates? Or those candidates accusing immigrants of eating other people’s pets? Or billionaires shooting off their mouths about . . . well, never mind that one.
Anyway, here I am, back at my keyboard and going strong. Got a couple more headlines to cover before day’s end, so off I go.
I believe his exact words were: “Actions have consequences.”
Dmitry Peskov, head to head with the boss
Most of us have heard of Newton’s Third Law of Motion, which states that “for every action . . . there is an equal and opposite reaction . . .”
But that is not what Dmitry Peskov meant when he said . . . well, what he said today about the apparent attempt on Donald Trump’s life yesterday.
The shooter — a man from Hawaii with a fixation on helping to end the war in Ukraine, among other things — failed to hit Trump or anyone else, thanks to the sharp eyes and quick reaction of the Secret Service agents covering Trump on his Sunday golf outing. And government leaders from around the world have expressed their relief that Trump was unhurt and the suspect had been taken into custody.
Except Russia.
Instead, the irrepressible Kremlin spokesman, good old Dmitry Peskov, had this to say when asked for his thoughts:
“It is not us who should be thinking, it is the U.S. intelligence services who should be thinking. In any case, playing with fire has its consequences.” [Dmitry Antonov, Guy Faulconbridge and Felix Light, Reuters, September 16, 2024.]
Playing with fire? Is that a reference to the West’s aid to Ukraine in its defense against Russia’s continuing onslaught? Well, of course it is! But what is he saying? That this is payback? By whom? Surely, not by themselves! No . . . they would never admit to such a possibility.
And when asked if he thought the assassination attempt might cause political destabilization of the United States, he said — rather ingenuously, I thought — that, “This is not really our business. We are watching the information coming from the US.” [Censor.NET, September 16, 2024.]
“Not really our business.” Oh, Dima . . . you got me again!
Then, on a more serious note, he had this to say:
“We see how tense the situation is there, including between political competitors. The political struggle is escalating, and a variety of methods are being used.” [Id.]
So, now what? Is he somehow implying that the Biden administration, the Harris campaign, or some other Democrats are behind it? Or, because of the suspect’s ties to Ukraine, perhaps he thinks it was Volodymyr Zelensky. Or was he simply thinking in terms of the way things are done in his own country?
But wait . . .
It couldn’t possibly be Trump’s own words that have made him a literal target for crazed conspiracy theorists, could it?
[Just two more chapters — 27 and 28 — after this one, and we will have reached the conclusion of my tale of espionage and betrayal. Stay tuned — you’ve hung on this long.]
February 25, 1994: Homeward bound once more, and happily not on Aeroflot this time. But because my original booking had been through Rome, returning the same way turned out to be the least expensive route, even though there was no connecting flight and it meant an overnight stay in Rome. I had reserved a room at a small hotel near the airport and arrived around 11:00 p.m., well after the hotel’s dining room had shut down for the night. But one of the benefits of a boutique hotel is the personal attention they are able to pay to their guests, and this one was no exception. The concierge found a person still in the kitchen who was able to prepare some of the food that hadn’t been served at dinner, and delivered my light meal to me personally. It was delicious, and with a glass of Chianti to wash it down, I was able to sleep like a baby.
Italian Snack
I awoke early the next morning — Saturday the 26th — in order to catch the hotel’s shuttle bus to the airport. As I was dressing, I again tuned in to CNN, this time to learn that there had been yet another shooting incident in Hebron, a Palestinian city in the West Bank of Israel. Would they never stop?!! I wondered. It was an ongoing tragedy; but as an American who lived geographically far removed from the problems of the Middle East, and this being years before acts of foreign terrorism reached our shores, I never thought of the effect it might have here in Italy. That is, until I got to the airport . . .
The lines in the terminal appeared endless. They snaked around the inside of the building to every airline counter, including mine. The police and military presences were heavy and heavily armed, many accompanied by their canine partners. This was Europe, where they had suffered their fair share of terrorist attacks; and I had forgotten that when things heated up in the Middle East, the response here was immediate . . . and impressive. So I found my line and waited as the security officer worked her way toward me.
Airport Security – Rome, Italy
When she finally reached me, she began by asking the usual questions: “What was the purpose of your visit to Rome, and how long were you here?”
Answer: “Overnight, just transiting.”
Logical next question: “Transiting from where to where?”
Oh-oh. My answer — “Moscow to Washington” — was clearly going to set off some alarms. And did it ever! Her next questions concerned the purpose of my visit to Moscow, where I had stayed and for how long, whether my luggage had ever been out of my sight, whether anyone else might have had access to it . . . And when I answered truthfully that I had stayed in an apartment and that yes, others had been alone with my bags for a while, she very apologetically said she would have to perform a search of my luggage. I responded that it was no problem, as long as I didn’t miss my flight, which she assured me would not happen.
And I said a silent prayer of thanks that I had had the good sense not to take Shvets’ $3,000, and even more so his son’s passport, from his mother. This was exactly the sort of thing I had been afraid of, although I certainly could not have known there would be an overnight Middle East problem. But there are many possible reasons for a baggage search — even a simple random check — and it was almost as though Mama Shvets had been hoping for that when she loudly insisted that I could hide the passport under my clothing. The things I thought about her and her precious son in those moments do not bear repeating, but I’m sure they’re not difficult to imagine.
Not My Finest Moment
In any event, the search was quick and respectful. Security officers are trained to read people’s reactions and body language, and I suppose she could sense that I wasn’t hiding anything. When she finished, she even took me up to the head of the line to be checked in, as a sort of apology for the inconvenience. The plane was boarded on time, and off we went.
I had a seat mate this time: an American woman, 40-ish, well-dressed, professional-appearing — someone I thought I might enjoy chatting with. But she was as silent as the American man on last summer’s Aeroflot flight. My usual get-acquainted questions — was this your first visit to Italy? business or vacation? what line of work are you in? — met with non-responsive, monosyllabic answers. She clearly did not feel like talking. I didn’t want to be intrusive, so I resigned myself to a long, quiet flight ahead and settled in with the book I had brought, thinking she might be more willing to talk a bit later. She wasn’t. We landed at Dulles on time, and she walked away without a word. So much for the friendly skies.
The next day, all hell broke loose.
Well . . . maybe not this bad.
First, there was Yuri Shvets to deal with. He was anxious to receive whatever his mother had sent back for him. The FedEx envelope with the passport was already en route (and actually arrived a couple of days later); but when he saw that I had brought only a letter and no money, and that most of his gifts for her had not made it into my luggage in the first place, he was livid . . . which was nothing compared to what I was feeling. I told him in minute detail of his mother’s performance and how irresponsibly, and even recklessly, she had behaved. His excuse was, again, that she was just a “simple Russian woman,” to which I replied, “Bull shit! She’s the mother of a KGB Major. Don’t tell me she doesn’t know how to behave in public.” I also let him know what had happened at the Rome airport. The conversation deteriorated from there, and I stopped just short of accusing him of trying to set me up — only because I had no proof. And because I was alone in my apartment with a very angry man. He finally took the bag and the letter and left, slamming the door behind him. I never saw or spoke to him again.
I called Eric on Monday to let him know I was safely back, and we made plans to get together in a day or so. In the meantime, I had caught up on the national and local news, which turned out to be full of the story of the CIA agent who had been caught spying for the KGB: Aldrich Ames, the man I had first heard of on CNN in Moscow. Folks there had shrugged it off as just another remnant of the Cold War; but here at home it was a big deal. Still, it had nothing to do with me.
Well, at least not directly, it didn’t. But as I read the details of his arrest, and the FBI’s actions in the days leading up to it, I realized that the coincidence in timing between that activity and my pending travel to Moscow was more than a little interesting. It was reported that Ames had been part of a CIA team scheduled for an official visit to Moscow, due to leave Washington on February 22nd — the very middle of the time I was also to be in Moscow — and that his arrest had been set for the 21st in order to forestall his leaving the country. But again I wondered: so what? I hadn’t even known the man existed.
Aldrich Ames
And I had my own problems. Shvets’ book was soon to be released, and John Brockman was talking about pre-release publicity. My name was tied to both Shvets and Aksilenko, and I knew it was time to do damage control with Natalya at the Russian Embassy. This was not going to be pleasant . . .
The Blog About Everything … and Sometimes Nothing 