Osip dropped his head in shame, staring at his wrinkled hands clasped around the photographs. He noted with interest that he still had the capacity to feel shame. He wasn’t entirely dead inside, numbed with opium but not yet oblivious to his failings. This was not the life he’d sought when he’d come to America, to frame a man he admired, a man of great integrity.

A long time ago Osip had been a man of integrity too. Though he was now a spy, the truth was that he had no love for the Soviet Union and plenty of affection for the country he was betraying. He reconciled the contradiction, to some degree, by smoking opium – which helped a lot – and rationalizing – which helped a little. When he’d arrived in New York as a young man, he’d felt certain that success of some kind was inside him. He’d achieved success but not the kind he’d expected. At the age of fifty-nine, Osip had become one of the longest-serving Soviet spies to work in “the main adversary”, spy slang for the United States of America.

As a young man, forty years ago, Osip had been an ambitious nineteen-year-old living in the Ukraine, attending Kyiv University, with aspirations to spend his life in academia. Feeling the grip of prejudice around the neck of his fledgling career – the door to his room defaced, the Star of David scratched into it, the contempt of his tutors – it was evident that he would never achieve a professorship. Sitting in his cold room, looking over a snow-covered street, he could no longer imagine a future in Kyiv. Without close family to root him in the city, he made the decision to leave, motivated less by a sense of fear than a determination to fulfil his potential. He’d originally intended to travel to France. However, leaving Kyiv was akin to stepping off a cliff and falling into the ocean, buffeted by the waves, with no control over his direction. He eventually washed up on the shores of the American consulate at Riga, Latvia, where he’d remained in the State Emigrant House for two days, suffering the indignity of being examined and disinfected. He’d paid his entire worldly fortune to the Sovtorgflor Company, which specialized in arranging travel for emigrants. Clutching his transit papers and doctor’s certificate, six months after he’d made the decision to leave, he’d boarded a boat. For the first time he could imagine a future again: his future was New York.