Faintly aware of a figure in the room with him, Osip awoke from his sleep, straightening up and closing his mouth. There was a man at the door. The sun had set. The light from the overhead bulb was weak. Osip wasn’t sure whether it had been turned on by the man or whether it had always been on. The man locked the front door. He was carrying a cracked leather sports bag. He surveyed the room, the greasy bed linen. From the disgust on his face it was obvious the apartment didn’t belong to him. The man pulled the comforter across the bed before perching on the edge. He was in his late thirties, or early forties; everything about him seemed substantial, his arms, his legs and chest, his facial features. He rested the bag on his knees, unzipping it, taking out something small – tossing it towards Osip, who caught it. In his palm was a wrap of opium. In a movement perfected over many years, he secreted the wrap into an inside pocket of his jacket with a small hole that enabled it to drop into the lining. Many agents had addictions, some to gambling, some to alcohol. Osip smoked most nights until he passed out, lying on his back and feeling the most wonderful sensation in the world – nothing at all. Dependency on the drug served a secondary purpose. It made his superiors, and those in the Soviet Union reviewing his activities, less suspicious. His addiction allowed them to feel in control of him. They owned him. He depended on them. His code name was Brown Smoke. Though it conveyed a degree of contempt, Osip liked it. It made him sound like a Native American, which for an immigrant spy was an irony, he supposed.

It was doubtful that this man was an FBI undercover agent. He hadn’t said a word. An undercover agent would have already told a hundred nervous lies. He reached into the bag for a second time. Osip leaned forward, anxious to see what he would pull out next. It was a camera, with a telescopic lens. Osip said:

—This is for me?

The man didn’t reply, placing the camera on the table. Osip continued:

—I think there’s been some mistake. I’m not a field operative.

The man’s voice was coarse and low, more like a growl than speech.

—If you’re not an operative, what are you? You provide us with no useful information. You claim that you are developing spies. These spies give us nothing.

Osip shook his head, pretending to be indignant.

—I have risked my life—

—A calculated risk from a man with nothing to lose. You’re an expert in doing as little as possible. Time has caught up with you. Many thousands of dollars have been paid to you, and for what?

—I am happy to discuss what more I can do for the Soviet Union.