The pilot announced that the plane was entering its final descent. Colonel Pham folded the blanket that had been on his lap. “I am very anxious to see Russia again, Cong Ly, and I thank you for this invitation, whether or not we make any progress on your case. The Soviet Union was our big brother, you know that, not only politically but economically. They were giving our country billions of dollars every year. To be honest with you, we were certain that someday the Soviet Union would defeat the United States and that communism would be the dominant political force in the world. We were stunned when the Soviet Union ceased to exist. Even now, I cannot imagine it. And so I am very interested to visit Moscow and see for myself what this has meant.”

“The country is having hard times, Colonel.”

“I know that, yes, and I feel terribly about it in my heart,” said Pham. “But the people of Russia have always struggled. That is why I love them. Everything is always against them. They struggle so fiercely and yet they never stop singing.”

“Or drinking.”

“Sometimes,” shrugged the colonel. “It is impossible, the way so many of them drink their vodka.”

The plane made a turn and dawn revealed the city just below them. Colonel Pham’s face softened and his eyes went faraway as he surveyed the long rows of apartments and the churches with their onion roofs and the river itself, clogged with ice. “Nha thu Nhi,” said the colonel softly. My second home.

Skip Rogers waved to them as they stepped from the terminal building, immediately driving up in a black Lincoln Continental with diplomatic license plates. Stopping the car, he jumped out of the driver’s side and went to the trunk, opening it. He was a kinetic man with bright eyes and round cheeks. Looking at his tweedy plumpness, Condley had a hard time picturing the CIA agent as a former Marine.

But Rogers’s deep baritone voice removed all doubt on that question. “Condley, right?” he said, with the flat, give-a-shit cynicism that somehow recalled fierce drill sergeants and long forced marches in the heat. “I think we have a mutual friend in Hawaii.”

“Nice guess.”

Rogers grinned, reaching into the trunk and pulling out a thick overcoat, then throwing it to Condley. “Hey, I’m a spook, that’s my job.” He reached inside the trunk again and tossed Condley a fur-covered hat. “Not to mention that you’re the only passenger walking out of the terminal still dressed for the tropics, with a Vietnamese sidekick who’s already wearing an overcoat.”

“Colonel Pham spent many years in Russia,” said Condley.

“So I’ve heard.” Rogers openly scrutinized the bundled, fur-hatted Colonel Pham and for a moment squinched his nose. “He smells like my grandmother’s attic.”

“Try storing a fur hat in Sai Gon,” chuckled Condley.