The shop was Kosov’s Imports on Sullivan Street. Grigor was no stranger to it. He had been there more than once during his earlier stay in the city.

The cab he’d taken from the airport pulled up front. He got out, went to the door and entered the place.

It was long and narrow with wooden counters, a hardwood floor and old-fashioned balance scales. Sausages and smoked meats hung beneath the tin ceiling. There were dried herbs and seasonings in hand-labeled apothecary jars, shelves of fruit preserves and pickled vegetables, piles of canned pâtés, and barrels of sweets, grains and nuts sold by weight. The scent in the air was an odd mixture of staleness and spice.

A man in an apron was bagging items at the cash register. A handful of customers browsed about deeper inside.

Grigor waited as the man finished the sale and came around the counter. He was thick, wide and florid, with a gut that strained the straps of his apron.

“I have your order boxed up,” he said.

Grigor followed him down the center aisle, boards creaking underfoot. Toward the back he passed a display case of matryoshka dolls. They reminded him of the White One, Natasha. She had clung to hers when she arrived at the secret city as a child, five years his junior, youngest of the tame foxes. He recalled her holding it closer to her chest whenever he came near her.

Against the rear wall, a floor-to-ceiling rack of Russian wines and spirits. Next to it, a door. The shopkeeper opened it, motioned for Grigor to follow and closed the door behind him. They were in a small, square stockroom. The shelves were crammed with merchandise. On a table was a plain brown carton sealed with packing tape.

The shopkeeper lifted it off the table.

“Here you are,” he said. “Obo vsem pozabotili. Your full order.”

Grigor took the box from his hands and tucked it under his arm. “Always a pleasure,” he said, using the fictitious Wendell Balen’s accent again. “You look fit.”

The shopkeeper snorted a laugh.

“I’m alive,” he said. “One moment. I have a little something extra. For a good customer.”

His hand dipped into one of his apron’s front pockets and produced a folding knife. It was a little over six inches long with a black handle. He thumbed the lock stud, flipped it open to display the blade, then closed it.

“It’s ceramic...nice curve, eh?” he said, holding it out. “Won’t get through airport security these days. But most other places still don’t use those CT scanners. And the spring isn’t usually enough to set off metal detectors.”

Grigor took it with his free hand and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

“Thank you,” he said. “I’ll use it as a box cutter.”