Tatyana’s flight to New York went via Helsinki. Her plane was delayed because of snow, and she decided to use the relative safety of the terminal to make a phone call. Once inside the US, the risk of being followed by her own side increased significantly. Despite the passing of three decades, the GRU never lost its Cold War fear of defections. It was well known within the agency that more GRU agents were killed in the US by their own side than by the CIA.

Before making the call she went to the washroom. She’d purposefully allowed her phone battery to die on the plane. She had a charger in her bag and crushed the connector under the heel of her shoe. The transit terminal in Helsinki was a known GRU transfer point and there was no room for error.

The pay phones were located next to a huge wall of glass overlooking the runway and she’d heard of agents being watched there from inside planes.

It wasn’t ideal, but there was nowhere she was safe from the GRU’s watchful eye. She may have been a good girl. Obedient. She never complained, never asked for anything, and never said no to her bosses, no matter the request.

But she knew there were no guarantees. They watched everyone. And they would be watching her.

She went to the newsstand and browsed the magazines. She grabbed a new charger, a bottle of water, and some potato chips. She always acted under the assumption they were watching her. Every move she made was calculated. She did nothing that could be used against her. Every action had an explanation. If it was all eventually to be analyzed under the cold microscope of paranoia, she would be ready.

She paid for the things and found a seat near the pay phones.

She opened the charger and plugged her phone into an outlet by her seat. She got up and threw the packaging and the broken charger into the trash. Then she went to the closest pay phone and kept her back to the window. She looked at every passenger and airport staff member within sight.

She had an Hermes scarf in her hair and she took it off and held it casually in her hand. When she dialed, she let it drape over the number pad. An automated voice from the phone company asked for payment, a high international rate, and she fed it a twenty Euro bill.

She dialed a Manhattan business called Village Mail Service. It was a twenty-four hour place that handled UPS and DHL packages, provided copy services, and took passport photos.

She’d selected it because it had no security cameras, accepted cash, and was too small for anyone in there to watch her unnoticed.