Kazakov played quickly, getting in as many holes as he could before his release was up. He already had the next three shots lined up before he approached the ball; he never spent any time enjoying the spectacular rugged scenery of the small fishing village. He strode quickly to the ball every time—he already had the club selected—and he addressed the ball and swung. He never had to worry about other players on the course—the guards cleared the course twenty minutes before and after he played anyway. Kazakov stopped only long enough to take a sip of tea from a Thermos bottle to ward off the cold.

The rest room and snack bar at the turn was a simple but sturdy log cabin building, set in what looked at first to be an empty frozen tundra. There was always a roaring fire in the stone fireplace, hot tea and coffee, and a section of cakes, confections, and even smoked fish on hand. The guards checked the building out first—the staff at the snack bar had been escorted off the course, along with all the other players—and then Kazakov was allowed inside.

Kazakov sampled some of the smoked fish as he stood by the fire to warm up. “Other than playing golf itself,” he told his Icelandic guard in Russian, “this little cabin is perhaps the best part of playing golf in this country.” The guard said nothing—Kazakov didn’t know, or care, if the guards spoke Russian—but kept on checking doorways and windows. “Why, you ask?” Kazakov went on. “Because, my Norse friend, Iceland has to be the shittiest nation on Earth. Yes, your women are very beautiful. But if this isn’t the end of the Earth, one could certainly see it from Iceland. Everything about this place is stark, bland, rugged, and cold. You people all look alike—you have bred every bit of color and interesting features out of your race. You live in one of the harshest climates on Earth and you smile all the time—I don’t mean you, but you Icelanders in general. You must be crazy from the cold and isolation.”

The guard nodded, smiled slightly as if Kazakov had just given him a compliment, and continued to scan for intruders. Kazakov snorted his contempt and went to use the lavatory. Big dumb Norseman, he thought. Why did Iceland even bother to have a military? Who would ever attack Iceland? And why would they not assign him a guard that spoke Russian, if for no other reason than to collect any possible intelligence? The guard checked the men’s room first, then allowed Kazakov to enter.

Kazakov had just turned on the tap to wash his hands when the guard came back in to check on him. “I will be out in a moment, you big dumb Viking,” he said in Russian. “Can’t I even—?”