June 1978Moscow, U.S.S.R. Three loud raps on the door startled him. Valentin Lazovsky looked up from his dinner, a plate of pierogi Stepan had left in the icebox for him. He glanced at his father, slumped in a moss-colored chair in the next room. Makar’s head twitched at the knock, but nothing more. Valentin made a fist. He got up …

April 1973Moscow, U.S.S.R. Stepan Lazovsky put on his overcoat, slipping the second button through the first hole. He fastened three more lopsided buttons on the way to the stairwell. In exactly two minutes, Vakhan Zyuganov would walk past the rear entrance to the General Staff building. They’d greet each other with surprise and shake hands. Stepan would ask the other …

February 1973Moscow, U.S.S.R. The river was frozen, its surface faceted with crystals and cracks. New-fallen snow blurred the outlines of bridges, street signs, cars, and lampposts. It would have been bearable but for the wind. His cheeks stung like open wounds. “Are we there yet?” Christof asked. “Almost,” Sinclair said, glancing behind them. “They’re not there, you know.” “Doesn’t mean …

October 1972The Black Forest, West Germany The Mercedes rumbled down the dark forest lane, black smoke billowing from the tailpipe. Sinclair glanced at the temperature gauge and grimaced. Time was running out and he still hadn’t found the turnoff to the old man’s cottage. The last time he’d come, they met in town for a drink. Best beer he’d ever …

September 4, 1972Montréal, Canada Augustus Wolverton Sinclair, seventh Baron Leighton, tightened his grip on the painting he’d come for. The Frenchmen had already stripped the backings, extracted the canvases, and smashed the frames of the others on his list. “Allez,” he said, stepping over splintered wood and canvas shavings. “Nous sommes finis.” “Mais il y’en a plus.” Yves pointed to …

April 1967Unterlengenhardt, West Germany The old woman cackled as a dog snatched the sandwich from her lap. The German shepherd carried the sandwich into a corner and nosed the black bread aside to get at the spicy sausage. Christof Ehrlichmann held his breath. There were three half-eaten sandwiches under the couch. The cats—thirty, at last count—had coated the floor and …