MOSCOW, 2025
In the 15th underground level of a Central Moscow government building, a Russian secret committee convenes under dim lights. Cigarette smoke drifts over a massive oval table as men in dark suits murmur over glasses of dark liquid. Among them is
Mironow — officially “retired,” unofficially indispensable. He is tasked with keeping the Alaska meeting under control, whatever it takes.
I am Special Agent Mironow, former General KGB Markow.
Both my names are fictional.
CHINA, 1991
…We drove out beyond the bridge. Here, near the old stone bridge, a small detachment with two machine guns was holding the defense protecting our Chinese helpers.
Some of our men took up positions at the bridge, while others were sent further along the line as a screen and reconnaissance unit. I was in charge of a group of Chinese track workers which already began to unscrew and dismantle the rails.
RUSSIA, 1951
Photo – 12-year-old Mironov in Budyonovka. The future General Mironov. The future “General Mironov” already with that proud look, as if he knew that Budyonovka would seal his fate. Almost like a KGB passport photo in slow motion, only twelve years too early and it’s easy to imagine how this boy would later be
described in the memories of others as “always destined for greatness.”
…I wanted to become a Chekist just like Uncle Sasha. I wanted to walk around town in a leather jacket and catch bandits and CIA spies. I also wanted to wear that Budyonovka Red Army hat, like that one on the picture in Uncle Sasha’s room.
CHINA, 1991
…We headed toward the railway bridge across the river. The night was moonlit and quiet. The valley seemed to have frozen in a clear smokey ice. We moved slowly, trying not to be detected. We were tasked with dismantling the railway track behind the bridge to prevent the enemy from using their armored train in the offensive.
CHINA, 1991
…At that moment, the train passed the Mclaugh crossing and began a long climb up the Terracotta Mountain Range. I looked through the wide-open door at the fading day, at the pale yellow disc of the moon, at the sheaves of gaolyan rice floating past,
and thought how nice it would be to be out in the field right now, lying in the fragrant grass, and then returning to my parents’ house to snuggle up to a mug of cold chicken broth… But I understood that all this was now in the past and no one could
bring it back…