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.
RUSSIA, 1951
I knew that our guest Uncle Sasha was a Chekist. But why, for example, would a Chekist hide in Odessa?
Chekists were supposed to walk around town in leather jackets and leather caps with stars, and at night catch American soldiers and spies, or hunt down smugglers at the port. Besides, Chekists seemed to me to be stern, elderly men, but Uncle Sasha was very young, no more than twenty-two.
To me, a 12-year old boy, he must have seemed to be a serious old man! Just look at his mouth — it’s as if it had been cut with a chisel; his forehead is wrinkled like an old man’s, but his eyes are still quick, sharp, and completely clear, like polished glass. And he’s strong, too. Tall. His hands are large. I couldn’t wrap one arm around his wrist.
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.