Hans lit his cigarette and leaned back, handing his lighter off to Tatiana. She and Natasha continued to fawn over him as he reclined on the cheap couch. He peered from below the brim of a cap, his scalp still itchy from the hair dye he’d used a few days before. He tried to locate his target in the run-down Russian bar. Natasha said something he didn’t catch, and she and Tatiana burst into a fit of giggles. He stood, taking his lighter and touching the brim of his cap, “Ladies,” he said in English. The girls cooed in response.

He moved toward the bar, eager to get another drink. Alcohol was the only way to stave off the cold of a Russian winter, and February 1941 was no different. He leaned against the bar, “Peter,” he called to the aged bartender, a man he’d come to know quite well over the past few weeks, “Vodka, please. A bottle for me and the ladies.” So far, everyone had bought his American accent, even Petrov, who’d spent time in the states.

He took the bottle, didn’t want to keep the girls waiting.