Espionage: Spy, Spy, Spies

Late one night last April, a Russian-born employee of a U.S. intelligence agency climbed the steps to his suburban Washington apartment. He fumbled with the key—and froze. From the darkness behind him came a tiny rustle of clothing. Then a voice rasped his name.* The man whirled, faced a stocky stranger in a trench coat who stood back in the shadows, his powerful arms outstretched. Again the stranger spoke in Russian: "Don't you know me? I am your brother Volodya." The brothers had been apart for 23 years. Vanya would not have immediately recognized Volodya even in broad...

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