My Father’s Midnight Call Saved Us—But I Wish I’d Never Looked Out the Window

Volkov. She had been built—the word was deliberate, because what had been done to her was construction, not upbringing—by a foreign intelligence service since adolescence. Her legend was airtight: a real identity grafted onto a real history, documentation so thorough that three separate vetting processes had failed to find the seam. She had been inserted continue reading …