Oleg
I blink, trying to open my eyes, but even when I do, I can’t see. I shift. My wrists are bound. There must be a bag over my head.
I’m still alive.
I’m surprised by that fact.
At dawn, I walked outside the Kremlin and stood outside the building to wait.
I stood motionless for three hours, and then a black limo pulled up across the street and parked. When no one got out, I waited a few minutes, then crossed the street and opened the door to the back seat.
It was empty.
“Get in,” the driver said, without looking back at me. He was American. Possibly a thug for hire. He drove to a private airstrip and parked. There, the back doors were simultaneously opened by two more thugs—also American—who told me to get out and get on the plane—a small jet parked on the tarmac. I walked up the
