I FULLY EXPECTED TO RECEIVE the birth certificate in the mail within two weeks of mailing the application. Every three days or so, I stopped by the basement apartment of the Belgian caretakers and casually asked if there had been any mail for my friend Henry. The answer was always no.

At times, I wondered if they had become suspicious, opened the letter when it came, and notified the local authorities. But they always seemed happy to see me and not at all concerned about my inquiries—other than feeling sorry that nothing had arrived. We would often talk for an extended time, and my surveillance-detection runs always came up negative, so I was certain that no one was following me. To be extra careful, I set elaborate traps in my room to discover whether my belongings had been searched, but there was no indication that anyone ever came into my room. I remained cautious but never became paranoid.

When two weeks of waiting became three and then four—and still nothing—I decided I had to do something. Returning home without that important document was tantamount to failure, and failure was not an option for Albrecht Dittrich. Given the three-week communication cycle to Moscow and back, asking the Center for advice was also not an option.

I decided to force the issue by following up with a phone call to the office where I had sent the application. I practiced the call out loud in a secluded area of a nearby park. After numerous rehearsals, I took a deep breath, entered a phone booth, put in the four quarters required for an international call, and dialed the California number.

“Hello, this is Henry van Randall,” I said in an exasperated tone when a deep male voice answered the phone. “I sent a request for a copy of my birth certificate to your office almost six weeks ago, and I have still not received the document. What is causing the delay?”

“Let me connect you to the vital records department,” the clerk said.

After a one-minute wait, I deposited four more quarters to avoid losing the connection. When a female voice came through the receiver, I repeated my inquiry.

“Please hold while I check the records,” she said.

I put more quarters into the phone, hoping the clerk couldn’t hear the ping. A call from a phone booth might have alerted her that something was not quite right. When the woman returned to the line, she sounded apologetic. “You know, sir, I cannot find your application, but I promise we will expedite your request once we find it. Is there a number where we can reach you?”

Oops. I was not prepared for that question, but I recovered quickly and said, “I just moved into a new place and the phone is not yet connected. I’ll call again next week if I don’t receive the document.”

I was now out of quarters and decided to give the matter one more emphatic push.

“Listen,” I said rather forcefully, like I imagined an American would who was not well served by the government, “you have my money, and I want my birth certificate—it’s as simple as that.”

Before she could reply, I hung up and leaned my head against the cold window of the phone booth, feeling exhausted. My brain was on temporary lockdown.

I had two weeks before I planned to leave Montreal and visit the border cities of Sarnia and Windsor, Ontario. Four days before my planned departure, I went to the basement apartment to visit my Belgian friends again.

When I walked in, I saw a pile of mail on a shelf above the sofa where the couple usually sat. At the very top was a rather thick envelope. Could that be it? My heart started beating faster, and I wanted to grab the envelope and run up to my room. However, I managed to contain my excitement and avoid arousing any suspicion.

After thirty minutes of small talk, I casually inquired about any mail for Henry. The wife immediately retrieved the envelope I had seen and handed it to me. “I was hoping you’d stop by,” she said. “I think this came yesterday.”

My hands were sweating, and it felt like she was handing me a treasure map. I said good-bye as cheerfully and casually as usual—at least I hoped—and took the staircase up to my room.

Once inside, I locked the door, leaned against the jamb, and stared at the envelope, still doubting whether it could be real. But there it was: “Mr. Henry van Randall, Rue St. Hubert, Montreal, Canada.”

I had done it. I had overcome all obstacles, and now I was holding the prize. The Center would be proud that I’d succeeded. This birth certificate unlocked the first step to my new identity.

I opened the envelope and pulled out the enclosed document. As I scanned the authentic, signed, and sealed birth certificate for Henry van Randall, every muscle in my body went tense, and my elation turned almost instantly to despair. Stamped across the page in big red letters was a single word that changed everything: DECEASED.

I felt like a lottery winner whose winning numbers turned out to be from the week before. After absorbing the initial shock, I stashed the document away and went for a long walk to clear my head. As I pounded the pavement, block after block, I thought about my phone call to California, the weeks of waiting, and the brief moment of satisfaction when I thought I had succeeded. I hadn’t failed at anything in a very long time, but this was a clear failure, regardless of whose fault it was.

Soon, other thoughts came to mind. If a dead person requested a copy of his birth certificate, something shady was going on. Had the authorities in California notified law enforcement? Were they already on my tail? The Center had to be informed immediately. My existence in Canada had possibly been compromised.

I returned to my room, locked the door, and prepared to create a letter in secret writing.

First, I removed a mirror from the wall and cleaned it thoroughly with soap and water. I then awkwardly pulled out a piece of white paper from a regular writing pad so as not to leave any fingerprints on the sheet.

Setting the sheet of paper onto the mirror, I smoothed it out several times with the back of my hand to remove any impurities from the surface. I then proceeded to write an open text with a ballpoint pen. This text consisted of innocent banalities, as if I were writing to a friend. I always made a point of including a phrase such as “thank you for your recent letter” to make it appear that there was two-way communication.

Once that was done, I pulled out another sheet of paper and cleaned it on the mirror in a similar fashion. Now came the key component—a sheet of paper from a pad given to me by the Center. The first five pages were impregnated with a chemical that could be developed to make the secret writing visible. I placed that sheet between the blank sheet and the sheet with the open text.

Pulling out a No. 2 pencil, I wrote the message with even pressure, explaining my circumstances. I then placed the sheet with the open text and the secret writing in an ordinary envelope and sealed it using a moist rag to avoid leaving any trace of my saliva on the flap.

When I was done, I folded the piece of paper with the pencil writing on it, stood it up on the mirror, lit it with a match, and let it burn freely, a method I’d been taught to minimize smoke.

After completing the letter, I took to the streets for a three-hour surveillance-detection exercise. Once I was certain that no one was following me, I deposited the letter in a mailbox near the fake return address. Fake return addresses were typically large apartment buildings. If such a letter were ever returned, it would very likely just disappear.

By the time I returned to the apartment, every muscle in my body ached, and I dropped into bed without changing my clothes. The entire operation, from the time I opened the birth certificate to writing and delivering the letter, had taken six hours.

I needed sleep, but then again I had to get out of the hotel and Montreal as soon as possible. If law enforcement was chasing after me, getting out of town would be the best way of losing them.

The next morning, I packed up and left for Sarnia and then to Windsor, without any good-byes to the Belgian couple who managed the hotel. When my prepaid time expired, they would find I was already gone.

My failure to obtain a valid birth certificate weighed heavily on me. When had I last failed at any goal or objective? I couldn’t remember. It dragged me down and soured my mood. I was more disappointed about not achieving my objective than I was afraid of being tracked down.

I desperately wanted to return to Moscow with a success story, so I decided to test my ability to pass myself off as an American.

On my last night in Windsor, I headed downstairs to the bar at the Holiday Inn where I was staying. Having mentally prepared throughout the day to “be American,” I sat down at the bar and ordered a drink with confidence and a touch of joviality. Soon I struck up a conversation with a Canadian citizen, the captain of a small commercial ship that carried freight across Lake Erie. We talked for more than an hour, and in my mind, phrases such as “I tell you what, the trip across the river is always worth it. Your beer is much better than ours” could only come from an American who hailed from Detroit or somewhere just across the border.

The conversation didn’t seem to raise any doubts with the Canadian captain, and as I headed back to my room, I declared the experiment a success and believed the Center would as well.

With that final exercise behind me, I got ready for my return trip to Moscow via Montreal and Geneva.