Anna Valentina strode into the motel room like she owned it.

It was the way she’d been taught. It was an entire concept she’d been taught. And it still felt strange to her—alien—after twenty-five years of life with her mother and her sisters in an apartment that was generously provided by the state. That apartment was much nicer than the place she was in now. She hoped she’d see it again, but she knew deep down how unlikely a prospect that was.

Things would be different if she’d had the same aptitudes as the rest of the family. Then she’d have been free to walk to the factory with them. Have lunch with them. Walk home again, as part of a group. Do things together, in familiar surroundings. She wouldn’t be waiting, alone, in a foreign land. Not that she resented it. She accepted her fate happily. You take according to your needs, and you contribute according to your abilities. Anna had few needs. But she had prodigious abilities. That wasn’t a claim she made for herself. She hadn’t even realized, at first, that it was the reason the people from Moscow started coming to watch her ballet lessons. Sitting in on her language classes. Why they sent her to camp to learn geography. To speak English with an American accent. And to kill without breaking a sweat.

Her skills meant moving to a new continent. Adopting a new identity. Never speaking her real name. Never revealing the truth to anyone she met. And she was content with all that. Happy, in fact, because she knew she was helping to make the world a better place.

She crossed to the air conditioner and switched it on. She knew how. She could have operated it in her sleep. Or sabotaged it. Or used it to conceal weapons, or matériel. She knew the controls and inner workings of every make and model by heart, though she had no desire to chill any air. She despised the machines. They were for the weak. But a westerner would use it, so she had to as well. It was vital to fit in. She moved to the mirror hanging over the dresser. She knew that vanity was bad, and she rejected it. But honestly, this was the worst part. They wouldn’t allow her to cut her hair, so it was now impractically long with a stupid center part. Her face was so plump she hardly recognized herself after all the months of being forced to eat hot dogs and hamburgers. Her makeup was gross and slutty. Her blouse was flowery and cut so low as to be immodest. Her mother would be shocked. No wonder unwanted pregnancy rates were so high here. And then there were the jeans she had to wear. They were tight at the top, which was fine, but lower down there was a ridiculous amount of fabric. The more efficient factories at home could have used it to make three pairs. They looked ridiculous, too. And people here wore them out of choice! She supposed she shouldn’t be surprised, though. It was simply another step on the path toward the inevitable collapse that every decadent society must face.

She carried her bag to the bed. It was a Yankees duffel. She could name every player on the roster for the last decade. Discuss the key points in all the most contentious games. Offer opinions on managers and opponents. List the food for sale in the concession stands. Justify her preference for certain seats. Bemoan the shortfall in public transportation. She’d learned all of this without ever setting foot in the state, let alone the stadium. And she’d done it in record time, because her original posting was supposed to be Washington. It had been changed at the last minute. She didn’t know why. But she did know better than to ask.

She unzipped the bag and took out a book. The Thorn Birds, by Colleen McCullough. She’d bought it at the airport after she landed. She had no personal interest in reading it whatsoever—give her Bulgakov or Leonov, any day—but she knew it was important to be thorough. It was evidently the sort of thing that was popular, so she’d need a working knowledge in order to not stand out. She lay down and plowed through fifty pages in half an hour. The speed-reading technique she’d learned was finally coming in useful, and it was nice not to have a test at the end, like with the tractor maintenance manuals they’d practiced on. When she felt she’d built a decent foundation, she put the book down and crossed to the window. She wondered how long she’d have to wait. For her equipment to be delivered. And for her “husband.”

Anna had grown up without a father, so she’d given little thought to ever having a husband. She was aware of them. Most women had one. Some did not. The ones who didn’t seemed no less satisfied in life. She’d never really cared which way it would work out for her, though on balance she’d assumed it was more likely that she would end up with one than she wouldn’t. She’d never spared much thought as to how she’d acquire one. Though she’d certainly never imagined a husband would be issued to her, like a gun or a cyanide pill. Mikhail—or Misha, as he said he liked to be called—was introduced to her during the final phase of her training in Leningrad. The couple was required to spend two weeks together, so that they wouldn’t look like strangers to other people when they were finally deployed.

They spent fourteen days together, anyway. They returned to their barracks at night. Their segregated barracks. Anna wandered across to the bed now, flopped down onto her back, and stretched out her arms. They barely reached the sides. It was the biggest bed she’d ever been in. She wondered if it would be the first one she wouldn’t sleep in alone. Not counting her sisters, of course. She wondered if Misha would try anything. He better not. She had been trained in certain arts, naturally. She’d received high marks. But she was clear that she was only going to use them when it was necessary to further a mission. Not for the pleasure of a pimply asshole from Ukraine whose breath stank of potatoes.