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beach, face the prospect of getting caught in a civil war. I put my head against thebulkhead pretending to sleep, as if none of this has anything to do with me.
    I wake up as the plane starts to descend. It’s dawn, and I can see the pink tips of the Pamirs. The other passengers are mostly asleep, seemingly at peace with their fate. A couple of minutes later there’s a hard bump and the roar of the reverse thrusters. The plane turns around and taxis to the terminal. No one’s in sight, and there isn’t a light on anywhere, including in the control tower. Leah was right about the airport being closed.
    Without saying a word, the stewardess opens the rear door for me. I throw my bag down on the tarmac and jump down after it. As soon as I’m clear, the plane lurches forward, heads down the runway, and takes off. The airport’s now as silent as the grave.
    The terminal doors are locked closed, as are the perimeter gates. I find a low section of the fence, throw my duffel bag over, and climb over after it.
    As I walk to the Oktyabrskaya in the breaking dawn, I decide two things: one, Tajikistan is like riding a roller coaster in the pitch-black dark of night; two, the KGB is connected to the machine. Unless I intend to leave this place as blind as when I arrived, I need a KGB officer to educate me.

EIGHT

    Over the years … when circumstances permit, the CIA has publicly identified Agency officers who have been killed in the line of duty. There are currently 78 stars etched on CIA’s Memorial Wall for Agency employees who have died in the line of duty, and of those, fully 43 have been identified publicly and are included in CIA’s Book of Honor. Of those 43 brave Americans, more than 30 served in the Directorate of Operations, the Agency’s clandestine service. Among the heroes named in the Book of Honor are Richard Welch, the CIA official assassinated in Athens in 1975, and William F. Buckley, the Agency officer who was tortured and died in captivity in Beirut in 1985. When an officer under cover dies in the line of duty and there is no capability or reason to preserve their anonymity their names have been released .
    —Statement by CIA spokesman Bill Harlow, December 3, 2001
    Athens, Greece:
DAYNA
    A s soon as we’re through the door of the seedy little taverna, Jacob and I spot our inside officer. He’s twenty-something, sitting at a table in the back, facing the entrance. In his penny loafers, white button-down oxford shirt, and khakis, he looks like he was recruited at a frat party. He introduces himself as Tom, but why believe that?
    He looks at us as if he’s fallen in with bad company, and I suppose we do look the part. I’m in ripped and mended jeans and a faded T-shirt; Jacob, a lanky blond Dutchman with dirty hair, is wearing some sort of weird smock and a pair of filthy sandals. A bandanna is tied around his neck. Although Jacob lives in Washington when he’s not on the road, married to a prominentlawyer, he easily and convincingly slips into rootless Eurotrash. The two of us must look like we’ve just hitchhiked across Africa or something.
    When the waiter comes over, Jacob and I order souvlaki, Tom a coffee. Tom doesn’t say anything, but I can tell he’s irritated we ordered lunch. He looks from Jacob to me and says he wants to make it short because he needs to get back to the embassy for some meeting.
    Tom pushes his coffee aside without taking a sip and leans across the table so there’s no possibility anyone can hear us. “Can you watch this place?” he asks. He pulls a piece of paper out of his pants pocket and turns it around so we can read it. “It’s a house in Koukaki.”
    Jacob and I memorize the address.
    “Stay as far away from the house as you can. Like about five blocks away. This is very much a go-easy thing.”
    “And do what?” Jacob asks.
    Tom turns around to watch as a couple walks in the door. They look English. He waits for them to sit down out of earshot before he