Free The Fall of Moscow Station by Mark Henshaw

but she would have to find a Russian bureaucrat who wasn’t completely obtuse.
    The guards waved her and a few others through the entrance. Kyra walked through the ornate metal doors and wiped her feet on the mat before stepping onto the gray stone floor and taking in the room. The room was more modern than she’d imagined. Her Russian hosts clearly had renovated the space in the recent past. Only the Roman columns standing in the corners hinted at the original architecture. The walls were off-white, with pictures of current Russian officials and the Kremlin breaking up the monochrome. The room was also quiet, with a few Russian staffers speaking German with accents so fierce that even Kyra could tell they were mangling the language.
    The line snaked along inside the building for another hour before she finally reached the visa desk. The consulate officer was a young woman with short, dark hair cut in a bob and unfashionable glasses covering green eyes. “Aufenthaltserlaubnis bitte?” she asked. Her German accent was rough, even to Kyra’s unfamiliar ear.
    â€œEnglish?” Kyra asked.
    The Russian girl looked up, nonplussed. “English?” she asked. Kyra nodded.
    The girl frowned, stood, and walked into another room, leaving Kyra at the desk. Another ten-minute wait gave her time to admire the friezes bordering the ceiling until a Russian man, neatly dressed in a dark suit and equally black tie approached her. “I am told you need assistance in English?” he said. The accent was still strong Russian, no hint of an accent from the UK or any other friendly country.
    â€œI’ve come from the U.S. Embassy. I’m here to speak to Alden Maines,” Kyra told him.
    â€œThat is not a Russian name.”
    â€œNo, it’s an American name. Mr. Maines has, shall we say, applied to become a resident of the Russian Federation and is living here at the moment.”
    The man stared at Kyra in surprise. “I am sorry, I do not know of any such person here,” he said.
    â€œTwo days ago, a Russian consulate officer visited FBI headquarters in Washington, D.C., to tell my government that Mr. Maines was defecting. As proof, he provided a photograph of Mr. Maines taken at the Schönefeld Airport. So he either came here, or someone here knows where he’s staying in Berlin.”
    The embassy officer smirked. “I cannot help you. Clearly, your information must be incorrect.”
    â€œClearly,” Kyra said. “I will need to speak with one of your intelligence officers.”
    â€œI believe you have been misinformed,” the man said after taking a moment to collect his thoughts. “Unlike many other countries, intelligence officers do not work in our embassies.”
    Kyra smiled faintly at the brazen lie. “Of course not,” she said, her condescending tone lost on the man. She pulled an index card and a pen from her coat pocket, scribbled a word and four Cyrillic letters on it, and offered it to the man. “Show this to whoever is handling Mr. Maines upstairs. He’ll know what it means. I’ll wait here.”
    The consulate officer took the card and stared at it. His face turned sour as he read it, and he turned and left without a word. Kyra smiled at the confused young Russian girl, then walked to an empty chair along the wall and took a seat.
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    â€œGeneral Lavrov?” The guards had held the consulate officer in the hallway for a half hour. The doors finally opened and Lavrov and several other men the diplomat didn’t know were emptying into the hallway.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œMy apologies for disturbing you sir,” the consulate officer said, walking alongside the senior official, trying to match his pace. “A young American woman came to the visa desk a short time ago and asked to meet with an ‘Alden Maines.’ When I told her that I did not know of any such man, she asked to