High

ng above the gritty streets of Russia's capital city, his thoughts scattered like snowflakes in a storm. The neon

in medical school back in California, the golden boy of San Diego with a bright future. Bu

was already too far gone to care. The overdraft fees, the maxed-out cards, the hollow-eyed reflection in his mother's bathr

e powder than he could dream of. The man who recruited him, Ivan, had the charm of a devil an

suspicious to the locals. They called him "Yankee" and he smiled through cracked teeth. But each trip wore him dow

night of

ivery of the month-a kilo of heroin, hidden in a false-bottom guitar case. He walked into the metro station at Park Kultury,

saw th

unmistakable symbol of the Russian Special Fo

ter," a vo