Ashley, an American friend, and I were walking on a bridge over the Moscow River to the “Inostranii Agent” or “Foreign Agent” party. To dress the part, I wore my trench coat.
Our destination: Red October, the rambling red brick industrial space that has morphed in recent years from Soviet chocolate factory to hipster hangout. The party organizers had emailed a password: “I am the agent.”
I knew the party organizers. At first the concept seemed to be an edgy Muscovite response to the official spy paranoia emanating from the Kremlin. But, crossing the Moscow River, my own paranoia grew with each step.
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