“I may have a defector for you.” The words, in impeccable English, were softly spoken, yet Buntline clearly heard them above the general chatter. The party was being hosted by a junior Western diplomat and Charles Buntline had a glazed look that those who didn’t know him would mistake for the onset of drunkenness. Those who did, would recognize the signs. Buntline wanted to leave. Of this, the speaker was well aware. He had known Buntline for some time. Buntline turned, the glazed look fading. “Surely not, Sergei,” he said with mild skepticism. “What with glasnost, perestroika, and even elections? I’d have thought the defection business was going out of fashion. Nobody’s wanting to leave anymore. Why should they? Sad thing is, it’ll put people like you and me out of business, old son.” Sergei Grigorevich Stolybin, KGB Lieutenant-Colonel ostensibly a journalist on Moscow’s leading monthly, laughed softly. “If I believed that, I’d give up malt whiskey. Glasnost is ripping us apart.
