Polygon

It is late August 1988. The afternoon sun is beating down on Manhattan, and there is already a sense of impending autumn in the air. Six months ago, after three years of operational work in one of the toughest Western counterintelligence environments, I was promoted by headquarters to Deputy Resident, in NATO code Acting COS (Chief of Station, the equivalent of Resident in KGB nomenclature).

The contact is at the agreed place on time, everything goes like clockwork. He's gonna hop in my gray Chevy Cavalier with diplomatic plates 009 PHD. He's slightly out of breath and visibly agitated. Either he was in a hurry to get off the subway or something happened. If something really upset him, it must have been worth it, because this guy is a phlegmatic. My „ craft“ taught me patience, which has paid off many times over. So I'm waiting for something to come out of the undercover associate. When I go around the block for the third time and he still doesn't say anything, I shove him.
“ So what's eating you? “
“ The Russians sold us out, “ he finally speaks.