Moscow was cold, but not wintery. No snow graced the cityscape, no ice layered the roads. But damn, the wind bit through my suit like daggers. The dark evening was broken by spotlights on the airport and a huge silver moon. I’d been to Russia more times than I could count, but I never lingered. Something about this country didn’t sit well with me. And it wasn’t the prettiness or the quaintness that tourists were allowed to see. No. I didn’t like Russia because the dark underbelly indulged in far too many sins—sins I’d committed and wanted to commit over and over.
