Simon could not fathom what had possessed Price to regard land travel to Russia as ideal. The queue tested the patience of even the most steadfast; he shuddered at the thought of being among those turned away, muttering curses as they exited, whether Finnish or Ukrainian. He was acutely aware that English travellers were not favoured either. Every so often, he checked to ensure his papers remained safely tucked in the civilian jacket he wore.

To those who crossed the border, it felt like a game of fate—some were swiftly denied, while others endured lengthy interrogations. Amidst the murmurs of the lane, he could occasionally hear the sharp call of “Следующий!” echoing through the speaker, a sound that signalled the door opening and closing once more.

After what felt like an eternity, though it was only an hour of waiting, his turn finally arrived. He had to steady himself, resisting the urge to falter—this was crucial. A contact in Moscow could provide him with vital information about Makarov, despite the fact that his visa was ostensibly for tourism.

Heavy thuds on the ground announced his arrival, the door closing behind him. And then, there was you, the inspector sat in front of a desk, a glass wall separating the two of you.

“Papers, please.” is what came of you, because he seemed frozen for just a minute before he started taking the papers out of his jacket, placing them in the little vent used to receive papers.