Welcome to the Hotel Yalta: Six Stories of Cold War Noir

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The ticketing agent’s heels squeaked across the linoleum, adding a tinny accompaniment to the man’s poor whistling. His shaggy walrus mustache didn’t help matters.

“Lístky, tickets, Fahrkarte!” the man droned—a welcome interruption to his little symphony.

Pasha Tarkhan slipped out of his first class compartment, intercepting the weary-eyed fellow.

“Lístky,” Pasha said, producing two stiff cards from his breast pocket.

The agent appeared a bit ruffled at first, as Pasha loomed over him—more than a head taller, dark and imposing, not the kind of man you’d want to meet alone. But the agent took the tickets, stamping and returning them to the Russian’s hand. Avoiding eye contact, he whistled a scarcely recognizable refrain to “Virgin and Whore,” an old Czech folk tune, then continued his stroll down the aisle. Pasha took up the song as well, concluding the last, weeping note as the ticketing agent disappeared into the next car.

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