I am an American KGB agent attached to the American Embassy in Moscow. My cover is that of a cook, my mission is to steal the world’s best recipe for Borscht. I’ve just received my new orders…..

The message had been inserted in the vacuum sealed plastic bag containing the sealed container of ketchup we were allowed to import from the US. I recognized the code. I was an American, born and raised in New York City. Most Americans couldn’t tell the difference between ‘Commie Pinko Scum’ and a citizen of Russia. I was an exception. I had minored in Russian at NYU where I had my Bachelor’s in hospitality and culinary arts. I was hired by the US Government to work in various Embassies as a cook. My language skills made me a logical fit for this Embassy, and I had been here for five years. My initial mission had been to provide a neutral vehicle for other agents to communicate with people in the indigenous population. Food has a way of bringing people together, and a good plate of ‘meatloaf’ can be a powerful tool. Slowly, however, my job became more complicated. It had begun with trivial things. The Russians had an excellent Black Truffle and Cognac Omlette, and the ambassador had asked for the recipe. A week later, a minor attaché had gotten a job with a food broker, and wanted to know the best way to poach a salmon head. I had always followed the rules. I never approached a Russian to ask for something. Like the old joke, a recipe was only a recipe until it was sold. If someone offered me a recipe, and I paid for it fair Market price (always in Rubles) it was ethical. Over the years, I had made many friends, and they would often try to impress me with their little secrets. Most of it I already knew, but I played the dumb American oblivious to anything outside of the ‘Land of the Free’ and every ‘trade secret’ was duly reported back to the US, where it was analyzed, copied and sold to the highest bidder. It was the highest level of industrial espionage imaginable, and I was only a tiny cog. The message was simple. It was the name and address of a restaurant, and a date. The date was in two weeks, my replacement was due in a month. They wanted me to do this before I left, and if I succeeded, I would be allowed to retire from the agency and keep my pension. I looked at the address. It was in St. Petersburg, and the name was in Cyrillic, but I was sure it translated to ‘Grandmothers Kitchen’. I knew the story of ‘Babushka Borscht’. The story went that the owner had inherited a recipe for Borscht from her grandmother, and that she had never revealed a single ingredient to anyone outside her family. Two weeks wasn’t a lot of time. I had just enough savings to buy my way into ‘Grandmothers Kitchen’ and the right people to grease the appropriate palms. I got to work right away. I made a few phone calls, threw some money around, and two weeks later, I was sitting in St. Petersburg talking to Babushka herself. She was a very nice older lady, and she had agreed to let me help her for a day in the kitchen in exchange for a recipe of my choice. I really do love Borscht, and I planned on getting that recipe, but I had ulterior motives. As a cook myself, I could tell when a ‘trade secret’ was being used, and I planned on identifying as many as I could. I was going to betray Babushka’s trust, and I felt like shit about it. She was from Ukraine. She spoke very little English, but we managed to communicate. I helped with the breakfast service, and it became apparent that she was more than a Babushka. She was the matriarch of a very large family, with a lot of Grandsons, Granddaughters, Nieces and Nephews. They were a happy family, and were kind to me. Over the next two days, I learned a great deal. I learned how to make excellent Blini, the secret ingredient for ‘beet borscht to die for’ and a wonderful way to pickle vegetables. I met most of the staff, and learned family stories that went generations back. I was there as a spy. But in a world of espionage, secrets and lies, I had found a new family, and I was concerned my betrayal would cause them harm. I debated my decision constantly. I really wanted to retire, and my pension was the best insurance that my future was secure. On the other hand, I was going to betray a lady who had trusted me, and I risked the livelihoods of dozens of people. On the third and last day of my visit, I made my decision. I skipped the breakfast service, and instead waited for Babushka in the office. I closed the door, and prostrated myself on the floor. “I have something to tell you. And I need you to remain calm.” I began at the beginning. I told her everything. Where and who I really was, and what my mission was. I promised that I would never reveal anything I had learned, and that I would leave the Embassy in a month, and move somewhere that didn’t speak Russian. We talked for many hours. I answer questions, and she cried. I didn’t blame her. “So what now?” She asked. “I have no idea. But you need to know that were it up to me, I would change my flight now and never look back. I want no part in this.” “Then why didn’t you?” “Because I am poor, and they have all the money. I don’t know enough to disappear, and they have the resources to catch me.” I answered truthfully. “Can we pay you to leave?” She asked. “I don’t think so.” I answered. “Will they know if you just don’t send the message?” She asked. “I don’t know, and even if I did, I don’t think it matters. But I have an idea.” I said. The next morning, I was on a train back to Moscow, and I had an envelope addressed to my handler at the Embassy containing a recipe written in Ukrainian. I had a week before I was due to send the recipe for Borscht, so I just waited. The message tube slid under my door, and I knew I was in trouble. I unzipped it and read the contents. I recognized the code, and decoded it. It was from the highest levels in Langley. There was a car waiting for me at the airport. If I wasn’t on the plane with the recipe, they would send a team in to extract me. I was to destroy my phone and any other communication devices. They would send a burner phone, and I was to answer it at all costs. Exactly 2 hours later, the doorbell rang. I opened it, and found two men in suits. One was holding a burner phone, the other had a syringe. I was too slow. Before I could react, I was unconscious. When I woke up, it was to the smell of food. My hands were restrained, but not my legs. I looked around. I was in a stainless steel kitchen, and I recognized many of the faces. There was Babushka, a few of the staff from St. Petersburg, and a couple of the Embassies locally hired kitchen workers. Babushka was at a counter, and in front of her was a large bowl full of the most delicious looking beet borscht I have ever seen. She turned and smiled at me. “Are you ready for some Borscht?” she asked, and I nodded. She attached a straw to the side of the bowl, and I sucked it down, slurp by contented slurp. When I was done, I felt amazing. The Borscht had been spicy, slightly sweet and utterly delicious. “Thank you.” I said. “Thank you.” She replied. “You are a better man than I am a cook. Now you must go, you have a plane to catch.” A strong man grabbed me, and plunged a syringe into my ass. He was a lot faster than the last guy, and I didn’t even feel the needle. When I woke up, I was in Dulles airport, and I had a headache that could have felled an elephant. I had my burner phone, and a piece of paper with a single sentence. “The best Borscht in the world is made with carrots, and not beets.” I crumpled up the paper and threw it away. I turned off the phone and flushed it down the toilet. I called my brother and told him I was home safe and sound, but I was done with my old life. I took the Metrorail to my brothers house. He was glad to see me, and I told him I was done with my old life. He was making a lot of money, and he offered me a job. I took a week off. I went back to the gym, and got my implant replaced by a tattoo. I got my teeth fixed, and I stopped being ‘Sweetie Boy’ the cook at the American Embassy in Moscow. I moved to theDevExpress headquarters outside of Washington DC, and started my new life. I still miss Moscow, but I have never eaten Borscht since.

I am an American KGB agent attached to the American Embassy in Moscow. My cover is that of a cook, my mission is to steal the world’s best recipe for Borscht. I’ve just received my new orders…..

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