I died on the Moscow Ring Road (MKAD) on Friday, and woke up in September 1979—in the body of a twenty-three-year-old police lieutenant in the provincial town of Krasnozavodsk. Now I have someone else’s memories, eight meters in a communal apartment, a different uniform and service in the Criminal Investigation Department of the city office. But my thoughts and my character are mine. And behind me are twelve years of undercover operative work in Moscow in the 2000s.
To get to the truth, I’ll have to act according to Soviet procedure: no databases, no familiar expert examinations, and no right to make a mistake. Because here even a “trivial” investigation is a story where someone’s life is on the line.