Zacharov was in his Moscow apartment. The apartment was dark except for the glow of the 15 computer screens, each manned by a trained hacker.

We had just moved from West Virginia to Atlanta. My husband, a fund-raiser, had taken a job there with a charity. We bought a little three-bedroom house for $13,500 in Decatur on the outskirts of town, 1398 Willevee Drive. The price of the house is a dead giveaway that it was a long time ago —1963.

Georgie McFadden marched with purpose through the twice-baking summer heat that radiated from above and ricocheted from below off the endless pavement as he headed toward the one-hour photo shop on Third Avenue.

It was fall in Charlottesville. The air was still warm, leaves crunched beneath the feet of many thousand students treading brick-laid paths on their return to campus, and Annie and I were smitten with each other. We had met a month or so into our first year at college, I from Long Island and she from Lynchburg, Virginia. I lived in the dorm next...

When I was a kid on Long Island in the ’60s no one ever wondered what characters their parents were going to be for Halloween. Unlike Memorial Day, when families went to the beach together, or July Fourth, when all the neighborhood adults had barbecues, set off fireworks, and got drunk on Schaefer beer, Halloween was reserved for the 13-and-under...

Out in the water, to the right, is a rock in the shape of a lion’s head. It rests its chiseled chin on the salty tide. The rest of its body is hidden by the sea, like a lot of things out here. Some people are not sure that the rock looks like a lion, but I am. I have heard it roar.

Jason was really bugging me in the car but I wasn’t too mad because I had my special things to show Annie even though today isn’t show and tell.

After his 1940 visit to Paris, when Werner Schrader obtained several Impressionist paintings from a Jewish gallery owner, handing over a reichsmark note for far below what he believed the paintings were worth, the German Intelligence officer returned to Paris one other time. It was in July 1942.

On a cool June morning Werner Schrader enters the Citibank branch on Fifth Avenue and 51st Street. He moves down the stairs to the vault and extracts a small safety deposit box key from his inside jacket pocket. A suit jacket doesn’t conceal a chest still thick and muscular despite his 64 years.