Nine years later, in October 1962, Irina/Krushchev leaped up from behind her desk as I burst into her office in the Kremlin. She came up with revolver in hand, leveled right at me.
Irina got off two shots without a word. They both missed as I bolted across the office.
Dropping as another shot exploded from the gun, I rolled over the floor and stopped behind a chair with fat red cushions. "Irina! Don't shoot!" I thought hearing that name might make her hold her fire.
But no. She cracked off another shot, straight through the chair, barely missing me.
Taking a breath, I prepared to charge. I'd known this would be the hardest part of my mission. That was really saying something, considering how many times I'd had to change shape and use force to get through security in the heavily
