Vanya Segal is a dark-haired Russian somewhere in his 40s. He was born Jan 6, 1896 (45 at the beginning of the game). His face is creased, but such is the case for many in this profession; worries abound everywhere. He is in good shape, but heavy-set as is typical for those of Russian descent. He prefers not to fight, however, using his wits to outthink the Enemy (whoever that is) if he can. For about five years, he had been assigned to spy upon the "American capitalist pigs" - a task he found surprisingly easy - on their own grounds. He was a cipher clerk for an Ambassador, and he traveled around, "sightseeing". Unfortunately, this "sightseeing" let him see an awful lot that contradicted the propaganda.... and he managed to get one of those who followed him constantly [diplomatic immunity of course, but that didn't mean they trusted him...] to meet with him clandistinely. He wanted to defect. Unfortunately, he couldn't outright leave Russia - his wife Alla and son Sasha are there. Defection would certainly bring their death. Thus he is now a double agent, buying trust with the Americans, and waiting to find the right opportunity to bring Alla and Sasha to the States. He knows the Americans will help him with this, when they can find a way. Thus his loyalty to them; also his reason for not appearing disloyal to the Soviets. He knows he needs to be careful...

Obsession: Freedom
Rage: Corruption (esp. gov't officials)
Fear: Defecting will destroy his family left behind
Shame: Killing defenseless persons in his past
Long term goal: retirement
Short term goal: get his family out of Russia

Many years later, after her second husband had passed away, my mother called me to her side. This day, she had managed to pull the one box of memories from under her bedside table.

"Shura," she began with the diminutive that my father - my real father, what I could remember of him - used instead of her usual "Sasha". "Shura, I have never shared with you much of your father." From the box, she pulled a piece of paper. It was yellowed with age, and somewhat worn as though she had unfolded it many times with great care. She unfolded it now, and inside was a photograph. "Here he is," she showed me the picture. He was not overly handsome, but yet carried himself well; it was the father I remembered from the brief time he spent in Moscow in the early 40's. "You know some, I think. He was intelligencia and could not be with us much for those years." She passed me the letter, fondly caressing it as she handed it to me. "I never stopped loving him," she whispered, a tear glistening in her eye.

The letter read:

"My beloved Alla, my sweet Shura,

If you are reading this, I know you have been provided for. I also know that you will not be seeing me again, for they would not bring you this letter if I still live.

I know these years have been difficult for you, without me to be by your side. They have been torture to me, to not see my lovely Alla's face, to not see my boy grow into a man. I know you have taught him well, Alla, my dear. You and he will be well prepared for the new life.

It is my only regret that I cannot share it with you now. But for you to have your freedom to pursue dreams which would not be possible otherwise, for this I am willing to give myself.

I wish, if you are reading this, to continue as best you can, to find new hope and new love and new life. Perhaps my actions may be redeemed in the eyes of God.

With love,
Vanya"

When I was done reading I handed the letter back to her. Then my mother spoke again, softly. "Shura, you see he was a good man. Here, in this box are the remaining memories I have of him. I should like you to have them now." She sighed and held the letter to her chest, her eyes closed.

After a few moments, I realized she was no longer breathing, the tears that had trickled down her face now dry.