There is no option but to look for him in terminal F, which looks a bit like a Blade Runner set with no rain: narrow, full of kiosks and the odd pigeon fluttering about between gates. It is the Soviet wing of the airport, built in 1980 for the arrival of the Olympic Games. Flights to the Far East leave from here and the shops stock absolutely everything: amber, glasses, nostalgic t-shirts with CCCP and Yuri Gagarín, fancy jewelery and even flippers and masks. Even here Edward Snowden hovers like a ghost. “I saw him once,” says a lady selling glasses, “and I only noticed one thing: he is very pale.” That, at least, makes perfect sense.
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