—Trusting the FBI was a poor decision, an unexpected misjudgement considering how shrewd you have been in the past.

Osip did not have the energy to resist – he did not even have the energy to fight for his life.

—I’ve ben running from you for thirty years.

—No more running, Osip.

The man picked up a bottle of hydroquinone, one of the chemicals used to develop film, highly flammable, and poured it over Osip’s clothes and face, splashing it down his throat and into his eyes. It was a powerful bleach and Osip’s skin stung as painfully as though it were burning, even before the man had set him alight.

Manhattan

United Nations Headquarters - The General Assembly Hall

1st Avenue & East 44th Street - Same Day

The concert was over. The audience was applauding. The young American student beside Zoya was so excited by the standing ovation he squeezed her hand. Only twelve or thirteen years old, the boy was smiling. Right now he didn’t care that she was Russian – they were friends, part of a winning team. The success was theirs equally. Belatedly she appreciated that her mother’s plans were much more than about the quality of the performance. It had been Raisa’s idea for everyone to wear the same clothes, American and Soviet students alike, and it had been her idea that they commission new music from international composers. The world’s diplomatic elite was applauding the way in which the concert had navigated the many potential traps, offending no one and including everyone. Raisa had tiptoed between different sensitivities with the aplomb of a diplomat, and the diplomatic audience was showing their appreciation.

Zoya followed the young American boy offstage, applause still ringing in the Assembly Hall. Once in the corridor the students broke formation, hugging each other, thrilled with their success. Raisa was talking to the American school principal, both of them laughing in contrast to their cagey conversations during the dress rehearsal. Zoya was pleased for her mother. She deserved to be proud of her achievements and Zoya regretted being so cynical about the entire event, wishing that she’d been more supportive, just as Elena had been.

Glancing around the students, Zoya couldn’t see her sister. She’d only been positioned a few students away in the line-up yet was nowhere to be seen. She began looking for her, nudging through the crowd now mixed with members of the audience streaming out from the main auditorium. More and more people were pushing into the corridor, keen to congratulate them, men she didn’t recognize shaking her hand. She caught sight of Mikael Ivanov, the propaganda officer, cutting a path through the students, with apparently no interest in them despite the fact that they were being photographed.

Zoya followed him.

***