Leo had encountered many brilliant, ruthless agents in the KGB, minds that could calculate a person’s weakness in an instant and in another how to exploit it, uncluttered by moral scruples or ethical limitations. It was their absolute certainty that made them so valuable to organizations like the secret police, where doubt had never been considered an asset. Yates was one of those men. Elena had been right to be afraid.

Leo asked Nara:

—How did he know we were in the United States?

Yates descended the stairs, at ease, opening the refrigerator, taking out a beer while saying with his back to them:

—What language is that?

Nara answered, the tremor in her voice indicating to Leo that, like Elena, she too was afraid:

—It is Dari.

—That what they speak in Afghanistan?

—One of several languages.

—Maybe that’s why your country’s in such a mess. A country should have one language. That’s a problem we’ve got here: too many languages creeping in, confusing people. One country, one language – you’d be surprised at how upset people become when you suggest it. Seems pretty logical to me.

Yates clicked the top off the beer, allowing the cap to fall to the floor, landing silently on the thick patchwork of carpet. He took a sip, licking his beer-wet lips, listening as Nara belatedly translated Leo’s questions: how did he know who they were and how did he know they were in the United States? He gave off the impression that he was enjoying himself, the centre of attention and important in a way he hadn’t been for many years.

—How did I know you’d show up? The FBI informed me you’d been granted asylum, the husband of Raisa Demidova.

Leo’s emotions were stirred by the sound of his wife’s name being mispronounced. The clumsy attempt stung as surely as an insult. With remarkable sensitivity Yates picked up on his reaction and repeated the name:

—Raisa Demidova, she was your wife, am I right?

Leo replied in English:

—Raisa Demidova was my wife.

Leo could not control his tone or expression. He’d laid bare his intentions.

Yates took another long slug of beer, his thin lips sealed around the head of the bottle, his throat gulping as he swallowed – eyes on Leo throughout. Finally, Yates lowered the bottle, then said, his voice heavy with contempt:

—The FBI didn’t think it likely that you’d try to find me. That’s what they said. Me? I knew you’d come. I didn’t believe it was an accident that you ended up in the United States. They tried to tell me it was a coincidence, that therwas no planning, that it had come about by chance, that fate had conspired to bring you to the country where your wife died.

Yates slowly shook his head.