Leo was not expecting to have any word from or contact with his family for the duration of their trip. The same was true for every family who’d said goodbye to a son or daughter. They’d been told it was too complicated to arrange a phone call unless there was an emergency. Two days had passed since Leo had watched their plane take off for New York while he remained at the airport, among the remnants of the farewell ceremony. When everyone made their way from the viewing platform as the airliner disappeared into the distance, Leo remained standing long after it could no longer be seen. His family would be gone for eight days. To Leo it felt an impossibly long time.

The heatwave showed no sign of abating. It was approaching midnight and Leo sat at his kitchen table, wearing a vest and a pair of shorts, a glass of lukewarm water on the table, cards spread before him, his life on hold until his family returned. The cards were a distraction, an anaesthetic that gently numbed his impatience. He concentrated on the game at hand, achieving a meditative state of thoughtlessness. The nights were more difficult than the days. At work he was able to keep busy, resorting to cleaning the factory floor, perhaps the only manager ever to do so, in an attempt to push towards a state of physical exhaustion so that he might be able to sleep. At home, his strategy revolved around playing cards until he was on the brink of sleep, until he could hold his eyes open no longer. Last night he’d slept at the table, concerned that if he made the move to the bedroom he’d wake up and his chance of catching even an hour’s sleep would slip away. Tonight he was waiting for that same moment, the point at which his eyes became heavy and he could lower his head onto the table, face pressed against the upturned cards, relieved that another day had passed.

About to place down a card, his arm froze, the two of spades pinched between his fingers. He could hear footsteps inthe corridor. It was almost midnight, an unlikely time for someone to return home. He waited, tracking the footsteps. They stopped outside his apartment. He dropped the card, hurrying to the door, opening it even before the person had even knocked. It was an agent wearing KGB uniform, a young man – his brow was dripping with sweat having climbed the thirteen flights of stairs. Leo spoke first.

—What’s happened?

—Leo Demidov?

—That’s right. What’s happened?

—Come with me.

—What is this about?

—You need to come with me.

—Does it concern my family?

—My instructions are to collect you. I’m sorry. That’s all I know.