Leo repeated Raisa’s name, raising his voice each time. The phone was silent. The connection was dead.

The door to the office opened. He’d been left alone during the conversation, an absurd illusion of privacy and a deeply cynical ploy, no doubt in the hope that he would lower his guard. It was simply ridiculous to imagine that his conversation hadn’t been recorded and scrutinized. A woman entered the office, saying:

—I’m sorry, Leo Demidov: the connection was broken.

The woman appeared to be a secretary. She was not in uniform. He asked:

—Can we reach my wife again?

The woman squeezed her lips, compressing them into a feeble imitation of a sympathetic smile.

—Perhaps you can talk tomorrow.

—Why can’t you put me through now?

—Tomorrow.

Her condescending tone, heavy with the implication that she was reasonable and he was not, infuriated Leo.

—Why not now?

—I’m sorry, that’s not possible.

The woman’s apologies were flat and insincere. Leo was still clutching the phone, holding it out towards the woman as if he expected her to bring it back to life.

—I need to speak to my wife.

—She’s on her way to the dress rehearsal. You can talk tomorrow.

The lie increased Leo’s unease. For her to have the authority to lie meant that she was an agent. He shook his head.

—She’s not on her way anywhere. She’ll be doing exactly the same as I’m doing right now, holding the phone, asking to speak to me.

—If you want to leave a message I can try to arrange that she will receive it tonight.

—Connect us, please, now.

The agent shook her head:

—I’m sorry.

Leo refused to let go of the telephone.

—Let me speak to someone here.

—Who do you wish to speak to?

—The person in charge.

—In charge of what?

—In charge of whatever is going on in New York!

—Your wife is in charge of the New York trip. And she’s now on her way to the dress rehearl. You can speak to her tomorrow to find out how it went.

Leo imagined the agents in nearby offices; agents who’d listened to his telephone call and who were now listening to this exchange. He imagined the discussion they were having. They’d established one vital point: he didn’t know what was happening in New York and neither did his wife. There was no chance he’d be allowed to speak to Raisa until she was home, no matter what scene he made, no matter how hard he pressed his demands. She was on her own.

Manhattan

Hotel Grand Metropolitan - 44th Street

Same Day

Raisa was still holding the receiver, demanding Mikael Ivanov reconnect her with Leo. Mikael shook his head, as though he personally controlled the telephone exchange. His smug sense of authority was utterly infuriating. Sounding reasonable and measured, he said: