Harry was well aware what Sir Curtis was referring to. “Then why are they allowing me to attend the funeral?” he asked.

“Because they consider it the lesser of two evils. If they don’t let you in, they’re afraid you’ll say Babakov was never released, but if they do, they can claim that he was never in jail, always a schoolteacher and is being buried at his local church.”

“Who do they expect to fool with such blatant propaganda?”

“They don’t care what the West thinks, they’re only interested in how it plays out in Russia, where they control the press.”

“How many people are expected to attend the funeral?” asked Emma.

“Only a few friends and relations will have the courage to turn up,” said Yelena. “I’d be surprised if it was more than half a dozen.”

“I think it may be a few more than that, Mrs. Babakova,” said the ambassador. “All the morning papers are carrying photographs of you receiving the Nobel Prize on your husband’s behalf.”

“I’m surprised they allowed that,” said Harry.

“It’s all part of a carefully orchestrated campaign known as ‘overnight history.’ Anatoly Babakov was never in jail, he lived peacefully in the suburbs of Moscow and the prize was for his poetry and brilliant novella Moscow Revisited. Not one paper mentions Uncle Joe, or refers to the speech you gave last night.”

“Then how do you know about it?” asked Harry.

“It’s all over the wires. There are even photos of you holding up your pen.”

Emma took Yelena’s hand. “Anatoly will defeat the bastards in the end,” she said.

It was Harry who saw them first. To begin with, small pockets of people huddled together on street corners, holding up pens, pencils, biros, as the car swept by. By the time they drew up outside the little church, the crowd had grown—several hundred, a thousand perhaps, all making their silent protest.

Yelena entered the packed church on Harry’s arm, and the three of them were shown to reserved places in the front row. The coffin was borne in on the shoulders of a brother, a cousin and two nephews, none of whom Yelena had seen in years. In fact one of her nephews, Boris, hadn’t even been born when Yelena had escaped to America.

Harry had never attended a Russian Orthodox funeral before. He translated the priest’s words for Emma, although his Russian was a little rusty. When the service came to an end, the congregation filed out of the church to reassemble around a freshly dug grave.