Dimka drove fast to the Kremlin but still he was dismayed to find that Khrushchev had got there before him. However, the boss was in a good mood: Dimka could hear him laughing. Perhaps this was the moment to mention Vasili Yenkov. He opened his desk drawer and took out Yenkov’s KGB file. He picked up a folder of documents for Khrushchev to sign, then he hesitated. He was a fool to do this, even for his beloved sister. But he suppressed his anxiety and went into the main office.

The first secretary sat behind a big desk speaking on the telephone. He did not much like the phone, preferring face-to-face contact: that way, he said, he could tell when people were lying. However, this conversation was jovial. Dimka put the letters in front of him, and he began to sign while continuing to talk and laugh into the mouthpiece.

When he hung up, Khrushchev said: “What’s that in your hand? Looks like a KGB file.”

“Vasili Yenkov. Sentenced to two years in a labor camp for possessing a leaflet about Ustin Bodian, the dissident singer. He’s served his time, but they’re keeping him there.”

Khrushchev stopped signing and looked up. “Do you have some personal interest?”

Dimka felt a chill of fear. “None whatsoever,” he lied, managing to keep the anxiety out of his voice. If he revealed his sister’s link to a convicted subversive it could end his career and hers.

Khrushchev narrowed his eyes. “So why should we let him come home?”

Dimka wished he had refused Tanya. He should have known Khrushchev would see through him: a man did not become leader of the Soviet Union without being suspicious to the point of paranoia. Dimka backpedaled desperately. “I don’t say we should bring him home,” he said as calmly as he could. “I just thought you might like to know about him. His crime was trivial, he has suffered his punishment, and for you to grant justice to a minor dissident would accord with your general policy of cautious liberalization.”

Khrushchev was not fooled. “Someone has asked you for a favor.” Dimka opened his mouth to protest his innocence, but Khrushchev held up a hand to silence him. “Don’t deny it, I don’t mind. Influence is your reward for hard work.”

Dimka felt as if a death sentence had been lifted. “Thank you,” he said, sounding more pathetically grateful than he wished.

“What job is Yenkov doing in Siberia?” Khrushchev asked.

Dimka realized that the hand holding the file was trembling. He pressed his arm against his side to stop it. “He’s an electrician in a power station. He’s not qualified, but he used to work in radio.”

“What was his job in Moscow?”

“He was a script editor.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Khrushchev threw down his pen. “A script editor? What the hell use is a script editor? They’re desperate for electricians in Siberia. Leave him there. He’s doing something useful.”

Dimka stared at him in dismay. He did not know what to say.