He did not tell her, though. She had a husband, and seemed to be happy with him; at least, she said nothing bad about him, although she was never in a hurry to go home to him. More importantly, Dimka had a wife and a child, and he owed them his loyalty.

He wanted to say: I love you. I’m going to leave my family. Will you leave your husband, live with me, and be my friend and lover for the rest of our lives?

Instead he said: “It’s late, I’d better go.”

“Let me drive you,” she said. “It’s too cold for your motorcycle.”

She pulled up at the corner near Government House. He leaned across to kiss her good night. She let him kiss her lips, briefly, then pulled back. He got out of the car and went into the building.

On the way up in the elevator he thought about the excuse he would make to Nina for being late. There was a genuine crisis at the Kremlin: this year’s grain harvest had been a catastrophe, and the Soviet government was desperately trying to buy foreign wheat to feed its people.

When he entered the apartment, Grigor was asleep and Nina was watching TV. He kissed her forehead and said: “I was kept late at the office, sorry. We had to finish a report on the bad harvest.”

“You shit-faced liar,” said Nina. “Your office has been calling here every ten minutes, trying to find you, to tell you that President Kennedy has been killed.”

• • •

Maria’s tummy rumbled. She looked at her watch and realized she had forgotten to have lunch. The work she was doing had absorbed her, and for two or three hours no one had come into this area to disturb her. But she was almost done, so she decided to finish off, then get a sandwich.

She bent her head over the old-fashioned ledger she was reading, then looked up again when she heard a noise. She was astonished to see George Jakes come in, panting, his suit jacket wet with perspiration, his eyes a little wild. “George!” she said. “What the heck . . . ?” She stood up.

“Maria,” he said, “I’m so sorry.” He came around the table and put his hands on her shoulders, a gesture that was a little too intimate for their strictly platonic friendship.

“Why are you sorry?” she said. “What have you done?”

“Nothing.” She tried to pull back, but he tightened his grip. “They shot him,” he said.

Maria saw that George was close to tears. She stopped resisting him and stepped closer. “Who was shot?” she said.

“In Dallas,” he said.

Then she began to understand, and a terrible dread rose inside her. “No,” she said.

George nodded. In a quiet voice he said: “The president is dead. I’m so sorry.”

“Dead,” Maria said. “He can’t be dead.” Her legs felt weak, and she sank to her knees. George knelt with her and folded her in his arms. “Not my Johnny,” she said, and a huge sob erupted from inside her. “Johnny, my Johnny,” she moaned. “Don’t leave me, please. Please, Johnny. Please don’t leave.” She saw the world turn gray, she slumped helplessly, then her eyes closed and she lost consciousness.