Opotkin looked thoughtful. “Maybe you’re right,” he said, and dropped the copy back into the tray. “I’m having a party at my house on Saturday night,” he said to Tanya. “My daughter graduated college. I was wondering if you and your brother would like to come?”

Opotkin was an unsuccessful social climber who gave agonizingly boring parties. Tanya knew she could speak for her brother. “I’d love to, and I’m sure Dimka would too, but it’s our mother’s birthday. I’m so sorry.”

Opotkin looked offended. “Too bad,” he said, and walked on.

When he was out of earshot Daniil said: “It’s not your mother’s birthday, is it?”

“No.”

“He’ll check.”

“Then he’ll realize I made a polite excuse because I didn’t want to go.”

“You should go to his parties.”

Tanya did not want to have this argument. There were more important things on her mind. She needed to write her articles, get out of there, and save the life of Ustin Bodian. But Daniil was a good boss and liberal minded, so she suppressed her impatience. “Pyotr doesn’t care whether I attend his party or not,” she said. “He wants my brother, who works for Khrushchev.” Tanya was used to people trying to befriend her because of her influential family. Her late father had been a colonel in the KGB, the secret police; and her uncle Volodya was a general in Red Army Intelligence.

Daniil had a journalist’s persistence. “Pyotr gave in to us over the Siberia articles. You should show that you’re grateful.”

“I hate his parties. His friends get drunk and paw each other’s wives.”

“I don’t want him to bear a grudge against you.”

“Why would he do that?”

“You’re very attractive.” Daniil was not coming on to Tanya. He lived with a male friend and she was sure he was one of those men not drawn to women. He spoke in a matter-of-fact tone. “Beautiful, and talented, and—worst of all—young. Pyotr won’t find it difficult to hate you. Try a little harder with him.” Daniil drifted away.

Tanya realized he was probably right, but she decided to think about it later, and returned her attention to her typewriter.

At midday she got a plate of potato salad with pickled herrings from the canteen and ate at her desk.

She finished her third article soon afterward. She handed the sheets of paper to Daniil. “I’m going home to bed,” she said. “Please don’t call.”

“Good work,” he said. “Sleep well.”

She put her notebook in her shoulder bag and left the building.

Now she had to make sure she was not being followed. She was tired, and that meant she was likely to make foolish mistakes. She felt worried.

She went past the bus stop, walked several blocks to the previous stop on the route, and caught the bus there. It made no sense, which meant that anyone who did the same had to be following her.

No one was.

She got off near a grand pre-revolutionary palace now converted to apartments. She walked around the block, but no one appeared to be watching the building. Anxiously she went around again to make sure. Then she entered the gloomy hall and climbed the cracked marble staircase to the apartment of Vasili Yenkov.