“Dubcek has undermined the KGB. He’s expelled several agents from Prague and authorized an investigation into the death of the old foreign minister Jan Masaryk.”

“Is the KGB entitled to murder ministers in friendly governments?” Dimka asked. “Is that the message you want to send to Hungary and East Germany? That would make the KGB worse than the CIA. At least the Americans only murder people in enemy countries such as Cuba.”

Filipov became petulant. “What is to be gained by allowing this foolishness in Prague?”

“If we invade Czechoslovakia, there will be a diplomatic freeze—you know that.”

“So what?”

“It will damage our relations with the West. We’re trying to reduce tension with the United States, so that we can spend less on our military. That whole effort could be sabotaged. An invasion might even help Richard Nixon get elected president—and he could increase American defense spending. Think what that could cost us!”

Filipov tried to interrupt, but Dimka overrode him. “The invasion will also shock the Third World. We’re trying to strengthen our ties with nonaligned countries in the face of rivalry from China, which wants to replace us as leader of global Communism. That’s why we’re organizing the World Communist Conference in November. That conference could become a humiliating failure if we invade Czechoslovakia.”

Filipov sneered: “So you would simply let Dubcek do what he likes?”

“On the contrary.” Dimka now revealed the proposal favored by his boss. “Kosygin will go to Prague and negotiate a compromise—a nonmilitary solution.”

Filipov in his turn put his cards on the table. “The Defense Ministry will support that plan in the Politburo—on condition that we immediately begin preparations for an invasion in case the negotiation should fail.”

“Agreed,” said Dimka, who felt sure the military would make such preparations anyway.

The decision made, they went in opposite directions. Dimka returned to his office just as his secretary, Vera Pletner, was picking up the phone. He saw her face turn the color of the paper in her typewriter. “Has something happened?” he said.

She gave him the receiver. “Your ex-wife,” she said.

Suppressing a groan, Dimka took the instrument and spoke into it. “What is it, Nina?”

“Come at once!” she screamed. “Grisha’s gone!”

Dimka’s heart seemed to stop. Grigor, whom they called Grisha, was not quite five years old, and had not yet started school. “What do you mean, gone?”

“I can’t find him, he’s disappeared, I’ve looked everywhere!”

There was a pain in Dimka’s chest. He struggled to remain calm. “When and where did you last see him?”

“He went upstairs to see your mother. I let him go on his own—I always do, it’s only three floors in the lift.”

“When was that?”

“Less than an hour ago—you have to come!”

“I’m coming. Phone the police.”

“Come quickly!”

“Phone the police, okay?”

“Okay.”

Dimka dropped the phone and left the room. He raced out of the building. He had not paused to put on his coat, but he hardly noticed the cold Moscow air. He jumped into his Moskvitch, shoved the steering-column gearshift into first, and tore out of the compound. Even with his foot flat to the floor, the little car did not go fast.