She had befriended the Prague correspondent of a British newspaper, and at the first opportunity she had said to him: “There’s a book editor in London who specializes in translations of East European novels—Anna Murray, of Rowley Publishing. I’d love to interview her about Czech literature. Do you think you could get a message to her?”

This was dangerous, for it established a traceable connection between Tanya and Anna; but Tanya had to take some risks, and it seemed to her that this one was minimal.

Two weeks later the British journalist had said: “Anna Murray’s coming to Prague next Tuesday. I couldn’t give her your phone number because I don’t have it, but she’ll be at the Palace Hotel.”

On Tuesday Tanya called the hotel and left a message for Anna saying: “Meet Jakub at the Jan Hus monument at four.” Jan Hus was a medieval philosopher burned at the stake by the Pope for arguing that mass should be said in the local language. He remained a symbol of Czech resistance to foreign control. His memorial was in Old Town Square.

The secret police agents in all hotels took special interest in guests from the West, and Tanya had to assume that they were shown all messages, therefore they might stake out the monument to see who Anna was meeting. So Tanya did not go to the rendezvous. Instead she intercepted Anna on the street and slipped her a card with the address of a restaurant in the Old Town and the message: “Eight P.M. tonight. Table booked in the name of Jakub.”

There was still the possibility that Anna would be followed from her hotel to the restaurant. It was unlikely: the secret police did not have enough men to tail every foreigner all the time. Nevertheless Tanya continued to take precautions. That evening she put on a loose-fitting leather jacket, despite the warm weather, and went to the restaurant early. She sat at a different table from the one she had reserved. She kept her head down when Anna arrived, and watched as Anna was seated.

Anna was unmistakably foreign. No one in Eastern Europe was that well dressed. She had a dark-red pantsuit tailored to her voluptuous figure. She wore it with a glorious multicolored scarf that had to come from Paris. Anna had dark hair and eyes that probably came from her German-Jewish mother. She must be close to thirty, Tanya calculated, but she was one of those women who became more beautiful as they left their youth behind.

No one followed Anna into the restaurant. Tanya stayed put for fifteen minutes, watching the arrivals, while Anna ordered a bottle of Hungarian Riesling and sipped a glass. Four people came in, an elderly married couple and two youngsters on a date: none looked remotely like police. Finally Tanya got up and joined Anna at the reserved table, draping her jacket over the back of her chair.

“Thank you for coming,” Tanya said.

“Please don’t mention it. I’m glad to.”