Tanya composed her article in her head while she followed the visitor around. Mrs. Nixon was clearly impressed by the new modern Moscow State University. The USA does not have a university building of comparable size.

The real story was in the Kremlin, which was why Tanya had been bad-tempered with Daniil. Nixon and Brezhnev were signing treaties that would make the world a safer place. That was the story Tanya wanted to cover.

She knew from reading the foreign press that Nixon’s China visit and this Moscow trip had transformed his prospects in the November presidential election. From a January low, his approval rating had soared. He now had a strong chance of getting reelected.

Mrs. Nixon was dressed in a two-piece check suit with a short jacket and discreetly below-the-knee skirt. Her white shoes had a low heel. A chiffon neck scarf completed her outfit. Tanya hated doing fashion. She had covered the Cuban missile crisis, for God’s sake—from Cuba!

At last the First Lady was whisked away in a Chrysler LeBaron limousine, and the press pack dispersed.

In the car park Tanya saw a tall man wearing a long, threadbare coat in the spring sunshine. He had unkempt iron-gray hair, and his lined face looked as if it might once have been handsome.

It was Vasili.

She stuffed her fist into her mouth and bit her hand to suppress the scream that bubbled up in her throat.

He saw that she had recognized him, and he smiled, showing gaps where he had lost teeth.

She walked slowly over to where he stood, hands in the pockets of his coat. He had no hat, and he squinted because of the sun.

“They let you out,” Tanya said.

“To please the American president,” he said. “Thank you, Dick Nixon.”

He should have thanked Dimka Dvorkin. But it was probably better not to tell anyone that, not even Vasili.

She looked around warily, but there was no one else in sight.

“Don’t worry,” said Vasili. “For two weeks this place has been crawling with security police, but they all left five minutes ago.”

She could restrain herself no longer, and threw herself into his arms. He patted her back as if to comfort her. She hugged him hard.

“My,” he said, “you smell good.”

She broke the embrace. She was bursting with a hundred questions and had to restrain her enthusiasm and pick one. “Where are you living?”

“They gave me a Stalin apartment—old, but nice.”

Apartments from the Stalin era had bigger rooms and higher ceilings than the more compact flats built in the late fifties and sixties.

She was overflowing with exhilaration. “Shall I visit you there?”

“Not yet. Let’s find out how closely they’re watching me.”

“Do you have work?” It was a favorite trick of the Communists to make sure a man could not get a job, then accuse him of being a social parasite.

“I’m at the Agriculture Ministry. I write pamphlets for peasants explaining new farming techniques. Don’t pity me: it’s important work, and I’m good at it.”