“He wrote a book.”

“That’s a crime in Russia?”

“It is if you decide to tell the truth about your employer, especially if your employer was Josef Stalin.”

“Uncle Joe, I remember,” said Guinzburg, “but the book was never published.”

“It was published but Babakov was arrested long before a copy reached the bookshelves, and after a show trial he was sentenced to twenty years in prison, with no right of appeal.”

“Which only makes one wonder what can be in that book to make the Soviets so determined that no one should ever get to read it.”

“I’ve no idea,” said Harry. “But I do know that every copy of Uncle Joe was removed from the bookshelves within hours of publication. The publisher was shut down, Babakov was arrested, and he hasn’t been seen since his trial. If there’s a copy out there I intend to find it when I go to the international book conference in Moscow in May.”

“If you do lay your hands on a copy, I’d love to have it translated and publish it over here, because I can guarantee that not only would it be a runaway best seller but also it would finally expose Stalin as a man every bit as evil as Hitler. Mind you, Russia’s a pretty big haystack in which to be searching for that particular needle.”

“True, but I’m determined to find out what Babakov has to say. Don’t forget, he was Stalin’s personal interpreter for thirteen years, so few people would have had a better insight into the regime—although even he didn’t anticipate how the KGB would react when he decided to publish his version of what he witnessed firsthand.”

“And now that Stalin’s old allies have removed Khrushchev and are back in power, no doubt some of them have things they’d prefer to keep hidden.”

“Like the truth about Stalin’s death,” said Harry.

“I’ve never seen you so worked up about anything,” said Guinzburg. “But it might not be wise for you to poke a stick at the big bear. The new hard-line regime there seems to have little regard for human rights, whichever country you come from.”

“What’s the point of being president of PEN if I can’t express my views?”

The carriage clock on the bookshelf behind Guinzburg’s desk struck twelve.

“Why don’t we go and have lunch at my club, and we can discuss less contentious matters, like what Sebastian’s been up to.”

“I think he’s about to propose to an American girl.”

“I always knew that boy was smart,” said Guinzburg.

* * *

While Samantha and Seb were admiring the shopwindows on Fifth Avenue, and Harry was enjoying a rib-eye steak at the Harvard Club with his publisher, a yellow cab came to a halt outside a smart brownstone on 64th and Park.

Emma stepped out, carrying a shoebox with “Crockett & Jones” emblazoned on the lid. Inside was a pair of size nine, made-to-measure black brogues, which she knew would fit her cousin Alistair perfectly, because he always had his shoes made in Jermyn Street.