“It came out in my research. I do a great deal more research for my profiles than anybody imagines. I use only a fraction of what I learn, but I learn everything.” Barker leaned forward and wagged a finger. “You must never let me do a profile of you, if you have anything to hide.”

Stone sat back and relaxed. Barker was going to stretch it out.

“At the time I was researching the Sasha piece, I knew a fellow in the American embassy in Moscow. I asked him to get me a copy of Sasha’s birth announcement and fax it to me, along with a translation. Her father was a member of the academy and a very famous writer in the USSR, so I knew there would be an announcement in Pravda or Izvestia. And there was.” He paused for effect.

“Go on,” Stone said.

“And what do you think the baby was named?”

Stone let Barker have his moment. “I can’t imagine.”

“The baby was named Vladimir Georgivich Nijinsky.” Barker rested his chin on his folded hands, looking pleased with himself.

“A boy’s name? But when her family came to America six years later, all the pictures showed a little girl. What about the passport?”

“They had no passports. They were thrown out of the Soviet Union and given asylum here. They had no records of any kind, not even birth certificates. The Soviets refused to supply them. The State Department, as was usual at the time, issued them documents based on sworn statements from the parents.”

“And Georgi Nijinsky swore that little Vladimir was a girl named Sasha?”

“Precisely. I never got the whole story—God knows, I would never have asked Sasha—but I surmise that, from birth, the little boy exhibited female traits, and the parents accepted that and raised him as a girl. I did find out that they took her to Morocco on a six-week vacation when she was twelve, and I believe she must have had hormone treatments and a sex-change operation at that time. After all, the onset of puberty was at hand, and people would have begun to notice if little Vladimir wasn’t developing breasts, et cetera.” Barker looked at Stone closely. “You don’t seem particularly surprised. I thought I would knock you right out of your chair with this story.”

“I figured it out when you began to tell me, but I had the advantage of an important clue.”

“What was that?”

“The handwriting expert who compared this note to a sample of Sasha’s writing said that both letters were written by a man.”

“Oh, that’s a wonderful touch for my Vanity Fair piece!” Barker crowed. Then he became serious. “But tell me, Stone, what happens if neither of these things works—if Sasha isn’t alive, and if Barron refuses to do my show?”