Iris turned the photograph over, but nothing was written there, no caption or note or date, no label of any kind, nothing at all to betray the identity of the subject. Of course, it had to have been taken during the war. The woman’s hairstyle, the plain uniform. Sasha and Iris had lived in Zurich for much of the conflict, and Sasha was away so often. She knew he wasn’t simply working for the embassy, though she never asked what he was doing, or what he was working for. She wouldn’t have dreamed of that.

From the other side of the study door came the sound of Jack’s voice, piping a question, and Mrs. Betts’s low, gentle voice answering him. Iris glanced at the clock; five minutes had passed already. She shoved both snapshots back in the drawer. As she pulled her hand back, the tips of her fingers bumped against some hard object.

She drew it out.

She’d never seen one before, but she knew what it was—a slim, rectangular box about the size of a man’s index finger, made of some light, silvery metal, probably aluminum. When she pulled on both ends together, the box slid apart to reveal a couple of buttons and dials and a tiny, round lens.

A Minox camera, Iris thought. So this was what it looked like. It was even smaller than she imagined—a tiny, cunning device, easily hidden, made for one purpose only. Really, Sasha shouldn’t have been so careless, leaving it in an unlocked drawer like this. Anyone could have found it.

From the other side of the door, Iris heard a shout, a pair of feet thundering down the hall—poor Mrs. Bannister in the downstairs flat—and an answering shout. Then Mrs. Betts’s voice, shushing them, and another thundering journey back up the hallway.

Iris thrust the camera back in the desk, underneath the snapshots. As she closed the drawer, though, something felt out of place.

She laid her hand flat on the bottom of the drawer and looked at it from the front.

Was it her imagination, or was there an inch of space unaccounted for, between her hand and the place where the drawer actually stopped?

PHILIP BEAUCHAMP’S SECRETARY PUT her through right away. “Beauchamp,” he said briskly, when he answered the ring.

“Philip, it’s Iris. Iris Digby.”

“Iris! So glad you’ve rung. I spent a miserable Sunday certain I’d overstepped the bounds of friendship and I’d never hear your voice again.”

“Oh! Don’t be silly. I guess a girl needs a shoulder to cry on, once in a while.”

“Well, this old shoulder stands ready for duty whenever you require it.”

“You’re too kind, Philip, and I hope I’m not imposing—”

“Ah! Have you a favor to ask me, I hope?”