VASHNIKOV WAS AGAINST LYUDMILA’S plan from the beginning. He said it was too risky, too much potential for sabotage, and for what gain? Lyudmila told him she had evidence of a Western counterspy active in Moscow at the highest level, being run out of London. He asked to see this so-called evidence. She refused on grounds of security, but really because she doesn’t trust him—which isn’t personal, remember. Lyudmila does not trust anybody, except Marina.

She doesn’t like him, either, although she doesn’t like most people. At one time he was a handsome, trim, dark-haired man—they slept together once or twice, a decade ago—but now he’s run to fat, and his face is always red, and his teeth are yellow from cigarettes. Like her, he’s never traveled outside the country, but in his case it’s because of incuriosity and general laziness. He was given this plum job of head of the American section because he’s very good at claiming credit for other people’s successes, such as Lyudmila’s. This is why he reluctantly gave permission for the plan to go forward—not because he likes it, but because if it succeeds, he’ll get the recognition. If it doesn’t, Lyudmila will take the blame.

“All right,” he tells her now, pushing a manila file folder toward her. “You have your visas and special permissions. You can have Kedrov to mind them, and a driver. They will stay at the National, suite 807.”

Lyudmila nods. Suite 807 is exceptionally well covered with listening devices.

“You understand that Digby is irreproachable. He was one of our most valuable assets in the West, until he was unmasked through no fault of his own.”

“Then this operation will confirm your trust in him.”

He grinds his teeth and lifts his cigarette from the ashtray. “I have looked into Fox’s background. All clean. He works as a lawyer in Washington. At university he became famous playing American football, which means he cannot possibly be working in any form of intelligence work.”

“Why not?”

“Have you seen an American football player? They are like oxen. Oxen in a china shop. Besides, this one is famous. His face alone disqualifies him.”

“In short, the ideal cover. What about the war?”

Vashnikov glances down at the papers on his desk. “He flew torpedo bombers in the Pacific. Spent two years in a Japanese prison camp.”

“So he knows how to resist interrogation.”

“You see an ominous sign in every star, Ivanova.”

“I am a realist. If you will excuse me, I have many details to arrange before the Foxes arrive in Moscow.”

She rises from her chair. Vashnikov remains seated, staring at her speculatively while he flips a pen between his thumb and forefinger. He turns his head to smoke from the cigarette in his other hand—a gesture of dismissal.

Lyudmila walks to the door and pauses with her hand on the knob.