I’M SURPRISED WHEN THE car swerves out of traffic and pulls up at an apartment building across from a large park, because the building seems old and shabby, the kind of place that was once the kind of smart, elegant residence where smart, elegant people lived, but has now fallen into neglect. Shouldn’t the Digbys be living in style, as heroes of a grateful Soviet republic?

Mr. Kedrov travels with us in the passenger seat, next to the driver. During the drive, he occasionally turned to us and reminded us of things we’d already been told, like—Now, remember family name is Dubinin, to protect privacy! And—Car will be waiting for you outside at two o’clock! He now springs out, while Fox opens my door with his usual dispatch. Once I’m free, he keeps his fingers wound with mine, as if he’s worried I might bolt at the last minute. Or possibly just to keep up the act of a tender pair of newlyweds—who knows? We step inside the lobby. There’s no doorman on duty, no porter. Mr. Kedrov proceeds to the elevators and presses a button. He rolls back and forth from his toes to his heels and chuckles at the closed metal doors of the elevator, which looks as if it was added years after the original construction. He mumbles something about the Dubinins having moved in a few months ago, when an apartment became available, because of the expected new arrival.

“Is that so? Where were they living before that?” Fox asks, in the manner of a man making conversation.

“When they first arrived, we found them beautiful housing in resort, not far from city. They learned Russian language and sent boys to Soviet school. Is quieter there,” he adds, frowning, and jabs the elevator call button a few more times.

I think I see a sheen of sweat at Kedrov’s temple. Maybe Fox notices it too. I dig my fingers into Fox’s hand and absorb the whip tension of his body alongside mine.

At last the elevator doors open with a jerk and a clang. The morning sunshine happens to be pouring through the lobby windows and door, which makes the cab seem darker than it really is. Kedrov motions us both inside. Fox urges me first, a perfect pantomime of old-fashioned courtesy. But Kedrov doesn’t join us in the elevator. He stands by the door and holds it open with his hand until we’ve both turned, then he reaches inside and presses one of the numbers on the panel. They’re Cyrillic, of course, so I can’t tell which one it is, although I know the Digbys—the Dubinins, I remind myself—live on the fourth floor. He says, “Apartment 412, they are expecting you!” before he releases the door.