“It’s my fault. I’m a beast, aren’t I?”

“It takes two.”

“She wanted another one so much. How could I—but I should have—”

“Don’t beat yourself up. She’ll be all right. She always pulls through.”

Fox is all business again. He finds the nurse for us. Even though he has to pretend he doesn’t know more than a few words of idiot tourist Russian, he’s at least able to communicate who we are and why we’re there, before Kedrov comes rushing down the hallway.

“Mrs. Fox! At last.”

Funny, he seems genuinely concerned. I presume he’s just worried about the blow to Soviet prestige should this American woman die in childbirth in a Communist hospital. I follow him down the white corridor to Iris’s room at the end. Along the way, I catch glimpses of other patients, other rooms, all of them serene and private, and it’s only later that I learn this is a special hospital for party officials and their families.

I’ve resolved to remain calm. After all, our plan depends on a difficult labor—the more difficult the labor, the more plausible our actions. During our days in Rome, Fox and I studied Iris’s medical history, the likely complications, the points at which intervention might occur.

But nothing prepares you for the sight of your sister lying gray-faced and sweating on a hospital bed in the throes of a mighty contraction. Nothing prepares you for the sound she makes when the pressure reaches its zenith. I hurtle to the bed and snatch her hand. I demand to know why they haven’t given her something to numb the pain. They don’t understand me. Iris gasps, “I don’t want it! I don’t want to go to sleep!”

“I won’t let them do it, pumpkin. Trust me.”

The contraction eases. When Iris catches her breath, she looks wanly at me and says she’s sorry.

“My God. Don’t be sorry at me. What do you need?”

The nurse says something to me in Russian. I gather they don’t want me here—a woman in labor isn’t allowed to have guests who might, by their pity, soften her too much for the task at hand. I look the nurse square in the eye and tell her I’m not going anywhere. We glare at each other, mutually stuck by this inability to communicate in words.

I turn to Iris. “How much Russian do you speak?”

“Enough.”

“Because I can get a translator.”

“I don’t need a translator. I need—” She bites herself off and digs her fingers into my hand.