“Indeed he has. We’re well aware of the toll the service takes, Mrs. Digby, particularly for a man as able and as hardworking as your husband. I confess, I am very fond of Mr. Digby. He’s just the kind of man we need here at the embassy, and under ordinary circumstances, we do look the other way when—incidents of this nature occur. We give the man some leave, a rest cure in the mountains, perhaps.” Mr. West glanced down at the papers before him. “And your husband’s service has been exceptional. Honestly, I can’t think why he wasn’t given some sort of leave after his last assignment. His work during the war was extraordinary, extraordinary. A man wouldn’t be human if he didn’t crack up a bit, after a time like that. We quite understand, Mrs. Digby.”

“But?”

Mr. West steepled his fingers over the papers. “But. The girl’s the trouble, you see. She’s making a real fuss. She’s gone to the papers—we’ve had to pull every string. Every string. The kind of strings we like to keep in reserve, you might say, for incidents of a more diplomatic nature.”

“I see. I don’t suppose you could give me the name of this girl? Her address? I don’t mean her any harm,” Iris added quickly. “Not at all. I sympathize with her entirely. In fact, I thought perhaps a woman’s touch might help, in this case. I can convey my deepest apology, maybe explain the situation, gain her sympathy for what Sasha’s been through—”

He frowned. “This is really quite irregular. Under ordinary circumstances—”

“These are hardly ordinary circumstances, Mr. West.” Iris smiled and made her eyes grow. “I promise you, a woman’s touch is exactly what’s needed here. I can accomplish things in half an hour that all your diplomats couldn’t manage in a week.”

“I daresay.” He sat back in his chair and appraised her. “You understand, officially speaking, my hands are tied.”

“But unofficially?”

Mr. West reached for a pen, scribbled something on a piece of paper, and handed it to Iris.

“Unofficially—Godspeed, Mrs. Digby.”

GUY BURGESS WAITED FOR her outside on a bench. He was eating something from a small tin, which he tossed in a trash bin when he saw her. Stood, wiped his hands on his trousers, made a courtly bow.

“I ought to slap you,” she said, when she reached him.

“I protest. I’ve been your guardian angel. Sasha’s, anyway. How is the old boy? Awake yet?”

“Was. I cleaned him up and put him back to bed in fresh pajamas. Just what the hell were you two doing last night?”

He made a motion with his hand. “Shall we?”

“Ten minutes, then I have to return home. I’m expecting a guest.”

“Anyone I know?”