She would remember climbing the stairs instead of taking the lift—not because of some strategic decision but mere animal instinct. She would remember she was a little out of breath by the time she reached the fourth-floor landing, almost nauseated. She would remember the door was ajar, and feeling irritated at Sasha for undoing her careful work in locking it. She would remember realizing, in the next instant, that something wasn’t right. The door wasn’t unlocked, after all—the lock itself was broken—the fresh, splintered wood lay on the floor beneath it.

Still she pushed the door open, because she had to. She couldn’t allow anyone else to discover what lay behind that door before she did. Where did she find this resolve? She would never understand. She heard a whimper just before she saw the bodies on the floor. It came from Sasha, sitting upright against the wall. He held a gun in his trembling hand.

Sprawled on the parquet floor were two men. The first one, in the foyer, she didn’t recognize.

The second, in the hallway—facedown in a pool of blood—was Philip Beauchamp.

Three

If I had the choice between betraying my country and betraying my friend, I hope I should have the courage to betray my country.

—E. M. Forster

Lyudmila

JULY 1952

Moscow

Lyudmila always arrives early at Moscow Centre, just as soon as she’s dropped off Marina at school. While the headquarters of the Soviet intelligence service is naturally busy at all hours, for some reason there’s a lull between seven and nine in the morning, as the night shift transitions to the day shift, and Lyudmila can pass through the doors and up the stairs (she always takes the stairs) and down the corridors to her office without the friction of other human beings. She can make herself some tea and work quietly, quietly, at her small ugly metal desk in her small ugly room the color of peas, where she can hear herself think.

MARINA, OF COURSE, IS now old enough to make her own way to school. She can take the bus, or she can take the subway. She’s always been one of those competent, independent children, probably because she has no father and no siblings, and also because that’s just her nature—to think for herself. Lyudmila’s grateful for this self-sufficiency, but it makes her uneasy. Sometimes it feels like a powerful bomb that might detonate at any minute, and then where would Lyudmila be?