But despite the rage that still boils in Lyudmila’s chest and stomach and sizzles its way to the tips of her fingers and toes, she comprehends that Grievskaya is not altogether wrong. In fact, she speaks the truth. Were Marina to be caught at the youth camp engaging in any kind of activity deemed contrary to the principles of communism, or subversive to the Soviet state, it would be a serious matter indeed. Lyudmila would not have the luxury of sitting in an office with the camp director to discuss some gentle measures to correct her daughter’s character. Lyudmila would have to strain every nerve, call in every possible favor, to remove the stain on Marina’s official record. And—knowing Marina—that wouldn’t stop her daughter from doing it again.

And again.

Indeed, as Lyudmila sits in her chair and locks her gaze with Grievskaya’s gaze in some kind of silent, powerful duel, a terrible future seems to open up before her—a future she has willfully ignored for the past few years, while Marina dropped hint after hint, offered glimpse after glimpse. Honestly, you couldn’t blame Marina. Lyudmila can blame only her own blind eyes for this oversight.

She rises from the chair and holds out her hand. “Perfectly clear, Comrade Grievskaya. Now, if you will excuse me, I must return to my work.”

WHEN LYUDMILA OPENS THE door to her office at Moscow Centre at a quarter past four, Anna Dubrovskaya jumps from the chair at her desk. Her sallow face sags with relief.

“Thank goodness you’re here,” she says. “Comrade Vashnikov has been asking for you for the past hour. He says he has some very serious news to share with you, and he refused to tell me what it was.”

VASHNIKOV’S FACE IS GRAY and shiny, the face of a sick man. He even smells like a sick man—like sour sweat. “They’ve disappeared,” he croaks.

Lyudmila doesn’t need to ask who’s disappeared. “Of course they have. Mr. Fox is an American intelligence officer, as I warned you, and Mrs. Fox is his accomplice. I am going to hazard a guess, Vashnikov. I’m going to speculate that Mr. Fox has overpowered your driver, has assumed his identity, and has taken away HAMPTON and his children in a KGB car, which will not be questioned at any checkpoint or border in the Soviet Union.”

“How do you know this?”

“Call it intuition, perhaps.”

He stares at her. “You’ve planned this, haven’t you? You’ve counted on it.”

“Just because it’s all unfolded as I said it would doesn’t mean I’ve planned it. The only thing I’ve counted on is your incompetence, Vashnikov. Or is it your desire to protect your own hide, perhaps? Because it seems you did find a few items at the Digbys’ apartment, after all.”