“Now just wait a moment. I think you owe me a little more than that. I did as you asked—I gave you the postcard and the letter. I’ve got a right to know what this is all about. She’s my sister!”

“With whom you share so close and affectionate a relationship you haven’t communicated with her in a dozen years.”

“That’s neither here nor there.” The cigarette’s nearly burned out against my fingertips; I stab it into the ashtray on the lamp table. “She’s written to me now, hasn’t she? Which means I have a moral responsibility to help.”

“Which does you credit, Miss Macallister, but I’m afraid I must ask you to be patient.” He turns back to the letter and replaces the paper inside the envelope—all with the exact featherweight delicacy of touch with which he took them out in the first place. From his briefcase he extracts a rectangular sleeve. He puts the envelope and the postcard in the sleeve and the sleeve in the briefcase and snaps the case shut. When he’s finished, he turns back to my amazed face.

“That’s it?” I ask.

“That’s all for now. Of course we’ll return your sister’s letter when we’re done examining it.”

“And then what? My sister says she needs my help. She’s living in Moscow, for God’s sake, in the heart of the Soviet Union, and something’s gone terribly wrong. I know it has, and you know it has, or she wouldn’t have sent me those messages.”

“I suspect you’re right, but before we can take any action, we’ve got to determine the nature of the trouble. Whether these are genuine.” Fox lifts the briefcase. “We may need to call you in for further questions, Miss Macallister.”

“Questions? I want answers!”

“In the meantime, if you receive any additional letters or other communication—telephone calls, parcels, messages delivered in person—I urge you to reach me.”

His face, as he says all this, hardly moves at all. You would think his nerves have been somehow disconnected from the muscles of his cheeks and forehead. I become fascinated with his mouth, the only thing that moves.

“Of course,” I say meekly.

“Thank you. I’ll walk myself out.”

“Oh, no you don’t.”

I scurry in front and lead him back down the hall to the foyer. As he passes one of the framed photographs, he stops and squints. “Is that the two of you?”

I follow his stare, although I don’t need to remind myself what the photograph depicts. A pair of laughing, carefree women, one tall and blond and the other petite and brunette. Bright dresses, scarves tied in triangles over shining young hair. The blonde slings a protective arm around the brunette’s shoulders. Behind them, the Colosseum.

“Yes. That was in Rome, right before she met Sasha.”

“You were close.”