At the drinks table Rikki was pouring Coke for a girl in a mohair sweater. “Since I picked her up at the airport, my daughter and I have been doing nothing but shopping. Thank God the stores close at six-thirty.”

She was about eighteen, wearing lipstick as red as an alarm sign, and had blond hair with dark roots. “In America, malls are open all night long,” she said in English.

“Your English is good,” Arkady said.

She said, “In Georgia no one speaks Russian.”

“They’re still Communists; they just play a new flute,” Rikki said.

Arkady asked, “Was it an emotional moment for you, seeing your father after all this time?”

“I almost didn’t recognize his car.” She hugged Rikki. “Aren’t there American bases around here? Don’t they have malls?” Her eyes lit at the approach of a young, athletic American in a button-down shirt, bow tie and red suspenders, who included Arkady and Stas in an incriminating gaze. Ludmilla hovered at his back.

“This must be the surprise guest we had at the station today,” he said. He gave Arkady a firm, democratic handshake. “I’m Michael Healey, the deputy director in charge of security. You know, your boss, Prosecutor Rodionov, visited the station. We gave him the red carpet.”

“Michael is also the deputy director in charge of carpets,” Stas said.

“That reminds me, Stas, isn’t there a security directive that says official Soviet guests have to be cleared in advance?”

Stas laughed. “Station security is so thoroughly compromised that one more spy could hardly make a difference. Isn’t tonight the perfect example of that?”

Michael said, “I love your sense of humor, Stas. Renko, if you want to visit the station again, just be sure to give me a call.” He wandered off in search of white wine.

Stas and Arkady had scotch. “What’s so special about tonight?” Arkady asked.

“Besides the first anniversary of the tearing down of the Wall? Rumor has it that tonight we will be joined by the former head of the Russian section. My former friend. Even the Americans loved him.”

“This is the one who redefected to Moscow?”

“The same.”

“Where’s Irina?”

“You’ll see.”

“Ta-da!” The host of the party entered from the kitchen bearing a cake iced in black chocolate, with a candy Berlin Wall surrounded by burning red candles. He set the cake down. “Happy birthday, end of the Wall!”

“Tommy, you’ve outdone yourself this time,” Stas said.

“I’m a sentimental fool.” Tommy was the sort of fat man who had to keep tucking in his shirt. “Did I show you my Wall memorabilia?”

“The candles,” Stas reminded him.