But the first note of the birthday song was interrupted by a commotion on the stairs, a wave of excitement that spread through the apartment, and a general movement to greet new arrivals. The first in the door was the professor that Irina had interviewed at the station. He unwrapped a scarf that looked like a hair shirt and kept the door wide for Irina, who seemed to float in on a bubble. Arkady could tell that she’d had good food and good wine at a good restaurant. Champagne and something better than borscht. She had probably gone straight from the station, which explained how overdressed she had seemed there. If her eyes noticed Arkady, they registered no interest or surprise. Following her was Max Albov, loose on his shoulders the same elegant jacket he had worn when Arkady had first met him at Petrovka. The three of them were laughing at a joke that had carried them up the stairs.

“Something Max said,” Irina explained.

Everyone leaned toward them, wanting to share.

Max shrugged modestly. “All I said was, ‘I feel like the Prodigal Son.’ ”

Immediately came protests of “No,” explosive laughs, appreciative applause. Max’s cheeks glowed from the exertion of the climb and the warmth of the reception. He put Irina’s arm through his.

Someone remembered. “The cake!”

The birthday candles had burned themselves out. The candy Wall sank into a pool of wax.

The cake tasted like ashes and tar. The party, however, took on fresh life and became an event with Max Albov settled onto a sofa with Irina at the center. They reigned together, beautiful queen and cosmopolitan king.

“When I was here, people said I was CIA. When I went to Moscow, people said I was KGB. For some minds those are the only conceivable answers.”

Tommy said, “Maybe you’re an American television star now, but you’re still the best damn head of the Russian section we ever had.”

“Thanks.” Max accepted a whiskey as a small token of esteem. “But those days are gone. I’d done what I could accomplish here. The cold war was over. Not only over, it was passé. It was time to stop being a cheerleader for Americans, friends though they might be. I felt that if I really wanted to help Russia now, it was time to go home.”

“How did they treat you in Moscow?” Rikki asked.

“They wanted my autograph. Seriously, Rikki, you’re a radio star in Russia.”

“Georgia,” Rikki corrected him.