“Bill,” Cole said carefully. “Given humanity’s infinite capacity for getting itself in trouble, there’s a surprisingly limited number of outcomes. How’s that?” His voice was harsh and low, as if he had been shouting for days against the roar of a river. “Russia doesn’t want us here. Two groups would like us to stay: intellectuals and those few who were having a better time of it before 1914. The very men who now pray for our guns to restore them to power are the ones who did more to ruin our cause with the Russians than the Bolsheviks will ever do.”

“That’s well said. But we aren’t here to stay.”

“When are we leaving?”

“When the Russians can defend themselves.”

“Against whom?” Cole put his hand over his eyes.

“Have you been sleeping, Felix?”

“You know we aren’t in Russia, right? We’re in the idea of Russia.” Cole shook his head. “It’s no longer clear who my cook and my maid are working for. You wonder at suppertime why your maid wants to watch you eat your soup.”

“I understand.”

“May I speak frankly with you, Bill? I’ve been a diplomat for twenty-two years, and I never speak frankly.” He coughed into his fist. “Diplomacy is about irony. The irony in our present situation is completely out of our control.”

“You’re speaking philosophically, Felix, which isn’t—”

“No, I’m hugging the shore here. Really. Irony equals saying one thing and doing another. Tell me that’s not diplomacy.” Ironside could see in his eyes glimmers of another place as Cole verbally wound down. “The truth is, the world would be a better place … if we destroyed the Bolsheviks. But we didn’t say that… and we didn’t prepare for that… and we aren’t fighting that war.”

Ironside had never seen a man struggling so hard to finish his sentences. Cole’s battle was against screaming or despair or needing to sleep, or perhaps all of them.

“You need to request,” Cole said, and his voice broke. In a whisper, he continued, “You need to ask the CIGS to withdraw all forces immediately. I want to send a telegram to Washington requesting the same. I’d like to save some lives.”

Ironside’s massive hands played against the blotter on his desk. His fingernails felt for the sharpest edges, which were already worn down from similar thoughtful passes. “I’ve inherited an impossible situation. But I understand what you’re requesting, and I’ll take it to London if you will do one favor.”

“What is it?”

“I want you to have my men move you out of your apartment and into a place you can sleep untroubled for the next several nights.” He waved a folder of papers over his desk. “The local sanatorium, it turns out, is empty save for a few doctors.”

Cole laughed. “You’d think it would be filled.”