Val passed on her question to the guide, who shook her head firmly. They had to stick to the program: Red Square, the Kremlin, lunch, St. Basil’s Cathedral, in that order, according to a strict timetable. Val was intrigued to see the gold-domed Cathedral of the Dormition, where Tsar Nicholas and his wife had been crowned in 1896, and the Grand Kremlin Palace, which had been the Romanov family’s residence when in Moscow. Compared with the drab gray buildings she saw in surrounding areas, the Kremlin complex was a vivid splash of glitziness.

In their hotel, a stern woman sat at a desk in the corridor outside their room. They were only allocated one towel per person, so when Val wanted to wash her hair, she went to ask for another, miming what she needed it for. The woman reacted with horror and shook her head so emphatically that Val wondered if she had committed some terrible faux pas. Bill had warned her before they arrived that their hotel rooms might be bugged, so they couldn’t talk freely.

“All the hotel staff will work for the KGB,” he told her. “They report anything suspicious. Whatever you do, don’t mention the Romanovs.”

Val was surprised. “I thought that was just anti-Soviet propaganda.”

“Not at all. They catch foreign businessmen in honey traps with Russian prostitutes and blackmail them for trade secrets. Happens all the time. Don’t worry . . .” He grinned, catching the look on Val’s face. “I’m not going to fall for it.”

The KGB were the modern version of the Cheka, the secret police her father might have worked for when he was searching for Maria Romanova. He had visited Moscow on at least two occasions, according to the ledgers. Where did he go? What was he thinking? Here in his homeland, with Russian speakers all around, he was never far from Val’s thoughts, but she felt no closer to understanding him than she had back home in Sydney.

On the day Bill’s conference finished, they caught the Metro across town to visit his parents in the southwestern suburb of Novye Cheryomushki. They lived in a concrete four-story block surrounded by trees, not far from the station. Val felt nervous about meeting them, but she needn’t have. They seemed overjoyed to see Bill, and to welcome her and Nicole, showering them with compliments: “Look how pretty you are. Such a beautiful dress. You are so kind to visit us old people.”

They were ushered straight to a table and served a lavish dinner of Russian specialities: borscht, pelmeni, stroganoff, and a multilayered honey cake called medovik. Nicole ate three slices of cake, smacking her lips with glee. It was clear that Bill’s mother had worked all day to produce this feast, and Val thanked her effusively.

“You don’t speak any Russian?” Bill’s mother asked. “Why did your father not teach you?”