But she couldn’t. She was determined to find out the truth, even if her research led her to the conclusion that he had in fact been a traitor. One way or another, she had to find out. It was easy for her friends to tell her to drop it—they knew who their parents were, what they had done, how they had fought. They had that security; she didn’t. Couldn’t they see that it was important? Some could. But there were others who said that she wasn’t getting very far.

The doubters had a point. Despite the time and effort, despite all those piles of paper, she was nowhere near finding an answer. She felt like Sisyphus, eternally pushing his rock to the top of the hill. Just as she felt she had gotten to the summit, something would snatch the rock away from her, and throw it back down.

That something could either be secrecy, bureaucracy or accident.

“Dear Miss Lockhart, we are sorry to inform you that the papers you require are not available to the public….”

“We’re sorry, but we only release such wartime correspondences to bona fide historians….”

“Unfortunately we suffered a fire….”

“Those papers will be released in 2046….”

“We suspect that the papers you seek are currently held in the Soviet Union. At present, this department lacks the facilities to be able to access those papers. However, let me assure you that we are doing all we can….”

Every letter was a slap in the face. Who were these records for, then? What was the point of democracy? It was her father, not theirs. She had even written to the Russian Embassy, who were more polite than any of the British organizations she had dealt with:

Dear Miss Lockhart,

The Embassy of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics thanks you for your enquiry concerning your father. We regret that we are unable to assist you at the present time. However, we wish you luck in your research, and if the eventuality arises in which we may be able to help you, then we shall contact you forthwith.

Yours sincerely,

Dimitri Kirov

Two days after that letter had arrived, she had received a phone call from Kirov.

“I shouldn’t really be telling you this, Miss Lockhart,” he had said, “but you should keep trying—you must keep trying. The records you seek do exist, and one day they will be opened. Write to us every year, pester us by all means. One day it will work.”

“But Mr. Kirov…”

The line had then gone dead.

Amy had little idea when “one day” would be, but she supposed it would be a long way off. She would keep trying, as Kirov suggested, even if the truth about her father was somewhere in a vault in the middle of Moscow.

It seemed absurd. All she wanted was a few sheets of paper, and it seemed as if the whole world was stopping her.