Stalin nodded. “Excellent story. And that deserves a toast, too. To Yeleanor Roosevelt and opera singer Median Enderson.” Everyone at the table stood up and emptied their vodka glasses, and with Stalin’s eyes on her, Mia could not avoid downing another dose of the brain-scalding liquid.

She dropped down onto her chair and breathed deeply, wondering how much longer she could last. Could she keep her wits about her? She was confident of not saying anything improper to her hosts, but would she be able to find her way through the Kremlin Palace back out to the embassy car in… She peered at her watch until her eyes focused on the tiny numbers. In half an hour.

The stories continued around the table, and as the men became drunker, they became more vulgar. When she was no longer the center of attention, she faked drinking each toast to keep from losing consciousness.

Finally the hour of her liberation came and she stood up, massaged her mouth to prepare the muscles for speech, and said, “Marshal Stalin, I wish to thank you for your great hospitality, which only increases my admiration for the Russian people. Unfortunately, I have obligations to my own government and have to return to my embassy now, with great regret.”

Did all that come out all right? She thought so. As she turned around, she was struck by a wave of dizziness and found walking difficult. Fortunately, a butler came and led her outside the Great Hall, where, to her enormous relief, Alexia waited.

Without comment, Alexia helped her into her coat and guided her to the palace courtyard. The ice-cold air hitting her face sobered her a little, but not enough to dampen her high spirits. She’d been tipsy before, but never quite as drunk as this, and was enjoying it. Plus, she realized, it was still Christmas. The thought made her philosophical and affectionate.

She halted and took Alexia’s arm. “Look how clear the sky is.” She swayed slightly as she tilted her head. “You can see millions of stars. Millions and millions and millions.” She found the idea thrilling.

Alexia scanned the sky, blowing little clouds of steam, perhaps humoring her. “The priest who raised me always said the stars were proof of God’s existence.”

Mia chuckled. “Funny, scientists would say the stars are proof God doesn’t exist. In any case, when you see this many, you can’t help but feel connected. Even the ancients gave them identities. Right up there is Orion, for example.” She pointed upward more or less in the right direction, gripping Alexia’s shoulder to keep her balance.

“You can identify the constellations?”

“Na, just showing off. Orion’s easy because of the three stars that make his belt. Then you can look for the stars that make his shoulders and feet.”

Alexia held her collar up under her chin. “I don’t see a man in the sky. I see—I don’t know—some great force, unfathomably vast and wholly indifferent, that has no face. There’s a majesty in that.”

“I know what you mean. It has no interest in comforting us, yet we are comforted. As by the sunrise.” Mia smiled, pleased to have produced such poetry from an alcohol-soaked brain.

The embassy car pulled up in front of them, and she tumbled into it. Once inside, she rambled on about the mysteries of the universe and the beauty of the human spirit. Alexia agreed in each case, seemingly amused.

When they reached the embassy, Mia realized that her Russian Christmas was over and in just a few minutes she would be alone.

“Will you guard me all the way to my room?” She snickered. “You know, so that I don’t do something anti-Soviet on the way.”

Alexia laughed softly. “All right, I’ll go, to protect the motherland from you until the very last moment.” The embassy guard admitted them both, and, gripping Mia’s arm, Alexia strode beside her up the stairs and along the corridor.

Mia fumbled for her key and opened the door to her room, then drew Alexia by the arm in with her, delaying separation. “A shame I have to leave tomorrow. A shame there’s a war. A shame you’ll be on the battlefield soon and I’ll never see you again. Here we’ve just met, and now… poof! Gone to fight for the motherland.”

“I’ll think of you while I’m fighting.” Alexia laughed and brushed Mia’s hair out of her face, her first intimate touch. “And if I survive the war, and you return to Russia, perhaps you can find me. I am Alexia Vassilievna Mazarova. My grandmother lives in Arkhangelsk, and the priest Father Zosima will know how to find her, if he, too, is still alive.”

“Those are a lot of ‘ifs,’ my dear Alexia. I don’t think I will ever be able to remember enough to follow that trail. But I will always remember this.”

She grasped Alexia’s head with both hands, and pausing just long enough to look into the startled gray eyes, she pressed her lips hard against Alexia’s mouth.

Alexia stood rigid in her grip but did not pull away, and the awkward kiss lasted scarcely more than a few seconds. Then Mia herself stepped back, realizing the magnitude of what she had done. Surely it was an offense: against diplomatic protocol, against the decorum of the United States Embassy, and against the innocent person of the guard herself.

It was the worst mistake she’d made since arriving in the Soviet Union.

“I… I’m sorry. It was the vodka and… well…”

Alexia’s face showed no expression at all. “Good night, Demetria Fyodorovna Kaminskaya,” she said, and let herself out.

* * *

The next morning Mia was awakened by a firm rap on the door. Struggling up to full consciousness, she called out, “What is it?”

A man’s voice sounded through the closed door. “Mr. Harriman requests your presence at breakfast.”

“Yes, yes, of course. I’ll be down right away,” she stammered, noting that it was already ten o’clock. God, what a headache she had.

She dressed quickly, brushed her teeth to lose the foul taste in her mouth, combed her hair, and rushed down to the breakfast room. Harriman and Hopkins both sat over coffee cups, though only the ambassador looked alert. Hopkins slouched in his chair, his skin an odd gray color.

“How are you feeling, sir?” she asked, in spite of her own malaise. Someone from the kitchen set down a cup of coffee in front of her, and she warmed her hands on it before taking the first comforting swallow.

“Better, thank you,” Hopkins said, “but I don’t think I’ll be doing many more of Mr. Stalin’s dinners. What about you?”

“I held up pretty well, in spite of half a dozen more toasts. However, they forced me to tell a White House story.”

A shadow passed over his face, and Harriman set down his cup. “Good heavens, what?”

“I told them about the First Lady and the Marian Anderson concert at the Lincoln Memorial. I thought since several million Americans knew the story, it wouldn’t hurt if the Kremlin did, too. Did I overstep?”

Hopkins waved feebly. “No, not if that’s all you said. As long as you didn’t make Mr. Roosevelt seem weak.”

“Oh, I’d never do that.” She noticed a few triangles of cold toast on a rack near her cup and helped herself to one. “I’m aware of the delicate position we’re in. Which brings up the question, do we have all the documents we need for the investigation of the lost goods?”

“Yes, they’re packed, and I’ve given all the parties our assurances. I believe we’ve left them with a good impression. Don’t you think, Miss Kramer?”

Mia recalled her awkward molestation of a Kremlin guard.

“Uh, yes. I think so.”

Chapter Ten

Washington, DC, Winter 1944


Mia continued to plow through the documentation of deliveries via the Arctic and the Persian routes, trying to determine where the losses were occurring. Nothing stood out enough to account for the Russian complaint. Nonetheless, at Hopkins’s behest, she sent out orders for duplicate shipments of the small arms, clothing, fuel, and foodstuffs that had mysteriously disappeared.

A month passed, then another, rainy blustery days and nights in Washington, DC, and she tried to keep track of where the front line in the East was. The last news on the radio was that the Leningrad siege was lifted, which removed the vague guilt of knowing she had relatives there whom she could not help. A great battle still raged at Narva, in what was once Estonia, but that was far from Moscow, which Hitler’s troops would never see again.

And Alexia Vassilievna Mazarova? Was she still standing statuesque guard at the Kremlin? Or had she in fact transferred and was slogging through the snow and mud of the Eastern Front?

The Washington winter made Mia lethargic, and even the comings and goings of high-ranking military in the White House halls did nothing to excite her. Until one morning at the beginning of March, a light, ladylike rap came from the First Lady’s study. Mia called out “Come in!” and Mrs. Roosevelt entered. She wore a wool business suit and hat, and held small leather gloves in one hand.

“How have you been, dear?” she asked. “I’ve been on the lecture trail for the president and never seem to have any time these days. I’m afraid I’ve neglected you. I thought I’d catch you before I went out again.”

“How kind of you to say that, but I haven’t felt at all neglected.”

“I’m glad. But I confess, I’m here because I have a little request.”

“Anything you wish, Mrs. Roosevelt?” Mia said, pushing her papers aside.

The First Lady drew on one of the gloves. “You see, the president and I have invited someone to the White House, both as a good-will gesture and to increase public support for our entry into Europe.”