It was, in fact, an elegant solution. “Thank you, sir. I hope to live up to your trust in me.”

“Never mind. Just prepare to leave in the next few days. I’ll inform Mr. Harriman of your arrival and formally request meetings with Molotov and Ustinov. I expect you to accomplish something while you’re there.”

“Understood, sir. Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Hopkins said, and dropped the unopened envelope into his trash bin. Turning back to his desk, he flicked off the long ash of the cigarette that had lain in his glass ashtray.

“The White House has been negotiating the fate of all of Europe. Does this stupid woman think we’d be thrown by a bit of sordid gossip?” He spat out a bit of air to show his contempt.

* * *

The map-room staff reported that since February, the Axis powers had lost superiority in the airspace over the Baltic through to Leningrad, and that Allied traffic had a 90 percent chance of getting through. Mia didn’t care for the remaining 10 percent, but it was the only deal on the table.

Fortunately, the Douglas DC-3 carrying Lend-Lease radio equipment encountered no enemy presence and dropped safely to a lower altitude over Leningrad, now relieved of its two-year siege. She peered through the airplane window, trying to spot anything recognizable of the city of her childhood, but could make out only the two island districts that sheltered it from the sea and the Neva River that curved north and then south into the Baltic. She searched her feelings for homesickness but found only faint nostalgia for the happy family of her early years.

It had all changed with her mother’s death from diphtheria, as if it were only his wife who had kept Fyodor’s baser nature in check. His moral squalor that alternated with religious fervor had confused and tainted her and Van.

And her involvement with Grushenka, which at first blush had seemed like romance, had been no better. Mia winced at the memory. The beautiful Grushenka, who threatened to blackmail her now, and—the irony was excruciating—who looked much too much like Alexia.

Alexia Vassilievna Mazarova. Was she still standing guard at the Kremlin, handsome and safe from the war? Or had she joined the infantry and was now slogging through mud?

The first rough bump as the aircraft touched down at Moscow Airport broke her reverie. Time to go to work. She gathered her scant luggage, the greater weight of which was created by copies of the Lend-Lease books she brought to compare with local accounts. The aircraft door slid open, and as the Russian spring air blew inside as a sort of welcome, she followed the other passengers down the stairs onto the tarmac.

Though it was April, snow had obviously fallen, and the tarmac was wet with slush.

She glanced around, searching for Averell Harriman, but saw no one. She halted, perplexed and slightly alarmed. What now?

Finally, a man broke away from the crowd and approached her, and she recognized the chauffer from the embassy. He tipped his hat and held out a hand to take her suitcase.

“Hello, Mr.… Oh, I’m sorry. I’ve forgotten your name.”

“Dornwend,” he said, touching his cap again. “You can call me Robert. Important thing is, I know who you are. Mr. Harriman is in Kuibyshev today and asked me to pick you up. But don’t worry. Your room is ready, and the ambassador will return tomorrow or the next day.”

Mia was struck by a moment of panic at the thought of approaching Molotov alone. But she reminded herself that she was only a telegram away from Harry Hopkins. Besides, most of the people she’d have to deal with at the Kremlin were familiar with her. For heaven’s sake, they’d gotten drunk together. How difficult could it be?

* * *

The next morning, the ambassador had not yet returned from Kuibyshev, and all she had for support was Robert the chauffeur. He cheerfully dropped her off at the Spasskaya Tower entrance of the Kremlin, but she was no better prepared than when she’d left Washington.

“Thanks, Robert,” she said as he held the rear door open for her. “I don’t suppose I’ll need to go back to the embassy until later this afternoon. Say, about four? And do you have any last words of advice, by the way?”

“Well, I have had success getting in good with the Russians by offering them American cigarettes. That’s not going to work with Molotov, of course, but maybe a guard or two. You never know.”

She patted her empty coat pocket. “But I don’t smoke and so I don’t carry any around.”

“Here. I’ve got a pack of Lucky Strikes and I’ve only smoked one. Take it, courtesy of the US government.” He drew it from his shirt pocket and tucked it into her hand. Touching one finger to his cap, he climbed back into the car and started off through the slushy snow.

* * *

With cigarettes or without, Molotov kept her waiting, as she knew he would. A cheap exercise of power, she thought, though, to be fair, the foreign minister probably had other matters to deal with. In any case, she put on her best face when he admitted her.

“So, you finally have located your miscalculations?” he asked coldly. Clearly, he did not view the search for discrepancies to be a collaborative effort, and she’d have to humor him.

She laid her several loose-leaf notebooks carefully on the edge of his desk, though his cold glance down at the invasive books told her she was trespassing on his space. “I’ve returned because we feel the problem arises on this side, and I’d like to sit down with various agents along the lines of distribution to pinpoint the leaks.”

“You imply theft on the part of our transport agents?” He seemed affronted. Yet it was exactly what she was implying, and she would have to choose her words carefully.

“I suggest nothing, Mr. Molotov. But our search indicates a reliable accounting of items shipped to your ports, subtracting those lost at sea. What remains now is to examine the manifestos and receipts at each step here.”

“I understood that is what you were doing the last time you visited.” He held his cigarette to the side of his face, a foppish gesture at odds with his bullying manner. It was an American cigarette, she noted.

She maintained her tight smile. “It was only a preliminary judgment. Now that we’ve examined our own records, I need to compare them with the receipts your agents have signed.”

“I’m afraid such receipts do not reside with me. For that you must refer to the relevant agencies. You could start with Dmitriy Ustinov at the Commissariat of Armaments.” He stubbed out his cigarette, leaving a one-inch butt in the ashtray. She wondered which of his lackeys would fish it out and reclaim the remaining tobacco. “Will that be all?”

He was dismissing her after only five minutes. You bastard, she thought, but retained her composure.

“I’m sorry to have wasted your time, sir. I’ll leave you to your more important affairs and wish you good day.” She took up her loose-leaf notebooks, and as she turned away, she had the unmistakable impression that he brushed off the corner of the desk where they had lain, polluting it.

She trudged back through the wet snow toward the offices of the Commissariat of Armaments, cold moisture seeping into her boots. Grushenka, you bitch. If not for you, I’d be home in Washington doing my job.

The unexpected sight of the changing guard at the Kremlin Palace brought her to a halt. She watched as the sentries marched toward one another, saluted, executed an elaborate double about-face, and separated. Only when the relieved sentry began the return march did she recognize him. The handsome, amiable Kiril.

He marched stiffly and in step with his colleague toward the Arsenal, his ceremonial rifle on his shoulder. She couldn’t interfere with the ritual so she discreetly followed him all the way to the entrance of his barracks. Only when he relaxed his guard and signaled good-bye to his mate did she run to intercept him.

“Kiril, stop,” she called out, and caught up with him on the steps. “Do you remember me?”

He smiled warmly. “Yes, of course I do, Miss Kramer. The American lady who wanted to go to church. It’s nice to see you again. What brings you to the Kremlin? You are without escort this time.”

“Yes. This time I’m not a guest of Marshal Stalin, only an annoying secretary of Mr. Hopkins trying to get information. But I was wondering, is Alexia Vassilievna still with the Kremlin Guard? I’d love to see her again.”

“No. She was transferred shortly after you left in January. To the sniper’s school at Podolsk.” He counted on his fingers, calculating the time elapsed. “I’m sure she’s graduated by now.”

“Ah, I see. Do you know where they go after graduation?”

“I can’t say for certain, but the last report in The Red Star was that female snipers were very successful on the Novgorod front. She’s probably based somewhere around there.”

“Have you heard from her?”

“No, but she wouldn’t write to me. Her grandmother, maybe.”

“Well, thank you, Kiril. I won’t keep you any longer. Take care of yourself.” She exchanged a warm handshake and turned, twice defeated, toward the Commissariat of Armaments.

* * *

Dmitriy Ustinov was more welcoming than Molotov had been and even made room for her books on his desk. “I see you’ve been hard at work,” he said, running his finger down the summary inventory page. “Have you pinpointed where the discrepancies begin in the delivery chain?”

“Not yet, but I’m much better prepared now. I’ve spent the last two and a half months making parallel lists of the items that seem to have disappeared, and at this point, I need to see the receipts from each distribution spot.”