“Your solution?” Reilly was succinct.

Molotov smiled a kindly, schoolmaster smile. “That Mr. Roosevelt move to the Soviet Embassy. You’d have some measure of independence yet still be well protected. The rest of the delegation, both political and military, can remain here.”

“That’s fine with me,” the president said, preempting his security chief. “Thank you, Mr. Molotov. Please convey our acceptance of Marshal Stalin’s offer.”

When the transfer was finally executed, it was pure theater. A cavalcade of US and Soviet troops marched out to accompany the presidential car along the main thoroughfare into Tehran. Inside the car, an American security agent posed as Roosevelt, complete with cigarette holder clenched in his teeth. Wearing the president’s felt hat he waved presidentially through the window, while in a dusty, unmarked car, accompanied by a single jeep, Roosevelt himself bumped along dusty back streets.

Mia sat between two men in the rear of one of the “official” cars, listening to the remarks of the president’s protectors.

“You know that every room, sofa, and toilet will be bugged in that place,” Hopkins grumbled. “It’s going to be nigh-on impossible to have a private conversation.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Reilly said. “If the president needs to discuss matters away from Stalin’s ears, he’ll have to do it at the British Embassy.”

“Do you think they’ll find the agents still on the loose?” Mia peered out at the countless dark alleyways.

Hopkins nodded. “If I know the Russians, Tehran will be teeming with NKVD and Soviet troops. Stalin doesn’t go anywhere outside Moscow without an army of protection, and now it covers us as well. I’m sure that’s why the president accepted their offer.”

Reilly agreed. “It was probably wise. I’ve hardly more than a dozen men under my authority while the Soviets can offer hundreds. Besides, if anything happens to the president in the Soviet compound, our secret service will lose their jobs, but the Russian secret-service men will be dead before nightfall.”

They pulled into the compound and were directed toward a building at the far end where an entire floor of rooms was turned over to the US visitors. Mia deposited her suitcase in a cubbyhole room down the hall from the more stately one assigned to Hopkins. A suite with sitting room and private bath had been set aside for the president.

After an ad hoc lunch prepared by the embassy cook, Roosevelt and his immediate entourage met in the president’s sitting room to discuss scheduling, and the lack of strategy surprised Mia. It seemed that the president planned to use goodwill and charm to win Stalin over rather than an agreed-upon discussion schedule.

But before anyone could speak, a Soviet officer entered, followed by ten uniformed guards and Joseph Stalin. The guards, both male and female, took up positions along the wall on both sides of the door, automatic rifles across their chests.

Stalin ambled toward the president, obviously in an excellent mood, perhaps because the installation of the Roosevelt party in the Soviet Embassy was a show of strength for him. The “father of the Russians” could spread his protective cloak around the American president, too.

He was shorter than the press photos had led her to believe. His coarse square face was heavily lined and pockmarked, but his wide mustache and full, thick hair combed straight back gave him an air of bullish virility glaringly absent in both Hopkins and the president. Thank God that, in the twentieth century, it took more than bullish virility to hold power.

Stalin bent forward and shook Roosevelt’s hand vigorously. “I am so glad to finally meet you,” he said through his interpreter, who stood at his side.

He drew up a chair and began a lighthearted banter, about flying and the unpleasantness of having to travel far from home. His Georgian accent was conspicuous. Roosevelt omitted mentioning that his host had flown fifteen hundred miles while he himself, in a wheelchair, had traveled over six thousand.

Instead he politely asked how the Soviet troops were faring, and Stalin admitted candidly that the Red Army was bogged down on most fronts. Roosevelt said the United States was doing its best to draw off some of the Wehrmacht into Italy and North Africa, though Stalin’s cool expression made it clear that the strategy was not enough. Not nearly enough.

Sitting behind Hopkins, Mia scribbled notes as inconspicuously as possible, glad for the delay that using an interpreter caused in the dialogue. Once she’d slipped into the flow of the conversation and used initials and symbols in place of words, it went quickly, and she had the leisure to look up occasionally at the dictator and his guards. The Russians seemed to glower across the room at Roosevelt’s guards, who, in turn, glowered back at them. Even the plain-clothes security forces watched each other with suspicion. Never were two world leaders better guarded than in that room on that day.

The Russian guards who stood with their automatic rifles across their chests had surely been chosen for their beauty as much as for their prowess. The eight broad-chested men, with distinct Slavic faces, were as virile as their leader, and the two women were tall and handsome.

One of them, in fact, was stunning. A pale blonde with full lips, wide cheekbones, and slightly hooded eyes seemed familiar, and with a jolt Mia realized why. It could have been the sister of Grushenka, a taller, nobler, fully armed Grushenka.

She tore her eyes away, realizing she had missed a remark by Stalin, and hoped it was something trivial. But just then he stood up, and it was clear that his visit had been a courtesy, a way to show camaraderie with Roosevelt before Churchill entered the mix. With another series of handshakes, he left, once again followed by the splendid beasts of his military guard.

* * *

At ten o’clock, the first official meeting of the Big Three leaders began in the main part of the Soviet Embassy. Roosevelt sat with Hopkins, the admiral who headed the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and representatives of the navy and air force. She made a note to learn all their names.

Winston Churchill entered, having just come from the British Embassy across the street. As he passed her, Mia noted the familiar odors of cigars and whiskey. He took his place, along with Foreign Minister Eden, an admiral, and an RAF officer.

The door opened again and Stalin entered, followed by Molotov and the guards, and the room fell silent. As if compelled by some vast magnet, all those who were sitting stood up. Only Roosevelt, in his wheelchair, remained seated, and his sly smile suggested he enjoyed being exempt from the general obeisance.

Mia readied her fountain pen for note-taking but allowed herself a final lingering look at Stalin’s personal guard. The men, she supposed, were the same as before, but all Mia really cared about was… ah, yes, she was there, second from the end, the splendid “Grushenka” guard.

Mia’s attention was drawn back to her work as Stalin welcomed everyone with general pleasantries. Churchill followed, reminding his audience they were the greatest concentration of power the world had ever seen and that together they directed armies of some twenty million men.

Mia scribbled for the next two hours, then after a break, for two hours more, recording the discussions, agreements, and disagreements about the running of the war. By the end of the afternoon, all she could think of were her slowly cramping fingers and dinner.

In fact, the Americans hosted the first formal dinner of the conference. The presidential cook, together with kitchen staff from the US Embassy, produced a banquet that ought to have impressed their Russian hosts, although the endless obligatory toasts were made with bourbon rather than vodka.

Off duty, Mia could observe Stalin’s guards at her leisure. Once it even seemed the “Grushenka” guard glanced back at her, but it was probably her imagination. Her foolish, lonely, starved imagination.

* * *

The second day of the conference began as intense and wearying as the first, with negotiations over Poland’s postwar boundaries, the dividing up of Germany, and the formation of a United Nations Assembly.

Inevitably, Stalin brought the discussion around to the demand that the Western allies open a second front to draw off some of the German force in the East. Roosevelt announced a rough date for an invasion, called Operation Overlord. It would be headed by Dwight Eisenhower and would occur—and here both Molotov and Stalin scowled—in the spring of 1944.

“Why not sooner?” Stalin demanded to know. “Every day you wait, a river of Russian blood is being shed.”

Churchill reiterated, “The English Channel, with its winds, storms, and currents, is simply unsuitable for military operations before May. It’s much too dangerous for our landing craft.”

Stalin leaned forward and pointed with the stem of his pipe. “The Red Army has weathered far worse conditions for two years, and we have just lost nearly a million men at Stalingrad.”

The truth of the remark brought a tense silence to the room. It was mercifully alleviated when Churchill signaled someone at the door, and a British honor guard entered wheeling a large wooden case on a handcart.

Churchill stood up from the table, strode toward the mysterious case, and opened it. With a flourish, he withdrew a huge, jewel-encrusted Crusader’s sword in a scarlet scabbard and presented it to Stalin. “We in the West acknowledge the tragedy of Stalingrad. Therefore, in the name of our King, George VI, we offer this Sword of Stalingrad in recognition of the bravery of the men fallen in defense of that great city.”