Obviously surprised, and with much of his anger assuaged, Stalin took the sword, kissed the blade, and handed it to Voroshilov, who stood next to him. It was perhaps a bad omen that Voroshilov took hold of it so clumsily that the blade slipped out of the scabbard and fell to the floor.

* * *

Dinner on the second evening was at the British Embassy, and at seven o’clock, the Soviets arrived in force. Stalin was accompanied by Molotov, Voroshilov, and the man whom she now recognized was Beria, head of the NKVD. Pale, pasty men, lacking completely the statuesque beauty of the honor guard that followed directly behind them.

Another contingent—it must have been fifty—of ordinary soldiers streamed in behind them and took up position at every door and window within sight and, presumably, within the entire building. The only way the leader of the Soviet Union could have been attacked that evening would have been by bombardment from above. The Grushenka guard didn’t glance her way this time, but Mia seemed to sense an awareness radiating from her.

Dinner once again was awash in liquor, and she shared in the toasts saluting the various armies, air forces, navies, cultures, ancestors, courage, and miscellaneous manly virtues. The alcohol made her dizzy, but it also fueled her courage. At the end of the dinner, she threaded her way among the British guests toward the Russian security chief who stood a few feet from Stalin. She tugged on his sleeve and he turned around, startled.

“Excuse me, but can you tell me the names of the honor guard?”

He seemed as surprised to hear Russian from an American as he was puzzled by the question. “Why do you want to know? Have they behaved badly?”

“Oh, no. Mr. Hopkins, the president’s aide, wants me to record the events of the evening, and I was so impressed by the guard detachment I thought it would be nice to record their names. For posterity.”

It sounded lame, she knew, and she could see by his frown that, even if he knew them, he would not tell her. She searched for a way to backpedal.

“Perhaps just the two women. We have no such women in our military, and I personally admire their inclusion. But if it is contrary to protocol, I apologize for asking.”

He seemed to weigh the risk of giving personal information against the requirements of hospitality. “I do not know their full names,” he said. “But the dark-haired one is Tatyana, and the blonde is Alexia. Will that be enough for your report?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Mia backed away, pacing carefully and gripping the backs of chairs to keep her equilibrium. Alexia. She pronounced the name as she walked. It seemed as splendidly Russian as the woman herself.

* * *

The next day, though slightly hung over, she joined Hopkins as they filed into the conference room for the summation meeting. When it was adjourned and she gathered her notes, Stalin announced that there would be a photo session outside of the embassy.

“Newspaper photographers?” she asked Hopkins. “I thought the entire conference was a secret.”

“Military photographers. The president will announce the results of the conference when he returns, and we’ll use the photographs then.” He wheeled Roosevelt out before the portico and helped him onto a chair. Churchill sat, slouched and grumpy, at his left in the tunic of an air commodore of the RAF. Stalin took his seat at the president’s right, looking dour in his usual military tunic, with a single decoration, the gold star of the Hero of the Soviet Union. Roosevelt twisted slightly toward him and crossed one leg over the other. Only someone who looked very closely could see the outline of steel braces under his black socks.

The army photographers took a series of photos, with various military and political retinues in the background, and then the show was over. As soon as the cameras were out of sight, Roosevelt’s personal assistants helped him onto his wheelchair, and the final handshakes, bons mots, backslaps, half lies, and promises marked the end of the conference.

Departure the next morning at Qaleh Morgi airport was anticlimactic. Stalin accompanied the president to his plane, striding alongside the wheelchair. His heavily armed guards marching in two lines, flanked them both.

When the departure formalities were done and the president was safely inside the Air Force C 54 transport, Mia mounted the steps behind Hopkins. Before entering the plane, she glanced back at the Russians, not at Stalin, the Man of Steel, but at the splendid woman of flesh and blood standing at attention.

Chapter Six

After the excitement of Tehran, the December days seemed long and dreary. Mia spent her workdays monitoring the Lend-Lease orders to Russia and the United Kingdom, and only the memory of the trains and truck convoys traveling through Iran toward Russia reminded her they were real.

But the sky was bleak, and her tiny cubicle never seemed quite warm enough. It was also Christmas Eve, and she was slightly grumpy that she had to work. She had allowed herself to doze slightly over her ledger, when the sound of a polite cough woke her.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Hopkins. I guess I nodded off.”

“Quite all right. It’s Christmas Eve, anyhow. Why don’t you close up shop and come over for a holiday drink.”

“Sounds great.” She closed her ledger, clicked off the goosenecked lamp, and followed him into his office. While he poured two small glasses of bourbon, she drew up a chair and sat across from him.

“What’s the news from the front? Or have you been in the Map Room lately?”

“The Russians are advancing slowly in the Ukraine, or at least not retreating.” He took a sip of his bourbon. “Anything interesting in the cables?”

“Molotov is still complaining about discrepancies between what we promise and what is delivered and demanding duplicates. Our agents in Arkhangelsk, Murmansk, and Basra have sent cargo lists back to us, so the materials make it that far, but some of them don’t get any farther. Molotov is convinced we’re shortchanging them.”

Hopkins closed his eyes, either from fatigue or exasperation, she couldn’t tell which. “In any case, we have to investigate.”

“Who should we call?”

“I mean face-to-face meetings. I’m overdue to meet with several of the big players in Moscow anyhow: Molotov, Ustinov, our Ambassador Harriman, a few others.”

“Another trip overseas.” She felt a wave of sympathy. Traveling was hard on him. “When will you have to leave?”

“Not just me. I need you to accompany me, for the same reasons you came along to Tehran. You know the inside workings of the program, can do the accounting if necessary, and most of all, you speak Russian.”

“Oh!” She straightened. She hadn’t anticipated that. “Well, then, when will we have to leave?”

“Right after New Year’s. January 3, to be exact. It’ll just be the two of us, so we won’t have the circus we had in Tehran. Ambassador Harriman will meet us in Moscow. With any luck, we can resolve the various problems in a couple of days and then have a day to relax. You can look around and see what you remember of Moscow.”

“Actually, I’m from St. Petersburg. I mean Leningrad. Obviously I won’t be able to go there.”

“No, of course not. The siege is still on. Poor devils. Starving to death, and we can’t get any of our stuff through to them. You still have relatives there?”

“No one I’m in contact with. Moscow should be interesting, though.”

“I was there last year, and it was in pretty bad shape. Nightly blackouts, food and fuel shortages, long lines in front of the shops. Pretty tough people, the Russians.”

“True, but they seem so… overwrought… so melodramatic about everything. Worse than the Italians.” She snickered.

Hopkins sat back and crossed his legs, his bony knees outlined through his trousers. “Maybe that’s what appeals to me. They’ve suffered throughout their history. First the tsars, then the revolution, now the Nazis. And even if Stalin is a brutal dictator, I appreciate what they’re trying to do with communism. Not that I’m a communist. Good grief, no. But, like the president, I think government has a responsibility to take care of its people, to see that everyone gets a fair shake.”

“That was the New Deal, wasn’t it? And you worked on that with him.” She sipped her bourbon.

“Yeah. We’ve both been lefties from way back. And I like the melodramatic part of Russian culture. Mussorgsky, Tchaikovsky, Rachmaninoff. I’m fond of their literature, too. Well, as much of it as I’ve read—Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky.”

Mia laughed again. “I agree about the music. And their ballet is pretty terrific, too, but spare me Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky. My father made me read them. Too obsessed with God for me.”

Hopkins took another mouthful of whiskey and let it swirl around in his mouth for a moment. “Passionate about God, maybe, but not Christian in the usual sense. Tolstoy ridiculed the miracles and superstitions in the Bible and saw value only in the Sermon on the Mount. He even wrote his own Gospel in Brief with no miracles and no resurrection.”

“Still, every Russian drama is connected with God. Seems silly to me.”

“Well, it’s Christmas Eve, so let’s leave a little room for Him, shall we? You’re coming to the White House celebration later, aren’t you?”

She tossed back the last of the bourbon and stood up. “Definitely. Carols and party food. That’s the kind of theology I like.”

“Bah, humbug, eh?” He chuckled as he closed the door behind her.