I had no idea of where Lev and Marina lived, though I knew it had to be Kaliningrad. Both would have completed their studies at Bauman in the spring, and Lev’s employment in the bureau would have entitled him to a flat nearby.

It occurred to me that one new flat had become available in the summer of 1967—the one I had formerly occupied. Why shouldn’t Lev inherit my flat? He had already inherited my girlfriend!

So I went first to my former building, which was already beginning to show signs of deterioration: Bricks had fallen off the facing. In fact, there was netting over the entrance to prevent passersby from being clobbered. When I knocked on my former door, I was greeted by a young woman, a recent mother, to judge from the squalling child in the room.

But it was not Marina. I made a hurried apology and got out of there.

I had thought I was terribly clever—much as I had, early in the investigation of the Korolev murder, believed myself to be a master spy. And with as much success. Now I had no backup plan. I could contact someone in the bureau, Filin’s office, perhaps, or even Triyanov, who might tell me where to find Lev. Or I could leave a message for the Omsk Twins, if they were still at Bauman—

Here came Marina, bundled in her fur coat and boots, grocery bags in each hand, walking up to the building. Before I could offer any sort of greeting, she saw me. She stopped, dropped the bags to the sidewalk, and began to weep.

I got her upstairs to her flat, which turned out to be located in the same corner of the building as mine, but one floor higher up. I was busy trying to contain the spilled groceries, since the bags had torn, while trying to comfort Marina, so I didn’t ask about the baby. Or maybe I assumed her mother or Lev’s mother, if Lev had a mother, was upstairs with it.

But the flat was clearly that of a young childless couple. Silent, empty, free of toys or clothing, or that smell of baby food and other essences.

By now Marina had calmed down. Allowing for a momentary redness around her eyes, she looked heartbreakingly wonderful, prettier than I remembered, and I was about to get angry at Lev all over again. “Where is he? Or she?”

“Who?”

“The baby.”

She closed her eyes, and for a moment I thought she would cry. But she just sighed. “There is no baby,” she said. “I miscarried at six months.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“I doubt that anyone was eager to tell you.” We put the groceries away as if we were back in our respective student flats. “I shouldn’t have cried like that.”

“It’s all right.” I desperately wanted to take her in my arms. “How is Lev?”

She turned toward me. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”

“Yes, I came to check on him—”

“To check on him. Oh, Yuri. I don’t believe you.” She walked out of the kitchen.

I followed, catching her hand. “What do you mean?”

“You know he was taken in, right?”

“Yes. And I came to see if you needed help—”

“Just like a Bolshevik—”

“Marina, what the hell are you talking about?”

“Denounce a man, then swoop down on his abandoned wife all full of concern—”

“I didn’t denounce Lev!” No wonder she had burst into tears when she saw me. “I only heard that he was taken in for questioning along with Artemov—”

“And, of course, you had nothing to do with that, either!”

“No!” I was confused and angry. “Marina . . .”

She was looking into my eyes. “You still don’t know.”

“Obviously not, or I wouldn’t be sitting here like an idiot.”

Then, strangely, she began to laugh. “Yuri, who do you think I work for? Who sent me to Europe? Who is the head of the Sixth Directorate in State Security?” She only waited long enough for me to indicate that I had no idea. “Vladimir Alexandrovich Nefedov. I believe you know the name.”

Uncle Vladimir, head of a directorate in State Security? That was like being a four-star general, perhaps even a marshal of the Soviet Union, a rank greater than my father’s. “I know he has a high position in the organization, but—”

“—But! He’s been surrounding promising technical students at Bauman with his agents for years! The Sixth Directorate handles industrial and economic espionage, and future managers come from our school. He took a very long view of things.”

“It all sounds logical.”

“Even when he targets his own nephew?”

I still had never told Marina about my working relationship with Uncle Vladimir. Now did not seem like the right time. “Why should I be any different from other students?”

My poor attempt at a joke failed. “Yuri, you got into my class because your uncle put you on the list. He encouraged me to get to know you. Just as he encouraged me to marry a man so we could carry out surveillance in England.”

I sat silently, trying to absorb this terrible news. I guess I had suspected that Marina’s first marriage had been arranged—she had said as much in the past. But our relationship?

“Tell me,” I said, trying hard to be very calm, “did you ever love me? Or did my uncle give you orders to dump me and take up with Lev?”

It was her turn to sit silent, to consider her response. “You must believe me, Yuri. No matter what I’ve just told you, I am not a whore for State Security. I did their work because it saved my father’s life, but my heart was always my own. When I went to England, I was too young to realize that I was caught up in the romance and adventure, that my husband was a cruel, ruthless bastard.

“But I did fall in love with you. Or we would never have seen each other outside of class. You must believe me. By telling you these things, I’ve risked my career.”

“What about Lev?”

“You . . . withdrew from our relationship, Yuri. Think back to the time you started full-time at the bureau. You never had time for me anymore. Lev was there.” She frowned. “Though lately that fucking bureau has robbed me of his attention, too.”

That sounded like the Marina I knew and loved, a mixture of righteous indignation and spoiled girlishness.

“I’m sure he’ll be back soon, safe and sound.” I stood up, clumsily, my foot asleep in its cast. Marina caught me as I wobbled, and we kissed, deeply, warmly, as we used to.

Then I held her in the dark room—neither of us had turned on a light—swaying with her, like lovers on an empty dance floor in some movie about the Great Patriotic War, the pretty girl in her simple skirt and white blouse, the soldier in his uniform. . . .

“I should go.” I was confused by my own feelings, and, in truth, we had worn ourselves out emotionally.

There were tears in her eyes again. “Yes.”

Soon thereafter I was in an empty train heading out of Podlipki Station, trying to rearrange the puzzle pieces of my existence. Maybe I was still angry about Marina’s betrayal, no matter how justified she might have felt. But I was still not ready to tell her the truth of my situation.

Especially since I was completely confused about that situation. What was Uncle Vladimir up to? He had had me targeted for intelligence work long before he had approached me. Had he merely used the Korolev murder as a pretext to “activate” me?

Or was it something worse than that? Uncle Vladimir had been present in the Kremlin Hospital the day Korolev died. No murderer had yet been arrested.

Had Uncle Vladimir killed Korolev? If so, what had he hoped to gain? (Ridiculous . . . he was not even in the same wing of the hospital as Korolev.)

Or, had Uncle Vladimir somehow arranged for Artemov to take over? But why would he be persecuting him now, if, indeed, he was behind that?

Was there some way to link these events? Or was I feverish, emotionally distraught? Could Katya help me?

Too many questions. I had almost none of the information required for intelligent answers, and I needed to be intelligent, because the penalty for mistakes in this particular game was, indeed, death.