Standing inside the door to the apartment building, where she could see the street and shelter from the cold, Natalya waited nervously for Sokolov’s driver. It had taken considerable planning—and risk—to get there. She had to leave the children with Fanya, most likely for the night, which meant explaining herself when she got back. She left the apartment dressed as if she were going into the legation for a work emergency, which she’d told Fanya. She knew, however, that she had to look good for Sokolov.
She wore her usual wool stockings out the door so as not to tip off Fanya, but she’d carefully packed her one pair of American nylon stockings into her largest briefcase, along with all her seldom-used makeup. All she had were sensible shoes, but at least they were for indoor work, so not completely gauche. Then, there was the problem of where to change.
She decided the driver knew everything anyway, so she directed him to pull to the curb on a darker street and keep his eyes off his rearview mirror. The last time she’d put on her nylons was for Mikhail’s birthday. It had given both of them pleasure. Now, she felt like she was decorating a roast chicken that was about to be served.
She finished putting on her lipstick and snapped her compact shut. The sound made the driver involuntarily look up at the mirror.
The car pulled up in front of the hotel. Sokolov was waiting by the curb. He opened the door and smiled at her. Then she went numb.