“I thought you wanted coffee.”

“I do. But I want to hold you for a minute first.”

“What’s wrong, Mama? You seem sad.”

“I just love you very much.”

“Does that make you sad?”

“Sometimes.” Elena kissed Anna’s cheek. “Go, now. And don’t come back without coffee.”

She closed her eyes again and listened to the patter of Anna’s bare feet receding. A gust of cool wind moved in the curtains and made shadows dance and play for her on the walls of the bedroom. Like all the rooms of the house, it was far too large for familial or marital intimacy, and now, alone in the cavernous space, Elena felt a prisoner to its vastness. She pulled the blankets tightly to her chin, creating a small space for herself, and thought of Leningrad before the fall. As a child of a senior Communist Party official, she had lived a life of Soviet privilege-a life of special stores, plentiful food and clothing, and trips abroad to other Warsaw Pact countries. Yet nothing in her charmed upbringing could have prepared her for the extravagance of life with Ivan. Homes such as this did not exist, she had been told as a child, not only by the Soviet system but by an orthodox father who kept faith with communism even when it was clear the emperor truly had no clothes. Elena realized now that she had been lied to her entire life, first by her father and now by her husband. Ivan liked to pretend this grand palace by the sea was a reward for his capitalist ingenuity and hard work. In truth, it had been acquired through corruption and connectionsto the old order. And it was awash in blood. Some nights, in her dreams, she saw the blood. It flowed in rivers along the endless marble corridors and spilled like waterfalls down the grand staircases. The blood shed by men wielding Ivan’s weapons. The blood of children forced to fight in Ivan’s wars.

Anna reappeared, a breakfast tray balanced precariously in her hands. She placed it on the bed next to Elena and took great pleasure in pointing out its contents: a bowl of café au lait, two slices of toasted baguette, butter, fresh strawberry preserves, copies of the Financial Times and the Herald Tribune. Then she kissed Elena’s cheek and departed. Elena quickly drank half the coffee, hoping the caffeine would act as an antidote to her headache, and devoured the first slice of the toast. For some reason, she was unusually hungry. A glance at the clock on her bedside table told her why. It was nearly noon.

She slowly finished the rest of the coffee while her headache gradually receded. With its departure, she was granted a sudden clarity of vision. She thought of the woman she knew as Sarah Crawford. And of Mikhail. And of the man who had painted such a beautiful forgery of Two Children on a Beach by Mary Cassatt. She did not know precisely who they were; she only knew that she had no choice but to join them. For the innocent who might die, she told herself now. For Russia. For herself.

For the children…

Another gust of wind stirred the long curtains. This time, it brought the sound of Ivan’s voice. Elena wrapped herself in a silk robe and walked onto the terrace overlooking the swimming pool and the sea. Ivan was supervising the cleanup of the storm damage, barking orders at the groundskeepers like the foreman of a chain gang. Elena slipped back inside before he could see her and quickly entered the large sunlit chamber he used as his informal upstairs office. Though the rules of their marriage were largely unspoken, this room, like all of Ivan’s offices, was a forbidden zone for both Elena and the children. He had been there already that morning; it was evident in the stench of cologne that hung on the air and the morning headlines from Moscow scrolling across the screen of the computer. Two identical mobile phones lay on the leather blotter, power lights winking. In violation of all marital decrees, spoken and unspoken, she picked up one of the phones and clicked to the directory of the ten most recently dialed numbers. One number appeared three times: 3064006. With another click of a button, she dialed it again now. Ten seconds later, a female voice in French answered: “Good morning. Carlton Hotel. How may I direct your call?”

“Yekatarina Mazurov.”

“One moment, please.”

Then, two rings later, another female voice: younger than the first, Russian instead of French.

“Ivan, darling, is that you? I thought you would never call. Can I come with you on the trip, or is Elena going to be with you? Ivan… What’s wrong… Answer me, Ivan…”

Elena calmly terminated the call. Then, from behind her, came another voice: Russian, male, taut with quiet rage.

“What are you doing in here?”

She spun round, telephone still in her hand, and saw Ivan standing in the doorway.

“I told my mother I would call her this morning.”

He walked over and removed the phone from her grasp, then reached into the pocket of his trousers and handed her another. “Use this one,” he ordered without explanation.

“What difference does it make which phone I use?”

Ignoring her question, he inspected the surface of the desk to see if anything else had been disturbed. “You slept late,” he said, as if pointing out something Elena hadn’t considered. “I don’t know how you managed to sleep through all that thunder and lightning.”

“I wasn’t feeling well.”

“You look well this morning.”

“I’m a bit better, thank you.”

“Aren’t you going to call her?”

“Who?”

“Your mother.”

Ivan was a veteran of such games and far too quick for her. Elena felt a sudden need for time and space. She slipped past him and carried the phone back to bed.

“What are you doing?”

She held up the phone. “Calling my mother.”

“But you should be getting dressed. Everyone’s meeting us in the Old Port at twelve-thirty.”

“For what?” she asked, feigning ignorance.

“We’re spending the afternoon on the boat. I told you yesterday.”

“I’m sorry, Ivan. It must have slipped my mind.”

“So what are you doing back in bed? We have to leave in a few minutes.”

“Who have you invited?”

He rattled off a few names, all Russian, all male.

“I’m not sure I’m up to it, Ivan. If it’s all right with you, I’ll stay with the children. Besides, you and your friends will have more fun if I’m not there.”

He didn’t bother to protest. Instead, he consulted his gold wristwatch, as if checking to see if there was still time to reach Yekatarina. Elena resisted the impulse to inform him that she was eagerly awaiting his call.

“What are you going to do with yourself all day?” he inquired casually, as if her answer didn’t much concern him.

“I’m going to lie in bed and read the newspapers. Then, if I’m feeling well enough, I’ll take the children into town. It’s market day, Ivan. You know how much the children love the market.”

The market: Ivan’s vision of hell on earth. He made one final indifferent attempt to change her mind before retiring to his private bathroom suite to shave and shower. Ten minutes later, freshly clothed and scented, he headed downstairs. Elena, still in bed, switched on the television and scrolled through the channels to the closed-circuit shot from the security cameras at the front gate. Ivan must have been anticipating a dangerous day on the waters off the Côte d’Azur because he was carrying his full package of security: a driver and two bodyguards in his own car, plus a second car filled with four other men. Elena glimpsed him one final time as he climbed into the back of his car. He was talking on his mobile phone and wearing the smile he reserved for Yekatarina.

She switched off the television and, using her last perfidious vision as motivation, swung her feet to the floor. Don’t stop now, she told herself. If you stop, you’ll never find the courage to start again. And whatever you do, don’t look back. You’re never alone. Those final words were not her own. They had been spoken by the man she knew as Mikhail. The man who would soon become her lover.