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English. Austin cut him short:
    —
Let’s speak Russian. No one speaks it back home. When else am I going to practice?
    There was laughter. The official smiled, switching from English into Russian:
    —
Did you sleep well?
    Austin replied that he had, unaware that everyone already knew the answer.
    The group left the House on the Embankment, making their way through the snow, guiding their guest toward the limousine. Leo and Grigori broke off, heading toward their car. They would follow the party, rejoining them at their destination. As Leo opened the door, he looked back to see Austin eyeing the limousine with disdain. He began to petition the officials. Leo couldn’t hear what they were saying. There was a disagreement. The officials seemed reluctant. Ignoring their protests, Austin hastened away from the limousine, arriving beside Leo and Grigori:
    —
I don’t want to be driven around behind tinted windows! How many people in Russia drive cars like that!
    One of the officials caught up:
    —
Surely, Mr. Austin, you’d be more comfortable in the diplomatic vehicle? This is just a standard working car, nothing more.
    —
Standard working car sounds great to me!
    The official was flummoxed by this alteration of their carefully laid plans. He hurried back to his group, discussing the matter. He then returned and nodded:
    —
Very well, you and I will travel with Officer Demidov. The others will go ahead in the limousine.
    Leo opened the door, offering the front passenger seat to Austin. But once again Austin shook his head:
    —
I’ll sit in the back. I don’t want to take your colleague’s seat.
    Putting the car in gear, Leo glanced in the rearview mirror at Austin, his tall frame cramped into the ungenerousproportions of the car. The official peered at the rudimentary interior with dissatisfaction:
    —
These cars are very basic. They were built for work, not for leisure. I imagine they compare badly to many of your American cars. But we have no need for excess here.
    That sentiment may have carried more weight had the official not five minutes ago tried to impress his guest with the luxury of a limousine. Austin replied:
    —
It gets you there, doesn’t it?
    The official smiled, a smile designed to cover his confusion:
    —
Gets us where?
    —
Wherever it is we’re going.
    —
Yes, it will get us there. I hope!
    The official laughed. Austin did not. He disliked this man. Already the plans were unraveling.

YELISEYEV’S GROCERY STORE
GROCERY STORE NO. 1
TVERSKAYA 14
SAME DAY
    G ROCERY S TORE N O . 1 was the most exclusive shopping experience the city had to offer, open only to the elite. The walls were ornate, adorned with gold leaf. The pillars were marble, the tops decorative and intricate—flourishes that befitted a palace. It was a regal setting for the tins of food, polished and stacked with labels facing forward, the fresh fruit arranged in patterns, spirals of apples, hills of fat potatoes. Several days had been spent preparing the store. Each aisle overflowed with stock; the storerooms had been pillaged and everything had been brought forward and meticulously displayed. The result was a venue that Leo immediately recognized as an entirely inappropriate choice for their guest, a fundamental misunderstanding of the audience it was intended for. This store didn’t represent a model for a new society—it embodied the past, a Tsarist-era snapshot of exuberant wealth. Yet the gaggle of Party officials beamed at Austin as if expecting him to applaud. They had let vanity get in the way of identifying what their guest truly wanted, presenting him with ostentation, abiding by the calculation that the more they showed him, the more impressedhe’d be. Their profound fear of being seen as poor and shabby in relation to their American foes had blinded them.
    Leo paused beside tins of pea soup stacked in a pyramid formation. He’d never seen food arranged this way and wondered why a person would be impressed by such