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whispered Fedor with a wink.
    “Fedor,” yelled Miss Fullcharge, “you are tracking the floor.” She flicked her fingers toward the door. “Go back where you belong.” Only slightly less coldly, she said, “May I help you, Miss . . .?”
    “Michaels. I’m trying to find my mother,” Niki said in English, “she was—”
    “Sign the register.”
    The door closed as Fedor retreated. Niki did as she was told, then repeated, “I’m trying to find my mother, she—”
    “No one can see you now.”
    “I’ll wait.”
    It was warm inside. Niki backed against a wall in the chairless entry and tucked her hands under her arms. “I don’t suppose there’s a phone I could use?”
    Miss Fullcharge tapped her watch. “Four-thirty. We are closed.”
    Niki acted as if she hadn’t heard and stared at the opposite wall. Two portraits stared back: Mikhail Gorbachev and Boris Yeltsin. Their frames sat on the tile floor below a single hook on the wall.
    Distant voices echoed from somewhere. Niki picked up a sentence or two about Boris Yeltsin and the new government. They were punctuated with obscenities.
    “You are wasting your time,” said Miss Fullcharge as she eyed Niki’s muddy clothes. “If you do not leave, I will have to—”
    “Please, let me talk to someone.”
    “There is no one here.”
    “I hear voices. Do you think they are in my head?”
    “Your problems are nothing to us,” the woman huffed. “Everyone is busy. We do not know which flag to fly, which portrait to hang. Moscow is in turmoil. I cannot wait to return.”
    “I’m sure it won’t be soon enough. Please, I just want to ask some questions about my mother, Lana Michaels.”
    “Svetlana?” the woman mumbled to herself. She picked up her phone and whispered something without taking her eyes off Niki, then hung up. “You are to stay where you are,” she ordered. “Someone will speak to you.”
    The sharp snap of cleated heels echoed down a corridor. A man rounded the corner, black suited and red tied. His mustache almost hid his thin upper lip, down at the corners. His eyes were dark, too close together, Niki thought.
    “So, you are looking for Svetlana Mikhailovna. We have never heard of her.”
    “No, Lana Michael—” The words had not fully spilled when Niki realized the similarity.
    The man’s eyes flashed. “Whatever. When did you see her last?”
    “When did you see her last?” Niki shot back.
    The man clenched his jaw, then forced his thin lip into the semblance of a smile. “We are not a bureau for missing persons, but of course we attempt to accommodate you Americans. Should we discover something, we will contact you.”
    Miss Fullcharge pointed at the register. “She is staying at the Sinbad.” Warmth left the room like water down a toilet.
    “Yes, call me at the Sinbad when you know something,” said Niki looking for the exit. Worse than the thought of confronting her mother was the thought that the lying, narrow-eyed man knew where she was staying.
    Niki turned her back to him and quickly walked away, wondering who her mother really was, wondering if she would be shot before she reached the door.
     
    Outside, the air was thick, the smells strong. Looking back, Niki ducked off the main street and down the sidewalk along Baker, the hedge to her left, the consulate to her right.
    Water rippled down the concrete as it made its way to the bay. Between the drone of foghorns sounded the click of heels behind her.

CHAPTER FIVE

    Niki turned toward the sound of the footsteps and saw nothing on the fog-draped street. Silence, but for the pounding of her heart.
    Another five steps.
    A foghorn droned, a motor whined, and a garage door rattled as it started to open to the basement garage of the Russian Consulate.
    A hand grabbed Niki’s shoulder. As a scream found her lips, Fedor’s hand found her mouth. He yanked her from the sidewalk, throwing her to the ground in the dense hedge. “Hush. I am to help,” he said after