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taking care of my own side.”
    “Alex, listen carefully to me. Times have changed dramatically. The Communist Party, at least in my country, thank God, is dead and buried. And our two nations face common enemies in this young century: a rising China, obviously, that insane asylum North Korea, and radical Islam all over the world. Russia has historically been geographically schizophrenic, torn between the East and the West. Putin, and those closest to him, possess a yearning to shift toward Europe and the West. They would never admit this publicly, of course, but it’s true. Their sensitivities gravitate toward Berlin and Paris, to the great capitals of the West, not to Communist dictatorships in Beijing or Pyongyang. And let’s not forget the Castro brothers in Havana or that thug Chavez in Venezuela.”
    Hawke was silent. A door had opened. Wide. And he was not about to slam it in Kuragin’s, much less Putin’s, face. That was not how the intelligence game was played at this level. It was a very delicate tradecraft moment, one in which to keep one’s cards preternaturally close. Hawke looked at Kuragin, not saying a word.
    “Well,” Kuragin said finally, eyeing Hawke. “Obviously, this is not something to be discussed now. Or, ever, if that is your wish. Our warm feelings for you will remain unchanged regardless. Let me give you this card. There’s no name on it, only a number. It is Putin’s private number. Not ten people in the world have access to it.”
    “Thank you,” Hawke said, pocketing the card.
    “On to other matters. Let’s begin with the true nature of your visit, shall we?”
    It was the one moment Hawke had been dreading during the long journey across Siberia. The moment of truth.
    “Well. Where does one begin?” He hesitated, then plunged ahead. “You see, Nikolai, I’ve come about Anastasia.”
    “Anastasia. I see. Well, I—”
    Hawke, in a turmoil of emotion, held up his hand. “Please, Nikolai. Don’t say anything. Just let me say what I have to say first. After that, you can either throw me a rope or throw me to the wolves. Is that all right?”
    “As you wish, Alex.”
    Hawke rose to his feet, pacing back and forth before the fire with his hands clasped behind his back.
    “It was no secret in Moscow that I was deeply in love with her. And, I believed, she with me. What you may not know are the exact events surrounding her death in Sweden. I had followed Korsakov from Stockholm to his island summerhouse. His escape route, his airship, was tethered to the roof. He had Anastasia with him in the car, bound and drugged. He felt she’d betrayed him for me. I had no doubt the Tsar was going to kill her. I was gravely wounded trying to get inside that house. To save her from her father’s blind rage. I failed. Then, I watched helplessly as he had her loaded aboard the doomed airship on a stretcher. I’m positive it was her. And—then—I—dear God—I—”
    He felt a hot clench in the muscles of his throat and was afraid he could not go on.
    “Alex, please, you’re very upset. Let me try to—”
    Hawke waved him away and took a moment to regain his composure. He returned to the chair opposite Kuragin and stared into his eyes for a long time before speaking.
    “Nikolai, I heard a rumor. I’m sure it cannot possibly be true. But I have lived with the knowledge that I killed the woman I loved for a very long time now. It’s unbearable. I returned to Jasna Polana solely because I was told that Anastasia is still alive. I was told that she was held prisoner here. I’ve absolutely no reason to believe this is true. I still don’t believe it, as we sit here. But I simply could not go on living without knowing the truth. I’ve come to you to learn the truth. Please—please help me.”
    “Anastasia is alive, Alex. She’s here. In this house. Now.”

Five
    H awke stared at Kuragin in disbelief for a brief moment, then, seeing the clear truth in his wise old eyes, put his face