Manhattan

United Nations Headquarters - The General Assembly Hall

1st Avenue & East 44th Street - Same Day

The concert was over. The audience was applauding. The young American student beside Zoya was so excited by the standing ovation he squeezed her hand. Only twelve or thirteen years old, the boy was smiling. Right now he didn’t care that she was Russian – they were friends, part of a winning team. The success was theirs equally. Belatedly she appreciated that her mother’s plans were much more than about the quality of the performance. It had been Raisa’s idea for everyone to wear the same clothes, American and Soviet students alike, and it had been her idea that they commission new music from international composers. The world’s diplomatic elite was applauding the way in which the concert had navigated the many potential traps, offending no one and including everyone. Raisa had tiptoed between different sensitivities with the aplomb of a diplomat, and the diplomatic audience was showing their appreciation.

Zoya followed the young American boy offstage, applause still ringing in the Assembly Hall. Once in the corridor the students broke formation, hugging each other, thrilled with their success. Raisa was talking to the American school principal, both of them laughing in contrast to their cagey conversations during the dress rehearsal. Zoya was pleased for her mother. She deserved to be proud of her achievements and Zoya regretted being so cynical about the entire event, wishing that she’d been more supportive, just as Elena had been.

Glancing around the students, Zoya couldn’t see her sister. She’d only been positioned a few students away in the line-up yet was nowhere to be seen. She began looking for her, nudging through the crowd now mixed with members of the audience streaming out from the main auditorium. More and more people were pushing into the corridor, keen to congratulate them, men she didn’t recognize shaking her hand. She caught sight of Mikael Ivanov, the propaganda officer, cutting a path through the students, with apparently no interest in them despite the fact that they were being photographed.

Zoya followed him.

***

Flushed with success, Raisa eagerly tried to find her daughters. It was difficult to locate them since the corridors were so full. She stood on the spot, slowly turning around, searching the crowd. They were nowhere to be seen. A tingling anxiety rose up through her legs into her stomach; she paid no attention to the congratulations offered to her, ignored the very men and women she’d been sent here to impress. Pushing through the group she saw Zoya and felt relief. She hurried towards her.

—Where’s Elena?

Zoya looked at her, pale with worry.

—I don’t know.

Zoya raised her hand, pointing in front of her.

Raisa saw Mikael Ivanov with his back to her and the children, staring out of the large lobby windows at the street and the demonstration. Behind him photographers flashed their cameras at the children and yet he didn’t turn around, his attention concentrated on the events outside. She walked up to him, grabbing his arm and turning him around, staring into his handsome face with such determined ferocity that he recoiled but she did not let go of his arm:

—Where is Elena?

He was about to lie: she could see the process as clearly as if she were regarding the mechanics of a watch.

—Don’t lie to me or I swear I’ll start screaming in front of all these very important guests.

He said nothing. She glanced at the demonstration and whispered:

—If anything happens to her, I’ll kill you.