Three men were waiting in the interrogation room. The golden-toothed questioner from last time occupied Ramanichev’s place; an NKVD officer with a shiny bald head and sharp-eyed Tatar face sat to his left. The third man was Yevgeny Shchepkin, Russell’s old partner in espionage. ‘I am Colonel Nikoladze,’ Gold Teeth admitted, with the air of someone revealing a state secret, ‘and this is Major Kazankin. Comrade Shchepkin I believe you know.’ Shchepkin’s hair had turned white since Russell last saw him, and his body seemed strangely stiff in the chair, but the eyes were alert as ever. ‘We have sad news for you,’ Nikoladze began briskly, conjuring instant images of dead Effis and Pauls. ‘Your president died yesterday.’ The relief was intense. ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Russell heard himself say. He supposed he was. He had never much liked Roosevelt, but he had admired him, particularly in the early years. ‘To business, then,’ Nikoladze said, laying both palms on the table.
