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snatched from the life you had together and all that was left of him was that stain? How could you comment when you could barely live with the knowledge that you didn’t have a meaningful last moment together, a moment that could perhaps have eased some of his burden?
    It wasn’t possible to speak of that heartache. And so she never did.
    Amelia slipped the clipping back into the envelope and placed it at the bottom of the pile again. The need to release statements no longer existed. All she required of herself now, was to act.

4
    M ara Tshabalala stared at Amelia uncomprehendingly, her deep brown eyes puzzled. For a second time she bowed her head to look at the newspaper clipping in her hand. There was a moment’s hesitation before she raised her glasses to her eyes and started reading it again, this time aloud, as if hearing the words would help her understand their hidden implications:
    ‘“ In an announcement that stunned industry experts, the Canadian mining exploration company Prism disclosed yesterday that it had sold its stake in a joint venture with Russian mining company Sibraz. The JV was formed three years ago to explore and mine a diamond deposit located in the Kola Peninsula, in the northern region of Murmansk. Prism denied that the sale had anything to do with repeated reports in the past of conflict between the two companies. A spokesperson for the company declined to disclose details of the sale, and would only say that a British entity had taken over their 49%. ”’
    Incomprehension competed visibly with scepticism and concern on Mara’s usually kind face.
    ‘This was the company Robert was helping, Mara.’ Amelia said, eager for her old friend to understand.
    ‘Okay. And . . . what exactly does that mean?’ Mara glanced down at the piece of paper again. ‘Sorry, Amelia, I know I’m probably trying your patience, but I just don’t follow. What are you saying this means? If there’s some greater significance here, I’m not sure I understand what it is. How could this have brought you back?’
    This. A well-fingered newspaper cutting that Amelia had carried with her for the past three weeks after discovering it by chance. Indeed, how had a mere piece of paper possessed the power to bring her back to a place she hated and feared in equal parts? A good question and one she wanted to answer.
    It took effort not to rush ahead in an attempt to do so. This was the first time she’d spoken to anyone about her suspicions and the pent-up words weren’t coming out right. Over the past weeks, when she’d lain in bed, obsessively going over the reasons for her disquiet night after sleepless night, it had all made sense, but now, as she’d feared, her feeble explanations felt like desperate, incoherent speculation.
    Should she even be sharing the details with Mara? Despite the fact that she considered her a friend, she had so little in common with the woman sitting opposite her. Aside from the fact that both their husbands had been ambassadors to Russia, they couldn’t have shared more contrasting backgrounds. Mara Tshabalala came from southern Africa and had lived a life filled with struggle and sacrifice while Amelia had enjoyed many of the opportunities available to the child of a middle class family living in an affluent country.
    When she’d first arrived in Moscow, green and inexperienced in the strange world of the Foreign Service, Mara had immediately reached out and the easy kinship and basic understanding between them had quickly developed into a solid friendship. If anyone would be able to understand how complex the situation appeared to be, it would be Mara. On the other hand, Mara and her husband Wilfred were entering their last year of service before retirement to South Africa. Mara had never had an easy time in Moscow. Overcoming racism in her own country only to be subjected to more intolerance here in Russia seemed like a cruel joke. Should she really be burdening Mara with knowledge