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always tell the whole story.”
    “Indeed. Just don’t prove me wrong.”

    Scott spotted the strip mall on Route 7 outside Falls Church, Virginia. A quarter mile beyond it, Scott turned onto a narrow street and drove past 1960’s-era split levels and ranchers until he came to a house surrounded by a fence in need of repair. He pulled into the driveway and parked behind a silver Buick.
    The Drummond property looked unkempt and weedy, but the house had been recently painted. He spotted a barbecue kettle and lawn chairs stacked against the garage, forgotten since summer. Who would take care of these things now? he wondered. Now that Frank was dead.
    A radiator knocked but inside, the house felt chilly and damp, perhaps something to do with Frank’s absence that was palpable. The house felt familiar. The vanilla-colored woodwork and neutral carpeting. A glass-fronted cabinet filled with knickknacks from the Far East: porcelain, carved ivory Buddhas, lacquered rice bowls inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Drummond’s collection of Navy memorabilia on shelves in his study: a cracked coffee mug, a nickel-plated ashtray, cigarette lighters emblazoned with the logos of the subs he’d served in. Evidence of a life lived.
    “I made us something to eat,” said Vivian Drummond. Her face looked drawn, eyes liquid.
    They sat in the kitchen, which gave onto a deep yard bounded at one end by a copse of leafless maples.
    Vivian pushed up the sleeves of her mauve sweater and poured coffee. She set out freshly made chicken salad on beds of lettuce, and chilled white wine. Always the perfect hostess. Everything just right even in tragedy. Then she broke down.
    Scott held her, rocking her like a child.
    “I don’t understand it,” she said. “I just saw him in St. Petersburg. We had a wonderful visit. Romance, dinner, the theater. He was looking forward to wrapping up his work and coming home. It’s beyond belief. I can’t comprehend how such a thing could happen. All those years in the boats, the dangerous missions that scared the hell out of him and me—not a scratch, and now this. A robbery in Murmansk.”
    Scott knew that the story concocted by the SRO, of a robbery gone bad, would not ease Vivian’s pain.
    And there was nothing he could say that wouldn’t make him feel less guilty for betraying her.
    “Vivian, did Frank tell you what he was doing in Murmansk?”
    Vivian dabbed her eyes, tried to limit the damage to her makeup. “I look a mess. No. He never talked about his work. Never. And a good Navy wife doesn’t ask.”
    They tried to eat their meal that suddenly had lost its appeal. Instead Vivian drank a glass of wine. She got up, sat down, got up again. “I don’t think I can stay here, Jake. Not now. Too many memories. I’ll sell and head south. Or maybe California.”
    “Things may look different later. We can talk about it when I return.”
    Vivian went to him. “Jake, I don’t know how to express my gratitude. It’s got to be terribly difficult for you, too, bringing him back.”
    “I owe him. I owe him everything. He knew what they planned to do with me. He made them admit the truth. They knew we were lucky to get out alive, lucky to save the ship. Everyone involved in the mission knew the risks we ran—Ellsworth, the rest of them…” He caught himself. “Sorry, Viv. I didn’t mean to bring it up. Not now. It’s just that—”
    “I understand. Frank would understand. Didn’t he always?”
    “Sure.”
    Jake sensed Vivian’s resource of stoicism had been drained dry. Her shoulders sagged and her fine features were about to crumble. He kissed her on the cheek and stood back. “It shouldn’t take me more than a week. I’ll take care of everything.”
    “Will they catch the person who murdered Frank?”
    “I understand the Russian security service is working closely with the embassy. I’ll look into it.” It was one lie he could live with.
    When it seemed Vivian didn’t want to talk about it