The nursery was bathed in the soft, diffused light of a late Russian afternoon. The room, for all its reinforced steel and independent life support systems, felt remarkably peaceful. It smelled of talcum powder, clean cotton, and the faint, sweet scent of milk. Ivan was asleep, curled on his side like a tiny, self-contained warrior. Giovanni, however, was wide awake, lying on his back on the patterned blanket, batting at a soft, knitted bear hanging from the mobile.

I watched Vladimir from the ...