A Cold Red Sunrise

CHAPTER TWELVE

By the end of the day Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov would hear two confessions, watch someone die, conspire against the government and nearly meet his death for the second time since his arrival in Tumsk. At the moment, however, he stood over the bed of Sergei Mirasnikov who drank the dark liquid Kurmu had left for him.

Liana Mirasnikov held the cup in her shaking hands and the old man, who was already looking much better, complained constantly that she was trying to drown him.

"How are you feeling, Sergei Mirasnikov?" Rostnikov asked.

"Hungry," gurgled the old man. "Hungry and stiff in the arms."

"Good signs," said Rostnikov.

"Good signs," repeated Mirasnikov sarcastically after another sip from the cup. "If I died you would feel guilty the rest of your life because I got shot instead of you. So you feel relieved because it looks like I might live. Am I right or am I right?"

"You are right," Rostnikov agreed.

That seemed to satisfy the old man who finished off the last of the drink and gave his wife an angry look as if the taste of the liquid were her doing. She shuffled away silently and Mirasnikov, who was no longer perspiring, looked up at the Inspector.

"I'm sick but I'm not deaf," the old man said. "I heard things that happened. I remember seeing Kurmu."

"He didn't command a demon to kill Commissar Rutkin," said Rostnikov.

"I know that," said Mirasnikov irritably, and then he called to his wife, "Food. I need food, old creature." And then to Rostnikov again. "And I know that Dr. Samsonov didn't kill him either. How do you like that?"

"I am aware of that too," said Rostnikov.

"You are… All right. All right. Lean over here and I'll tell you something you didn't know. I'll tell you who your killer of Commissars is," croaked Mirasnikov.

And so Inspector Rostnikov leaned forward, smelling the bitter warmth of the brew on Mirasnikov's breath, and listened to the old man's whispered information, information which did not surprise him in the least.

"So, what are you going to do?" Mirasnikov said when Rostnikov stood up. "Go. Go make your arrest. End this. Get out of my town. It may be a frozen hell here in the long winter and a bog of insects in the short summer, but no one tries to kill me when you are not around."

"We will be going soon," said Rostnikov. "Very soon."

The old woman came hurrying back with two plates of food, small pieces of meat cooked soft, potatoes, beans.

"Well," grumbled Mirasnikov. "You might as well eat something before you go. Sit down."

So Rostnikov sat and thought and ate. Immediately after the hearing, Ludmilla Samsonov, her eyes moist, holding back tears, had asked Rostnikov to please let her speak to him as soon as possible. Rostnikov had nodded his agreement uncomfortably knowing that the woman would probably plead for her husband.

The first confession of the day came when Rostnikov returned to his room an hour later after hearing Mirasnikov's accusation. Karpo was busily preparing reports in his room. Sokolov was off somewhere, probably, thought Rostnikov, trying to talk the naval officer into letting him use the phone.

Rostnikov wasn't surprised to find General Krasnikov standing at the window in full uniform, his coat neatly draped over his left arm.

"I've come to confess," the general said.

"Please take a seat, General," said Rostnikov who had left his coat, hat and boots inside the downstairs door. "I'll sit on the bed."

"I'd prefer to stand," Krasnikov said.

"So I have noticed," said Rostnikov sitting on the bed, feeling the twinge in his leg.

"I killed Commissar Rutkin," the general said.

"Yes."

"That is all. I killed him."

"Would you tell me why you killed him?" Rostnikov asked reaching for the pillow and hugging it to his chest.

"He was an insulting, meddling bureaucrat," said Krasnikov.

"If we were to murder all the insulting, meddling bureaucrats in the Soviet Union, we would have to issue new incentives for women to replenish the depleted population," Rostnikov said.

"I killed him. This is a confession and I demand that you release Samsonov immediately," the general insisted.

"Would you still confess if I said that we would confiscate all of your property immediately and search through Samsonov's possessions the moment you were arrested?" asked Rostnikov. "Would you like some tea? Everyone in Tumsk has been filling me with tea for two days. I'd like the opportunity to return the favor."

"No tea," said Krasnikov. "Arrest me. I demand, as a Soviet citizen, to be arrested for murder."

"You did not kill Commissar Rutkin," said Rostnikov, leaning over to scratch the bottoms of his feet through his thick wool socks. "I know who killed Rutkin."

Krasnikov paused, looked at the man on the bed scratching his feet and said, "I don't believe you."

Rostnikov shrugged.

"Nonetheless, I know, and the killer is not you."

He stopped scratching, started rubbing, and went on.

"I admire your patriotism and conviction, however, Comrade General. To be willing to spend one's life in prison or possibly to be executed for one's beliefs is indeed admirable. One might guess, and mind you I am not doing so, that somewhere among the belongings of Lev or Ludmilla Samsonov is a manuscript, and that a military man who wrote that manuscript would do a great deal to get that manuscript carried to the West among the belongings of a notable dissident whose belongings are not likely to be searched carefully by a government wishing to let him leave as a sign of conciliation with the West. Does that not make sense?"

"Perhaps," agreed Krasnikov.

"In what form would you guess this manuscript would appear? I know it does not exist but if it did?" Rostnikov asked leaning back against the wall.

Krasnikov looked out the window, bit his lower lip and paced the small room once, from the window to the wall and back to the window where he turned to Rostnikov who looked up at him attentively.

"You have a son in Afghanistan?"

"I have."

"And you agree that the military operation there is improper for political, economic and humanitarian reasons?"

"I do," said Rostnikov.

"I am concerned primarily with the military error," Krasnikov said, looking as if he were about to resume pacing. "If I were to try to have a manuscript-length work carried out of the country by a departing citizen, a citizen who might not want to carry such a document, I would go through the painstaking process of actually printing one copy of the manuscript in book form and have it covered, bound and titled, probably giving it a title which an airport inspector or even a KGB officer would be likely to ignore."

"Printing one copy of a book would be most difficult, require special printing equipment, binding equipment," said Rostnikov, his eyes never leaving his visitor.

"It would probably take a year to do using crude equipment," said Krasnikov.

"And the idea would be that instead of hiding the manuscript, one disguises it and puts it in plain sight," said Rostnikov. "Clever."

"A traditional military tactic," said Krasnikov. "But it does no good if the carrier does not cross the border."

"Perhaps a miracle will happen very soon," said Rostnikov. "Perhaps a new killer will be identified and Samsonov will be freed and urged to leave the country within the week as he was scheduled 'to do."

Krasnikov examined the bland, flat face of the policeman and smiled.

"Then we will have to hope for a miracle," he said.

"Do you still wish to be arrested for murder?" Rostnikov asked.

"There seems to be a slight hint of sun this morning," said Krasnikov. "Perhaps I won't confess today."

The general moved to the bed and held out his right hand. Rostnikov took it.

"Forgive me for not rising, Comrade."

"Forgive me for underestimating you," Krasnikov responded.

"Always a tactical error," said Rostnikov.

"Just as Tolstoy said in his Military Strategy Through History," said Krasnikov releasing the inspector's hand.

"A book I should read some day," said Rostnikov with a sigh.

"Let's hope you do," said the General moving to the door. "Good morning."

It was Rostnikov's belief that only one copy existed of Tolstoy's Military Strategy Through History and that copy had most definitely not been written by Tolstoy. The general left the room, closing the door gently behind him. Rostnikov listened to his booted feet move across the short hall and down the stairs. When the outside door closed, Rostnikov sensed rather than heard another movement in the house and then a light knock at the door.

"Come in, Emil," he called, and Karpo entered the room dressed in black trousers, shoes, and a turtleneck sweater, and carrying a thick sheaf of papers. Rostnikov looked up. "Emil, how is it that you never need a shave?"

"I shave frequently, Comrade Inspector," Karpo said.

"Good," sighed Rostnikov, putting his feet on the floor and reaching out to accept Karpo's report. "I feared that you had found a way to remove facial hair but once in your life so you would not have to spend time removing it, time you could be spending at work."

"I don't think such a procedure exists, Comrade," Karpo said seriously. "If it were not time-consuming and were reversible, it might well be a consideration. A very rough estimate would yield thousands, perhaps tens of thousands of man-hours saved in the ranks of the MVD alone."

"You are not joking, are you, Emil? You haven't finally made a joke?" Rostnikov said with a smile as he stood.

"Not at all," said Karpo, puzzled. "The seemingly absurd can turn out to be the eminently practical. Invention often requires the creativity of the absurd."

"Do you ever practice such creativity, Emil?" Rostnikov stretched and looked toward the window.

"Never, Comrade. I am not creative. I leave that to others, like you, who have a genetic or developed ability in that direction," said Karpo.

"Perhaps you do have a sense of humor, Emil. The problem is that you don't know it. I think it is time to go catch a killer. Shall we go over it again?"

"If you think it is necessary," Karpo said.

"No," said Rostnikov. "Let's go."

Three minutes later Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov left the house on the square, looked over at the People's Hall of Justice and Solidarity, glanced at the statue of Ermak and started once again up the snowy slope following in the plowed furrow that was almost refilled with drifting snow. He trudged past the weather station and moved to the door of the house of Dimitri Galich.

"It will grow back quickly," Olga Yegeneva assured her patient.

Sarah Rostnikov looked up at the young surgeon and nodded to show that she understood but she found it difficult to answer, to 'speak, for fear of crying. Porfiry Petrovich had always admired her dark hair with reddish highlights, her naturally curling hair which had recently developed strands of gray.

"Most of it is still there and it can be brushed over," said Olga Yegeneva. "I told them to be most careful of that."

Sarah looked around the small room. The room was white, rather old-fashioned. There were two other beds in the room, one empty, the other containing a sleeping woman with white hair who snored very gently. The winter sun beamed through the window making it difficult for Sarah to accept that the moment was nearing.

"It shouldn't be sunny," she finally said with a sad smile.

"It should," said the doctor, her eyes widening behind her round glasses. "Are you ready?"

Sarah shrugged.

"Why not?"

Olga Yegeneva took her patient's right hand in both of hers and told her again what the procedure would be, that she would be given an injection which would make her drowsy, that she would be wheeled to the operating room where the anesthetic would be administered. She would fall asleep and wake up back in this room, very sleepy, very tired.

"I will wake up back in this room," Sarah repeated.

"You will."

The doctor released her patient's hand and made way for a man in white who stepped to the side of Sarah's bed with a hypodermic needle in his hand.

Sarah tried to remember the faces of her husband and son. It was suddenly very important to do so and she wanted to stop this man, call the doctor back, explain that she needed just a few minutes more, a few minutes to remember the faces. It was like catching one's breath. The doctor would understand. She would have to, but Sarah felt the sting of the needle. The panic left her and Sarah gave in, closed her eyes and smiled because the image of Porfiry Petrovich and Josef came to her clearly and both were smiling.

Galich, smiling, clad in overalls and a flannel shirt under a thick green pullover sweater and carrying a brush in his thick right hand, ushered Rostnikov into the house.

"You want to use the weights?" he asked, moving across the room to his worktable cluttered with bits of metal, cloth and glass. The mesh armor had been joined by a thick rusted metal spear which Galich held up for Rostnikov to see.

"No weights today," said Rostnikov. "I have much to do."

"Found this spear only this morning," said Galich. "Piece of good luck. It's definitely Mongol and seems to have belonged to a tribal leader. See the markings? Right here?" He brushed at them gently and went on. "Heavy, iron, but remarkably balanced."

He hefted the weapon in his right hand, showing how well it was balanced.

"An interesting weapon," Rostnikov agreed. "But there are more ancient ones which are also interesting."

Rostnikov had moved to a chair near the window about fifteen feet from the table.

"Such as?" Galich asked, working at the spear which he returned gently to the table.

"Ice. A simple, frozen spear of ice," said Rostnikov. "Such as the one that killed Commissar Rutkin."

"True," agreed Galich. "A spear of ice would be unreliable. It might break. But as you said at the hearing, Samsonov must have been insane with hatred."

"You are most happy this morning," said Rostnikov. "May I ask why?"

"Why?" Galich' repeated and reached up to brush back his wild white hair. "Perhaps the spear, perhaps something internal."

"Does it have something to do with Samsonov being held for murder, something to do with the fact that if he is convicted he will not leave the country?"

Galich stopped brushing, the dim gray light of the arctic circle outlining him from the window at his back.

"I don't understand," the former priest said, the joy leaving his voice.

"Samsonov did not kill Commissar Rutkin," said Rostnikov. "You killed Commissar Rutkin."

"I…" Galich said with a deep laugh, pointing to his chest. "What makes you think…"

"When Kurmu pointed at you at Mirasnikov's bedside, he identified you as the man he saw kill Commissar Rutkin.

I'm afraid your translation was a bit inaccurate, but Mirasnikov was awake and understands the language."

"He is wrong," Galich said, his voice now calm and even. "Mirasnikov is a sick man, an old man. He did not hear correctly."

"I wasn't sure why you did it though I had some idea. It wasn't till I came through that door a few minutes ago and saw your happiness that I was sure," Rostnikov said.

"This is ridiculous," Galich said, his jaw going tight, his hands playing with the brush, putting the brush aside, playing with the spear.

"No, it is not ridiculous," said Rostnikov. "The life of the spirit, of the past you came to pursue, to end your life with, was pushed to the side for the life of the body you thought you had put to sleep. Am I right, Dimitri? I've looked at your file, your history. You lost your church. You didn't quit. You lost your church because you were accused of seduction of four of the women in your church."

"I assume you are not asking me but informing me," Galich said evenly.

"I'm discussing it with you. I'm trying to decide what to do about this situation," said Rostnikov.

"I did not try to shoot you, Porfiry Petrovich," Galich said solemnly.

"Moments after the shooting, I had Emil Karpo get up to the slope. The person who shot at me made a series of trails in the snow, footprints leading to this house, Samsonov's house and General Krasnikov's house."

"I did not shoot at you. I did not shoot Mirasnikov," Galich said.

"I believe you, Dimitri, but I am sure you know who did the shooting. And I am sure you will not tell me. Didn't the attempt to shoot me, didn't the shooting of the old man make you suspicious?"

Galich said nothing, simply played with the spear before him.

"You killed Rutkin," Rostnikov said.

"Your evidence is absurd," said Galich softly.

"We are not talking about evidence here," Rostnikov said sitting forward in the chair. "We are talking about what you and I know."

"Why did you arrest Samsonov? Why did you have that hearing?" Galich asked softly.

"To deceive a killer," said Rostnikov. "A killer, I think, who has a great interest in seeing to it that Samsonov be allowed to leave the country."

"I don't know what you're talking about. You just said I don't want Samsonov to leave," Galich shouted.

"You don't, but I wasn't talking about you. Now, let's talk about you. I understand a man can live in those forests indefinitely if he knows what he is doing. I believe you told me that."

"One cedar tree can provide enough for a man for a year," agreed Galich with a laugh. "I might be able to live in the taiga, but I'm too old and too civilized. Is that the option you give me, Rostnikov? I run and disappear and you announce that I'm the killer. The case is closed and everyone is happy. Everyone but me."

"It is a chance to live, Dimitri," Rostnikov said softly.

"I've just come back to life," Galich said. "I'm too old for any more changes, too old to live alone in the cold and darkness."

"Dimitri…" Rostnikov began, but before he could say more the Mongol spear was in Galich's right hand, had been hefted over his shoulder and was whistling across the room. Rostnikov rolled to his right breaking the arm of the chair. He didn't see the spear break through the back of the chair but he did hear it clatter to the floor and across the room.

Rostnikov tried to rise quickly, but his leg would not cooperate and he had to roll back toward the chair anticipating another attack by an ancient weapon.

"Dimitri Galich," he called. "Stop."

"I lied," shouted Galich, picking up a rusted knife with a curved blade. "I did try to shoot you. I did shoot Mirasnikov."

Rostnikov was on his knees now as the former priest came around the table knife in hand. Using the remaining good arm of the almost destroyed chair, Porfiry Petrovich managed to stand ready to meet the attack of the advancing man. Galich stepped into the light of the window and Rostnikov could see his red eyes filled with tears. He could also see the ancient flecks of rust on the blade of the knife. He wanted to say something to stop the man, but Rostnikov had seen that look in the eyes of the desperate before. Words would not stop him.

The bullet cracked through the window as Galich raised the knife to strike and Rostnikov prepared to counter the attack. The bullet hit Galich under the arm and spun him around. A rush of frigid air burst through the broken window sending papers on the worktable flying like thick snow. Beyond the window, Emil Karpo stood, arms straight, pistol aimed. Galich recovered a bit and turned for another lunge at Rostnikov. The second shot hit him in the chest and the third and final shot entered his eye at approximately the same angle Galich had stabbed Commissar Rutkin with an icicle.

As he fell the former priest let out a massive groan that sounded almost like relief. When he hit the floor, there was little doubt. Dimitri Galich was dead.

"Come around," Rostnikov called to Karpo who put his pistol away and made his way around the house as Rostnikov bent awkwardly over Dimitri Galich's body to confirm what he already knew. The wind through the broken window suddenly grew angry, tumbled a book to the floor and whistled shrilly into one of the ancient bottles on the table.

Karpo came through the door and moved to Rostnikov's side.

"Did you hear?" Rostnikov asked.

"A little," said Karpo.

"He confessed to the murder of Commissar Rutkin," said Rostnikov, pulling his coat around him as the house quickly grew cold. "The reasons he gave were muddled. He was a bit mad, I'm afraid. I imagine living in Tumsk for several years does not minimize that risk."

"Shall I tell Famfanoff to free Dr. Samsonov?" Karpo said.

"Not yet. I have something to do first. Attend to Dimitri Galich's body and then prepare your report."

"Yes, Inspector. Shall I inform Procurator Sokolov and arrange for air transport back to Moscow?"

"The sooner the better," said Rostnikov, finally looking away from the body. "You know, Emil, I liked the man."

"So I observed," said Karpo.

And with that Rostnikov headed for the door and a meeting he dreaded.

A slight snow was falling as he stepped out of Galich's house, the first since Rostnikov had come to Tumsk. He wondered if a plane could get through the snow, if there was a chance that he would be snowed in and unable to get back to Moscow, back to Sarah.

He stepped off the small porch and walked the thirty or so yards to the Samsonovs'. He didn't have to knock. Ludmilla Samsonov opened the door as he neared the house.

She was dressed in white, her dark hair tied back, tiny earrings of white stone dangling from her ears. He lips were pink and shiny and her eyes full of fear.

"I've been hoping you would come," she said fighting back a chill.

"Let's get inside," he said stepping in, close to her, smelling her, unsure of whether the smell was natural or perfume. She closed the door and smiled at him uncertainly.

"I have some coffee ready," she said nervously. "Would you like some?"

"No, thank you," Rostnikov said removing his hat and unbuttoning his coat.

"Please have a seat," she said pointing at the sofa. "Let me take your coat."

Rostnikov removed his coat, handed it to the woman who brushed his hand as she took it. He sat on the sofa and made room for her when she returned from placing his coat on a table near the window. She straightened her dress, revealing her slim legs, and looked into his face.

"I heard something," she said. "It sounded like shots."

"Yes," he said. "I heard it. I'll have Inspector Karpo investigate. You said at the hearing that you wished to speak to me?"

"Yes," she said leaning close, almost weeping. "My husband did not kill Commissar Rutkin. He didn't shoot Mirasnikov. He has been distraught by Karla's death. That is true. But he is a gentle man. You must be mistaken. I would do anything for him, anything."

"Anything?" Rostnikov asked.

"Yes," she said, holding back the tears.

"Even be very friendly to a rather homely old police inspector?"

"I believe in my husband's innocence," she said, her eyes pleading, her mouth quivering.

Her teeth, Rostnikov noted, were remarkably white and even. Rostnikov took her hand. She didn't resist.

"And how would I do this? How could I let him go after the hearing?"

"You could find new evidence, evidence that the murderer is the Evenk, the one Mirasnikov saw, the one you talked to," she said eagerly. "The Evenk accused Lev to protect himself. Someone, Dimitri Galich, could tell the Evenk, tell him to go away. I'll ask Galich right away."

She looked into his eyes, squeezed his hand.

"Dimitri Galich is dead," he said.

Ludmilla Samsonov withdrew her hands and shuddered.

"Dead?"

"Inspector Karpo had to shoot him no more than ten minutes ago," said Rostnikov. "He attempted to kill me after confessing that he killed Commissar Rutkin."

"That's…" she began. "Then my husband will be freed."

She breathed deeply and sat back. Rostnikov said nothing.

"I'm sorry," she went on. "I was so… My husband has been through so much."

"And it is very important that he be allowed to move to the West," said Rostnikov.

"It is what he wants, what he needs," she said. "He cannot contain, cannot control his beliefs. If he remains in the Soviet Union, he will get into more trouble. If he remains in Siberia unable to practice, to do his research, he will probably die."

"And that is important to you?" asked Rostnikov.

She nodded.

"Would you like to know why Dimitri Galich killed Commissar Rutkin?" Rostnikov asked.

"Yes," she said quietly.

"Dimitri Galich, before he died, said that he killed Commissar Rutkin because you asked him to," Rostnikov said.

"I… he said I…" she said, her eyes opening, her hand moving to her breast.

"Absurd on the surface," said Rostnikov, "but he claimed with the sincerity of a dying man that you and he were lovers and that you said Rutkin was going to reveal your affair as part of the hearing into the death of Karla Samsonov."

"That's ridiculous," she said clasping her hands together.

"I don't know," Rostnikov shrugged. "He swore and it sounded sincere to me and my assistant."

"Why would I have an affair with Dimitri Galich?" she cried. "He was old enough to be my father, maybe my grandfather."

"As am I," Rostnikov said, "and moments ago you appeared to be quite willing to be intimate with me to get me to free your husband. It is possible you knew about Galich's vulnerability, his background and weakness for women and you engaged him with the very thought of getting him to kill Commissar Rutkin. My experience seems to confirm Galich's dying claim."

"How would I know anything of Dimitri Galich's background, this weakness?" she said, standing and fishing into the pocket of her dress for a package of cigarettes. She pulled one out, put it to her lips and lit it, her eyes fixed on the placid face of the seated policeman.

"My guess," said Rostnikov, "is that you are a KGB agent, that you have spent some time in getting close to Samsonov, marrying him. My guess is that Samsonov is finding it relatively easy to leave the country not only as a gesture of glasnost, but because he will be in a position within the western scientific community to learn a great deal about people, developments which would be of great value to the KGB. My guess is that when Karla died, and according to the reports her death was quite natural, quite accidental, and Samsonov went wild in grief and anger, it threatened your plan. Rutkin was sent because he was incompetent. It was assumed he would be fed information, probably most of it true, to prove that Karla died by accident. With your help, it was hoped that Samsonov would believe it, would leave the country, would not go mad. You had invested too much in him to lose Samsonov. Am I close?"

"Go on," she said taking a deep lungful of smoke.

"Somehow Rutkin stumbled on information about you. Perhaps it wasn't much but it was enough to make it possible for your husband to become suspicious. And Commissar Rutkin was ambitious. Maybe you tried to persuade him to be quiet about what he knew. Maybe you even told him you were KGB. Maybe he didn't believe you."

"It was ridiculous," Ludmilla Samsonov said with a deep sigh, reaching over to put out her unfinished cigarette. "I told him to call Moscow. The phones were out. All that night. He didn't believe me. The fool didn't believe me and he was going to ruin everything. He confronted Galich, told him, told me that he would suggest at the hearing that we might have killed Karla. He came up with some nonsense about Karla having seen Galich and me together."

"And so," said Rostnikov still sitting. "You convinced Galich that he had to kill Rutkin and because he loved you he did it. He was quite happy this morning. He thought your husband was going to prison, that you wouldn't be leaving Tumsk. I'm sorry to say that you handled the situation rather badly. Your attempt to shoot me is a rather good example of what can only be described as incompetence."

"And what do you plan to do with this information?" she said.

Rostnikov pulled himself up from the sofa with a deep breath and looked at her. She was quite beautiful, even more beautiful now that the guise of vulnerability had been dropped.

"Nothing," said Rostnikov. "There is nothing I can do to you without destroying myself." He looked around the room. "I will announce that Galich was the murderer. I will 'order the release of your husband. And in a few days the two of you will leave the country with your belongings, your books, your memories."

"That is a wise decision, Comrade," she said, "and I will tell my superiors of your cooperation."

She held out her right hand but Rostnikov did not take it.

"I do not give my hand to murderers," said Rostnikov.

She dropped her hand to her side and shrugged.

"As long as you keep your word to them, Comrade," she said.

Rostnikov nodded, accepted his coat and hat and refused to let her help him put them on. He had learned patience.

General Krasnikov's book would leave the country. He assumed the general had some contact in the West who could pick it up, probably get it published, maybe save some lives including Josefs.

As for Ludmilla Samsonov, Rostnikov was well aware of the need for such operations, the need for intelligence information. But he could not forgive her the seduction and death of Dimitri Galich. Perhaps some day a western embassy would receive a call or a note suggesting that Ludmilla Samsonov was not what she appeared to be. Perhaps and perhaps not.

Rostnikov moved quickly away from the house and down the slope. The snow had stopped. He was on his way home to Sarah.