She stood in front of the open doors of the massive oak wardrobe, hands on hips, head cocked for his reply. She knew he didn't like to be encumbered with too much luggage, especially on a long trip, but left to his own devices her shambling bear of a husband would have gone off without even a change of underwear.
"The small one. Just the small one," he said, appearing in the doorway. Despite his graying hair, cropped close to the scalp, Boris Vladimir Stanovnik might reasonably have passed for someone in his late forties if it hadn't been for the purple pouches underneath his eyes. His voice was deep and resonant, his manner gentle and withdrawn.
He raised his eyebrows and smiled, seeking her assent,
"Socks," she muttered to herself, going to the chest of drawers near the window. Boris watched her fondly for a moment and then returned to the living room, his face creased in a smile.
A clutter of papers, files, books, magazines, and clippings lay on the inlaid leather surface of the open bureau. The smile faded. How much ought he to take with him to Geneva? Hardly the appropriate question . . . how much would he be
But Boris was too old a hand to antagonize the authorities over even the smallest detail. Unless scientific material had already been published in official journals--and thus available to the West--there was an absolute embargo on working notes and calculations of any description leaving the country. This sometimes led to the ludicrous situation of not being allowed to take out material that could be found in the pages of American and European science journals on thousands of newsstands.
Boris picked up a buff-colored document and held it to the pale light that filtered in through the window. He searched for his glasses, feeling the arthritic pain in his right shoulder. Moscow was cold and damp and dismal at this time of year and he cursed the apartment's feeble, antiquated heating system, which even at full blast was unable to take the chill from his bones.
"Sweaters," floated his wife's voice from the bedroom. "You'll need sweaters in Switzerland, I should think. They have snow there all the year round."
"Leave out the English woolen one. I'll wear it on the journey."
He found his glasses, but the light wasn't good enough to read by, so he switched on the tasseled desk lamp. The document was an internal memorandum, addressed to head of section, which was a joke, Boris thought wryly, because ever since Peter Astakhov's disappearance his "section" had consisted of himself, Malankov, and two young lab assistants.
Peter had been a good man too, which was more than could be said for Malankov, whom he detested. A party weasel, not the slightest doubt. Slovenly in his work and always poking his pockmarked nose where it didn't belong. Surely no coincidence that Malankov had been assigned to his section about the time that Peter Astakhov had disappeared. But what on earth did the authorities hope to discover? Did they suspect that he'd defected and would try to contact Boris secretly? Or that Boris knew something already? If so, they were in for a vast disappointment, for the one question Boris continued to ask himself, all these months later, was what exactly had happened at Mirnyy Station? Peter had been engaged on climatic field research, graded Red A, which was top secret, and Boris knew for a fact that the KGB were keeping a vigilant eye on the project for fear that the Americans might find out what was going on.
Yet Peter had vanished without trace somewhere in the wastes of Antarctica. Was he dead, or had he really defected? And if the KGB didn't know, how in high heaven did they expect him to provide the answer?
"Slippers," said his wife from the doorway, making him blink. "Shall I pack your slippers?"
Boris shook his head. "No!" He gave her a pained look. "Nina, dear, I can't wear slippers to the conference. It isn't a rest home for retired scientists."
She shrugged, gestured to heaven, and went back into the bedroom.
