"That's the one." The landlady was standing in the doorway with her arms folded. She jerked her head at Boris. "He checked in with his wife yesterday about noon. 1 thought there was something a bit funny about them. Call themselves Stanovnik." She used the name like an insult, smiling sardonically as if at some private joke.
"What is this? What's going on?" Boris asked, trying a show of bafflement shading into righteous indignation. "My name is Stanovnik. I work for the Hydro-Meteorological Service in Moscow."
The thin-faced young man gave a faint mocking smile. He was unshaven, Boris noticed, in fact rather unkempt generally. The KGB was becoming more and more slovenly in appearance these days.
"We already know that, Professor." He motioned to the woman to close the door to the dining room and went on in a softer tone, "We also know why you're here. Did you really think it would be so easy?"
"I've no idea what you're talking about. Are you the police? I have a right to know what you want with me." His bones felt like water. Why in God's name had he dragged Nina into this?
"It's pointless, Professor, keeping up this pretense." The young man shrugged very slightly. "Dunayev told us everything. You should choose your friends more carefully."
Boris stared at him for a full five seconds. His shoulders sagged. The strain was etched on his face. He swung around to confront the landlady but was unable to speak; his expression was eloquent enough.
"His wife's in there," the landlady said with a backward nod. Boris's hatred had left her quite indifferent.
"You've done well," the man in the trench coat said. "You will be rewarded."
"I seek no reward," said the landlady snidely. "I only wish to serve the state as best I can."
The man stepped forward and grabbed his arm. "You're in enough trouble as it is, Professor. Don't make it any worse for you and your wife. Are your things packed?" Boris nodded his head at the worn carpet and the man said, "Go and fetch them. Now. Hurry."
When he returned with the two suitcases, breathing heavily, Nina was in the hallway. She didn't utter a word as he helped her into her coat and then put his arms around her.
"No time for that," the man snapped, opening the vestibule door and beckoning his colleague. He tapped one of the suitcases with his shoe. "In the car." He nodded brusquely to the landlady as they all went out, and she came to the front door and stood watching, her face hard, devoid of expression.
The car pulled away. Boris and Nina were in the back, the young unshaven man in the passenger seat, his colleague driving. It was a bright sunny day with hardly a cloud, though for Boris the outside world hardly existed. He stared straight ahead, defeated in spirit, sunk fathoms deep in his own thoughts. What a farce . . . they hadn't even made it to the border.
He came back to the present with a start, blinking. The man in the trench coat was offering a pack of cigarettes. Boris shook his head. He felt confused. What was this? The man lit two and passed one to his colleague. He loosened his trench coat and Boris glimpsed a grimy shirt collar.
"No introductions," the man said, smoke trailing from his nostrils. "It's safer that way. We're taking you to Pavilosta, a small town on the coast about two hundred kilometers west of here. At eight o'clock tonight you'll board a fishing vessel and at midnight you'll be transferred to a motor launch. That's the tricky bit. Then it's a fast run to an island called Bornholm. Ever hear of it?"
Boris shook his head dumbly.
"Belongs to Denmark. We have a contact there. She will arrange passage to the mainland." He glanced quickly over his shoulder and smiled. "All being well you should be in Copenhagen this time tomorrow."
Boris found his voice. It sounded strange.
"What was all that about? Back there at the boardinghouse? We thought--"
"A necessary precaution. We have to make sure about these things. Your reaction was more than convincing."
"And the landlady?"
"Yes, she's good, isn't she?" The young man grinned, shaking his head. " 'I only wish to serve the state as best I can.' " He laughed out loud. "Yes, I like that."
In a side ward of the annex that housed the Diagnostic Research Unit of the Reagan Memorial Hospital, Denver, Dr. Ruth Patton watched a ten-year-old boy die in agony. His face was a mass of suppurating sores, obscuring his eyes and turning his mouth into a fat raw blister. She felt angry, helpless, and near to tears.
