“You saved my life in Spain. Anything you want …”

“Thank you. They realized you had been warned-Maltsaev and his pals-but they stuck that one on Lubin.”

“Did his family connection save him?”

“No. They died too. One is never quite sure which way it will go.”

Khristo mused for a time, then shook his head. “We should kill him, Ilya. Somebody should.”

“Stalin? The Great Father? Yes. Will you do it, Khristo? Die for the good of all mankind?”

“If I thought one could actually get at him, perhaps I would. By joining the Guards division or something of that sort.”

“A little late for you to join the Guards division.”

“He must be insane. A mad dog.”

“No, you are wrong about that. That’s what Europe thinks-those who aren’t in love with him. Here he might be mad, but in truth he is no more than that lovable old character, the wicked peasant. I’m sure you’ve known one or two. He hits his neighbor on the head, steals his gold, rapes his wife, and burns his house down. Who knows why. If he is reproached, he swears that a fiery angel forced him to do it.”

They strolled for a time, two acquaintances in mourning, through the maze of pathways lined tightly with the tombs of aristocrats and artists, some of which had received Sunday flowers.

“What of the others?” Khristo asked.

“Well, Kulic is alive.”

“Was he arrested?”

“No. He was blown up by a mortar shell in the Guadarrama, leading an attack of partisans. The Germans had him for a time, but we found a way to get him out. A Yugoslavian fascist group, the Ustachi, asked to collect him for interrogation. They are Croatian and Kulic is Serbian and the Germans appreciate such differences, so they released him and we got him back.”

“How?”

“It’s our group-this particular band of Ustachi. You know this business, Khristo. One needs a little of everything.”

“He must be well regarded.”

“Somebody thinks he might be of use. Otherwise …”

“And Voluta?”

Ilya paused for a moment. “Probably I shouldn’t tell you.”

“Well, don’t if you can’t.”

“No, it doesn’t matter. You of course recall that girl, Marike, at Arbat Street. You knew her somewhat, I believe.”

“Yes.”

“One day she disappeared. Well, it seems that somebody had hidden a list of the names of the Brotherhood Front of 1934 in a most ingenious place-scratched on rubber, washed down the sink, but the rubber was just heavy enough to stay caught in the trap. Marike’s bad luck was that some fool tried to get rid of a condom in the sink-no doubt the throne was occupied and he was in a hurry-and that stopped it up but good. Next, an unfortunate miracle: a plumber actually appeared one day and unplugged the drain. He knew what he had, went and barked his head off in the right places and down came the counterintelligence types. They pinned the thing on Marike, I don’t know why, and away she went. Ozunov as well, of course. Later, much later, they found out some other way that it had been Voluta all along. Now, the best part. He was a priest! Part of a Polish nationalist movement called NOV, made up of priests and army officers. Not fascists-though Moscow would certainly call them that. Patriots, I think, in a conspiracy to preserve Poland as a national entity. They are very much on our Watch List, because they are very dedicated and have enjoyed some significant success. Witness Voluta: he penetrated the Arbat Street training facility, noted every personality and physical description in the place and then, when he was assigned to the rezidentura in Antwerp, simply got off the train and has not been seen since. The problem with this NOV is that it spreads among the priests-I mean outside Poland, among other nationalities-and there is reason to believe that the army officers have made similar connections. This is not exactly the Polish government, you understand, but a conspiracy that hides in its shadow. Thus our assets in Warsaw can do nothing about it. Our friend Voluta is quite a famous priest in Moscow.”

“My God,” Khristo said, truly amazed that he’d been deceived along with everybody else. “I never thought …”

“He was very much in himself, you’ll remember.”

“Yes. And always helpful, willing to do more than his share.”

“Priestly, eh? And we suspect that this NOV shares information with Poland’s dearest ally-British intelligence. Heaven only knows where it might go from there. I expect we are all quite famous by now.”

“Where do you think he is?”

Ilya smiled and spread his hands to include the entire world. They walked for a time, past the tomb of the Rothschilds, the graves of Daumier and Corot and Proust.

“Do you know the Mur des Federes?” Ilya asked, standing by the cemetery wall.

“No.”

“The last of the Paris Communards died here, in 1871. They fought all night among the gravestones, then surrendered at dawn. The soldiers put them against this wall, shot them, and buried them in a common grave.”

“Are you a communist, Ilya? In your heart?”

“Oh yes. Aren’t you?”

“No. I just want to live my life, to be left alone.”

There was a moment’s silence, then Ilya said, “Now, a matter of some delicacy.” They turned and began to walk again, their steps audible on the gravel path.

“What is that?”

“This business of the assassination of our courier.”

“On May Day?”

“Yes.”

“What about it?”

“The rezidentura here is frantic-they are under the gun, believe me, Moscow is entirely outraged. They’ve sent in thugs from everywhere, specialists, and activated every net in Paris. So far, no fish.”

“Perhaps that was why it was done. To see who showed up, to learn from the activity.”

Ilya looked at him sharply. “The old Khristo,” he said. When there was no response, he went on. “Anyhow, they really want to know. What’s come in to date is the usual plateful of crumbs-White Russians, phony princes, Cossack doormen, a Mills grenade with Stalin’s name painted on it-but Yezhov’s not buying any of that.”

“And so?”

“If you should happen to hear something …”

“Then what?”

“I believe you mentioned being left alone to live your life?”

“Yes.”

“That’s what.”

Khristo spoke carefully: “I asked you earlier if they were getting close to me. Is this your answer?”

Ilya shook his head violently, like a wet dog. “No. Do not misunderstand me. I said they were looking for you. I don’t know they are, I assume it. But you had better assume it as well. A favor might turn the pressure off, though nobody can guarantee it-not me, not anybody. On the other hand, what have you got to lose?”

They talked for an hour after that, reminisced: Arbat Street, Belov, Spain, Yaschyeritsa, Sascha. Then they parted. Khristo returned to the room. Aleksandra wasn’t there. It was Sunday-she’d mentioned something about a picnic in the park. But he had talked to Ilya longer than he’d intended, perhaps she had given up on him and gone to the cinema. That was probably what she’d done, he decided.

He waited for her, smoking Gitanes, watching the square of sky in the window turn slowly from blue to dark

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