protruding amphibian eyes peered up at the Potter through round steel-rimmed eyeglasses. He seemed to be on the verge of giggling, which made the Potter wonder if he had somehow missed the humor in the situation. Beware of people who laugh in the wrong places, Piotr Borisovich had once quipped; they are more dangerous than those who don't laugh in the right places.
"You will be the American," the Potter said in Russian.
The thin young man was in fact the Sisters' man Friday. "What makes you think I am American?" he asked. He spoke fluent Russian, but with a pronounced Brooklyn accent.
"There is always an American at the end of the line," the Potter said moodily. "Besides, Oskar spoke about his people collecting money for the information I would provide." The Potter lowered himself into a folding metal chair. "The only ones with money to spare these days are the Americans."
Thursday didn't find this comment to his taste. "You miss the point if you think of this in terms of money," he observed. "We are fighting atheistic international Communism-"
The Potter cut him off with a wave of his hand. "Spare me, if you please, your Sermon on the Mount."
The skin on Thursday s neck reddened. "Your kind could do with a little bit of Sermon on the Mount!" He burst out giggling. "Suppose," he suggested in English, a gleam in his protruding eyes, "we talk turkey."
"Suppose," the Potter agreed, though he was not quite sure what the expression meant. Reluctance welled up in him like bile. Betraying Piotr Borisovich into the hands of this giggling preacher who sat across the desk from him seemed . . . grotesque If he could stall long enough, he still had the package he had recovered from the old man's cottage.
"As I understand it," Thursday continued, switching back to Russian, leaning across his desk, flicking his tongue over his lips in expectation, "you are to show your appreciation for your deliverance by giving me three items of information."
"That is not the order of things I had in mind," the Potter said.
"Before I pay my way, I will want some indication from your superiors"-
his way of saying that he considered Thursday too junior to deal with-"concerning my and my wife's future." ("My future," Piotr Borisovich once exclaimed in a moment of intense depression-he had been quoting the poet Akhmatova at the time, and his words had made a deep impression on the Potter-"is in my past." Curiously, the old man had used the same expression the night he died.)
Thursday started to giggle again when a telephone hidden away in a desk drawer rang. He yanked open the drawer and placed the telephone on the desk. It was one of those old-fashioned European models, black, with a second earpiece that you could unhook and hold to your free ear. "Yes,"
Thursday said into the mouthpiece in English, staring all the time across the desk at the Potter with his goiter eyes. He listened to the voice on the other end of the line, "I see," he said slowly. "Really,"
he said. "With a length of potter's wire?" he said. He clucked his tongue. "I wonder who could have done such a naughty thing," he said. "I appreciate the call," he said. He dropped the receiver onto its cradle and hooked the earpiece back into place. "Well," Thursday observed,
"that more or less changes everything, doesn't it?"
There was a commotion in the hangar below. Svetochka's stiletto heels beat out a panicky rhythm as she raced up the steel staircase. Homburg and Galoshes pounded up the steps after her. All three burst into the room. Svetochka lurched into the Potter's arms. Homburg, his face beet red from exertion, said, "She started to scream something about wanting to see him. There were workers around. I didn't want to attract attention, so I let her come in. She saw the light and ran up before we could stop her."
Thursday waved Svetochka to another of the folding metal chairs. She sat on the edge of it and crossed her legs. Thursday was distracted by the glimpse of thigh.
"You will be the American," the Potter said in Russian.
The thin young man was in fact the Sisters' man Friday. "What makes you think I am American?" he asked. He spoke fluent Russian, but with a pronounced Brooklyn accent.
"There is always an American at the end of the line," the Potter said moodily. "Besides, Oskar spoke about his people collecting money for the information I would provide." The Potter lowered himself into a folding metal chair. "The only ones with money to spare these days are the Americans."
Thursday didn't find this comment to his taste. "You miss the point if you think of this in terms of money," he observed. "We are fighting atheistic international Communism-"
The Potter cut him off with a wave of his hand. "Spare me, if you please, your Sermon on the Mount."
The skin on Thursday s neck reddened. "Your kind could do with a little bit of Sermon on the Mount!" He burst out giggling. "Suppose," he suggested in English, a gleam in his protruding eyes, "we talk turkey."
"Suppose," the Potter agreed, though he was not quite sure what the expression meant. Reluctance welled up in him like bile. Betraying Piotr Borisovich into the hands of this giggling preacher who sat across the desk from him seemed . . . grotesque If he could stall long enough, he still had the package he had recovered from the old man's cottage.
"As I understand it," Thursday continued, switching back to Russian, leaning across his desk, flicking his tongue over his lips in expectation, "you are to show your appreciation for your deliverance by giving me three items of information."
"That is not the order of things I had in mind," the Potter said.
"Before I pay my way, I will want some indication from your superiors"-
his way of saying that he considered Thursday too junior to deal with-"concerning my and my wife's future." ("My future," Piotr Borisovich once exclaimed in a moment of intense depression-he had been quoting the poet Akhmatova at the time, and his words had made a deep impression on the Potter-"is in my past." Curiously, the old man had used the same expression the night he died.)
Thursday started to giggle again when a telephone hidden away in a desk drawer rang. He yanked open the drawer and placed the telephone on the desk. It was one of those old-fashioned European models, black, with a second earpiece that you could unhook and hold to your free ear. "Yes,"
Thursday said into the mouthpiece in English, staring all the time across the desk at the Potter with his goiter eyes. He listened to the voice on the other end of the line, "I see," he said slowly. "Really,"
he said. "With a length of potter's wire?" he said. He clucked his tongue. "I wonder who could have done such a naughty thing," he said. "I appreciate the call," he said. He dropped the receiver onto its cradle and hooked the earpiece back into place. "Well," Thursday observed,
"that more or less changes everything, doesn't it?"
There was a commotion in the hangar below. Svetochka's stiletto heels beat out a panicky rhythm as she raced up the steel staircase. Homburg and Galoshes pounded up the steps after her. All three burst into the room. Svetochka lurched into the Potter's arms. Homburg, his face beet red from exertion, said, "She started to scream something about wanting to see him. There were workers around. I didn't want to attract attention, so I let her come in. She saw the light and ran up before we could stop her."
Thursday waved Svetochka to another of the folding metal chairs. She sat on the edge of it and crossed her legs. Thursday was distracted by the glimpse of thigh.
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