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The next boxes were heavier but somehow easier。 At least these bodies were adults。 He manhandled them onto the concrete floor of the cellar and left them there； then moved the dry ice to the opposite corner； where the frozen CO2 would evaporate on its own without causing harm or distraction to anyone。 The bodies would have about fourteen hours to thaw out； and that； he hoped； would be enough。 Trent left the basement； being careful to lock the door。
Then he went to the embassy's security office。 The British legation had its own security detail of three men； all of them former enlisted servicemen。 He'd need two of them tonight。 Both were former sergeants in the British army； Rodney Truelove and Bob Small； and both were physically fit。
〃Lads； I need your help tonight with something。〃
〃What's that； Tom？〃 Truelove asked。
〃We'll just need to move some objects； and do it rather covertly；〃 Trent semi…explained。 He didn't bother telling them it would be something of great importance。 These were men for whom everything was treated as a matter of some importance。
〃Sneak in and sneak out？〃 Small asked。
〃Correct；〃 Trent confirmed to the former color sergeant in the Royal Engineers。 Small was from the Royal Regiment of Wales； the men of Harlech。
〃What time？〃 Truelove inquired next。
〃We'll leave here about oh…two…hundred。 Ought not to take more than an hour overall。〃
〃Dress？〃 This was Bob Small。
And that was a good question。 To wear coats and ties didn't feel right； but to wear coveralls would be something a casual observer might notice。 They'd have to dress in such a way as to be invisible。
〃Casual；〃 Trent decided。 〃Jackets but no coats。 Like a local。 Shirts and pants； that should be sufficient。 Gloves； too。〃 Yeah； they'll surely want to wear gloves； the spook thought。
〃No problem with us；〃 Truelove concluded。 As soldiers； they were accustomed to doing things that made no sense and taking life as it came。 Trent hoped they'd feel that way the following morning。
Fogal pantyhose were French in origin。 The packaging proclaimed that。 Irina nearly fainted； holding the package in her hand。 The contents were real but seemed not to be； so sheer as to be a manufactured shadow and no more substantial than that。 She'd heard about these things； but she'd never held them in her hand； much less worn any。 And to think that any woman in the West could own as many as she needed。 The wives of Oleg's Russian colleagues would swoon wearing them； and how envious her own friends at GUM would be！ And how careful they'd be putting them on； afraid to create a run； careful not to blunder into things with their legs； like children who bruised every single day。 These hose were far too precious to endanger。 She had to get the right size for the women on Oleg's list。。。 plus six pairs for herself。
But what size？ To buy any article of clothing that was too large was a deadly insult to a woman in any culture； even Russia； where women tended more to the Rubenesque than to a starving waif in the Third World。。。 or Hollywood。 The sizes shown on the packages were A； B； C； and D。 This was an additional plication； since in Cyrillic； 〃B〃 corresponded to the Roman 〃V〃 and 〃C〃 to 〃S；〃 but she took a deep breath and bought a total of twenty pairs of size C； including the six for herself。 They were hideously expensive； but the econ rubles in her purse were not all hers； and so with another deep breath she paid cash for the collection； to the smile of the female salesclerk； who could guess what was going on。 Walking out of the store with such luxuries made her feel like a czarist princess； a good sensation for any female in the world。 She now had 489 rubles left to spend on herself； and that almost produced a panic。 So many nice things。 So little money。 So little closet space at home。
Shoes？ A new coat？ A new handbag？
She left out jewelry； since that was Oleg's job； but； like most men； he didn't know a thing about what women wore。
What about foundation garments？ Irina wondered next。 A Chantarelle brassiere？ Did she dare purchase something that elegant？ That was at least a hundred rubles； even at this favorable exchange rate。。。 And it would be something only she knew she had on。 Such a brassiere would feel like。。。 hands。 Like the hands of your lover。 Yes； she had to get one of those。
And cosmetics。 She had to get cosmetics。 It was the one thing Russian women always paid attention to。 She was in the right city for that。 Hungarian women cared about skin care as well。 She'd go to a good store and ask； rade to rade。 Hungarian women…their faces proclaimed to the world that they cared about their skin。 In this the Hungarians were most kulturniy。
It took another two hours of utter bliss； so pleasant that she didn't even notice her husband and daughter waiting about。 She was living every Soviet woman's dream； spending money in…well； if not the West； then the next best thing。 And it was wonderful。 She'd wear the Chantarelle to the concert tonight； listen to Bach； and pretend she was in another time and another place； where everyone was kulturniy and it was a good thing to be a woman。 It was a pity that no such place existed in the Soviet Union。
Outside the succession of women's stores； Oleg just stood around and smoked his cigarettes like any other man in the world； intensely bored by the details of women's shopping。 How they could enjoy the process of picking and paring； picking and paring； never making a decision； just sucking in the ambience of being surrounded by things they couldn't wear and didn't really like？ They always took the dress and held it up to their necks and looked in a mirror and decided nyet； not this one。 On and on and on； past the sunset and into the night； as though their very souls depended on it。 Oleg had learned patience with his current life…threatening adventure； but one thing he'd never learned； and never expected to learn； was how to watch a woman shop。。。 without wishing to throttle her。 Just standing there like a fucking beast of burden； holding the things she'd finally decided to purchase…then waiting while she decided to change her mind or not。 Well； it couldn't last forever。 They did have tickets to the concert that night。 They had to go back to the hotel； try to get a sitter for zaichik； get dressed； and go to the concert hall。 Even Irina would appreciate that。
Probably； Oleg Ivan'ch thought bleakly。 As though he didn't have enough to worry about。 But his little girl wasn't concerned about a thing； Oleg saw。 She ate her ice cream and looked around at this different place with its different sights。 There was much to be said for a child's innocence。 A pity one lost it…and why； then； did children try so hard to grow up and leave their innocence behind？ Didn't they know how wonderful the world was for them alone？ Didn't they know that； with understanding； the wonders of the world only became burdens？ And pain。
And doubts； Zaitzev thought。 So many doubts。
But no； zaichik didn't know that； and by the time she found out； it would be too late。
Finally； Irina walked outside； with a beaming smile such as she'd not had since delivering their daughter。 Then she really surprised him…she came up to him for a hug and a kiss。
〃Oh； Oleg； you are so good to me！〃 And another passionate kiss of a woman sated by shopping。 Even better than one sated by sex； her husband suddenly thought。
〃Back to the hotel； my dear。 We must dress for the concert。〃 The easy part was the ride on the metro； then into the Astoria and up to Room 307。 Once there； they decided more or less by default to take Svetlana with them。 Getting a sitter would have been an inconvenience…Oleg had thought about a female KGB officer from the Culture and Friendship House across the street； but neither he nor his wife felt fortable with such arrangements； and so zaichik would have to behave herself during the concert。 His tickets were in the room； Orchestra Row 6； seats A； B； and C； which put him right on the aisle； where he preferred to be。 Svetlana would wear her new clothes this evening； which； he hoped； would make her happy。 It usually did； and these were the best clothes she'd ever had。
The bathroom was crowded in their room。 Irina worked hard and long to get her face right。 It was easier for her husband； and easier still for their daughter； for whom a wet washcloth across her grimacing face was enough。 Then they all got dressed in their best clothing。 Oleg buckled his little girl's shiny black shoes over the white tights to which she'd taken an immediate love。 Then she put on the red coat with the black collar； and the little Bunny was all ready for the adventures of the evening。 They took the elevator down to the lobby and caught a cab outside。
For Trent it was a little awkward。 Staking out the lobby ought to have been difficult； but the hotel staff seemed not to notice him； and so when the package left； it was a simple matter of walking out to his car and following their cab to the concert hall； just a mile down the street。 Once there； he found a parking place close by and walked quickly to the entrance。 Drinks were being served there； and the Zaitzevs availed themselves of what looked like Tokaji before heading in。 Their little girl was as radiant as ever。 Lovely child； Trent thought。 He hoped she'd like life in the West。 He watched them head into the theater to their seats； and then he turned to go up the stairs to his box。
Ryan and Hudson were already there； sitting on the old chairs with their velvet cushions。
〃Andy； Jack；〃 Trent said in greeting。 〃Sixth row； left side of center； just on the aisle。〃
Then the houselights started flickering。 The curtain drew back； the meandering tones of musicians tuning their various instruments trailed off； and the conductor； Jozsef Rozsa； appeared from stage right。 The initial applause was little more than polite。 It was his first concert in the series； and he was new to this audience。 That struck Ryan as odd…he was a Hungarian； a graduate of their own Franz Liszt Academy。 Why wasn't their greeting more enthusiastic？ He was a tall and thin guy with black hair and the face of an aesthete。 He bowed politely to the audience and turned back to the orchestra。 His little baton stick…whatever it was called； Ryan didn't know…was there on the little stand； and when he lifted it； the room went dead still； and then his right arm shot out to the string section of the Hungarian State Railroad Orchestra #1。
Ryan was not the student of music that his wife was； but Bach was Bach； and the concerto built in majesty almost from the first instant。 Music； like poetry or painting； Jack told himself； was a means of munication； but he'd never quite figured out what posers were trying to say。 It was easier with a John Williams movie score； where the music so perfectly acpanied the action； but Bach hadn't known about moving pictures； and so he must have been 〃talking about〃 things that his original audiences would have recognized。 But Ryan wasn't one of those； and so he just had to appreciate the wonderful harmonies。 It struck him that the piano wasn't right； and only when he looked did he see that it wasn't a piano at all； but rather an ancient harpsichord； played； it seemed； by an equally ancient virtuoso with flowing white hair and the elegant hands of。。。 a surgeon； Jack thought。 Jack did know piano music。 Their friend Sissy Jackson； a solo player with the Washington Symphony； said Cathy was too mechanical in her playing； but Ryan only noted that she never missed a key…you could always tell…and to him that was sufficient。 This guy； he thought； watching his hands and catching the notes through the wonderful cacophony； didn't miss a single note； and every one； it seemed； was precisely as loud or soft as the concert required； and so precisely timed as to define perfection。 The rest of the orchestra seemed about as well practiced as the Marine Corps Silent Drill Team； everything as precise as a series of laser beams。
The one thing Ryan couldn't tell was what the conductor was doing。 Wasn't the concerto written down？ Wasn't conducting just a matter of making sure…beforehand…that everybody knew his part and did it on time？ He'd have to ask Cathy about it； and she'd roll her eyes and remark that h