In my wife's name

"In my wife's name," I said. "She has a different surname."

"We know," said Mark. "She was with us this morning. I think you are exaggerating the danger. The Sheraton is an American facility. Besides, we are in a Muslim country: there is a danger of terrorist attacks here, so security at the Sheraton should be taken seriously. I would like to have a few words with Mr. Litvinenko in private." And, anticipating my question, he added in Russian: "We won't need a translation."

Sasha nodded, and we left the booth. Then the consul took us to the guard post, returned the documents and, wishing us success, said goodbye...

A few minutes later Sasha appeared. In general, he held up well, although he was pale.

"Well?" I asked when we got into the taxi.

"Nothing. This guy is fully in the loop. He asked if I knew this person or that person. Most of the people he asked about, I don't know personally, although I've heard of them. He asked if I had anything that might interest them. I said no. He asked if I intended to sit quietly or speak publicly. I said I would speak out, I want to write a book about the explosions. He said: 'I wish you success, that's not our department.' That's it."

Our dinner that evening was a sad sight. Tolik was being cranky, Sasha was silent, thinking about something, Marina and I kept up a conversation on abstract topics. The next morning we were supposed to part ways.

Suddenly Sasha said: "They're already tailing us. See the guy with the newspaper at the bar counter? He was sitting in the hall on the floor, and then he came down here. Let's check now."

He got up from the table and went to the toilet. The guy turned so that he could see the toilet door. Sasha came out of the toilet and headed for the foyer. The guy moved again to keep him in sight.

"With surveillance like that, I would have been fired from my job long ago," Sasha said, handing me a newspaper he had bought at a kiosk to make his walk look natural. "Here, read this."

I glanced at the front page. It was a local English-language newspaper, the "Turkish Times." A half-page headline read: "Raid on Russians." The article reported that there were two hundred thousand Russians in Turkey with expired visas, involved in prostitution and the smuggling of illegal immigrants to Western Europe; the authorities were catching them and deporting them to Russia. "How inconvenient," I thought. "It's a good thing Sasha doesn't read English."

"Do you think he's alone?" I asked.

"Alone, otherwise he wouldn't be running after me from the floor to the bar. At night, no more is needed—where are we going to go from the hotel? They probably spotted us at the embassy. If they watch the embassies, they definitely must have spotted us. We need to get out of here."

We looked at each other and said simultaneously: "It's a good thing we didn't return the car."

"Marina, take the key to Alik's room from him, but discreetly," he said. "Go upstairs, as if you and Tolik were going to sleep, pack your things, move everything to Alik's room on the eighth floor and wait for him there."