The room beyond had scarlet floorboards; theyglistened as if freshly painted. And now the decoratorappeared in person. His torso had been ripped openfrom neck to navel. He pressed his hands to thebreached dam, but they were useless to stem the flood;his blood came in spurts, and with it, his innards. Hemet Ballard's gaze, his eyes full to overflowing withdeath, but his body had not yet received the instructionto lie down and die; it juddered on in a pitiful attemptto escape the scene of execution behind him.

The spectacle had brought Ballard to a halt, and theRussian from the door now took hold of him, and pulledhim back into the hallway, shouting into his face. Theoutburst, in panicked Russian, was beyond Ballard, buthe needed no translation of the hands that encircledhis throat. The Russian was half his weight again,and had the grip of an expert strangler, but Ballardfelt effortlessly the man's superior. He wrenched theattacker's hands from his neck, and struck him acrossthe face. It was a fortuitous blow. The Russian fell backagainst the staircase, his shouts silenced.

Ballard looked back towards the scarlet room. Thedead man had gone, though scraps of flesh had beenleft on the threshold.

From within, laughter.

Ballard turned to the Russian.

'What in God's name's going on?' he demanded, butthe other man simply stared through the open door.

Even as he spoke, the laughter stopped. A shadowmoved across the blood-splattered wall of the interior,and a voice said:

'Ballard?'

There was a roughness there, as if the speaker hadbeen shouting all day and night, but it was the voice ofMironenko.

'Don't stand out in the cold,' he said, 'come on in.And bring Solomonov.'

The other man made a bid for the front door, butBallard had hold of him before he could take two steps.

'There's nothing to be afraid of, Comrade,' saidMironenko. 'The dog's gone.' Despite the reassurance,Solomonov began to sob as Ballard pressed him towardsthe open door.

Mironenko was right; it was warmer inside. Andthere no sign of a dog. There was blood in abundance,however. The man Ballard had last seen teetering in thedoorway had been dragged back into this abattoir whilehe and Solomonov had struggled. The body had beentreated with astonishing barbarity. The head had beensmashed open; the innards were a grim litter underfoot.

Squatting in the shadowy corner of this terribleroom, Mironenko. He had been mercilessly beatento judge by the swelling about his head and uppertorso, but his unshaven face bore a smile for hissaviour.

'I knew you'd come,' he said. His gaze fell uponSolomonov. They followed me,' he said. 'They meantto kill me, I suppose. Is that what you intended,Comrade?'

Solomonov shook with fear - his eyes flitting from thebruised moon of Mironenko's face to the pieces of gutthat lay everywhere about - finding nowhere a place ofrefuge.

'What stopped them?' Ballard asked.

Mironenko stood up. Even this slow movementcaused Solomonov to flinch.

'Tell Mr Ballard,' Mironenko prompted. 'Tell himwhat happened.' Solomonov was too terrified to speak.'He's KGB, of course,' Mironenko explained. 'Bothtrusted men. But not trusted enough to be warned,poor idiots. So they were sent to murder me with justa gun and a prayer.' He laughed at the thought. 'Neitherof which were much use in the circumstances.'

'I beg you ...' Solomonov murmured, '... let mego. I'll say nothing.'

'You'll say what they want you to say, Comrade, theway we all must,' Mironenko replied. 'Isn't that right,Ballard? All slaves of our faith?'

Ballard watched Mironenko's face closely; there wasa fullness there that could not be entirely explained bythe bruising. The skin almost seemed to crawl.

'They have made us forgetful,' Mironenko said.

'Of what?' Ballard enquired.

'Of ourselves,' came the reply, and with it Mironenkomoved from his murky corner and into the light.

What had Solomonov and his dead companion doneto him? His flesh was a mass of tiny contusions, andthere were bloodied lumps at his neck and templeswhich Ballard might have taken for bruises but thatthey palpitated, as if something nested beneath theskin. Mironenko made no sign of discomfort however,as he reached out to Solomonov. At his touch the failedassassin lost control of his bladder, but Mironenko'sintentions were not murderous. With eerie tendernesshe stroked a tear from Solomonov's cheek. 'Go back tothem,' he advised the trembling man. 'Tell them whatyou've seen.'

Solomonov seemed scarcely to believe his ears, or elsesuspected - as did Ballard - that this forgiveness was asham, and that any attempt to leave would invite fatalconsequences.

But Mironenko pressed his point. 'Go on,' he said.'Leave us please. Or would you prefer to stay and eat?'

Solomonov took a single, faltering step towards thedoor. When no blow came he took a second step,and a third, and now he was out of the door andaway.

Tell them!' Mironenko shouted after him. The frontdoor slammed.

'Tell them what?' said Ballard.

'That I've remembered,' Mironenko said. 'That I'vefound the skin they stole from me.'

For the first time since entering this house, Ballardbegan to feel queasy. It was not the blood northe bones underfoot, but a look in Mironenko'seyes. He'd seen eyes as bright once before. Butwhere?

'You -' he said quietly, 'you did this.'

'Certainly,' Mironenko replied.

'How?' Ballard said. There was a familiar thunderclimbing from the back of his head. He tried to ignoreit, and press some explanation from the Russian. 'How,damn you?'

'We are the same,' Mironenko replied. 'I smell it inyou.'

'No,' said Ballard. The clamour was rising.

The doctrines are just words. It's not what we'retaught but what we know that matters. In our marrow;in our souls.'

He had talked of souls once before; of places hismasters had built in which a man could be brokenapart. At the time Ballard had thought such talk mereextravagance; now he wasn't so sure. What was theburial party all about, if not the subjugation of somesecret part of him? The marrow-part; the soul-part.

Before Ballard could find the words to expresshimself, Mironenko froze, his eyes gleaming morebrightly than ever.

'They're outside,' he said.

'Who are?'

The Russian shrugged. 'Does it matter?' he said.'Your side or mine. Either one will silence us if theycan.'

That much was true.

'We must be quick,' he said, and headed for thehallway. The front door stood ajar. Mironenko wasthere in moments. Ballard followed. Together theyslipped out on to the street.

The fog had thickened. It idled around the street-lamps, muddying their light, making every doorway ahiding place. Ballard didn't wait to tempt the pursuersout into the open, but followed Mironenko, who wasalready well ahead, swift despite his bulk. Ballard had topick up his pace to keep the man in sight. One momenthe was visible, the next the fog closed around him.

The residential property they moved through nowgave way to more anonymous buildings, warehousesperhaps, whose walls stretched up into the murkydarkness unbroken by windows. Ballard called afterhim to slow his crippling pace. The Russian haltedand turned back to Ballard, his outline wavering inthe besieged light. Was it a trick of the fog, or hadMironenko's condition deteriorated in the minutes sincethey'd left the house? His face seemed to be seeping; thelumps on his neck had swelled further.

'We don't have to run,' Ballard said. 'They're notfollowing.'

'They're always following,' Mironenko replied, andas if to give weight to the observation Ballard heardfog-deadened footsteps in a nearby street.