She stared back at him. For severalmoments she stood there, tears at the edges of her dark eyes.

"No, I want to hear what you have tosay."

Massey put a hand gently on her shoulderand said, "How about I fix us some more tea'? Then we can talk thisover."

She sat there listening intently. WhenMassey had finished she asked, "How long would I be in Russia?"

"At the outside, ten days. Butthat's not something I can guarantee. We'll do our best to keep it as brief aspossible. But it will be dangerous, Anna. Make no mistake. I'd be lying if Itold you otherwise."

"What is this man going to do inMoscow?"

"Kill someone." Massey said thewords so matter-of-factly he thought she Would be shocked, but she didn'treact, her face blank. "Who?"

"That's not something you need toknow."

"Then am I allowed to ask why?"

"You don't need to know the answerto that question either. But you'll be long gone from Moscow before ithappens.""He paused. "Anna, I'll be honest with you. It's a verydifficult and dangerous operation. And like I said, you may not come back. Butthat's a risk you're going to have to take to get your daughter back."

She hesitated a moment. "Why did youcome to me?"

Massey smiled. "I guess the people Ispeak for think you have all the right qualifications for the job. You speakRussian and you know the country."

"You didn't tell me how you'd get mydaughter out. You didn't tell me how you'd find her."

He shook his head.

"And I can't. Not until I know youagree to go along with what I've proposed. But what we do know will help. She'sin an orphanage, probably in Moscow. We have contacts in Moscow through theimmigrant organizations. Underground groups and dissidents. People who couldhelp us find your daughter. It's not going to be easy-in fact, it's going to bedownright difficult-but if you go along with this then you'll have my word thedeal will be kept. Not only that, but I'll arrange new identities for you andSasha, and whatever you'll need materially to start a new life togetherafresh."

The tears had stopped but Massey saw alook like grief on her face. He guessed she had tried hard to put her daughterfrom her mind but had found it impossible.

He stood up slowly. "Maybe thingsare moving a little too fast for you right now. And I guess my vagueness hasn'thelped, but like I said I can't tell you any more until I know where Istand."

He wrote down a phone number on a slip ofpaper. "You need to be alone to think this through. I'm staying at theCarlton off Lexington Avenue. Room 107. You can contact me there when you makeup your mind. There's someone at the hotel I want you to meet. He'll have thefinal decision whether you go to Moscow or not. But call me tonight one way orthe other."

As Massey left the note on the table Annashook her head. "That's not necessary. I've already thought about it, Theanswer is yes."

Stanski sat in the room on the eighthfloor of the hotel off Lexington Avenue, sipping a Scotch. He heard thefootsteps outside, then the door opened and he saw Massey standing in thedoorway.

A woman stood beside him. She was verybeautiful. She had high cheekbones and dark hair. She wore a simple,inexpensive black dress that emphasized her figure, and he couldn't help butadmire the splendid curves of her body.

But it was her face that held him; a facehe instantly reacted to. Something in those dark Slavic eyes that suggested acurious mixture of strength and remorse. It seemed like a long time before hiseyes left her face, as Massey said, "Alex, meet Anna Khorev." Annastood there staring at the man. There were a few moments of hesitation, andthen she saw his eyes take her in. It was as if they bored into her very soul,terribly frightening and terribly reassuring both at once, and it seemed he wastrying to make up his mind about something.

Then he glanced at Massey, and as helooked back at Anna he suddenly smiled broadly, raised his glass in a toast,and said in Russian, "I guess it's welcome to the club."

The two men sitting in the black Packardacross the street from the hotel had followed the yellow cab from Manhattan'sEast Side.

As Massey and Anna had climbed out, theman in the passenger seat had rolled down the window and steadied the Leica.

The light was bad but there was a washfrom the blaze of lights at the front of the building and the man got two shotsof the couple as they got out of the cab, another three as they went up thesteps into the hotel.

New York. January 27th, 8 Pm.

The man who called himself Kurt Braun hadhis eyes on the girl's breasts as she leaned over to place his double Scotch onthe table. They were magnificent in the low-cut top, even in the dim lightingof the dingy bar on Manhattan's Lower East Side docks.

"That'll be a dollar, sir."

Braun smiled at the girl as he peeled offtwo singles from the wad he took from his pocket.

"Keep the change. You look likeyou're new here."

"Thanks, mister. I startedFriday."

"Where do you come from?"

The girl smiled back. "Danville,Illinois. You ever hear of it?"

"No, I can't say that I have."

"Maybe that ain't such a badthing."

Braun grinned back and glanced around thebar. The private club Lombardi ran as a sideline was doing good business. itwas only eight but the place was buzzing already. Friday night and every youngtough from the docks and visiting sailors were coming in for drinks and a lookat the girls. A record was on in the background, Kay Kyser and his orchestraplaying "On a Slow Boat to China."

He looked back at the girl. "Do me afavor and tell Vince that Kurt Braun is here."

"Sure."

She walked away and Braun watched herretreating buttocks wobbling beneath the tight skirt before he looked aroundthe bar. There were a couple of dozen men in the place, and a handful of thegirls were working the tables. They looked like the hookers they were, alllipstick and too much makeup and cheap flashy clothes that showed off theirbedroom assets.

It was five minutes later when Vince,Lombardi's bodyguard, came to the table. Broad and well built, he had a nosethat looked like it had been flattened into his face with a sledgehammer. Theman hadn't a hint of grace in his body and there was a bulge under his left armwhere Braun knew the holstered pistol would be.

Despite the man's appearance, Braun knewhe could kill him with little effort. The two men looked at each other amoment, like prizefighters sizing each other up, before Vince spoke.

"Carlo is waiting upstairs. He saidto go right on up."

Braun finished his Scotch and stood.

The sign in scratched gold lettering onthe door of the second floor above the club said "Longshoreman's Union. C.Lombardi-District Chief."

Carlo Lombardi was a small fat Sicilianin his middle forties with a pencil-thin mustache. As his title suggested, heran the Manhattan Lower East Side dockland as if it was his private territory,and besides the club downstairs he had numerous business interests, including ashare in the profits from three local brothels that serviced visiting merchantsailors. Despite his harmless appearance, Lombardi had a reputation forviolence, especially with a knife. The only vanity he allowed himself wasoccasionally combing his hair to cover the pink scalp that erupted like anangry Lash through the hair.

A smart hick in the bar had once jokedthat Lombardi combed his hair with a wet sponge, and Lombardi had takenpleasure in waiting, for him in an alleyway a block away and sticking a knifein his eyeball and twisting till the shit-kicking hick screamed like a stuckpig. No one slighted Carlo Lombardi and walked away unhurt.