'I'll have a quick drink, Dicky, and I'll be with you,' I said.

'Good grief, Bernard, it's eleven o'clock in the morning. What do you need a drink for at this hour?'

'I've been outside in sub-zero weather, Dicky. When you've been outside for an hour or two you might find out why.'

'Thank God I'm not dependent upon alcohol. Last night I saw you heading for the bar and now, next morning, you are heading that way again. It's a disease.'

'I know.'

'And the stuff they call brandy here is rot-gut.'

'I can't buy you one then? The barman is called 'Mouse.' Pay him in hard currency and you'll get any fancy Western tipple you name.'

He disregarded my flippant invitation. 'Make it snappy. I'll go and get my coat. I didn't bring an umbrella but perhaps I can shelter under yours.'

When we emerged on to the street Dicky seemed prepared to yield to my judgement in the matter of avoiding a senseless trek to the hotel's inferior namesake on the other side of town. 'Where shall we go first?' he offered tentatively.

'I heard George was trying to buy a gun,' I said.

'Are you serious?'

'In the Rozyckiego Bazaar in the Praga. It's a black market paradise; the clearing house for stolen goods and furs and contraband from Russia.'

'And guns?'

'Gangs of deserters from all the Eastern European armies nm things over there and fight for territory. It may look law-abiding but so did Al Capone's Chicago. Keep your hands in your pockets and watch out for pickpockets and muggers.'

'Why don't the authorities clear it out?'

'It's not so easy,' I said. 'It's the oldest flea market in Poland. The currency dealers and black marketeers all know each other very well. Infiltrating a plain clothes cop is tricky, but they try from time to time. They might think that's what we are, so watch your step.'

'I can handle myself,' said Dicky. 'I don't scare easily.'

'I know,' I said. It was true and it was what made Dicky such a liability. Werner and me, we both scared very easily, and we were proud of it.

The Praga is the run-down mainly residential section of Warsaw that sprawls along the eastern side of the river. Most of its old buildings survived the war but few visitors venture here. Running parallel with the river, Targowa is the Praga's wide main street, the widest street in all the city. Long ago, as its name records, it had been Warsaw's horse market. Now dented motors and mud-encrusted streetcars rattled along its median, past solid old houses that, in the 1920s, had been luxury apartments occupied by Warsaw's merchants and professional classes.

Now the wide Targowa was patched with drifting snow and, behind it — its entrance in a narrow side street — we suddenly came to the Rozyckiego market. Overlooked on every side by tenements, there was something medieval about the open space filled with all shapes and sizes of rickety stalls and huts, piled high with merchandise, and jammed with people. This notorious Bazaar had been unchanged ever since I could remember. It had drawn traders and their customers from far and wide. Gypsies and deserters, thieves and gangsters, farmers and legitimate traders had made it a vital part of the city's black economy, so that the open space was never rebuilt.

'And are you going to buy a gun too, Bernard?'

'No, Dicky,' I said as we went through the gates of the market. 'I'm just going to find George.'

The ponderous sobriety that descends upon Eastern European towns in winter was shattered as we stepped into the active confusion of the market. Women wept, men argued to the point of violence, whole families conferred, children bickered. And scurrying to and fro there were men and women — many bent under heavy loads — shouting loudly to call their wares.

'Those communist old clothes smell worse than capitalist ones,' said Dicky as we made our way through the crowds. Noisy bargainers alleviated the bizarre variety of deprivation that communism, with its corruption, caprices and chronic shortages, endemically inflicts. Here, on display, there were such coveted items as toilet paper and powdered coffee, used jeans in varying stages of wear, plastic hair clips and Western brands of cigarettes (both genuine and fake). Women's shoes from neighboring Czechoslovakia were hung above our heads like bright-colored garlands, while exotic sable, fox and mink furs from far-off regions of Asia were guarded be hind a strong wire fence. Elderly farmers and their womenfolk, enjoying a measure of private enterprise, offered their piles of potatoes, beets and cabbages. A solemn young man sat on the ground before a prayer rug, as if about to bow his forehead upon the rows of used spark plugs that were arrayed before him.

A tall man in a green trenchcoat stopped me, waved a cigarette, and asked for a light. I tucked my umbrella under my arm, held up my lighter, and he cupped his hands and bent his head to it. 'I thought you were on the flight to Paris,' I said.

'They've killed George Kosinski,' he said hoarsely. 'They lured him out to his brother's house, slit his throat like a slaughtered hog and buried him in the forest. You'll be next. I'd scram if I was you.'

'You are not me, Boris,' I said. Tiny sparks hit my hand as he inhaled on his cigarette. He threw his head back, his eyes searching my face, and blew smoke at me. Then with an appreciative smile he tipped his gray felt hat in mocking salute and went on his way.

'Come along!' said Dicky when I had caught up with him again. 'They just want to talk to foreigners. We can't be delayed by every bum who wants a light.'

'Sorry, Dicky,' I said.

By this time Dicky had eased his way into a small group of men who were passing booklets from hand to hand. Two of the men were dressed in Russian army greatcoats and boots; the civilian caps they wore did not disguise them. One was about forty, with a face like polished red ebony. The other man was younger, with a lop-sided face, half-closed eyes and the frazzled expression that afflicts prematurely aged pugilists.

'Look at this,' said Dicky, showing me the book that had been passed to him. It had a brown cover, its text was in Russian with illustrations depicting various parts of an internal combustion engine. Another similar book was passed to him. He looked at me quizzically. 'You can read this stuff. What's it all about?'

I translated the title for him: 'BG-15 40mm grenade launcher — Tishina. It's an instruction manual. They all are.' The booklets were each devoted to military equipment of wide appeal: portable field kitchens, rocket projectors, sniperscopes, night sights, radio transmitters and chemical protection suits. 'They're Russian soldiers. They're selling in advance equipment they are prepared to steal.'

Dicky passed the booklets to the man standing next to him. The man took them and, seeing Dicky's dismay, he looked around the group and snickered, exposing many gold teeth. He liked gold: he was wearing an assortment of rings and two gold watches on each wrist, their straps loosened enough for them to clatter and dangle like bracelets.

The hands of the two soldiers were callused and scarred, and covered from wrist to fingertip in a meticulous pattern of tattoos like blue lace gloves. I recognized the dragon designs that distinguished criminal soldiers who'd served time in a 'disbat' punishment battalion. Until very recently, to suffer such a sentence had been universally regarded as shameful, and kept secret from family and even comrades. But now men like these preferred to identify themselves as military misfits, defiant of authority. Such men liked to use their tattoos to parade their violent nature, to exploit frightened young conscripts and sometimes their officers too.

'Let's move on,' I said.

'What were they saying?'

'Gold-teeth seems to be the black-market king. You heard the soldiers say tak tochno exactly so-to him instead of "yes." It's the way Soviet soldiers have to answer their officers.'