He rode to the sports department to see how the building and field were coming along. Jumping down from the horse, he spoke about something to Boris Lukianovich.
“Oh, Artiom,” Eichmanis said. “You fought well. I wanted you to win.”
Artiom felt the smell of alcohol — not a stale and old smell, but a fresh, strong one, like the bottom of a winter cabbage barrel.
“The thing is that Artiom came out as a replacement,” began Boris Lukianovich. “We now have another heavyweight…”
“The English spy, Robert?” asked Eichmanis.
“Yes, Robert.”
“And no middleweight?” Eichmanis quickly asked, looking at the footballers.
“Not yet. But I do need Artiom’s help in the sports department,” Boris Lukianovich added, not understanding where the head of the camp was going with his conversation.
“Oh, you’ll
